#love how tender and elegant his portrait looks

[old-memoria]

AI Art Rockstars

Mick Jagger // Brian Jones // Robert Plant & Jimmy Page // Syd Barrett // Roger Waters // Ringo Starr // George Harrison // Dave Davies // Keith Moon // Bob Dylan // Marianne Faithfull // Jim Morrison // Janis Joplin // David Bowie // Marc Bolan // Simon & Garfunkel // Stevie Nicks // Lou Reed // Freddie Mercury // Brian May

[lou-struck]

The Hall Of Faces

Diavolo x reader x Barbatos

WC: 2.9k

~ After a trip through the palace’s art gallery, you find that a picture of Diavolo may need to be updated.

Warnings: Mention of eating humans, moments with both Barbatos and Diavolo showing their love of the reader.

No matter how many times you find yourself visiting the castle, you can't help but think it is one of the most beautiful places you have ever seen.

Despite being thousands of years old, its gleaming marble flooring looks brand new, and the historic art and statues line the halls with museum-level prestige. Every time you walk the long, carpeted hallways you always seem to find something new to captivate you. 

On this visit, you find yourself following Barbatos down a grand window-lit hallway. Although he tries to keep his excitement at your visit to himself, you notice there is a joyful spring in his step as he leads you. "Thank you for joining the young master and I for tea this afternoon. I prepared a wonderful selection for us on the west balcony that should be to your liking."

"Of course Barbatos, thank you for the invitation," you say watching as his deep green eyes shimmer under the moonlight. "I don't believe I have been in this wing of the Castle yet."

"Then it is my pleasure to be the first to guide you," he replies with a smile. He slows his pace, allowing you to walk beside him. The two of you walk in content silence, enjoying the comfort of each other's presence, until you notice a strange-looking vase resting on an elegant pedestal. It seems to be composed of two types of clay: one looks like melted pearls that seem to absorb the light of the moon, and the other is a matte ebony material. The contrast between the light and dark is so captivating you stop to look at it.

Barbatos, sensing your distraction, chuckles behind you, "I thought that would catch your eye," he muses. "Would you like to know the significance of this piece?"

"I would," you nod. It takes so much self-restraint to not trace your fingers along the priceless art, but somehow, you manage to resist the urge not to touch it.

"This vase contains two different types of clay, one from the Celestial Realm and one from one of the depths of the Devildom. Usually, these substances repel from one another, but thanks to a bit of water from the human world, they are able to come together and create something beautiful."

"That's amazing," you breathe, looking at this art, this manifestation of what can happen when all three realms work together.

"I knew you'd appreciate its beauty," he smiles. "Shall we continue?"

You nod as he holds out his arm to escort you down the hallway. 

The palace is a labyrinth, and after turning right, then left, and then right again, you find yourself staring down a long hallway littered with portraits on the walls. 

"What is this place?" you ask, passing the painted eyes of regal-looking demons that seem to follow your movements. 

"This is the hall of faces," Barbatos answers. "It is a place to honor those who have made a difference in the Devildom, past royalty, war heroes, and other notable figures."

"I see." your eyes rest on a figure with broad shoulders and familiar-looking eyes. "Is that?"

Barbatos' face falls slightly, "Yes, that is his majesty the King, the young master's father."

"Diavolo's father," you repeat, letting your eyes wander from the darkened painting to the one next to it. One of the Prince himself. But instead of the tender warmth in the Prince's features, you find him looking stern and cold. "That doesn't look like him," you murmur. "I hate that someday people will walk by this portrait and not see him as the ruler he is."

"I agree," Barbatos says. Although it is a subtle shift, you detect a hint of disdain in his voice as he pulls his gaze from the painting. "The artist who painted this portrait, and many others, is well renowned but does not know or care of the true light of the Young Masters' smile."

"He sounds like a jerk," you grumble, stepping away from the painting.

Barbatos laughs; the sound is light but pleasant. "That certainly is one of the many words to describe the Artist. Come, let me escort you to the balcony. I fear the Young Master will become jealous if I steal you for the entirety of your visit today."

You take his outstretched arm and allow the Butler to guide you away from the Hall of Faces and to the eagerly awaited tea party. But as you get farther and farther away from the portrait, you cannot rid yourself of the effect Diavolo's portrait had on you.

~

The balcony air is warm and comforting as you raise a hand-painted teacup to your lips. It's warm, rose-scented steam tickling your nose with it's tantalizing fragrance, 

"Mc, is something troubling you?" The Prince asks gently from his seat next to you. He places his large hand on top of the one you have resting on the table's edge. "You seem troubled today."

You place your teacup back onto its saucer on the table and look at his handsome face fondly. "It's nothing, just lost in thought."

Barbatos lets out an amused chuckle as he comes up behind you to top off your cup. His gloved hand rests gently on your shoulder. "Mc and I walked through the Hall of Faces today, Young Master."

Diavolo's smile falls slightly as he shifts nervously in his seat. "Oh. So you saw my portrait?" There is an embarrassment in his gaze that makes you wonder if looking at royal portraits of the past is the Devildom equivalent of looking through your friends' old middle school yearbooks. 

You nod hesitantly. "I did."

"And what did you think of it?" he asks, his golden gaze coaxing the truth out of you. 

"It didn't look like you," you admit. "I mean, it was you in the picture, but it was weird seeing you look so serious and unhappy.."

"So you think I am unserious?" he smiles amusedly. 

"No. I just really like your smile," you admit, shyly grabbing a lemon cake from the three-tiered stands.

"Well then, I suppose it's about time for me to update my portrait," he says, looking over to his Butler. "Barbatos, can you please fit that into our schedule?"

"Absolutely, young master. How about midday tomorrow?" The Butler hums thoughtfully. He knows the Prince's schedule by heart. 

"Wonderful, and does that work for you Mc?"

"Me?" you ask with a mouthful of cake; a bit of the glaze drips down your chin as you look at the two demons in bewilderment. 

"Of course," the Prince laughs, handing you a handkerchief to wipe your face. "You are the one responsible for this appointment, so It is only fair that you join us for an afternoon."

He says it lightheartedly so you know that if you truly had something going on, or if you did not want to go. You would not have to. But in truth, sitting for a royal portrait probably isn't something that happens very often; your curiosity gets the better of you, and you find yourself happily along with the Prince.

Both demons, seeing your acceptance, look absolutely elated. Diavolo flashes you a sincere grin as he claps his hands together. "Wonderful, then we look forward to spending the afternoon with you."

~

The next day, you find yourself sitting in the Parlor at the castle. Diabolo is finishing up a meeting and Barbatos is greeting the Artist at the doors. Apparently this Demon is older than the Butler himself, having been the one responsible for painting most of the portraits in the Hall of Faces. The idea of meeting such an ancient being makes your stomach bubble up with nerves as you wonder what they are like. 

Looking around the Parlor, you notice that the room looks a bit different than normal; the furniture has been tastefully rearranged to make room for a lavish-looking armchair and an art station across from it. Instead of the typical moonlight streaming in through the large windows, some kind of enchantment on the glass fills the room with something close to sunlight.

When you close your eyes, you can almost feel the warmth on your face. 

You hear a soft chuckle from across the room as Barabtos comes in carrying a large, worn case with little streaks and splatters of color on its surface. "The artist prefers to work in the light." he smiles, setting down what must be painting supplies. 

"Can't say I mind it," you smile as the demon strides across the room, around your chair, and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. This little act of affection is reserved for the moments when the two of you can be alone. 

"Then I'll make sure to use this spell more often." he smiles, placing his gloved hand on your shoulder. You find yourself getting lost in the warmth of his emerald gaze just as the parlor doors burst open. 

A short demon, swimming in a bright smock, takes quick, impatient steps into the room. His skin is the color of dried dandelion petals, and his tail is tipped like a paintbrush. "Canvazu," Barbatos greets, stepping between you and the Demon politely. "It is a pleasure having you join us today."

"Yes, yes, you said it before; now, where is my subject?" he says with a wave of his hand. 

"the young master will be here momentarily," The Butler says. In the meantime, Lord Diavolo would like to invite you to enjoy some refreshments."

"Diavolo?" The Demon, you now know as Cavazu, questions, "Haven't I painted that one before?"

"Indeed you have," Barbatos answers calmly, but you know him well enough to know that the Artist's disrespectful question irritates him greatly. "But as he plans to take the Devildom into a new era, he wishes to have an updated photo."

"I see." The Artist says shortly as his eyes take on a slightly red hue. Curiously, you lean forward to get a closer look. His pupils look like splatters of paint and seem to change color depending on his mood. Your movement catches his eye, and he notices your presence for the first time since he has arrived. 

"A live one, eh?" he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "This Prince of yours has some questionable taste. I prefer my humans slow-cooked."

You shift back in your seat as the hair on the back of your neck stands up straight. Do you know that eating humans has been outlawed and the Devildom for quite some time? Maybe this guy is so old he missed the memo?

Barbatos clears his throat and takes a step toward the Demon, who is looking at you like their next meal. "Clearly, you are mistaken; this is Mc. A distinguished guest and friend of the Devildom."

The Artist opens his mouth to surely make another snarky comment, but he's interrupted by the doors parting and Diablo's timely arrival.

He looks just as handsome as ever as he greeted you with a smile, "Sorry I'm late, Canvazu. Thank you for taking the time to meet us today."

The Demon, who is becoming one of your least favorite beings in the three realms by the second, looks the prints up and down. "oh, I remember you. You look the exact same as the last time I saw you. So why do I have to immortalize your face again?"

Your jaw drops, how could he say this to the ruler of Hell?

You look at the Prince, but to your surprise, he only laughs. The wonderful sound fills the room and calms your nerves. "I suppose I wish for the Devildom to see the true me~"

"Actually, I don't care." the Artist says in an annoyed tone. "Go sit over there so we can begin."

Diavolo is unphased by the Demon's rude behavior but shoots a quick look at you and Barbatos, whose smile is murderous, to not intervene. If this Artist is as well respected as he appears to be, he certainly can get away with this attitude toward nobility. 

"Is there anything else you need before you start?" The Butler asks, clearly wanting to get this whole exchange over with. 

"Yeah, Silence." the Demon sneers, his voice low enough for Diavolo to not hear from his chair across the room. He dips his long- brush-shaped tail onto his palette. And painting the backdrop. 

You see Barbato's jaw clench, and you gently reach out and give his hand a little squeeze to calm him down. He relaxes and looks at you warmly. "I apologize for my rudeness, Mc. You have been here for quite some time, and I haven't given you any refreshments. May I fetch something for you?"

"That would be lovely; thank you," you say, happy to give him a distraction. He nods and goes to make you something in the kitchen, leaving you in the room with the Artist and the Prince.

It kind of sounds like the start of a corny joke, and you smile to yourself, thinking up all the different ways you can set up the punchline.

You watch in amazement as Canvazu works, his tail flicking back and forth; his paintings are so lifelike, so realistic it looks like you can step onto the canvas and still be in the same room.

Diavolo sits perfectly still in his seat, but despite his best efforts to hide it,  he looks extremely bored. He meets your gaze and gives you a little wave.

You stick your tongue out at him teasingly in response, and he beams back at you; at the change in his subject's face, Canvazu's head snaps toward you, and he glares into the very depths of your soul. "You, human. You are distracting my subject; stop that at once! Do you realize how privileged you are to be sitting in on one of my sessions?." Embarrassment boils beneath your skin and you open your mouth to apologize, but Diavolo stops you standing abruptly. 

"There is no need for that; Mc is doing exactly what they're supposed to do, making me smile. 

"As the artist, I will capture your image as I see fit." Cavazu objects. "I cannot immortalize your face looking so undignified with a silly grin."

You sit up from your chair, "there is nothing wrong with his smile," you say defensively, your patience finally running out . "will you really not paint him if he doesn't look miserable in the chair?"

"Absolutely not." The Demon says, throwing his pallet on the floor. Paint splatter everywhere. "Watch your tongue, Human. You are nothing but an insignificant pest. You have no right to speak to me that way."

Immediately, Diavolo is at your side, looking furious. "I believe we are at an impasse then, Cavazu. I tolerated your disrespect as a courtesy for your continued service of the Devildom, but you have crossed the line. As of now, you will no longer be contracted by the crown."

Canvazu looks absolutely frazzled, for once having to actually deal with the consequences of his actions. "You cannot be serious, My lord. I have served the Devildom for years and you choose this, your pet? Over me?"

"A thousand times over." Diavolo declares with certainty; he looks down at you and takes your hand, pressing it to his lips. "And this Human may one day rule the Devildom at my side. They mean more to me than anything. I refuse to let you rob the Devildom of its smile any longer." Diavolo says, his authority clear in his voice. 

"Barbatos, if you please." The Prince says, addressing the Butler, who you haven't noticed come back into the room. 

"At once, young master." The Butler says, and with a snap of his fingers, the Artist disappears from the room, leaving the three of you alone in the Parlor. "I must say, kicking that oaf out has been one of the highlights of my existence, Your Majesty. Thank you for that opportunity."

The Butler sent the two of you into a fit of laughter and, despite his prim and proper nature, lets out a genuine smile in response.

"Are you alright, Mc?" The Prince asks softly, the anger on his features disappearing as he looks at you. 

"I'm alright; I'm sorry your artist was such a jerk, though." You reply. "Is there another artist you can use to paint your portrait?"

He shakes his head, "this situation has made me realize that I do not want to have my portrait painted anymore."

"But I thought you wanted a new painting to replace the one in the Hall of Faces," you say in surprise. 

He smiles, "I do, but I was wondering if you would do me the honor of sitting with me in my portrait."

"Is that really okay?" you ask in bewilderment. 

"Of course it is," Barbatos says simply. "You have done more than enough to earn your place up on the wall."

"I-I don't know what to say."

"How about yes?" The Prince asks, his golden gaze overflowing with hopeful affection. 

You smile and nod eagerly, your heart feeling tender with love. "Yes, I will."

"Wonderful," he replies eagerly, looking like an excited golden retriever. "Barbatos, would you do me the honor of painting our portrait?" 

"I would be delighted to," he replies, striding over to where the Artist once stood. "I have not practiced my oil paintings in quite some time, but I believe I can capture your feelings appropriately."

"So. Shall we begin?" The Prince smiles leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Tagging: @enchantedforest-network, @starbbyy

[im00nlight]

Chapter 1:It Ended Before it Began

She screeched, sounds of shattering glass, and porcelain echoed throughout the Ruby Palace. Books went flying this way, and that, Maids, Nannies and Butlers ran out of the room in fear as the princess howled. She cried, whined and shouted, “You lied to me, you all lied to me, how could you?” She sat in the middle of her bedroom floor, in her hands a large painting. One of her family, her mother, the Queen, her father, the King, her sisters and brothers. Most of them had pale white hair, and big red, spider-like eyes; her mother and siblings' skins were some form of brown. Her mother had catlike viridescent eyes and black hair. While Danae had a deep dark skin the color of the Earth, hair as curly as it was an illuminative lavender, matched with glowing silver tips. Her eyes sprung the color of millions of suns, bright, beautiful and bulging with curiosity. They stood in a formal way, the men in the back. And the woman up front, her father’s hand on her mother’s shoulder. Danae looked at the picture frame splintered beneath her grip. As she stood up. The servants cried, the remainder of the maids left behind by their peers bundled into a corner, shaking and trembling. They had never seen the kind, docile Princess Angry, or upset, Ever. Was this the Princess who had started Charity upon Charity for the Helpless and Needy? The Princess was so quiet and docile that her own family forgot her in the family portrait. Without shedding a single tear or expressing any negative feeling, she hired the artist to paint her into the copy she kept above her canopy. What made the Princess have such a strong wave of anger and grief that within minutes her entire room was ruin. Her chest heaved and hoed as guards rushed in from every direction.

The princess stared at the knights as they approached, one grabbed her left arm, the other grabbed her right. “What are you doing?” she asked as the knights grabbed her arms. She attempted to pull away from their grasp to no avail. She was no match for the trained soldiers of Eden. The Knights stopped in their tracks. “I’m afraid the curse has been allowed to spread within you, your highness.” One night said, his deep voice as luscious and tender as a fawn: yet as brash as a mule.

“I demand you let me go immediately, I need to see my father.” The knights kept a firm grip on the Princess’s wrists as she squirmed and flail about. She kicked, punched and hit the guards, spewing profanity and threats out on them. Even despite being carried up numerous flights of stairs and into the only room in the spire. Which was created for the sole purpose of containing her. The Guards swiftly left the room as the princess sat there, staring at the bed too dazed in her own horror to notice they were gone. She sobbed silently, the memories of her meeting with…. Fresh in her mind as she remembered what he told his subordinate.

The truth is… the Princess had seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.

Long, long ago, there was a King and Queen, rulers of the Eden Kingdom: they had five sons and four daughters. Chivette, Colette, Cisset, Cirel, Cecil, Carwel, Carmine, Carmone, and Clovette. The couple and their children were as happy as they could be, as abundant as sea salt and as elegant as peacocks. However, that all changed when their 10th child was born. Instead of red eyes and a fiery hue she was a lavender child, who had silver-purple hair and observant Amber eyes which were more luminescent than any Jewel. The child looked nothing like the rest of her family, she was like a wild fox in a family of spiders. The King loved his youngest daughter dearly, that was until the ceremony of her birth.

In the Kingdom of Eden, after the birth of a royal child, the whole kingdom would congratulate the Queen, praising her fertility and welcoming the newest addition to the kingdom. The Royal Court was buzzing. The women and men alike boasted about the youngest Princess, who had yet to be named. The Queen carried around the child, wrapped in lavender silk. The baby softly snored into her mother’s bosom. “Congratulations your Highness, the Princess is truly splendid, she takes after His Majesty.” Countess Mariam flattered the queen and in turn the King. “Thank you Countess, my daughter indeed looks like His Majesty.” “She will surely be a beauty, your highness.” The Duchess beamed as the Queen set the sleeping Princess in her bassinet, and closed the lid of it. No sun or moonlight could penetrate the cloth of the lid. The Party continued, the Queen danced with several men, her father, the Count Salsbury, her Eldest Son, Prince Ceicil, her youngest son, Prince Carmone, and her husband, King Ariel. The Queen’s name was Harmonia. The ball was a flaming court of fury, so many monsters and demons in one bet that formed years ago. As the music played and played, the orchestra became louder and louder with each step. The joy of the palace turned into mysticism, then into horror as the thunder rummaged through the sky. The Thunder banged, beamed, and tore at every room in the palace. The rain fell heavily as the door of the Ballhouse crumbled beneath the arms and legs of wind. The Queen grabbed onto her husband, as her daughters and sons grabbed onto each other. A cackle rumbled from around the earth, death and darkness spilled into the ballroom, covering the floor. “You didn’t even invite me? How insensitive of you my dear.” The Queen’s heart dropped, as the dark figure walked in. He was a tall deep dark man, his eyes just as big and curious as a Lion’s. They were the color of Amber's and happiness, but his demeanor was anything but. He had long coily hair, a deep purple and the man was not only beautiful, but horrific in a sense. The man looked kind, but in his eyes was true fear to everyone who looked into them. The man walked with grace, the click clacks of his diamond cane against the marble floor. He looked around the room, carefully observing the people. Despite the fact that this man had created a whole storm from his presence, women spoke softly among themselves, about the man. They were all captivated by him, his unwavering beauty that seemed to stand still in time, and the small rasp in his voice, that was just enough that it was charming. Some women blushed, especially if they were in their older years. The men were the same, nobody who had experienced any form of Cupid or Eros was safe from feeling irredeemably attracted to this man. The Queen’s face was stuck in horror as the man stood parallel to her. She gripped her husband’s forearm as the man lowered himself to better match the Queen. The King stood by the Queen’s side, unfazed. There was no way he didn’t know who this man was.

“Aren’t you going to welcome me, your highness?” he smirked, as he watched the Queen dig her fingernails into her husband's vest. The stern expression on the Queen’s face said everything. The Stern, depressive look in her eyes, told him all he needed to know. Her eyes quickly filled with tears, stridently she said, “You are never welcome here, how dare you come into my home after what you’ve done to me?” The man took a step closer, the Queen took a step back. “I deserve to see my daughter, do I not?” his brows furrowed. The king stabbed forward, for a moment Harmonia let go of her husband, looking up at him surprised, then stepping forward, her eyes filled with resolve.

“She is not your daughter, you will never have a role in our daughter’s life. For the sake of my wife, my children, and my guests here, I suggest you leave immediately.” The King spoke, something he rarely did, especially in this tone of animosity, bared with disgust and malice.

The man’s eyes widened, looking straight at the King as he pointed towards the lavender bassinet on the throne hill. He smiled, albeit a bit cruelly. “She is made out of all of us, I have as much of a right to her as you do. I must see my daughter.” The man set his sights on the throne hill. He began walking towards it. The Queen rushed towards the steps leading up to the throne hill, before her husband could even think. Blocking the man the queen held up her hands. She cried, her makeup streaming down her face, “You will not, you will never have the grace of meeting the child you forced upon me.” she screeched. The King by her side, watched as everyone in the ballroom fell, their heads crashing onto the ground. Thorn vines rapidly creeped down the pillars of the ballroom, around the floor and across every crevice. Then he looked back to the man, his vision going out on him. The man’s eyes were unfathomably bright. Shining like a miniature sun.

As both the Queen and the King tumbled down the stairs, the man continued his ascendance up the stairs. When at the top the man could hear the soft babbles of a baby. He hurriedly opened the lid of the bassinet, and there she was, his daughter. He picked her up, cradling her in the crook of his arm. She spit and slobbered on the man's arm, restless, she babbled and screeched. The man looked at the baby confusedly, he frowned. “You took after that man too much, you don’t even look like you’re my daughter. As expected you look beautiful, even more beautiful than your stupid mother.” he paused. Looking down to the sleeping princesses and princes. He spoke softly, looking into his daughter’s eyes, which were identical to his own.

“If that idiotic mother of yours took my hand, she would be bigger than any of the men of this land. She would be a Goddess, and those pests would be your brothers and sisters, and you a God above anyone else. But here you are, half of a God, no better than those flying elves. But you are different, you’re going to be what your mother could never do. You’re going to fall into a deep unwakeable slumber, and you will become a mother, then a Queen, and you will die a horrible death.” his frown had shifted to a grin. One of pure joy, his smile was whole. His hands innately gripped around the body of the infant. She yelled and cried for a moment. Then fell into silence. The man looked down, his hands buried into the broken bones of his daughter. The man wasn’t horrified at his actions, nor did he show any emotion towards the body in his hands. Instead, he tilted his head back, his open hand ripping his jaw open. Unzipping his skin, wet marigold petals fell from the gaping hole, filled with rows upon rows of gold painted teeth. The monster’s face covered itself with a bone-like metal. Hands sprouted from its back, followed by deep black wings that resembled a raven. This was the true form of a god.

The monster snarled, mashing up the corpse, kneading the infant, removing bone fragments, the only things that couldn’t be removed were the brain and what was left of the heart. The monster held the bloody meatball up to his mouth, juicing it, the taste of saliva heavy on its tongue, the blood made the thing somewhat elated. Saliva dripped from its mouth as it was too busy gashing through the mound of meat, swallowing it in seconds.

The thing spoke, its vocal cords rumbling in clicks. It moaned and groaned, going from screaming to a careless whisper.

The Princess wailed from the bassinet beside her, she wiggled around covered in blood, she looked like a newborn baby, one who was barely a minute old. The man walked down the stairs, time reversed and with it the mounds of roses went away. Time reverted back to the moment before the storm began. Everyone continued with their lives happily, unaware of what took place that night.

If you’re wondering who that man, that so-called god, was, just know I wouldn’t touch that man within a thousand kilometer pole. For now that is all you need to know.

[thetaoofzoe]

Fic: Fisticuffs 1/1

(gif created by @mrcavill​ )

Title: Fisticuffs 1/1

Rating: Some mature language and sexual imagery. Major Fluff and a good dose of hurt/comfort, marital bliss.

Word count: 2334

Summary: It should be against the law to pummel such a handsome face! But even as his wife, you can’t talk Sherlock out of bare knuckle fighting. He loves the thrill way too much, but not more than he loves you. 

As a new revolution in the technology of photography began to emerge and become intrinsically entwined with the advancements in science and medicine, Sherlock was pleased that you had expressed an interest in taking up photography as a feminine pursuit.

He often remarked how he envisioned you making a name for yourself as a woman pioneer in the field and throughout your courtship, he brought related books and pamphlets for your amusement and perusal.  His particular encouragement of you did not cease even after he asked for your hand in marriage.

Shortly before the wedding and as a honeymoon gift to you,  Sherlock prepared to have a darkroom built in one of the spare rooms at the back of the house into which the two of you planned to move. He had commissioned the renovation in secret and ensured that you remained blissfully unaware of what was happening, keeping it under the guise of merely remodeling the house for his new bride and that the construction would take place whilst the two of you honeymooned in the Cotswolds.

Weeks after having settled into your newly married life, one evening whilst chatting quietly over  late tea and cake, Sherlock had risen from his chair, taken you by the hand and led you to where the house smelt of new cedar and fresh wallpaper paste. When  he opened the door and pulled you inside, you couldn't help gasping with delight as you surveyed the large room. Whilst Sherlock had not taken it upon himself to furnish or stock the room, as he professed to knowing absolutely nothing about the technology (which you knew was a lie, but you let him have it), he had made sure that the space was usable. There was a door at one end of the room that led to the darkroom and at the other end, by the french doors that led to a small walled off garden was  little area where you could have subjects come in to pose for a portrait.

'I intend to have this be a purely scientific pursuit,' you'd told him, and when his fond expression told you that he didn't believe you, you  laughed and put your arms round his neck to steal a kiss.

Maybe not /purely/ scientific, you thought. A little extra mad money from a few portraits couldn't hurt.

So you thanked your husband, gathered your skirts, darted up the stairs to the master bedroom shouting that you just had to thank him properly and the only way to do it was to be pressed into the mattress beneath him.

Sherlock was an enthusiastic and generous lover that you ran out of reasons to make love with him outside of just wanting to feel his elegant fingers inside you and his lips on your tender skin.

**

Most evenings after dinner, you could usually be found in that room either developing film, studying new techniques or taking photos of yourself as a test subject.

And, that one cool spring evening in April was no different. You had become engrossed with dismantling and rebuilding the mahogany and brass plate camera and hadn't noticed the time. Sherlock had been out at the gentleman's society club and the sound of the front door opening and then closing echoed through the house.  

You looked up from your work and listened, hearing Sherlock's familiar tread on the front room floorboards. He sounded like he was coming in your direction and you immediately placed your hands against your hair to ensure that you didn't look as tired and frazzled as you felt. Heaving yourself up from the floor with a low groan, you stood, stretched and leaned over to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror that sat in its gold frame on the floor across the room.

Dusting off the skirts of your tea dress, you went to greet him at the door, ready to kiss and welcome him home. Then the footsteps turned round and went in the other direction, towards his study at the front of the house.

You felt disappointed, but it gave you some time to go to your wash stand upstairs and freshen up. You powdered, perfumed and re-pinned your hair and pleased with your appearance, you went back downstairs to the study.

The door was slightly ajar which signalled that, if desired, you were welcomed to enter at your leisure.  When you pushed opened the door the woodsy scent of his pipe tobacco wafted towards you.  Sherlock had not lighted any of the lamps and he sat in his chair by the low fire and smoked.

'Are you all right?' you asked, still standing in the doorway.

You kept your tone low and solicitous, for if he was in a foul mood, you didn't want to exacerbate it.

Sherlock's long, deep sigh was audible over the low crackling of the fire.

'I'm fine, darling,' he said sounding infinitely weary.

You closed the door, walked to the hearth and striking a match, you touched the yellow and orange flame to the white rectangular oil lamp wick. It spluttered a bit before the oil soaked material ignited and you slid the glass chimney into place.

The warm light filled the small room and as you tossed the match into the fire, you turned to your husband.

'Sherlock!' you cried, dropping to your knees by the chair and grabbing his cool hands which were bruised across the knuckles. 'What happened to your face!?'

In the glow of the lamp, you could now see a darkening bruise streaking across his cheekbone and another blooming around the corner of his mouth. His lower lip was split and bloody and you took personal offense that someone had the gall to pummel Sherlock's perfect face.

'Oh darling,' you cooed, reaching up to cup his cheek, and like a trained pup, Sherlock leaned his face into your touch, grimacing a little to show you that it still pained him. 'What have you gotten into? Were you out defending my honour?'

This earned a soft chuckle and he pressed his big hand over yours against his face.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and you knew that he was gathering his words to exactly describe the dastardly situation and how he had to fight his way out of it.

'I ... Mycroft and I went to one of the sporting rooms this evening and I-- engaged in a boxing match.'

You sat back on your heels and stared incredulously up at him and it took a moment for a surprised laugh to wriggle its way up from your throat and out of your mouth.

Your respectable level headed husband had spent his evening in a combat pen with a brutish man!

'Oh,' you continued to giggle fondly. 'My darling boy.'

Rising, you leaned in to kiss the top of his head before leaving the study to retrieve the Strickland's arnica salve. You also mixed a little bit of brandy and water, tossed a clean towel over your shoulder and brought all items back to where Sherlock sat slumped in his chair.

You tutted softly and ruffled your fingers through his hair.

'Poor boy,' you murmured, handing him the small brandy which he took gratefully and swallowed down immediately.

You started to move away in order to fetch the low stool that you used to reach books on the higher shelves when Sherlock gently caught you by the wrist.

'Sit on my lap,' he said, eyes slyly bright and eager in the undulating lamplight.

'And, how do you expect for me to treat your wounds?' you asked playfully, sweeping your skirts aside and delicately perching yourself on one muscular thigh. "Whilst sat on your ever so inviting lap?'

Sherlock rested his hand on your lower back and let his head loll back against the high backed chair.

He encouraged you with a warm smile. 'I'm sure you will have no trouble figuring it out.'

'I think you want to be naughty in your infirm state.'

Sherlock chuckled.

'And  you would deny me your tender care?'

You made a show of wriggling against his thigh to make yourself comfortable and then cleaned his face with the water moist end of the towel. Sherlock hissed with discomfort and you cooed softly with sympathy.

'Of course not, darling, however, I do wonder how the other man looks.'

Sherlock slid one eye open to look up at you.

He tried to smile but winced as the motion reopened the split in his lower lip.

Seeing this, you frowned a little and leaned in to lightly touch your lips to his.

'Stay still. No smiling, darling.'

And then as if on cue, his lips curved into a smile and he grunted miserably, flicking his tongue out to lick at the deep red slash.

'I said no smiling!'

You laughed and continued to clean his face and then opened the small tin of arnica salve which was proven to treat surface contusions and bruises. With light fingers, you applied a thin layer of the grease along his cheekbone and then another layer to the purple and red bloom beneath the skin around the corner of his mouth.

Smiling a little, you enjoyed the silence that fell between you as you gently, massaged the arnica into his bruises until the skin absorbed it. You could see that it was comforting him as the wrinkles between his brows smoothed and calmed. Sherlock had long ago put aside his small glass and had worked his hand beneath your skirts and was absently stroking your bare thigh between your stockings and drawers.

'There,' you murmured and leaned in to kiss his temple. 'Right as rain. I ah, take it that you won your match?'

'Of course,' said Sherlock, sounding cocky and pleased with himself.

The warmth of pride rose in your chest.

Lowering your voice, you eased your fingers into his hair, 'Of course. And, how should my champion be rewarded?'

When he chuckled like a delighted little boy, you mirrored his pleasure.

You knew exactly what your beloved husband was going to suggest, but something exciting seized you.

Pressing the cap back onto the arnica salve, you gingerly got up from his lap, gathered your first aid items, and left the study. When you didn't return quickly, you heard Sherlock call out to you, beckoning you to come back. But, instead of returning to his side, you went to your own photography studio. Leaving the door open, you cupped a hand to your mouth and called, 'Sherlock! Come along, dear.'

It didn't take long for him to appear in the corridor and then make his way to where you stood in the doorway of the back room.

He glanced around the room curiously. He didn't generally make a habit of disturbing your private sanctuary uninvited and you could see that he was impressed with how the room was coming along. You smiled and rubbed your thumb across his cheek.

'I want to capture your...' you paused, teeth pressing down into your lower lip as you mentally searched for the word, before dropping your shoulders and lifting both your tightly clenched fists in a boxer's ready stance, scowling to show your intent.

Excitement sparked in his face and you laughed at your own antics, glad that your idea had not fallen flat in his opinion.

Snapping back into your usual perky self, you grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the room. Kicking the door shut, you ushered Sherlock to the small alcove where the portrait area had been set up, complete with painted canvas background detailing a pastoral view.

You positioned a slightly smiling Sherlock in front of the canvas and scurried to fetch the only other camera that was not in pieces on the floor.

It was a small handheld wood box and you carried it carefully back to where your husband stood waiting.

'Go on,' you giggled. 'We want you to look like a proper fighter. Off with your waistcoat and shirt.'

You watched him greedily, eagerly when he began to undress without complaint and a sigh of satisfaction escaped your lips when he was finally bare to the waist. Unobtrusively, you clenched your fingers at the sight of him. Sherlock was beautiful, strong, and decidedly masculine and you were seized with the desire to run your fingers through the hair on his broad chest.

You were sure that Sherlock was keenly aware of your appraisal of him. He was aware of everything when it came to you and you felt hot and suddenly aroused.

'How did I get so lucky with this handsome boy!' you cried and lifted the camera so that you could look down into the eyepiece and get the beautiful specimen of a man in focus.

However, although Sherlock allowed you to take a few photographs of him in his fighting form, he had other ideas. He walked towards you, reaching out for the camera with one hand and fitting his big hand about the back of your neck with the other. You let out a soft sweet breath and lifted yourself to kiss him. Vaguely, you heard him place the camera safely on one of the work tables

His deft fingers made short work of the buttons running down the front of your pale blue tea dress. You had only been wearing a simple chemise and not your stays beneath the dress and you were pleased to see him smile to find you soft and unbound beneath your clothes.

You pushed into his arms again kissing him, tangling your fingers in his curls to drag him down more possessively. Sherlock crouched just a little and swept you up into his arms much to your squealing delight.

'Yes, darling,' you cooed, cupping his face and kissing him gently. 'Go and claim the reward I promised.'

'I shall indeed,' Sherlock answered, sounding greedy as he carried you up to your shared bedroom.

END

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[gryffindors-weasley]

Late Nights, Early Mornings

Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you can’t sleep, Benedict will always be there.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: none—fluff, kissing

A sigh left your lips as you rolled further onto your side, resting your head tiredly on Benedict’s shoulder. You weren’t entirely sure of the hour, it could have been late in the night or early in the morning. Either way, you could not sleep and that much was certain. You’ve got far too much energy to sleep, though you were far too tired to do anything else but to stay in the comfort of your bed and hope dreams find you. Your mind wasn’t active with anything important in particular—well, maybe a few things.

Your mind was bouncing between one trivial thought to the next in a restless loop, anywhere from the happenings of early that evening to the walk you wanted to take through the garden with Benedict the following day. It left you no other choice but to settle for sulking, to dance your fingertips across his chest as you so often did. Your touch was featherlight as you did just that, eyelids tauntingly heavy as you continued the absentminded action.

It was a rather tiresome night at Lady Danbury’s estate, the events she holds always proving to be extraordinarily exceptional in all aspects. Your feet ache from a night of dancing with your beau and his brothers, your mind exhausted from holding one too many conversations, some of which with people you’d never even met prior to that evening. Not only that, but the event itself was much too long after the first hour or so, and the fatigue settling upon you would very much agree with that statement. You were quite sure you would be sore once you get up for the morning.

Needless to say, there was ample reason for you to be fast asleep in that current moment, but your mind fervently says otherwise as you remain awake.

Admittedly, it was rather peaceful as you lay there. The warmth of the sheets juxtaposed with the breeze filtering in through the open windows sweeping across your skin—it felt entirely calming. With it brought the subtle sound of said breeze gusting through the leaves on the multitude of trees in the garden, the scent of flowers wafting in. Moonlight streamed in through the arched windows, weaving around the burgundy curtains draping around them and stretching across the hardwood floor.

It was a sight all too beautiful—a different kind of beauty than that of elegant gowns and finely tailored suits, of polished dancefloors and well practiced music. While you did enjoy the constructed beauty of the estate you could call your very own home, even the very room you currently reside within, it paled in comparison to the natural glamour all around you. The intricate gold detailing around each and every door frame, the meticulously painted portraits on the walls, the grand pianos and chandeliers; they were all nothing short of gorgeous you must say. But there was something utterly enamoring about the way the curtains swayed with the wind and stars that twinkled above you.

Your gaze flits to Benedict as you breathe out another sigh, a soft smile on your lips. You’re smiling at the way his hair sits in tousled tangles of dark brown curls, dipping freely over his forehead. It was never necessarily neat and managed to begin with, and the thought alone had you stifling a quiet laugh. You gaze at the way his lashes curl over the tops of his cheeks, and the bridge of his ever so kissable nose and the soft smattering of freckles that dance across it. Your attention focuses on the occasional tightening of his grip around your waist out of instinct should you stray too far from him, and the moments he wakes up briefly just to kiss your forehead before drifting off. It was a seemingly unbreakable habit, one that you adored so wholly. It is but a wonder how his love can be so delightfully dizzying, how he himself could be so wonderful. But he is.

You hadn’t known quite how long you’d been caught up in your own thinking, in your own admiring, but you had most certainly known of the hand enveloping your wrist and the soft laugh sounding in the otherwise quiet room. One that startled you only slightly.

“I can feel you staring, my love,” he states, the corner of his mouth quirking to a smile before he turns his head and peeks an eye open at you. “I’m afraid you’re not as discreet as you may think.”

You smile brightly, beamingly as you lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. He smiles in bliss at the action, eyes fluttering closed only briefly.

“Sorry,” you mumble quietly, fingers still swirling on his skin, “couldn’t sleep.”

He hums softly in acknowledgment, your words capturing his attention fully as he turned his head to look at you. His eyes take in your sleepy expression, your grin there and just for him nonetheless. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me why?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to fight your growing smile and your efforts were quickly proving to be futile the more you held his amused gaze. He knew you were up to something, you always were and he always knew just when that was. He could tell by the very smile that had been playing on your lips and the mischievous look filling your stare.

“My mind won’t seem to let me forget the way you’ve twirled me directly into the Queen herself this evening.”

There it was.

His tired laughter continued once more at your words and you couldn’t stifle your own a moment longer, nor did you hesitate to scrunch your nose in displeasure at his reaction. “And I suppose you think that is all my fault? Never mind your perpetual clumsiness, of course it couldn’t be that.”

His jesting words were spoken softly against your lips, his nose brushing against your own as he kisses you to silence your inevitable scoff. Your inevitable complaint for stating the obvious. You relax against him then, almost letting yourself become distracted. Truthfully, you had, it wasn’t hard to with the way your lips meld perfectly with one another. Or perhaps it was the way he smiled against them because of the sheer love in his heart for you before continuing with a kiss far too intoxicatingly gentle and sweet to ignore. The way the warmth of his palm pressed gently to your flushed cheek before sliding down your arm as it had moments before. But, with all the reluctance in the world you part from him, a teasing smile on your lips.

“Yes,” you start, nipping the very tip of his nose. “I very much do think so, my love. And I do believe you are just as clumsy as I am.”

“Am not!” He defends, propping himself up on his elbow, his blue stare now narrowed playfully at you as his hand never leaves your arm.

You scoff incredulously, trying not to be swayed by your desire to kiss him once more though you will admit it was rather hard to ignore. “Need I remind you of the incident at Somerset House?”

He squints down at you as you raise your brow in a silent challenge, lips kiss swollen and pursed as you wait for him to break. He could deny it all he so desires, but you knew for certain that he’d had more than enough clumsy encounters for the two of you. You narrowed your eyes the more moments that passed, still amused and still patiently waiting as the brunette just inches in front of you bit the inside of his cheek. He was so close his breath fanned across your lips.

“That table was deceiving,” He explains, causing you to tip your head back and your laughter to escape you without hesitation as he flops back next to you with a bounce. “How was I to know it’d topple over like that?”

Your teasing smile had soon dwindled to a soft one as he settled close to you, your laughter mingling in the air. His eyes nearly sparkle as he looked at you, his grin equally soft. “Regardless, you nearly knocked a rather expensive painting off the wall in your attempt to grab my hand and flee from the mess you’d created. How ever shall I forget that?”

Your voice is soft and spoken with the utmost of lighthearted teasing, a squeal leaving your lips when his hand moves from your wrist to envelop your own, tugging you swiftly to be impossibly closer to him. His smile is sleepy and fond, your joined hands coming to rest on his chest as his thumb brushes gingerly over the back of yours. It’s quiet for a few moments, your cheeks flushing over the sheer lovingness held in his gaze.

“I don’t believe you shall ever forget it, you love to tease me far too much on the matter,” he chuckles, though not an ounce of exasperation finds its way in his tone at the obvious fact that surely you will mention it again.

Your smile is beaming as you nudge his nose with your own, lips brushing over lips and breath fanning warmly and softly over skin. Your kiss is tender and fleeting before you drop your head to his chest with a quiet sigh, hiding your face in his neck. He joins your sigh, his fingers trailing up and down your spine in a delicate touch.

For a short while you took the moment to bask in the safety of his arms, in the rhythmic beat of his heart as your ear remained pressed upon his chest. Traces of his laughter still shake you ever so lightly, his lips pressing to the top of your head in a simple moment of affection. He knew no matter how much you joked about it, the events just a few hours prior still bothered you. Even if it’d been just a little bit. It was the Queen after all.

The silence may have been brief but he felt as if he should say something, anything. He knew he needed to.

“In all fairness, you must know that you look rather cute when you’re flustered,” he states. He smiles when he feels your otherwise quiet laughter puff against his neck.

You lift your head slightly, resting it on his shoulder to better see him. “Must I?”

He lets go of your hand to brush the hair out of your face, to brush his thumb across your cheek. He felt as though his heart nearly bursted in his chest with the way the moonlight glimmered over you, with the way it made your eyes shine brighter than any star. With the way you looked at him, a look that will always give him butterflies, that will always make him melt. He nods. “Yes, you must.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up at his words, and you blink at him tiredly. “She nearly spilled her lemonade on my dress, and she hadn’t looked very happy with me.”

“Do not worry, darling, I have smoothed things over. She loves me after all,” he says, the pad of his thumb moving from your cheek to sweep over your lip.

The roll of your eyes was expected, something bringing out the softest of laughs in him as he tilted your chin up and kissed you. “Then I must say I don’t blame her.”

He parted from your lips to kiss the very tip of your nose, to kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw. Your laughter sounded by the time he made it back to your mouth, his forehead rested on yours as he relished in that very moment. Any bit of time he has with you, just the two of you—it’s time always cherished. Even if it’s you teasing him in good fun for his clumsy mistakes, and him hopelessly trying to deny such clumsy incidents. It’s all he’d ever need and it’s all he’d ever want.

“I think we should go back to sleep now, Y/n/n,” he murmurs, tugging the blankets back up.

You finally could agree on that statement, the fatigue of the day just catching up with you as you yawn. He tucked you close, his hand soon finding yours as he lays back against your pillow. The moment you’re comfortable, your joined hands rest on his chest once more, fingers entwining and legs tangling.

“I love you, Ben,” you whisper softly.

He smiles at the nickname, peering down to meet your sleepy gaze. You press one final kiss to his lips to further confirm your affections, the action wordless and fleeting before you let your head fall to his shoulder.

“I love you more,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a lopsided smile.

He’d love you forever—in the late nights and the early mornings.

—

Tags: @dreaming-about-fanfictions @awritingtree @writeroutoftime @elennox03

[suburbanbeatnik]

Françoise de Bernardy’s Alexandre Walewski: The Polish son of Napoleon- the first chapter

If I went to the (long and tedious) effort of translating the first chapter of  Françoise Bernardy’s 1976 biography of Alexandre Walewski, I figure you guys should see it too. Enjoy!

* * *

MARCH 1810. Paris is moved by the preliminaries of Napoleon's marriage with Marie-Louise. In a few days, the archduke Charles has to marry in Vienna, in the name of the French Caesar, his yesterday's victor, the daughter of the German Caesars.


At 2 rue du Houssaye, in the then aristocratic district of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, a small hotel of elegant appearance. On March 10, at the end of the afternoon, the Emperor brought a cradle decorated with silver laurel. The room where the imperial gift is deposited is hung with light blue. On the wall is a beautiful portrait of a woman by Gerard: blonde, with beautiful eyes and a fine, gentle face. The mirror of the fireplace reflects the charming features. Near the Boucaut armchairs, a Martin varnished chiffonier, behind, half-folded, a large screen of Coromandel lacquer.

A heroic fighter in the last wars of Polish independence, Mathieu Laczynski, staroste of Gostyn, died young and desperate, leaving a widow and six children who can barely live off the mortgaged land of Kiernozia.

The years pass, aggravating the ruin. The four sons are valiant but weak, spendthrift, covered with debts, whether they work on the land or fight in the Polish legions in the service of France. Only one hope, a rich marriage for the oldest daughter, Marie, born in 1786, who is beautiful and good.

An almost septuagenarian but very noble neighbor, Count Anastasius Walewski, offers this rich marriage when Marie has just turned seventeen. At first, the young girl rejects the idea of a union with an old man, twice widowed, whose son Stanislaus is already a made man. But Mme. Laczynska urges her daughter. She knows that he has a warm heart and a devoted soul. Count Walewski is generous. If Mary sacrifices herself, he will secure the future of her brothers and sister. How to resist seventeen years? At the beginning of 1804 Marie became countess Walewska. In June 1805 she had a son, Antoine, a fragile, weak, viable child, who was taken over by the count's sister, Hedwige, an abusive spinster. She leaves behind a distraught young woman with a sad heart and empty arms. Only the sense of duty and a deep passion, which lifts her out of herself, the love of the country, sustain her. Marie lives on the hopes that the victories of the imperial France over Austria, Prussia, and Russia, the powers that once shared Poland.

This patriotism and these hopes brought Marie Walewska to meet Napoleon in Blonie on the road to Warsaw on December 31, 1806. In the weeks that followed, this patriotism and these hopes persuaded the young woman to become the mistress of the French emperor, first forced, then willing, then in love. In the spring of 1807, she lived with him in Finckenstein, where the warrior spent some quiet hours preparing for the Friedland campaign.

Unofficially separated from her old husband, Marie Walewska came to Paris at the beginning of 1808. She remained there until the Emperor's departure for Bayonne. If the fever of the senses has subsided between them, if the lovers are often and for a long time separated, nevertheless Napoleon remains attentive and Marie attached. And then there is always Poland, whose destiny once more seems to be played out during the campaign of 1809. In May, Marie writes to Napoleon, reminds him of his promises, offers to join him in Austria, and on May 18, from Schoenbrunn, which he is about to leave for his headquarters in Ebersdorf, the Emperor replies to the young woman.

"Marie, I have received your letter. I read it with the pleasure that your memory always inspires me. The feelings that you keep for me, I carry them with me.

"Come to Vienna, I wish to see you and give you new proofs of the tender friendship I have for you. You cannot doubt the value I place on everything that concerns you. A thousand tender kisses on your beautiful hands and one on your beautiful mouth. "

A month later, back at Schoenbrunn, on June 20, fifteen days before the battle of Wagram, the Emperor sent Marie an affectionate letter.

"Dear Marie, your letters have pleased me as always. I do not approve of your having followed the [Polish] army in Cracow, but I cannot blame you.

"The affairs of Poland are restored, and I understand the anxieties you have had ... I acted, it was better than to lavish consolation on you. You don't have to thank me, I love your country and I appreciate the merits of many of your people.

"It takes more than the capture of Vienna to bring the end of the campaign. When I have finished, I will move to be closer to you, my sweet friend, because I am anxious to see you again. If it is at Schoenbrunn, we will enjoy together the charm of its beautiful gardens and we will forget all these bad days.

"Have patience and keep faith. "N"

After Wagram, Countess Walewska moved to Moedling, a few miles from Vienna, and throughout the summer of 1809, while peace was being discussed, the Emperor came almost every day to spend the evening, the night - with Marie.

Slow, sweet weeks which, if they seem to consecrate the liaison by the expectation of a child, however, by precipitating the divorce, also prepare the rupture. Indeed, Marie wishes to return to France with the Emperor, but Napoleon, now assured that he can procreate, determined to separate from Josephine, does not want to. The presence of the young woman in Paris would disturb him as he prepares his second marriage. He asked the Countess to return to Poland and on October 13 - the Emperor left Vienna the next day - Marie took the road to Warsaw.

On December 18 - the divorce was pronounced on the 15th - from Trianon where he went to his departure from the Tuileries, Napoleon writes to the countess Walewska. How the tone has changed since the letters of May and June, and how the young woman must have suffered. It is no longer a lover, but the sovereign who speaks, only the concern for the child still shines through. "Madam, I received your letter. All that it contains touched me much. I was pleased to see that you arrived in Warsaw without any unpleasant accident. Take care of your health, which is very precious to me, and put away dark thoughts, the future should not worry you. Teach me that you are happy and content, that is my greatest desire."

Unconsciousness of men. It is almost in the same terms that the Emperor tries to console Josephine...

Happy? Happy? Marie is not happy while she is waiting for Napoleon's child so far away from him, while Caulaincourt seems to be about to sacrifice the Polish hopes in Saint-Petersburg... In 1807, prince Poniatowski asked countess Walewska not to reject the sovereign on whom the fate of Poland depends. In 1810, he probably asked Marie to come to Paris to defend the cause of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw and she agreed. Thus, she was in Paris at the beginning of 1810.

Marie Walewska looked sadly at the cradle. It is true that Napoleon welcomed her and spoke tenderly of the child she was carrying - a son, he had no doubt. But the young woman's heart is heavy. The Emperor had come the day before to bid her farewell. He would not see her again until she had given birth. What will Marie do? Stay in Paris? Retire to the country? To Warsaw? But can she return without the count's permission?

All of a sudden hurried footsteps, a panting courier. "A letter from Poland!"

The count's handwriting...

"Walewice, 21 February 1810

"Dear and honored wife,

"Walewice is more and more a burden to me, my age and state of health forbidding me any activity. I have come there for the last time, in order to sign the deed by which my eldest son acquires it.

"I advise you to come to an agreement with him about the formalities to be completed at the birth of the child you are expecting. They will be simplified if it is in Walewice that this Walewski is born.

"This is also his opinion, and that I write to you. I do so, conscious of fulfilling my duty, praying to God that he may have you in his care.

"Anastase Colonna Walewski".

Marie weeps with relief, with gratitude. Without wasting a minute, she claims her chaise de poste.

Poland is still under a blanket of snow when the Walewska princess arrives in Walewice. The young woman was pleased to see the long white house again, with its two wings covered by terraces and the triangular pedimented porch. This "colonial style" is surprising in the Polish plain: it is a memory of the veterans of the American War of Independence.

April soon brings its first greens, the buds burst in the woods. Marie Walewska takes long solitary walks. Her term is near. What will be the future of this child in whom Slavic and Latin blood are mixed? If it is a son, will he be a soldier, a diplomat? If it is a daughter, will she have fewer difficulties than her mother? What Marie wishes for her child is happiness...

On May 4, Countess Walewska gave birth to a son. At the end of his life Alexandre Walewski will write:

"My birth was accompanied by lightning and thunder, and it was predicted that my life would be stormy and even life-changing.

"To satisfy an old family prejudice, I was held at the font by two beggars, which was supposed to bring me luck... "

Three days pass, then on May 7 the priest of Walewice, acting as civil registrar, registers in the commune of Bielow that "Mgr Anastase de Walewski, staroste of Wareck, residing in Walewice, age of 73 years ", presented him "a child of the male sex, born in his palace on May 4 of the present year at four o'clock, by clarifying to us that he was born from his marriage with the lady Marie, nee de Laczynska, his wife . ... and that he intended to give her the following three names: Alexandre-Florian-Joseph. In view of this declaration, we have proceeded to the redaction of the birth certificate of the said child, in the presence of Mgr Stanislas de Walewski aged 30 years ... and of Mr. Joseph Ciekerski,doctor of medicine and surgeon deliverer ... which birth certificate was signed by us as well as by the above-mentioned and the required witnesses after reading made. "

Anastase Walewski thus fulfills all his duty towards a woman whose honesty and uprightness he appreciates. To this child who is nothing to him, he assures a name, a legitimate filiation, a heritage. This is a striking proof of the affection and esteem he has for Marie. Stanislaus Walewski is fully associated with this testimony by his presence in front of the priest of Walewice.

On his side the Emperor did not forget Marie.

On April 16 (1) he wrote to her: 

"Madam, I receive with great pleasure your news, but the dark ideas that I see that you nourish do not suit you well. I do not want you to have any. Teach me soon that you have a beautiful boy, that your health is good and that you are cheerful. Never doubt the pleasure I will have in seeing you and the tender interest I take in what concerns you. Farewell Marie, I await with confidence your news."

(1) When it was published, this letter was dated February 16. This date hardly seems acceptable. First of all, it is clearly a reply to a distant person whom the Emperor will have "pleasure in seeing". Above all, Napoleon knew that the child was due at the beginning of May and he could not hope that he would be born "soon" - prematurely. Date of April, when the young woman withdrew to Walewice, this text takes on its full meaning.

Leaving a few days later for Belgium and Holland with Marie-Louise, he is informed by quick couriers and, as soon as he knows the birth of Alexandre, he sends for the child Brussels lace and twenty thousand gold francs, for the mother, a very special tribute if we think of Napoleon's admiration for the poet, the works of Corneille, printed in Rouen in 1648, in a beautiful binding by Trantz. Does the Emperor want to signify to Marie that she has the high and tender soul of a Chimene, that he remembers her faithful and generous love?

Napoleon called the young woman back to France on September 3. After thanking her for the news brought by her brother, Theodore Laczynski, he adds in effect: "If your health is well recovered, I desire that you come on the end of autumn to Paris where I desire very much to see you... "

An amicable agreement is then definitively reached between Marie and the count Walewski. The latter gives her a large part of his fortune and entrusts her with the custody of their son Antoine. In Paris Marie Walewska moves back to rue du Houssaye. The months pass. Marie lives far from the court, does not meet Napoleon who, all occupied with Marie-Louise, seems to be interested in the young woman and her son. Finally, in February 1811, the Emperor came to see little Alexandre. It is a beautiful blond child, but whose dark complexion recalls that of the Bonapartes. He has the round head of the Latins, the high and wide forehead of his father, his eyebrow, his mouth and his chin, but the eye does not have the deep blue of the Corsican, reflection of the Mediterranean, it does not have either the sparkle which had always to brighten in the imperial pupil, the brown eye of Alexandre is pleasant and merry. A second visit follows the first one, then it is the rupture, without clashes, without discussion, like a fruit that has reached maturity.

Napoleon, however, is very concerned about the material well-being of Countess Walewska, to whom Duroc brings ten thousand francs every month. Especially the future of his son. On the eve of leaving Paris for Russia, on May 5, 1812, he made the young woman come to the Tuileries and gave her a patent which instituted in favor of Alexandre a majorat of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds of income, with the title of count. The majorat is established on goods situated in the kingdom of Naples.

One evening in January 1813, Alexandre was awakened with a start. Dressed in a hurry, he was taken to his mother.

"Two elderly men were with him, one of whom took me on his lap and kissed me. His physiognomy made a deep impression on me; it was certainly the first memory of his life."

The Emperor's solicitude for his Polish son did not waver. In the middle of the dark hours of the French campaign, fearing that Murat would confiscate the first endowment, he charged his treasurer general, M. de La Bouillerie, to establish a new majorat of fifty thousand pounds of rent on the canals for the young Walewski; he also had a hotel at 48, rue de la Vicioire, bought in the name of Alexandre for 137,500 francs, of which Marie was the usufructuary (1).

Come the great reverses. In the defeated Emperor, abandoned by his former companions, Marie Walewska sees only the man who has loved her, whom she has loved. She runs to Fontainebleau and is announced. Napoleon, absorbed, does not see her again immediately, and then does not think about her anymore. Weary of body and soul, he looks for oblivion and rest in poison, but does not find it.

All night long, in an anteroom, Marie waits for him to call her. In the morning, she finally goes away, discreet, fearing to be unwelcome. The Emperor learns a few hours later of her apparent negligence. "The poor woman," he murmured, "will think she has been forgotten," and on April 16 he was anxious to reassure her. "Marie, I have received your letter of the 15th, the feelings that you have expressed touch me deeply. They are worthy of your beautiful soul and the goodness of your heart. When you have arranged your affairs, if you want to go to the waters of Lucca or Pisa, I will see you with great and lively interest, as well as your son for whom my feelings are invariable. Be well, think of me with pleasure and never doubt me.”

(1) On February 4, from Nogent, he writes in his own hand to La Bouillerie: "I have received your letter relative to young Walewski. I leave you carte blanche. Do what is convenient but do it immediately. What interests me is above all the child, the mother afterwards."     A judgment of the court of the Seine, of April 4, 1818, will authorize the tutor of the "minor" Walewski it to sell the hotel of the rue de la Victoire and it to replace the funds produced by this sale in the purchase of Walewice of which Stanislas Walewski wants to get rid.

In August 1814 Marie Walewska travels to Italy with her son, her sister Emilie and her brother Theodore. The Emperor encouraged her again on August 9: 

"Marie, I have received your letter, I have spoken to your brother. Go to Naples to arrange your affairs. On my way there or on my way back, I will see you with the interest you have always inspired in me, and the little one of whom I hear so much good news that I am truly happy and will be happy to embrace him. Farewell, Madame, a hundred tender things.”

On September 1 Marie arrived on the island of Elba with her son, Emilie and Theodore. Immediately a rumor spread among the population and the small garrison: Marie-Louise and the King of Rome had just arrived. The good people are mistaken. The Viennese woman of light soul and weak flesh is in Aix, already all in Neipperg.

Is Napoleon going to retain Marie who has come to offer him her life? Certainly he is moved to find her always so faithful and so generous. But the Emperor thinks first of the Empress, first of the King of Rome, and he fears that Marie-Louise, warned of the coming of the Polish girl, will take the pretext not to join him. Surprisingly, does he not guess that the choice is already made?

In any case, he receives Marie Walewska in a half-mystery, at the hermitage of the Madonna.

Leaving the countess the three rooms of the little house, Napoleon settles for the night in a tent under the chestnut trees. When he came out in the morning, he found Alexandre playing. He called him, sat down on a chair, took the child in his lap, then sent for Foureau de Beauregard, the doctor who had followed him to Elba, and the latter wrote to Alexandre Walewski on June 22, 1843: "You are that pretty little Alexandre that I saw, almost twenty-nine years ago, on the Emperor's lap near the Madonna delle Grazie on the island of Elba.”

“The Emperor wanted the child, who had no youngster with him, to be there," says Marchand. The Emperor placed Mme. Walewska's son next to him, he was very good at first, but it didn't last long and, as his mother reproached him, the Emperor said to him: "So you are not afraid of the whip? Well! I urge you to fear it; I have only received it once and I have always remembered it." Napoleon then tells how one day when he had mocked his grandmother's clumsy walk, Madame Mere had firmly corrected him. "The child had listened with the greatest attention, the Emperor said to him: 'Well, what do you say to that?’— ‘But I don't make fun of Mama,' he said with a little air of contrition which pleased the Emperor, who kissed him and said: 'That's well answered.’"

Rare picture of Napoleon with his Polish son.

That same evening, September 2, Marie Walewska took the road to Naples again in small steps. The endowment of Alexandre, confiscated on September 15 with all the other French endowments of the kingdom of Naples, is restored on November 30. Perhaps on the intervention of Caroline, who always liked Marie Walewska? Perhaps Murat had some shame to add a meanness to his betrayals? In any case the Emperor was satisfied and he told the King of Naples on February 17, 1815, adding: "I recommend her to you and especially her son who is very dear to me. "She came to Paris in the spring of 1838 and was ‘touched by the assiduous care’ that Walewski gave her during her stay. Caroline Murat wrote to him on November 23: "I am sending you the letter from the Emperor that I had promised you; you will see in it the proofs of the affection that he had for you... "

The countess Walewska lingers in Naples. Alexandre will keep a vague but pleasant memory of this stay, of the toys that he received there. At the beginning of 1815 the mother and the child embarked for France. Caught by a corsair, they escaped him in great difficulty.

Marie learned of the death of the count in Walewice on January 18, 1815. Now that she is free, what will she do with her life? To marry General d'Ornano, who has been courting her for a long time and for whom she has a deep inclination? Perhaps... She has hardly had time to decide when on March 1, 1815 Napoleon lands in Golfe-Juan.

It is the prestigious return, the intoxicating reception of Paris, the feverish days of work. Before the departure for the plains of Flanders where the imperial eagle will fall, Marie, always faithful heart, goes to the Elysee with her son. Alexandre found the visitor from the rue du Houssaye at the palace. He wears, as on the island of Elba, a blue uniform with a white lapel. "He told my mother that he was going to leave for a campaign. He asks me if I want to go with him. My mother refused. ‘Well madam, I will take him by force.’” These words still ring in my ears. "

Waterloo, the second abdication, the halt at Malmaison. Marie once again comes to the Emperor. So many bonds united them, gratitude for the resurrected Poland, and then love, and then the child. Without a doubt, she is ready to accompany him in this exile from which Napoleon's immense weariness, after a life so full and so ardent, awaits rest. But he does not accept, happiness is no longer for him, he enters the legend.

Despite the clear light of this beautiful summer day, everything is sad and gloomy on this June 26 and Malmaison is a kingdom of shadows: shadow of Josephine, unfaithful and charming, shadow of Duroc and Bessieres, shadow of the madman Junot, shadow of the absent ones too, Eugene, Murat, the companions of glory and youth, shadow of Talleyrand and Fouche who betrayed him, shadow above all of this young consul who took France in his arms and with a sincere effort straightened it.

Marie and the Emperor speak at length. Alexandre, serious and silent, listens to them without understanding. The countess is crying softly, she would like to retain Napoleon, to persuade him not to abandon himself to destiny. It is a vain effort, the Emperor does not hear her, nor does he hear Hortense. Marie finally decides to leave and Napoleon leans over to the child and gives him a long kiss. Later the man made, the wall man who became ambassador, then minister of the resurrected empire, will remember that he thought he saw a tear running down the cheek of the defeated of Waterloo.

Three more days the slow agony continues, three more days Marie returns to Malmaison and on June 29 she will be among the last faithful who, on the threshold of the house, will see the Emperor sinking with a firm step into the park, crossing the small gate, will hear the door of the heavy car slamming while the bells of the church of Rueil ring...

* * *

A long year... Europe catches its breath, gets used to the absence of the man who for fifteen years has dominated it and who disappeared at the bottom of the Atlantic.

On September 7, 1816 Marie Walewska married Ornano, who had been exiled by the Restoration, in St. Gudula in Brussels. Antoine and Alexandre Walewski stayed in Paris. Under the guidance of M. Carite, a friend on whom the countess entrusted the education of her children, and of an old valet, Andre, the two little ones join the Ornanos at the waters of Chaudfontaine near Liege. The new household moved soon after to Liege itself, in a charming house on rue Mandeville, today rue de la Fragnee. On June 9, 1817, a son, Rodolphe, was born. After his release from exile, Ornano returned to Paris with his wife in October 1817, but Marie died soon after, on December 11.

In her will Madame d'Ornano entrusted the guardianship of her Polish sons to her brother Theodore Laczynski, who was in Paris at the time. "He will have to report frequently to my dear husband on the state of Alexandre's health, to take his advice when this child will be of school age. Place him in a school where his father-in-law will be able to go and visit him sometimes and supervise his education... "

Laczynski takes the two orphans to Kiernozia in Poland. Alexandre likes this quiet and patriarchal life. Memories of the imperial era haunt the house. In the evening, Antoine and Alexandre linger in the living room. Theodore Laczvnski takes the lead in the conversation, he talks about the French Revolution, Paris, the imperial campaigns, especially about the Emperor. As Duroc's aide-de-camp, the Pole often approached Napoleon. The children, with bright eyes, listen "with indefinable interest". Laczynski's dream is to go to Saint Helena, to take his wards there...

After a few happy months in the country, Theodore Laczynski decides to settle in Warsaw and gives the children whose education cannot be neglected any longer a tutor. A strange choice. The times decidedly wanted it. While Queen Hortense entrusted Louis-Napoleon to the son of the conventionnel Le Bas, the young Walewskis, in their snows, were given to a certain Muller, a "philosopher teacher" as he called himself, of a very advanced republicanism. Laczynski quickly separates from the astonishing character and, in order to restore the balance, his pupils spend half a year in a Jesuit college in Warsaw, where Alexandre makes his first communion. Then they left for Geneva in 1820.

Napoleon's son stayed there for four years. After a happy, pampered life with the gentle and tender woman who was his mother, the child had two more easy years. Now here he is, thrown alone - his brother Antoine is leaving him soon (1) - in a new, even hostile environment, in a foreign city whose Protestant austerity must have clashed with the Catholic heredity of this Pole with Latin roots. And yet, as he himself wrote, it was from this period that his spiritual life began. The city of Calvin suits this calm, somewhat soft temperament. No flashes of anger or outbursts. Order, measure, a certain fundamental rigidity. In Geneva, one day in the summer of 1821, the child of Wagram, the one who prayed for the Emperor because he was his father, learns of the death of the captive of Saint Helena.

(1)Recalled probably by the tsar. Antoine Walewski died young, without children from his marriage to Constance Grotowska.

No trace in the memories of the imprisoned man of what he thought, felt... Did he ever know, except by the cold instructions to the executors of his will, that Napoleon, although absorbed by the concern for his imperial son, nevertheless thought of his Polish son, recommended him to Bertrand, expressed the wish that he enter a regiment of lancers, and above all that he become a Frenchman. "He is really of my blood, and that is also something."

Alexandre Walewski is a boarder at the Academy's rector's house, which receives about twenty young people. His lavish lifestyle, the apartment, the governor, the servant, attracted jealousy and bullying. In spite of his young age, Alexandre decides to avoid a situation which, if it goes on too long, will become painful. He gets the governor recalled, keeps the servant but puts him at the service of the community. He has easy money - his hands will always be wide open -, he lends to his comrades and shows himself to be generous. He is a serious, authoritarian boy, aware of his importance. The traits of his character, which we will find again during his life, are already marked: he is honest, upright, but he is neither cheerful nor fanciful. He evokes his life in Geneva as follows: "I was at twelve very tall for my age, and I considered myself a young man; so much so that I was already going a little into the world, to balls, to little parties... I stayed in Geneva for four years. I left Geneva on an order from the emperor of Russia."

* * * 

On his return to Poland in 1824, Alexandre Walewski was emancipated by his tutor. He settled in Walewice, where he led a stately life. Princess Jablonowska, a sexagenarian cousin who had once been the friend and confidante of Maria Walewska, helped him to entertain. The house of the young man, of this so young man, is soon to be very sought after.

Precocious from a worldly point of view, Alexandre Walewski is also precocious with women. The Latin blood is hot, the Slavic blood as well. Judging by what he wrote in the first draft of his memoirs, shortly after his arrival in Walewice, Alexandre had an affair. He had an affair with a "vulgar girl" that left him feeling disgusted and that would keep him away from such promiscuity in the future. The numerous women who will mark out his life will be from now on women of talent or: women of quality.

On December 22, 1825, Alexandre sends to the General d'Ornano his wishes for the new year. This letter, green, charming, which confirms the impression of maturity of a boy who is not sixteen years old, also reveals the affectionate feelings that he feels for his stepfather.

“It is nearly three months since I wrote to you and many things have happened since I took possession of my land in Walewice. First of all, the castle was repaired, which was in great need of it, and then my good cousin wanted the whole region to hear, with loud trumpeting, that I had become its lord. More than a hundred people did us the honor of attending the magnificent ball that she gave. It was very cold outside, but fortunately there was no snow that night. I was celebrated and saw people from the past whom I pretended to recognize and who were charmed by it. The dowagers even kissed me, but not the young girls, which would have pleased me more. I made up for it by dancing with several of them.

"I must confess also that I fell several times into the sin of pride. I don't know who said anything about my academic successes, but I have been in the hot seat and have been made to take part in political, diplomatic, literary, and I don't know what else conversations. How many compliments have I heard about my intelligence, my reason, the power of my arguments, etc., etc., etc.? And then I noticed that the girls preferred me to many other dancers. As the lessons given to me were profitable, I remembered that it was especially necessary to court ladies of canonical age and they brought back to me very flattering appreciations on my modest person, expressed by exquisite mouths...

"General Zayonczek is one of my most frequent visitors... He rambles a little, but this does not affect his memory. He remembers very well all that happened in Warsaw when the Emperor came there before the battle of Eylau... He is very popular with the great Duke and even with the Czar's court. Some people criticize him, but I think it is good that we have our great men in favor. It can only be useful for us...

"We will reopen the Warsaw hotel in a few days. Ah! if we could see you there!

"Your tender and respectful Alexandre. "

Son of the patriot Marie Walewska, son of the Emperor, Alexandre attracts Polish hopes. He would gladly be taken as a standard bearer. Grand Duke Constantine, the skillful and often benevolent governor of the kingdom, wanted to neutralize him. He offers him to join the Russian army, to become his aide-de-camp. The young man "stubbornly" refused. He was put under police surveillance and told to leave the country. Tsar Alexandre had once recommended that Napoleon's Polish son should never be allowed to go to France: his brother remembered this.

Alexandre decides to escape. With a passport obtained at a high price, he goes to St. Petersburg and hides there, waiting for a favorable opportunity to gain more free land. He learns that the police are looking for him to bring him back to Warsaw where his fate will be decided. Four hundred leagues on foot, a probable prison do not tempt the Pole. He had to escape at all costs. He reached Kronstadt and boarded a steamer bound for England. The police have found his trail, and they launch an armed barge in pursuit of him, ordering him to stop: inadvertently or unwillingly, the captain does not obey the summons and, thanks to his superior speed, makes it to the open sea.

* * * 

In London, Walewski received an enthusiastic welcome from the elegant society, the opposition. The Whigs, that is, the Liberals, have always regretted the treatment of the Emperor, and Lord Holland has protested in the House of Lords against the conditions of captivity. With Napoleon gone, the regrets became remorse...

In spite of the attentions of which he is the object, the young man does not linger in England. He will return there with pleasure and in 1828 he will spend several months: summer, autumn, making a long stay in Chatworth at the Duke of Devonshire, the most prominent of the great Whig lords. But it is in Paris that Walewski intends to settle down. He arrived there in the autumn of 1827. He found his father-in-law, with him Flahaut, Sebastiani, Gerard, veterans of the time. The salons of the Faubourg Saint Honore, of liberal tendency, receive him with great pleasure. He is charming at his entrance in the Parisian world, this young Walewski. Slim, slender, elegant, he has beautiful dark eyes and a dreamy smile. His slight accent adds to his charm when he courts a woman, and he waltzes divinely - like a Slav.

And then, isn't he called the natural son of Man? The Marechal de Castellane notes on November 1, 1827: "At Mme de Flahaut's, I saw for the first time a young M. Walewski, son of Mme Walewska and of the Emperor Napoleon. He has the eyes, the sound of his father's voice, he is taller than him and very well turned out (1)."

(1) Many years later Walewski pronounced the eulogy of the count of Rayneval. An old general of the Empire suddenly begins to cry. "I attended the farewell that the Emperor made to his guard at Fontainebleau and I just heard the sound of his voice.”

What is more surprising, the faubourg Saint-Germain, stronghold of the ultras, is infatuated with Walewski who becomes the darling of the "ultra-duchesses" according to Lady Morgan. Haussonville on his side confirms it to us. "The debuts of Count Walewski took place, singularly enough, under the auspices of what is most exclusive and purest in the aristocratic society of Paris. It was as if it were a watchword among the most sought-after ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain to give the most benevolent welcome to the young man whose features were strikingly reminiscent, but with a pleasant and gentle physiognomy, of those of a famous mask. The first of these was the one who was to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be the first to be of a man who was not a man of the world. He let the most haughtiest women, those who were about to consider themselves the prettiest or the wittiest, put themselves to the expense for him, either of brilliant toilet or of beautiful spirit, each one according to the means of seduction which suited her best. Thus, every evening in the fashionable salons, there was a real race to the bell tower between a learned marquise... who affected to speak to each ambassador the language of her country and a beautiful duchess [it seems to be the duchess de Guiche] who was then in Paris the type of the sovereign elegance. Between these ladies the bets were open and the chances seemed doubtful, Walewski taking care to share equally between them his discreet attentions...”

A cloud rises however on the horizon. Pozzo di Borgo, the Russian ambassador, a Corsican who had been in the service of the tsar, pursued with a Corsican hatred all that was Bonaparte. He asks for the extradition of Walewski, this "rebel, fugitive from the Russian Empire". By order of Charles X, who doesn't like Pozzo, Villele, on the eve of leaving the ministry, refuses it. Walewski could stay in France on condition that he avoided official circles and made himself forgotten.

Life is very pleasant in these last years of the Restoration. Lady Blessington has left us a pleasant picture of the society of the time. The manners are ceremonious and the young people surround the old women with delicate attentions, whether it is a flattering silence when the beautiful ones of the past are remembered or a lively eagerness to render them small services: handkerchief, bouquet or fan picked up, shawl placed on cold shoulders. France is the paradise of old women, especially if they are witty, England is the purgatory, says the Englishwoman without ambiguity. The amorous intrigues are discreet, hidden from the public, and those whose affair is best known affect the most reserved manners. Hypocrisy perhaps, but the Parisian world takes on an air of dignity and decency.

Once a week, the women of quality open their salons to a circle of intimates who meet like-minded people every evening in a friendly house. Small closed coteries, where strangers are not admitted. For them, balls, dinners and parties in full dress. For the regulars, the amiable negligence of the half-clothes and the free, unceremonial chat. “Yesterday I went to a small party at Madame de Jumilhac's [a sister of the Duke of Richelieu] where Walewski served as my introducer," said the Pole Andre Kosmian on November 7, 1829. “Without being rich, she received three times a week the flower of the Parisian world. Her small salon is only open to ten or twelve people at a time. It is very difficult to be admitted. I owed this favor to Walewski who is the gate child of these ladies."

Walewski likes this refined society as much as he likes it. He is linked with the due de Chartres. They are tall, one dark, the other blond, they look alike and for three winters they never leave each other. Walewski also met Thiers at Madame de Flahaut's house: their friendship will never be denied. He finally met Morny, the son of Flahaut and Queen Hortense. "They are both of distinguished and graceful manners, without support, gifted with an air as it should be which is in them as a native gift... "

Lady Blessington, a very good judge, noted in 1829: "The more I see Count Walewski, the more I like him. He has the spirit, intuition and perfect manners. I have always considered it a good sign for a young man to like the society of old people and Count Walewski marks the preference for men of age to be his father."

When the count d'Orsay and the due de Guiche create in 1828 the circle of the Union, Walewski joins one of the first. He found there many Englishmen, Lord Granville, the English ambassador who had married a sister of the Duke of Devonshire and whose son was to be a minister in 1852. Caradoc, the future opponent of Walewski in La Plata, Normanby. He also met Talleyrand... There is a lot of talk about horses, it is a passion of the time and also a fashion. The races begin to be very popular at the Champ-de-Mars and at the Bois de Boulogne. Walewski goes there with assiduity. He runs and plays...

“In the meantime, I attended horse races for the first time in my life," Kosmian said in November 1829. Unfortunately, they ended in a way that was unpleasant for Walewski, because Walewski was always doing crazy things, throwing money out of the window. In England and here in Paris, he lost at cards up to a hundred thousand francs. Having stopped on the slope, he no longer plays cards, but, which amounts to the same thing, he plays at the races. There is a very rich Englishman here, Lord Seymour [Milord l'Arsouille], who lives only for horses and for whom betting on races is a passion. He is the one who is constantly pestering poor Walewski. Last Saturday, they had only two, each on his own horse. Walewski rode an English racehorse; Seymour a hunting horse; but Walewski had to carry sixty pounds more! Everyone who knew anything about racing said in advance that Walewski was making a fool of himself and that he would lose. He wouldn't listen to anyone - and lost. The stake was five thousand francs. He has seventy-five thousand pounds of income; what a comfortable and pleasant life he could lead. Perfectly well seen in the world, universally loved... But one has to tell him the truth... he doesn't want to hear anything until now. It is a great pity because what a good and noble nature it is and of how much pleasure in society ... "

The year 1829 had been cheerful, the beginning of the year 1830 is not less. On February 9 a great masked ball was organized by Mrs. Alexandre de Girardin in the concert hall of the rue Taitbout. Mme. Alfred de Noailles intrigues during one hour Rodolphe Apponyi, the king of the cotillion leaders; on the other hand, he recognizes at first sight the princess of Lieven and both of them go in the box of Walewski so that they intrigue their turn.

Alexandre is twenty years old on May 4, 1830. He is a man. Will he continue to waste his life in frivolity, thinking only of the world, of women, of races, of gambling? Does he forget the hopes cherished by his mother, does he remember that his father wanted him to be a soldier? Will he, who is free, get bogged down in the pleasures of Paris like the Duke of Reichstadt, he who is a prisoner, in the soft life of Austria? Will the sons of Napoleon be only dandies?

Walewski was a calm observer of the Three Glorious Years, and the return of the tricolor flag, which his father had flown in Vienna, Berlin and Moscow, did not arouse any echo in him. Polish by mother, Polish by heart, Polish by nationality if not by language (1), only the tocsin of Warsaw is going to move him, to awaken him suddenly.

(1) Walewski was not fluent in Polish. Joseph Tanski tells that when he came to London in 1854 to talk to the ambassador about projects he did not wish to see revealed, he offered to speak Polish to Walewski, the valet being present in the room. The latter refused, admitting that he could not sustain the conversation.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Jane Eyre (1996): Under the Tender Tuscan Sun

(1983)

You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain

Anyone that knows me knows that when it comes to adaptations of my favorite stories, I'm rather fastidious re: accuracy, specially regarding themes, structure and characterization. I used to think of myself as someone that would never --the horror-- belong to the camp of those who love movies like Mansfield Park (1999) or Pride & Prejudice (2005); and even though I grew and matured and learned to appreciate what of good they have to offer, I said I'd never truly love a movie like that. Clown shoes noises.

The 1996 movie titled Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, directed by Franco Zeffirelli is, ironically, the less Brontë of all the adaptations of this novel I have watched. It is very much Franco Zeffirelli's Jane Eyre, and in that way it is a close relative of MP99 and P&P05; if MP99 is the portrait of how Patricia Rozema would write Austen's characters, and P&P05 is Austen's story through the emotional magic realism of Joe Wright's lens, JE96 is very much Zeffirelli taking this story and these characters and repainting them under the tender Sun of his Tuscan homeland.

And the thing is, I loved this movie. It touched me and it stayed with me after I watched it; it resonated with things I had in my heart. Below the cut, the good, the bad, and the interesting of Jane Eyre (1996).

The technical aspects

If anything, this is a very pretty movie to look at: the composition of shots and the sets are very nice; the costumes, while not particularly eye-catching, are very elegant and evocative of the 1840s lines. One shocking thing is how well lit this is. Had I not lived through the dark age of cinema around 2010, where it was impossible to see anything happening on the screen, I would complain about it, but, honestly, I want to actually see things in a movie, I don't care if the Moon looks more like a giant spotlight than a natural satelite. Besides, for a moody, gloomy, realistically lit Jane Eyre, we now have 2011!

I cannot say, for obvious reasons, what the color balance of the movie was when it was in cinemas, but it seems to me that the more recent the rendering, the more blue/magenta it is, which clashes with the warmer general tone of the adaptation. Compare footage from this, this, this, and this trailer with the screengrabs from the bluray below:

Besides making Rochester look like he's about to die from asphyxia, it gives interior shots a "fluorescent overhead lights" vibe that is not good.

On the other hand, the pacing of the movie is... irregular. The two first thirds of the movie go at a good pace in film terms, but then it takes a high speed train to the ending that may leave more than one dizzy.

The music for this production is distinctive and gorgeous; it's very simply structured around three main motifs: a journey motif (very clear in Infanzia di Jane, Viaggio di Jane), a love motif with a joyful (Tema di Helen, Matrimonio di Jane) and a wistful movement (Tema di Jane, Jane e Rochester), and a dark motif with a regret (Tema di Rochester, Ritorno a Thornfield) and a danger (Incendio a Thornfield, Inverno a Lowood) movement. The score moves seamlessly from poignant and reflective to sinister to hopeful, to innocent and pastoral and back again.

Locations

From top to bottom: Gateshead, Lowood, Thornfield.

Gateshead is a modern house, filled with comforts and luxuries, but ultimately cold. Lowood, in turn, presents a mixture of the coldness of its blue and green walls with warm wood beams and furniture: Lowood is both Mr. Brockelhurst and Miss Scatcherd but also Miss Temple and Helen Burns.

This was the first time Haddon Hall was used as a stand in for Thornfield (that I know of), location repeated in 2006 and 2011, and the portrayal of this house is one of the most interesting things to compare between adaptations. In this one, it is made old but approachable under the sunlight (we get to see geese and sheep around! Idillic!) and its generous garden; shady and bleak in its courtyard, upper galleries and library, warm and welcoming at its heart (drawing room, Mrs. Fairfax's parlor, Jane's room): a reflection of its master.

Jane at Gateshead

Fiona Shaw plays a perfectly nasty aunt Reed, and her children, while very little onscreen, do match her intensity (this is the moment you realize Fiona Shaw also played Aunt Petunia, and suddenly Harry Potter = Jane Eyre+LotR, but I digress). Mr. Brockelhurst is also properly cold and overzealous; but Anna Paquin as little Jane steals the screen. She's every bit the fiery creature with a strange, uncanny gaze that people like the Reeds would bully and mistreat.

This section is very short: we are shown Jane's mistreatment, given some exposition about her origin and family situation, and then she's promtly shipped off to Lowood, where the narrative will stay for almost twenty minutes.

Lowood: punishment and mercy

In the novel, three teachers stand out: Miss Temple, the kind headmistress; Miss Scatcherd, the choleric and arbitrary teacher; and madmoiselle Pierrot, the French teacher. While the latter is nowhere to be seen in Zeffirelli's version, the other two have switched places: Lowood is ruled with an iron fist by Brockelhurst and Scatcherd, while Miss Temple, from her subordinate position, feels for the girls and comforts them with words of kindness and encouragement.

In the novel, Miss Temple is an aspirational authority figure; in this movie she is first and foremost a warm motherly figure. In this tune is also that, I think, should be understood that Jane leaves Lowood and Miss Temple stays: Jane, Rochester and Adele have been left behind by their mothers, either by death or by choice. Miss Temple is the mother that stays and sees as the mission of her life to bring a ray of sunshine to the lives of the really or virtually orphaned girls of Lowood.

Miss Temple is not the only kind figure at Lowood: there's also Helen Burns.

While Brockelhurst embodies a punishing piety, Helen Burns embodies a merciful piety. In the book, this is shown through her strong belief in God as a caring father and her advice focused on Jane's happiness. In this movie, Helen's faith moves her to action: not only does she invite Jane to warm up in her bed and comforts her about her own passing -like in the book- but seeks out her company when she's new and mischaracterized as a liar, feeds her when she's hungry, and helps other girls get ready in the morning.

Helen's death scene is one of the most emotional points of the movie, and one that never fails to make me tear eyed.

By the end of Jane's time at Lowood, discipline has made her austere, but the affection of Helen and Miss Temple has imbued her passionate spirit with tenderness, and that's what she carries with her into her new life.

The Housekeeper of Thornfield Hall

Mrs Fairfax, with her air of Italian grandma is surprisingly close to her book counterpart in manners, heart and behavior, but unlike in the book, it's clear that she is in the know of everything. She is as much a keeper of Rochester's secrets as she is of his house. When Bertha's brother arrives and introduces himself as Mason from Jamaica, Mrs. Fairfax looks shaken: she knows exactly who he is.

This puts her character in a very conflicted position; it is clear that she cares a lot for both Rochester and Jane, she knows that they are well suited, but also that the attempted marriage will bring disaster, sooner or later.

Jane and Adele

Keeping with the theme of childhood, Adele is not just an excuse for Jane to be there, but a real character within the narrative. She is spoiled and not very bright, though very affectionate at heart, just like in the book, but stripped from coquetish and sensual aspects that Charlotte gives her.

"Will we be very happy?" Adele asks Jane when they first meet, and Jane replies "we shall work hard and be shall be content." We get to see Jane teach Math, piano, and drawing to Adele, with firmness, but at the same time indulging her just desires and petitions.

Rochester's rejection of Adele awakens Jane's passions as it reminds her of the rejection of those who should have loved her as a child; the Ingram party abusing governesses distresses Adele, who was until then so enthusiastic about seeing the beautiful ladies. During Jane's absence, the portrait she made of Rochester at Adele's request, to remember him by in case he left, becomes an element of connection by which the latter two remember her and grow closer to each other, signaling that Jane has brought a ray of tenderness to both their solitary lives.

Other side characters

John, Leah, Blanche, Mary Rivers are all well played in their small roles. Richard Mason is most likely too old for the part. St. John Rivers is cold and stiff and slightly sinister, but has ridiculously little screentime in this movie. Grace Poole is an alcoholic shell of a person, reflection of the thankless job she performs as a nurse.

The Shadows are as Important as the Light

Let's address the elephant in the room: William Hurt's Rochester and Charlotte Gainsbourg's Jane.

It certainly is true that Charlotte lacks the otherwordly air of Anna Paquin, but honestly... how common is that? I do think the character transition makes sense, as I have explained above, and though a softer transition would have been more welcome, the reality of cinema is that every second matters and sometimes important things are sacrificed.

Gainsbourg Jane is not naturally sweet or severe, and not only does she have true outbursts here and there (she even manages to retorically ask Rochester "How can you be so stupid?" which is... too much even XD), she also loves with all her heart. While the severity of Lowood has repressed her, the learned kindness has given her love the restraint that prevents from destroying or hurting the object of love: tenderness.

It has also given a similar kind of moderation to her sense of justice: instead of hitting back those who hit you, Jane is lead to stand by Helen's side when her hair is cut, which is both protest and solidarity with her friend. A similar theme follows her forgiveness of Mrs. Reed (though this one goes more on the lines of the set up and payoff of the original novel).

This is the core argument of Zeffirelli's take on the story: Brontë's novel is constantly contrasting ambition and passion, love and duty, fire and snow, head and heart. The idea that you need both, that the choice doesn't really have to be either Rochester or St. John is not particularly original (it is Aristotle's very notion of virtue as the golden mean) and neither is the idea that eros, the burning and possesive love, will consume and destroy the object of love if not balanced (That's Plato); the interesting part is how this message is woven within the story.

I understand why this choice is not very liked; it is a departure from some of the main notions and themes of the original story; it also diminishes greatly the pathos and catharsis of it, which is one of its main draws for the reader. I do love it, because I have always loved this kind of dynamic, but in this way I fully understand why others don't, and I think it is an extremely fair position, specially because in the way it is commentary, it is also betrayal of the source material.

The Orphan Master

Our first introduction to Rochester in this movie is by a contrast between his father's portrait --big, cold, against a classic black backdrop-- and his own: a young child with a clear landscape behind. Mrs. Fairfax's description calls the way Rochester was treated by his family "barbarous" and tells us he is not a happy man. Jane studies his portrait and smiles.

This introduction aligns Rochester with Jane and Adele: he was virtually an orphan, but unlike them, he had no Miss Temple, no Helen, no Jane growing up. Zeffirelli's Rochester is a man made old by lack of affection and restless wandering; a contrast with the novel, but not something you could call unrealistic: I'm 27 and find tiredness with life very relatable. He is also filled with self loathing: when he sees the portrait Jane has made of him, he says "you have me utterly" and crumples it. Only after she makes her comment about the shadows being as important as the light he recovers some of his humor. In keep with the theme of tenderness, Rochester is made far more polite and gentleman-like than his book counterpart. What I'm trying to say is that rather than being an unintended mistake, it is a deliberate choice, from script to direction, which also aims at making more consistent the latter part of the story.

That said, William Hurt's portrayal of this characterization is... mixed to say the least. In some scenes he delivers well (their first meeting, their second conversation, the one after the fire, the ending scene) and others it comes across as wooden or undecided (Jane's return from Gateshead, the first half of the proposal, or the painful "DON'T LEAVE ME, JANE").

Jane and Rochester

So, how do these characterizations work in their dynamic? Even though unlike 1983 there is a sense that the actors are playing off of each other and building a rapport, it is focused on a sense of mutual recognition and unlearning toxic traits and behaviors, whereas in the book it's their intellectual sparring and easy chemistry that makes the deal.

Even though it lacks the nocturnal surrounding of the novel, their first meeting is very, very close to the book: Jane reaches the road, hears the horse, sees the dog, they pass her and only then the horse falls (in this case, though, rather than a sheet of ice, it seems the cause is Rochester's double take on her, which I find funny); at first Rochester ignores Jane, and then rejects her help, but his interest is piqued when she insists (in the novel this is more about Jane being bored, while here it is squarely an act of kindness); he is distracted by her answers and then amused at her attempts at grabbing his horse (fun fact: this is the only adaptation I have seen that keeps this from the book: "The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed."); the meeting ends with a flirtatious advice to get home fast. This scene encapsulates the whole development of the romance on Rochester's side.

Their following conversations leading to the night of the fire have Rochester trying (and succeeding) to draw Jane out, while she is more and more attracted to his "shadows and light"; this section is the best part of their interactions in this movie.

In my review of 1983 I mentioned the "that stings your pride" line, as representative of the disconnection between that Rochester and that Jane. Here it is used very well to show us an understanding: Rochester praises Jane first, then asks "perhaps some master helped you?" this touches a tender spot on Jane, who stands up to answer almost indignantly "nobody helped me, sir." "Ah! that wounds your pride". Both Jane and the audience realize Rochester's intention here. He praises her again, there are some smiles, and Rochester rapidly changes to a more formal tone and dismisses her.

In the following scene, outdoors, Jane knows the tone of his "Do you find me handsome, miss Eyre?" question and gives her answer in the same playful tone. The scene also includes the "heart full of tender feelings" and "india rubber-flesh" lines, and adds a new element: Jane draws Rochester's portrait at Adele's request. This way we get to see Rochester through Jane's eyes.

Compare with Helen Burns' portrait scene, the only other portrait Jane draws in this movie. Same sunlight lights them up from behind as objects of love they both are; but unlike Helen, we only see half of Rochester's face. There's a side of him that remains hidden.

Then the fabricated "the shadows are as important as the light" line follows, and Rochester calls Jane to walk with him through a gallery, from light to shadow and back to light again; things will get worse before they get better.

The night of the fire, Rochester and Jane have a discussion: Adele dances for them, we see Rochester watching her from a corner like a chastised child. He sends her to bed, Jane overreacts and he angrily tells her the story of Celine. The shared experience of being unloved is the trigger here, and the exchange of kindness is the opposite trigger of their sudden intimacy in the following scene where Jane saves Rochester from the fire.

The symbolism added to the fire scene is that of the roses; in order to save Rochester, Jane has to throw away the roses (symbol of love) to put out the fire, and she gets hurt in the process (the roses had thorns). The tender feelings of Rochester are manifested in his tending to Jane's wounds (not that much india rubber after all).

This is the midpoint of the story, and from here onwards the movie gets progressively... not as good.

The Blanche Ingram plot is set up, Rochester, consistently kinder than his book counterpart, cuts himself the badmouthing of governesses, we see Jane suffering and her helping with Mason, but Rochester and Jane's conversation about Blanche is omitted. Clearly Zeffirelli has no idea what to do with this part of the plot, and the disinterest shows, except for a few nice touches here and there (a mirror scene I'll talk about later, Adele's distress about the situation, the symbolic representation of Jane's high moral ground and Rochester's tenderness). Rochester's intentions on sending Adele back to France are unclear, as is his playing with Jane's jealousy and his feelings upon her return.

What is clear is that Rochester fears Jane may not return; the orphan abandonment issues are highlighted, as is his loneliness in Jane's absence.

As I mentioned above, the return to Gateshead scene is very good.

The proposal scene is very good on a cinematic level, IMO, but very weak at the script level. As the Blanche tension has not being raised, the payoff here falls flat. The dialogue is deprived from some of its most iconic lines (it's my spirit that addresses your spirit, I'd make it as hard for you to leave me, etc), but Zeffirelli makes a beautiful use of the garden imagery and its biblical allusions (Genesis and Song of Songs; temptation and sensuality) from the book, and as the scene progresses Jane gets more "trapped" between Rochester and the greenery. The omens, like many other gothic elements of the story, is omitted.

We get Mrs. Fairfax's knowing warning, Jane's foreboding about the wedding is missing, and the morning of the wedding is a happy one, to the more contrasting effect with the failed nuptials. The latter is dramatic enough (the COME AND MEET GRACE POOLE'S PATIENT, MY WIFE needs to be there and needs to be dramatic, for me), Rochester is properly angry, Jane properly shocked and wounded. I'll talk about the Bertha scene later.

The taking leave scene is extremely short; against Rochester's confidence in the book, but in keeping with the abandonment theme, a scared Rochester says "I love you, say you love me". Jane has closed upon herself again, and gives a dignified answer "I love you more than ever, but this is the last time I shall ever say it. I must leave you." Rochester chases after her begging her not to leave him.

And here comes what I think is the biggest change/betrayal/commentary: Bertha takes the opportunity of the distraction to burn Jane's wedding dress and bed. In the midst of his chase, Rochester is called by some farmers that point him to the hall on fire. Rochester hesitates, but upon seeing Bertha on the roof, chooses to return and save her life. For Rochester to find redemption in the novel, he needs to have his hand and eye cut off in order for him to turn to God; in this version the failure of the wedding and Jane's departure are the moment of grace that allows him to do the right choice and perform a last act of tenderness and proof of his character: he honors his duties, no matter how they were contracted. Even after Bertha accidentally kills Grace, he still coaxes her gently to come with him, showing once more that he doesn't blame her for her illness. Bertha refuses him and jumps to her death; the stairs give in and Rochester falls as well screaming Jane's name.

Portraits and mirrors

Unlike other weaker symbolisms used in this movie (the ambiguous chess set that hints both Rochester's games and his loneliness but that becomes ridiculous when a blind Rochester has a board by his chair), portraits are consistently used to reveal character and signify affection (Jane's drawing of Helen and Rochester's, young!Rochester vs. old Rochester, and the ones of his uncle and father Jane receives as heirlooms) and mirrors to signify fear and anxiety.

From left to right and top to bottom: Jane stares at her image after learning of Blanche's existence; Mrs. Fairfax tells Rochester's backstory before Jane hears Bertha for the first time; Jane sees herself in the mirror as Bertha puts fire to Rochester's bed; Bertha attacks Mason; young Jane in the red room; Jane on her wedding day, only hint at her wedding anxieties in this adaptation.

Bertha is the other woman, the woman in the mirror, reflection of Jane's fears. When they finally meet we are struck by their resemblance: white skin, black hair, dressed in white. They recognize each other as women and as the other woman. This humanizes Bertha while still attempting to keep the danger factor of her presence as well. Like other adaptations, Bertha attacks Jane, her image, rather than Rochester, as in the book.

Jane and the Rivers

Because of Zeffirelli's focus on the theme of tenderness, St. John's character loses all sense of meaning and becomes a non entity. Consequently, Jane's time with the Rivers is breezed over in a painfully clumsy and awkward way. We first meet St. John as Gateshead's parson, and to the parsonage is that Jane turns in her flight. She inherits John Eyre's fortune (the one remarkable point here is the heirloom of the portraits), politely refuses St. John's proposal, while still providing for his missionary work and giving away some money for the girls at Lowood, that St. John will administer in her name.

Jane cannot forget, and so she goes to visit Helen Burns' grave, perhaps in a search for answers. She hears Rochester's call in the wind, and after St. John's proposal, self reflection leads her to take this as a sign to return to Thornfield; in both the Spanish and the Italian dubbing, words of Rochester from the proposal and the take-leaving scenes are heard, as Jane gazes through a window: "Jane... you strange, almost unearthly thing, I love you like my own flesh... I love you, say you love me... Jane... Jane...". this was, perhaps, considered too sappy for the English version, but it makes that subtext explicit.

Jane and Rochester reunited

So, if the second half of the movie was mostly unfocused and clumsy with little gems here and there, the ending I love to bits.

Jane finds a resigned and sad Rochester, sitting in what looks like the old stables of the house. It's a sunny, calm morning and the sun shines through arched windows. Rochester pleads with the vision of Jane not to leave him, in a sweet rather than desperate way. If before he towered over here, now she's the one to gaze down on him and kiss his forehead tenderly. If his physicality was guarded and distant before, now he receives her with arms and legs open. She kneels down to talk to him at his face level, even if he cannot see her. They are now equals. He raises to give the "I'm like an old chestnut tree" (a pity that the chestnut tree was not featured in the proposal) speech, and as she replies, she wraps her arms around him like the vines in the metaphor.

The very end closes with Jane's narration about their future, including a note about their adopting Adele and bringing her to live with them as a family.

Summary

Franco Zeffirelli takes Brontë's gothic story and makes a commentary movie, sunny, warm, tender, focused on the traumas of childhood and the way in which big and small acts of kindness bring healing. It is a light movie for people that vibe with that, either a snore fest or an absurd betrayal for those that cherish the pathos and conflict of the novel. The theme of tenderness gives us a restrained Jane and Rochester, while the latter is also kinder and more despondent than his book counterpart, yet still keeping elements of his gruffness and narcissistic insecurity.

Production values are excelent, and acting goes from inspired to mixed, being the latter part of the script the biggest weakness of the movie, and it's choice of themes and commentary, the most controversial.

[goldandbluesmiles]

In Shades

Summary: Damian paints his family.

Ao3:

Part of batfam flufftober2020

Damian had an art assignment. Paint a portrait of one person in your life and use only one colour and explain why you chose that one colour.

It was an interesting assignment and Damian could not choose just one person to paint. So, he painted everyone in his immediate family. He figured he could hand in the best one.

He asked Alfred to sit down first.

For Alfred, he chose the colour grey. Dull and able to blend in, a symbol of dignity and sophistication as much as it was a symbol of loss.

Alfred had taken care of them through their losses and their fears, through their triumphs and their victories. He had stood by them as they had fought each other and had stood by them as they had held each other. Always there always reliable.

Yes, grey it was for Alfred.

"I am honoured, Master Damian," said Alfred once he showed it to him. It was the only thing he said but it still made Damian feel warm.

The second person he sat down with was his father.

For his father, he chose the colour black. It seemed a bit cliche but it fit the man. Black stood for strength and mystery, for formality and elegance, but at the same time stood for aggression and authority, for death and darkness.

This one might not end up with the rest of his assignment for it would be hard to explain to a civilian how all these characteristics could fit the airhead billionaire Brucie Wayne. But Damian could not bring himself to draw his father in false colours. He would just have to hide this one away.

Once he was done with the portrait, he looked at the harsh lines and smiled. Yes, black definitely worked.

His father must have agreed with his observations because one look at the piece and he had laughed.

"Well, you certainly got me, Kiddo. But maybe not take this to school. Though, I would like to hang it in my study instead. Would that be alright with you?"

"Yes, Father," Damian had agreed.

Father had them given him a long and tight hug, softly whispering how proud he was.

It almost made Damian cry. Almost.

Dick sat down for next, a wide smile on his face.

Damian chose to paint his brother in bright greens. Green was the colour of growth, harmony and renewal. His brother had moved non from tragedy after tragedy and always found a way to make his world right again, not only for himself but for others too. The freshness of the colour captured the man's smile in full and made him seem wiser than his years, which in Damian's opinion was exactly what his brother was.

Damian knew this one would be his favourite.

When he showed Dick, he was gushed at his talent but had been confused about the colour choice. Unlike most of their other family, Dick had never had an interest in the visual arts, opting to express himself physically as Cassandra did.

Once he explained, Dick had gotten tears in his eyes. Damian had almost become alarmed but his brother had swooped him up in a hug and held him close, much as his father had.

"Thank you, Damian,"

"You're welcome, Richard," said Damian, though he did not know what the thank you was for.

Cassandra did not sit but chose to stand instead. Damian was quite alright with that.

He painted his sister in shades of purple. Purple was the colour of royals, elegance of a certain kind, and ambition. Violet was the colour of magic and dreams.

Cassandra smiled all the way through painting, holding her pose together. This painting took the longest as Damian knew that it would e important to paint her whole body instead of just painting her face.

Once he was done, Cassandra hugged him before she even saw the painting and then hugged him again after she was it.

"Good," she whispered, "You got me,"

"I'm glad you think so," he whispered back

After Cassandra came Jason. And the only reason he had agreed was that he was stuck on bed rest.

Damian drew him in shades of red, head bent over a book. Red was the colour of anger, danger and sacrifice. It was also the colour of love and passion, the colour of a fire that burned bright and a heart that beat for others. Jason was all that and more. He rose from the ashes like a phoenix and had devoted his life to his family and city. Sacrifice after sacrifice, all in the name of love for people he thought didn't even love him. He was wrong about that of course.

"The angry brother in red, huh?" said Jason once he saw it, voice showing just a fraction of the bitterness he was feeling.

Damina instantly refuted, "No, the passionate brother, and the loving one,"

Jason looked at him in surprise.

Damian continued, "You are too sacrificing for your own good, you are passionate about what you do and you love so much that overflows out in bursts,"

For a few moments, Jason watched him with his mouth open, and then ever so slowly, a smile spread across his face.

"You know," he murmured, "I think red could be your colour too,"

"Really?"

"Really,"

Tim was surprised at being asked, and really that made Damian feel just a little guilty. He was almost an adult now and quite ashamed about how he had acted all those years ago.

For Timothy, Damian chose blues. Blue represented the open sky and ocean, depth and stability. It stood for loyalty, faith, truth and confidence.

Over the years, Damian had watched his brother grow into his abilities and become sure of himself. He was a leader, a detective and a man loyal to his cause and family. Damian was proud to have him in his life, to call him family. Even if he never admitted it out loud.

He explained the meaning of the picture in a few words, the whole interaction being awkward in a nice way, both of them feeling a bit shy about it.

"Thanks, Dames," said Tim

Damian just shrugged in response.

It was enough.

Duke was the last sibling he asked to sit down.

He chose to present Duke in pink. Pink was intuitive, pink was tender, pink was kind. It was a positive colour that inspired warmth and appreciation. All of the things he felt for the second oldest in the family. Duke had a soft way about him that drew people out of their shell. He was a leader but not an authoritative one like Father or even Timothy. Instead, his leadership consisted of inspiring and lifting others.

"Pink? Isn't that a girl's colour,"

"While you are right that pink represents feminity in today's society, it is a more recent development, I chose to focus on other meanings of the colour,"

"Yeah? And those are?" Duke asked disbelievingly, but not unkindly

Once Damian was done explaining, Duke grinned and held out a fist for him to bump. Damian complied.

"Thanks, man," said Duke, bounding out of the room as if someone had filled him with unlimited energy.

Damian watched him go with a shake of his head.

Damian contemplated whether or not he should do anyone else, and in the end, asked Stephanie to sit for him too.

He painted Stephanie orange. The colour represented friendliness and enthusiasm, competitiveness and risk. It stood for raw instinct and free spirit, lead to the person feeling warm and at home. The colour of the autumn.

Stephanie was a friendly spirit and was somehow always present. She pushed forward when knocked down and fought to make her home. Her success came from her enthusiasm and competitiveness and her willingness to risk it all.

Stephanie gave him a grin and a big kiss on the cheek when he explained the colour.

"Ew, Brown! Stop!"

"Uhuh," she cried, "Yuu love meee! Now I knooow!"

"Oh god, you are such a child,"

The last person that sat for him was Barbara Gordon.

Damian chose to paint her in browns. Brown was the colour of reliability and support, of protection and security. It stood for everything genuine, honest and sincere. It was what came to mind when he thought of Barbara. The way she was always there, a voice in everyone's ear. The way she always spoke the truth, light and clear. She was a friend, she was dependable, someone that could be trusted and relied on unconditionally.

Oddly enough, like Alfred and Father, Barbara did not need an explanation for the colour. She merely smiled and nodded.

"You have a great eye," she told him, "I really love this. Thank you, Damian,"

"No, thank you, Barbara,"

xxx

After a long night of patrol, Damian was ready to fall into bed. However, before he could do that, he realized there was an envelope sitting on his pillow. He took it out and smiled.

There was a picture of him petting his animals, most likely taken by Timothy, and it was tinted yellow. Beneath it, were words written out in yellow glitter pen.

Sunshine. Happiness. Fun. Hope. Mind. Perception. Optimism. Creativity. Freshness. positivity.

Underneath was a paragraph written in his father's neat cursive writing, though he could tell the input had probably come from a few different sources.

'Yellow represents the heat of the sun and the loveliness of a smile, it evoked hope for the future and is linked with the optimistic. Yellow showed creativity, freshness and positivity. Damian, you are almost an adult now and have grown into someone who had learned to channel your creative side, look towards the future and smile, even if it is internally. You have a beautiful mind and your artistic perception of the world takes our breath away. Always stay you, Damian,. You are bright and wonderful,'

Wiping the happy tears that were making their way down his cheeks, Damian quickly took out his phone. He pulled up the group chat and wrote a short message, knowing it would get the sentiment across.

'Thank you. I will do my best,'

[owakoblack-portspa]

(Prumano, Spamano Fanfiction) My Last Romano

Disclaimer: this is Hetalia fanfiction. I do not own the characters.

Pairing: Prussia/ South Italy, Spain/ South Italy

Summary:  The time is 1718, during the War of the Spanish Succession. Lovino (South Italy) lives at Anotonio's (Spain) house, but his heart belongs to Gilbert (Prussia).

My Last Romano

 ‘Hola, Gilbert, my dear friend, what brings you here?’ Antonio smiled, sitting on a scarlet divan embroidered with golden flowers, a crimson uniform coat hanging loosely on his shoulders.

 ‘I heard that you were injured in a battle with England. As one of your best friends, I feel fully obliged to pay you a visit.’ Gilbert sank luxuriously into a sofa, stretching both of his arms along the top of the backrest.

 ‘Injured? Me?’ Antonio glanced at his left arm hidden under his uniform, which was heavily bandaged, and then resumed his smile, ‘do you mean this? It was a piece of cake. Never mind me. By the way, there’s a button missing in the front of your coat, have you noticed?’

 ‘What?’ Gilbert looked down to examine his ‘the more stitched the more battered’ coat, only to find out that what Antonio told him was true. ‘How about this?’ he unbuttoned all the buttons in one breath, ‘it’s not that conspicuous now!’

 ‘Bravo! It’s as if there were no button left at all! But then how can your coat withstand wind with all the holes in it? Don’t you feel cold?’

 ‘Never. I am a soldier, no coldness could defeat me, kesesesese!’ Gilbert drummed his own chest smugly.

 At this moment, the heavy gilded door of the magnificent Baroque drawing-room opened, and Lovino entered with an exquisite tea set in his hands. ‘Don’t tell me you’re so busy that you’ve no time to put on clothes properly, you Teutonic asshole.’ Pouting petulantly, he laid down a teacup in front of Gilbert, and turned around to lay another teacup for Antonio who was sitting opposite. ‘Stupid Tonio, if it were not that you had been beaten by the Englishman, and Laura had been gone, I would never have made tea for you of all things, vafanculo!’

 ‘Gracias, Romano mio is always so good to your Hermano Mayor!’ Antonio smiled from ear to ear.

 ‘You are always good to each other!’ Gilbert said enviously.

 A trace of discomfort appeared on Lovino’s young face. With or without purpose, he poured hot tea onto Gilbert’s clothes, leaving instantly an ugly brown stain on it. ‘Dammit!’

 ‘Oh no, Gilbert’s crap clothes is now totally damaged!’ Antonio said matter-of-factly, his emerald eyes simply wide-opened.

 ‘I don’t think a tiny water stain can damage my clothes! Don’t you think so, Fratello?’ Gilbert grinned at Lovino, who lowered down his little dark brown head listlessly.

 ‘Don’t worry! It’s totally fine with me!’ Gilbert tried to comfort the young boy with words.

 After a moment of silence, Lovino continued, ‘I happen to have some trash clothes that might suit you…’ He left the drawing-room, and then returned with a huge uniform coat which was obviously too large for himself.

 ‘Here you are. My work of failure might be unsightly, but it’s a million times better than your damn beggar’s clothes!’ Lovino threw the handmade coat to Gilbert.

 ‘Danke sehr, Fratello!’ Gilbert caught the coat with every bit of gratitude.

 ‘Romano, did you use our curtains to make this?’ Antonio was surprised.

 ‘No way!’ Lovino retorted.

 ‘You should have told your Hermano Mayor earlier, for I can give you money to buy as many clothes as you want! But I’m afraid curtain cloth is not fit for a uniform?’

 ‘Don’t you dare criticize my work, Tonio you idiot!’ Lovino stuck out his tongue.

 ‘I think it’s a piece of good work. I’ll put it on when I get home, kesesesese!’ It could not be too careful for Gilbert to fold up the uniform coat and put it into a sack.

 At night, after Gilbert had gone home, Antonio suddenly dragged Lovino into his own bedroom, closing the door with a loud bang.

 ‘You hurt me, dumb Tonio!’ Lovino said angrily, nursing the red imprint on his delicate wrist caused by the tight grip of the much stronger man.

 ‘What did you just say, my Romano?’ Antonio put on his wonted gentle smile, rolling up his sleeves while advancing slowly towards Lovino, whom was leaning to a gilded florid wall.

 ‘Don’t you get any closer to me, damn you!’ the young boy kept on moving and moving backward until he found himself caught up into a corner, and until the tall man’s long, dark shadow projected on the seemingly thirteen-year-old thin body.

 ‘What did you say? Big Brother didn’t hear you.’ Without any warning, Antonio slapped Lovino heavily in the face, causing the boy to fall down onto the floor.

 There was a burning pain in Lovino’s cheek, and a feat of dizziness came immediately over his head. ‘I said, you hurt me, God damn you, Antonio!’ He had no remaining strength to raise himself up and fight back the tyrant, but could only demonstrate his revolt by roaring—not without tears on his face which were the shameful result from irresistible pain and fear. His little body was trembling as uncontrollably as a thirteen-year-old boy could do.

 ‘Ay, why are you crying? My cute Romano,’ Antonio crouched down, and pretended to wipe tears away from Lovino’s pink, delicate face, only to leave obscure fingerprints on the tender skin, ‘do you know why I slapped you, Romano?’

 ‘Because you are a jealous bastard.’

 ‘It seems I shall teach you a lesson today, Romano. How dare you steal my money to buy cloth for Gilbert’s new uniform?’

 ‘Didn’t you say it was made of curtain cloth?’

 ‘Must I let him know how much heart and soul you’ve put into this uniform? To make him smug beyond himself? I give you a shelter from storm, make you lead a comfortable life without worrying food or clothing, and this is what you give me in return? If it had not been me, you would have been torn up in pieces by those great powers! You would never have a chance to stand against me!’

 ‘I don’t think my life has been any better. I should have submitted to France, instead of you!’

 ‘When half of your territory was conceded, your body was reduced to half of the size too, and France was not half interested in you any more! Of course, I am not a pedophilia either, so I have to wait patiently until you grow up again…but lo,’ the Spaniard held up the weeping Lovino’s pretty chin, and squeezed it with deliberate force, ‘you’re getting more and more beautiful! I could have waited for a longer time before the fruit is totally ripe, but perhaps a bitter sweet taste is not as bad?’

 ‘Don’t touch me, you’re absolutely a pedophilia, cazzo!’ Lovino spit at his suzerain.

 ‘Joder, chingate, Romano!’ Antonio seized Lovino, turned him around, and peeled off the boy’s girdle to tie his slim hands up.

 ‘Release me, you bastard!’ Lovino cried out with terror at the top of his voice, but nobody could help him in the depth of the night and in the depth of a prison—he had been Antonio’s prisoner for centuries.

 ‘Release you? to what degree? ah…let me see if you really are a wanton puto like they said in 1282.’

 The mentioning of the event made Lovino shudder. It had been his nightmare and the reason why he was unable to be with his faithful knight any more–he was no longer pure, no longer his Holy Virgin.

 ‘You still care about him?’ It was always easy for the Spaniard to read the South Italian’s mind, ‘fine, I will fuck you up and mar you until you’ll never think about seeing him ever again, ever.’ He brought from a cabinet a crop to the wincing and whimpering Italian boy, and stripped off the white gauze shirt to reveal the youth’s badly bruised back.

 On the second day, Gilbert put on the brand-new Prussian-blue uniform he had received from Lovino, and strutted all along the way to the magnificent Palacio Real.

 On the walls of the second floor above the grand hall, there were dozens of huge paintings, almost all of them painted by famous artists, except one painting, which was placed between Caravaggio’s John the Baptist and a mahogany window, and this painting caught Gilbert’s attention:

 In the picture was a youth with stunning beauty. He was barely thirteen of age, his short charcoal hair shiny and curly, his huge lime green eyes bright and innocent, and his rosy cheeks slightly puffed up—his expression was so adorable that even the meanest man in the world could not resist from giving him a caress. Beneath his exquisite reedlike neck was a chartreuse embroidered frock coat, which met the colour of the young boy’s eyes; and the dainty buttons were made of sapphires. It seemed as if only a prosperous, loving family could have brought up such an elegant, unstained angel.

 As Gilbert was completely lost in this portrait, Antonio emerged without a sound from his behind.

 ‘Isn’t it marvellous? This painting is entitled My Last Romano.’

 ‘Last?’ Gilbert asked, surprised.

 ‘Exactly. There used to be Tim’s and Laura’s portraits hanging over there,’ Antonio pointed to the empty wall on the other side of the window, ‘but after they have moved out, Romano becomes my sole companion.’

 ‘Natürlich, natürlich.’

 ‘I will never let anyone else have him, because I love him.’ The Spaniard smiled brightly, and drew down the curtains to conceal Lovino’s portrait from the dazzling sunlight outside.

[xpedropascal]

To Be So Lonely [Maxwell Lord x Reader] Part One

Summary: After being struck by a family tragedy, Maxwell Lord finds his legacy in taking over his father’s business, Black Gold Cooperative. Cold and shut-off from the world around him, he decides he does not have time for anything other than his work and cares only about pushing his company to success – but how difficult does that become for him when you enter his life as a ghost from the past?

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

WARNINGS: mention of financial instability, absent parents, emotional abuse

PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE // PART FOUR [coming soon!]

MASTERLIST

KO-FI

AUTHOR’S NOTE: my first ever fan-fiction! please be kind :) flashbacks can be identified through use of italics. To Be So Lonely will have themes of hurt/comfort, angst, fluff etc. i plan on it being an exciting ride. there will be connections to the DCEU and certain characters will be making an appearance... however, for story-telling purposes, this will be in an alternate universe to Wonder Woman 1984 just because the movie has yet to be released. the main bulk of the story will be set in the 80s, with the occasional childhood flashback. please let me know if you want to be added onto a tag list!

♡ ♡ ♡ ONE ♡ ♡ ♡

Stepping foot into the lobby of Lord Manor had you in awe. Their family home was huge, and certainly unlike anything you had ever seen before. Even at your tender age, you were mesmerised by the glistening marble floor and gold décor. It enchanted you. Curiosity filled you and you unlaced your fingers from your mother’s and found yourself drawn to a vase of crimson red roses to the left of the staircase, rubbing at the soft petals. You clambered up the main staircase. It was enormous, but you were so taken in by the traditional oil paintings that covered the walls. They were everywhere but you could still make out the elegant wallpaper that looked as though it had come straight out of the 1800’s. One painting in particular, located at the top of the staircase, stole your attention. It was, perhaps, ten times the size of you and looked almost haunting. Even at your young age, you were able to identify it as a family portrait. It pictured a tall man in a suit with broad shoulders holding a cigar in one hand. His free hand was wrapped around one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Very Marilyn Monroe-esque, with pearls around her neck and, blonde curly hair, she looked like she came straight out of a silver-screen movie. But what attracted you most about the painting, was the young boy, suited up in the centre. He looked like a prince- with dark blonde hair and a smile that could light up a room. You reached out your small fingers and touched the boy’s face, feeling the dry paint hard against your skin.

You jumped as your mother hissed your name. She ran up the stairs and scolded you gently for running off. She picked you up in her arms and smoothed down your hair. “Remember you must be on your best behaviour for Mr and Mrs Lord. We need to set a really good first impression.” Your mother informed you and you nodded your head obediently in response.

“Well well well,” your mother spun her heel around to see Naomi Lord standing at the bottom of the carpeted staircase, her ice blue eyes locked on to you both. You recognised her as the beautiful lady from the oil painting. “It seems you have already made yourself comfortable in my family home.”

“My apologies, Mrs Lord,” your mother said frantically as she carefully made her way down the grand staircase, still holding you in her arms. “Uhm- this is my daughter-“

Your mother attempted to introduce you but Mrs Lord raised her hand, cutting her off. “My husband Maxwell Lord III will not be joining us this evening. As you can imagine, he is swarmed with work.” The way Naomi Lord suddenly changed the subject proved that she simply did not care. In fact, it was well-known that Naomi Lord did not involve herself with anyone who she felt like were less than her. Less wealthy, less privileged- she certainly wanted no involvement with you and your mother. Your mother had left her minimum wage job and had travelled all the way from your tiny one bedroom box apartment in Gotham for this job opportunity. “Nevertheless, we have decided to offer you the job, assuming you are willing to take it.”

You felt your mother’s grip tighten around you as you sensed her excitement. “Yes! Yes of course Mrs Lord. I would be honoured.”

Mrs Lord’s lips curved into a devlish smile. “The hours will be those of a nine-to-five. I’m assuming you have a place of residence nearby?”

Your mother faltered. “Uhm,” you watched Mrs Lord’s smirk fall from her face. “Actually no… I travelled here from Gotham and booked into a motel for a few nights.” Naomi Lord probably didn’t even realise her own face was twisting at the thought of an ashy motel, but she made her disgust incredibly evident. “And actually… I can’t afford to take my child to a nursery, or hire a babysitter, and we don’t yet have proper home. I mean, I can’t leave my little girl in the motel all alone. I know I should’ve thought about it more but, we really don’t have much, Mrs Lord. Would it be possible, if, during my working hours, she could occupy herself here? She is well behaved, I promise, and won’t get in the way of you or your husband-“

“You will address my husband as Mr Lord,” Naomi snapped. “I will speak to Maxwell about this… inconvenience of yours, and we will have someone give you a call regarding the outcome. You are excused to leave now.”

Your mother found herself nodding. “It was so lovely to meet you Mrs Lord.”

Naomi chuckled. “Toodles.”

♡

“She will glady take the job Maxwell,” Naomi perched herself on the corner of her husband, Maxwell Lord III’s,  home office desk. Her blonde hair balanced on her shoulders in tight curls and her ruby red lips shimmered under the amber light. “But I have been made aware that she is a single mother, struggling financially. If she is to work here all day, she has nobody to watch over her daughter. Can’t even afford basic level childcare.”

Maxwell Lord III hesitated, fumbling with his gold fountain pen. “Her daughter is… how old?”

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Lord admitted with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. “I’d estimate a few years younger than our Max.”

Mr Lord looked over at the framed photo of his twelve year old son. Their son, Maxwell Lord IV, was a cheerful young boy. Privately educated, of course, but always achieved the best grades. He was sociable too, always making an appearance at his parent’s parties and events. Still only a child, his father’s business partners were smitten with Maxwell Lord IV, and while Mr Lord didn’t have the closest relationship with his son, he loved him dearly. Max admired his father, and wanted to be just like him when he grew up. His father was the CEO of Black Gold Cooperative, the Lord family business, and what would inevitably go on to be Max’s legacy. His father had a heart of gold, and even his employees would agree that he was a joy to work for. But unfortunately, being the CEO of the empire that was Black Gold Cooperative meant Mr Lord had very little, if not any time to be with his son. Nevertheless, Max loved his father unconditionally, and did not know any different. Despite being sociable, Max was a lonesome child, not having any friends, other than the cooks, cleaners and butlers who seemed to come and go as they pleased.

“We will have Mary-Angela clear out the guest house before she leaves on Monday.” Mr Lord said matter of factly, deciding he had come to a suitable conclusion.

“Wait,” Mrs Lord replied, knotting her eyebrows together in confusion. “You’re not seriously suggesting-“

“That Ms Y/L/N and her daughter are welcome to stay here? Yes.” Mr Lord finished his wife’s sentence. “I know it might seem a little strange but actually it’s quite common… I mean look at Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne of Gotham. When they had Alfred Pennyworth move in it served as good publicity for Wayne Enterprises. They were seen as caring and relatable. Please darling, we can provide them with financial aid. It is the right thing to do.”

Mrs Lord stood up abruptly, twisting her face. “We are not a charity, Maxwell.” Mrs Lord snarled. “We are the Lord family-“

Mr Lord shook his head, beginning to feel frustrated at his wife’s selfishness. “Family? Really? When was the last time you attended one of Max’s piano performances or took him to the dancing class he has so desperately been wishing to attend?” Maxwell Lord III may have been a kind man but it was his wife who was almost always on the receiving end of his short temper.

Mrs Lord rolled her eyes before walking straight out of her husband’s office. Yes, the Lord family needed a maid, and your mother was the perfect candidate – but Mrs Lord was not willing to associate with locals. Mrs Lord’s heels clicked against the marble floor, and she walked straight past her twelve year old son who had been listening in on his parent’s conversation. Twelve-year-old Max felt tears well in his eyes. He hated hearing his parents fight, and now, it was happening more than ever. Max closed his eyes and sunk against the wall, sobbing quietly.

♡

Of course, your mother was granted the job. The Lord family guest house would be your new home for the next four years. Despite it only being a guest house, it was so much bigger than your boxed Gotham apartment and it was decorated beautifully, much like the interior of Lord Manor. Little did you know that the next four years would be a blessing in disguise.

In his spare time, Maxwell Lord IV would play piano or read works of fiction. He didn’t really have a normal childhood, or learn what fun was, until he met you. The day he made your acquaintance was the day you moved in. Hearing you scream interrupted him from studying literature. He heard you scream again, but this time you were louder and more distressed. On instinct, he managed to find his feet and hurried to the bay window of his bedroom, only to see you running around in a floral dress, continuing to scream. Maxwell spent no time watching you and ran as fast as he could to where you were in the garden between his home and the guest house.

“Are you okay?” he shouted after you. You gasped when you heard his voice and spun around to see the boy from the oil painting. And he was so handsome.

“Oh, my prince!” You gasped, swinging your arms around Maxwell who had once again froze up. “Quick, help me slay this dragon!” Maxwell watched you point at… absolutely nothing. He hesitated for a few seconds and you started to run around, screaming again and play fighting the air. This act you were playing out reminded him of one of his favourite novels, and in that moment, Maxwell knew what he had to do. He pretended to pull out a sword.

“Don’t worry my princess, I’ll protect you!” Maxwell shouted. You watched the boy play fight the imaginary dragon in awe.

Once Maxwell had decided that he defeated the dragon, he stood there, breathless but proud. You sneaked up from behind and planted a kiss on Maxwell’s cheek.

“You’re my hero.”

[yeoldontknow]

Sheltered Hearts: 3

Author’s Note: i am slightly late with this update, but its still his birthday in my time zone so happy birthday yoongs <3 its been a very long time since ive been in this universe, but i admit it was A LOT of fun being back. this chapter is dedicated to @iq-biased​ who has been the most engaged and encouraging reader, and this story’s biggest advocate. i love u <3  Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (oc; female) Genre: enemies to lovers au; vet au; romance; fluff; angst Rating (this chapter): PG-13 Warnings: light swearing; medical talk; depictions of surgery on a dog (these are not graphic); depictions of blood; depictions of exposed bone (again, not graphic); yoongi being a big softie but trying to be tough about it; reader is too proud to admit she has a crush; big science brains Word Count: 7.2K

masterlist

Dr. Kern agrees to meet you at his medical lab two hours north, replying to your initial request email with an expediency that both is both surprising and reassuring. With his confirmation of interest, Dr. Hague approves the journey, handing you a thumb drive containing Casper’s CT, MRI, and X-Ray scans and affirmations of optimism. 

Poised and graceful, Yoongi leans against his desk and watches this exchange with an expression you find uncharacteristically warm. A small smile plays at his cheeks, gaze focused intently on your hand you pocket the drive, neither supportive nor encouraging merely interested, his eyes twinkling with a hidden mischief married with unbridled fascination. 

The arresting combination of these things transforms him, breath halting in your throat as it is caught off guard by his sudden shift into someone boyish, sweet, and young. Blinking, you wait for the vision to dissipate, but his smile remains, his focus is unwavering, and the swell of his cheeks almost too youthful for the terse man you know him to be. 

Something about his gaze feels too interested, too curious, and you find yourself starting to bristle, all at once vulnerable and exposed. You always knew he burned with great intensity, his steadfast attention penetrative, rooting around in you, though not altogether combative. In this brief moment of silence, you realize he is learning you, seeing you, and you think, perhaps, this is the first time you have truly been witnessed. 

‘I’ll go with you to meet him,’ he resolutely declares, arms crossed over his chest in casual nonchalance. 

With this sudden announcement, Yoongi breaks the spell he cast of his own accord, the low rumble of his voice wiping away the embers of passion you saw in him. His lips crease back into the impartial emptiness he usually wears, corners of his mouth always threatening to turn downward into a frown. Bewildered, you wonder which of these dichotomous versions is the real Yoongi, which shell takes work to push and hide away. 

Dr. Hague hums in approval, nodding his encouragement. Gaze shifting between both their placid, understanding stares, witnessing their silent conversation, the first tendrils of exasperation floods your synapses. Hands at your sides, you wait for the frustration you normally feel to follow suit, but it never comes. You wait and wait, expecting a snide remark from Yoongi or expecting your chest to boil with the threat of being challenged, but all you can manage is a tepid pool of annoyance, twisting your usual fervor for independence into a tired exclamation of impatience. 

‘Why?’ you toss with a roll of your eyes, grabbing your things before exiting the office. ‘You don’t think I can handle dropping off some stem cells and scans?’

A bemused chuckle follows behind you, Yoongi pushing himself from the desk to trail behind, hot on your heels. The easiness of his amusement bores through you, sees beyond your pretense of anger, and, even without looking, you know he pleased.

‘I already told you,’ he explains with a click of his tongue. ‘Knowing a biomedical engineer is impressive.’ Pausing briefly, he collects his thoughts for the timing and you cock an eyebrow, not bothering to face him. ‘And I’ll be damned if you’re the only one who gets to be impressive around here.’ 

‘I swear -’ you begin, turning abruptly to cast him a glare you know will be nothing like the withering heat you wish it would be, but you find yourself cut off.

Yoongi winks at you, almost friendly, silencing you with this sudden affable nature as he walks past, a grin tugging at his lips.

The drive up the lab is mostly quiet, though not altogether tense. 

He’d offered to take his car, citing comfortable seats and better mileage, though even in the way he phrased it you could sense there was an ulterior motive. Nonetheless, you agreed, glad to not have to drive the two hours there and back again. 

Now, sitting in the front passenger seat, you realize his sole purpose for this offer was the music. Phone pressed into the console, a playlist of his own creation floods the speakers, songs you’d never heard before across multiple genres that ease him into the seat as he drives. So, too, do CD’s litter the car, pressed into side compartments and holders latched onto both sun visors strain to contain the numbers he has forced into their pockets. Surrounded by music, he appears an entirely different creature, elegant, serene, and utterly peaceful, you find no trace of his usual incisive attitude. 

The sudden inclusion into what would normally be considered a private space makes your palms feel clammy, uncertain how to rationalize the man you know with the details you find. Fast food wrappers are crumbled into a plastic, makeshift garbage back at your feet; a tiny, framed portrait of a kitten dangles from the rearview mirror rather than an air freshener; the seats of his car a deep, tan leather rather than the black you would have assumed he’d select. In his car, you find you know even less about him than you thought you did, all your assumptions and expectations molding together to place a slight throb at your temple. 

Beside you, Yoongi seems unaware of your struggle. If anything, it appears he doesn’t even notice you at all, relaxed into his seat as his hands grip the wheel with a tenderness you’ve only seen reserved for an animal. The morning sun changes the shadows and colours that usually settle on his skin, carving a dignified symmetry into the line of his jaw. If he feels the touch of your eyes against his features, he does not let on, allowing you to scrutinize the proportions of his cheeks, his lips, his ears - his regal profile turning your mouth dry. 

His eyes remain trained on the road with a stoicism you find blissful. Strands of his hair, pale blonde and taking on the myriad of shades contained within the sun, fall into his eyes, which he does not both to move. Messy, and soft, and entirely, woefully, human. In this comfortable silence, you admit that he is beautiful - beautiful, and flawed, and unashamed of the mess he makes, more alive than you have ever seen him.

Tearing your gaze away, you study the passing trees and cloudless morning, doing your best to remember when or why you decided he was someone cruel, someone who surrounds himself in negativity. With you, he has always been stern, detached at best, yet never deliberately mean, and your stomach drops at the realization he has done little more than wound your pride. For months, you’d been running circles around one another, your remarks simply a retaliation for his blithe announcement of assumptions you both knew were true.

 From the start, he saw through the heart of you, and you wonder when you had ever chosen to let him in.

When he pulls up to the lab, adrenaline floods your body. Here, even in the parking lot, you can feel the looming presence of purpose, potential, power. You are unashamed of the excited way you scramble out of the car, stretching briefly before slinging your bag over your shoulder and taking hurried steps towards the door. You don’t make it far, ears catching quickly that it is only your steps, your feet pressing against the uneven gravel, and so you look back, concerned.

Yoongi stares at the building with childlike apprehension, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, suddenly appearing impossibly, endearingly small.

‘What’s wrong?’ The question is sincere, and you don’t bother hiding the concern in your voice.

Unmoved, he continues to regard the dark windows and limestone front, the awning detailing only a number in an effort to remain anonymous. 

‘He agreed to see the scans,’ he announces, voice loud enough to carry but soft enough to give away his uncertainty. ‘There’s still a chance he might not help Casper. He just might not be able to’

As he finishes speaking, his eyes find yours, the care and the doubt you find catching you off guard. Looking at him now, you realize he likely hasn’t slept, bags puffing beneath his eyes, and his pout sheepish.  Nothing in his gentle wording exists to pull apart your ideas, to put blocks, to make things difficult. In him, you sense the fear, the worry. Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you watch the way he clenches his jaw, lips thin as he chews the inside of his cheek. Suddenly overwhelmed by his unspoken affection, you allow yourself to soften for him, if only because you know he cares just as much as you.

‘But,’ you counter, ‘there’s a very real possibility he can. And that’s what we have to hold onto.’ 

 Yoongi’s gaze hardens, resolute as he nods, lips forming into a small smile of gratitude.

It’s the most you’ve ever seen him give over into kindness, and the first time he has ever relied on you for anything beyond a chart or a schedule reference. Briskly, he walks past you, pulling open the door and holding it for you, expectant. Swallowing thickly, you hurry towards the entrance, mind fuzzy with too many incoherent and inconsistent emotions. 

Dr. Kern comes to greet you only a few minutes after the receptionist notifies of him of your arrival, his handshake strong and welcoming. He leads you towards his office, a small space littered with papers, charts, models of bone structures, two oversized prints of the periodic table framed on his wall between his degree credentials. 

‘Thank you so much for meeting with us at such short notice,’ you offer, taking a seat in front of his desk. 

‘No problem,’ he says, congenially. ‘For me, this case is highly intriguing.’

Yoongi clears his throat, taking the seat beside you with careful movements. ‘I’m hoping I don’t sound...ungrateful, but may I ask why you agreed to help?’ he questions gently, hands running over the arms of the seat, over and over. ‘Do you work in veterinary science? I’m sorry if that comes across badly, I just have never met a biomedical engineer.’

Dr. Kern nods in understanding. ‘It’s alright. I imagine it’s surprising that I’d want to investigate an animal case.’ Reaching into his desk, he pulls out two files, sliding one to you and one to Yoongi. ‘When 3D printing first became reasonably affordable and partially available to the public, I saw limitless potential. I’ve spent a significant amount of time working in labs across the country throughout my career, and I can think of hundreds of cases where printing like this could have potentially saved lives.’ 

He pauses, giving you the opportunity to read through the file. Everything pertaining to his lab, the printing, the technology, the materials they use is included. Most importantly, right at the start, is a mission statement focused on ingenuity in the effort of maintaining quality of human life.

‘I started and funded this lab with my own money,’ he continues, leaning back in his tall leather chair and folding his hands. ‘It’s important, I think, to welcome a new era for medicine. Doing so means you welcome a new era for hope.’

Eyes still scanning the pages, you’re aware you’ve taken on a wistful, altogether too hopeful expression. In medicine, hope is necessary, but it cannot be your crutch, the elation of such a feeling allowing carelessness and ego sink in, creating delusions of grandeur. But here, now, you let it wash over you, unwilling to let it stop. 

‘There’s something cosmically magical about that power, isn’t it?’ you muse, hoping to share in this enthusiasm with him. ‘To choose the paradigm you want to shift.’ 

From the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi look up from the file, eyes taking their time as they pierce you. Keeping still, you train your focus on Dr. Kern, fingers pressing deeply into the file in your lap, hopeful he does not notice. Even as your vision blurs, eyes losing hold of the world around you, you feel him. You are starting to think you will always feel him.

Dr. Kern laughs, the sound jovial and forcing you back to reality. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing I like to hear. That kind of drive, it was all over your email.’ Sitting up, he moves his mouse to wake his computer, glancing at you over his thickly rimmed glasses. ‘Now, show me these scans.’

He uploads the files from the thumb drive with a furrowed brow, lips pursed as you sit back in your seat, doing your best not to jitter your legs. In your peripheral, Yoogi appears just as tense and still, gnawing at the inside of his cheek once again. The silence consumes you, the kind that presses roughly at your spine and makes you wish for sound, the tick of a clock, the drip of a fountain. Eager, you break the silence with information you imagine will be pertinent.

‘As you saw in my email,’ you announce, leaning forward in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the screen, ‘there have been several studies where prosthetics like this have been made, the most recent being in the UK. There is precedent...’ your words drift, fading away and mildly disheartened by the lack of change in his expression. ‘Sorry, I’m just excited.’

At this, Dr. Kern breaks, an humming in consideration though he does not take his eyes off the 3D scans, moving his mouse slightly as he rotates them. ‘It’s alright. I’d be concerned if you weren’t.’

‘I’ve taken stem cell samples, as well,’ you add, ‘so new bone could possibly fuse together around the implant.’

His eyes move to yours, brows raised in pleasant surprise. ‘That’s very forward thinking of you.’ 

Beside you, Yoongi coughs gently, interjecting as politely as he can. ‘I admit,’ he begins, evenly, using a voice you’ve never heard him use. It’s soft, demure, and almost hopeful. ‘I feel a little out of my depth. After we took these scans, our conversation swiftly went from orthopedics into neuroscience and regenerative medicine. Having this technology…’ He falls quiet, slightly mystified. ‘The ability to reinvent and redefine the borders between disciplines is both overwhelming and inspiring.’

You study him, chest suddenly tight at his heartfelt compliment. He offers it with ease, as though he’s used to handling sweet words in his mouth, a slight blush creeping up his neck and ears, aware that he has humbled himself and unashamed of doing so. How easily he strips himself of pride, admits there is more for him to learn. How easily he makes himself small in front of you. This was not something you were prepared for, his presence looming against yours as it seeks connection, a bond, heated enough for him to feel him all over you. Like this, he towers over you, lacing his emotions with yours, and you, unhinged, allow him all the way in if only for this shared moment. 

‘I like you kids,’ Dr. Kern states plainly, his gaze moving between your awed expression and Yoongi’s soft flush of humility. ‘I knew I made the right choice offering to help.’ Leaning back in his chair, he lifts his hand from the mouse and waves you both forward. ‘Come take a look at this.’ 

Without hesitation, you and Yoongi leave your seats with care, your fists clenching and unclenching in an effort to suppress the trembling in your fingers. This, you think, is how it feels to stand on the precipice of innovation, teetering over the edge into the unknown, and while you don’t feel quite ready for the totality of it, you feel as though you are glimpsing images of a future you have claimed as rightfully yours. Yoongi steadies you slightly as he joins you in rounding the desk, his hand resting lightly against your shoulder, both of you unstable on your feet.

And when you see him, see the way his eyes are wild and alight, you suddenly feel as though you are looking into a mirror, confronted by the missing pieces of yourself that bring you balance. But, in an instant, the moment he latches his eyes to the computer screen and you, turning to see what he sees, feel the sentiment dissipate, both of you falling back into your usual routine, hungry for understanding.

‘The goal here is the marriage of biomechanics and biology.’ Dr. Kern moves the scans with careful precision. ‘The plans you sent to me for the surgery include cutting from here to here,’ he says, gesturing to the length from the cubital bone to the carpus. ‘What you’re leaving behind is this section.’ Dragging his mouse over the length of the radius, he hums in consideration. ‘Effectively, what you’re asking me to do is create a bridge where dead bone would be, hoping that there’d be enough space left for you to drill the piece in without bridging across the wrist. In a sense, we need a piece of scaffolding that leaves space, so the stem cells can recognize the rest of the bone as their own.’

It’s something you had talked about in your initial discussion, you and Yoogni and Dr. Hague glancing worriedly at one another, doing your best not to sound excited. Hearing it now, laid out by the engineer who must build it, you suddenly think something like this would be terribly difficult, to tall of an order in such a short amount of time.

‘Can you do it?’

Yoongi asks the question on your mind with an urgency you find endearing. His insistent tone brings you comfort, no longer feeling quite so alone in your worry.

Dr. Kern nods, unblinking as he regards the screen. ‘I believe I can. The scans you provided are detailed and thorough, and I should be able to design something that will get within a fraction of a hair’s length to fit in the leg.’ Still, though, he sighs, looking over his shoulder momentarily to offer you both a clouded expression. ‘The concerns I have, however, are severe. There is a risk of failure to incorporate, mechanical failure, infection, or implant breakage. The size of the gap you want to create is large, and this area of the leg is subject to high stress due to motion.’ 

‘But you’ll try?’ Yoongi presses, insisting he provide you both receive a real, concrete answer.

‘Like I said, I believe I can try.’ Dr. Kern turns in his chair to face you, a smile playing at his lips. ‘And I do want to try.’

Yoongi glances at you, exchanging a moment of relief and unbridled joy. All at once, you fear he becomes the sun, blinding and incandescent. Biting your lip, you look away, heat overtaking your chest as your heart begins to race.

‘Will you be using carbon?’ Your words are rushed, an abrupt distraction to change the subject and redirect the rush of blood you feel beneath your cheeks.

‘No, in living material it’s always safest to use titanium,’ he explains. ‘We can easily print with that here, though it will take some time to get the measurements and prototypes correct. You mentioned this dog is a cancer patient.’ At this, a darkened cloud seems to overtake the room, the word itself an omen as you all share a frown, the kind of thin lipped grimace you give to someone when you are preparing to share bad news. ‘I am not an oncologist, and so I don’t know how severe this cancer is.’

Nodding, Yoongi swallows thickly, building himself into the austere, authoritative presence you are familiar with. ‘The scans we took show the cancer hasn’t spread to the chest or lungs, though it is aggressive. The cells were taken from the hip, which was clean. I’m confident cells should be able to produce the normal matrix that would realign with the bone.’ 

Blinking, your lips part slightly, the confidence in his tone a thunder roll that moves over your skin. You’ve never heard him speak this way, not to you, not as a scientist. Eyes narrowed, he stands taller, a rod of iron in his spine that makes him appear not unlike a god. 

‘Though,’ he continues, ‘we cannot be sure of the current spread along the lung. At best,’ he adds, gravely, ‘we have about seven weeks before we’d need to urgently consider alternatives.’

Dr. Kern nods, turning back to his computer and opening a rendering program. ‘I can get this done in about five or six, though I’d need to start today.’ Turning back to face you both, he offers you a kind, supportive smile. ‘But you’ve got me on board.’

Overwhelmed, you release a sigh of relief, one that makes you press the back of your hand to your mouth in embarrassment. Yoongi chuckles, extending his hand to Dr. Kern in thanks, and you watch as they share a moment that makes them appear more as colleagues than you have ever felt around either of them. 

Rising to a stand, Dr. Kern places his hands on your shoulders, offering a reassuring squeeze. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ he states. ‘We do these kinds of surgeries on people all the time. It’s only fair animals are given the same shot at quality of life.’ 

‘Thank you,’ you murmur, blood rushing with a sense of vindication and validation, the first real success you’ve had in months.

Yoongi drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the way back, far more talkative and making more noise than he had in the morning. Like you, he rides the high of this exhilaration with poorly contained energy, the full brilliance of his smile eclipsing the sun. Every now and then, he turns to look at you, to ensure you’re just as wired as he feels, irises wild and body hyperaware. For you, this new version of him is simply another layer, another shadow you must contend with, having witnessed so much of him in one day. 

Looking at him now, you cannot help but return his enthusiasm, seemingly welcomed wholeheartedly into the radiance that exudes from beneath his skin. His smile, his true smile, you learn, is gummy, eyes squinting with delight as he softens the light from the afternoon sun. The commonality of this experience, of the way you processed and handled the weight of worry, and the power of victory, binds you both, something that is nurtured and born to exist within the boundaries of his car alone. This morning, it was a quiet heaven; now, he brings the noise, the tidal waves of change that come from work, understanding, and commitment - things that apply to Casper as much as they would apply to a lover.

Looking at him now, you cannot help but feel awed.

Running your palms over the fabric of your pants, you glance back towards the road, back to the trees and the distant lake that shimmers as you pass. Even as you watch the light drench the world around you, a thing you witness regularly, the sun so willing to kiss the land, you recognize this day is special, a moment that will eclipse all others until your next big first, wondering if it’s him or if it’s everything.

Licking your lips, you speak, unwilling to live inside your mind, alone, any longer.

‘You seemed a little lost in there,’ you chuckle, casting a brief glance in his direction, attempting to witness a change. ‘That’s not a challenge, by the way, just an observation.’

Yoongi shakes his head, a non committal motion he marries with a hum of acknowledgement, a bundle of movement and sound that feels excitable, like a puppy.

‘I don’t think you realize what that was - what this is for me,’ he says, emphatically. Considering his words for a moment, he pauses, looking between you and the road with an amazement you find euphoric.‘At grad school, my focus is soft tissue surgery, you know? Airways, oncology. Not bones, and certainly not reinventing parts. I meant what I said when I mentioned I’m out of my depth.’

It makes sense, you realize, how he so easily discussed stem cells and cancer with Dr. Kern; why he was so quizzical, so focused when you first observed the scans, willing to meet you and fight with you, because this is his field and, now, it is yours too. Yoongi looks at each animal he sees with a reverence that often leaves you breathless, always leaves you bewildered, shaken that this kind of love lives within his core. But, now, you understand - he loves because he witnesses loss, witnesses pain and grief, the intensity of which is braved only by those who have survived it.

‘I didn’t know your focus was oncology.’ You hope the words don’t sound surprised, as though you would have underestimated his dedication or his character. So, instead, you clear your throat and try again. ‘It’s a difficult field. There, you fail more often than you succeed, and that's hard.’

‘You thought I just wanted to be a vet tech,’ he says, changing the subject while sounding smug.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. ‘I’m trying to level with you.’ Still, though, you can’t help but grin. ‘It’s true though,’ you admit. ‘I did.’

He laughs, a sound of real amusement, and your chest tightens, endeared. ‘Everyone always thinks that,’ he concedes. ‘Even my parents. I wasn’t the most attentive kid in school. I don’t really think people see me amounting to much.’

Enigmatic as he is, he surprises you once more with his blunt honesty, the way he lowers some of the walls he has built around himself, easing into the comfort that seems to have blossomed within the car. You're unsure why he would share such personal information, why he would bother to converse so freely at all, but you don't question it. Surprisingly, you welcome it, feeling yourself become endeared to him on instinct.

'Even when I first started at the clinic,' he continues, 'Dr. Hague seemed surprised. My credentials are solid - still waiting on my dissertation defense date - but I know I don't fit the profile. I don't look like someone who would choose this.'

Softening, you cock your head to the side. 'What's a veterinary surgeon supposed to look like, then?'

Turning to face you, startled by your question, his lips part slightly, a small puff of air moving between his pout. His focus moves between you and the road, his shoulders dropping in comfort and confidence, relaxed and eased by your words, though he chooses to remain silent.

And now, it is your turn to wink, the action making him laugh in surprise, the sound of full of honey.

‘So why oncology?’ you try again, hoping to steer him away from personal, somber waters. Mostly, a distraction to keep him talking, so the sound of his laugh does not seep into the pores of your skin, not unlike a waterfall. ‘It takes a lot of guts.’

He nods. ‘It does,’ he agrees. ‘Maybe that’s why I decided on it. It’s hard in every living thing. I figure why not give a voice to those who can’t speak for themselves? You know, Casper is here with cancer in his leg, but he’s still playing and eating and wagging his tail. He’s a good boy, a great dog. Someone has to fight for him.’

Nodding in agreement, you shift your attention to the road, memories stirring. Tongue eager, it feels important to share the thoughts his words have stirred, important to let him in. Truthfully, you've been letting him in all day, allowing the intensity of his stares, the warmth of his smiles, the kindness in his laugh to unmake parts of you, and, perhaps, you have been doing the same to him. The thought is motivating, the notion that his hand on your shoulder, his warm eyes and unwavering attention were born because you had worked your way inside him, too.

It feels motivation, and so you let yourself speak before you lose the will at all.

‘When I was eight,’ you begin, ‘my cat got run over by a car. She’d darted out from the garden when she saw a rabbit. I tried to stop her - she wasn’t even meant to be outside but I wanted to take her up to the treehouse.’

Even without seeing, you feel his expression morph, brow furrowing in concern as he listens. You have his attention, and he offers a small sound of encouragement, urging you to continue.

‘The car rounded the corner so quickly, I didn’t even hear it,' you sigh, falling back into the memory with a sadness that feels too palpable to be a distant wound. 'Her leg was badly wounded, but otherwise she was fine. Our vet, though, they fixed her up as best they could but there wasn’t a surgical practice around us, nowhere for them to refer us to that wasn’t miles out. My family couldn’t afford that trip and they kept convincing me it would be fine, but it wasn’t.’

'Shit,' he mutters, offering you a hurt, apologetic expression. 'I think I know where this is going.'

‘The nerves in her left foot died. She lost feeling quite quickly, and it wasn’t long until it became infected. We had to put her down because of that.’

When you finish, you find you are regarding your hands as they rest, uselessly, in your lap. Every time you think on this, this is where your eyes go - to your hands. The hands that held her, the hands that loved her, the hands that caressed her soft fur without giving shape to the life she deserved. You were useless then, altogether too young and unprepared, and the memory of these unfulfilled actions and touches live within your hands, where they speak and echo for no one but you to hear.

Yoongi remains silent, still comfortable in the trust though no longer free of pain. The atmosphere in the car has shifted, even as you look at the etched curves of your palms you can feel the change, one of companionship in this loneliness and this grief. As though a cloud of mourning has gathered within the small space, feeling him ache with you, feeling him hurt with you, is as though he has pushed through your memories, touched you, ensuring you are no longer solitary in this melancholy.

‘She was an otherwise healthy cat and,' you continue, voice thick and tongue heavy, 'at eight, it’s really traumatizing to lose a friend like that. She was my best friend. I decided then I wanted to be a vet, the kind that fixes broken limbs and makes new parts if I have to, so no one has to go through what I did.’

‘I’m sorry,' he finally says, his own throat tight with sincerity.

Lifting your head to watch him, you study the grimace that has pulled his lips downward. Instinctively, your hands ache to wipe it away, but you press them into your thighs, willing them to remain still.

‘That kind of loss,’ he explains, sympathetic and tender, ‘it stays with you.’

As he watches the road, a long and lost expression floods his irises, making him appear distant. Even as he quiets, you can sense there's so much more he intends to say, so much more he'd like to say, but the words elude him, seem to get caught somewhere between his heart, his tongue, unable to penetrate the heaviness of longing that has overtaken you both. So you don't pressure him, finding you are comfortable in this sort of unity, together and remembering, even if you are not touching.

Really, you think words no longer belong in spaces like this, would only tarnish the security you have only just found in one another, so new and so fragile. And so you remain silent, bonded with him, and comforted by him, knowing that things will change - the song will change or the subject will change, or, when you leave the car, the air outside will grant approval for things to return as you know them to be.

But, for now, this newness you have found with Yoongi feels natural and it is more beautiful than you could have ever intended.

It's five and a half weeks later when the part arrives at the clinic, the brown box, that would otherwise be so unobtrusive, lingering on the side of your desk as it generates a foreboding sense of apprehension in your belly. Dr. Hague agrees it's only right you open it with Yoongi, later in the afternoon when the start of his long shift commences, but the wait places a twitch in your fingers, skin itching with the desire to open it.

Such a small box, containing such a small item, the marriage of anatomy and biology, physiology and machinery. Weeks of work and weeks of conversation, running through your options and over and over, with Dr. Hague, with Yoongi, with Talia. So much is reliant on this small piece of titanium, you wonder if metal such as this, born of the cosmos and often in meteorites, could hold your expectations and not just the stars.

In these long weeks, Talia has worked overtime, pulling in extra money to pay the difference in cost her pet insurance will not cover. Casper, all good and warm and full of love, has been on medications to manage the pain, coming in weekly for scans to check the spread of his tumor. So far, not much has changed. So far, the spread remains contained to just the leg, but still you worry, deep down, what you will find when you finally see his bones with your own eyes and not just the empty, black and white images you're so used to examining.

This, all of this, is your risk, your drive to do what is morally correct and in the best interest for Casper. Weeks ago, you were confident you could save a leg, and a life. Now, with the box on your desk and the closeness of this imagined reality manifesting in the present, the weight of your choice is heavy in your lungs and chest. In this moment of being, it has never been so important to be right.

'What if we fuse the wrist?' you ask later, alone with Yoongi in Dr. Hague's office on the day of the surgery, his hands cradling the implant and your hands pressing against the desk in apprehension. 'What if there's no space to drill?'

Yoongi regards you quietly, brown eyes dark with compassion and understanding. You feel his gaze move over your face, feel the touch as though it were his own hands, and you lean into it, focus on it, aching for the comfort that comes from being held.

'Plenty of dogs have fused wrists,' he reassures evenly. There’s less than an hour, no time to turn back but time enough to think and rethink, to be consumed, and Yoongi, full of understanding, refuses to let you draw inward.  'You'd never know, even if you saw them up close.'

Meeting his eyes, then, you realize you have surrendered yourself into his care. In this moment, he holds you, his looking a sort of touching, his touching a deep, resonate sense of feeling, bound together in the moment of fear and unease, but, in him, there is no doubt. The same way you have surrendered yourself to his care, he has surrendered himself to you, trusting you implicitly, and knowing, in the end, you both would not move forward if it was not what was best.

You would not move forward if you were not united, together.

Dr. Hague invites both you and Yoongi into the OR, a first, he says, for a volunteer to be welcomed into surgery. But he smiles, rests his hand on your shoulder and reminds you you’re doing what’s right - there’s a lot of firsts happening today, and that counts for something. Talia squeezes your hands three times before you leave reception, Casper already placed under anesthetic and wheeled through the doors. Once again, the trust you find swimming in her eyes buoyes you.

‘There’s only so much you can do,’ she murmurs, as much for you as it is for her own nerves. ‘And I know you’ll do everything you can.’

The tremors in your hands, an uncharacteristic trembling that had taken root in your joints, dissipates upon entry. As if your body and your soul recognize this place is clean - free of distraction and free of second guessing. It’s sterile. It’s home. It’s safe. Shoulders pushed back, the rhythmic beeping of Casper’s heart monitor is your soundtrack; the bright, overhead light your moon. This is your universe, the precipice of a destiny you manifested on your own, created and dictated entirely by you. 

And so, this room belongs to you. 

After the first incision, as if by magic, your mind clears. You know the journey, the beginning and the end, you do not know what you will find, but you know the only option is to fix, to mend, to heal. The fog of other voices, other decisions is dispelled, every action and choice so much more simple than you would have imagined it could be. After the first incision, your focus narrows, the viciousness of your inner monologue dissolving into little more than numbers, measurements, and the sound of a drill.

‘Eight millimeters,’ you hear yourself say, even if it’s moot, even if Dr. Hague already knows, you still say it because it’s important. Few things, you think, have ever been as important as the length of this drill. 

Yoongi watches, studies every movement with a furrowed brow, body still in a silence that makes you view him as an apparition. Under the white light, he glows, becomes something radiant, and you imagine him not unlike an angel. For so long he has watched over this process, watched over Casper, watched over you - learning and seeing and protecting. Yoongi watches and does not assist, not in any physical sense of the word, but he assists you, even if you are too proud to admit it. 

Hours in, Dr. Hague hands you suction, tells you to manage a bleeder while he preserves blood vessels along the exposed marrow. Yoongi holds the frame of the wrist in place while you apply suction, the steadiness in his hand making it easier for you to quickly remove the overflow. He’s calm, the most composed you feel you might have ever seen him, there for you before you even ask him to be. Together, you anticipate one another’s movements, thoughts - you move around one another in a synchronization that feels natural, as though it was meant to be this simple.

With the bleeding stopped, you move the suction to the nurse behind you and catch his eye, see the way he watches you in admiration. There’s no time to really pause, to share a moment like this together, but you see it. See the way respect floods him, the way he moves his gaze back to Casper, a blush creeping beyond the perimeter of his surgical mask. It’s the most you’ve been involved in surgery since you finished your first residency. It’s the most you’ve felt like Yoongi’s equal since you met him. And both these things, the feeling of success and the feeling of wanting, you know, will never leave you again.

Dr. Hague educates both of you on the placement of the implant, the hardest part of the surgery. Something about this feels too easy - it feels like it goes too well. Casper’s vitals are stable, Yoongi’s eyes are wide, and your hands do not shake, but still you wait for the fall. You wait for the moment things change and go badly - even if it’s falling out of Hague’s favor, even if it means Yoongi never sees you this way again, you know it must be coming.

But it doesn’t.

At hour five, Casper is closed up, the implant successfully drilled. The stem cell samples you mixed with fribrin glue are sprayed into the mesh to rebuild new bone. Yoongi looks at you as though he is eclipsing the sun, and suddenly, your feet recognize the earth that holds you. Sound, thought, vision - they all come back, an onslaught that raises the hairs on your arms, overstimulated. The overhead light is turned off and Casper is wheeled to his recovery kennel, but you remain in the OR, standing still as your eyes adjust back to the fluorescent lighting. 

It’s quiet now, almost too quiet, a calm falling over the room - a special kind of quiet that echoes with triumph, smells of sweat and anesthetic, and the fear of loss. This has never been done before. There is no guarantee it will work, no guarantee it could be done again. But it happened. It was real.

It was yours. 

‘Are you okay?’

Yoongi’s voice breaks your thoughts. He’s close, closer than you normally let him be, but your gaze fixates on the way his mask dangles from his ear, playful, free, liberated. You’ve seen masks ripped away from faces in defeat, frustration, but he lets it linger, pressed against his skin as though he’s afraid of realizing it’s over or that it never happened. At such close proximity, you can smell him, his cologne mixing with the scent of iodine and blood, but you swoon, feel a little faint, and he steps closer, as though anticipating your drop.

‘I’m okay,’ you nod. ‘I just…’

‘You can’t believe it was real?’

A breath you did not know you had been holding, likely held deep within your lungs from the first moment you saw Casper’s scans, escapes your chest. You feel lighter, not necessarily relieved but aware you defied the odds, and so it is important to honor this moment.

‘Yeah,’ you agree, sounding breathless.  It’s been a long time since you’ve been in an OR, even longer since you’ve felt like you were first for something, like you were chosen. ‘Is it always like that? For you?’

‘It’s always exhilarating,’ he says, considering his words carefully. ‘But no,’ he decides. ‘It’s not usually like that.’

‘Where do we go from here?’

At this, Yoongi laughs, reaching for your hand. Slowly, he pulls off your glove, the fingers stained a myriad of colours, and through the thin plastic you feel the tenderness in his touch. There is a greatness to the way he handles you, a familiarity to the way he pulls the plastic down and down further - pulling and shaping as though the hand was his, his hand yours; meeting together in the simplicity of this touch, aware that, from this moment, is it likely neither of you will ever have enough.

‘How about,’ he tries, delicately, gaze fixed on the slow reveal of your skin, ‘to a diner?’

It feels like the first time he smiled - the first time you smiled back and meant it. It feels like a first, is a first - the first time his hand holds yours, with purpose and intent. And so, you think you should get used to this. 

‘That sounds great.’

[maruzzewrites]

45 for my favorite Zipper Capo?

45. “You don’t even know how lucky you are. I protect you and provide for you. Don’t act so ungrateful.” 

Content warnings: yandere content, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, disembodiment/amputation, mental/emotional abuse and manipulation, idk what else guys you tell me.

His fingers are slender as he handles your own with gentleness. You wince at the sight of the contact, but you don’t want to pretend to feel it on your skin, in your nerves. Not because you’re tired or in need of some sort of superiority over his treatment, but because your brain would give out if you acknowledged the reality of your situation.

The first time he decided to detach your limbs, it was when he decided you were his to take. You knew Bruno’s occupation and his affiliations, but people all around you were quick to reassure you he wasn’t one of those thugs, one of those lowlifes who drag people in the mud just to steal a few bucks. No, he was one of the good ones, a mobster who could and would help those in need. You believed them then, and now you have to stomach the regrets. That is, when you get to have a stomach attached to your body.

Bruno, as you came to understand a while after you first met him, was a lonely man. Despite his charisma and his network, he was incredibly alone; the years spent, since childhood, in the grim world of Italy’s criminal underbelly weren’t an attractive quality for friends and lovers alike. Everyone was ready to be helped, but no one was willing to risk their safety to stay at the side of someone who put their life on the line every day, especially if it wasn’t even to be virtuous. And you were the same, just the same; young, and simply in need, you were not above begging him to help your family and then walk away when he asked you to consider him as something more than a mere do-gooder.

He didn’t appreciate, of course. Your current predicament is a blatant hint about that fact; spiritless on the bed, against the headboard so that you wouldn’t collapse for the lack of support from your legs or arms. Your lower limbs lay down on the floor, near the man who was occupied with one of your hands on his lap, careful to spread the color of the nail polish evenly on each finger. Your nails – long, but rounded, just as he liked – are simple in design, with the white tip neatly contrasting with the pink of the rest.

It is an out of body experience, seeing your own arms resting peacefully on Bruno’s legs as he shoots you furtive, quick glances now and again to check if you are still focused on him. And you are, you couldn’t do anything besides fixing your eyes on the show in front of you, both mundane and macabre, but disgustingly expected at this point. Your stomach doesn’t even squirm at the thought or the realization that this abnormal situation became your routine.

With a finishing touch, Bruno returns the little brush back in its rightful container and looks over his work. His thumb, fondly, caresses your knuckles and traces their dips with domesticity, sneaking his fingertips under your hand, over your palm, to rise it from his lap and leave a delicate kiss on the back of it. His eyes raise to meet yours, with a sweet smile to complete the picture of a perfect man who wants nothing but the best for you. Coincidentally and conveniently, he believes that meant he gets to make choices for you if it means you were right besides him, no matter how much you are unable to do otherwise.

“Do you like it?” His voice comes smooth, deep, but never reassuring. He turns the arm around to show off the refined color painted on your nails. You squints, not to look at it better, but simply because the sight of the perverse scene in front of you; Bruno, the portrait of serenity and class, legs crossed with elegance, as he offers you the view of perfectly manicured nails shining under the warm light in the room. The arm lays limp in his hands, cutting abruptly a little after the elbow. It makes your stomach turn, empty and heavy in your body.

“No.” It’s a simple enough answer and you know it will have its consequences, but you can’t really care right now. You know Bruno won’t physically hurt you, for he’s too kind, but also too smart. Giving you ammo to feed your hate is a misstep in his attempts to weight down on your mind with guilt, and pressure, and doubt. His eyes flutter open behind his long lashes and the blue of his eyes has a cold flavor to it, like frigid waves of a stormy sea.

“I like it,” he states as he turns the limb around again, watching over his work with fondness and confusion. All fake, pretend, all so incredibly infuriating. The sensation of burning resentment grows in your chest, but it’s suddenly suffocated by the anxiety over the stern look he gives you once he shifts his focus on you. It’s not a hit or a blow, but it feels like resting warm skin on the surface of steel, exposed to the wind and the snow. Bruno’s words never cease to sound silky, but they gain resolution and authority, “There must be something you like about this.”

This, you are aware, refers to the circumstance. The living situation you are forced to carry on by force and convenience, as Passione isn’t a forgiving force if you decide to cross even the lowest of capos. You know Bruno is beloved by mobsters and civilians alike, so you refrain from running away because you’d meet too many difficulties if you attempt to leave him behind. That’s how he dragged you in this life the first time, too, with charming words spoken with a silver tongue and a net made of social pressure from those around you.

You can’t leave, but you can avoid biting your tongue. Bruno grimaces each and every time you don’t bow your head to his demands, always masked with questions and encouragements. But you are aware his patience would run out one day, and you are toeing the deadline of that moment. Luckily, today he still holds in all the cruelty that allowed him to climb ranks in a ruthless syndicate. For now, Bruno is still the serious, charming and wicked gentleman that sweetens his deals with veiled threats.

“You don’t even know how lucky you are,” he approaches you with poise in his steps, the click of his shoes too loud in the silence of the room as you refuse to meet his eyes. You feel him rest your arms on the bed, near you, and then his hands slide on your back as he lets you gently settle on the plush duvet. Your head is on the pillow now, and this allows him to make eye contact before you turn away. Not even a sneer or a groan gets past his lips, only chilly resignation, “I protect you and provide for you.”

And he did, he does, he will. That’s bitter on your tongue, that knowledge that he sends your family all the necessities and the protection someone would need in the worst neighborhoods of Naples. Crooks and delinquents can’t touch your loved ones until Bruno gets to bask in your presence. Your heart winces in your chest, then it hurts, as if constricted by something painfully tight. You feel blue, all of the sudden, and you don’t know why. Bruno’s hands meets your cheek to turn your head towards him with tenderness.

“Don’t act so ungrateful.” The words are harsh, but the tone is melancholic. His eyes tell a story of loneliness, of a solitary child who could never let anyone get too close if he wanted to preserve his own feelings. But you are here now, for him, for you, ready to mend past and present so that you can move on together. It’s sweet, but bitter and sour around your tongue, and his blue eyes wash over you to the point you feel your heartbeat slow against your ribs.

But that moment is shattered by Bruno himself, who reminds you your bane as he reattaches your limbs. When the bones, the flesh, the skin realigns, it feels like tearing and sewing at the same time. It burns, but it’s icy, and suddenly you feel the pressure of his finger tips on your arm. Your resentment flashes again and you can’t feel pity for the man anymore before he secures your wrists to the bed with slick experience.

Your emotions circle between anger, fear and pity; one day, he won’t even need to speak, before you succumb, and he will be the only place where you will be able to forget all of it.

[honmakurara]

Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru: extensive manga review

Tormented and explicit, sharp and sophisticated: what Mizushiro Setona's masterpiece really is.

Warning: minor spoilers ahead. "I want to read something erotic and violent": this is what Mizushiro Setona's editor asked her, echoing the request of their chief editor when assigning to the mangaka a story for the supplement of the Josei magazine Judy, meant to be read by an adult female target: "I don't expect you to write a nice story. You have other skills you can count on. You can narrate about gay people, for instance, or about sadomasochism."

Starting from the first casual incursion of Mizushiro-sensei into the world of Boys' Love, between the years 2004 and 2006 Kyūso wa Cheese no Yume o Miru (窮鼠はチーズの夢を見 - The cornered mouse dreams of cheese) was born and defined; it is one of the most beautiful and intense stories ever written about such a genre and beyond, which did even receive excellent notes from the well acclaimed Takemiya Keiko-sensei of the renowned Group 24. Starting with these premises, one can already understand how Mizushiro-sensei, who was not a master of Boys' Love back then, has nonetheless been able to offer an excellent tale that transcends the borders of genres and ranges over way beyond what it had been asked her: the story had been initially conceived as a few chapters later compiled in one tankobon, but it eventually came back on the pages of Judy with a new series of chapters. These ones have also been later published, three years later, in a sequel tankobon titled Sōjo no Koi wa Nido Haneru (俎上の鯉は二度跳ねる - The carp on the chopping block jumps twice). After the renewed interest offered to Otomo and to the cunning Imagase's story, that the live action movie announcement awakened, the new manga chapter Hummingbird Rhapsody has been added to the whole franchise, which is included in the recently revised Japanese edition of the manga.

"Imagase... I'm scared of you...!"

"And I'm... scared of you, too."   There's however not only violence and eroticism in this intricate story, and such a definition would actually mean to simplify way too much what it portrays, not to mention it would not fit exactly what the author was actually able to convey into it; other than the most obvious themes and elements, many others way more implicit and elaborate ones can be found there. We can even have a hint of that by peeking at the cover illustration of the volume, where a languid surface does not betray the contradiction of the soul. We can see an elegant portrait of the two main characters, who both hide all but dignified emotions inside them; a very accurate mirror of such a picture, which graphically reminds us of the previous editions of the manga, is the mind of the thirty years old Otomo Kyoichi after his encounter with Imagase. Otomo is a married adult man, leading an apparently impeccable life: he has good looks, polite manners and a nice job. He is gentle and esteemed by his colleagues and is able to make the many women crossing his path sigh from expectation. He cannot resist women either, that is why his life is an endless sequence of cheating on his wife. He reckons they are of no importance, at least until his wife hires the private eye Imagase Wataru to investigate upon his possible infidelities. Imagase is no new man in Otomos' life, being a kohai within the tennis club at university: he proposes to Otomo to be silent with his wife, in exchange for the heated make-out session that he never dared asking before, despite his being a unprejudiced homosexual guy having a crush on Otomo since forever. After the end of Otomo's wedding, though, the intimate encounters between the two men do not stop at all; they are pushed towards a fierce depth instead, symbols of a spiral of lust and psychological turmoil from which Otomo cannot willingly go back any more. "I am no good one."

"I know this. Bad natured men like you are the worst. Do you think that everyone is looking for that perfect person? You can't fall in love with anyone but that one person?"

"Someday, you'll find true love, too. The time will come when you can't help the feelings that well up inside you and you'll be carried away."

The themes and the premises are taken from various undoubtedly not new Boys' Love clichés; Mizushiro-sensei makes skillfully use of them to plumb the human soul as she does in many other works of her, making the story evolve quickly into something way different and way wider than what the numerous and explicit sex scenes might make us think at first. It takes a doting and obsessive homosexual guy into the life of some apparently happy man like Otomo in order to make the latter understand that his marriage is merely an empty shell, built with no true nor deep feelings to live an ordinary life. The encounter with Imagase, though, forces Otomo to think back deeply about his own actions and the meaning to give to his own life, until he gets to understand that despite his true gentleness, he has never cared for other people's feelings at all.

The relationship with Imagase makes his worst side come to the surface: jealous impulses, selfishness and possessiveness, unsuspected masochistic and yet dominating preferences, obscure compulsions and a never missing inclination towards all sorts of temptations. Otomo is no role model nor someone to praise and yet, he's neither a man whose submissive personality can be easily blamed. Such a personality is a spectrum of a lid hiding a lot of things, a reflection of our own fearful and insecure behaviour, our own incapability of getting to call ourselves into question until the moments, those surprising and unexpected moments, that are to change life for real. That these two lovers embody a strong universal value is further suggested by the choice of the Japanese kanjis with which their names are written: Mizushiro-sensei identifies Otomo Kyoichi (大伴恭一) with the definition of 'partner' itself, a potential alter ego of each of us; she entrusts Imagase Wataru (今ヶ瀬渉, from the kanjis of 'quickness', 'crossing', 'involvement' and 'human relations') with the importance of getting to catch the 'carpe diem', the fleeting moment. Should we were to play with the language a little bit, we would find out that the union of the two main characters would lead us to the meaning of a 'relationship with a partner', the play of the cat with its little mouse happening here and now, the moment that we are to live in every single instant.

"You're kidding?! I cannot believe it… You can't decide?! Between a woman... or a man?!” - Natsuki -

"Maybe Imagase is right... maybe I still have to know what true love it. Next month, I’ll turn 30."

Otomo meets a long series of women, each of whom is identified by a definite face and a marked, strong personality. Each of them leaves a vivid notch into Otomo's life; and yet, no one of these figures is able to open a gash into his soul. The true Otomo is unfathomable to anyone, himself included, just like he himself can finally understand after the new encounter with Imagase breaks the quiet surface of his existence. The desirable man that Otomo is in his colleagues' eyes, through Imagase's cynical and revealing gaze he proves to be none other than a failed seducer, a man devoid of lash and decisiveness, a figure suddenly insecure even about what the true and intense physical pleasure is and how to gain it. It is Imagase who makes the miracle, intercepting his senpai's emotional black hole, and the latter finally manages to find out where the borders of his own self lay and how to humbly face his own limitations and inner being. This does not happen thanks to a man, nor thanks to a good guy, but rather because of a tempting snake who exploits Otomo's weaknesses with a cheeky and direct attitude towards him; by acting like so, Imagase takes a vengeance towards his own young self, first of all, the one who had been unable to face with sincerity the object of his adoration, back then. "No matter how sweet he might be, he is war away, like the moon."

His impetuous whims and his sensual attentions take the lid off Otomo's soul in the deep and they produce the most unexpected of effects, by reversing the parts of this play: Otomo, the one who never even thought he would were to find himself one day on the verge of turning 30 years old by asking himself about the true nature of love, becomes fond of the weird daily life established with Imagase, and he adapts himself to such cohabitation with surprising rapidity. He becomes more and more aware of a homosexual relationship in which he, however not knowing how to move, goes on with the cautiousness, the tenderness and the care he had never reserved to any other person before, in his whole life. He even gets to question himself what it is that truly determines the happiness of a couple, both in the short and medium-long term. As for Imagase, he teaches his senpai how to increase the physical pleasure in a more and more intense way, making him find out what offering someone unconditional love means. Someone who is clearly an imperfect one in all his weaknesses, but at the same time someone who is loved for the one he is, and not just because he embodies the ideal of an unattainable perfect man.

As the relationship with Otomo evolves, though, it is Imagase slowly losing the control he had on the whole situation, as he lavishes his spasmodic need for affection -also made up of a sometimes exasperating and childish attitude-  on a story born out of a youthful crush later evolved in true and heartbreaking love, against every possible prevision.  

"I'm just eating away your current existence. I can't make you happy."

"I'll decide whether or not I'm happy. We're both so selfish."

That is why within the play of the cunning black cat with his naive mouse, it is no obvious at all who the real prey or the predator are; quite on the contrary, the roles are repeatedly overturned, both on a psychological and on a sexual level, in a turn-up which is mostly unprecedented as for what Boys' Love works are concerned: as the pages become more daring, there's a parallel growth of the sexual purse power that each of these main characters can use towards one another. A strong and undermining power. Playing tag, letting go, keeping on running after each other once again: all of those are demonstration of a love both childish and adult-like in its elements, a overwhelming love taken to the limit of the obsession, a deep affection that while looking straight into reality, forces both men to ask themselves how much they are willing to leave back of their own selfishness in exchange for an improper relationship, and yet a fulfilling and indispensable one. That is why it is equally truly fitting, the choice of borrowing the name of animals for the titles of the chapters, and these very same animals appears as 'guest-stars' inside the story itself: from a frame hanging at a restaurant to a lighter herald of jealousies, there is no similarity more proper than fish, cats, snakes, owls and butterflies to suggest us behaviours that are to recall the most primeval and animal-like instincts of the human beings. Weaving traps and spider webs: those mean, sleazy and petty acts that people also do when they're in love. "The obstacle is you. And so am I." The frame of this symbolism closes with a gaze looking up at the cover illustration, where the portraits of animals silently stand out in the background behind the main characters. At the same time, such a gaze looks suggestively up at the moon: the Romeo and Juliet described by Shakespeare invoked the moon for an eternal oath, while the Japanese writer Natsume Soseki in his famous 'Tsuki ga kirei, desu ne?' (the moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?) metaphorically used the moon for a declaration of love. Mizushiro-sensei entrusts the white satellite with Otomo and Imagase's most unspeakable thoughts, for which the moon so becomes a silent leitmotif, as if it was a sensual tokonoma opening inside the story for all those people who can see beyond it: a sort of a story in the story, like a delicate, deep, subtle and intimate alcove. It goes beyond saying that every single dialogue of Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is either enigmatic and cheeky and equally provoking and misleading: what we do reckon we understand about Otomo and Imagase, through their own words, gets later regularly denied by other facts. With thick lines and dialogues that are to tell us the very contrary of what they actually intend to convey, we cannot help but rely then on the inner voices of the many Otomos in his mind, in order to understand the nude truth: the white Otomo, the black and the grey one can maybe remind us of the concept behind the Pixar movie Inside Out, but Kyuso's one is by far forerunner of the latter. Mizushiro-sensei will make excellent use of such theme again by exploring it fully, and not without a subtle humour, in her following Nōnai Poison Berry manga; at the same time, the intricate juxtaposition of human beings and animals comes back to life in the well appreciated Shoujo manga Afterschool Nightmare, while the ultimate aim to attribute to ourselves and to love becomes the core of the romantic comedy Shitsuren Chocolatier, winner of the 36th Kodansha Manga Award - Shojo/Josei and also nominated for the Tezuka Award in 2014. Other than a fully substantial work per se, Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru can be also seen as a sort of effective experimental testing ground for the mangaka herself and her various best works.

"You think that's acceptable?!"

"Acceptable to whom?"

"To society!"

"You're overly self-conscious, as usual... society doesn't care about your sex life."

Mizushiro-sensei's style distinguishes itself for a modern and state-of-the-art graphic, an elegant and refined one, and Kyuso makes no exception: the peculiar design, so clean without any trace of deburring, gets softened as time and years passing by, as we can see by comparing the drawings made for the first chapters of the story with those from the Melancholy Butterfly onwards, and until the recent Hummingbird Rhapsody. Here the lines are so delicate and thin that they almost suggest us they could literally flake off under the piercing gaze of the reader. By leafing through the tankobon, all we can see are tidy pages, sometimes with no balloons at all, thus resulting in a huge expressive performance. The design is sharp and essential as for what details are concerned, but it is no minimalistic one; it is accurate in the depiction of bodies in every detail and characterized by a certain subtle sensuality, this latter marking not only the most rated scenes but also able to permeate the whole work instead. As used as she is in narrating with extraordinary ability about twisted and askew themes and exploring the human psyche with related sexual and gender identity issues, Mizushiro Setona offers us pages with highly aesthetic value, thrilling and bold ones, not without a sort of a certain aesthete voyeurism when depicting lovemaking scenes, however never vulgar at all. They manage to effectively evoke with a surprising visual impact, instead, the devastating passions from which both the characters and the readers end up being shaken and overwhelmed from. The violence this manga is impregnated with is mostly about its psychological insight, rather than the physical one, sex being however undoubtedly an inescapable element of the complicated events binding Otomo to Imagase: it is a key of the story but no ultimate reason of it. That is why we cannot help but follow, almost in a state of trance, how this couple is eventually able to get to intimately know each other by starting from a kiss born out of a blackmail, and thenquickly slackening every inhibition under the sheets through reversal of positions, seme/uke roles and sadomasochistic implications.

"Do you love me? Or after you got a taste of being loved so passionately are you pretending to be my lover as compensation for my feelings?"

How such a sentimental-psychological tangle can be outlined into a story constantly in balance between drama and comedy, keeping a perfect balance between each of its many faces always, without ever falling nor losing a thing, the reader can find it one page after another, surprising himself together with Otomo and Imagase in a thick and tormented love story, terribly authentic as much as its complicated and complex characters are. The pressing storyboard does now allow any rest nor break nor peace: accusations and skirmishes rebound from one man to the other in a never-ending evolution and involution of the personalities of the characters, that is until the unsettling ending; when the time of the games finishes and infantilism stops, another moment inevitably comes. The moment when the face of the adult we want to show to other people outside, goes finally and fully matching the inner essence of us as human beings. That very moment when one can take responsibility towards its own self.

"Poking holes in happiness makes you unhappy.

Nobody understands what I'm going through.

No one knows about the happiness I got to feel despite navigating into an ocean of doubts."

Otomo' sexism, while appreciating what Imagase offers him despite never intimately accepting it’s a man providing him with such a pleasure, vanishes in the very moment he gives his lover a vintage Château Pétrus bottle: it is one of the finest French wines in the whole world, thus suggesting his precious man the implicit idea of being an equally unique and irreplaceable one. Carrying on with a relationship where people can look at each other's eye and discuss, offering our whole self not in order to give back something we received but rather to go beyond our own self, it is then something quite different from seeking the pleasure of a night without any involvement: it is not the same indecisive man he was before, the one for whom appearances in society stops being an excuse, the man suddenly questioning himself how it might be wooing a man rather than a woman, or whether the relationship between two homosexual guys might even be more complete and deep than the one a heterosexual man might start with someone belonging to a ‘different’ universe from his own one.

What is love, then, if not the innate strength that allows us to see beyond our stiff self-esteem and pride, in order to overcome our limitations and arrive and reach the most intimate recesses of the one soul we naturally tend? And it is not only the Boys' Love theme per se to be central in this story, quite rather something that transcends every gender limitation to virtually embrace every kind of love, regardless of any possible colour or legitimacy. And that is because a different way of loving is no inadequate love nor a "less" love. However merely brushing LGBTQ+ themes, however never aspiring to become a gender manifesto, the Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is able to outline some of these aspects with great perspicacity; there's then the excellent portrait offered to the weaknesses of the human being, slave of a need for affection as much hidden as obscure and here translated into the relentlessness of a physical and lacerating love. It does confirm to us how much the social and psychological themes are here treated with crude realism and keen sensibility. In a perfect synthesis of the Yin and Yang elements, Otomo and Imagase's greedy, mean and liar characters are flecked in a sometimes merciless way, not to mention the moment they mean to hurt other people but end up cleaving their own self instead first: it is a couple of uncomfortable characters the one we have here, someone with whom it is definitely not a pleasure to identify ourselves with, someone we wish never to meet, if any. Someone that nonetheless chooses never to give up when in front of human frailty, and that is why these characters end up being unusually authentic, charming and unforgettable ones. " I was hoping, someday, that by sharing my way of loving with you, you would have done the same to me one day." - Imagase -

 "Ugh... I don't lose my temper like this with women." - Otomo -

The new revised All in One Edition reunites the two original volumes into one, which comes with a few color pages in the introduction and the brand new extra Hummingbird Rhapsody chapter. As for what the censorship is concerned, the original pages have actually been partially edited in a very few graphic details: it has been Mizushiro-sensei herself to provide them at the request of the Japanese publisher for the revised edition, which is meant to remove every explicit content starting from 28th January 2020. That happens in order to make the manga available also to a younger target, as the live action movie received a R15+ rating. Censorship involves however only the depiction of male genitals in a few specific, small and delimited portions of the pages, mainly in the first chapters of the story, and does not apply anywhere else. Female nipples and breasts, naked bodies and rated love making are left totally untouched, and so are the original dialogues, the true quintessence of this manga. Even the revised edition presents the harsh and explicit tones of the original pages and there is none of the messages conveyed by the manga that has been damaged or watered down by the re-print. "Love is divine punishment."

Carrying a perfect balance between seduction and feelings, the Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is a challenging, demanding and intense reading. It is a mature story filled with issues, a complex and provoking one; it is compulsory to get near this story with the utmost attention, receiving though a crescendo of emotions that the reader will feel entangled with until the very last page. The Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi would have probably defined it a "matto e disperatissimo" love, a 'mad and utterly desperate' one. Like a river in flood sweeping everything away, the need for getting to know how to slacken control of ourselves and how to gain it back: educating the passion in a relationship is complicated to the point of seeming almost unmanageable.

Love in daily life is quite a different issue from the feelings of a romance novel, an engagement that forces people to swallow bitter bites sometimes, an endless tension towards the other and towards ourselves. In this story that happens to painfully disturbs the deepest part of the heart, we do not know who is the one leading the game; both characters here overthrow the typical Boys' Love canons, an audacious, cocky and authentic couple ready to question itself always.

A story that cannot be missed for all the lovers of the Boys' Love genre, Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru is also quite appropriate for all those one searching for an atypical love story, a strong and nonetheless sensual one, sublimated by a masterful introspection and a very welcome hint of subtle and stinging humour. It is a work dealing with many interesting and complicated issues, though never boasting about none of its many qualities.

A story that knows no limitation and no borders. One of those volumes to keep on the shelf of our own personal bookcase with the utmost care, to take up every now and then in our hands and find new shades of meaning after every new re-reading.

**

Originally written and posted in Italian @ Animeclick

[victoodles]

Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 6)

back again with another chapter, edited by the fantastic @verai-marcel​! follow the series on AO3 and make sure you read part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Arthur has unconventional definitions of love. One he originally believed started with Mary. But after years of reflection and introspection, Arthur realized it ran deeper, began sooner.

He’s a young boy, with a father he loathes and silently mourning a mother he still thinks about fondly. A father who is a “no good bastard”, who taught him nothing but contempt and that wickedness could have a face.

Blood is thicker than water?

What a crock of shit.

They’re bitter memories, painful. But a sweetness tinges them, immortalized in the form of six pink flowers and a weathered portrait he still keeps beside his bed - even to this day. Sentimentality is a blessing and a curse.

Now he’s fourteen, on the cusp of manhood and something else entirely. He’s angry. Angry at a dead father who left him with nothing but the hat on his head and a measly mugshot. Angry at the world that couldn’t give a shit about him but still insists on taking, taking, and taking.

But mostly he’s alone, scared; he can snarl and bare his teeth all he likes but he’s still just a child. Arthur yearns for companionship, for a family that he never truly had growing up. For things he was wrongly denied.

It’s unorthodox, but eventually, he does find what he’s looking for. In the form of a younger Dutch and Hosea: the curious couple and their new unruly son.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

And for twenty long years, he had a father - two in fact! They took him in off the streets, taught him how to read, write, shoot. Raised him from a boy to a man capable of finally taking back from this cruel world and then some.

From Hosea, he learned empathy, humanity. And from Dutch, loyalty, a code of honor.

Despite all his hypocrisies, Arthur can’t wash away and deny that he is who he is because of Dutch van der Linde.

Arthur tries to focus on the good years as much as he tries to forget the ugly, warped ending to that chapter of his life. It’s a continuous uphill struggle but that’s nothing new for him, just more difficult to deal with.

Thinking of some good years…

He’s traversing through his twenties now.

Arthur has had a tryst from time to time as a young man, reveling in the experiences of his first kiss and other means of getting handsy. He was awkward at first, as any boy is when they delve into the unknown fruits adolescence bears. Fumbling hands, a nervous flush dusting his cheeks, all bundled in a veil of naivety.

Hosea used to tell everyone, drunk around the campfire, the humiliating tales of a younger Arthur. His particular favorite being when Arthur came to him, on the verge of tears, thinking he now had to marry a local stable girl because he dared to kiss her behind dear old daddy’s barn.

But then there was Mary.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Formerly known as Gillis, and soon to be Linton. A name no one dared to whisper around camp for years. In a life filled with killing, robbing, and running from the law, Mary was possibly the most complicated aspect of it.

She yearned for things Arthur couldn’t give or be. Wanted a man that Arthur couldn’t become despite his best efforts.

Loyalty is the only thing that matters…

A belief that cost him happiness time and time again.

It wasn’t just Mary at fault - Arthur couldn’t deliver on his promises either.

In the end, he tried. Tried to mold himself into someone worthy of her and her cantankerous father’s expectations of what a man should be. Tried to be one of those Saint Denis socialites with their coiffed hair and perfectly tailor suits. But despite all the gussying, primping and grooming, he was just a rugged outlaw playing at a gentleman. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It took him a while to overcome his heartbreak, to realize she had her own heavy crosses to bear the same as he did. Roles to fill, people to placate despite the pining of the ever-fickle heart. Coming to terms with that wasn’t easy despite the ever apparent facts. And like many before him, Arthur shared his sorrows with the bottom of a bottle and buried them deeper between the legs of a stranger.

Eliza…

Her name still fills him with guilt, albeit it a dull ache now in contrast to the agonizing stabbing he once felt on his heart. She was just a girl trying to get by, barely on the cusp of twenty, who just happened upon Arthur in a disgustingly familiar drunken stupor as he wallowed in self-pity and the bitter taste of whiskey. She humored him, at least he thinks she did. Or it could’ve been a kindness, he can’t quite recall after all these years.

But she slept with him, let him indulge in his therapeutic carnal desires all the while he sputtered out another woman’s name. He was reckless, careless and he couldn’t give less of a damn at the time.

And as a result, it got her…

It got them…

He can’t dwell on it now, refuses to. The thoughts weigh heavy on him, crushing his ribs in a vice and stealing the breath he counts himself lucky to have from his lungs.

He tries to distract himself, instead focus on things more lighthearted to ease his troubled thoughts. He starts with something tangible, for instance, the small ring in his pocket that suddenly feels ten times heavier than the burdens he that weigh on his bad shoulders. And the girl he intends to give it to...

You.

He doesn’t think he can articulate how much you mean to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying within the confines of a new leather-clad journal. No longer does he write harsh words of self-deprecation and hopelessness. They’re kinder, eloquent and beautiful. Soft lines that make out the shape of you adorned with hearts. He melds into your embrace all too easy now, and despite two decades of bloodshed and dodging Death’s scythe, he’s never felt safer than in your arms.

Arthur never thought life would deem him worthy of second chances. Dealing him a fortunate hand with a new life, new purpose, new love. Absolution was not a word his tongue was familiar with, yet here he stands on the porch to his - your home. The stains of his past don't follow him beyond the mountains and rolling hills.

The Van der Linde gang is gone - scattered, dead, or both. Arthur Morgan, Dutch’s right-hand gun has turned in his holsters and bandolier and has now found work as a simple carpenter in Annesburg. He spends his day building and expanding the ever-growing civilization he was trying to run from. A law-abiding everyday man. The irony isn’t lost on him. But it’s good work, honest work. The kind that only cares if you’re strong and able and doesn’t focus on the minute details of one’s extensive criminal record.

And he’s proud to say that after months of arduous labor, he managed to save enough for the ring that seems to be burning a hole in his pocket. It’s humble but elegant with a single diamond resting in the middle of a pale gold band.

Like her, Arthur idly muses with a smile.

Ideally, he would’ve loved to grace your finger with some luxurious rock as a grandiose display of his affection. A massive diamond that would glint perfectly in the light atop the rare platinum. It would’ve been all too easy to hold up some pompous jeweler, the routine and its step all but muscle memory at this point. But that’s not how one does when trying to leave behind the life of an outlaw and it wouldn’t be a proper way to start your marriage.

Marriage.

The concept alone has him frozen in front of his own home, trembling with excitement. He thought Mary would be his everything at one point - the future Mrs. Morgan. When she left he felt as if she took that possibility with her along with the shards of his fractured heart. There's a hint of fear in him as well, a nagging sense that history could repeat itself once more. Round and round the thoughts go in his head as he opens the door with a shaking hand, rattling painfully in his skull.

I’m not ready for this.

Dread surges through him, rough seas raging against his chest as his heart threatens to burst. He’s been shot at, beat, and tortured but this plunge he’s about to take might possibly be one of the scariest things he’s ever done.

Arthur somehow manages to get the door open, feet heavier than lead as he makes his way through the threshold. The sound of your singing from the garden out back restores his composure, lulling him into a serenity once more. He’s refocused, and the tremors that plague him gradually cease. There’s a reinvigorated sense of purpose, sparked to life once more, and he eagerly calls your name in response.

“Out here, Arthur!” You chirp back and Arthur wastes no time following the sound of your voice. He doesn’t realize how quickly he rushes to the backdoor until the afternoon sun is blinding him. When he regains his vision he finds you tending to your plants, a basket of freshly picked vegetables at your side and a tender smile on your lips.

Beautiful.

“Happy to see me, are we darling?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it - he hadn’t realized he’d spoken that last sentiment aloud. A flush creeps up the back of Arthur’s neck, spreading up to his ears and painting them an embarrassing shade of red. He hopes you don’t notice in the sunlight but when your smile turns into a playful smirk, he knows there's no chance of hiding it now.

Arthur clears his throat, “Always am, sweet pea.”

Your impishness seems to have passed for the time being, your simper losing its bite as you turn your attention back to your gardening. “How was work today?” You ask idly as you go to work pulling another carrot from the dirt.

It was the same as any other day, building more housing for the miners in the ramshackle town of Annesburg. Who can think about something so mundane when there were bigger picture things for him to be concerned about? But still, he answers back with a simple, “Good.”

You titter at that. “How positively exciting, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur wishes he had more to offer in terms of a response but he’s too distracted by you. There’s dirt smudged on your cheeks and hands, skirt a wrinkled mess, and hair in a messy braid to keep out of the way of your gardening. Some might find you disheveled but he thinks you look absolutely lovely- as always.

A voice in the back of his mind whispers, She’s not her.

He finds himself imagining what you would look like in all white, waiting for him at the altar of a church. Maybe at the cathedral in Saint Denis where the colors of the impressive stained glass would shine down on you, casting you in an ethereal rainbow glow. In your hand is a bouquet of the finest flowers: lavender, honeysuckle, daisies. A gossamer of silk covers your face, that same breathtaking smile on your lips as Arthur makes his way towards you and-

“Arthur?” You snap him out of the daydreaming he inadvertently slipped into. “Are you alright?”

“I-” He struggles to find the right words, any words, but comes up short. You look at him expectantly but that only makes him more tongue-tied. Christ, he’s a grown man, this shouldn’t be so difficult.

“You…” You try to ease him into something resembling a response, bless your heart, but still, nothing.

So instead he opts for action.

Arthur gets down on one knee in the dirt with you, going for the ring he still has nestled in his jacket. Your eyes go wide at the gesture, and even wider when he silently presents the ring to you.

“I,” he begins again, voice a little stronger in its conviction. “I love you. More than you could ever know.” He takes your hand with his free one, running his fingers over your knuckles softly. Tears begin to well up in your eyes and you can’t help as they begin to trail down your cheeks.

Arthur continues, “You are my heart, my soul, my everything. Without you, Hell, I wouldn’t even be in front of you to ask this. When I’m with you, everything makes sense. And I’m ready, really ready to start over, good and proper. With you.”

It’s time to leave Arthur Morgan the outlaw, the man shackled by so many fears and doubts behind in the ashes of what once was. His rebirth comes in dreams of the future, hand in hand and growing old by the fireplace. 

Together.

“So I was wonderin’...what I’m trying to ask is you would-”

“Yes,” you whisper, unable to find your own voice now. You heart is hammering fiercely, galloping like a wild horse at the sheer intensity of Arthur’s proposal.

He can’t help but chuckle at your ardor, endearing (and relieving) as it may be. “You didn’t let me-”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes a thousand times yes you silly man!” you exclaim with no hesitation this time, throwing yourself on him and peppering him with kisses. “Yes,” you repeat over and over and over, as many times as you can to reaffirm you aren't dreaming. That this isn’t your own self-made mirage that could vanish at any moment.

Arthur is momentarily stunned and brings you as close to him as possible, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he finds his own tears starting to form. The same voice is back, no longer a whisper but a firm reassurance of, She isn’t her. She isn’t any of them.

And she never will be.

“Say it again.” 

Let it be real.

Your lips find his now, in between each kiss marked with a, “yes”.   

A single syllable has him enraptured, spellbound. Such a glorious admittance, the most heavenly sound he’s ever heard.

And as he slips the ring onto your finger, the both of you grinning madly, he thinks “I do” will sound even better.

[alj4890]

RCD Appreciation Week Day 5 Prompt

(Thomas Hunt x oc*Amanda) with the day's given prompt of tradition.

(Thomas x Amanda) taken from the storyline And Then I Met You

@lxaah11 @alleksa16 @penguininapinktuxedo @blackcoffee85 @stopforamoment @hopefulmoonobject   @krsnlove​  @annekebbphotography  @cora-nova @hopelessromantic1352. @sunflowergirl05 @desiree-0816 @greywitchyshots @lilyofchoices​ @moodyvalentinestories @emceesynonymroll @dr-nancy-house @aworldoffandoms @ab1901 @pixieferry @lolablackwrites @flyawayboo @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @trappedinfandoms @rcd-appreciation

Masterlist

The Debut

Thomas walked down the corridor of St Orella that led to the rooms the family tended to use more than the other wings. He grimaced at hearing gasps from a tour group that was currently on their way to the portrait gallery. Nearly six years as the Duke of St Orella had yet to make him comfortable with strangers coming by every Saturday afternoon.

He nodded briefly to the people without breaking his stride. Cameras flashed as excited murmurs grew in volume at having caught the famous director at what was considered his second home. The closer he got to the sitting room Amanda preferred made the tense muscles in his shoulders relax. 

His lips curved when he heard the squeal followed by laughter. He opened one of the doors and paused. Amanda was chasing a giggling Kathleen around the room. Their recently turned one year old was laughing while trying to playfully evade her mother that was laughing along with her.

Thomas swooped down and captured the toddler when she came within reach. Kathleen squealed again as he held her above his head. Her little dimpled hands grabbed his cheeks. Her smile was wide when he lowered her down for a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Your grace, this was delievered by royal courier." Hudson bowed and handed Amanda the mail. "Would you care for me to bring your tea tray?"

"Yes, thank you Hudson." She replied. "And please add Kathleen's sippy cup with milk." She looked up at Thomas. "Would you care for some coffee?"

He nodded while setting Kathleen down on the blanket in the center of the room covered with toys and books.

Hudson bowed with a smile at Kathleen waving and saying bye to him. "I'll be back, Lady Kathleen." He promised.

Thomas chuckled at the stoic butler’s inability to keep from smiling at Kathleen’s sweetness. He sat down beside Amanda. His curiosity piqued at the elegant envelope in her hand.

"Who's that from?" He asked.

"The Queen Mother." Amanda opened it and smiled. "It's an invitation for Kathleen to be officially introduced to the Royal family." Her voice became a touch reminiscent. "I had completely forgotten about that."

"Introduction? Liam and Riley were at the hospital when she was born." He pointed out. "I can't imagine introducing them to her any sooner than having them be the ones to deliver her."

Amanda laughed softly causing Kathleen to look over at them with a big smile. "This is a formal debut of sorts." She explained.

"Formal?" Thomas repeated. "How formal?"

"Tuxeudo formal for you, Lord Thomas. Ballgown for me and a formal white dress for our little lady." Amanda placed the gilded invitation in the desk drawer with the few other items she planned to add to Kathleen's memory book.

"Isn't she a little young to be attending a ball at the palace?" Thomas asked. "We rarely stay until the end."

Amanda sat back beside him, settling against him when he wrapped his arms around her. "It isn't much of a ball and is held early in the evening due to the age of those making their first official appearances."

He rested his cheek against the top of her head as they watched their daughter babble to the stuffed corgi that had been one of her birthday gifts from the little princes. She got up and toddled over to them, giving the stuffed animal to Amanda.

"Thank you so much." Amanda said and then dropped a quick kiss to Kathleen's nose. She scrunched her face with a giggle before going back to the blanket. She picked up a book and brought it to Thomas.

He smiled and thanked her. She bent her head forward for him to drop a kiss on her forehead. She then tried to climb between them. Amanda picked her up and cuddled her close.

Hudson returned with a tray and chuckled when Kathleen tried to say his name. He presented her with her sippy cup with a bow.

"Say thank you, Hudson." Amanda encouraged her to try.

Kathleen scrunched her shoulders while trying. Her smile grew when Hudson told her she was very welcome.

"Ring if you need anything else, my lord and ladies." He told them as he left.

Kathleen crawled into Thomas's lap with her cup. She took the book she had brought over and handed it to him again.

He chuckled. "Is that a hint?" He opened the book and started reading Good Night Mr. Darcy.

Kathleen fell asleep to his rhythmic, deep voice. He placed her in the playpen set on the other side of the room and covered her up.

He accepted the coffee Amanda had prepared. "This debut...what does it entail? It isn't a miniature marriage mart type event for the two little princes is it?"

Amanda stirred her tea and bit back a smile. "No, it isn't a marriage mart." Her eyes twinkled with mirth. "No more Mr. Darcy books for you."

He rolled his eyes. "What is the purpose of this then?"

"It's a tradition for each new generation of nobles. The debut is meant to plant the seeds of responsibility and loyalty to their king and country." She explained. "Plus it gives us a chance to show off how wonderful our girl is."

He softly kissed his wife. "We do have a lot to be proud of." Thomas glanced over at the playpen before meeting Amanda's eyes. He knew what was going to happen. "When will we be traveling to the palace?"

_____________

Thomas stepped out of the bathroom while trying to place his cufflinks in his sleeves. "Will you help me with these?"

Amanda took the simple gold cufflinks and slipped them in. He looked down at her and lifted an eyebrow.

"I thought you were wearing the St Orella colors tonight."

She sighed softly. "I was. While you were in the shower, I went to check on Kathleen. Along the way, I somehow stepped on the hem and ripped the skirt. Riley sent up the only dress they had in my size." She gestured to the purple gown she had on. "I should have brought a backup dress to the palace."

Thomas wrapped the arm she wasn't working on around her. "You look beautiful."

She smiled as his lips ghosted over her bare shoulder. "As long as you think so." They both turned to the open doorway when they heard Kathleen. "Wait until you see her." Amanda told him to remain where he was as she went to retrieve their daughter.

Thomas slipped his jacket on and buttoned it. He lifted his eyes when Amanda cleared her throat. Kathleen stood beside her, gripping her mother's fingers. Her expression was serious as she looked at him.

He crouched down, grinning when she walked to him.

"What do you think?" Amanda asked.

"I think she looks like you." He picked up the little lady in white. "Which is the highest compliment I can give her."

Kathleen pulled at his bowtie. Her dark eyes met his and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"We have one more stop before the ball." Amanda told him.

_______________

"Pictures?" Thomas asked. Nobles with their latest offspring were posing outside in the courtyard for photographers.

"Of course." Amanda slipped her arm around his waist. "Her first formal event must be captured for posterity."

Kathleen looked around and seemed to turn suddenly shy at seeing the number of strangers around them. She gripped Thomas's jacket when he tried to set her down.

Amanda helped untangle her from him. She pressed her face against her mother's neck and held tight.

Amanda pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We aren't leaving you, sweetheart. Would you smile at least once for me?" She whispered.

Kathleen lifted her head when they neared the camera. She reached out for it as a smile formed.

"I wonder where she got that particular interest from." Amanda teased.

Thomas chuckled as they sat Kathleen down on a stone bench. They watched her charm the photographer with her sweet shyness. Once a few pictures were taken of just her, he then took some poses of Amanda with her daughter.

The once labeled unfeeling director felt his heart nearly hurt at seeing the two that had completely changed his life. His typical frown never remained long whenever they were near and seeing the joy on their faces as they looked at one another did much to improve his mood.

Amanda switched places with Thomas, watching the poses for the father/daughter shots. Her heart nearly burst from the sweetness of seeing the two she loved more than anything smiling. Kathleen looked up at him with a degree of adoration that was surpassed by the one Thomas settled on her.

"Now for all of you, please." The photographer positioned the family of three together.

Thomas slid his arms around Amanda from behind as she held Kathleen. Their little lady laughed at the the two as they encouraged her to look at the camera. Once all was completed, they took their place to be announced before the court.

Kathleen rubbed her eyes as she rested her head on Amanda's shoulder.

"I don't think she is going to last much longer." Amanda whispered.

"Should we still take her in?" He asked.

"We can and then leave after formally greeting Liam and the rest of the royal family." She reached over and slipped her hand in his. "Thank you."

He tightened his fingers around hers. "For what?"

Her eyes fell to the one in her arms. "For our girl. For coming and supporting this ancient tradition." She looked up at him, her heart shining in her eyes. "For giving me all I ever dreamed of."

He ignored the slight gasps from the nobles milling about while pressing a tender kiss to her lips. "I'm the one who should be thanking you." He whispered in her ear. He placed his hand under her elbow and proudly escorted his two loves into the ballroom

[aliceslantern]

Retribution, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 5

Newly a person again, Ienzo is weighed down by guilt and his humanity. He's prepared to do whatever it takes to atone... only to find unexpected solace in a familiar face. With more insight into the bonds between people than ever before, Ienzo reaches for a dangerous element from the past to help Kairi and Riku in their search for Sora. What is his life if it means saving another, brighter light?

Chapter summary:  Ienzo tries to make humanity his new project, with limited success.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo tried to do as Even said. He took the pills--one in the morning, one at night. He set a timer and forced himself to eat every four hours, though he had little appetite. The weight he’d lost from his heavy magic use began to come back on. He no longer felt so dizzy or achy.

But the anti-anxiety medication made him feel a bit foggy, a bit dissociative. He passed the time reading about it. For the first time in months, Ienzo visited the library for the sake of fiction, and spent a pleasurable few days rereading an old childhood favorite.

He tried to write and reflect as to what this whole experience had taught him, but found himself staring at blank pages, blank screens. Was he not ready, to delve into this mess? Or did he have nothing of insight to say?

This abandoned, Ienzo went outside.

It was summer now, and very warm, the bright light a shock to his tender eyes. He suspected he was beginning to need glasses, no doubt an accumulation of years in front of pages and screens. He saw children playing in the streets, groups of friends, a young couple or two with their hands linked. Compared to the empty, massive castle, Radiant Garden felt full of life.

Nobody seemed to recognize him, and for this he was grateful. He kept walking, letting his mind wander, eavesdropping idly and taking in the colors and smells, all of it too much in a good way. He walked, he drifted. Without consciously realizing it, he’d brought himself to the cemetery.

It was well-kept, despite the obvious bits of destruction--broken memorial stones, the brick wall still a work in progress, grass growing over gouge marks from Heartless. For a second Ienzo struggled to remember where it was before sense memory kicked in.

There they were, side-by-side. The mortuary tablets were rather dirty. If he’d known, he would’ve brought supplies to clean. Disrespectful. He read his parents’ names, his own old surname before the adoption gave him Ansem’s. He whispered the name aloud, just to hear it. It was much softer sounding than Zexion. Light. Rhythmic.

The idea had originally been for his parents to be apprentices, not him. They were both scholars in their own right, his mother a botanist, his father a physicist. They’d hoped to be older before they had their first child, but these things happened, and they did so love Ienzo, as Ansem had told him. Noticing Ienzo’s brilliance… and hoping to grant his parents’ wishes… Ansem took him in and gave him an education. And the rest was history.

He knelt and bowed his head. He barely remembered either of these people, just flashes of joy and warmth and comfort; a pat on the head, hands tucking him in. He’d only been five when they passed, a freak accident, a fire. It hadn’t been the flames that killed them, but the smoke; only a well-placed wet cloth over his own nose and mouth had kept him alive until the fire brigade arrived.

Ienzo wished he didn’t remember this, but he did. The house had been built into a stone wall, and the internal structure collapsed, blocking the only real door. Father had tried his hardest to carve a way out, but he was a physically weak academic and the smoke got him, falling first to his knees. Mother had turned Ienzo’s face away, sang him a lullaby, curled him a bit more tightly in her arms--

What good was thinking about this?

What would they think of him now? If they knew what he’d do? Would Mother perhaps have held that cloth a little tighter, a little closer, until--

“Ienzo? What are you doing here?”

His head snapped up. He saw Dilan, in casual clothing, his eyes mottled and red. “I suppose… the same as you,” he said. He knew distantly that Dilan had lost a lover at some point; not through any conscious admittance by the man himself, but through drunken conversations Ienzo had eavesdropped on.

Dilan came closer and looked down at the memorials. “I… remember that day all too well,” he said, with a sigh. “Your parents weren’t the only ones who were lost in that fire. That part of town… the houses were too much on top of one another. You might consider yourself lucky.”

Ienzo laughed. “In a cosmic way, I suppose I am.”

Another pause. Then more cautiously, “she was a lovely woman, your mother. Very warm. I’ve hardly ever met a scientist who was so good-humored. I think in some lights you look like her.”

Ienzo cocked his head. “Really?”

“Well, the premature gray is unmistakable. And here…” He gestured to his jaw.

Ienzo looked at his palms. “Is it bad that I scarcely remember what they looked like?” All of their possessions had been lost in the fire, including photos.

“Oh, there may be a picture or two hanging around--there would’ve been official portraits when they took on the apprenticeship,” Dilan explained, at his baffled expression. “Would you like that, if I were to find them?”

“I would--very much so.” It took him a moment to realize why Dilan was being so saccharine to him. It was compensation. Ienzo stood slowly, flinching at the ache in his knees.

“You were so very young,” Dilan said. “So small. I remember thinking that.”

“I suppose you dissented then, when Ansem took me in?”

“Of course I did. What a place to raise a child, after all. But we didn’t do much parenting of you, did we?”

“...Quite.” Ienzo did not want to get into another screaming match. He turned to leave.

“Are you feeling better? I heard you were rather ill.”

The meditative mood that had come over him upon entering this place was quickly shattered. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“I’m aware we’ve… scarcely spoken in some years.”

Ienzo thought about it. Even in those “halcyon” days, he’d never been close to Dilan. And further pulled away to different teams in the Organization. “No, I don’t suppose we have.” Then again, what was there to say?

“Do you enjoy being human?” Dilan asked, the same way an adult might awkwardly ask a child something.

Ienzo shook his head; not in response, but the inanity of the question. “I’m afraid the jury’s still out. Not that I have a choice, here.”

“You have choices,” Dilan said. “So many.”

“Is your life written in stone, then?” he asked, sourly.

“The others wish to atone and I wish to keep them safe while they do so,” Dilan said. “So yes, I suppose.”

Ienzo cocked his head. “Safe from what? Heartless?”

“Those that may seek revenge,” Dilan said slowly.

Ienzo scoffed and turned away again.

“I am not being facetious.”

He shot him a look.

“We’ve wrought havoc on this town,” Dilan said. “The lives lost in our lab… people remember those loved ones, and miss them. Now it’s public knowledge we’re back… surely there may be more than some cruel words thrown at one on the street. People are armed to the teeth with all the Heartless.”

“Assassination would be too quick of a way to go,” Ienzo said simply. “More like they best let us fester in this guilt, if they wish for punishment.”

“Is that what you want? To be punished?”

Ienzo scowled. Twice was a coincidence; three times was a connection. Demyx, Even, now Dilan lecturing him about suffering. “Do I walk around with a boorish look on my face?”

Dilan raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed that as soon as your emotion reaches your face, you snap it back to neutral… put on a mask. Almost impressive, how quickly you can do it. Putting yourself aside… for whatever inane nonsense they subject you to. I’d hoped you would at least enjoy some pleasures of life, however small. Yet to not allow yourself to feel --”

“I feel ,” he spat. “entirely too much.” He was on the verge of adding, and you never allowed yourself to feel without a bottle in your hand , but didn’t.

“I suppose you must. The weight of emotion must be somewhat unbearable.”

“That,” he said, “is putting it mildly.”

Dilan considered. “Do you feel very bitter?”

This was very quickly becoming a confrontation, something Ienzo had no energy for. “Why is it you want to know?”

“Because if I were you, I would,” he said, with a shake of his head. “If I were you, after all you’d been put through, I’d leave that castle seething… and never come back. Why is it you stay?”

The last thing Ienzo expected him to say--he felt his eyebrows raise. “Well I’ve… work to do.”

“And the men you must work with?”

“Ansem has never wronged me. And Even and I are mending things. We’ve known one another for so long. I…” He trailed off uselessly, unable to identify the emotion now curdling within him. He squinted, trying to name it. It felt vaguely as though it were clamped to his thyroid. "I've no one else," he realized slowly, and it was a very, very cold revelation.

"...No," Dilan agreed. "Neither have I."

Ienzo swallowed. He was, again, teary. He'd never needed friends before, or people in general, content to squirrel himself away. But did he need people now? Really, truly?

If not for Demyx, for Even, it was very likely that his physical condition would have continued to deteriorate until he… what, died?

Quite possibly, yes.

Ienzo realized, so slowly, that he no longer desired death. Then what did he want?

What did he want?

A chance to set things right. But clearly so far what he'd been doing was… more or less an elegant form of slow-moving suicide. But what of his powers? Wasn't it worth it, to regain them? He felt more mixed up and confused than ever before. "Perhaps, then, we should try harder," he said slowly, and then left, lost in thought.

Ienzo didn't get far.

"Zo! You're up and about!"

He would be startled, but he wasn't. He seemed to perpetually run into Demyx lately. "Hello."

The other boy was flushed, grinning. There was a small harness over his shoulders, but devoid of packages. "How do you feel?"

"Quite a lot better," he admitted. "I must apologize to you. And thank you, for that matter."

He rubbed the back of his neck, but his expression was taut, tense. "I wouldn't just leave you there. I'm… good at delivering bodies. Right?"

Ienzo smiled a little. "That you are."

"So what happened?"

"In a word--overwork." He sighed. "Exhaustion, stress. It became too much for me. I've been… waylaid, until I recover, and find myself with far too much time on my hands."

He grinned. "Well. At least you're doing better. I'm done for a bit, so do you wanna get lunch?"

"...I could eat."

"Awesome. Let's go. You're going to love this place." His posture was different, and almost unconsciously now and again he would touch his back.

"Are you alright?" Ienzo asked, realizing the irony.

Demyx shrugged. "Real heavy stuff irritates my back. Old wound. You know?"

"...I guess business is going well?"

Demyx groaned. "Too well. I've barely had time to even… well, eat."

Ienzo wondered why Demyx didn't just shirk off. But he'd mentioned he'd like talking to people, and Kairi had said he was lonely. Perhaps delivering these packages gave him some much needed positive interaction--which he hardly ever received at the castle.

Demyx brought him over to a stand which seemed to be selling some kind of soup. The vendor greeted him by name. The smells were thick, delicious--scallions, spice, the salt of broth--and for the first time in months Ienzo felt hungry. "Who's your friend?" The woman asked.

Demyx clapped a hand on his shoulder. " This is my roomie Ienzo."

The touch was, again, disconcerting; he could almost feel the imprint of Demyx's hand, warm through the fabric. "Hello," he said.

The woman studied him. "That name is… familiar." She put out two servings of the meal, with chopsticks. "Wait. Aren't you--"

"...I was Ansem's ward," he admitted softly. "Ansem the Wise."

"...Yes," she said slowly. Then, to Demyx. "I thought you lived near the castle--not in it."

Demyx shrugged. "Same diff."

The woman studied Ienzo. There was something… careful, in her gaze. "It's a relief to know he's still alive. And you."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. It is good to be back in town."

She accepted Demyx's money without comment and they took their bowls to a nearby table.

"Guess you're a celebrity," Demyx said, clicking his chopsticks.

"Well, I was the king’s son. But it was a blood monarchy--I am no prince.” He sighed. “I suppose they… have no knowledge of my involvement." He stared down into his bowl of noodles. He had no idea if it was relieving or not to escape blame. He began eating, found it was all very good, the flavors subtle and well-mingled. "I suppose you must eat around town, then?"

"Yeah. There's so much to try, and it's all pretty cheap."

"I can repay you when we get back--"

Demyx clacked the chopsticks. "No, Ienzo. It's fine. I'm not exactly struggling. Scrooge is a cheapskate, but he pays his employees well."

Ienzo wondered what he did do with his money.

"I mean, I give Ansem some money for the room, and I feed myself, but…" A sigh. "You're going to think this is dumb."

"I doubt that."

"I want a house. A home. Eventually."

He blinked. "That's not stupid."

Demyx shrugged. "A place I can be me… where I can't be bothered."

"Like the greenhouse."

He locked eyes with him. "Yes. Exactly."

Ienzo considered. He sipped his broth, which was slightly too warm in the summer heat but soothing in another way. "I wonder if I want the same," he said softly.

"It's part of growing up. Living on your own. Though you got a sweet deal. Can't say I blame you for sticking around."

"It's hardly sweet."

"Well, Ansem provides for your every whim. That's kind of sweet."

He had a point. "Maybe someday we'll be neighbors, and not merely roommates," he said.

Demyx smiled a little. "Could you imagine?"

Ienzo thought. "Actually, I can." He can imagine Demyx's future so clearly. Personable, talented. He'd do well for himself, Ienzo was sure. But his own future? Without research, who was he? "Query."

He raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

"What, in general?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

Demyx wrinkled his nose. "I don't think I'd mind hacking it at performing. And--" He leaned back a little, wincing as his body hit the chair. "I don't know. I'm kind of glad to see what life has for me, you know what I mean? Doing good things where I can. And…" A wry laugh. "I don't know. I wouldn't mind looking for a boyfriend or girlfriend, if the right person came along. Someone to spend time with."

Ienzo felt the blood warm his face. He'd never considered… relationships, emotionally or physically. He wasn't sure he was capable. "I didn't realize you were a romantic."

"I think anyone can be," he said vaguely. "Yeah. It would be nice to mean something to someone… and get to love them in turn."

“Do you think we’re capable of love?”

Demyx flinched, his gaze becoming guarded. “Kind of rude of you to say that.”

Ienzo put a hand to his brow; it had been an honest question, not one meant to gut. “Forgive me--that was not what I meant. I meant it quite literally.”

Demyx considered. So strange, to see him actually think, and not just spit out the first thing his facade told him to. “I think so,” he said slowly. “I mean… people, right? One of the universal needs is to love and be loved--in any form. People need people. It’s pretty natural.”

“I’ve lived my life so isolated, hardly ever desiring company,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Perhaps that might be worth changing… seeing everything that we’ve seen.”

The guard relaxed just the slightest in his eyes. “Are you lonely?”

Ienzo blinked. There was hardly anything left of his soup, so no way to easily deflect. Had that been the deep emotion he’d felt earlier? “Quite possibly--though I’ve never consciously identified that feeling.” He didn’t know where to begin with people. How to engage, to talk to them, in a purely positive manner.

Demyx sighed. Then, “Well, why don’t we be friends, then?”

He raised an eyebrow. “So simply?”

He shrugged. “I mean it’s been fine the last few times we’ve talked, right? When you’re not… falling apart on me, I mean.”

Ienzo flushed. “I am a mess.”

“Well I am too.” He bit his lip. “So what do you say?”

Ienzo smiled; it felt odd. “Alright. Friends.”

Later that night he considered what Demyx had been talking about. Ienzo couldn’t help but be impressed with his ability to see beyond the current circumstances. Ienzo had once been a master tactician, but he’d always planned for the Organization’s longevity, not his own. Merely surviving had been good enough for Zexion. But his own life? Perhaps to plan for its longevity, treat it like a mission to be endured, a game to be won? But without concrete goals… he was floundering.

His new cause to care about needed to be his humanity. He did need friends, social outlets. He turned that conversation over and over in his mind. Was Ienzo capable of love? There were things he loved, certainly, books he’d read, food he’d eaten, the feel of sunlight. There were things he was passionate about--learning and research. But people ? Loving meant being vulnerable… and he was hardly even able to do that around himself , let alone someone else.

Not entirely true.

It was one thing to out and out cry around Even--the man had seen him far worse, especially as a child. But he’d broken down as well in front of Demyx, who he barely knew on a personal level despite their years of working together. To allow emotions into the forefront of his being… was daunting. Where to begin?

Maybe the library would have answers?

One of Ienzo’s specialties as a young apprentice had been psychology. Not necessarily a hard science, not like what the others subscribed to, but one could get an awful lot of insight to the heart through the mind. How could a heart’s desires be realized without thought? How else could a heart make a body feel ? He’d used this working of the inner mind to manipulate people, break them. He’d never used it to heal .

He pulled books on abnormal psychology, therapies. Very quickly he discovered that the ideal way to heal oneself using therapy would be to, well, go to a therapist. Doubtful there was one around here, and even if there were, how could Ienzo just go , given what he’d done to this town? He’d have to take matters into his own hands. Be his own sounding board. He wasn’t sure it was possible.

“Oh, Ienzo, I would’ve hoped you’d be out enjoying this lovely day.”

He started a little, almost dropping his volumes. “Master.”

Ansem cocked his head slightly. He’d shed the red stole and jacket--likely it was very warm in the computer room. Seeing him, too, without the frame of his coat was jarring. “Enough of this “Master” nonsense,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I’m a king no longer, and I am your father. I insist you call me by my name.”

Ienzo blinked. “Are you quite sure?”

He gave him a look. “Why should you submit to me when we’re working together as equals? Besides… that choice was questionable enough when you were younger--though I’m sure hearing everyone else say it didn’t help.”

“Monkey see monkey do,” Ienzo muttered. “Alright. Ansem. ” The name felt weird in his mouth, halved.

Ansem chuckled. “Indeed. What is it you were reading about?”

Ienzo considered lying. But doubtless Even had told him everything, at least the physical side of it, used it as an excuse to yell at the man. “Abnormal psychology,” he admitted.

“Is that… relevant to current events?” Ansem asked, not without caution.

“Quite,” Ienzo said. He cleared his throat. “I am… very anxious, and struggling to learn to feel. Well, no. I do feel. It’s merely--”

“Unfamiliar and therefore difficult to internalize.”

“Yes.”

“I was told to… make my new devotion my humanity.” He sneered.

Ansem looked confused. “As though that’s a bad or shameful thing?”’

“Isn’t it? I can barely work anymore without completely falling apart.”

“Your body has changed radically--and the presence of a heart is doubtless a new variable to the experiment called “Ienzo.””

This made him laugh. “It does indeed feel like an experiment.”

“You’re being too harsh on yourself,” Ansem said. “You worked so hard to provide Roxas and Naminé with new bodies. You need time . Thankfully, we do not have the threat of Xehanort’s apocalypse looming over us. Radiant Garden is whole and you are well.”

“But Sora could be slipping away day by day--”

“He could be, but likely isn’t. You forget I in my own way spent time with that child.” He sighed. He’d told Ienzo the story about DiZ shortly after they’d been reunited. “He is nothing if not tenacious. Just as we are reaching for him--he is reaching for us.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Ansem squeezed his shoulder. “Have you a few moments? Perhaps we could get some ice cream?”

“Didn’t you come here for a reason?”

Ansem shrugged. “These things can wait,” he said. “Come along, then.”