#i feel like Struggling is this... sort of a facet of their Brand... and so is mutually taking care of each other lol

[leatherbookmark]

i love how passionate and emotional fic seongjoong is when irl they're like... an arranged marriage... lol

[miraculan-draws]

I will never shut up about how dirty Da2 was to Justice like. Justice is ROMANTIC, in Awakening! He was awestruck by a sunrise. Hes in a brand new world, terrified and alone, and took comfort in how lovely the sunrise was. He lets his companions put flowers in his armor, because he cannot smell that he is piloting a corpse (bc it is a corpse and cannot smell). He literally sounded on the verge of tears when he unintentionally upset the wife of his host, of whom he remembered, distantly, as if she were his own wife. How much did it mean to the warden, particularly the "bad" wardens, ruthless blood mages or criminal dusters who spit venom, that Justice Itself said "you seem like a good sort. I will follow you"??

Vengeance has always been part of Justice, he mentions even in his recruitment that fighting with the wardens is the least he can do to AVENGE Kristoff. Vengeance is not a demon, just a facet of Justice. And the fear of becoming something else has always been with Justice too—when Anders wants to know the difference, his prodding upsets Justice, and Anders apologized. Said "I hope you never learn why then." And Justice said "As do I."

LETS TALK JUSTICE AND ANDERS MORE

Justice sounds. SO. Empathetic. When he says "I hear you struggle with your oppression, mage." When we met him in the Fade, he was armored, not wearing the chantrys symbol but shaped like a templar, maybe molded by the villagers trapped by the Baroness. They needed a wicked mage defeated, so they conjured what they thought would win. But Justice IMMEDIATELY, in the physical world, turns his sympathies to Anders, pointing out that Anders is in a very unique position to aid other mages.

And something about that sticks with Anders, even when he brushed it off at the time. And in game, they seem less than friendly, but we also know that Justice was WITH Anders when he took the sword from the templar. Justice must have thought he needed the protection, and was right. I don't think they hate each other, I don't think they're constantly at odds like the second narrative leads us to believe.

WHICH BRINGS ME RIGHT BACK. TO ROMANCE.

There is no way that if ANDERS loves Hawke, that Justice doesn't.

He feels what his host feels!! He remembers what they remember, as if it were him!! He mourned Karl too. He is just as reluctantly charmed by Isabela as he was with Sigrun—who made a game of stealing his knickknacks just to prove she could. If Hawke is an ally to the mages cause, there is no way in my mind that Justice disapproves. And if Anders falls in love, I think Justice does too.

If there is any wariness at ALL, I could see maybe Justice remembering the way Anders hurt when Karl was killed, and worried of a repeat performance—especially with mage Hawke. But I don't think he hates Hawke at all.

[verdanabdit]

Below the Keep Reading is an unfinished fontcest fic. I started writing it a few months ago when my only friend who had liked fontcest decided it was gross. I don't have any desire to finish it, since writing it was just making me sadder. Anyone is free to adopt it. I don't think what I did write was especially good, but when I posted little bits of it on tw☆tter, there seemed to be some interest in it, so I figured it was worth posting. Not posting to a dedicated fanfic site since it's unfinished.

Summary: Upon reaching the surface, Sans and Papyrus reveal their relationship to their friends. It doesn't go as smoothly as they'd hoped, and prompts them to move away from Ebott.

~~~

When Papyrus closes the front door behind him, Sans knows it's time for them to go yet again.

His brother's face is held carefully neutral, but there's a tension that's slowly leaving him as he leans against the door. A sigh, long and mighty as he is, is the only sound he lets out before pressing a gloved palm to his forehead.

"* rough day?" Sans asks, noting that Papyrus hadn't startled. Sans isn't sure if it's a good or bad thing that Papyrus is growing comfortable and used to showing how it all affects him. On one hand, he's glad his brother isn't hiding from him, but on the other, he's struggling not to feel defeated by the familiarity they both have with the situation now.

Papyrus almost puffs his chest out, almost lies that they can stay just a little while longer to keep the burden lighter, but deflates the moment he catches Sans's eye. "WENDY ISN'T TALKING TO ME ANYMORE, EITHER."

Last friend they had in this town. Sans had given up trying to make nice with them all when they were outed--kept up appearances best he could for Papyrus's sake, but otherwise withdrew and spent all his alone time looking for job openings a few towns over. He never let himself get attached to them in the first place after their second escape.

~~~

First had been New Home. Papyrus, still enamored with the new facet of their relationship, had a little too much faith in their few friends to accept and be happy for him. They'd always kept mostly to themselves, so it was easy to skip town and establish themselves as brand new people in Snowdin. Again, Papyrus, still full of hope and still so encouraging, let slip their familial status before Sans even had the chance to sow the lie that they were married. It was a long, cold few years of convincing Papyrus to leave the mushy stuff for behind closed doors and drawn curtains. Papyrus's need to make more friends had ensured they would have had nowhere else to escape to if they were found out again.

Then Frisk came.

They spent a good few years living in the high tensions of the surface before the laws surprisingly ironed themselves out. There may have been a small mountain of paperwork for every monster to go through to become legally recognized as citizens, but the world was otherwise theirs for the taking.

The papers sat intimidating and untouched on their kitchen table until a particular visit to Toriel's.

"* Getting our family tree sorted has been a journey in itself. If we were not King and Queen, we could have easily claimed no relation. Asgore and I were never technically divorced, so we also could have easily claimed our marriage, but… you know the details. Needless to say, it has not been easy to square away in the humans' documents."

Papyrus's sockets--metaphorically--lit up, and Sans knew they'd be up all night arguing over those same papers. Where Sans had been perfectly content with how things were, Papyru saw an opportunity.

Papyrus shielded the portion of the paper that declared any notable relationships with his hand before the pen could reach it. His fingers carefully covered all but the spousal option.

"THAT'S WHAT YOU WANTED WHEN WE MOVED TO SNOWDIN, WASN'T IT?"

Sans tried to explain to him it was different now--they had far more to lose, and even if the only outward change was on paper and they were all planning to start traveling as soon as they could, that wouldn't be a change they could hide from their friends for long.

Of course it didn't take long. Their own monarchs may only have a small circle of influence on the surface, but of course they'd be involved in all the paperwork of those who chose to set down roots within their jurisdiction.

"* I believe there may have been an error…?" Asgore had questioned gently, holding and looking down at a copy of what they had submitted.

Leaning forward to fake interest in reading along, Sans had given a subtle nudge to his brother. It was likely their only chance to back out.

"NO ERRORS HERE! DOUBLE-TRIPLE-CHECKED THEM MYSELF." Papyrus doubled down, staring unflinchingly at their King, while his hand reached out to twine with his brother's.

Silence filled the room as Asgore looked up from the desk and his eyes landed on that little sign of conviction. Sans wouldn't mention how Papyrus's hand started to tremble the more time passed. Had no right to when he couldn't hold eye contact with the King for more than a moment.

"* Ah…" He had about as many words left as anyone else in the room that moment. "* I… see."

After what felt like hours, they were slowly told that the process didn't work that way. The new documents were being cross-referenced with the old ones from the underground. Something about the bureaucratic process, cutting in line, a bunch of potential ways to abuse the system to hurt someone.

The forms were pointedly put through the shredder and new blank ones were presented to them. "* Do try not to make any… mistakes… on these ones."

With that, Asgore gave them their last out--but Papyrus, closer with their then-current friends than he'd been with anyone besides his brother, couldn't be reasoned into keeping this particular skeleton in the closet any longer.

"THEY'LL UNDERSTAND!" he insisted later that night, "UNDYNE AND ALPHYS GOT MARRIED JUST LAST MONTH; GRILLBY AND THE HUMANS' ADULT AMBASSADOR ARE ENGAGED; FOR GOODNESS SAKE, HARDLY ANY OF THE DOGI AREN'T RELATED IN SOME WAY. IT'S NOT THAT WEIRD." Then something about Undyne giving friendship-affirming lariats on a near-daily basis. Surely, surely this time would be different. Sans feels a little foolish for letting himself believe it, for believing in the home and found-family they'd built for themselves.

It wasn't as bad as New Home--or at least their closest friends weren't. Anyone outside their innermost circle dropped them just as quickly. To their credit, they all tried. Their initial reactions were all along the lines of flat, painfully, falsely neutral 'oh''s. When Papyrus gave them the same speech he'd given Sans, they at least saw the logic in it and tried to look past their own thinly-veiled knee-jerk discomfort. But a new distance had established itself and only seemed to grow, only outpaced by the tension and anxiety in both of them. The nausea he could see on their faces at times couldn't hold a candle to how their own metaphorical guts churned as they were slowly outcast.

Invitations and visits become fewer, conversations when bumping into each-other in town became shorter. Sans tried to act like nothing was wrong, like it was just an odd adjustment period they'd all get over. Papyrus put more effort in, seeing their closest friends slip away and trying to hold on as tight as he could.

Something made Sans hope at least maybe Alphys would have their backs, what with all the weird cartoons and comics she'd been into, all the weird fanfiction she left strewn about the lab computers' browser history, but it seemed even she drew the line somewhere short of their situation. "* It's not that I think one of you are.. h-hurting the other, o-or taking advantage, but… uh…" The discomfort as she wrung her hands almost made him get up and leave before she could finish. "* I don't know. I-I can't put it to words, but like… you know?" Yeah, he got it. It was gross.

"* Look, Pap, I love you like--" 'like family,' Undyne almost said, before her gaze flicked to Sans and she grimaced, "* I care about you a lot. And I know you two are happy or whatever, and I want to be happy for you, but… this is just too weird, man. I can't."

They stuck it out for a little over half a year before Sans suggested they pull their disappearing act again. It took another month of awkward 'We still care for you''s for Papyrus to agree.

And Papyrus finally agreed with him that half of their relationship would always have to be hidden. Sans left it up to him to decide which. The first time, he decided they would present themselves nearly the way Sans had first intended in Snowdin. They'd say they were engaged, and finally be able to live (mostly) openly. No more avoiding touch in public, no more worrying about the tones of their voices. It was novel and exciting to slip those gold bands on each morning, even if they had to forego the more traditional metals for silicone to accomodate their unique anatomy.

It worked well for the first year. They even spoke to their old friends online every once in a while, and the physical distance seemed to help even if it was still horribly strained. It gave Papyrus hope that they might 'see things our way' and they'd be able to return one day. Sans doubted it.

Their new-new-new life started falling apart when a human who didn't quite agree with the presence of monsters managed to get a surprise hit in on Papyrus, sending him to the hospital with an almost completely shattered ribcage. Sans, wanting to be there for him, tried to stay by his side until he was pestered by the human nurses with, "what's your relation to the patient?"

In hindsight, he should have just bailed. Go silent and walk right out the door. It would have been weird, but definitely less weird than the dumbstruck stare he ended up giving, torn between 'brother', 'fiancee' and 'spouse' as he tried to remember whether same-s☆x marriage would be recognized by medical staff where they lived, or if their familial status was on file, if it was illegal to lie about this to medical staff, or what if Papyrus needed a transfusion and they tested him for compatibility and their relation came up somewhere in the test and--

and Papyrus deliriously called out to him with what he's always called Sans since they were babybones.

And one of Papyrus's coworkers just happened to be in the ER's waiting room to hear it.

Sans doesn't like thinking about 'what-if''s or 'what-could-have-been''s, but he still wonders if the situation could have been salvaged if he'd been the one approached instead of Papyrus. Sans may not be the smoothest of liars under pressure, but Papyrus is about as smooth as an urchin.

(But he's getting better at it. That truth went down about as easily as learning that Papyrus was by far the better liar of the two of them when he's had time to think.)

There was nothing for it. It was New Home all over again, and though there may have been more than fifty kilometers worth of cities for them to disappear to, the surface was terrifyingly connected and there wasn't a single thing about them that was generic enough to blend in anywhere they went. If they didn't play their cards right, rumors would spread further than a few local grapevines.

~~~

That's all I had. I didn't have a plan in mind, since this was sort of just trying to work through being sad over my friend. So I don't know for sure where this would have gone, but it probably would have been more of what I already wrote.

Example of the next town where they introduced themselves as brothers, but were found out somehow. Eventually get back to present-time, they comfort each-other over this happening again, that it's always going to happen, dread that they're going to run out of places to go if they become too infamous. Entertain the idea of returning to Ebott if there's nowhere else to go, that maybe their friends would be okay with them by then, but decide that even if they were, it probably wouldn't reflect well on the city; the humans would twist everything to start crap over human-monster relations as if monster culture encouraged preying on their own kids.

Grieve that this is really their life now.

In the next town, they try to break up for the good of both of them, but living apart is entirely out of the question. Attempts to date others obviously hurts both of them no matter who's going out and it's nothing but a token effort, so that stops quickly. They still give longing looks, eventually cave to their affections again, then swear off it again the next morning, and it repeats over and over until "we can't keep doing this" is muffled by kisses and contradicted by clinging arms often enough that they accept they're just inevitable. It's always been the two of them, and it always will be, world be d☆mned.

[pedersenbailey9]

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[traincat]

I feel like I've read a ton, but I'm honestly still pretty new to comics rn. That being said... What is one more day? Ik we don't like it and it happened a while ago, but that's about it [,=

Time for Spider-Man History With Traincat: Highly Controversial Storylines! And that feeling is totally normal with comics with huge canons -- you can read a ton and still have some fairly big blindspots in your understanding of the total picture. That being said, this is kind of a big one, both in terms of Spider-Man history/canon and in terms of how Spider-Man fandom functions. I would say probably no other storyline has had quite as much impact on how the fandom views and interacts with the source material as One More Day/Brand New Day. It's been the Wild West out here ever since it happened. (Which was in 2007, so like, yes, fairly long ago, especially when you look at how Spider-Man canon has evolved since, but in the grand scheme of things, also kind of recent. One More Day is not old enough to rent a car.)

So when people talk about Spider-Man's One More Day, they're usually actually talking about two related arcs: One More Day and Brand New Day. For the sake of simplicity, I'm going to be covering both. For the sake of transparency, I am going to admit that I think One More Day, as a self-contained story, is good, actually. This is controversial! I admit that! But I stand by my stupid opinions on this blog, for some reason. I think One More Day when you examine it on its own, by which I mean you ignore the decade and a half worth of canon that came after it, as a Spider-Man story and as a PeterMJ-centric story holds up under scrutiny and that people who don't like it don't like complicated love stories and might actually throw their own mothers under buses. No offense to the OMD haters. Little bit of offense to the OMD haters. Brand New Day, which is the continuation of One More Day, on the other hand -- largely bad. Very largely bad.

But let's backtrack. One More Day is a four issue crossover storyline that takes place directly after Civil War, during which Iron Man and Captain America got divorced and divvied up the superhero community and Spider-Man made some startlingly bad decisions and made a fugitive out of himself and his family in a manner that got Aunt May shot, and Spider-Man: Back in Black (Amazing Spider-Man #539–543) which examines Peter's actions immediately after Aunt May is shot and ends with him humiliating the Kingpin in front of an entire prison. One More Day consists of Amazing Spider-Man #544 -> Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man #24 -> Sensational Spider-Man v2 #41 -> Amazing Spider-Man #545. In One More Day, Aunt May is dying, all of Peter's efforts to save her have thus far failed, and, consumed by guilt, he is rapidly running out of time. Approached by Mephisto, a literal demon from hell, Peter is offered a deal: Aunt May will live -- and Peter's identity, which was previously revealed to the world at large during Civil War, will once again be hidden from the memories of all but a select few -- if Peter trades him his marriage to Mary Jane. Peter and Mary Jane struggle with this, but eventually both agree to the deal. The clock strikes twelve, the deal is done, and Peter and Mary Jane's marriage fades into history.

(ASM #545) A reasonably simple premise for a story that caused so many problems -- most, I would argue, not actually the original story's fault. So obviously, this was an unpopular move -- Peter and Mary Jane had for a long time been a fan favorite Marvel couple, and in a fictional universe where most relationships are doomed as soon as they begin, the enduring Spider-Marriage was sacred ground. And then, with a snap of its fingers, it was gone: Peter wakes up in Aunt May's house, no longer married, with Mary Jane out of the picture. (She would not return to the book on any sort of consistent basis for over 50 issues.) In the wake of One More Day began Brand New Day, which is basically what it sounds like: a promised "brand new day" of "exciting" Spider-Man content and a publishing schedule where Amazing Spider-Man came out three times a month. (Which sounds good on paper but I think in practice caused more problems than it created good storylines.) Peter, newly single again, had new love interests! And also Harry Osborn was alive again for some reason! I generally like Harry's post-BND stories so that part's fine with me.

But overall? Brand New Day is a mess. It knows it wants to tread new and exciting ground with Peter -- tell new stories! ensnare new readers! make them fork out for a book three times a month. -- but it doesn't know what those stories should be. Readers who were invested in Peter and Mary Jane's relationship -- a major facet of Spider-Man comics for decades at that point -- felt rightfully betrayed that the marriage could be so easily traded in and that Mary Jane herself, perhaps the second most important figure in Spider-Man comics after Peter, could be tossed aside. From a personal point of view, I think Brand New Day fails in large part because it abandons what has always made Spider-Man such a compelling series, and that's the mix of Peter's personal life with his vigilante life. BND sees Peter with new friends, new jobs, new love interests, etc -- it is very much a brand new day! But it isn't a better day compared to the stories that came before it. I do like some post-BND stories, especially American Son (ASM #595-599) and Grim Hunt (ASM #634-637), but compared to pre-BND where I think the majority of canon is good, it's a very lacking body of work that is hurt by the way it divorced itself from the PeterMJ marriage as Spider-Man's central relationship.

"But Traincat, I thought you said you liked One More Day?" Yeaaaaah. I do. This is why I keep saying I like One More Day on its own merits, and not on the merits of the stories it opened the doors for. I like a good romantic tragedy in fiction, and the way Peter and Mary Jane's final scene in One More Day plays out is beautiful. I like the idea of Peter caught in this impossible situation, being asked to choose between two women he loves more than his own life. A really common criticism I see leveled against One More Day is that Peter should have chosen his relationship with Mary Jane over May's life, which is -- okay, I think it's weird that people keep insisting on this, not in the least because by asking Peter to sacrifice his aunt's life they're essentially demanding he commit a callous, out of character act in order to further his own interests. It's also weird because the thing is, Peter already chose Mary Jane over May -- that's what gets them into this situation. It's literally in the scene where May is shot:

(ASM #538) When the gun goes off, Peter's spider-sense kicks in, and he covers Mary Jane, leaving May in the path of the bullet. He does choose Mary Jane over May, regardless of whether he realized what he was doing. And that's why he can't make that choice a second time. His actions in One More Day do make sense for him as a character, whether or not any individual reader likes them, and Mary Jane's actions make sense, too -- after all, she's the one who ultimately tells Mephisto that they agree to the deal when Peter can't bring himself to voice it.

A lot of people also like to nitpick One More Day by going, well, why could (x) or (y) with life saving powers save Aunt May which is like -- yeah, I guess, but if we're going to ask that about this specific comic book near death setup, you kind of have to do it with every single one, and I'm not going to stake every single moment of comic book drama on whether or not that gold kid from the X-Men was busy at the time. Comics are soap operas in flimsy paper form: serialized longform storytelling that relies heavily on melodrama. Sometimes you have to go with things. Sometimes you sell your marriage to the devil. Stuff happens. That in and of itself doesn't make One More Day a bad story -- and while some people blame the Spider-Marriage's dissolution entirely on One More Day, I think that's a little shortsighted when you look at the history of Spider-Man since the turn of the century. It's clear -- and Marvel themselves have been perhaps a little too open about this -- that Marvel in the past few decades has had trouble with the direction they want to take Spider-Man. They WANTED Spider-Man to appeal to a distinctly youthful audience that they didn't think they were actually reaching -- understandable, considering that Marvel nearly went bankrupt around 2000 and was saved by Ultimate Spider-Man, an out of main continuity series which retold Spider-Man from the beginning and focused heavily on Peter as a teen -- but the problem was Spider-Man in the main continuity was at that point in canon a happily married man who was pushing the dreaded 30 whether or not they wanted to admit that. This is also why Marvel has continually pivoted away from Spider-Man having kids, because they feared that making him a dad would age him too much and make him unrelatable to their coveted audience of Teens. (This is also why almost every new Spider-Man property, especially the live action movies, perpetually stick him back into high school, despite that occupying a very small slice of 616 canon.) So around the year 2000, they started trying things in relation to the Spider-Marriage, which was viewed as a major problem -- after all, what's more adult than being married and liking your wife. First, they had Mary Jane presumed dead. Then, they had Mary Jane and Peter separate. Then, when Mary Jane and Peter had only recently gotten back together, One More Day struck. If One More Day specifically hadn't gone the way it had, it's pretty clear that the Spider-Marriage was going to go one way or another -- it's a little bit of a shame it happened when it did, because OMD is the end of J Michael Straczynski's run, and JMS wrote a really beautiful Peter and MJ relationship. But Marvel as a company and especially editor in chief at the time Joe Quesada viewed Peter and Mary Jane's relationship as a major problem in how they wanted to portray Spider-Man and thought that striking the relationship from the books would allow them more freedom in their portrayal of him as younger and more relatable to their Desired Audience of people who I guess really wanted to see Peter sleep with characters who weren't Mary Jane.

(ASM #546. Younger! Fresher! Less attached! Kissing random women in the club!)

The problem with One More Day has always been in the follow through -- from the content of Brand New Day to the pacing of events to the fact that Marvel withheld key information for such a long time that it allowed misinformation to thrive. After all, what does it MEAN to trade Peter and Mary Jane's marriage to the devil? It altered the events of canon in Peter and the majority of other characters' memories so that the marriage didn't exist, but it left people wondering -- did the relationship as they remembered it existed? How much of Spider-Man canon was altered? And the answers didn't come for over 100 issues of Amazing Spider-Man. One Moment In Time or OMIT (Amazing Spider-Man #638-641), which revealed that while Peter and Mary Jane never got married in the altered canon they did continue their long committed relationship up until just after Civil War, was published in 2010, so essentially readers were hung out to dry without answers for three years. That's a long time to string people along, but not as long as it took Marvel to confirm that the popular fan theory that Mary Jane retained her memories of the original timeline as part of her own deal with Mephisto was also true, which happened this year. I would say, at least from my perspective, a lot of the frustration doesn't come from the individual One More Day storyline so much as how Marvel has continually dragged out the aftermath, using the promise of a Spider-Marriage return to keep fans on the hook. Which is why One More Day continually comes up in discussion of current Spider-Man, because Spencer's run has relied very heavily on imagery from that period with a serious question of whether or not there actually was going to be payoff, something which is still up in the air.

This has been Spider-Man History With Traincat, brought to you by anonymice like you.

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T (No TW this chapter, but keep in mind the grander story involves major character injury)

Words: 6.7K~

Summary: The first (and with any luck, only) time it happens, he’s almost 16.

Chapter Summary: Aftermath.

This is officially the longest complete SU fic I’ve finished. I’m so proud ;w;

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. Thank you! <3

_____

Chapter 4: The Remembrance

His mind is shrouded by darkness for long enough that in the split instant the curtains finally part, for just a momentary shard of infinity, the mere idea of any world beyond the pitch-black he’s become so accustomed to seems like a farce.

Resultantly, his journey to consciousness is about as labored and exhausting as a backpacking trip across the Great North in the dead of winter.

He’s greeted by flashes of white, first— intermittent, dim. They splash across his inky sky in unreliable patterns, little bursts of static gearing up to pull him out of this all-consuming nothingness and back to reality. Next, a heartbeat. Steady and sure, such a relief to experience that his throat can’t help but constrict in a wave of all-encompassing emotion. (Why is he so relieved to feel something this normal?) Lying somewhere intangibly beyond his awareness, he can hear... water? Waves, he immediately corrects himself. The aching familiarity of waves crashing upon the shore, a sound he’s shared his front yard with for almost his whole life. Elsewhere, the faint scent of herbs and simmering broth delicately pulls on his consciousness, burning through tangled threads of disorientation and confusion and beckoning him awake.

Steven’s eyelids flutter open, thin lines of light streaming through the gaps between his eyelashes.

The moment he does however, the stark actuality of his situation slams into him with a vengeance. His head throbs as memories begin to re-establish themselves like individual puzzle pieces locking into place.

 I was— Dad, and Amethyst... the fountain... empty, and then Pearl had to....

His heart’s pace snaps into overdrive in seconds. Thrashing under his blankets, he manages to kick his arms and torso free so he can rush to sit up. Dizziness assails him as he yanks up the bottom of his pajamas and splays his hand across the smooth, warm surface of that diamond at his core, feeling for cracks, for chips, for—

 Huh. Imagine that.

Steven inhales deep as he attempts to balance out the pace of his breath, blood still pounding in his ears as he delicately traces a shaking index finger around the edge of the central pentagonal facet of his gem, entirely unblemished and whole. There’s no sign of damage, no thin stress fractures left behind. No evidence that it was ever cracked at all, really. For an excruciatingly lengthy moment his brow creases inwards in confusion as he wonders if all this agony was nothing but a stress-induced nightmare. But then again...

He groans, pressing his fingers to one of his throbbing temples as the ambient pain hits him.

Oh stars, everything aches. His head, his limbs, his spine, every square inch of his body feels like he’s been pressed through a meat grinder and ruthlessly spat out on the other side. If that’s not proof that what happened on his mission with Amethyst was real, then he doesn’t know what is. Drowsily, he flops back against his pillow and squeezes his eyelids shut, stubbornly yearning for the comfort and familiarity of sleep-induced unconsciousness. Maybe, just maybe... he can sleep these aches away.

Time passes far too unreliably as he’s laying motionless there, struggling against a hyperactive flood of thoughts to return to his earlier state of rest. Has he been awake for a minute? Half an hour? He has no idea. The only concrete thing he can glean is that he definitely has a headache right now. Maybe even a migraine. He’s still not sure what the difference between those is supposed to be. Is it a ‘squares are rectangles, but rectangles aren’t squares’ sort of scenario? Or are they synonyms? Hmm. Maybe he should ask Dad, he’d probably know. In fact, where is Dad? And how’d he end up in bed in his pajamas, anyways?

He’s honestly relieved when he hears the unmistakable sound of Pearl’s light, precise footsteps climbing the stairs to his room, if only that it gives him a solid excuse to face reality and stop deluding himself with the tragic, unobtainable lie that is peaceful slumber. He lets his eyes flutter open again.

“Hi, Pearl,” he mumbles when she reaches the top step.

She’s carrying a small dinner tray with a steaming bowl of something delicious smelling (the broth he recognized earlier?) and a glass of water perched atop. Meeting his half-alert gaze, her expression lights up with a glow of pleasant surprise.

“Oh, good, you’re up!” she says, a great deal of the stress locked in her shoulders melting away as she crosses the room towards his bedside. “I was just about to wake you myself, if you weren’t already.”

Rubbing away the exhaustion crusted at the corners of his eyes with the joint at the base of his thumb, he watches as Pearl carefully places the tray on the nightstand at his right. With a groan, he bows upwards under his covers, the vertebrae in his back popping and sighing all the while as he stretches. Goodness, he’s not sure his spine has ever felt so stiff and tight. Remind him to never accidentally get hurled against a tree in combat again.

“How... how long was I out?” he asks then, the workaholic part of him already fearing her answer.

Pearl glances towards the ceiling, her brow creasing as she makes the calculation in her head.

“Hmm, I think... around seven hours?“

“What??” he cries, shooting upright in bed with the speed of a spring trap. “Seven hours?! That’s like, the whole day! I had plans!”

She frowns pensively, gesturing widely with her hands as she replies. “Steven, you were cracked and needed time to recover. A hit like that is bound to take a serious toll on any body, hard-light or not.”

His features morphing into a scowl, he slouches back against the wall. That’s a fair point, how disruptive cracks can be for full-Gems as well. It’s not just a matter of Pearl babying him. Even though they healed Amethyst’s fracture fairly quickly, years back, it still took her a few days of rest before she rose to the top of her game again. And as much as he’d love to deny it, right now his whole body honestly feels like it’s been hit head on by a truck at sixty miles per hour. It’s a dull but constant brand of pain he can’t claim he’s ever dealt with before all this mess. That month he shot up almost a foot in height back when he was 14 came close, but even that period of ache was more subtle than this.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says with a heavy sigh, threading his fingers together in his lap.

“Anyways,” she says gently, the reminder of her presence cutting through some of the layers of his pain-induced melancholy, “it’s 5:38 now, just in time for dinner! And I took the liberty of cooking a batch of your favorite soup.”

Unable to help himself, his inner child gasps in sheer joy. He sits up again, slamming his palms to his cheeks as he gushes with excitement. “Chicken and vegetable soup with the tiny star noodles??”

Any lingering crankiness about the percentage of the day wasted dissipates into a fine mist as Pearl picks the tray off the nightstand and passes it into his lap, confirming the identity of his homemade dinner. As he begins to eat— carefully, taking small spoonfuls at first to ensure that his stomach can handle it— his guardian sits at the edge of his bed and provides him updates on the rest of the family’s whereabouts. Apparently Garnet’s still halfway across the galaxy, but should be returning home tomorrow the moment she’s through with her mission. She sends her love, Pearl says. She also texted Connie to let her know what happened, and his friend plans to come over as soon as she can in the morning to spend time with him as he recovers. Meanwhile, Greg left a few minutes before he woke up to hit the store. He’s picking up some new food for the both of them, and intends to sleep downstairs on the couch the next few nights to keep tabs on him.

“He’s been really worried about you,” she admits, reaching out for his hand as if she too frets he might suddenly fade into the ether if she takes her eyes off him for one moment. “Before I told him to step out of the house for some mental rejuvenation, he never left your side.”

Steven responds to her tactile affection with a soft squeeze for her benefit, but quickly lets go to continue eating his soup.

“Well,” he says through a fresh spoonful of food, “‘m fine now, so...” Pause to swallow, the bump of his larynx bobbing in his throat. “So there’s no need to worry anymore.”

“Oh, if only it were that easy,” she comments, a melancholy smile framing her face.

With a sigh, she stands to her feet, smoothing out the edge of the covers where she once sat. Watching this small act, he suddenly wonders if her vast history with deeply troubling experiences like what she had to witness this morning are why she’s so emotionally drawn to tasks such as tidying and repairing; after all, these do allow her space to exert a small degree of control over areas of her life she might otherwise harbor concern or anxiety towards. Huh. He presses his lips into a tight line as he willfully contemplates this concept. Considering his earlier disappointment about how much daylight he’s wasted, (so many business and socialization meetings he’s missing in town today!), perhaps he inherited a portion of his own workaholic tendencies from emulating her throughout his childhood. He dares not follow this rabbit any further, however... dares not ask what he’s distracting himself from.

 Another time, Universe.

Brimming with a renewed sense of purpose, Pearl crosses towards the narrow patio outside the open slider door, her features returning to their neutral, observant state.

“In any case,” she continues as she rests her palm flat against the glass, “please do enjoy the rest of your meal! I’m going to fetch Amethyst from the observatory. She’s been, um... how to say... on Diamond pacifying duty these past few hours, and I’m sure she‘s desperate for a break.”

He offers a sharp grimace in response to this sentiment, knowing from almost two years of firsthand experience that patiently keeping watch over those Gem monarchs is no easy task. “Youch, my condolences. Feel free to send her in, I’d love to see her.”

Pearl nods in confirmation, and then slips out the doorway towards the observatory’s ramp.

He enjoys what little is left of his soup as he waits. Thankfully, his system shows no signs of unrest, which allows him to finish the whole bowl. Good thing, too. He unfortunately recalls losing his breakfast earlier this morning amidst the blunt force of that spiked tail to his stomach, which means he’s had little to no food in him all day. Now, he’s no medical expert, (Connie would likely know the answer thanks to her mom, though), but surely that can’t be good for recovery.

Amidst his better wishes, his thoughts turn to all the social meetings and appointments he’d planned for today. He can’t imagine Pearl knew his itinerary well enough to contact each and every person he’d unintentionally blown off, so that means from all of their perspectives they waited and waited and he simply... never showed up. Like Mayor Nanefua. He was supposed to discuss logistics about Little Homeschool’s eventual opening with her at town hall immediately after the corrupted Gem mission. Peridot. He agreed to meet with her at one of the ancient drop ship sites to assist in de-arming it for safety purposes. Lars. Before all this happened, he was genuinely looking forward to hanging out with Lars and the rest of his Gem gang this afternoon. And because he was reckless and got himself cracked on what should’ve been the most straightforward mission of all time, he let them all down. He groans, slumping backwards until his head clunks against the wall. Ughhh. Stupid, stupid Steven. Now, where on earth’s his phone? He should probably start to clear up this mess.

Steven places his empty bowl on the tray on his nightstand, and begins dutifully searching the tabletop. Before his search can bear any fruit, however, Amethyst bursts into the room, toting one of the handheld diamond communication lines they store in the observatory. (Blessedly, this one comes without self-destruct functionality. Times have sure changed since the daring days when Peridot emphatically called Yellow Diamond a clod.)

“Hey, little man!” she chimes when they meet each other’s glance, her relieved smile admittedly rather infectious. “It’s great to see ya’ up and at ‘em again.”

He offers a bashful laugh, twirling his finger around a short curl at the nape of his neck. “Y-yeah, I’m—“

“Yo, what’s this here, though?” she interjects, bee-lining to his nightstand to stick her nose in his dinner tray. Her face falls the moment she sees inside the bowl, which he’s dutifully scraped empty. “Dude, come on, you didn’t leave any for me?”

“What? Nooo,” he says in mock protest, his voice wavering in laughter. “I already ate it.”

Amethysts reaches forward and gives him a solid noogie, ruffling his hair until its ends are all mussed. Even though his head still hurts he can’t help but giggle, playfully batting her arms away. Hah, typical quartz sibling affection. Gotta love it.

“Nah, I’m just goofin’!” she grins. “You’ve lost enough food today on the forest floor, so I wouldn’t be stealin’ any even if I could.”

“Thank you for that reminder,” he comments with an eye roll, lips pursed as he tries not to muse too hard about the uncomfortable burning sensation associated with that abhorrent experience, least he vomit all over again.

Meanwhile, Amethyst’s high spirits finally hit their crest and begin to break like the distant din of white water waves offshore as she nervously tussles with the crystal octahedron clasped in her palm.

“But, ah... ignoring all that, Blue D said she wanted to talk to you?”

She presses the diamond line into his possession with fettered urgency, the posture of her hands vocalizing an unspoken, underlying message of “oh stars, I’m going insane babysitting these ancient Gem monarchs, please take this from me NOW.” Or at least, that’s what he gleans from it. To be fair, his months of near-constant interaction with them may make him a little biased on the subject.

“Probably best not to keep her waiting. We can catch up later,” she says, giving his fingers a quick squeeze before pulling away.

And with that she hurtles down the stairs into the main living area, ditching him within this empty room with the equivalent of an intergalactic phone that dials direct to who he can only describe as his honorary Gem grandparents. Sure, so maybe most Gems don’t have “children” in the same manner humans do, and maybe the Diamonds themselves have no clear understanding of the classification of human familial relationships, (despite their somewhat touching attempts at learning a few details about Earth culture for his sake), but the quasi-parental role they played in his mother’s life is undeniable from his perspective. So is their “out-of-touch” nature, a common stereotype he sees played up for drama with fictional grandparents on TV shows all the time. He’s not sure how he feels yet that this stereotype rings so true with his own.

Regardless, if Blue wants to talk, then there’s no time like the present. As much as he dreads it, this conversation is bound to happen eventually, of course— and after all their concern, the diamonds more than deserve an update on his well-being. Steven swallows hard, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the crystal as he summons the courage to dial, desperately attempting to not let the sour notes of their last interaction tint the underlying sentiment of this one before it can even begin.

Eventually, he sucks in a deep breath and activates the communicator. The octahedron glows a soft blue, and after a few seconds’ time during which the signal is crossing to the far edge of the galaxy, projects a view screen above its upper point.

The image is fuzzy at first, but sharpens fast once Blue connects from her end. She immediately smiles as she looks upon him, elated emotion running so deep within her that for once, it even manages to reach her eyes.

“Steven! I’m so glad to see that you’re okay,” she begins in full earnesty, clasping her hands together in front of her gem.

He doesn’t respond at first, finding himself too distracted by the scenery, and by the radical juxtaposition of Blue’s current demeanor to her behavior last night. Given the glimpse of White’s empty throne behind her shoulder, he’s pretty sure she’s sitting alone in the ballroom, the sight of which can’t help but stir up unwanted memories of the brief argument they had right before he rushed off to visit home, b-because... oh stars, he was right there, standing right in her presence when she reflexively forced her tears on him.

She wanted to throw him a massive planet-wide ball honoring his sixteenth birthday, wanted to organize a whole coalition of Gems to set up the venues, the entertainment, the food, everything— and when he finally managed to squeeze a word in edgewise between all her unfettered excitement to inform her that he wished to spend his birthday celebrating with his family on Earth instead, she was inconsolable. Crying. Raising her voice. Blaming him of running away from her just like Pink did all those years ago. In the heat of the moment he believed he was simply standing up for himself and his preferences, but fast forward to the present and he can’t help but question the etiquette of his own response more and more as the cruel minutes tick onward. Did he do the right thing, or did he only cause her undue emotional harm? Will Blue Diamond accept his stance moving forward, or will she press the topic again? (After all, he knows her desire to tether him to Homeworld for his birthday is merely a symptom of her greater longing for him to live in the palace with them permanently.) And if she does, is he even allowed to express his opinions when he’s outright walking a tightrope every day he’s in the public eye, single-handedly balancing Gemkind’s delicate political situation in both hands as he slowly but surely advances towards the light on the other side? He must be careful. One wrong move, and everything he’s been working towards for the past year could topple, could cause a disastrous vacuum.

No matter the personal cost, isn’t it his duty as savior of the galaxy to ensure that doesn’t happen?

Gems are depending on him.

And as much as he wants to be selfish and dig his heels into the ground to ensure his own comfort for once in his life, he’s not sure that’s even an option anymore.

Steven grips onto the edge of his bedspread with his free hand, clamping his fingers in tight, reveling in the sensation of skin shifting against downy fabric. It’s just enough to tether him back to the present. To ensure he doesn’t lose himself in the riptides of bitter memory. But by the time his scattered awareness clues in on the fact that he’s probably remained silent for an overly awkward period of time, it’s much too late, and in due consequence, he mentally returns to the scene to find that Blue has kept on talking with or without his conscious attention.

Hah. Serves him right, honestly.

“—was just explaining the details of the disastrous mission you embarked on today,” she says, making small gestures in embellishment of her soft-spoken words, “when your Pearl entered to announce you were awake. I’ll let the others know as soon as I can.”

He swallows, his throat hopelessly dry, as dry as the fine granules of sand scattered across the upper shore on an intensely hot summer’s day.

“I, um—“ he manages, voice wavering. (And quite honestly, feeling stupid for it, in her presence. How many months has he spent perfecting his technique for confidently speaking with the diamonds, again?) He adjusts his hold on the octahedral crystal as he vies to regain some sense of inner balance for the rest of this conversation. “So Yellow and White know too, then?”

Blue leans upon one of the armrests of her throne, releasing a weary sigh. It’s only then that he begins to take note of the residual anxiety blanketed across her form— the almost bruise-like shadows under her eyes appearing deeper than usual, her normally flawless hair now frizzy and unkempt— and if he’s honest, he struggles to understand how he truly feels, knowing that the news of his injury could affect her in such a soul-striking manner. (He often wonders if it’s fair of him, interacting with them in such a detached business-like fashion when, despite their intermittent shortcomings and confusions, they’ve offered him nothing but love and adoration in return since the beginning of era 3.)

“Oh, they were the first to know. Yellow answered the initial call, and White, she was hosting a court session with some of the fusion Gems just next door. I—“ She presses the pad of her thumb to the center facet of her gemstone, pausing in her words a moment to take a sharp inhale. “I only learnt about what nearly happened to you a fragment of a rotation ago, upon my return to the palace.”  

His brows furrow, suddenly realizing the fact that, beyond Blue, the throne room she sits in sounds desolate. Void of all Gems. “Where is everyone, anyways?”

“Distracting themselves, mostly. Last I heard, they’re busy trying to locate any of Pink’s essences that might still remain within our stores, just in case something like this should happen again. Of course I dread the very thought, but...”

Her voice wavers with just the hint of a sob, as she momentarily breaks from her explanation to regain her composure.

(Steven is ashamed to admit that he fails to mask the instinctual tightening of his shoulders as he sees fresh tears brim upon the digitized representation of her visage, even though logically he knows there’s no chance her influence could cross all these light years to weigh down on him here. Not on Earth. Not this far away.)

“...I couldn’t bear to lose another,” she manages, and— after dabbing those teardrops away with her curled fingers— glances back up to meet his gaze with those boundless, melancholy eyes. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, chest growing tighter at the untimely reminder of his mom’s passing, an inseparable facet of his life history he still hasn’t managed to process yet. Perhaps subconscious in nature, his free hand creeps its way under his shirt to rest protectively over his gem. “No one deserves to go through that pain again.”

“Y’know, that’s why I really do wish you’d consider our offer to permanently live with us on Homeworld, in the safety of the palace,” she mentions then, clasping her hands together as if this were a dawning, glorious new idea Steven’s never heard before. “After all, I’m sure none of this would’ve happened under the protection of the guard.”

“Uh, I don’t thi—“

“Can you imagine it, all four diamonds finally reunited under the same stars?” Blue continues, a wide smile passing gracefully across her lips as she waxes on about this indulgent dream of hers. “We could grow you an orchard, so you have as much food as you need, and your pebbles could make you whatever clothes or luxuries you desire. And of course, there’s still the matter of your annual birth celebration to attend to...”

Steven can’t help it. He can’t manage to stop himself, no matter how pathetic he knows his reaction is.

In the light of this topic’s re-emergence, he zones out again. He slips directly into the welcoming embrace of inattention and subconscious thought. His head’s pounding, the pulsing discomfort birthing a brand new species of ache right behind his eyes. It’s miserable, but no more miserable than the idea of the future Blue Diamond has been continuously pushing for the last few months. No more miserable than the idea of being trapped on a planet with individuals who — no matter how hard they try and change their habits for his sake in the present— have all deeply hurt him at various stages of his life. And sure, he knows this is a twisted, selfish sentiment for him to harbor, because of how Pink abandoned them in the past, because of how all three of them have worked so tirelessly these past months to reorganize their entire way of life: to actually see him as his own person instead of a shadow of his mom, to healthily process their own emotions instead of tearing others down, to openly invite fusions and off-colors into the light of society. They’ve genuinely changed for the better. He should be overjoyed about that, shouldn’t he? He should be happy for them.

And yet joy is the last thing he feels when faced with the genuine possibility that he might not be strong enough in his own convictions to stand up to Blue’s desires, that he might one day find himself trapped long-term on a planet that— albeit picturesque in its own unique way— he doesn’t call home, his feet rooted to the dead soil by thorny vines born of his own timidness.

Somehow, in the face of all his fears, he swears he’s transforming into a coward.

He didn’t used to be. The Steven Universe of Era 2 wouldn’t dare stand down from making his opinions heard, would fight for what he believes in until star-shine glistens overhead and all denizens of the galaxy could experience true freedom.

So what the hell is his hang up now? He knows exactly how he wants to respond, so why can’t he simply summon the courage to do it? Why can’t this be as intuitive as summoning his shield, or a bubble?

Why does he have to feel so... so twisted up inside about this?

Steven clenches his teeth then, a sudden spike of residual pain arcing up his spine. Yikes, okay. That doesn’t feel great. Maybe he’s been sitting up for too long, and needs to lay down and rest again.

Or else, maybe after he’s finally done discussing matters with Blue he could...

Wait a minute.

The fingers of his free hand begin to knead the blanket in his lap with a new wave of gusto as he comes to an abrupt revelation about his present condition that could change literally everything.

Stars, that’s perfect. That’s not even a lie! Why on Earth didn’t he think of this before?

He was severely injured this morning. The gemstone at his core outright could’ve shattered, without treatment. Surely any fellow Gem would understand if he says he needs some extra time to fully recover? Perhaps even... the rest of the week? Including his birthday? And on top of that, this extra time would allow him all the privacy he needs to figure out how to confidently and politely decline Blue’s recurring request to live on Homeworld. He’d literally be hitting two targets with one shield!

He nibbles at the inside of his bottom lip as he considers how best to phrase this.

“Hey, Blue?” he calls, immediately garnering her full gaze. “Um—“

Although briefly squirming like an insecure child under those intense azure irises, he stamps down that devilishly tempting urge to go silent and recede into the shadows of this conversation again, wholly compliant to whatever she says. No, he has to speak his mind. No positive change in this relationship will ever occur unless he resolves to stand up for himself, no matter how many reminders it takes. His muscles grow tense as his mouth bobs open once again.

“About the whole birthday celebration thing, I, uh...”

His tongue grows excruciatingly dry in his anxiety, and he’s suddenly struck with the reminder that he never drank the water Pearl left on his dinner tray. Pity, that. He swallows, throat tight and scratchy, and continues.

“I think it’s very kind of you to offer hosting a ball for me on Homeworld, but as of right now, I... I’m very, very sore, and need to stay at my home for a few days to recover from my injury, okay? I promise I’ll visit in person as soon as I’m physically able to,” he rapidly blurts, recognizing a glint of hurt coat Blue’s otherwise attentive expression, “just... after my birthday.”

The diamond lets her weary eyes flutter shut as she takes a moment to soak in everything he just said. Honestly, he can’t think to guess what’s running through her mind right now, and he’s not sure he wants to. Eventually however, she offers an extended sigh, its watercolor edges brushed with an air of melancholy.

“I suppose you’re right,” she replies, offering him a watery smile. “We wouldn’t want to upset your fragile organic system so soon after such an ordeal, now would we? Very well, then. I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Thank you,” he says, his shoulders finally loosening up from their overwrought state.

“We can do something to celebrate when you’re back on Homeworld, just the four of us. In fact, I’ve been talking with White, and we have the perfect idea for a gift!”

Steven gives a small nervous laugh, fiddling with the back of his shirt collar. “Hahah, yeah? Well, I guess I’ll look forward to it. Anyways, uh... thanks for checking in. Bye.”

His heart still pounding despite the overwhelming sense of resolution, his thumb presses the bottom point of the octahedron inwards, ending the call. He gently sets aside the communicator on his nightstand, next to his empty soup bowl. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, he flops backwards on his bed with his arms stretched wide and gives a sharp, celebratory cackle of relief. He... he finally did it! He spoke his mind. He stood up to Blue’s headstrong desires, successfully reasserted his intentions. Set clear boundaries, just like Amethyst said he should. And as his reward, maybe now he can celebrate his birthday at home without guilt hanging like a weighty anvil over his head. Just maybe. He smiles, allowing his sore body to sink right into the plush cocoon of his mattress.

For the first time today, things are finally on the up-and-up.

And so that pattern continues through the rest of the evening. It’s not long after his call with Blue that his dad returns from the store, not even bothering to put the frozen and refrigerated foods in their proper temperature controlled places before bounding upstairs to check on him upon the call of his name. No amount of detailed description could ever hope to intimately capture the full spectrum of sheer elation and love Dad unloads on him in the precious minutes that follow, but by the end of it his father’s sobbing in his arms, exhausted tears staining the collar of his pajama shirt as they clutch to each other with iron clad grips. At this point, the only way Steven can hope to respond is to act as nothing more but a solid rock, if only to reassure him that he’s alive, he’s well, he’s here.

The two of them spend a good chunk of the remaining evening together, watching reruns of Under the Knife at the foot of his bed while nibbling on some cheddar popcorn. It’s rejuvenating, honestly. Stars, is it rejuvenating. Somehow it seems like an eternity since they’ve been able to just... live life together, even in the simplest of ways. They’ll share a dinner here and there when he visits home, sure— a video call from another planet every week or so, yes— but there’s something so fundamentally irreplaceable about physically leaning against your loved ones and spending a tangible amount of time with them that he’s sorely missed over his busy months as Era 3’s ambassador. It’s special. Something to cherish. And something he dearly hopes to engage in with his family and friends a lot more as his immediate duties with the Diamonds wind to a close.

At some point in the middle of their fourth episode, Steven finally finds his phone. It was in his jacket pocket, of course— the new pink wool one he left slung over his desk chair before leaving on the corrupted Gem recovery mission this morning. With that retrieved, he makes sure to text a quick update to all the friends he missed seeing today. Even though logic tells him getting cracked wasn’t entirely his fault, it’s hard to dodge the temptation of guilt. Thankfully though, with the rest of the week now scrubbed entirely free of Homeworld stuff, perhaps he can reschedule a few of these gatherings.  

The rest of his night is uneventful.

The Gems pop in and out to check on him, otherwise attending to their own obligations. Over the comforting backdrop of the television, Dad gushes about the concert he’s organized in town next week for Sadie Killer and the Suspects. Says he’s hopeful it’ll be a sellout. In return, he provides lush descriptions of some of the distant former colonies (now free planets) he’s gotten to visit as part of his political service. There’s some pretty stunning ones, he has to admit. The sightseeing he gets to engage in is a small but shining perk of his current responsibilities.

At ten, the TV is turned off. They hug and part ways, his dad quietly shuffling to the bathroom downstairs to brush his teeth and throw on a sleep shirt.

His headache is almost gone by now, having reduced to nothing more but a faint aura.

He’s standing outside on the porch enjoying some fresh, salty air before bed when Amethyst quietly slides into place alongside him, seeking his affection. She wraps her arms tight around his torso, burying her face against his shoulder. He reciprocates in kind. She doesn’t cry like Dad did, however. She doesn’t even speak. Rather, her purposeful silence ripples through his soul more than any concrete word or phrase ever could. Innately, he knows what she’s asking.

“I’m okay now,” he murmurs softly, blinking away his own budding tears while his expression is still hidden from her. “You healed me, I’m okay.”

“You’re a big liar, y’know that?” she says, voice muffled.

He rolls his eyes, pulling away from her embrace. “Fine, fine. I’m still a little sore. ‘Ya happy?”

Amethyst frowns, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger as she shifts her stance to lounge against the railing. “I’d be happier if none of that ever happened in the first place.”

Her frank statement hangs amidst the wind like a tattered flag upon an abandoned battlefield. Steven swallows, the resulting lump settling uneven in his throat.

(For a second he almost feels sick again, a surge of lingering discomfort churning at his core.)

“Yeah...” he sighs, staring off into the dim ocean horizon and forcing himself to acknowledge her unfortunate experience with this type of injury. “Yeah. I’m sorry if that brought back any bad memories for you.”

She scoffs. “Ch’yeah, so... I’m not gonna say it didn’t suck, but. It’s over now, y’know? I’ll deal. You don’t have to apologize for it, or anything.”

Long pause. His quartz sibling threads her fingers together as she leans against the chipping wood, silently tussling with herself under the ebbing solidarity of the ocean tides. A significant stretch of time passes between them before she finally takes it upon herself to speak again.

“‘S’not like it was your fault, anyways.”

His chest tightens upon recognition of that familiar self-blame inherent in her tone. If he were a stronger, better person, he might take it upon himself to chip away at the walls of that insecurity with love and reassurance, to be the kind, encouraging Steven he used to be. But he’s tired, and he’s lived long enough to acknowledge by now that perfectly formed words can’t fix everything. Not immediately, at least. People are complicated. He’s complicated. And sometimes the best one can manage is to simply act as a supportive companion to another.

Starlight glittering overhead, and the cool coastal breeze tussling at their hair, he joins Amethyst at the balcony and rests his cheek on her shoulder just like he used to do when he was little. Together, enveloped in a tension-filled silence, they watch the waves together. Watch the gulls pick at old food scraps further up shore, closer to the edge of the cliffs.

“Hey, what kind of gem was it, by the way?” he asks eventually. “You never said.”

“Ughhh,” she groans, dropping her head against the wood with a soft clunk. “A dang sapphire. Literally no wonder why she was so slippery!”

Steven can’t help the bubble of oddly placed glee that rises within him upon her answer. He cracks a dopey grin, shaking his head at himself. A snicker passes his lips.

A sapphire. Of course it was a sapphire. Gosh, isn’t that sweet, sweet vindication.

Her brow creases in confusion. “What?”

Perhaps finally cracking under months of accumulated stress, he breaks into peels of low laughter.

“What is it? Dude, ya’ gotta tell meeee!” she cries, playfully rustling at his arm as he doubles over against the railing, clutching his sides as he wrests to catch his breath and respond.

“No, it’s- it’s not even funny,” he says, pushing past the final surge and gaining some sense of composure again. “I just... my guess was spot-on. I’ve never seen a corrupted sapphire, before that.” His demeanor falls sober in a snap, wholly humbled by the abrupt reminder of the vital task waiting in his future, a task that— alongside the Diamonds’ bottled essences— only he can hope to see through. “I hope she’ll be okay, once she’s healed. I’m not even gonna mention what happened, honestly.”

Amethyst visibly pales at his allusion to the incident this morning. To ‘what happened.’ Hah. As if cushioning the truth in vague, non-specific language could at all erase the stark reality of what he went through. Sometimes he really is daft.

“Steven, I—“ she swallows hard, nibbling at her knuckles for a moment as she contemplates the greater details of whatever seems to be assailing her mind. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, okay? But... I have to at least ask. Do you, like... remember anything?”

He frowns, avoiding her direct gaze as he moves to lean against the balcony, overlooking the blustery shoreline.

“What, you mean about... everything after the fight? And at the, ah... at the fountain, yeah?”

Amethyst offers a hesitant nod, her eyes glossed with marked worry. Peering at the pinprick constellations above as he reflects on this question, Steven experimentally nudges scattered fragments of memory closer together, the seconds and minutes of that experience progressively locking into place until—

The world bends and splinters within his sight, his dad and Amethyst’s tear-stricken faces phasing into each other as they sink ever further into the thickets of their fearful despair. He’s prone in their hold, hard light pulsing rampant through his veins, unregulated, unrestrained, stretching out from his broken gemstone like clawing, yearning fingers... his muscles taut at one moment and pliable at the next, wholly unable to exert control over his body as his every limb jitters and jerks, unable to staunch his hoarse sobs as he soaks in the cold, terrifying static of it all, and now his words are jumbled and backwards, and deep within he knows this with an intense clarity but he can’t help it, he can’t fix it, he can barely even think, he ca—

Steven inhales evenly, purposefully not allowing his expression to flash even a minuscule micro-expression of residual fear. After all, it’s Era 3. Everyone’s supposed to find happiness and fulfillment now, which can’t happen when people are stuck dwelling on their shadowed past. Thus, Amethyst doesn’t need to be burdened with the knowledge of what he does or doesn’t know. That’s his problem to shoulder, his boulder to carry.

And he refuses to force anyone else to carry the weight of his past for him. He refuses to become like Blue, still stuck in a tempestuous pattern of pushing her emotions on everyone around her and making them feel like crap.

Perhaps it’s foolish, but he sorely wants to believe he’s better than her.

“Nope,” he says, feigning an unparalleled air of confidence as he shakes his head to confirm the negative. “Can’t remember a thing.”

[insane-control-room]

The Linework

Chapter Two, Segment Two

Previous  - Next

Masterpost

Gospel

Edgar was an explorer, of sorts. His curiosity lead him into all sorts of situations, not that anyone minded, being that Joey always had an eye on him to prevent too much mischief. As well as the fact he was an adorable little bugger. He liked hanging around Shawn and Wally, and the two of them liked his presence, Shawn because he helped in the workshop and Joey could not be mad at him, ever, Wally because it was nice to have someone to chat with.

Just having Edgar alone around already spiced things up, a whole new flair and shine, but with all the other kids as well? It was a brand new ballpark, complete with fifty thousand packed seats, everyone on edge to see what would happen next.

Seeing the toon children around just reminded everyone how absolutely genius Joey was, even if everyone around, including himself, vehemently denied such a notion. He was just a simple fellow with hardly any intellect and even less schooling, ha, he had not even finished high school! But seeing the six living beings he created with nothing but his hands and mind, well, it just was a reminder of that true knowledge he had deep within himself from years of study.

And yet, he was so young…

Henry’s mind wandered as he worked on the panels, Boris near his feet, playing with crayons on the papers that Henry scrapped and gave to him. Judging by the squeals of laughter and musical notes that floated up, Alice and Charlie were in the music department; their favorite location as of yet.

Barley and Bendy liked the heavenly toys department. Mostly for all the attention they got off of “irish street”. Shawn and all his cousins adored the wee demon and the baby pirate, and essentially inserted themselves as the uncles of the inky kids. 

Edgar liked going around everywhere.

Especially the Bendy Land zone. He loved looking at all the mechanical things, all the big rides. He liked to climb up onto them, and explore their facets and gears.

He was an explorative lad. 

Joey was somehow able to keep an eye on all of the kids, keeping track of them with the insane amount of strength needed by a parent. Henry adored him. He peered around the corner to check on Boris, sighing with relief that he was still there. 

“Tough day?” Henry asked with a tease in his tone, finishing up the linework of another panel, sending it off to the junior animators to fix it up. “You look like you’ve been running around all day long. Have you?”

“You could say that,” Johan yawned, collapsing down on his knees, pressing his cheek to Henry’s thigh, looking up at him so sweetly, Henry’s mouth watered. “What’s that look for, sugar?”

“You know damn well what, or rather who, this look is for, honey,” Henry smirked, loving the way Johan’s cheeks flared red with such a small comment. Henry’s firm hand came to rest on the back of Joey’s head, he raising an eyebrow with his cocky smirk expanding as Joey turned even redder. “Come on, it would be nice.”

“For you,” Johan crossly retorted. Henry snorted, rolling his eyes. “Besides, we’re at work, and Boris is literally right here. I will not.”

“So, if we weren’t at work, and away from the kids,” Henry prompted, cheeky grin growing wider while Johan shifted, mouth ajar. “Well?”

“Then, ah, I might… consider it,” Joey gulped. “Maybe.”

“Looks to me as though you’re considering it right now,” Henry’s baiting went on. Johan struggled to come up with a retort. “Are you sure you won’t use your pretty lips for something more entertaining?”

“Entertaining!” Joey scoffed, offended. “Entertaining!”

“Shush, you’re talking too much,” Henry went on, grinning. “You’re still not telling me what’s been bothering you lately. If the next thing out of your mouth isn't a confession as to what it is, then I want those lips on mine. Got it?”

Joey did not say anything, merely rose up to stand above Henry, dusting off his knees. Henry rolled his eyes, about to go back to work, when Joey proceeded to straddle him. Henry’s eyebrows shot up, then his cheeks were caught between two lithe hands, and soft lips pressed to his.

An exclamation of surprise was swallowed up by the mouth over his own, and his own hands came up to keep Johan in place. He could taste cinnamon and sugar on his lips, and those simply sweet flavors sent fireworks through his mind. It was delightful, delicious, dangerous, and oh, so perfect. The way their bodies meshed, the contrast between them.

Others may have thought it strange. Or wrong. Or wicked, or attractive. But Joey and Henry could care less as to what others thought - it was their love. That was all it was for them. And sometimes they showed their affection through kisses, sometimes through touch, more through banter and kind words on Joey’s side, more through smirks and winks on Henry’s.

It was the way they flowed. Rivers of ink and air merging and blending as one, bubbling up into the world in complete and total growth of nuance. It was late night motorcycle rides through New York, it was experimenting on extra organs, it was tipsy giggling through hazy soft kisses.

Henry never would have asked for anything else. This was his family. Joey, Linda, the kids, the studio, work, everything. It was a modge podge swirling mess of wonder. 

Wonder. Wonder, so wondrously wonderful. Both a verb and a noun, a feeling so deep and powerful, it drives all of humanity to find it, to look for it, to feel it and create it. It was wonderful, it is wonderful. It’s right in the name, is it not? It makes you wonder how far someone would go to obtain it, to capture wonder.

Henry found it, right there, arms around a thin, beautiful, wondrous man, Joey being wonder. 

[shemakesmusic-uk]

Blending left field jazz elements with club tropes to forge something truly new, Emma-Jean Thackray's work is never less than riveting. New album Yellow is out on July 2, with the composer commenting: “It’s a record about togetherness, the oneness of all things in the universe, showing love and kindness, human connection. I approached the record by trying to simulate a life-changing psychedelic experience, an hour where we see behind the curtain to a hidden dimension, where the physical realm melts away and we finally see that we are all one.” Set to be released via her own Movementt imprint, the album is led by gorgeous new single 'Say Something' - opening with glimmers of Rhodes piano, it leans on that hi-hat shuffle before Emma-Jean Thackray uses her voice to elevate the song. A plea towards communication, it's a powerful introduction. [via Clash]

Philadelphia punk rockers Mannequin Pussy have released the title track to Perfect, their upcoming EP due out May 21. The new song comes with a flashy music video that’s inspired by the kitschy glamor of Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, too. Musically, 'Perfect' is a distorted blaze of rock guitars that sees vocalist-guitarist Missy eviscerating the idea that people must manicure their own social media presence. “Last year, I found myself spending more time on my phone than I ever had in my life… I realized that through years of social media training, many of us have grown this deep desire to manicure our lives to look as perfect, as aspirational as possible,” explained Missy in a statement. “We want to put ourselves out there, share our lives, our stories, our day to day — and these images and videos all shout the same thing: ‘Please look at me, please tell me I’m so perfect.’ It’s simultaneously a declaration of our confidence but edged with the desperation that seeks validation from others.” In the accompanying music video, directed by Missy, viewers get to watch as a 10-year reunion at Sugarbush High slowly unravels. It opens on three former classmates, all three of whom are pregnant, dishing some hushed gossip and talking about how they want to get plastic surgery that’s so good they mistake one another for strangers. Cue two students-turned-drag queens making a grand entrance and strutting their stuff on the dance floor (mirroring the 1997 comedy classic) while old classmates gasp, shield their eyes, and panic. Meanwhile, Mannequin Pussy can be seen tearing up the band stage while they perform live. [via Consequence]

Following the release of her debut EP I Can’t Cry For You in December, Manchester’s Phoebe Green is back with new bop ‘IDK’. “[It] explores a complete detachment from reality, observing things from a place of total apathy and feeling as though I’m witnessing my life as a bystander with little to no connection to it,” Phoebe explains. “It’s a horrible state to be in, I think it happens when I get overwhelmed.” [via DIY]

Fast-rising French-Korean artist spill tab is unveiling her latest mesmerising single ‘Anybody Else’. Accompanied by a new vid directed by friend and collaborator Jade Sadler, spill tab says, “This song is cheesy as fuck but I love it, it’s pretty straight forward, a little shameless - the lyrics are sort of a way of expressing my love without openly saying I love you. Jade Sadler (the video director) and I just wanted to have a shit ton of fun on this one. We thought about something with narrative or plot and it was just getting to be too corny. I wanted something lighthearted and playful, so we decided we would have all of our homies in this video paired with different colors and angles and set designs. I’m so excited with the way it turned out.” [via DIY]

Willow Kayne has shared her debut single 'Two Seater'. The Gen Z talent links together huge opposing forces, creating her own potent brand of rebel-pop. New single 'Two Seater' finds Willow blazing a trail, upending convention through melding together differing sounds. The lush, 90s inspired soundscape leans on nostalgic impulses, but her punk-like disregard for convention is sheer pop futurism. Produced by DANIO, it finds Willow Kayne coming into her own completely off the bat. [via Clash]

BENEE has shared a video for her single ‘Happen To Me’. It’s the latest cut from her debut album, Hey u x, which arrived last November featuring guest spots from the likes of Grimes, Lily Allen and Flo Milli. “This song is super important to me,” she says. “It’s the opening track [on the album]. It’s the first song where I’ve written about anxiety. The lyrics are pretty dark. Life is pretty crazy right now, and I think it’s important to talk about this kind of stuff.” Of the video, she adds: “Stoked to be sharing this music video with everyone! I filmed it with a bunch of mates, and it was the coolest set! Hope you love it as much as I do.” [via Dork]

Los Angeles-based art-pop artist Kit Major has shared the music video for 'When the Drugs Don't Work,' a more introspective stab at her signature dark, electropop sound. Blending driving dance beats and thumping hyperpop-influenced synths, Kit Major creates an intoxicating elixir of soundbites and grit. Taking inspiration from Charli XCX, Billie Eilish, and Charlotte Lawrence, 'When the Drugs Don't Work' dives into the overwhelming vulnerability and panic of failing to curb a depressive episode with medication. With this release, Kit Major furthers her efforts to be open and make light of her mental health struggles. On the video, Kit Major shares, "'When The Drugs Don't Work' was filmed in one weekend, directed by my best friend in my departed grandparents' now empty house. We filmed this in quarantine without a crew and worked to create a dark & twisted fairytale together. When I first started thinking about the video, I knew I wanted a more lighthearted take to balance the darker theme of my mental health in the song. I wrote the lyric, “little princess hurt locked away inside her palace,” because sometimes when I'm isolated in my room I visualize myself as a Disney princess running inside her castle, instead of being in my bed, surrounded by empty water bottles. This song was written from a mix of different perspectives including my own, my persona, and outside voices. I think we accomplished the storytelling behind WTDDW by portraying the importance of imagination and trusting yourself."  Alongside, director Noël Dombroski adds, "WDDW is a raw, introspective song from Kit that shines a light on parts of herself that at times may be hard to face. We were lucky enough to be able to shoot at Kit's late grandparents' house, an emotionally significant location that acts in the video as the inside of Kit's head. We wanted to challenge viewers to look at every facet of themselves and realize that each part is valuable, even if you may not like it. A conversation we had a lot was about the color scene, where the image of Kit is being pulled apart by color channels. You may hate one of those colors, but you still need it to create that full image. The same can sometimes be said about depression - it may be a layer of yourself that you don't care for, but without that experience, I don't know that WDDW could exist." The music video dives into the psychological turmoil at the heart of the track with a hyperstylized touch. Spotlights wander through a funhouse version of Kit's childhood home, hunting down our protagonist, who we find trapped behind bars, downing teardrops from teacups and champagne from the bottle. Simultaneously unnerving and stimulating in a Paranormal Activity-meets Alice in Wonderland aestheticism, the music video for 'When the Drugs Don't Work' dives into the floating images of a mental breakdown with a fever dream lucidity.

Number One Popstar continues to prove herself as a powerhouse, shaking up the music world with her fresh, unapologetic beats. This week, she shares another one, her new single 'Forever 21.' And no, it’s not about clothes. 'Forever 21' begins with a kicking beat, but subdued with reflective, twinkly keys. It’s a perfect mix of existential dread and dance. Carrying this vibe throughout, it breaks in between with a beaming guitar-driven bridge. Lyrically, the track makes us question why brands and media make it seem like our twenties are our prime, when we still have our whole lives ahead of us? Despite the effervescent pop sound, Hollowell got vulnerable about her past and its effect on the song, saying, "I initially started writing 'Forever 21' when I found myself looking back on my early 20’s, wanting to recapture the hopeful and dumb feelings of my youth. But the longer I spent on the song, the more it became a reflection of the loss I faced when my parents passed away in my early 20s. I started looking at my own fear of death, of dying like them. I really didn’t know where my life was headed back then. […] I eventually turned that painful experience into a motivation to go after everything I wanted in life. To be seriously less serious, recognizing everything is fleeting.” Like her other music videos, Hollowell likes to flip popular culture and societal expetations on their head. While also bringing the fear of aging to life, she also reminds audiences to stay present instead of holding on to youth. [via Earmilk]

Following in the footsteps of Prince and Lizzo, Dizzy Fae is set to become the Twin Cities’ next pop sensation. She just dropped her brand new track, 'BODY MOVE', and much like the name suggests, it will make you want to move. Self-described as alternative R&B, Fae takes a few notes from contemporary hyperpop artists like Charli XCX and Doja Cat with an industrial iciness that plays off the technicolor pop melodies. It’s an influence you can hear on 'BODY MOVE', produced by New York’s Stelios (Young Thug, SZA). The track builds itself off a snappy, rubber band bass line indebted to pop’s recent disco revival. “It’d be so cruel if I didn’t let my body move,” Fea’s voice loops through a robotic filter. A buzzing drum machines barrels in at the chorus, transforming the lightly retro groove to a futuristic club track more akin to the production styles of 100 gecs. But for all the modern influences, the Ying Yang Twins reference shows she’s a student of all types of music. [via Consequence]

Technically, 'Your Power' is not the lead single from Billie Eilish’s newly announced album Happier Than Ever. The album includes two songs she released last year: the jazzy, well received ballad 'my future' and the contemptuous multi-format radio hit 'Therefore I Am.' However, 'Your Power' is the first song Eilish has released since announcing the new album, debuting her new look, and officially commencing her LP2 era, so there’s definitely a deep sense of anticipations around the song. Eilish teased 'Your Power' this week with a brief sound snippet featuring acoustic guitar and the words “Try not to use your power” sung to a Feist-y melody. Now the full song and its Eilish-directed music video have arrived. The completed record remains as soft, pretty, and devastatingly sad as the preview audio. In the clip, a slow pan across a mountainside in the Simi Valley reveals Eilish in the clutches of a gigantic snake. (A press release specifies that it’s an 80-pound anaconda.) [via Stereogum]

[shanie-the-toyaddict]

Did you see the post I made about your fic? I'm DYING to read moar!

I saw it and I promise I’m finishing it up. I’m really happy that I didn’t post it yet though. I accidentally had WM33 as Kevin’s first in the opening paragraph. I forgot the WM32 Ladder Match. Went back and changed that. Here... to hold you over...

...

...

“Am I dreaming?” Sami asked fearfully. “Is this a dream?”

Fucking hell.

On his best day, Kevin wasn’t good at processing emotions. Most of the emotions Kevin did feel boiled down to happy or various, ever-increasing levels of rage. Sure, there were other facets involved on occasion, such as bitter or annoyed, but in most cases, he only delved into the complex emotions when around Sami. Sami always brought out the best (or worst) in him and when he was around the guy, his heart would grow three sizes like some angry Canadian Grinch. When he was allied with Sami, Kevin found himself capable of the most profound acts of kindness and emotion, going out of his way to protect the man from whatever or whoever might try to come after him. And, when Sami pissed him off, his emotions would bubble and burn, becoming a complex blend of jealousy, hate, adoration, and love with everything in between getting a turn as well.

But the emotions he was feeling as he watched Sami struggle to communicate and understand what was going on were brand new. Sami was the rambling sort, his gift of gab being bountiful to the point of overflowing. Seeing him struggle to complete a thought was the freshest of hells, clearly handpicked by the powers of the universe to give KO a message. Kevin wasn’t too sure what that message was yet, and frankly, Kevin spoke two languages fluently but neither of them was sufficient for expressing the combination of terror, heartbreak, and despair he was feeling. It was like someone hadn’t just kicked him in the stomach, they had put their foot through his midsection and then yanked it free, leaving his entrails to spill out onto the ground and leaving him empty inside.

And it hurt.

It hurt worst than any match or bump that he’d ever had in his entire career.

---

---

There you go! Hope that holds you over till I can get it published! I had to pack all day today, and then I ended up taking a nap before heading out for dinner. I just got home, so I hopefully can spend some time on it tonight before passing out again. Moving is exhausting work!

[strangergrove]

× VOL 001 × 04.19.2020 ×

TUMBLR | @bambixxblue AO3 | moonlight_xx

× these hearts adore (every other beat, the other one beats for) ×

WORD COUNT: 10,569

CHAPTERS: 2/?

My Tumblr prompt fics all in one place. Some pining, some angst, but usually always a damn happy ending.

1. peach, curve of an ear, coffee grounds, veined hands, thunder

2. ways to say 'i love you' - 'i brought you an umbrella.'

The writing in this is so exquisite. It feels like cracking open a favourite book on a rainy Sunday morning, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's comforting and poetic and incredibly heartwarming.

The first chapter takes us along on a sweet little vacation to California, a last hurrah of sorts, before the kids head off to college. It's sweet and peach-soaked and you can feel the ocean breeze against your skin with every passing word. It's the exact brand of happiness our boys deserve.

The second part is an achingly beautiful redemption for Billy. He learns how to let his wounds heal, learns how to let others in, learns how to trust and love. His initial interactions when he meets Steve are so precious and it shows how complex of a person he is, the softness beneath his concrete shell. I will devour any update to this amazing collection.

× the light of day shows me how ×

WORD COUNT: 39,173

CHAPTERS: 7/7

And from Robin, a single picture: the official cast list.

ROMEO MONTAGUE...BILLY HARGROVE

JULIET “JULIAN” CAPULET...STEVE HARRINGTON

Ah, fuck.

(or, Steve and Billy are in ballet school. They're cast in LGBT+ Romeo and Juliet. Featuring mutual pining, angst to fluff, and an Ancient Slavic demon cult. It gets weird.)

This is such a fun read. The spattering of background into the story really carves out the characters so well, choreographing the story in such a way that you fall into their lives without realizing it. You sit down to watch Steve practice his role for Julian and suddenly find yourself wondering if that small stutter you just saw has anything to do with any number of little details you know of his past. You see Billy storm across the studio floor and know that he’s trying to bury something that keeps resurfacing, but he refuses to let anyone help him.

It’s wonderful watching the way the boys play off of each other, pushing one another to better themselves in both their dance and their personal lives. Watching Steve fumble with his newfound and confusing feelings is sweet, hopeful, just waiting, waiting for it to tip over the edge, for the boys to fall into the space they’ve always belong: by each other’s side.

I’ve never done ballet, only watched it here and there in movies and shows, but I fell in love with this story, the way their dances are described, their movements. So if you’ve never been that into ballet, don’t let that deter you from reading this story. It’s so much more than just ballet.

× friends should sleep in other beds ×

WORD COUNT: 13,517

CHAPTERS: 2/2

It isn’t easy being in love with your best friend.

It especially isn’t easy being in love with your best friend if he’s the practical-Godfather of your university.

(or, 'I won't let anyone hurt you; you're safe with me' prompt fill where Steve thinks his love is one-sided but it absolutely isn't. Feat. loving girlfriends and Hawaiian vacations.)

This story is beyond achingly stunning. It’s all whirlwinds and longing and the white-knuckle deathgrip of trying to hold onto something you’re convinced is going to slip away. The deep, binding relationship between Billy and Steve is beautiful and heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time. Both characters have obvious trenches of emotional trauma they’ve had to trudge through to get where they are, trenches they’re still slowly crawling their ways out of.

The words are so wonderfully crafted that I felt the sway and break of Steve’s emotions at the same time he did. I felt the longing, the sorrow, the sputtering flame of hope that just refuses to gutter and die. I want to say I wanted more of this story, but I don’t know if my heart could have handled it. No, it was the perfect length, detailing the long harrowing journey of love and friendship, of finding family that doesn’t come from blood, of holding desperately onto things that are worth the bruises they leave on your fingers.

TUMBLR | @cameorabbit AO3 | CaffeinatedBunny

× Life Is Sweet ×

WORD COUNT: 8,676

CHAPTERS: 4/4

Snapshots of domestic bliss, between loving boyfriends.

(This story will be marked as complete but I will be adding chapters as the muses come to me or when I need a break from some of my larger wip)

This wonderful little collection offers us a sweet insight into the boys' relationship. We get small glimpses into the boys' pasts that add layers to the stories. We get to see little snippets of Steve's relationship with his mother and grandmother. We get to see Billy's insecurities. 

Each story has it’s own little theme, if you will, from baking Christmas cookies to battling insecurities in their relationship. Each story gives us a little more, brings us a little deeper into these boys’ lives, adds that next layer to them that has you coming back to see how they’ve developed. I'm looking forward to any future additions to this collection.

× When I run out of road (You bring me Home) ×

WORD COUNT: 5,316

CHAPTERS: 1/1

The road back to Hawkins Indiana is long and tedious with neither of them really wanting to reach their destination; so to distract them both Billy has a plan to make it as pleasurable for both of them as he can.

Uffda. This was a fun read. Now, before I dive into the review, just a heads up: this is a PWP with dom/sub. And apologies in advance for my inability to be eloquent about smut.

The dynamic between the two was a joy to read. Steve's mannerisms as a baby and the way Billy handles him as his Daddy was fantastic. It's not heavy dom/sub here, but you can tell they've had this relationship for a while. They're both comfortable in their roles and both know exactly what they're doing, and how to get a rise out of each other. But between the power play and the drops of backstory, there's actually some beautiful writing here, too. There were a few lines that I found myself rereading just because they sounded beautiful.

Also, I just have to say... The way Billy handles his own cock... Why do I love that so much? Just little things, too, like tapping it against the steering wheel while he's teasing Steve.

× I'll Keep you Mine ×

WORD COUNT: 3,926

CHAPTERS: 1/1

Billy's forged a kingdom and took an empty throne, and he'll burn anyone and anything that tries to take it from him.

(My Dudes this whole story is pretty much the Grumpy Possessive one claims the Sunshine One - Literally. And I ain't even mad.)

Here we get a gorgeously written tale that spins the events of the Upside Down in a different light. I don't want to spoil what that is, as it's not explicitly stated in the summary or tags, so you'll have to read to find out! This idea could easily be fleshed out into a much longer piece, but there's also something about just getting a small taste of an idea that is very enjoyable.

There is this persistent sense of danger beneath all the beautiful imagery. It's in the pacing of the story, in the way Billy needs to claim Steve. We get enough of a taste of this otherness to want more, to want to see exactly how everything unfolds.

TUMBLR | @wickedlydevious AO3 | wickedlydevious

× Weak Hands, Weak Lungs, Strong Heart ×

SERIES: Strong Heart

WORD COUNT: 2,771

CHAPTERS: 1/1

After the events at Starcourt Mall, Billy is recovering in the hospital and bored out of his mind. The only bright spots are when Max comes to visit.

And then Steve Harrington starts visiting too and that's even better.

There is a very beautiful light and warmth throughout this story. Billy's character feels so accurate, and the way he deals with being in the hospital and everything that entails is exquisitely portrayed here. What Billy has to deal with in the wake of the Mind Flayer grates against his entire personality, but it forces him to step outside of his comfort zone, outside of himself, and relearn how to interact with people, namely Steve.

The thing I loved most about this story is that we get to see these different facets of Billy, facets that maybe even he didn't really know were there, ones he never allowed himself to show because of his father. Still recovering, still being dependent on other people forces these different aspects of him into the world, and it's beautiful. It creates this very special sort of relationship between Billy and Steve that is just so pure and heart warming. I'll definitely be coming back to this when I need a spark of joy.

× Weak Backbone, Strong Convictions ×

SERIES: Strong Heart

WORD COUNT: 3,212

CHAPTERS: 1/1

After the events at Starcourt Mall, Steve starts bringing Max to visit Billy at the hospital.

And then Steve starts visiting on his own.

The sweetness continues with the second part of the Strong Heart series. The events of the first part are retold, but this time through Steve's POV. I've always loved the idea of telling the same events from different perspectives and this did not disappoint. The events may be the same, but you feel them differently than when they were told through Billy's perspective. Though the tone of the previous installation is ultimately uplifting, it's clear Billy is struggling. This part, however, is overflowing with hope, which only adds to the already beautiful feeling of the last piece. Don't think that because you already know the events that will take place because you read the last part that you shouldn't read this one. It's beautiful and moving and there are moments added that would be a shame to miss out on. I really hope this series continues, because it is wonderfully uplifting, but it stands strong all the same, just as it is.

× T(h)ree Mistakes ×

WORD COUNT: 4,559

CHAPTERS: 1/1

It’s their first Christmas in their own apartment and Steve reluctantly tasks Billy with getting the tree.

Mistakes are made.

This is a great read for the holidays. Billy's tree-getting adventures brought back so many memories of going to the tree farm down the road from our house as a kid and making a day of trying to find a tree that didn't look like trash and wouldn't break the bank. The feel of the story is cozy and sweet, like a warm and sleepy holiday morning. The kids, now teens, make a short but fun appearance that really makes this story feel like it's about found family. 

This story is like coming home, rounding up all of your best friends you haven’t seen in ages, and making a night of the holidays. It’s sipping eggnog, the lights turned down low, and listening to the sweet croon of gentle music somewhere in the house. This story is comfort and happiness and love. Now I want some hot apple cider...

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[tsukkinami]

a heathen’s touch

fandom: The Last Kingdom (TV)

pairing: alfred / uhtred

rating: Explicit

chapters: 1/1**

15. Alfred / Uhtred, Alfred likes to watch Uhtred fuck, Uhtred likes to put on a show. Power play. 

**This fic is Uhtred’s perspective of the prompt, and is part of a larger piece written with @minimartian​, who’s work the cross that burns is written from Alfred’s POV. Please go check out her part to get the whole story!

read on ao3 here

It took longer than Uhtred had expected to grow used to life beneath the thumb of the throne of Wessex, but he had managed. Alfred’s mercurial tolerance of the Dane was to be measured by the day—Uhtred still had yet to learn the patterns of his actions which would garner the king’s tepid favor, or invite his quiet wrath. He had almost begun to believe there was no pattern, and that Alfred merely punished or rewarded him based on the wind, or whether or not his God had been speaking to him through prayer. But no, Alfred is smarter than that; he does nothing without a reason, even if that reason is miles ahead of anyone else’s sight. Uhtred’s especially.

All the same, the king had seemed more agitated with him lately. It is a subtle change—a sharpened tongue in conversation, a watchful eye when the Dane had yet to make a false move warranting one, a scathing look that raked along his form like a blade pulled fresh from a forge. All of it unprompted, as far as Uhtred knew, but then again, he tried his hardest never to dwell.

So when Alfred calls him into his writing room one evening, Uhtred keeps his head held high and his back straight on purpose. Either he is about to be scolded pointlessly for some escapade that somehow violated God’s divine plan, or Alfred is going to prattle on about England at length and Uhted’s sworn duty to protect it. Neither is desirable, so the Dane sets his mind to merely keeping his mouth shut.

Alfred is seated in a shroud of candlelight at his writing desk as Uhtred approaches, dismissing the guard who had escorted his invitee with a tight smile and a flick of his chin. The heavy metal doors shutting behind the Dane sound rather more the sealing of a tomb. 

“Uhtred,” the king deadpans in greeting, his eyes cast downward to his work. He appears, as always, more priest than king, the sleeves of his grey robes hanging loose from his wrists as he scrawls across a fresh sheet of parchment with a deft quill. When he finally peers up at Uhtred with those observant eyes of his, cast amber in the candlelight, Uhtred struggles to fight the tension seeping across his shoulders. 

“Lord King,” he replies flatly, glancing at the ink stains along Alfred’s fingertips to keep from returning that chilling gaze. Slowly, the king sets the quill down and pushes away from the desk, standing with a palm to his abdomen as the other braces upon the table. “I’ve an assignment for you, if you’re willing,” Alfred states plainly, and Uhtred’s brow crinkles. He gets the sense that his complacency in the matter is of little concern—more than that, he cannot fathom what assignment worthy of his time the Lord might have.

“That depends on the assignment,” the Dane tests, clasping his hands together in front of himself. He did not come here merely to be sent off into the Mercian countryside on a scouting mission, nor fulfill whatever task it is Alfred believes him freely capable of. 

Alfred’s face remains almost the same, though Uhtred notices his eyes darken, flickering down to the Dane’s fidgeting hands before he turns away, stepping in front of the window to stare down through the weakening sunlight at the thinning bustle of the castle courtyard. He looks pensive—rarely is there a moment when evidence of his ceaseless mind is not written plain across his face.

“It is of a… personal sort,” he elaborates quietly, fingers twining behind his back as he glances over his shoulder to the floor beneath Uhtred’s feet. At that, Uhtred’s brow crinkles; Alfred is not one to readily place privileged matters into the care of someone he so publicly distrusted.

“Lord?” he inflects. Alfred turns finally, his steps purposeful as he approaches Uhtred, halting a mere foot away. The look he fixes the Dane with is as unsettling up close as it was from afar, in a manner Uhtred cannot put a name to.

“I wish to know my enemies,” he admits, voice smooth and level like the flat of a sword. “The Danes. You yourself are a Dane, Uhtred, so you will help me in this aspect.”

Uhtred leans away on impulse, his gaze flitting to the king’s lips as he speaks. He doesn't much appreciate the insinuation that he, sworn by oath and proven loyal time and time again, remains an enemy, despite all he has done for Wessex, for the Saxons. Alfred included.

“What would you want to know?” he replies hesitantly, already breaking his private vow to remain quiet. But the king had caught his attention, damn him, snaring Uhtred with curiosity yet again.

Alfred steps forward, and Uhtred feels his nostrils flare with the small breath he pulls to his lungs. The king’s eyes strike him, a spark on a flint shard, as do his words spoken smooth as honey. “I have heard tales of Danish prowess,” he lilts, purring over the last few syllables. Uhtred’s heart seizes for a fleeting second, the blood beneath his skin going icy. “But I’ve yet to witness it for myself.”

Alfred’s eyes are no longer on Uhtred’s, having dropped instead to his lips. His gaze is an iron brand, heavy and burning as it slides across them, and Uhtred fights not to blot them with his tongue. His own gaze flickers along the planes of Alfred’s stony expression for some kind of reprieve. None comes.

“You will teach me,” the king continues, chin tilting up and lashes fluttering along his cheeks, “of their… bodily weaknesses.”

Behind them, the candlelight flickers.

Understanding floods Uhtred’s mind and crashes against him with all the unstoppable force of a tidal wave. It seeps into every corner, every vessel in his blood, every facet of his being as he processes Alfred’s wolf of a request, wrapped in sheep’s clothes around his silver tongue. The Dane blinks, letting his eyes fall away from Alfred’s face to fix at a spot just above his head, and swallows roughly around his reply as it bubbles against the back of his throat. It’s a needless inquiry—he knows, and fears, the answer already.

“What… weaknesses are of interest to you, Lord?”

Alfred’s lips pull tight into the smallest of smiles, adorned with amusement and mottled by a sultry hue that fits him just a bit too well.

“It is a matter of curiosity,” he explains, stepping back towards his desk and running two nimble fingers along the woodgrain. Uhtred’s gaze follows him like a hawk—or rather the mouse caught in the hawk’s sight. There’s a stir in his gut he’s no title for, familiar as it may be. It is out of place here, with Alfred as its agitator, though the warrior would be lying to himself if he claimed never to have felt it before.

It twists when the Lord turns, the heel of his hands braced against the table’s edge as he leans against it. “I find the subject of your people’s hedonistic practices to be… troublingly intriguing,” he says. In his eyes lies a dangerous invitation, the stormy blue of his irises stippled with a restrained lust Uhtred had not known him capable of. It lingers over the warrior’s body, sizing him up—more likely undressing him.

“You will sate this curiosity for me, Uhtred,” the king demands as he gracefully props himself upon the table, his knees parting and the fabric of his robe rucking at his hips. “You will do exactly as I tell you.”

Uhtred’s grip on his own wrist tightens as Alfred’s smile pulls a hair’s breadth wider.

“And I will watch.”

When Alfred beckons, it is not aloud. It is not a word spoken into reality, nor is it a flick of the chin or crook of the finger—it is a feeling, a gravitational pull, as steady as if the king had gripped the leather laces of Uhtred’s armor and pulled him forward himself. The Dane’s feet move without his permission, staggered with trepidation, with uncertainty. The air turns dreamlike, and Uhtred halts a mere step away from the perfectly-spaced niche of Alfred’s legs.

A voice in Uhted’s head screams out like a prey animal, fighting with his hand as he reaches out to ghost his palm up Alfred’s thigh, never quite making contact with the linen beneath. It fades to silence when Alfred’s hooded eyes peer up to his, silent and piercing as an arrow in the night.

“What exactly—” Uhtred whispers, mouth dry as he peeks his tongue across his lips, “— would you have me do?”

Alfred roams his face thoughtfully, though Uhtred is sure he had already something in mind. The king’s fingers curl around his belt buckle, drawing him that final step closer as he makes his orders known.

“Touch me.”

An unsteady breath fills Uhtred’s lungs as the overwhelming desire to obey crushes against his chest. “Where, Lord?” he asks, a twitch away from snapping.

Alfred’s eyes go black, and Uhtred’s thoughts go with them. “Everywhere.”

The hand Uhtred had held over the king’s thigh clamps down upon it as their lips collid in a messy union. It’s wet, hot like hot had never been, searing down Uhtred’s spine and spreading across his body entire. He pulls a sweetened breath from Alfred’s mouth, feeling the Lord do the same to him as they vie for dominance amidst the chaos of their kiss, though it seems for all the world that the king is, for once, playing to lose.

Uhtred can't restrain the groan that slides from his throat when Alfred reaches up to tug at the ratted braids woven near his nape, the sting of it more an instigation than a detraction. The Dane slides his tongue hungrily along the king’s bottom lip, only for it to slip from his touch as Alfred yanks his head roughly backwards, jarring him out of their kiss. The Lord is the picture of sin with his cheeks flushed pink like that, his lips gone slick and red from Uhtred’s ministrations as they tick up into a crenulated grin.

“Not so fast,” he says, and a hot flash of irritation whips across Uhtred’s vision. Had he not asked for this? Was this not the very thing he'd ordered Uhtred to do?

Before the Dane can gather enough breath in his lungs to protest, Alfred is slipping from the table to his feet, gliding like water from beneath Uhtred’s weight to float across the room towards the adjacent door to his bedchamber. He pauses with a hand upon the knob, dark eyes cast back upon Uhtred’s own, burning with anticipation, as he crooks one slender finger in the warrior’s direction.

“Follow,” he orders. Uhtred doesn't need to be told twice.

The room is as quiet as the one that had preceded it, nothing but the sound of Uhtred’s heartbeat in his ears and the crackling energy between the two of them to fill the silent space. The warrior struggles to place his eyes anywhere other than Alfred, attempting vainly to focus elsewhere so as to avoid staring. He spies a full length mirror situated oddly at the far end of the bed corner, facing the center of the mattress. Alfred is already unbuttoning the top clasps of his robe as he makes for the bed, that same dangerous invitation written across his face as he casts a glance over his shoulder.

This man is going to eat you alive.

The thought is drowned out handily by the simultaneous crashing realization of exactly how far the king had plotted for this night to go. Uhtred's eyes flit from him to the mirror and back again before Alfred snaps him back to reality with his silk-strung voice.

“Touch me,” he’s ordering again, shrugging off his robe and letting it pool at his feet. Heat shocks Uhtred’s core as he drinks in the sight of the king’s half-bare figure, donning none of the frailty he would have expected. He is lean, certainly, but it is a leanness lined with sinew, the quiet power he’s come to expect from a king such as Alfred hidden beneath a thin frame. The iron cross round Alfred’s neck dangles loosely on its black cord, swaying just above his naval, and it flashes in Uhtred’s eyes as if baiting him, daring him to cross the gap and defile its bearer with a heathen’s touch.

For a moment, Uhtred’s gaze stumbles to the mirror once more, bearing the reflection of Alfred’s back and taut shoulders in its silver face. The king’s words ring clear in his mind—you will do exactly as I tell you. And I will watch.

Uhtred’s nostrils flare. This bastard thinks of everything.

Amidst his exasperation, the very thought of Alfred working through this moment before it had even transpired, deliberating over it and determining how exactly he wanted it to go, makes Uhtred’s gut clench. He wonders if Alfred took into account just how much the Dane enjoys being seen, being witnessed. That joy had never made it to the bedroom before, and certainly never to the king, but, knowing Alfred and his everworking mind, he’d merely read Uhtred’s manner like a book, memorizing every word.

The hesitation that had laced Uhtred’s steps before dissolves with an unbridled rush of want, surging him forward to crush his body against Alfred’s and collide their mouths in a chaotic assortment of lips and teeth. He drags skittish palms down the warm firmness of Alfred’s waist and hips, fingers reaching the pliant swell of the Lord’s ass and squeezing possessively—he’d been instructed only to touch, but he had every intention to claim.

The Dane is not sure when they stumble into the bed, nor how he finds himself straddling Alfred, gathering all the restraint he can muster to not grind down onto his hips with animalistic intent. What he is sure of is his vexation with the layers still stuck between them, the clammy cotton around Alfred’s hips which he tugs at adamantly before Alfred stills his roaming hands with a touch of his fingertips to Uhtred’s wrist. His earlier command of obedience resounds in Uhtred’s mind once more, warring with the near-unbearable desire to override, until Alfred tugs smoothly on the drawstring of his breeches and fixes Uhtred with expectancy. 

Taking the hint, the Dane slips his thumb beneath the band and pulls, ridding Alfred of his constraints and pausing once he’d tossed the offending garment aside to admire his discovery.

Alfred’s cock is already half-hard as it bobs against his thigh, adorned with a crown of black curls at its base. They’ve the feel of downy feathers as Uhtred’s fingertips brush across them, nail grazing up the sensitive skin of the king’s shaft. Alfred sucks in a short breath, gliding his hips deftly up to meet the contact of Uhtred’s hand before he’s fisting his own in the Dane’s hair once more to draw him back in forcibly.

Keeping true to form, Uhtred lets his touch roam along every inch of Alfred’s exposed flesh as he dips his head down to the king’s neck to kiss roughly along his pulse point. He drags a sharpened cuspid across the bob in Alfred’s throat and feels him arch upwards, twitching at the foreign sensation of the king’s cock pressed flush against his inner thigh. It’s sinfully delightful, in the most wicked sense, to know that Alfred’s arousal is for him.

A groan, indiscernible in origin from Uhtred’s mouth, is muffled against the pale stretch of Alfred’s throat which he blots with small bruises and possessive nips. As he turns his head, his hazy eyes glimpse themselves, reflected in the mirror. He is startled first by the hunger roiling in them, near too dark to be recognizable as his own, but they are not what keep his attention—no, it is Alfred’s eyes, staring back at him through the silver surface, cheeks flushed in dewy rose and his lips the hue of glacé cherries. Uhtred watches as the king’s lashes flutter in time with a ragged sigh, torn from the king’s throat when the Dane suckles at the soft spot beneath his jaw.

“You burn,” Alfred rasps, the declaration vibrating under Uhtred’s teeth and, as if it were the incantation of a spell, the Dane feels his skin flare hotter still, burning from the inside out like sacred flame. Seeing Alfred speak in the mirror does nothing to quell it, though the sudden sharp pinch of the Lord’s fingers through his hair, wrenching his head up and dizzying his vision, certainly gives it some pause.

Uhtred hisses, no longer possessing the wherewithal to be surprised at the primality of it, looking now to Alfred beneath him rather than through their reflection. His jaw clenches, shoulders tense as confusion and want battle in his belly. His mouth feels strangely empty without Alfred’s flesh beneath it to worship, to devour—what is it about the king that lures the wild animal in the Dane out of its cage?

As he reels, Alfred lurches upward, nimble tongue swiping across his warrior’s bottom lip, sucking it between his front teeth before letting it go to snap back into place. Uhtred whines, chasing the contact as it recedes only for the searing sting of Alfred’s hand to yank roughly on his hair, locking him in place like a chained dog.

“Shall I blindfold you?” Alfred whispers, the polish in his voice unmarred by the heftiness of his breath, drawn swiftly from Uhtred’s mouth as he leans up again to tease the Dane with his tongue. “Would that provide an incentive to obey my orders, perhaps?”

Uhtred’s whine turns to a growl, fingers curling where they grip tight at the king’s hips as his nails press reddened crescents into unmarked skin. Alfred snatches his head back again, pouring his last words against the exposed angle of Uhtred’s jaw and punctuating them with a graze of his incisor.

“I commanded you to touch me,” he hisses, lips branding in flame where they glide along the bob in Uhtred’s throat, “yet no such permission was granted for you to spectate. You will keep your eyes where they belong, or you will lose them.”

It’s not the breed of threat that should be anything but menacing, but it sends an exhilarated shiver down Uhtred’s spine all the same, straight to his neglected cock. A sawtooth smile twists at the corners of his lips; Alfred wanted to watch, not to be seen. How agreeable, then, that the Dane’s own desires ran so perfectly parallel.

“Yes, Lord,” he purrs, and when he brings his mouth to Alfred’s neck again, he is careful to keep his eyes closed, focusing instead on the salty taste under his tongue and the twin burn of Alfred’s eyes upon him through the mirror.

It isn’t long before the king grows restless, tugging at the fabric on Uhtred’s shoulders and canting upwards with growing frequency. “More, Uhtred,” he bids heatedly when the Dane twirls his tongue around a pert nipple, arcing in fluid motion with Alfred’s body as it spurs upwards. The layer of pure want in his voice is as undeniable as it is intoxicating, and Uhtred is certain that measly kisses and teasing ministrations will no longer be sufficient if he is to continue to keep his word. It’s almost disappointing—he quite enjoys the vigor that comes with feeling the most powerful man in the kingdom writhe beneath the labor of his heathenous mouth.

Yet he obeys, branding Alfred’s chest with a final searing kiss before sitting up on his knees. His lips part in inquiry—admittedly, he is not so adept at these sorts of escapades as he is with others, but he has enough experience to know what comes next—and Alfred answers before the question even leaves the Dane’s mouth.

“The drawer,” he pants, gesturing with a tilt of his chin to the nightstand by the headboard, and Uhtred’s gut clenches with understanding and anticipation.

He detaches from the king, ignoring the sorrowful lack of warmth against his body as he rummages around the designated drawer, fingers closing around the vial once he locates it, not bothering to close the container as he turns back towards Alfred and nearly lets the glass vessel slip from his grasp.

Alfred is shifted onto his stomach now, his head turned towards the mirror still as he rests it in the crook of one arm. His other hand snakes under his body, and Uhtred spies where it disappears beneath his hip, fingers no doubt wrapped securely around his cock. The arousal that dips low in Uhtred’s core at the sight is like a punch to the stomach, stunning him as he drinks in the frankly sacreligious image of the Saxon king, prone and flush on his belly like an alehouse whore.

“Now, Uhtred,” the Dane hears Alfred utter between groans, catching his gaze in the mirror once more and seeing the irritation in his tone reflected in his stormy eyes—if his intent had been unclear at any point, it now stands naked in the midsummer sun.

Uhtred has never stripped so quickly in his life, nearly ripping his shirt as he heaves it off over his shoulders and discarding his breeches in similar fashion when they bunch at his feet with a single swift kick. He returns diligently at Alfred’s behest, gripping at his ankles where they had hooked together and pulling them apart to settle between the king’s thighs once more. He wastes no time in uncorking the vial of oil, spilling it generously across his fingertips before dipping them down between Alfred’s cheeks.

The king tightens on impulse, and Uhtred leans over his back to kiss soothingly between his shoulder blades, thumbing along the red line of a scratch he’d left earlier as he presses his middle finger against Alfred’s entrance. It’s overwhelming, the salacious aura of it all making Uhtred’s body shudder and his cock twitch at the thought of how it would feel to soon be sheathed inside that ardent heat.

Alfred’s spine bows in a perfect curve with Uhtred’s intrusion, the planar muscles of his back shifting and tensing like the roiling surface of the sea at high tide. It is Uhtred who deigns to sail, pliant and flexible with every unsteady rock, every thrashing wave that threatens to knock him overboard—he crooks his finger, watches the king’s body entire alight with an electric pulse that flickers from the base of his spine all the way to the white peaks of his tightening knuckles on the crimped bedsheets. A trail of goosebumps shudders in its wake, their prickle mollified with a brush of the Dane’s lips over Alfred’s flushed shoulder.

It’s a rhythm, a push and pull—Alfred rocks backwards in pursuit of Uhtred’s touch, and the Dane responds with torturous clemency, too lost in the satisfaction of seeing the man who for so long had forced him to his knees, now upturned and on display for his eyes only. What eye had Alfred perused him with? What sacrilegious urges had Uhtred stirred deep within the king to bring him here? Perhaps it was another game of sorts, the sort that Alfred seems so fond of—cerebral and meticulous, never a false move made or an improper hand played. Much like God, Uhtred supposes, the bastard’s ways are not his own, and his plans are ineffable.

“Fuck me, Uhtred,” Alfred utters, so quietly the warrior can hardly parse it for the synchronized sibilations of their labored breath, and all at once his image of the king’s divinity crumbles as the sins of his mind and flesh make themselves known. The demand burrows itself square in Uhtred’s chest, flying down to his core like a skittish animal. It’s one he’s heard before, barked or whined or moaned from more than a few he’s had beneath him. But it rolls off Alfred’s tongue like water off the scintillating feathers of a waterfowl, natural and easy. It cuffs neatly across his teeth, lip curling by the end of it as Uhtred does the same with his fingers again, if for no other reason than to hear it once more poured from his lips.

Uhtred’s wish—his prayer, perhaps—is answered with surprising haste, prefixed with a lewd moan and punctuated by Alfred’s hand, thrashing around to grip securely around Uhtred’s wrist, both a warning and a decree.

“Fuck me.”

Let it never be said that Uhtred of the Danes is not a keeper of his promises. That when the Saxon King gave an order, he did obey. It is not the kind of command beseeching a third iteration, for when it slinks from Alfred’s mouth, all bared fangs and vixen-like prowl, Uhtred’s vision clouds at the fringes, a sharp breath singing against the roof of his mouth as he pulls his fingers from Alfred and quickly shifts to align their hips.

A shiver wracks the two of them in unison as Uhtred’s cock brushes against the perfect swell of Alfred’s ass, nestling in the valley of it as if tailor-fitted. The Dane rocks forward, watching it slide across oiled skin and slicking with excess as his hands ghost parallel down Alfred’s flank and thighs, guiding them to hook securely around his waist. Settled, the king makes a noise of urgency, tilting back against the steady pressure of Uhtred behind him, pleading without further voice.

Uhtred does not need to look to know that he is being watched—judged. He feels the heat of Alfred’s eyes, has felt it since the moment they began. This is the moment, of truth blissful or otherwise, the crux of the story, as it were.

And I will watch. Then, it would be best to put on a good show.

Silence wraps around the mismatched pair as Uhtred curls his hand beneath the divot of Alfred’s hip, the other directing his cock steadfast and sure into Alfred’s entrance. It is not an easy breach—certainly Alfred has never had another like this. It is tight, constricting, in every way different from the snug fit of the Dane’s fingers. He keeps his pace slow, his eyes sentinels and his heartbeat clamorous in his ears as he listens to every breath, every whimper and quiet keen. Leaning down, he weaves uneven patterns of kisses and soft bites, interspersed with his own low moans, down the center of Alfred’s spine, coaxing him through until, finally, the warrior is fully seated.

There’s no comparison; what to compare it to but to itself? It is heat, uncanny and immeasurable, compact and passion-woven at every soft curve. Uhtred can exercise restraint on the battlefield easier than he can now, his limbs trembling with the barely bridled desire to rut like a savage into the king and hear him cry his pleasure to the heavens—that was his given order, after all. But he keeps still, awaiting Alfred’s cue proper, assuaging himself with a nip against the soft of the king’s nape in the interim.

The warrior’s hesitation, it seems, does not go unnoticed, nor unpunished; Alfred fixes a fiend’s eye upon Uhtred’s twin in the mirror, though the husky acerbity of his words are for the Dane’s true self alone.

“When I give you a command,” he utters hoarsely, the gritty undertow of his voice vibrating at every point of contact between them, “I expect it to be obeyed. Or is that not what your Dane brethren have taught you? I requested for you to teach me of them and so you shall, lest you be found lacking by your king.”

Uhtred’s brow knits, the makings of a growl rising in his throat. Despite everything, Alfred still holds his crown up high over his head and the Dane himself at arm’s length, just enough so as to stay out of reach. Alfred had come to him with this, had practically begged him under the ramshackle guise of commandment for it, and yet his Saxon pride still barks loud and clear his perceived inferiority of Uhtred, his usefulness and his utility as a means to an end.

But the Dane’s body is warm, and his heart beats like every other. Alfred can think what he wants, can let this union they’ve formed be nothing more than a dark spot on an otherwise clean Christian record for the King of Wessex and his warlord Ealdorman. But he had asked for schooling, to know his enemies, and Uhtred wants nothing more than to show him the truth—of himself, as much as all Danes—that his people’s prowess is no mere dip in the water; it is a headfirst dive.

And with the way Alfred has been acting tonight, Uhtred is of a mind to baptize the king himself.

“Yes, Lord,” the warrior whispers in Alfred’s ear, his palms bracing beneath the king’s chest and his back curling as he thrusts his hips forward. The synchronous groan pulled from his mouth and the king’s alike is a reverie, and Uhtred sits up and repeats the motion again if only to hear it once more. Fire licks at his thighs where Alfred’s come in contact, sticky already with sweat and gripping tight along his hips. The pull of friction with every run of flesh over flesh is staggering, stilted with their first few arrhythmic drags until they find their stride together, the Dane’s broad palm spanned over the small of Alfred’s back to hold him steady as he fucks into him with all the passion and devotion deserving of a king. 

Sinner he is, Uhtred cannot help but give in to temptation—amidst the canting of his hips, the heavy aspirations and the marveling at the way Alfred’s body rocks against his own, the warrior deigns to send a flickering glance to their reflections, against his king’s orders. His own eyes stare back at him for a moment, hooded and brimming with a wild lust, before tracing along their tandem motion—his thighs rising to meet the underside of Alfred’s with every quick thrust; the dig of his fingers into the pale of the king’s hip; the gentle ripple of energy igniting at their cores and skimming along their flush-tinted skin, rebounding in a constant cycle. It is beauty in motion, redoubling the heady ardor already coursing through Uhtred’s veins.

A smile creeps up his parted lips, one both of amusement and prurient admiration, as he turns back to the real body beneath him, leaning forward to run his teeth against the thrumming heat of Alfred’s shoulder.

“You said you wanted to watch,” he lilts breathlessly, tongue darting between two delicate freckles just below the king’s collar as he pitches his hips sharply upward and turns his head again to catch his eyes in the mirror. “So tell me—how does it look?”

Alfred goes rigid, a barely-muffled cry against the bedsheets escaping his kiss-bruised lips as he bucks backwards into Uhtred’s brutal pace, hellbent for more. “You—ah—you are not the one… to be asking questions, oh God—!”

The Dane gives no quarter, no line for the king to grasp at as he sits up, gripping tightly at the red-lined flesh of Alfred’s thighs and driving into him with equal parts force and speed. It’s a filthy display, blurring Uhtred’s vision and igniting his body from toe to tip—were it anyone else but the two of them staring back at him, he may even begin to feel something akin to shame.

But then the king slackens, his fixed shoulders slumping forward as his cheek presses flat to the bed. The warrior watches in awe as his eyes roll back into his head, lashes fluttering like crow feathers across his sweat-dewed cheeks in a look Uhtred has seen more times than he can count, but never like this. Never on a king. Never on Alfred.

Arousal coils at Uhtred’s gut as he is certain it does in the Lord’s, snared taut down his spine and snapping with all the power of a loosed arrow as he cries out wantonly against the king’s nape and spills over inside his unyielding heat. His climax cuts through him like jagged glass, aching with every drum of his heart and jarring gasp sucked into his lungs. Quivering, he seals the last few pulses of euphoria in deliberate kisses against Alfred’s shoulders, releasing his vice grip on the king’s thighs and instead smoothing his calloused palms beneath Alfred’s belly, sticky with perspiration and the Lord’s own release.

When they separate, it is unceremonious, Uhtred detaching himself from Alfred to spread out beside him on his back, staring with unfocused eyes at the high ceiling of the royal bedchambers. They flutter closed as he works his breathing back to normal, the exquisite rush in his veins trickling down to a tepid drip of afterglow.

Alfred’s weight shifts, and Uhtred blinks his eyes open again to find the king rising from the bed on wobbling legs, bending to recover his clothes from the floor and slipping them back on without a word. A chasm widens in Uhtred’s chest, filled quite suddenly with the all-too familiar dread that frequently follows moments like this one.

“This will not leave this room,” the king decrees as he tugs his robe over his shoulders, clasping the first few buttons as his eyes catch Uhtred’s, blue on blue, firm to soft, and the Dane fights to look away. Alfred had voiced what he already knew to be true, a sentiment he shared for many reasons, not the least among them being his own pride.

Still, despite the years of animosity between the two of them, something had shifted. Uhtred feels it like a change in the wind, ruffling beneath his ribs and tickling with the queer desire for more. Curiosity, maybe, at what more the king had lurking in that shadowy mind of his. Or perhaps he had merely become addicted in such a short span to the new attention paid to him by one who had never given him a second glance. 

Uhtred quells it quickly, tucking it away where it belongs, far from thought or fretting. “I… understand, Lord,” he says simply, rising from the bed to dress himself and make quickly for the door. His welcome had been stayed, his task fulfilled.

“I did not say you could leave yet.”

Uhtred freezes with his hand hovering just above the woodgrain of the door, his stomach flipping in a combined flurry of confusion and anticipation. Turning, he spots Alfred striding towards him, hands behind his back as he slips between Uhtred and the door. 

“It would seem,” he whispers, eyes dropping to Uhtred’s mouth, expression unreadable. “that I have much to learn yet. If you are, perchance, interested in becoming a tutor.” 

Uhtred’s eyes trace the line of Alfred’s neck, his collar hiding the worst of the bruises the Dane had left there but failing to conceal them in their entirety. He watches Alfred pluck at the pendant, tucking it against his palm as he meets Uhtred’s steady gaze with query in his eyes and on his lips.

It would not be written that on this day, Uhtred of Bebbanburg did visit the king of Wessex in his private chambers. There would be no retelling of their saga within anything but the walls surrounding them now, or in the sanctity of their own minds. It would be another on the long list of secrets kept privy to the annals of history, lost moments flitting silently into obscurity as they pass. All the same, it would not be written that the Dane Slayer was a breaker of oaths, for he was bound by word and fate alike to the Saxon Lord—now too, it seems, by heart, for his skips at the notion Alfred lays before him, and he smiles gently.

“As you wish, Lord.”

[primordium]

      ❝   what   is   more   UNFAIR   than   having   to   choose   between   being   a   monster   or   being   a   hero?   (    𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍   𝐘𝐎𝐔   𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐁𝐄   𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇   )   when   you   learn   that   the  ROAD   to   hell   is   paved   with   more   than   just   good   intentions.   you   are   not   HEADS   or   TAILS   ;   you   are   the    𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏.   ❞

         merlin’s   beard,   what   is   ALFRED   “FRED”   BILIUS   WEASLEY   doing   out   at   this   hour?   for   a   half   blood   who   is   TWENTY   FIVE   years   old,   he   /   they   really   ought   to   know   better.   you   know,   i   heard   that   they’re   aligned   with   THE   NEUTRALS   /   PREVIOUSLY THE ORDER, CODENAME REYNARD,   but   that   could   just   be   a   rumor.   i   do   know   that   they’re   a   DEMIMALE   and   a   gryffindor   alum   who   works   as   a   BROOMSTICK   MAKER.   they’re   very  VERSATILE   &   INDEPENDENT   but   also   quite   COWARDLY   &   ERRATIC.   some   people   say   they’re   the   spitting   image   of   lucien   laviscount,   but   i’ve   never   heard   of   them.   word   on   the   street   is   they’re   THE   HERCULEAN   TRAGEDY   and   their   prophecy   is   prophecy 28,   but   only   time   will   tell   if   that’s   true   or   not.

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 !

your mother always maintained that it would be CRUEL to name you after someone who was so much larger than life, and your father said that he understood. they’re settled upon the name arthur ( in honor of your grandfather ) by the time that she’s about to pop, and alfred is a last minute addition to the name pool ; a compromise, of sorts. they look down upon your cherub cheeks and huge brown eyes, and they promise they’ll call you ALFIE. they’ll honor fred the first, but they’ll allow you room to grow. you’re three years old the first time that someone slips and calls you ‘fred’. by the time you turn six, everybody is. for the record : your mother was right. 

people ask your parents if you’re a handful, like all FIRST children seem to be ; they smile and say you’re not, and it’s nice of them to lie. you are unmanageable in the WORST sort of way, and they are the parents at the family barbecue who just can’t seem to grab their speed driven five year old. the first time your mother takes you along to diagon alley, you throw a tantrum in the middle of the pavement that brings TEARS to her eyes. you feel everything in an extreme, and the truth is, you very almost make them decide against a second - though with help from your grandparents, they feel as if they’ll MANAGE. you never really STOP feeling everything so much ; but you hate being the cause of those stress lines upon your parents faces, and you try very hard to be better.

your wand is STUBBORN by design, down to its very core. acacia is a firm and unyielding wood, and it is coupled with two temperamental strands of hair. you’re told that it is what is meant for you, and that as so it’ll never let you down - but quietly, you wonder if either is the truth. when you struggle more than your classmates do in spite of having a brand new wand, you resent the fact that you own it in the first place. when you are let down again and again, you wonder where the mistake was made : with the wand, or with the wizard. 

like so many weasley’s that have come before you, you are sorted into gryffindor. wonder of wonders, you are able to force the happiness that you know you’re meant to show to the smiling faces of your family. you tell them that you’re PROUD to carry on their legacy, but you aren’t sure whether the fact that they believe you says more about them, or your ABILITY to lie. the TRUTH ( that thing which finds and corners you when you are alone in a dormitory room ) is that you don’t feel that you belong, and that is something which never really goes away. it isn’t a deep seated fear of belonging in ANOTHER house that plagues you, but the one that you do not belong in any. there is always a part of you tormented with the feeling of flying by on luck alone, and you are the only one who you will ever admit it to.

you are diagnosed with chronic insomnia in your THIRD year - and you stop taking the potions that you’re given for it some time between christmas and summer break. you don’t have a good reason for it, really ; nothing that would justify it to yourself, let alone to another. you know that you’d be better off if you were WELL rested, if you could turn your mind off for just a moment ; but there’s a certain, clinical part of you that wants to see how bad it gets. that takes a degree of SATISFACTION from it. there’s a darker facet to who you are that wonders, morbidly, whether anyone will even notice - and will anyone even care.

you are turned away from the GRYFFINDOR QUIDDDITCH team year after year, though by all accounts, you are a talented player. you fly steady and you fly fast, and you’d make one hell of a chaser - but these things are popularity contests at their core, and you are not a widely known guy. you’ve never gone out of your way to make FRIENDS, be known, and you haven’t gotten the politics of quidditch down. when they tell you that you aren’t aggressive enough, you come back the next year and you try again. after, they tell you that you went too far ( as if you do not realize from the steady stream of blood running from your nose ). you aren’t sure what they want, just that you do not have it.

everybody says that you’re a BRIGHT student, so it baffles them all when you barely scrape by in your owls. your professors understand it even less than your parents do. you know the spells. you know the motions. something just isn’t CLICKING, it seems, and nobody knows what it is. when your parents ask if you do, you simply shake your head ( you’re telling the truth ). when they ask do you want a new wand, you tell them that yours is fine ( you imagine your eyes wide and pleading as you lie, and imagine them seeing through your words, though they never do ).

maybe there is too much muggle within you. maybe you are simply unexceptional. maybe, you are trying to hard to live up to a name that belonged to someone else before it was YOURS. there are so many things that it could be, that make you feel as if your life is using you as a punching bag. you never get the answers that you seek, and though you are promised things will get better once you leave the halls of hogwarts behind, they do not.

what you do, what you choose as your career path - that is HONEST work, and you like it more than anything else. you can spend hours in your workshop all alone, nothing but the sound of a whittling knife against wood and the cloying smell of broomstick polish to get you through - and it is the first thing, the very first thing, that brings you some amount of JOY. the order that your family is a part of, that you feel... pressured into joining - that DOESN’T, but it is what you must do. the weasley family has been tied to this path since the moment your uncle ron met harry potter ; and you will not be the one to let them down. sometimes, you feel you sacrifice so much of what you want for what you know everybody else does. you go through the motions. you do what you must.

you try so hard. by now, this is the true cornerstone of your personality. you do everything you CAN to be who you know you should be, and though you would never have chosen this path for yourself, you throw yourself into it. people see something worthwhile in you, you know this ; they tell you, and you aware aware that you would not be kept around if people did not believe in your GOOD. but you are a little TOO much, you’re told time and time again ; a little too reckless, a little too forceful, a little too lenient,  a little too prone to darting in without thought for the consequences. you want to bring HONOR to yourself, you want to save the world, but you also want to fly beneath the radar. you want to go home. you want to fight to GLORY. all of these conflictions live within you, and all of them combine to your own detriment. when you are caught on what should only have been a scouting mission because you believe you know best when you do not, you almost assuredly doom yourself to death. 

but here is something that you do not know about yourself until it is too late : up until this moment, you have held cowardice within you. and when your seemingly POINTLESS life is threatened, when you have broken under duress and you see the end looming ever closer, then you do not hesitate to reveal the one piece of information you have that should never have been UTTERED. you did not kill harry potter. you are just the weakling, the coward, the traitor who revealed where he and his family were - so that THEY could do the deed themselves. they leave you there to die and disapparate.

when you are found, broken, you have a choice. you could tell the people who transport you to st mungo’s for urgent care what has happened, and what you have said. perhaps, if you HAD, you would have been able to give a necessary heads up. but your newfound cowardice wins out. you fear the repercussions - you fear the look in your parents eyes and the lines which will be etched into their faces for all of ETERNITY. when the darkness swallows you whole, you do not fight it ; and when you emerge, you emerge to a world in which harry potter died. you will live with the weight of this for the rest of your life. you will always be the one - not he who diverged from the path your family has walked for a lifetime, now, but the one who BETRAYED everything they have stood for their whole lives. you did not mean to do it, and yet all it took was an instant ; guilt will eat you alive, this you know with complete certainty. you welcome it. you WALLOW within it. this,and no more, is what you are aware you deserve. 

you say i’m just not ready to go back, yet. they say they understand. you tell them that what you’ve been through has not disillusioned you from the cause, but has made you scared, and everyone can attest to the wild look in your eye. distance from the order should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. if it’s not one thing, it is another. you should have known that by spinning the story, by putting them into a position of feeling... sorry, for you, that you’d only make yourself feel worse.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !

fred is a coward, at heart. let that be known, and let it be known loud and clear. he wants to be valorous and he wants to be something more, but he doesn’t know if he ever can be. at hogwarts, he was never the first to speak up for those who were being threatened, those who were being BULLIED. he would allow his head hang in shame, after, but that did not stop a rinse and repeat. he was a part of many a fight, but never allow it be said that he threw himself into them for noble purposes, because the truth is... he never did. of course : he’s well meaning. he always HAS been, at his heart. but intent does not equal result.

he has so many fears. they eat him alive, from the inside out : but perhaps the biggest, the most withstanding, is the fear of disappointing those he loves the most - his parents. especially his mother. he has always tried to be better for them, because he has always been aware of his own crushing shortcomings. all this, however, leads into a point that deserves to stand alone :

he has become good at lying. ADEPT at it, even. when he desperately wanted to change who he was for the sake of his parents, who didn’t deserve to have such deep age lines so young, he realized that the only surefire way to do that... was to lie. it started small, with learning to say that he was fine when he wasn’t. it’s grown, over his lifetime, and now he doesn’t struggle.

he’s always been rather fearful of his own legacy. that is to say : he lives with a name that was given to him secondhand, and nobody understands PRESSURE like someone named after a dead man. the thing was, while george and angelina could push for everyone to treat fred like his own entity... that didn’t stop people seeing every milestone of his as another for fred the first. 

[numgul123]

Eight Issues You Wouldn’t Say If You Had been Truly Completely happy In Your Relationship

1. “Excitement is meant to go away.” It’s just about not possible to take care of a head-over-heels, butterflies-constantly-in-your-stomach kind of relationship long-term. Most of that stuff occurs to start with, throughout the falling a part of falling in love. However finally, you agree into a cushty, reliable, relaxed, loving contentment with one different. Nevertheless, that doesn’t imply that the joy has to go away. Simply since you not have first date jitters doesn’t imply it is best to really feel completely nothing once you see your vital different. You possibly can nonetheless really feel comfy and content material with them whereas concurrently feeling excited and anxious to see them.

2. “Typically it’s extra essential to be sensible than it's to be blissful.” In case you’re staying together with your associate as a result of it is sensible financially or as a result of the 2 of you're residing collectively and it might be too sophisticated to interrupt up, you’re not in it for the correct causes. It’s undoubtedly essential to be sensible in your relationship, in relation to compromising, speaking, spending time collectively, or principally something that makes your relationship stronger. However it is best to by no means be excited about your love life by way of what’s sensible versus how that particular person makes you are feeling.

3. “We’re each simply actually wired at work.” Each relationship goes to undergo exams. It’s not all the time going to be a picnic. In case you’re going to make it work as 2 adults, you’re going to face issues which are disagreeable and also you’re going to need to make compromises. However there’s a distinction between dealing with struggles collectively and blaming struggles for the truth that you’ve disconnected. Too many {couples} blame outdoors influences for the the reason why they aren’t connecting – work, funds, household. The record can go on and on. Typically you persuade your self that it’s only a part and as soon as the work downside kinds itself out, your relationship will robotically be fastened too. More often than not, this isn't the case.

4. “When you hit a sure level, you recognize just about all there's to learn about an individual.” You’re going to know extra about your vital apart from you ever thought potential. You’ll know what number of instances they poop a day, whether or not or not they drool after they sleep, what sort of condiments they eat, which celeb they’d cheat on you with, and their each day routine after they come residence from work. You may be shocked on the quantity of particulars about them that you simply choose up on unintentionally. However it is best to by no means really feel like you recognize all the pieces you’d ever must know. Persons are continually altering – they modify day by day. A wholesome relationship means you need to develop collectively. Or else you'll develop aside. You need to really feel such as you’re studying stuff about your associate each single day, irrespective of how small or insignificant it could appear.

5. “I don’t wish to trouble them with my insignificant issues.” There’s a distinction between being overly connected to your associate and needing them to repair all of your points, and feeling like you could have a companion with whom you'll be able to speak to about your worries and struggles. A strong relationship entails two unbiased individuals who can perform on their very own and take care of their very own issues, however who know they will all the time depend on one another after they want somebody to speak to or lean on throughout a tough time. Your vital different ought to be your go-to protected place throughout tough instances. You need to by no means really feel such as you’re bothering them or inconveniencing them when it is advisable discuss one thing that’s worrying you.

6. “It’s not that I don’t belief him/her, it’s that I don’t belief different folks.” Sure, there's all the time a danger that somebody could set their eyes in your associate and try to pursue them. It occurs. Take it as a praise – you’re courting somebody that different folks discover fascinating. It’s okay if this makes you a little bit uneasy, however worrying about infidelity shouldn't ever eat you. Even if you happen to don’t belief different folks, you need to belief your vital different sufficient to know that they'd by no means do something, and they might by no means let anybody else attempt to do something both. It's important to belief your vital different in all elements. In case you don’t, you’ve acquired some issues to consider.

7. “Typically you need to be egocentric.” Selfishness is the demise of relationships. And it’s to not be confused with compromise. In case you acquired a job supply in a brand new metropolis and also you ask your associate to maneuver with you, you’re not being egocentric. You’re asking them to compromise and put you first on this event. That’s okay, so long as you recognize that it really works each methods. You don’t owe them something for doing this, however you need to do not forget that they’re prepared to make sacrifices of their life for you and you need to be prepared to do the identical. It’s not about being egocentric or maintaining rating – it’s about deciding what is going to finally be the very best for each of you as a pair, and being prepared to regulate your life in line with that.

8. “We’ll deal it will definitely.” When one thing is bothering you or one thing is inflicting rigidity in your relationship, you need to take care of it. In case you and your associate push issues off to the facet and keep away from speaking about issues which are inflicting points, your relationship goes to undergo. Being blissful in your relationship doesn’t imply you’re freed from points and battle. It simply means you and your associate know methods to sit down, speak via issues, and get to the foundation of the issue. More often than not, “we’ll take care of it will definitely” means you'll maintain avoiding the difficulty till one thing larger comes alongside that may finally seal the deal.

[lordxgrinnyxboy]

(long unnecessary rambles ahoy)

thinking about the Smiling Songs and how in the first one, Gwyn initially seems super uncomfortable with the attention and tries to pull away from everyone touching him. he eventually settles and even initiates contact, becoming enthusiastic as the scene progresses, but still has that...almost shy kind of posture as he first starts to take off the bandages, with his head angled down and his arms positioned in such a way as to (somewhat) block his face from view?

i still don’t see these scenes as happening literally, but considering that it comes right before Labyrinth, wherein Gwyn tries to decide to give up on his past, i wonder if it’s not a bit representative of the kind of internal struggle Gwyn’s going through. On the one hand, he hates feeling like people don’t see him when they look at him, like they only see “this freak”. He feels like he doesn’t have a sense of self, that he won’t have a sense of self outside of The Grinning Man unless he can discover his past, and that makes him unfit for Dea’s love.

But on the other hand, he does want love and affection. Even if that affection is for, as far as Gwyn’s concerned, someone who’s both not really him, and someone he’s afraid of being and doesn’t want to only be seen as. Later on in Labyrinth, he says that Josiana “sees the beauty in [his] broken face”, and that can of course also be taken as, she’s seen his face and isn’t repulsed by the sight of his wound, but i wonder if it’s also kind of...connected to the reaction he’s seeing from the crowd?

As in, to her, and to them, the beauty is the broken face, and nothing else. It’s the anguish and the anger and the present sort of hopelessness that make people feel things. Not the actual person. They see Gwyn and they make it about how they feel.

Labyrinth and Brand New World follow Gwyn’s decision to...lean into that, i guess, and kind of embrace that this is what people want from him. And really he starts thinking in that direction as soon as he gets the letter, but i think his participation in the Smiling Song really illustrates where his mind is.

On that note i also find it interesting how Gwyn’s the only person who doesn’t actually sing or speak during either smiling song. For the first one, Barkilphedro, Dea, and Ursus are absent, but they all participate to some degree in the second one. Gwyn engages with the ensemble both times, but stays silent.

And in the second one, he doesn’t show his actual face at all. He stays facing away from the audience until after he’s picked up the Giant Awful Puppet Head, which he then holds for the rest of the song.

The second Smiling Song in particular, i see as being more Barkilphedro’s perspective than anything, and being in a kind of sarcastic tone. Barkilphedro doesn’t understand why everyone seems to ‘worship’ the Grinning Man, and people attributing miracles to him could just be another facet of Barkilphedro’s sneering disdain for the whole matter.

But also, given the whole tl;dr of ... the entirety of Labyrinth and the decision to meet Josiana- of Gwyn being just as terrified of remembering his past as he is desperate to do so, being afraid and, really, at least dimly understanding and therefore dreading, that remembering, that even finding and killing the man who cut him won’t actually heal him, not fully and completely like the fairy tale prince, and given the heel-face turn from “how can I give you my heart when there is nothing at its core” and “how can you love me when you don’t know me”, as if he’s more of a placeholder for the identity he can’t remember than a full person already, to immediately wanting to marry Dea... and given the way that Ursus and Dea actually participate in the second Smiling Song,

i still feel like it’s mainly Barkilphedro’s pov since he is the narrator and so technically everything that happens is run through that filter, plus Gwyn wouldn’t have known to include “father, what have they done to you/I will bandage your wounds for you”, but it’s also a multi-pov show even when those pov are happening simultaneously, so

reckon whether it mightn’t also be reflective of Gwyn maybe feeling like learning this little bit about his past gives him enough sense of identity that he can...do both, in a way? To have enough sense of self that he feels there’s enough to him to give Dea, and as if he doesn’t have to pursue the rest of his past any further? He might think that this will let him ‘bury his pain’, like Ursus has wanted him to do.

it could be worth noting that, while Angelica is the only person to respond to the sight of Gwyn’s wound by demanding justice for him, she also doesn’t respond compassionately to the knowledge of whom he is until after she sees his face. she doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s been recently beaten. she acknowledges  the wound from 20 years ago. This, after Dirry-Moir also completely ignores the fact that Gwyn’s shackled and shirtless and bruised, and instead chatters at him about the show and then directs Angelica to look at Gwyn’s face. All of which gives Gwyn another example of people not seeing him but rather his wound and how it makes them feel.

lastly, and a smaller thing, after 20 years of not knowing where he came from, and having his formal education brought to a screeching halt at less than 10 years old, Gwyn wouldn’t know the first thing about how to be a Lord, and might, for all anyone else knows, not even want to be one at this point. He’s used to a completely different life which, while by no means ideal or one he’s been totally happy and at peace with, is still all he’s known. And even if he does want to be a Lord, the thing is he isn’t given a choice. Nobody asks him how he feels about it. yes, the titles are his by right anyway, but it’s still something that’s just, along with all the associated expectations and responsibilities, just kind of dropped on him. Angelica is by far, after Dea, the most compassionate toward him, but even she ultimately wants something from him. She expects him to help her heal the kingdom. Which is a great goal for her to have, and she’s an amazing person, but it’s also something she expects rather than asks for. She assigns him a role and doesn’t question whether he’ll actually want to play it.

Gwyn doesn’t know during the smiling song that he’s now going to be ordered (however amiably) to marry, told whom he can and cannot marry, and generally expected to comply with all sorts of regulations to fit someone else’s agenda, but i do think that on some subconscious level he must understand that the role he was originally born into is not one he’s actually, currently prepared for. That he’s still going to have to put on this persona of sorts. Not just because someone else is asking it of him, but also because he’s already decided to try to be the person he would have been instead of the person he is now.

So he picks up the mask.