#and then i ignored that and went haha suffering angst pain trauma

[darkmindsotome]

Risque Rouge pt15

Tagging: @umbralaperture​ @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly. 

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 15

As plans went this had been perfect. It was an accident that could have happened at any time and in any part of the city. He was lucky to already know exactly where he could find a coach without its driver, all he needed was the perfect moment. Everything was arranged and it would have been considered simple bad luck that someone should be fatally crushed under the sheer force of the runaway horse dragging its carriage. It would have worked, should have worked.

Latour looked at the failure of what should have been a gloriously devastating demise. His eyes burned with hatred as he watched the female interact with the two men from his hiding place.

“Curses!” He hissed as his fist pounded the wall of the building before, he spun on his heel snarling as he walked away.

---

This had to be an out of the frying pan into the fire moment. Evie watched the two men in a silent standoff feeling completely useless. It was true she had run and she was scared. Yes, Comte had been part of the reason for that but he hadn’t hurt her. She did wonder about his approach when they were at the café but not once in all the times, they had been together, was he anything less than pleasant and kind.

Evie was more than aware he had every right to be upset with her right now. Acting the way she had must have truly hurt him. She saw the pained look in his eyes when she reflexively slapped his hand away. There was more there though, he had a melancholy look that was complete forgiveness. It was as if he would accept anything no matter how much it hurt him as long as it was what she wished. It hurt.

While her chest constricted in the grip of a coiling serpent intent on crushing her the man blocking her spoke.

“What sneaky games are you trying to play with this girl? Are you not entertained enough?” There was a tangible threat from the man shielding her from Comte. He was speaking without formality which could have meant he didn’t care to be polite to a potential menace but the fact Comte called him by name must mean they knew each other.

“I am not playing games, sneaky or otherwise. Genevieve is my charge and in my care.” Comte was smiling that same smile he had on his face when talking to Arthur.

“Then why was she so terrified of you just now?” Napoleon moved slightly and Evie had visions of this entire situation going bad fast. She didn’t know if Comte was aware of the look on his own face or if it was a miscalculation on his part because right now it was more taunting than intimidating. For all the mistakes made so far, she didn’t wish to have one result in a fight in front of her. She broke free of the human barrier, with pain lancing up her leg and placed herself between the two men.

“Please stop.”  She gave a quick glance to Comte over her shoulder before turning to Napoleon. “Thank you, Monsieur, you rescued me.”

To say Comte was stunned would have been a very accurate description right now. This woman really did seem to swing on a pendulum to the point where she was hard to predict. He thought he had scared her and she would not go anywhere near him so why was she standing as if to protect him now?

“I only did what anyone would do.” Napoleon seemed to be equally perplexed looking at the sudden change in the woman who was basically a trembling mess only minutes before. His green eyes looked behind her quizzically towards Comte who didn’t know what to say.

He had felt and still did feel terrible for how he handled everything back at the café. Hindsight has a way of making every situation seem like a bad move and he already was well aware even without the help of reflection that his approach was a terrible choice.

“No, you did more because you were the one to risk yourself on my foolishness.” Evie lowered her head the trembling in her body was still very likely to make a repeat appearance but right now she was determined to make sure nothing else happened. “What this man says is true. I am in his care, he is my sponsor. It was true I was careless and running but…”

“Evie.” Comte’s voice was quiet. His eyes fell on the back of her lowered head in awe.

She was hurt she had been scared and still suffering the aftermath of everything that had been said and done. He could feel it, he felt her swirling emotions as strongly as if they were his own, the pain in her taking grip on his own body. Still, she was trying to smooth over a situation that was nowhere near as drastic as she thought it was. A wry smile formed on his face and his expression softened as he watched her. She was stronger than she knew and so beautiful. Napoleon didn’t miss the subtle interaction and looked at the young woman in front of him as if he just remembered something.

“So, you are the Mademoiselle from the mansion?”

“You know me?” Evie looked up her emerald eyes finding his clear jade green ones.

There really was something about this man, it was different from Comte and also different when compared to the other soldier in the mansion. It was a quiet dominance that gave subliminal weight to anything he did, even standing still talking with him projected the idea you were talking to a born leader.

“Of you. Sebastian informed me of a new guest and said that they were a lady.” The air around Napoleon felt much friendlier as it seemed the misunderstanding from before had all but been forgotten. Evie looked back at Comte. He said he would tell the rest of the guests himself, not that she wanted to pry into why Sebastian had been the one to inform this man instead.

There was obviously a little tension between the two men, it wasn’t bad, but it was certainly one that came from a place of respect rather than blind trust. It was very hard to explain and she didn’t even understand how she could feel something so slight from people she had just met.

Uncle had always said she was very sensitive and observant but this was more, it was a feeling that she instinctively didn’t question. People talk about intuition but that had always seemed a little off to her. Even with a strong intuition it was easy to second guess and lose yourself. This was a profound sensation and it was strange because it felt a lot like being more than one person at once in her own body.

“Genevieve this is Napoleon, he is also a guest of mine.” Comte issued the late introduction after the conversation finally seemed to allow for it.

“Is there anyone in Paris who is not a guest of yours?” Evie’s question was out long before her good sense could talk her out of it. Her eyes went saucer round and she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Erm…”

By this point, Comte was used to her little outbursts. Whilst they still had a tendency to catch him off guard, he was inclined to look upon her fondly rather than feel the desire to chastise her. Besides judging by her reaction and the way she was currently looking she was giving herself a much harsher lecture than he could. While Comte and Evie were looking at each other a loud eruption of laughter burst forth from Napoleon.

“Pff -- Bwahaha!”

“I’m sorry.” Evie muttered her apology flinching when Comte placed a hand on her shoulder. Noticing her reaction, he retracted his hand. The brief touch of warmth he felt freezing over as he felt the penalty strike him as he feared it would if he hurt her. He tried to ignore the way that information sat like a steel weight in his chest. Convincing himself he should be content with simply watching her.

“No don’t be I – hahaha – I’m glad to see the shock didn’t do any damage to your body or conviction. Haha pardon. I like how honest you are.” Napoleon was struggling to stop himself from continuing his peel of laughter his shoulders were still shaking as he tried to stifle it and speak.

“If we are finished here, I think it would be best to return home.” Comte interjected which seemed to help Napoleon gather enough power to get his laughter under control.

“Home?” Evie asked curiously before taking an interest in the people around them. The gathering of onlookers was a little smaller but she was very aware that even if they had returned to their previous tasks they were still glancing in her direction.

Still, when Comte said home he meant the mansion and there was a feeling of chilling dread that filled her chest as she thought of that. Could she go back there and cheat what she feared most in her mind? Would she avoid being the source of someone else’s pain or would she fail and have another torment to add to her collection?

“Yes, we need to tend to that ankle of yours.” Comte drew a little closer, sensing of her rising anxiety.

He wanted to take her hand as he had always done but she recoiled at his touch and he did not wish to be an added source of her discomforts. He hoped that his words could be enough reassurance to her and she would choose to come back. He tried to ignore the selfish desire he had to be alone with her once more. He wanted to apologise properly and allow for dialogue to once more be open between them. He knew how detrimental the passage of time could be as it passed by removing the opportunity to speak freely. The only survivor of the situation being the air of extreme awkwardness that hung like a cloud.

“I don’t really…” Evie hesitated and winced again the pain in her ankle silencing her.

Napoleon hadn’t pushed for details and he was not stupid enough to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. He could see the concern in Comte’s eyes as he watched the young girl with black hair. He had seen similar looks in the eyes of men on the battlefield. It was a look of understanding your fate is in the hands of another and acceptance that their actions would define the world to come.

The woman was curious, it wasn’t that he was immune to her charms he felt them keenly drawing him in. It made him instinctively wish to help her. It was strange and he had felt something similar when he had experienced meeting Comte for the first time.  He took a certain level of pride in being a good judge of character and he found her to be interesting, honest and trustworthy.

“I’ll join you as well as I was on my way back anyway.” Napoleon spoke up in response to the idea of returning. He had been on his way back anyway so it was of little concern to him if he travelled alone or with companionship. If his presence meant that the young lady should feel more settled than if she were to travel with only le Comte for company then he considered it his duty to do at least that much.

“Did you not ride into town?” Comte enquired feeling a deflated sensation taking hold of him.

“Not today.” Napoleon didn’t seem to care or notice the shadows crossing the amber eyes of the pure blood Count. He did, however, slip his arm around the waist of the injured girl. He did it in such a way that it was completely natural, a silent declaration of the fact this is where it should be. Evie could not find the words to protest and found her weight naturally leaning on the strong arm around her as Napoleon guided her towards the carriages.

Comte knew it was to support her and help her. He knew it was a purely platonic motion and there was nothing meaningful about it. Logically he knew all this and still a dark whisper in his mind had him questioning every small glance and muscle twitch between the two now walking in front of him.

“Well isn’t that splendid?”

---

“So, it failed.” Amos sat mulling over the ill-fated news as he watched the foam dissolve on the head of beer in his glass.

“Yes. There was interference and the female found protection at the most inconvenient time.” Latour had appeared like a tempest and was working his anger out on a bowl of nuts crushing the shells in his bare hands, placing their contents to the side. He didn’t really like nuts, he didn’t really enjoy any human food anymore. It was all ash in his mouth.

Blood was all he craved to slate his thirst and fill his belly. Alcohol provided a change in pace, whilst providing natural cover from the passing observer. Cigarettes helped keep him busy, it was a throwback to his time as a human. Watching the curling smoke from the lit shredded tobacco, how it filled his lungs. It helped him focus, it helped him think and it blocked out some of the atrocious scents of the cattle around him.

“Not by the Reo’s doing?” Amos asked watching the bowl of mixed nuts grow empty. He was a little pleased that his disciple had learnt to vent his anger in a way that drew less attention to him. He remembered how troublesome it had been in previous years during training when he had been forced to keep a tight leash on him or risk exposure.

“No, it was another. One from the mansion although they are not part of the familia.” Latour reached a particularly stubborn walnut and after squeezing it towards its obliteration he finally seemed to relax.

“Did they suspect foul play?” Amos drank the dregs of his pint and scooped up a handful of the freshly shelled nuts on the table.

“No, My Lord” Latour confirmed what was possibly the only saving grace of the misadventure. Failure was not an option Latour knew it would spell the end of everything for him. His master had no use for tools that could not fulfil a task.

“Good, then there is still a chance we can approach the matter again.” Amos smiled the lamplight caught the very tip of his exposed fangs before he expertly moved his head playing it off as a trick of the light for anyone who might have seen it.

“What would you have me do?”

---

[illegiblewords]

5 Questions for Writers!

               5 Questions for Writers                                                        

I got tagged by @kunstpause, it looked like fun so figured I’d go for it! THANKS TO KUNST!

Tagging @wouldyouliketoseemymask, @nilim, @azwoodbomb, @peregrineroad, @frostmantle, @autumnslance, @strangefellows, @redbud-tree, @nozomikei​, and @rivenroad​. No obligation to anyone but full permission to steal granted to anyone else who might like to. I’ll literally be delighted if you pick this up spontaneously and blame me as an excuse lmao.

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

I made long answers so have a cut!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

It depends heavily on what fandom and where I am mentally, but I’ve figured out I tend to love writing angsty lameass dudes with blonde hair who are prone to doing really silly things despite taking themselves entirely too seriously. Honestly, I have a pretty huge track record at this point. Harvey Dent, Vexen, Dmitri, Lahabrea, probably more besides. Every one of them fits the right balance of lameass to angst. I like seeing them grow and find fulfillment as people and they are very very cute while still having an edge of badassery and cleverness. Also they’re funny.

Lahabrea is my favorite at the moment, and him reaching that position is an accomplishment considering how stiff the competition is in FFXIV. Loser tricked his way to the top while I was busy laughing at him.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

I really, really, really love redemption arcs and people recovering from fucked up experiences. Latter case especially I love seeing characters in those situations successfully connect to the people and world around them, especially if they get to grow together with a partner. I also LOVE “hero saves the villain and villain takes it to heart”.

(You may be sensing a theme here haha.)

There are a few reason these concepts resonate with me, the first being I think they’re really hopeful, inspiring, and something I always wanted to see growing up but rarely did.

People fuck up in life. People get hurt in horrible ways that bring out the worst in them. Sometimes when that happens they dig themselves deeper and deeper into ugliness. The more a person’s bad side comes out, the more hopeless it can feel. And for mental illness especially I’ve found this can be a major issue.

Everyone makes mistakes and everyone has flaws, but I think there’s something really significant in seeing someone who has hit rock bottom, who can no longer imagine a way out, get offered a hand for support and take it. While recovery and redemption (not synonymous of course) ultimately need to be carried by the individual struggling, I really can’t understate how important it is to know in those situations that you’re not alone and someone believes in you.

I think a big part of why this theme is important to me is because mental illness, both genetic and due to trauma, is something unbelievably difficult and painful not only for the sufferer but those around them. The most mentally ill characters in fiction tend to be villains, and are disproportionately more likely to be suffering severe trauma. It frustrated me since I was pretty young to see over and over again cases where a mess could have been avoided if there was any support system in place.

Seeing compassion and connection given that kind of power means a lot to me, as does recognizing that villains are people before they are villains. It’s also very reassuring in the sense of “If this person fucked up that badly but still tried to better themself, I can too. And odds are I’m also worthy of love and compassion, even when my issues make things harder for others. I just have to keep working to improve.”

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

Eff.

Straight up I think I’ve written too much to have just one favorite description. It’s been a lot of years and I have hundreds of fics and I’m lame. So I’m going to put a few of my favs.

Anytime there’s a gap in block quotes it’s a different section within the same fic.

22 - A Batman Fanfic

He trembles beneath the weight of their expectations but his smile never fades flashes before cameras microphones under his nose crowds screaming questions bleeding together he answers like clockwork the District Attorney who must bring justice to us all paying tribute to false idols with golden hair and silver tongues we the people bow down in worship to this guardian of the law with words and deeds I believe in Harvey Dent so he swears in hallowed halls to bring prosperity to smite the wicked to damn the criminal with authority invested in him by Gotham’s dutiful children and himself.

***

On the precipice of victory we stand united our voice raised like a torch like a spear like a golden arrow against the beast of Lerna we are gods and monsters we are so much more than good and evil we are order in the court cauterizing corruption our head held high and mighty manifest in Harvey of the doubletalk Harvey who writes himself into the fabric of Gotham’s history Harvey who will not bend before the Roman we command you the unworthy we condemn you the unrighteous we will not be merciful and you will fall before our eyes.

***

I am Dionysus divided at the altar of Tyche O Fortuna O Fortuna give me guidance in the light of the moon you dance sacred silver dollar I see and obey the wax and wane your whim Wheel of Fortune the card I am dealt your servant your slave venerated puppet of flesh blessed is your wisdom bestowed upon I am your disciple wine-mad twisted chanting your word becomes law holy splendor against gavels desecrating your name defiant in denial extend your will through me and we shall strike the innocent enlighten the ignorant or spare them all for now.

Doppelganger - A Spider-Man Fanfic

She asks him to tell the story of himself, and like Scheherazade he begins anew each day.

As with many other things, this comparison is imperfect. The Ravencroft Institute is hardly a palace and neither of them could pass for royalty. She sits in a chair across from him over a carpet the color of sawdust. Her walls are lined with insects pinned on display. Not many butterflies, quite a few beetles. On a bookshelf Dmitri sees The Metamorphosis nestled between non-fiction texts more relevant to her profession. He thinks maybe it's an inside joke she has with herself, but doesn't say so.

He's received an invitation to call her Ashley instead of Dr. Kafka and doesn't know whether to accept. It might be to make him more comfortable. It might be something else. In her late fifties Kafka is built from delicate features, and he suspects the lines around her eyes mean they crinkle when she smiles. Short black hair, beige suit, only jewelry a pair of diamond stud earrings. Dmitri thinks she looks like a mother, but not his.

Her weight sinks into leather, darker than the floor. The couch he rests on matches. He finds himself leaning forward with one elbow propped on his thigh, the other locked in a cast suspended by his neck. There is something reassuringly empty in the gray fabric of his uniform, cheap and utilitarian and harmless. Dmitri’s wrists are thin, but then he's lost a lot of weight recently. He probably wouldn't be able to run as fast as he used to, but then circumstances would be the same anywhere he went so that really doesn't matter. His espionage days are over. His free arm is shedding in flakes but at least his skin is dry. Clean.

Dmitri no longer looks like anyone, unrecognizable to himself. A face without much in the way of edges, short nose. Weak chin. Mismatched eyes that shift between green and blue and brown and every other natural hue as moments pass into minutes pass into hours. Dark blotches interrupt his forehead and chin. They will peel in new patterns across a span of days. For the most part though, he is pale enough to trace veins where his body seems on the brink of spilling out.

It's been a while since he shaved his head and the hair that grows back is almost foreign. An unruly mess of black, blond, brunet, and red—strands as unlike in texture as anything else. The mask that made him Chameleon was white plastic embedded with hardware. Left deformed after trying to resemble others in flesh too many times, it allowed him to duplicate any face, any body he could remember. More than holograms, the most complete sensory illusions technology could perform.

Without it, Dmitri feels stripped.

When Kafka looks at him she’s receiving constant signals and missing none of them. The moments he needs to turn away, flat monosyllabic turns of phrase he chooses or resorts to or blankly accepts as his own. It doesn’t have to be this way. It isn’t comfortable and he doesn’t even trust it’s not calculated. But she’s going to notice no matter what he does at this point, and lying about it doesn’t do anyone much good. They both know why he’s here.

***

“We were poor. We worked hard to keep ourselves fed and clothed and less than an embarrassment. I probably could have worked harder. Mother,” he begins before stumbling over himself.

The story he’s telling isn’t hers. Whatever else she was, Sonya Smerdyakov wasn’t Mrs. Bates. He remembers her voice as the beginning of an echo, forever following someone else’s lead.

And so he followed her.

She was bright like a light going out. She was gentle without being kind. Her fingers were short and delicate and she touched him as little as possible. He found her attention in the way she avoided his name.

***

In the privacy of his room, Dmitri began talking to himself.

Celebrities. Teachers. Children. The flat, steady rhythm of his father’s voice. The words and intonations favored by mother. Sergei’s laugh. He lost himself in a fantasy of conversations, strode through space to mimic confidence he didn’t feel, flashed teeth in front of his mirror like other people.

Once, Dmitri raised his voice. And when his older brother came, eyebrows knitting in confusion, he found himself full of stammered explanations, hands fumbling at his elbows, stumbling over his tongue to make sense of it.

Just making stories for himself. A game with no ending. That was all.

***

He would have died in that town under the eyes of speechless parents. Dmitri remembers the confusion that took his peers when he found a job for people who spoke for themselves. They thought he might be growing up.

He could lie. And when he began he understood it would always be a game with no ending.

Dmitri lost himself in a fantasy of conversations with real people and a voice that didn’t belong to him.

They asked a stranger to sign their yearbooks without even realizing it.

And then he was eighteen, and he left to continue elsewhere.

He didn’t announce his departure.

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn’t focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure’s neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

***

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald’thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald’thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald’thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

***

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric’s mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can’t tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

Stalemate - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

 Don’t…

 Don’t leave me like this…

***

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian senseless for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

Just imagine me weeping over here lmao. Same deal as before, I’VE DONE TOO MUCH SHIT.

Spare Change - A Batman Fanfic

"Stop," he gasps, "I wouldn’t—"

"You would Harvey. You did. It’s what makes you such a damn good instrument. You had to test yourself, prove that you’re not a real person.” He can feel fingers grinding against bone. His knees bend. Harvey kneels, shuddering, gazing up into the destruction of his own visage. Two-Face meets his eyes, blue on blue. “People are weak. People are ruled by what they want and don’t want. You’re capable of anything if the wind blows just right. You can’t even stop yourself.”

"I wouldn’t," he repeats, numbly.

"Did you," demands Two-Face, forcing him down further, "or did you not flip for their lives, Harvey Dent?"

"We…We aren’t the same people anymore."

"Of COURSE we’re the same people!" Another shove and he’s on the ground, Two-Face sitting on his chest, teeth bared, coin clenched tight between them. "Do you really think you can close your eyes and pretend you aren’t capable of these things? They’re alive," and there is something hideous in his expression, something certain, "because they were lucky. No other reason.”

"The coin is gone! Even if I wanted to listen to it—I can’t!”

"If you’re so sure," says Two-Face, "then how about you improvise?”

And with one motion the silver dollar is under his tongue, forced back so hard he feels himself gag and begin to choke before his eyes open.

The Inquisitor’s Letters - A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfic

To His Worship Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan of Skyhold, My name is Isell from Amaranthine and I’m seven. My mum is helping but says I can send you all by myself. Thank you for fixing the hole in the sky and also the one by the dead man’s house. There were demons but they’re mostly gone now and people are going outside now. Da says Amaranthine has been through too much and can survive anything and he says you’re an elf like us and the Hero of Ferelden was an elf too. He says people used to think elves can’t be heroes but now they don’t. Have you met the Hero of Ferelden? Also I heard that even though you’re Dalish Andraste helped you in the Fade and that humans let you be in the Chantry because anyone Andraste likes must be a really good person. What’s Andraste like? The Chant says a lot but it’s different meeting someone I think. Also I think I saw you a little before but Mum wasn’t sure because you had a helmet on and we were far away and there were a lot of people but I bet it was you. Da wasn’t sure I should write because he says the Dalish don’t like city elves like we are but I think you must be nice and Mum agrees with me. I’ve been playing demon hunters with my brother Arrion (he’s just five still) and Da said templars are who fights demons usually and elves can’t be templars. People thought elves couldn’t be heroes and inquisitors though and we are so I bet I could too. Is it hard fighting demons? Da says they’re real scary but I’m not scared. Thank you for helping us and everyone and I hope you kill lots of demons. Sincerely, Isell U’venlan

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

“I fought at Carteneau, you know,” she mentions casually. There is a soft hsssssshhhh. Click.

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. “…you saw Bahamut?”

Memesu snorts. “I’m sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut.” Click.

“That’s probably true,” he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. “What about the Warriors of Light?”

“Pff.” Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. “I wasn’t of rank to see their like. Not that I’d remember. Stop moving.” Click.

Cenric hesitates.

“What do you remember, then?”

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, “I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together.”

 Was.

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

“She died?”

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

“It was Carteneau,” says Memesu. “Of course she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Click. “It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you’re going to get self-important.”

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

 Click.

 Click.

 Click.

“Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details.” There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu’s voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. “I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn’t dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo’te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there’s less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless.” Click. “The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted.” Click. “I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close.”

Cenric doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

Memesu continues. “One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I’m pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered.”

 Click.

“Memeni… didn’t anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side.” Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. Click. Click. “Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. ” Memesu sighs. “…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn’t even resemble herself at the end.”

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

“…I wish it could have gone differently,” he says at last.

Memesu’s mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. “So do I.”

Eclipse - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It ends at Elidibus’ untimely arrival.

“Lord Zodiark,” he says, so smoothly that were he not searching for it that the anger would be undetectable, “appreciates your attentions.”  His gaze does not waver from Lahabrea as he speaks. “But there is work to be done and I’m afraid there are words I would have with your Speaker.”

They disperse.

Nabriales, careful and curious, folds himself out of sight beyond the chamber then makes his way back to its edge.

Lahabrea, farthest from the exit, attempts to steal some small dignity. Turns to face Elidibus.

The Emissary makes him wait. Expressionless red masks matched by those who wear them.

Then, with more speed and force than typical for his demeanor, the Emissary closes distance to trap his colleague against the wall.

“It was my error,” hisses Elidibus, leaning in, “to have stayed silent upon rescuing you. A mistake I will remedy now, so we can be on no uncertain terms.”

Lahabrea lowers his eyes. Nabriales notes that despite the dread they all share of such reprimands, the man does not brace.

“You know as well as I that these words offer less succor to our Lord than action,” continues Elidibus, his fury quiet and no less sharp for that, “just as we both know your thoughtless action is the cause of repeated missteps these past centuries. Make no mistake—for all the strides you’ve made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time.”

Silence.

“Do you truly think this is your best service to Him?” asks Elidibus. “To us? Compromising your ability to fill the hours? Even Emet-Selch agrees these displays are disgraceful. You have ever borne them poorly, but being a 'paragon among paragons' naturally you continue ignoring your own better judgment with ours to continue this exercise in futility. Idiot.”

A twitch of the head. Almost a flinch.

It is one of few moments Nabriales has seen the Emissary express his anger so openly. Even after the Thirteenth fell to Igeyorhm’s error, Elidibus allowed the Angel of Truth to lead and voiced his own reproach with a more typical icy demeanor. Scathing though it was.

“I can be of use,” says Lahabrea softly. “Only three of us remain, and I—“

“You,” Elidibus snaps, “cannot follow the most simple instructions for the good of us all. Not for Him, not for Amaurot, not even for yourself. Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability.”

Neither man speaks for several moments after that.

And then, at length, Elidibus exhales.

Says the Speaker’s name.

Receives his attention.

“What would you have me do?” the Emissary asks. His tone now is almost weary. “Clearly it would be unreasonable to trust you’d simply listen. Must I mind you like a child?” This is what breaks Lahabrea’s composure.

Knowing the man’s temper, Nabriales had expected him to lash out. Even on the back foot their orator is perfectly capable of defending himself from insults.

Instead, he embraces Elidibus fiercely—face just within the bounds of his pauldrons. Jaw locked shut firmly enough to hurt. Expression downcast.

Elidibus remains perfectly still at first. In the absence of conversation it is possible to hear the rush of Lahabrea’s breathing. Only through the nose, withheld briefly between each inhale as if that offers some means to steady himself.

As if that would make it better.

Tentatively, Elidibus holds him back. Lahabrea's fingers contract, and though he remains upright when his knees begin to give it is the Emissary who helps him kneel.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and Lahabrea removes one hand to run it reflexively over his face—coming against the mask.

Nabriales finds himself staring, searching. A puzzle with missing pieces whose image he may yet divine

“It was not,” says Lahabrea roughly, “my intention to…”

Elidibus reaches beneath the other man’s cowl, finds the hair and skin beneath. Draws him in once more.

Naught that would be shared with or among the Sundered. Nothing so personal as that.

Nabriales has worn his own share of flesh. Bedded lovers, adopted companions and families of vessels to fulfill a purpose. Passable enough, perhaps, but never for him. Not in truth.

It’s as if he looks upon two strangers.

Parched - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

The door closes behind them. Lahabrea, projecting his preferred likeness over the host, waits on a couch within.

It’s admittedly a surreal sight. Ishgardian finery with its gilded edges, its elaborate wallpapers and marble floors. A collection of creams and blues and greens, fine furniture with velvet seat cushions. All ostentatious in the extreme… and then Lahabrea. Masked and cowled. Pouring three glasses of La Noscean arrack.

Elidibus freezes, and though none of them can see his eyes the confusion is clear enough.

“What is this?”

“Your turn,” says Emet-Selch, lightly but less flippant than he might have been.

Lahabrea proffers a cup from where he sits.

Elidibus neither moves nor speaks.

Emet-Selch approaches. Takes the drink. Presses it carefully into the other man’s hand.

“Don’t think,” he says smoothly,” that I won’t let you drop it.”

Mercifully, Elidibus has a good grip.

“Sit,” says Lahabrea, gesturing with his own glass to the sofa across from him.

Elidibus sits.

Emet-Selch sits.

Takes his own glass, perhaps a bit pointedly.

Elidibus’ mouth is pressed tight. It opens briefly, as if to speak. Shuts again.

“Explain,” the Emissary manages eventually.

Lahabrea meets his co-conspirator’s eye. Downs his arrack in a single attempt.

It is a long attempt.

It lasts several moments.

The other Ascians watch.

“Elidibus,” says Emet-Selch as Lahabrea endeavors to catch his breath in the aftermath, “Lahabrea and I are concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulties in recent years.”

“I’m fine,” replies Elidibus coldly. Holding his drink. “Why did you think this necessary?”

“Because—“ wheezes Lahabrea.

“Because you’re practically a mammet,” says Emet-Selch, picking up Lahabrea’s glass. Moving it just out of reach. “Truly. It’s been what, two hundred years? Three? Neither of us can remember the last time you so much as spoke of matters unrelated to the Rejoining.”

Lahabrea reaches. Elidibus pours his arrack into the other man’s glass before nudging it back toward him.

Elidibus makes eye contact with Emet-Selch.

“I remain focused,” he says evenly. “Nothing more.”

Emet-Selch gestures to the bottle.

Elidibus sighs.

Refills his own glass.

“There are matters I must attend myself. As is the case with each of you.”

“Undoubtedly,” replies Lahabrea more evenly. “But with few exceptions, you haven’t done so.”

A hard stare from behind the mask.

“What would you have me do? I can’t very well take time off.”

Emet-Selch sips.

“A negligible amount of time,” he says, “taken sparingly, may be forgivable.”

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

Lmao see this is a plus side/minus side deal. Minus side, it’s being asked just before I embark on a MASSIVE ASS FANFIC. And I basically am excited for all of it. Plus side, there are things I refuse to spoil.

So... putting it vaguely, in no particular order:

- Lahabrea and Hydaelyn meet a second time after Praetorium.

- Moonfire Faire

- Thancred

- Conversations over mulled wine

- Silvertear Lake

Some of these are sex scenes. Most aren’t. But I am very hyped.

[trancowboy]

Hi Charlie, I'm making a thing and I was wondering if you could help me by shraing your view about steve rogers and bucky barnes, as individual characters as well as your view of their relationship together, headcanons and such, is totally okay if you can't, but if you do I'd be eternally grateful! Thanks anyway

Pal, you basically just invited me to write a whole entire essay about these two assholes, so… I’m sorry? This is gonna get long and most likely sad.

Steve Rogers:

Steve is an asshole, through and through. He’s got a heart of gold and being a good person is in his nature, but my god is he an asshole.

He will fight anyone who does him or anyone he cares about wrong. He won’t hesitate to pick a fight and he would much rather throw some punches than have a verbal conversation/discussion.

Steve Rogers talks with his fists. He’ll fight until he physically can’t stand anymore and even then he will stand up and push himself just that last little bit.

(”I could do this all day.” Steve, my angry baby, have a seat and take a nap.)

Steve is the bisexual we deserve. I think he’s always been aware that he’s attracted to both men and women, but he never told anyone about it back in the day. He didn’t need people to have another reason to beat him up, so he kept it quiet.

(And if he paid a little more attention to certain drawings of a certain boy, then that was his business.)

I don’t think he knew there was a name for what he feels until he woke up in the future. But once he found out and learned more about it, I like to think he’d be a Proud Bi and just tell everyone he comes across because it’s okay now and he can do it.

Sure, it gets a little tiring when he answers his phone with, “Steve Rogers, proud bisexual. Hello,” but his friends get used to it and strangers get past the confusion quickly.

Steve swears. A lot. Like a whole fucking lot. I actively ignore the whole “Language” line (unless it was a joke that Steve only told because he’s tired of the ~grandpa~ jokes, which, ok, I can get behind that) because Steve Rogers has the mouth of a fucking sailor.

Steve can swear up a storm but compliment him or flirt with him or be extra nice or anything and he’ll blush like a tomato and become so awkward he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Even after all these years, Steve still feels a bit awkward in this new body of his. He doesn’t miss being skinny and sickly and tiny and on the brink of death all the time, but sometimes he doesn’t like being big and muscle-y either. Sometimes he doesn’t like how he can’t make himself invisible as easily as he used to.

Sometimes he just wants to curl up under the covers of his bed and hide from the outside world that has painted him as a person he’s not; a world that sees him as a soldier and Captain America™ rather than a human being.

He lives in a world he doesn’t recognize where everyone he ever knew and cared about are either dead or only remembers him half the time. This deleted scene from The Avengers shows just how detached to the world he feels and honestly, I have way too many feelings about that three minute video.

Steve throws himself into danger (jumping on a grenade without thought, crashing the Valkyrie, jumping out of a plane without a parachute, etc) because he doesn’t really care whether he lives or dies. He never feared death because death has loomed over him like a shadow since he was a child.

And maybe he wants death to take him sometimes. He definitely wanted to when he crashed the Valkyrie. He could have fought more, could have figured out a way to save the world and still survive, but he was tired and he just wanted it to end, so he stopped fighting.

And then he woke up 70 years later to more fighting and he just never slowed down or took a break, because if he did, he’d have to deal with how he was feeling and he couldn’t handle that. He didn’t want to deal with it because it was too painful.

While extremely heavy on the angst, Einherjar by thecommodore_squid perfectly portrays Steve’s depression. Steve in that fic is pretty much exactly how I see him.

MOVING ON TO HAPPIER THINGS, SHALL WE?

Steve is a Disney nerd. He probably didn’t get to catch up on all the new Disney movies between TFA and CW, but between giving up the shield and becoming Nomad (@ marvel let me have bearded!nomad!steve pls and thanks) he probably took a breather for the first time in years and started on the list.

(Does he sit with a laptop by Bucky’s cryo freezer and watches them with him??? haha shoot me)

Steve will fight for what he believes in, no matter what. He proved that in CW when he gave up everything for Bucky without thinking twice.

And then, of course, there’s my headcanon that Steve is trans but if I dive into that, this thing is gonna end up 100k on Steve alone.

Bucky Barnes:

Bucky cares so much. He’s the guy who stood by this skinny, little punk’s side when no one else did. He’s the guy who probably worked his ass off for hours and hours just to get enough money so Steve could get healthy (or healthier) again.

He’s the guy who went through torture and trauma and had the opportunity to get an honorable discharge after what he went through, but he didn’t. Instead he followed his best friend back into war and it cost him his life and freedom and self.

But I’d bet my left foot that he’d do it all again, because he’s Bucky and Bucky cares so goddamn much about everyone but himself.

Bucky is gay. Yes, he was with women back in the day and yes, he kissed them and fooled around with them and probably got off a little, but I think he did it just because it was expected of him.

If it wasn’t because it would be suspicious to everyone else, he would probably just stay home with Steve and pine every single day.

Bucky is such a giant fucking nerd. He finds science and technology incredibly exciting. I mean, he did spend his last night before going off to war dragging Steve to the Stark Expo (and their dates but eh).

Imagine his reaction to all the science stuff he missed while being used by Hydra? He’s gonna light up like a child on Christmas. God, I love my nerd son so much.

Bucky is smart as hell and no one can convince me otherwise. I mean, “[…] having been an excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom” is proof enough.

Bucky has been through hell and back several times. He’s been wiped of his memories and himself until he was a blank slate for Hydra to do whatever they wanted to with, and it’s happened probably more times than he’s been able to keep track of. And every time he started regaining just a little bit of himself or just one little memory, the torture would start all over again.

He’s been through hell, so it shouldn’t surprise anyone that he suffers from a severe case of PTSD.

Bucky Barnes is a man who cares and protects and when he’s made into a weapon who kills and murders and destroys – when he himself becomes the danger, he locks himself away because he thinks that’s the best thing for everybody.

Steve + Bucky:

There’s no Steve without Bucky, and there’s no Bucky without Steve. Steve and Bucky have always been SteveandBucky, and one without the other means they’re never really whole.

They’re their own person, sure, but they’re better together. They make each other better. Bucky makes sure Steve doesn’t kill himself with his stupidity and recklessness, and Steve makes sure Bucky gets protected and cared for too.

Steve will give up everything for Bucky, no hesitation and no questions asked, and Bucky will do whatever it takes to protect Steve, even if that means hurting him in the process (ie going into cryo).

Bucky is Steve’s dark side and Steve will do anything for him.

I have mixed thoughts on who fell in love with who first. My first instinct is to say Bucky fell in love with Steve first because of all the obvious pining in TFA, but then I think about little Steve Rogers who everyone beat up and disregarded and didn’t care about getting saved by this wonderful boy who doesn’t look down on him and treats him like an equal and I think it was easy for Steve to fall in love with Bucky, so I’m just¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

It doesn’t really matter who fell in love with who first though, does it? What mattes is that they love each other unconditionally and ‘til the end of the line (and beyond cause c’mon. That kinda love is never gonna die).

To end on a lighter note, I’m gonna give you some fluffy headcanons cause I have A Lot.

Steve is the big spoon. He always has been. Bucky loved when there was a skinny octopus clinging to him and barely being able to cover him and he loves it when he’s surrounded by pillowy muscles and warmth.

Bucky was Steve’s favorite subject to draw. And even after everything, even when he hadn’t seen him for years and thought he was dead, Steve still drew him because he never wanted to forget the face of the man he loves.

Whenever Bucky talks about science stuff, he gets all excited and extra cute, and Steve always falls in love with him a little bit more.

Same for when Steve talks about art or literally anything he’s passionate about. Steve could talk about poop and piss for an hour, and Bucky would be making heart-eyes at him the whole time.

Steve used to wear Bucky’s shirts all the time. His excuse used to be that he was too lazy to do laundry, but really, he just liked wearing Bucky’s clothes. (Bucky never minded.)

Clothes sharing is a Thing with these two. It’s a Thing that happens a lot and no one can convince me otherwise.

Bucky loves having his hair played with and Steve loves to play with Bucky’s hair.

Bucky has always loved dancing. That doesn’t change over the years, and he will make Steve dance with him again. (”I don’t care that the serum didn’t fix your two left feet, Stevie, dance with me.”)

When they finally do get together (whether that was before the war or after TWS doesn’t matter) Steve never wastes an opportunity to tell Bucky he loves him, and Steve takes every chance he can to kiss him because now he can.

Steve was probably the one who made the first move.

Steve is a little shit and Bucky loves him even when he’s being Extra and Dramatic and even when Bucky’s exasperated with him. Steve can be as much of an asshole as he wants to, because Bucky will always love him.

Bucky loves flirting with Steve just to see Steve blush bright red. (Sometimes Bucky will just casually put his hand on Steve’s butt or boob and Steve will become Captain Tomato.)

Steve will fucking fight anyone who says anything bad about Bucky.

Conclusion: Give these boys some hugs and a happy ending, please and thank you.

Anyway, I’ve got a ton more Thoughts but this is already so stupidly long, so I’m gonna stop there. Hope this was helpful (was it??? idk) and thank you for letting me ramble on about these two fuckers.

PS, tell me more about your thing or link me, maybe, if you wanna 👀

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #stevebucky #stucky #otp: till the end of the line #anonymous #answered #this distracted me for a while #which i really needed #so thank you