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jekde04 · 3 years

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Unbreakable Vow

Summary: There had been many false alarms in the past, moments when she thought Gray would finally accept her feelings. She once again had her hopes up, even though she knew this was probably another one of those.

Word Count: 1,503 words

You may also read it on FanFiction.net and AO3! Check out my master list for other Gruvia fics.

Tag List: @shampooneko @fbflame94 @juviaafullbuster @unvalley @gruviaftw11 (Wanna be tagged, lemme know)

When she said those words, she hadn't really expected he would do it for her.

Of course, everyone in Magnolia knew of his habit of stripping his clothes at random—she in particular enjoyed it quite a lot—but he did it almost unconsciously, out of force of habit.

She never thought the day would come that her Gray-sama would actually undress willingly in front of her.

In her room. After she jokingly asked him to do so.

"Well?" Gray asked, his muscled chest, arms, and abs in full display as he carelessly tossed his coat and shirt on her bed.

For all her cheeky jokes and naughty teases, she was still a shy and conservative girl underneath it all. She couldn't help but get flustered as she eyed the deep V-shaped cuts of his lower abs that disappeared beneath his low-cut jeans.

"W-why is Gray-sama undressing in front of Ju-Juvia?"

Gray smirked, and Juvia instantly knew he was enjoying this. Oh, her Gray-sama could be so mean sometimes.

"You said you'd inspect my body for any wounds, right? I'm just doing what you asked me to," he answered casually with a shrug of his shoulders. "Are you going to do it or not?"

Well, he had a point. If Gray had an injury somewhere, it needed to be cleaned and patched up.

She had to do it for her Gray-sama, Juvia thought. This was no time to be embarrassed.

Keeping her composure, she sat on the empty space beside him on her bed. She felt a tingle run up her spine as their arms lightly brushed against each other.

"Let Juvia see, Gray-sama," she said as she carefully inspected his face first, her fingers treading on his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she continued looking for any cut or bruise or scratch on his neck, shoulders, arms, chest, and abs.

As he said before, he was fine. There were some minor cut and scratch here and there, but they were far from being life-threatening. A little dab of alcohol (with Juvia blowing on it so it wouldn't sting) and a small band-aid were enough to patch him up.

"Juvia."

Gray's serious tone made Juvia look up from the tiny cut she was treating on his collarbone. His intense stare bored into her.

"I… I..."

Juvia waited for his next words, but he looked as if he was trapped in an internal struggle on what to say next. She knew that words weren't his strongest suit, so she decided to help him out.

"Did the mission go well?"

Gray sighed, relieved that Juvia opened up the conversation. "Yes. But it's not yet done. We still have to go back and finish it."

Juvia nodded. She was really hoping that it would all be done, and they could spend more time with each other. All the constant worrying also stressed her out. She knew that he promised to come back, but you never really know what might happen during dangerous missions like this one.

Speaking of coming back…

"Gray-sama, before you disappeared last time, you were about to say something." Juvia cleared her throat. "You said that when you come back…"

Gray's cheeks colored slightly, though his eyes wore a determined look. "I... I was just saying that when I come back…" He stared right at her, and she tried her best not to look away.

There had been many false alarms in the past, moments when she thought Gray would finally accept her feelings, but they didn't end the way she wanted them to. Despite that, she craved for such moments, and even though she knew in her mind that this was probably another one of those false alarms, she still had her hopes up. After all, even if Gray wasn't that great with words, he always made her feel special with his subtle actions.

The words would come eventually, she told herself. Be patient, Juvia.

But the more they stared silently at each other, the more that Juvia was convinced that perhaps, this was still not the right time. That maybe Gray still wasn't ready. Maybe she was pressuring him—

"When I come back, I'll be a man worthy of you." Gray finally said.

Juvia couldn't believe her ears. Was this some hyper-real fantasy she was conjuring in her head?

"I swear... that I will do my best to make you happy, for each and every day that you choose to stay by my side..."

Juvia wanted to slap herself to make sure everything was real, but instead, she remained frozen in place as Gray said the words she never thought she would hear from him.

"... if you would still have me, of course," he finished reluctantly, as if he was expecting her to shoot him down right there. When Juvia just stared at him and didn't say anything, he unclasped his silver cross necklace and reached forward to place it around her neck.

Juvia could feel his breath against her cheek as Gray leaned over. She felt herself getting flushed with their proximity as time seemed to stretch forever. Her heart was drumming in her ears, it was impossible he couldn't hear it.

In a daze, she palmed the cross now resting on her chest. It was cold in her warm hands, much like its owner.

Looking up, she found herself staring straight into Gray's onyx eyes, a light blush adorning his cheeks. Their faces were just a few inches apart, and she could easily close the distance if she just moved a little closer…

"Gray-sama."

His name escaped her lips like a whispered prayer only he could hear, making him reach out and cup one of her cheeks. They didn't realize how close they were to each other until they felt the tip of their noses touch, but neither pulled back. Juvia's eyes instinctively closed, her lashes brushing against his cheeks.

She felt his lips cover her own, at first soft and reluctant, as if asking for permission. Opening her lips slightly, Gray kissed her again, deeper this time, angling his head and nibbling at her lower lip.

Matching his intensity, her hands slid to his broad shoulders all the way to his back. She felt his other hand against the small of her back, pressing her closer to his body. They stopped momentarily when they felt the need for air, but the reprieve was short as he dove in, again and again, making up for all the moments he could have kissed her like this but didn't.

It was a dream, Juvia was sure. A dream she wished would never end.

But it did end eventually, though there was no doubt it was real. Her flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, and Gray's arms wrapped around her were enough evidence that it wasn't just a product of her wild imagination.

"Juvia," he whispered, her name on his lips sending an electric shock to her body. "Promise me you'll wait for me."

"Juvia promises," she answered without hesitation, looking straight into his eyes. She once again clasped the cross on her chest, knowing that even without his words, he would certainly come back home to her. And she would wait, no matter how long it would take.

He gave her his signature smirk, but it was matched with so much tenderness in his eyes that she knew it would always be the last thing she would remember every night before she fell asleep. She gave him a smile in return, the one she always reserved for him.

His hand covered the one clasping his necklace, tightening his hold. "I'll leave this to you so that you won't forget the promise I gave you."

"Juvia will never forget Gray-sama's words, with or without this," Juvia answered him. "But since Gray-sama gave Juvia a piece of him…"

Suddenly, Juvia had an idea. She stepped away from a confused Gray and went to her closet. When she came back, she was sporting a wide grin and holding something behind her back.

"Juvia would also like to give Gray-sama a Juvia doll so he'd always remember that Juvia's waiting for him!" she exclaimed, handing the plushie to Gray.

Any other time, Gray would have freaked out at Juvia's unconventional gifts. But he was used to these things by now, and frankly, he loved her for it.

Smiling, he took the Juvia doll in his arms, staring at the dark blue eyes sewn on its hat-covered head. It wasn't the real Juvia, but it would do for now.

"Thanks. I'll take care of my Juvia doll," he said, and Juvia beamed. "But for now—"

He placed the Juvia doll on the table and grabbed her hand, pulling her close to him. Juvia gasped as she found herself locked in his arms once again.

"Let me take care of you while I'm here, okay?"

"Okay."

No Fairy Tail mage saw them again, at least for the rest of that night.

***

A/N: You know, I always get a spark of inspiration from canon materials and official arts. This one’s inspired by Mashima-sensei’s latest autograph session featuring these two artworks below. Next in my pipeline: the Gruvia Day 2021 official art. I already have the story in my head so hopefully I have enough time to finish it in the next two weeks!

#gruvia #gruvia fanfic #gruvia fanfiction #gray x juvia #gray fullbuster #juvia lockser #fairy tail

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demonslayedher · 2 years

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What are your general thoughts on KyoMitsu as a romantic ship? Also good luck on your studies 🤎

（Thank you! I need all the luck I can get. T^T） KyoMitsu would be really, really stinking cute.

Since it didn’t blossom in canon, I’m not one to go fishing for it hiding in there, but had some circumstances been slightly different perhaps it could had been feasible. Keep reading below for light analysis of their canon relationship and playing with fluffy ideas for how it could had been different.

I think the fact that they started as a teacher and student pair prevented them from seeing eachother for romantic potential. Japan went through a Confucian revival in the Edo period which places a heavy emphasis on power balances and obligations and rules in different kinds of relationships, and that would still cast a strong shadow on warrior mindsets down in Taisho, which would thereby make a teacher-student relationship and its imbalances of power much more like a parent-child relationship than anything else (that, and my fandom brain is too influenced by Chinese wuxia like “The Return of Condor Hero” to see teacher/student relationships in martial arts as anything but scandalous, *gasp*).

These two don’t seem interested in scandal, they seem likely to accept the teacher-student relationship at face value. Even as Kyojuro recognizes Mitsuri as a peer once she graduates the Final Selection, and again once they both become Pillars together, he still finds her an endearing kouhai (underclassman) as opposed to simply being a naturally cute girl, and she finds him a doting and cool oniisama as opposed to a prince to sweep her off her feet. Not that anime doesn’t have a history of oniisama-complexes and sempai and, uh, teachers courting much younger heroines, but at least for where these two put their priorities in canon, they don’t seem interested in pushing counter-cultural relationships.

That’s only what we’re shown at the surface level, anyway. Again, slightly different circumstances, or perhaps slightly deeper reading, and maybe we could find some potential for romance even in their teacher-student relationship, and perhaps even because they got to know each other in this context without the pressure of "get married because you are a worthless girl in the Taisho era if you can’t” or “get married because you need to carry on the Rengoku family line.”

That said, it’s interesting that we never see Kyojuro consider his responsibilities to carry the Rengoku line forward. Even though he’s the oldest son and that should naturally fall to him, he seems relieved that the Rengoku family already has a second-in-line male heir, so romance seems far from his mind (again, for what we’re shown in canon; it leaves very wide room for interpretation due to the very absence of it). Had he been an only child, or had Senjuro been born a girl, he might had felt some Taisho era pressure (as well as ongoing Japanese family structure pressure) to take a wife. Instead, the pressure Kyojuro feels is to pass on Flame Breathing and raise someone to be a fitting Flame Pillar. By all rights that should fall to Senjuro too, but Kyojuro doesn’t feel he can leave that to him.

Mitsuri, perhaps, had initially hoped for Kyojuro’s interest. How could she not, as he was probably the strongest man she had ever met, and who was not bothered at all by her strength? Plus, he’s so kind, what girl wouldn’t fall for him? But, as I’ve analyzed her here, Mitsuri’s goals for entering the Corp were two-fold: finding a husband stronger than her was the primary stated goal, but ultimately she wanted a place to belong and be herself. Kyojuro was instrumental in fulfilling that second goal, and she’ll always treasure him for it. But the place he made for her was as a warrior, not a bride, so that probably framed her thinking of him very early on. So again, I keep coming back to them just not seeing each other in a romantic context in canon, because they have feelings for each other that relate more strongly to their place in the Demon Slayer Corp, not in wanting to be intimate soul mates.

Buuuuuuut, maybe, MAYBE if the context were a b-i-i-i-it different, like if Kyojuro did show more interest in not only raising Tsuguko, but raising children, or just generally having the comforts of a romantic partner. And maybe, maaaaaybe if Mitsuri found a different means of entering the Corp, training from someone who could purely feel like a teacher instead of someone to be a high-key soul mate, maaaaaybe that would open the perfect encounter for them to start off on a romantic note. And Kyojuro is indeed *so* high-key, if he set his sights on a girl, there would probably be no mistaking his affections. Go back through canon and replace every time he says “Tsuguko” with “girlfriend.” Go ahead, do it, I’ll wait here.

Meeting on a mission, perhaps. Kyojuro has his hands full trying to keep everyone safe and then out bursts an angel to help, who perhaps literally sweeps him off his feet. Oh my goodness. My gosh, that would be cute. And he asks her out to eat. She’s flighty and embarrassed because THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED, OH MY GOSH, IS IT HAPPENING, but she’s scared she’s going to scare him off with her appetite but HE KEEPS PACE WITH HER OH MY GOSH IT’S A MATCH. And they do nothing but laugh and smile and brighten each other’s faces simply by being in each other’s company and wow, they’ve never felt so happy??? (Meanwhile, Iguro Obanai is crying in a dark corner of the restaurant, where he had no intention of eating anyway.)

So let’s say that meeting each other in a romantic context leads them to become soul mates who seek each other’s light, while also providing endless encouragement. And they quickly agree that they’d make a good marriage match, in a proper Taisho cultural context, and also as Demon Slayer Corp members with a responsibility to raise the next generation of swordsmen, be it as Tsuguko or as offspring. Having such a strong mother bodes well for the next generation of the Rengoku clan and Mitsuri is thrilled that her strength can actually be an asset in a marriage, but also that she has such a kind husband in the first place (father-in-law maybe needs some time to come around, he grumbles that they’re both bound to die anyway… thanks, dad), and she and Senjuro go nuts in the Rengoku estate’s kitchen. The Rengoku family finances would be in trouble if they weren’t Pillars; because eventually when they have tons of children, all of those children have voracious appetites too. And bizarre hair colors, those children are the weirdest of the weird but their parents teach them to love and accept themselves so they are all super loud and confident and bizarrely strong and if Muzan isn’t beaten in this generation he’ll have no prayer when those Rengoku children come of age. They might have trouble picking up Flame Breathing, though. Whoops. (Meanwhile, Iguro Obanai is writing sad poetry and his facial wrappings mean he doesn’t have to try to fake a smile. He’s happy for them, really, there's no else he would entrust her happiness to, and a dirty person like him never deserved happiness, hello darkness my old friend, oh dear, oh Oyakata-sama, please save him.)

#rengoku kyojuro #rengoku kyoujurou #kanroji mitsuri #kyomitsu #kyojuro x mitsuri #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny fandom theories and meta #sorta #I'm not much of a shipper she says

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songofclarity · 4 years

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nielan as jingyi's parents....

is wonderful content that I love to see!

Is the backstory sad? Is he an orphan from before the Sunshot Campaign? From after? From when the Corpse General killed those Lans and Nies at Koi Tower? From when Wei WuXian killed thousands more at Nightless City?

Is the backstory happy? A more formal adoption? A serendipitous moment? A Lan baby that’s juggled from person to person and one day ends up in the Hanshi where Nie MingJue and Lan XiChen end up on parent duty and just, this is their life now??

Either way, they become a beautiful family!

Lan XiChen and Nie MingJue are putting all that big-brothers-who-raised-their-little-brothers experience to good use! Nielan delighting in each other as a loving couple and now also as loving parents!

Keeping all that Lan strength in check, Lan XiChen is going to do his best, as he does in all things, to keep lil Lan JingYi healthy and happy. Lan JingYi is raised in a Cloud Recesses with a gentler Sect Leader and father figure than the Lan QiRen who commanded order and professionalism from a young Lan XiChen.

Lan XiChen has all the good humor to play along along with a gentle tug on his robes and a chubby finger pointing at something of mischief. A little mischief never hurt anyone and maybe, actually, it's Lan XiChen playing around and lil Lan JingYi is just there for the delighted ride.

And Lan JingYi is very, very delighted! Cloud Recesses has all its rule but it is not a suppressive place. He is a Lan XiChen in minature, with a heart willing to change, to accept, and knowing how to be kind.

When it's quiet time, there’s something meditative about rocking lil Lan JingYi to sleep.

There’s also something especially warm and soothing for Lan XiChen watching Nie MingJue rock lil Lan JingYi to sleep.

(Hold A-Yi and lie down, MingJue, as Lan XiChen plays a lullaby for two~)

Nie MingJue becomes stricter on Nie HuaiSang as Nie HuaiSang becomes an adult, but with a baby and little child he’s still indulging. Lil Lan JingYi isn't expected to practice his saber. In fact! Lil Lan JingYi doesn’t get a saber at all. Just delicious, nutritious food for growing big and strong. Just playful games for learning and exploring. Just free rides on a pair of strong shoulders when Nie MingJue loses sight of him for two seconds and there, that's better, it's crowded so stay close.

And that's how lil Lan JingYi becomes the tallest person in the whole cultivation world!

Which is why Lan JingYi is afraid of no one, no matter what lofty Tower they’ve decided to come down from or whichever Pond they’ve risen up from while spitting lightning. He speaks his mind. He is a Nie MingJue in minature, with eyes wide open to see the truth and knowing right from wrong.

Lan JingYi has seen the world from the top of the tallest, strongest mountain, where nothing can touch him. What does he have to be afraid of?

Ghosts, apparently.

A boy raised as a cultivator afraid of ghosts? Unusual.

But not too unusual, actually. Regretfully. This is why I want a happy beginning for them! Because in canon it would already have a tragic end.

What could have killed the powerful and respected and intimidating Nie MingJue? The father who held the whole world on his shoulders? It must be something terrible, something impossible to fight, something just out of reach from reality...

A ghost...!

(Four year olds have such wild imaginations...)

But woah woah woah, this is the moment where we take three steps back and jump to a proper AU or canon divergence goodness where the Nielan fam live happily ever!

Modern AU with first day of school pictures! Music lessons at home! Sports at the park! Nie MingJue breaking someone’s phone for trying to take a picture of his husband and their kid while they’re on the beach.

Imagine Lan XiChen coming to lil Lan JingYi’s elementary school class play, still in a suit and tie, smiling apologetically because his meeting ran over and he was worried he would be late. All the other parents are sweating because wasn’t this supposed to be a casual event? Maybe they should have worn a nicer jacket? Styled their hair? Worn heels??

And then there is Nie MingJue, wearing quality if comfortable loungewear after showering at the gym (medical history subplot goes here!). He waves his husband over because of course he saved him a seat. Cue Lan JingYi being loud and dramatic on stage, and Nielan are enjoying every single second of it. Lan XiChen is beaming and filming the entire thing. Nie MingJue is making gestures like he’s the trainer and his fighter is in the boxing ring. (No one knows how much loving effort Nielan put in to help their son practice for this!) The teacher and the parents are trying not to cry because this family is so hot but it doesn’t make any sense...!

Except it does make sense and it’s all because the Nielan fam can fit a lot of love into it!

#anon #asked from above #lan jingyi #nielan #nielan fam #mdzs thoughts #i went off on a wild journey so #let's just put that under a cut shall we lol #mostly canon context but also a dive into #modern au

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amandlas · 4 years

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almost gone (in these little moments get your cards out)

tfota | jude x cardan, she doesn’t come back au, no smut, hurtful and punishable tbh (ao3)

entry to jurdan week 2020 by @jurdannet - day 7: wild card! a what-if au had jude tried to make a new life in maine (don’t worry, cardan shows up). heaps of angst. little payout. sorry in advance. trigger warnings: violence, guns, shooting, and death mention.

[canon divergence from twk ending. title from “lay your cards out” by poliça]

gone. she’s gone. avulsed from her land, never hers, and her lover, never loved. the mortal world welcomes her with wide arms, arms that are shorter than she remembers, a little less homely, much less magical. after all, how can the ordinariness of television, powder tea, and surround sound compare to the true magic of faerieland?

vivi says it will be well. of course she does. why wouldn’t she, with her strong blood and pointed ears.

jude stares and stares at the tv. at the window. at the door. she’s not so stupid as to believe it will allay her want, but like programming, she follows the routine nonetheless.

two months. oak is recalcitrant to her teachings. vivi is buoyant in her obliviousness. they do not see her. she cannot see herself. the closest thing she has to a mirror is miles away, attending a new husband and parading with stars dangling from rounded ears. if taryn were to come, jude thinks she wouldn’t recognize either of them.

she is ashamed to watch her pillowcase blotted with tear stains at nightfall.

it’s more embarrassing than waking up the first time to menstrual blood staining her sheets, two stories up in madoc’s estate, knowing not what it meant or what to do.

jude duarte avoids as superfluous emotions as sadness or hopelessness. being a mortal in faerie, those sentiments would wash her out of focus, riddle her with doubt, and with a certainty would so far as kill her.

but, she thinks, i am not in faerie anymore. i am no longer in a place where blood is a better find than tears. where eyes are dry and swords are sated by throats and bellies.

perhaps in her native world it is safer. that’s what jude wanted this whole time, was it not? safety. if she were meant to feel relief, she should feel it now.

survival feels wet against her cheek.

he keeps slugging his damn arms. jude tugs oak roughly to her, fixing his stance, and urges him to strike.

“will i still be king someday?”

as per usual, he tries deflection to talk out of a combat lesson. jude is unmoved. “yes.”

“are you sure?”

she shifts her weight to her other leg. “there is no other way.” his form is poor. she identifies his weaker side and rounds slowly to it. “the crown answers to blood. raise your elbow higher. protect your face.”

oak listens for once. his voice is shrill still. “so there is no one else?”

of course there’s someone else. another bearer of the crown, another royal to lead their nation. but jude grits her teeth and resorts to her best asset: lying. “no. no one else.”

her little brother pauses, their lesson half-present in his mind. intrigued, she watches the scrunch of his brows as he formulates a thought. “unless cardan has a child. then there would be another.”

if he sees her freeze, he doesn’t mention it. the scenario turns her thoughts errant, threatens her with a conniption. some sick part of her wishes to linger on the possibility, but with oak before her and posed to fight, she cannot allow herself that masochism.

oak stands expectant, his arm growing weary and slouching. the least she can do is not lie.

“i suppose.”

he remembers none of the stance the next evening.

“no word from dad. taryn either.”

jude lifts her face to catch vivi rummaging through envelopes of mail. “what, were you expecting miracles? a shift in the weather?” she scoffs, coming back to her task. counting money. hard-earned cash from late shifts of all services and flavors. espionage, theft, the occasional sparring match. the underground fae crime ring taints the soul, but it pays in fifties.

vivi interrupts her quick fingers. “he liked you best, you know. dad always gave more of himself to you than to me or taryn.” she notices her brother sitting at the couch, leans in to rumple his hair. “or oak.”

jude shoots vivi a cruel look, an exasperated look. “what good that did to me.”

her sister’s eyes are fierce as a growling cat where they pin her in place. “quite some good, your highness.”

jude does a fucking great job at not screaming.

she hates to think of the name.

what could his true name be, she wonders? if she commanded it, before the brokering of their epically failed marriage for his release, jude asks herself if he’d given it. if he’d hated her that much more.

her mind swirls with reminders of midnight black eyes, of fingers against her lips and the abstruse feeling of possession by another being.

she won’t think of it. she won’t dream of it. she won’t aerate the two syllables in a whisper of dark sky. she certainly won’t be pelted with the scariest word, the four letters she refused since childhood to allow a place in her. the word that died with a blade on its back as it ran to the kitchen. the word that meant a certain foolishness, a certain danger. she won’t. it’s her new mantra: she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

falsehoods have always been her strongest asset.

“we shouldn’t be watching this shit,” heather sighs between mouthfuls of red licorice.

they’re leaning on the couch, lined up like soldiers catching their breath amidst pilgrimage to battle. the television blares high. jude notices heather has shifted her free hand to cover oak’s eyes.

she inspects the playing show more closely. one second there’s a wide shot of scenery, familiar in its medieval setting, and the next there’s a person. a striking young woman with silver hair like new iron falling in tresses across pale shoulders.

the figure is so intimate it nearly makes jude jump. “a princess,” she murmurs.

heather shakes her head. “no. oh no. well, sorta.” oak squirms in her hand, breaking free of her hold, to which she sighs and acquiesces. “sure, i guess, but more than that. it’s complicated.”

from her place next to oak, jude nods. “royals tend to be.”

her sister’s lover, or ex lover (certainly an ex something), barrels on. she uses hand gestures to further her explaining. “her father was the mad king, but she was only a baby when he got dethroned. she was exiled from her home, far across the sea. then she married a powerful man, leader of a tribe, and sorta grew into herself. after he died, his rivals and his people tried to disbar her. turns out she had more in her arsenal than was believed.” heather wags her eyebrows at the show.

jude couldn’t be more confused until a huge, black winged creature crosses the screen. “are those…”

“yup,” heather confirms. “the mother of beasts. and her husband’s people, they followed her. even though he was gone, and was their real ruler, and it was unacceptable that she rule on the basis of who she was, they still accepted her as leader.”

jude stiffens. “really.”

they made it seem so close, so easy to reach. the princess-who-wasn’t-a-princess straightens her spine, amplifies her voice. when she speaks, people heed.

heather slices her reverie. “because she has magic.” she points to the overflying monsters. “badass.”

ah. because. she. has. magic.

a non-magic girl slouches back in her non-magic couch, watching a non-magic box, consumed by baneful imaginings.

unprepossessing. that is what they called her. ugly, if wine or fury loosened their vocabulary. how had i let someone who called me that touch me at the collarbones? kiss my throat? call me his sweet villain? jude has no answer. she replays and loops the plethora of adjectives her dear husband and company had called her. wormfood. unsightly. repellent. direful. unbecoming. synonyms alike to the same derivative, final word.

mortal.

the circle of worms, she and taryn. daughter of dirt.

she wishes she were nobody’s daughter.

it takes her three nights after that to realize now she really is nobody’s daughter.

her exile hits the half year.

bride of faerieland. the mortal queen.

a fugacious dream, she finalizes. no more than a fleeting child’s wish. had she remained at home, no, in faerie , she’d never have been queen. not without the people’s approval and not with her mortality. a hollow crown, a fool’s wreath.

she cements it into her brain, sears it to memory. she never. would. have been. a true. queen.

oh, but what a vision they would’ve been. jude, stiff boned with graying hair, and cardan beside her, youthful as ever and tethered to her with ball and chain. unescapable. a fresh minted prison for him. he’d be gagged to ask for her kisses, much less beg for them. when her skin sagged and time plundered her heart, how quick he’d be to run from her. a bat out of hell.

when it processes that she’s thought of his name, written it to existence in the myriad of her thoughts, she breaks into a cold sweat.

she won’t call her exile a blessing. there’s many descriptors for the singular event that redefined the last leg of her fleeting teenage life, and blessing won’t cut it. recently, however, jude has had the chance to add timely to the list.

jude kills a troll. he’d been preying on humans the same time as her abscond to the human realm. this particular troll began his horror streak after developing a taste for the helpless glaze in their eyes at final moments before teeth sunk into shoulders, the way they rolled back or if the occasion came up that the eyelids would fall crookedly. the funny look of a drugged, passed out, mindless loon. except these were dead loons, victims to the desire of a beast. these humans had been lured into the abandoned subway tunnel, but jude had strolled there all on her own.

“that bitch carries the devil,” commented one of the fae. gathered in a ring, stealing glimpses of her over their shoulders.

waiting for her pay, jude kicked the tip of her boot into the solid ground, arms crossed. “that bitch can hear. i may not have fae hearing, but i’d abstain from testing me were i in your shoes.”

the fae she had spoken to was of the sea, and was barefoot. irony not lost on her.

sooner than expected, jude duarte developed a reputation. successful runs, frightening recounts of what she did to earn her money, it swiveled up and circled around her like a tornado. some fae considered testing if the legend was bigger than the person, and some fae had lost the use of a limb. she knew she’d been strong before, but this new world taught her what an unstoppable force she was. had always been.

they give her a nickname. fearful of evoking the name given to her at birth, though being human it had no effect on her. still, shadows shivered at her wake, watching, consuming jude duarte’s trail of defeated foes. in the damp, cold streets of maine, in a world she long since had cut true tethers from, she’s reborn as the wrath.

in her mind, somewhere in the bowels of the elfhame palace, the court of shadows laugh up a storm.

oak grows less querulous and more capitulant to his role. jude in turn decides to do the same with her old-but-now-new home amidst mortals.

she watches tv. repaints her bike. buys new clothes. eats toasted waffles with peanut butter and honey.

when heather mentions a museum across town, jude no longer stares at her blankly. she doesn’t fumble or grasp for words. her foot’s planted on the ground, steady and strengthening.

she becomes inclined to music. an old trait, now in a new ambient. vivi glamours money to grant her a gift, a small excuse to cheer her up. the gadget fits most of her hand, sensitive to her tact and bright during the darker hours. heather hauls her laptop once in a while to upload new songs onto it, teaching jude how to sift through the list.

music player in her hand, jude sheepishly assembles a queue of songs that she likes. tunes that have replaced bards in taverns or notes plucked from lutes.

an aggressive song by a vexed wife goes first, the one with words that hit jude harsher than she wants to admit, the title saying not to hurt yourself. another one called once upon a time. a wedding song turned rock, a “strong electric guitar” according to heather, the singer belting about being loved tenderly. paint it, black by the stones that roll. where once her fingers would’ve stumbled over the gadget’s buttons, today she masters with ease.

the stunted child, the wraith of a human girl she once was rears her head in jude’s dreams. she gains color with each passing day.

by the time her exile hits eight months, jude begins the transition. she intends it to life, gives it air to breath.

i, jude duarte, will be happy in the mortal world.

she wills herself to change on a molecular level. when the desire of faerieland hightails back, she slams it to the back of her mind. she transforms the pain into power, into will. the scar left behind from her banishment becomes fuel for her new life. for the transformation into who jude could truly be in this wide, marvelous, enormous human world.

they don’t want you. they have not once wanted you.

he doesn’t want you. not like you do him.

doesn’t

want

you.

move on, she begs herself. move on. move on. move on. stop chasing after ghosts.

the wrath is elbow deep in a goblin’s guts. he swindled bryern a bagful of gold coin. it came down to her to rescue it back, and assure the impediment of a repetition. that’s when she met her.

“hnnnnggg…” moans a figure across the room.

jude ignored the drugged out junkies on her way in, leaving them in the back burner while working through the bulk of her job. but the turncloak goblin is dead, and was that noisy mound moving?

“help…” she hears.

jude rarely considers herself so altruistic. but the meekness of the plea pulls her across the room, tugs her legs to the sprawled person.

human. a girl, dirty blue hair all too reminiscent of nicasia, but not so polished as to pass for a sea princess. no, this girl appeared on the edge of a precipice, thin coat of sweat across her body.

“more,” the girl begs.

like clockwork. jude squats down to get closer. “want me to get you out of here?”

weakly, the girl nods. “she’ll find me.”

“what’s your name?”

the stranger smacks her lips, eyes rolling in her head. “lolli.”

lolli turned out to be an easy haul but a terrible map. jude exasperatedly dragged her through alleys and corners, hearing the laments of her companion through the journey. lolli got sidetracked from her ride-or-dies, see, shot up a bit too much powder - something she called never - and had an urgent need to return to the clan.

jude’s self-preservation rang high when she knocked on the selected door and met a fae two heads taller than she. his red skin shone bright in the doorway, his glamour invisible to jude’s geas.

“thank you for bringing pop back to us. i’m qylin” he says across from jude, having invited her in and given her a once-over. “uh, you mortal?”

she’s declined a drink, but accepted a chair. “as they come.”

qylin moves closer. “and you took out melbor? pop’s supplier?”

“is pop meant to be lolli?”

“her full name’s lollipop.”

“oh. i see.” a red flush runs across her face. “melbor huh? didn’t catch his name. i did catch both his kidneys though.”

qylin whistles. “damn. a mortal.” he pronounces it with wonder. nothing like she’s used to. it falls with disbelief in her ears.

“that’s quite a might you got in you. here.” in an outstretched hand, jude finds a tiny acorn that no doubt has a message inside it. “if you ever quit meandering for coin and want to run with the real wolves, i’ll answer.”

wolf. she’d been a girl and she’d been a mortal. then she’d been wormfood and after that she’d been a queen. couldn’t say jude once considered herself a wolf, or imagined running with them. then again, she had become so many things far from her imagination.

the ward. the mortal. the queen. the wrath. her list of faces ran endless, each mask pressing heavier and heavier on her fragile composition.

in the beginning, vivi congratulated her like a preschooler with a trophy. “look at you, making an effort. i told you home wasn’t so bad.”

months later they’ve turned to “you are too far out” accompanied by the tapping of her foot, a face riddled by concern. “you’re jumping into danger again.”

vivi didn’t know how jude missed being afraid.

if she dreams of cardan, the sting pulls her awake and breathless into the chirping crickets of the dark hours.

ninth month. her exile is a baby somewhere, born and breathing. a marking reminder of her incipient rule cut short.

jude duarte makes a decision. she steps outside of the girl she used to be, the teenager latched to a world that had not once been hers.

the acorn is light in her hands. she splits it open, unrolling the paper inside, and when she sees the address and phone number it takes her a total of eighteen minutes to pack.

saying goodbye without telling them it’s goodbye cracks a new wound in her already shattering heart.

oak thinks she’s going to the gym. vivi thinks she’s babysitting oak. heather might’ve had a clue, but she kept silent while jude hugged her, muttering a quick thanks for watching her brother while vivi came from the post office.

it appears, after years, she’d learned to say farewell to all things that were close to her.

qylin refrained from asking questions, just as jude liked it. she watched, studied, learned, kept to her rank while scheming for more. the room and cot qylin offers is as home as any she’s had.

when she urged cardan to inveigle the princess of the undersea, it led them to a hidden alcove draped with vines, to a couch where she’d bared more of jude duarte than she had in her entire life. the memory is both a memory and the dream that recurs most in her sleep. their tryst, their unculminated tumble, their fumbled connection, whatever people would want to call it. in her sickest hours, jude allowed herself to think of it with a tender gaze, with a pink shiny filter, with the dreaded word she’d been on the run from for years.

that you hate me. tell me that you hate me.

“i hate you,” jude whispers. “i hate you and i married you and i hate you.” the two phrases weren’t mutually exclusive.

lollipop has been gone for weeks, but her junkie spirit is alive.

the wrath evaded nevermore like cats did water, but the gradual acclimation to qylin’s ring fills her with misplaced ease. it took them damn near six months, but jude finally surrendered her arm.

it pricks, the needle, like the pinch on her finger when cardan stabbed her for the salt in her blood. for the antidote to faerie fruit.

she’s high. she’s at a revel in new york and she’s vulnerable and she’s high.

it doesn’t take long for jude to cement her decision to never do drugs in her natural life again. but once that’s been engraved in her think tank, the world turns mellow and technicolor. it tells her to enjoy while it lasts.

she’s surrounded by leaves, platter of fruit, dancing pixies and slender fae. painful reminders of the home she direly tries to forget.

in a mirage, she pictures black curls under a golden crown of flowers. cruel lips forming a smile.

as if underwater, ears plugged with chlorine liquid, jude hears a seductive voice to her side. “what a pretty thing.” a woman. tall and thin, fae ears and slit green eyes. eyes that fall down to jude’s chest. “busty.”

not all quite there, jude struggles but succeeds in recognizing the tone coming from her courtier. and before she can respond, to her surprise, a second woman emerges from the back of her new companion.

she’s got beautiful straight teeth and straighter talons. “careful. saphine can bite.”

after being called hideous half a life, this come-on douses jude awake like a bucket of water. she studies the two girls and the raking nature of their eyes. she thinks perhaps if she paid more attention she could’ve recognized that in cardan’s eyes. could’ve told it apart from the hatred, the arrogance and the disgust.

without preemptiveness, without pause to think it over, jude tugs both girls to her. her body busts in sensation.

she remembers cardan in a maze, draped in languor and gold faerie drug and girls. black shark eyes watching her while horned girls had their way with him. one kissed his neck, she remembers, and another his knee.

“here,” she scoffs, pushing down sapphire or whatever’s head to her knees. “above my boot.”

a chuckle. “feisty, huh?” she hears, and she truly doesn’t care.

next, jude unceremoniously pulls the second girl up to her neck, leading them exactly where and how she wants them. she’s a constellation of heat and brief spikes of libido.

does cardan think of her? when he’s in bed or bedding someone new, whichsoever activity he performs at night, does jude cross his mind? does he remember her? sometimes in the ridiculous seclusion of her mind she thought cardan would be faithful to her once upon a time. she could slap her own cheeks for such foolishness.

his face appears stark in her memory. deep hollows on his collarbones, raven black hair and eyes devouring her like fruit. his lips, they’d been so soft.

jude leans her head back and laments her ghosts. she inhales sharply.

after the hot spell passes, after jude feels the trickle of tongue make its way up to her thigh and another down her chest, she pushes them away.

why? she doesn’t know. jude is only sure of the fact that she’s tired and doesn’t want this and instead wants a glass of water then maybe a bed.

saphine tilts her head, rolls her eyes, and waves her off, moving along. jude is thankful, for the first time, at being so easily discarded.

a month later makes two years since her infamous exit.

“unless cardan has a child,” oak said. many moons past.

the memory of him brings upon a dream. the opposite to her listless, watered-down dreams she grew used to having.

she sneaks through the palace, it’s name near forgotten to her, crawling against walls or chasing shadows.

he’s there. he’s in many of her dreams and he’s there in this one. hair astray. tilted crown. reclined on a couch, his tail freely swishing left and right.

if he remembers their pact of marriage, he doesn’t bother to show it. no mourning, no sadness, no desperation. unlike the other dreams of him, in this he’s placated. joyful, even, in a way so seldom his character.

jude’s understanding is little.

something squirms in cardan’s arms. when she gets closer it nearly takes her breath away to a fault, threatening to kill her. it’s a baby. older than a newborn but small enough to fit in his arms, to paw at his chin and gargle.

no test could prepare her for this sight.

and cardan. he’s absolutely changed. reinvented in the light of this babe, this creature jude hasn’t seen the face of. because that is his spawn, the tiny tail swishing from its rear indicates as much. that, combined with the black tresses, leaves no doubt that she is looking at a king and his heir.

in the depths of her shriveled dignity, jude duarte senses another break, another disgusting branched crack.

her husband is inconsolable in love. his bright smile slashes wide across his face, softening his sharp cheekbones. he lifts the baby to his face, pressing their noses together, cooing. she hardly recognizes him. but she recognizes the lack of a need for her.

this was a nightmare.

cardan lets the child descend, adjusting them in his lap with heartbreaking gentleness. to her horror, the toddler turns and pierces jude in place with raven black eyes.

she runs cold all over. the child has the look of a girl.

her coloring is unique, darker than cardan’s and any fae’s. it’s closer to… jude’s own. and below the black curls, which she realizes now is actually dark amber brown, there’s ears. rounded, untipped, human ears.

jude is utterly unmoored. the scene melts. she wakes up to hands descending upon her, to frightened questions of why she was screaming and that she’s woken up half of the gang. they cannot get a straight answer from her, and after plowing her with cups of water and aspirins from a quick run to the mini-store, the most they get from jude duarte is a somber face and a fall into her pillow.

jude becomes a gallery of girls. she’s judy, and she’s martina, and she’s amelie with the occasional latika. running in qylin’s underworld gang requires her to. police don’t catch her, fae detectives don’t either, and if by chance she needed to run an errand the name she gave was one of a basinful of fake i.d. cards.

“i once had a twin,” she offhandedly told someone.

“what was her name?” they asked.

jude slurped from a tall gas station soda cup. “doesn’t matter.”

three years. the earnest smile she’d lost a number of winters ago returns tenuously but surely. as a sliver, as a tiny reminder, as a planted seed showing the very smallest evidence of root.

a pixie joins their ranks. young and limber. her cerulean skin reminds jude of a blue court under the sea.

“fand,” she greets the mismatched group. “newborn nomad.”

jude welcomes her by the form of a nod, turning back to the display of headshots splashed on the table, organizing it into a semblance of order.

she feels fand dance around her, suspicious to her presence. she thinks for a hot minute that fand might want to cause trouble. jude focuses her attention to the knife hidden between her breasts.

the pixie stares at her, unabashed, and right as jude thinks to reach to her chest, fand grows the courage to ask. “you. do i know you?”

the question falls flat. “i don’t believe so. there’s little chance our paths crossed.”

fand squints. “well, i’ve just left elfhame. finally broke from that unruly mess.”

lightning forks in jude’s chest, attacking her nervous system. an old phantom possesses her body, causing her to still.

the pixie moves closer, inspecting. “your look, it’s so familiar.”

jude understands in a minute.

taryn. fucking taryn. always, forever, impossible-to-be-rid-of taryn.

summoning years of falsehoods and acting experience, jude breaks eye contact to laugh and feign offense. “all mortals look the same to fae, i’m sure.”

that is not a lie. she learned that from the wickedest prince himself.

when fand slips away from the gang two nights later, jude forces herself to block it from memory.

she’s almost twenty-one. in faerie she might have died since she was eleven.

here, she’s got a family. a rough knit circle of confidants, people she rarely thinks twice about trusting anymore. her music keeps her company, and her growing arsenal of skills, of wins, it warms the smallest piece of her soul.

how could she have hated such a place?

“counterinsurgents. we calculate two dozen below the bridge,” jekka, qylin’s second, explains over a map.

jude’s focus is precise, uninterrupted.

the years, the lack of practice from a simple lack of need to, makes it so that she doesn’t religiously check the perimeter, doesn’t spot a green face. his dark tuft of hair and hooked nose, spying from the window, hidden among leaves and wind.

if she had seen him, she might’ve remembered her old friend. if she’d seen him, she might’ve broken down in tears, or begged for a word, or done none of those things to help jekka figure out their positions for the next day’s raid.

“watch for the sniper!” one of her gang yells.

jude ducks, experienced muscles leading her across the space, the shielded street with broken streetlights. abandoned houses repurposed for criminal night creatures sprawl one after the other. they’ve chosen one a stone throw from the river, so close they could taste the salt while counting bloody fae or human scalps.

five, six, seven leaps and she’s out of shot, crammed into a wedge in the building. she took down three counterinsurgents already. the wrath ran rampant today.

another figure jumps out the window, two yards from her, and takes off running through the backside of the house, the one facing the water. swift as the wind, jude pursues in fervor.

bam.

first the noise like thunderclap. then the pain.

oh.

when they screamed sniper, she expected an arrow. she expected a taut bow and a sharp, easily removed tip of metal. not a bullet.

in the end, jude has been a galaxy of abridges.

she’s had abridged parents, gone before her eighth birthday. that led to an abridged innocence and an abridged life in their rudimentary home in maine. she’s had an abridged relationship with her sisters. an abridged sense of belonging.

she had an abridged romance with a prince and king. that chapter being severed short was, as they all were, not her fault.

she had an abridged marriage. an abridged kingdom rule.

to be culminated in an abridged life. thin and meager.

she hopes no matter how small her garden has been, that each poison flower and cherry blossoms she’s sowed has done its best to enrich the tiny piece of universe allotted to her.

she should’ve known when she saw the river.

in water all began, and in water it ends.

there are no screams. no chaos. the gang has left her, chasing their foes further up the street, looking to corner them. jude? she’s going for a dip. a passage to the next life. she’ll float to it. gargle on the last of life.

“huh,” she whispers.

the ache is pungent in her back, the bullet hitting close to the spine but not quite. deadly, though. deadly for sure.

she wasn’t queen of nothing. she was queen of death, the hierophant of misery. her whole life has been a string of it. well, no longer.

jude duarte reaches the water’s edge, using each fiber of her strength to not fall in quite yet.

in the haziness of all that she’d done and all that she’d run from, he comes to her. in dream, in flesh. she’s not yet in the water.

“jude.”

this has to be the mark between. the straddling line of life and death. because somehow, impossibly, she hears him.

“jude!”

or?...

her brows scrunch in confusion, a naked toe in the river already. she wants to turn, but the seeping life at her back won’t allow it.

she doesn’t need to. long arms surround her, someone moving in front of her to read her face, to see what lies there.

it’s him.

jude’s lids droop. her back is on fire, and she burns in the flames. he’s barely changed. matured into his looks, if she had to put it into words. his tar eyes, slender lips, pointed nose and legendary black curls suddenly remind her of being seventeen.

there’s so much in his face she can barely read any of it. “is it you? is it really you?” he demands.

she’s always been jude. who jude became, that was a different question. one she no longer cares to ask.

“i found you. i finally finally found you.” his voice is incredulous.

is he the harbinger of the beyond? was that his role to play this entire time? her thoughts eddy and murk the more time passes with a hole in her back.

it is an arcane thing, in truth, to be held by a creature she’s craved and despised. her body responds on its own by pressing closer, seeking warmth.

he might be crying. could also be the angle of the sun.

“please,” he whispers.

she hasn’t said his name in years.

“cardan.”

his eyes fall closed.

her mouth repeats the motion, recognizing the familiarity of his name. cardan. once her king. her husband. the sight of him brings forth a wave of emotions, cascading through her like a waterfall.

cardan tugs her close to a punishingly tight degree. “i thought you dead.” he speaks into her ear. “we searched for years. i thought you were gone. gone, jude.”

the word pulls her back, creates distance between them. jude lets herself get lost in his eyes, those splendid eyes, bottomless and infinite, a serene look on her face as she responds:

“almost.”

the fractious prince too arrogant to be a ruler does not stand in front of her. this man is similar, but a sense of strength she hadn’t seen is forefront and shining. jude wishes she could appreciate it.

if only this weren’t the last time.

“so it is you.” she says it with wonder, with a detachment that lets her turn away from his arms and face the river.

cardan’s intake of breath indicates he has finally seen her wound. he twists his neck, shouts to someone far back, hidden in the houses. “shes hurt! SHE’S HURT!” his voice is raw and desperate.

jude walks into the water.

a hand at her arm stops her, keeps her in place, but she shrugs it off with newfound confidence and turns around. cardan’s incredulous face sparks memories of faraway lands and kingdoms.

“what are you doing?” he demands.

jude’s lips break into a smile. how she missed his voice. she walks back until water reaches her waist, then her chest, then the crown of her head.

“stop!” she hears.

the layers of the girl she was, who she is, who she could’ve been, they merge. yes, she had missed faerie. yes, she had wanted cardan. yes, she had wept tears of rage at knowing she could not have either of them back. if she cried now, her tears would turn to river water, melding into the beautiful greater whole.

a hand grips her chest. another tugs on her neck, urging her up, up, up.

air. sweet air in her lungs.

jude gasps, her plans interrupted. the bulletwound at her back sears at the salt water, the sensation so intense it actually numbs her and leaves her feeling very little.

cardan presses her flush to his body. he raises her up, and his face is marked with horror and betrayal.

“how could you?” he weeps. his features are anguished, desperate. he’s shaking her by the shoulder. “how could you?”

jude smiles a wet smile. “remember when you pushed me into the rapids? and you forced my twin to abandon me and kiss your cheeks? i can’t remember a time when i’ve been warm since then. the water, it was cold. like a leech.”

“the roach is gathering for a salve. jude, you will be okay. you need to get out now.”

she realizes there’s something wrong. “wait. no. that’s a lie. i am a liar.” she tilts her face to his, eyes meeting. “you were warm. behind the throne room and in your bed. you kept me warm. but you ripped me from my home and i've been cold since.”

cardan does something she didn’t imagine him capable of. he didn’t do so when balekin beat him. he didn’t do so when his family was slaughtered. he did so this moment, with her encircled by his arms. cardan sobs.

maybe this is when he understands he’s been forever her herald. the marker of her death. their destinies, interlinked, but only for this.

as he bares himself open, jude candidly studies his face. there’s freedom in allowing herself to admit she missed him. missed all of it. her kingdom that never was.

“i’ll heal you,” he implores. his hand runs down wet and shakingly down her face. “you’re my queen. we’ll use our magic. we will, jude, if you stay with me. don’t you get it? the exile was fake. i never meant for you to vanish. i’m begging you, please, help me heal you.”

her forehead falls on his. waist-deep in water, she feels his short breaths fall on her cheek. “you held hatred for me once.”

slowly, miserably, cardan shakes his head. the motion makes her pull away but he doesn’t let her, staying together. “love. i held love, jude.”

love

four letters.

years of running. and it caught up to her all the same.

his words hit her worse than the sniper did. she staggers in his embrace.

“hold.” he says the word with intensity. “i hold, jude.” cardan refuses to let her go, won’t let her fall. “you walked away with my heart.”

thoughts swirl in her head. they swim around like the fish crossing in between their legs.

“hold,” she says weakly.

hold love. he loves me.

impossible. and true.

“huh.”

“hold me,” she asks him. and he does.

he does.

he appears vacillant to his actions save for holding her.

jude can’t remember a time when she wasn’t running. from her parents’ demise. from madoc’s threats. from the cruel fae. from her sister’s betrayal. from cardan’s torments and, apparently, his ministrations of love. from her own shadow.

they haven’t moved from the water. it’s been a minute. it’s been four years.

jude feels her body slag, the water making up for the new deadweight.

“i wish you’d never left me,” he murmurs.

gratingly, she lifts her hand to trace a finger along the hard, straight line and point of her husband’s ear. “cardan, are you here to ask me for a divorce?”

his face breaks. she’s fully leaning on him, his long arms cradling her to his chest. amidst their soaked clothes, she feels the thudding of his heart against her cheek.

jude’s eyes flutter open and closed. “i want to tell you i will. i want to tell you i’ve waited for it. i - ah…” a jab of pain causes her to pause. “i want to tell you it hasn’t been eating me alive to be apart from you. i want to tell you… so… many… lies.”

through her misty vision, she sees cardan shake his head. “you are not leaving me.” the conviction in his voice draws a laugh from her.

“oh, cardan.” it’s the last good breath in her lungs. in the distance, she feels the ripples of someone entering the river, racing towards them. she sees only pitch black eyes. “i already have. i already have.”

they are esoteric, rendered in numinous light. from their entwined bodies in the water, there grow white flowers at the riverbed, their petals straining for the sun.

#jurdanweek2020 #jurdan #jude duarte #tfotaedit #cardan greenbriar #he's kinda scattered in this fic tbh but i promise there is SOME sort of follow-through to the angst #if you survive getting there #this took me all night and now its 9am HELLO THANK YOU FOR THIS MADNESS HOLLY BLACK #note: this will be my last tfota fic fellas #nicky writes #mine #mine:tfota

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bexterbex · 4 years

Text

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 51

Warning, PLEASE CHECK TAGS IF YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO READ THEN DON’T READ. Tag lists are closed

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Will tag as I go along, Will update tags, Slow Burn, Influenced by Star Trek and other Sci-Fi themes, References to We Happy Few, Tons of References and quotes to George Orwells 1984 see if you can find them all, The First Order is the new Big Brother, but who is really surprised, Blatant Nazi Symbolism, Interrogation Themes, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Really just drawn out Slow Burn, Don’t repost without permission, Torture themes, Suggestive Themes, Execution themes, Disturbing Themes, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Controlling Kylo Ren, Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Possessive Kylo Ren, A character shamelessly based on Zelda

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with some canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

MASTERLIST

Chapter 51: Receiving Answers

You step out of your dressing room. You look to the right, you see the living area is a mess, furniture tipped over, glasses and bottles from the bar shattered everywhere, it looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. You ushered both of your ladies-in-waiting out of your chambers. Olivia-Rose’s eyes were wide looking at the state of things, Adlez was unfazed.

You took a deep breath and turned back down the hall, to the bedroom. You paused in the open doorway watching Kylo pace back and forth. When he noticed you the pacing stopped.

You were the first to speak, “You will answer me this. Who is she?” Your voice was even but your tone was flat. You tried to make your face a stone mask, unmoving and unwavering. Your eyes burning into him.

His fists clenched and he resumed pacing. “I told you she is nothing,” his jaw clenched.

“Clearly that isn’t the truth, I will ask again. Who is she? Clearly she means something to you if it causes this reaction. And before you answer I want you to think about something. If you don’t answer I will not sleep next to you and you will not be able to touch me.” You were holding your ground, trying to channel some higher being to assist you in your efforts in this standoff against a demi-god.

“She is no one. She means nothing to me.” His voice was breaking, you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else. His eyes said he was guilty.

“If you continue to lie to me, I will leave. I will leave and I won’t come back.” Tears fell down your face but you held your ground. “When we first met you asked me to stay. You told me you were a broken man, that you were a monster. I am willing to fix you, but I can only do that if you let me. If you lie to me about her again. I will leave. I will not stay. I can not stay with a man, a monster, who continues to treat me like a songbird in a cage.” Your voice was breaking. “I will not stay. I can not stay with a man who does not care for me. I cannot love a man who… who continues to treat me like this. I will not stay.”

You said it, you said the four-letter word. The one that could cause your heart to shatter into a million pieces to never be put back together. The one word that could break the strongest of men, reducing them down to nothing. You loved him, but you feared that he did not love you back. That the same place that you had in your heart for him, was taken--taken by her.

You were shaking but you did not falter, tears freely streaming down your face as you waited for an answer, any answer. The suspense was killing you, and was causing fractures to spread across your delicate heart.

You watched him, he was frozen in place, his eyes were large cauldrons of dark water, with currents spinning so fast you had no idea what was in them. “She is a scavenger. From Jakku. She is strong in the Force. She is the only person to ever fully beat me in battle.”

“What is her name?” Part of you did not want to know, but all of you had to know. Your blood was churning from ice cold to boiling and back again, for each second you had to wait.

“Rey,” he said finally as if it was the first time her name had ever graced his lips. Those fractures were becoming full-on cracks now. Your heart swayed in the waves of your emotions, losing the battle of the storm. His voice saying her name was the wind that broke the sail, soon your ship would sink.

It took every bit of sanity you had left to ask, “Rey who?”

This time he answered quicker, “Rey, just Rey. Just a scavenger from Jakku. A no one.”

You bit your lip, your eyes clenched shut, resisting the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. Your voice small as you asked, “And what does she mean to you?” The ship was frozen in time, a large wave threatening to come crashing down. You needed the answer like you needed oxygen to breathe like you needed water to drink like you needed love to hope.

You felt a hand on your cheek, prompting your eyes to meet his, “She means nothing to me compared to you. She is nothing.”

Your face crumpled with disbelief and confusion. “Don’t lie to me. She means something to you.” You paused for a few seconds. “What does she mean to you?”

His other hand came to your face, he was now holding you. In another life, this would be comforting, but it was only slowing down the inevitable crippling wave that was about to sink your ship with his next answer. “She is but a formidable opponent for me in battle. A weakness that I do not know how to fix. She. Is. NOTHING. Compared. To. YOU.”

You pulled away from him, bracing yourself for the crash that will end your maiden voyage. “Why is it that you speak to her? Why do you hide her from me?” You dared your eyes to look at him, waiting for the answer.

“The Force connects us, I do not know why. She uses it to taunt me, to lash at me. A weapon in my own mind. I hide her from you as I hide you from her. It is the only way to protect you. She uses my mind like a weapon against me, imagine what she could do to you. I would never forgive myself if I were to let that happen. You are mine. I will not let her take that from me. She and her friends have taken so much from me already. I won’t let them, have you. I will die before that happens,” you could see his confession was true. His eyes told you so as did the trembling of his lip.

Your body swayed under the weight of his answer, you came crashing down into his chest. He was solid. Your broken and battered ship came into the safety of his port. Your hands bracing yourself on his broad strong chest. “You will not hide her from me anymore. I do not want secrets between us. I promised to fix you, to mend you, but I can only do that if you are truthful to me. I will only stay if you are truthful to me.” Your hand traced along his sternum.

“I will try, but you must know that I must protect you. You are mine.” He brought your hand up to his lips. “Mine.” And he kissed your knuckles.

Your heart froze, the cracks seemed to start ever so slowly filling in. Your eyes meet his. He leaned you back and kissed you. Both of you crave each other like oxygen. The kiss deepened as he bent down to wrap your legs around his waist to carry you to bed. Your back hit the mattress and your hips crashed and rolled together. Both trying to find some semblance of friction, him more so than you.

He sucked hard on your bottom lip causing you to moan into the kiss allowing his tongue to slip in and do its usual dominating dance. His hips trying to find more and more fiction. The passion that always burned after your fights, was ablaze.

Between pants, you mustered, “We can’t.”

His voice was just as breathy, “I know.” He groaned and started to almost violently buck into you, finding as much friction as possible. “You said above clothing, so that’s what I am doing.” His pelvis ground down hard into yours.

You let out a breathy laugh between kisses, “Clever bastard.”

This earned a smile from him, one that was being hidden by snogging, but one that was there nonetheless. His lips found their way down your neck and onto your clavicle finding a new spot to mark. His teeth scraping, but failing to break skin. Once he was satisfied by his new declaration of ownership he resumed feasting on your lips. You stayed that way for a good hour or more, his hands occasionally groping and caressing different parts of your body. He gave one good hard roll of the hips before breaking your kiss. “Now Kitten I think that is enough for tonight,” he groaned climbing off of you.

You watched him stumble into the bathroom. You climbed back up to your spot on the bed and laid on your side. It took you a minute or two to realize that he did not close the bathroom door behind him.

You heard the shower running and after a few moments, you heard his loud moans and grunts. Your name was peppered in with his animalistic sounds. It was rather erotic. You clenched your thighs together and rubbed them together causing some friction. You threw your head into your pillow and bit down, trying to resist the urge to do something about your growing desire. You did not want to give him the satisfaction of your reaction to him. After a few minutes, you heard your name as almost a shout and then nothing. The water continued for another few minutes before you heard it shut off.

You were not expecting him to exit the bathroom in only a towel slung low on his hips, threatening to fall even lower. He started to walk towards the bed. You shot up, “Don’t you even think about it.”

A smirk plastered across his face. He turned around and walked towards his closets. He opened one and looked over his shoulder at you, meeting your eyes before he dropped his towel.

Your face was hot. He was more of a man than any you had seen or been with before. You could tell by the way he bent over to get out a pair of lounge pants that he was trying to put on a show. He grabbed them and stood straight once more, he then looked over his shoulder with a smirk on his face and turned around. Giving you an eyeful of what he had to offer, before you averted your gaze.

He bent down to pull up the pants, but out of the corner of your eye, you could see that he fully had to tuck himself in, instead of the usual it went on over the first time. You returned your gaze to him, your face and body flushed. You watched as he tied the drawstrings at his waist and then in a show like fashion he adjusted himself. Your face was on fire. Your mind also screamed at you that he liked going commando. Just him and his pants, the only thing separating him from the rest of the world.

He fully swaggered back to the bed, shirtless. “Did you like what you just saw Kitten?” His tone and face told you everything you needed to know. He was putting on a show. This whole thing was a show. The shower. The towel. The lack of a towel. The him. Was all just a show, a private one for you.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” You turned to face the wall, back to him.

He crawled up next to you, his hips to your ass as he swung his arm over your middle. “Well, I guess next time I will have to just do what I was going to do, and crawl into bed naked. After all, do hands really have to stay above clothing if there is none?”

You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smirking. And that smirk made its way to the mark behind your ear, the one that you knew was going to be forever branded into your skin, his own personal badge of ownership over you.

The waiting game was going to be hard, especially when the man lying next to you looked like something the gods carved out of the purest marble. A gift to mankind. A work of art. A masterpiece that the old masters could only dream about but never achieve. A god amongst men. Your own personal image of perfection. Waiting was going to be hard, but apparently not as hard as him. But boy did you have something to tell the ladies in the morning.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo x reader #kylo x you #star wars #first order #star wars imagine #Star wars soulmate au #sw first order imagine #star wars first order #a soul to mend his own

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villains4hire · 3 years

Text

Jason Voorhees (Friday the 13th)

Disclaimers.

1. I will be incorporating the video game for his powers and explanations since it’s widely accepted as canon at this point for some of it. 2. This is an extremely violent and gorey character and will be age-gated for muns and muses above 18+. He will be a plot only muse and any openers responded need to understand that he will most likely become violent. 3. Do not make sexual advances toward him or sexualize him in anyway shape or form. He doesn’t have the capacity to properly return it with consent, I base this claim on his original interpretation, but also his later iterations. It took me a while to figure this out myself considering muses like this I rather avoid handling but this is the best way I could think of morally handling him. He no longer is the Jason he once was and more of a shell of anything human as to avoid ableism or otherwise problematic themes that were present at the time. 4. I will mostly be using the original trilogy but the fourth final chapter is actually of no interest to me. I will mostly be going off my own canon as Jason’s motivations and powers are rarely explained, but I will leave it vague and horrifying but enough to where there’s glimpses into the darkness that surrounds him. 5. This is a mute character. If your character is capable of telepathy, then it will be blocked out by some manifestation of darkness. He can write however to communicate but getting him to do that is extremely hard.

Do I want them to win: Jason in the end will come back to try to kill your muse eventually, so killing him is fine even if it’s extremely hard. Villain category and reason: The Fool, Villains. Jason is manipulated and strung along by the voice of his mother, not a mental illness, but the actual spiritual voice of his dead mother. He is villains for his main tag but ‘the fool’ when a muse discovers how to manipulate him by using the voice of his mother or a voice in general in his head to tell him what to do. Will I have/get icons: I’ve got enough, his mask makes it hard to do. So expect repeats of icons mostly just for visual effect. Tag: sweet jason (canon) | scp jason (scp verse) Age: An adult, but ageless. Sex: AMAB Gender: Doesn’t understand it other than he’s referred to as a ‘man’ by others. Race: Human (Previous) Human? (Present) Sexuality: Doesn’t understand sexual attraction. Personality traits: Doesn’t talk. Determined. Intelligent in setting up his traps. Vengeful. Extremely territorial. Extremely violent. Extremely Loyal. It is possible to befriend him... but unlikely unless through manipulative means. Enjoys certain objects like teddy bears or things that remind him of his past. Mental traits: Is inhuman in thinking at this point. Physical traits: A bulky frame, stands at least eight to nine feet tall. Is heavily deformed under the mask and at this point ravaged in terms of flesh. Powers:

Teleportation: Whenever Jason is not being looked at? To some extent, he can change his location. Senses: Jason can detect things on a supernatural level in a certain zone of territory he chooses. Which will always be the Crystal Lake unless stated otherwise. Graceful, heavy tread: Jason never steps on his own traps, somehow knowing where they always are in his own memory. Supernatural strength and extreme supernatural endurance: Jason can cut through most with his machete with ease or other materials not normally possible. Keep this in mind if accepting hits from Jason, as he WILL cleave through if allowed. Jason meanwhile can take an immense amount of punishment probably from even the strongest muses other than perhaps actual gods or akin to it. Do note that Jason is limited in his speed however, so that can be taken advantage of rather easily. Even then, his endurance has its limits, a normal person could kill him with enough force and firepower. Jason’s machete: Jason while utilizing other weapons and objects around him? Has a specific machete he uses and prefers. When not pursuing a target? He will seek out the machete, somehow knowing where it is. The machete itself is unbreakable even through most means and can cleave through most materials with ease. Immortality: Jason can be killed but inevitably will come back after a certain amount of time to pursue his previous target unless a new one catches his attention. Targets that he specifically wants to have revenge against he somehow will know where they are at all times but nothing else of where they are or how. His soul cannot be taken nor erased. Trap-making and unusual weaponry: Jason has a unique intelligence in being able to utilize objects or create bizarre, grisly traps and weapons that are often deadly.

Motivations: To listen to his ‘mother’ or ‘voice’. To be a good boy. Backstory: Jason’s story is a tragic one but at this point I think it goes without explanation.

#bios #ooc #sweet jason #scp jason

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r0botarmsapts · 4 years

Text

Title: Wherever You Are, In Thoughts You’re Always With Me. Cross-posted to Ao3, dA and Fanfiction.net. Characters/Pairings: Flynn Scifo, Yuri Lowell. FlynnYuri, FureYuri, Fluri. Words: 1k+ Disclaimer: I own this fanfiction but not the characters or game they’re from. Notes: Talk of death but Yuri isn’t dead, canon compliant there. For the 10 Hurt/Comfort Lj community. This is 1/10. Table: DIY Prompt: Regret. Summary: Flynn stood in front of his large window, staring at the night sky, his thoughts and heart on one man. Wordlessly, he opened the window, letting in a warm breeze. His eyes were drawn to the heavens, clouds few and stars bright, some twinkling in the sky. “Can you see this sky, too, Yuri?” He wondered, knowing the swordsman enjoyed lazing back, taking in the view of the skies at different hours. Torn in two, the romantic part of him would have taken Yuri somewhere private, a view just for them and kissed him under the night sky. Yuri looked ethereal under the light of a full moon, the mental image bringing a small smile to him that was short lived while the memory of that day atop Zaude intruded once more.

From the sharp pain in his head that refused to leave him alone, Flynn knew tonight would be another sleepless night. Staring at the ceiling with weary eyes, he doubted much sleep would have come to him anyway. Going on a week in, the few nights he managed to rest, Yuri had appeared in his dreams, the scenes nightmares come to life from one of his strongest fears since he lost almost everything as a child. Losing Yuri.

‘Yuri’, Flynn thought, a strong sadness in his heart. Alone in his quarters, the blond too quickly got out of his bed, staving off a wave of dizziness that threatened to take a firm hold. Needing a moment to steady himself, Flynn repeated a mental checklist of actions to be taken, one that he had gone over and over, and over again. The end result would be the same as the first time, but it gave his mind something to focus on. Papers were too neatly stacked on his desk, set to the side while a map laid out in the open, marks on it with notes where to go next. A candle almost entirely burnt out beside the parchment, leaving Flynn to have a few seconds of feeling similar to the object.

Flynn stood in front of his large window, staring at the night sky, his thoughts and heart on one man. Wordlessly, he opened the window, letting in a warm breeze. His eyes were drawn to the heavens, clouds few and stars bright, some twinkling in the sky. “Can you see this sky too, Yuri?” He wondered, knowing the swordsman enjoyed lazing back, taking in the view of the skies at different hours. Torn in two, the romantic part of him would have taken Yuri somewhere private, a view just for them and kissed him under the night sky. Yuri looked ethereal under the light of a full moon, the mental image bringing a small smile to him that was short lived while the memory of that day atop Zaude intruded once more.

How many times now had he picked apart that afternoon? Thought of what he could have done differently?

The answer remained the same.

That spike of anger struck as he thought of Alexei firing the laser at Yuri, no real time to do anything different. When it came to Yuri, he always reacted quicker, moved faster. More than anything else in that moment, Flynn wanted to protect Yuri, even if it meant his own life was to be taken in Yuri’s place. Lady Estellise had rushed to his aide, healing him with wide, frightened eyes for his life. A scar remained that she apologized for but he quieted the guilt she bore to him and denied her kind offering to try and take it away. The scar remained near his heart, a blow taken to protect his best friend.

Yet...

Eyes narrowing, his body tensed while he attempted to remain steady on his feet, a rolling wave of guilt and sadness, filling him, wanting to drown him on the inside, nearly needing him to sit. Flynn managed and remained standing in the face of another difficulty as he always did. Yuri still ended up worse off, and at the heart of it, there was little that could be done. Flynn knew this, yet still put some blame on himself. His heart knew before his mind did in that moment that Yuri would have died from a direct hit, his body acting to save the swordsman.

The one time Yuri fell and Flynn could not catch or save him.

Bringing a hand to the front of his face, old memories struck bringing a variety of emotions with them.

Pulling him from a river when they were kids, pulling him closer by his shirt when they fought with built up pain and frustration over misunderstandings, pushing each others buttons, and too soon afterwards, when Yuri nearly fell to his death on the top of the tower after being separated by that monster.

Flynn, in his actions, had gripped Yuri’s hand hard while pulling him upward. His heart beating loud enough to be deafening back then. While catching their breaths, a silent conversation went between them, one that did not need to be heard by anyone else. They would not have understood and did not need to. It was far from the first time they could have talks without a word being uttered, something that proved to be a comfort. Yuri understood him better than anyone else, and he, Yuri. They could borderline read one another’s minds.

It was with that deep bond, Flynn knew Yuri was with him still.

Lowering his hand back to his side, tension slowly easing from him, blue eyes went to the skies once more, tired but determined and wanting answers only Yuri could give him. Flynn felt every moment of their separation with a hard acceptance of what was, the ongoing ache in his heart and pain as each day yielded the blond nothing new. There had been no sighting, no hint, nothing to clue them in Yuri was okay. Someone had gotten to Yuri before they could, and that was what left him with no satisfying answer. The swordsman had still been standing, Flynn knowing how agile and fast on his feet Yuri was, made less sense the more he thought on it. Something else had happened, leaving Flynn knowing he and Yuri were going to have a long talk waiting.

Whether he found Yuri first, or Yuri came to him, they would be together again. Flynn could feel the connection there, it giving him hope.

All too suddenly with the weight of his duties and missing friend, Flynn felt more drained than he had when he left the bed. It was late enough for the night life of Zaphias to be going strong, making sometime before he could continue with anything. The room around him beginning its dance once more, Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose, focusing enough to turn away and make it back to his bed. It would be hours until dawn broke, giving him sometime to lay down at least.Flynn could feel Yuri’s stare on him, the look he would have while forcing Flynn to go rest instead of overworking himself further. Being able to predict what Yuri would say to him while the blond slid back under the covers gave him a pained peace. Flynn badly wanted Yuri in the bed with him, to see his smile, hear his voice in person and not from a memory. With their shared connection strong, Yuri would never be just a memory. Not now. He was alive, Flynn knew it.

Their reunion was only a matter of time.

#fluri #flynn scifo #tales of vesperia #fureyuri #tales of fanfiction #fanfiction

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parischangedher · 5 years

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this love came back to me.

Ideas/Requests/Tags: “Plot twist: Tony and Ziva took the couch in Paris. Together.” -- @factoffictionwriter @tivajunkie @coffeedepablo

So...this took a turn. It’s not at all realistic, but realism left this show a long time ago, really. Otherwise, they would’ve been canon years ago. But I digress...

TW: very brief mention of Somalia

Word Count: 5.8k

Links: AO3/FF

“Allons-y, ma chérie!” Tony exclaimed as he dropped their bags on the floor of the hotel room.

It was classically Parisian, he thought as he took in the space. The suite was adorned with gold wallpaper and a small chandelier. On one end, there was a wide window above an inviting king-size bed, a desk, and a television. On the far side, where Ziva was currently sitting, was a matching sofa and armchair. They were the type that looked far more decorative than comfortable, complete with dark wooden frames and old fabric pulled taut.

“Où, mon petit pois?”

He grinned at the old moniker and raised his eyebrows playfully, stepping a bit closer and offering his arm. “You show me.”

Ziva laughed. “Tony, we have work to do. This is not a vacation.”

“We have nothing to do until tomorrow, Zee-vah. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He paused before continuing, his eyes meeting hers. “If it helps, I will give you complete control of our itinerary. We can avoid all the tourist spots.”

She considered his request more carefully, then. Whether it was the way he was staring at her, the fact that they were thousands of miles from home, or that they were in one of the most passionate cities in the world, she couldn’t tell. But, before her common sense could kick in, she smirked, stood and stepped closer to him, tilting to expose her neck suggestively as she always used to do.

Lowering her voice a few octaves, she thickened her accent and completed her assault on his personal space. “Complete control, huh?”

Tony’s smile fell for a split second as he subconsciously stood straighter, clearing his throat and quickly remembering what it was like to play with fire.

“That is, uh, what I said.”

Ziva made a show of glancing down at his lips before meeting his eyes again and quickly backing away, her face and voice returning to normal. “Okay.”

She gathered her phone, badge, weapons and wallet while Tony remained still. With three words, he was transported back to four years ago, when he first met the only woman who could intimidate him, who could match him blow-for-blow without batting an eye. (Besides his mother and divorce lawyers, who don’t count.)

Ziva turned back to face him and smirked, again.

“Tony,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his cheek. “Are you ready?”

Her touch snapped him out of it. Smiling, he responded.

“Oui, mon Ziva. Après vous.”

+++

“You have to be kidding,” Tony exclaimed as he strolled down the cobblestone streets in the most under-rated parts of Paris with Ziva on his arm.

They had spent the afternoon in a whole other world--one in which their normal boundaries seemed incredibly out-of-place. Investigating small shops, hidden bakeries and quintessential sights when they were off-duty built an atmosphere of intimacy. It encouraged personal conversation about everything from daydreams to childhoods.

Ziva smiled and playfully rolled her eyes. “I am not, Tony. We were a little too busy training to have the time for stuff like that.”

“That’s just, like...a sin,” he said. “It’s something you have to experience at least once. What if your kid wants to do it someday?”

It took everything in Ziva not to freeze at the question. Instead, she slowed and only allowed her smile to fade slightly. She knew it wasn’t his fault, not really. He was just making conversation. She was the one with the issues.

Sensing his mistake, Tony backed off and quickly changed the subject, asking questions about the best food she had in Paris and whether customs would allow him to bring it back to the States.

+++

Her jaw dropped when she exited the bathroom, her hair still wet from the shower and her body clothed in the lace pajamas she may or may not have packed on purpose. Just in case.

“What is all of this?” she asked, incredulous at the sight before her.

The bed had been stripped of its blankets and pillows, which had been expertly relocated to the floor in front of the couch. Above it, a sheet lay draped neatly across the sofa and armchair. The lights were dimmed and a small stack of movies was on the end table.

“Over here,” Tony said as he poked his head out from under the sheet, flashing her one of his classic grins.

Ziva smiled back, still confused and remaining still. “Tony, I--”

“Come on. I have a bribe,” he said as he held up a bottle of red wine.

She rolled her eyes but obliged, sliding onto the blankets and facing him. She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Well,” he replied as he poured a generous amount before handing her the glass. “This way, we won’t fight about who gets the bed.”

"Tony,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You and I both know we would not have fought over the bed.”

Tony laughed to himself and looked down, suddenly finding the pattern on his shorts very interesting. “Yeah.”

“So?”

“So,” he started again. “I just thought that, as your partner, I should make sure that you’re prepared for all scenarios.”

“Tony,” she said again, putting her hand over his and encouraging him to look at her.

He finally met her eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It didn’t come out right.”

“So...you built one of those pillow huts you were talking about to make it up to me?”

“Fort. A pillow fort. And...yes.” He searched her eyes before nervously continuing. “What do you think?”

Ziva smiled softly with a look in her eyes that was too scary for either to name. She was deeply touched: No one had ever done anything this thoughtful for her before.

“I think--” she started as she brought her hand up to cup his cheek. “--that it is a perfect introduction to the world of pillow forts.”

+++

Two hours later, with the movie over and the wine bottle emptied, Ziva lay flush against Tony’s side. His arm wrapped lightly around her waist as her head rested on his left shoulder.

"Do you want children, Tony?”

“I--” he started, absentmindedly running his hand down her arm. “I suppose, someday, it might be nice. Assuming I can do better than Senior, of course.”

"Of that I have no doubt.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for some time, enjoying the intimacy of the moment and the feeling of lowered walls.

“What about you?” he asked quietly.

She sighed. “I...I do not know. My life was, as you know, complicated, growing up. It still is. I do not think I would be the best example.”

“Ziva David,” Tony stated, tilting his head back a bit to look at her. “You would be an amazing example.”

She rolled her eyes and drew circles on his chest, avoiding eye contact. “That is sweet, Tony. But you and I both know it is not true.”

“You tell me a reason you think so, and I’ll shoot it down with a thousand to the contrary.”

“Well, until today I never experienced a pillow fort. You said yourself that it was an essential prerequisite to parenthood.”

“Ziva,” he said softly, moving his hand to her cheek and encouraging her to look at him.

She reluctantly met his eyes with misty ones of her own, immediately recognizing the same loving look that she gave him earlier. Of course he wouldn’t accept that deflection.

She contemplated changing the subject, as they usually did when things got too serious. But in that moment, in his arms in the middle of the night in Paris, she felt...safe. For the first time in a long time.

Or maybe it was just the damn fort.

“Tony,” she smiled sadly. “I was raised to be a killer. A spy, a heartless soldier. And for most of my life, that is what I was.”

“You are not heartless,” he replied. “Even if that was true at some point, it’s not anymore.”

“Maybe,” she said. “That part of me likely died in...in Somalia. But it does not change what I have done.”

“You can’t let your past--especially the parts that were influenced by being the daughter of Mossad’s director--control you now. You deserve better.”

Ziva scoffed. “Not according to some people.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Vance.”

“What did he say? He will regret it.”

“No, Tony. I do not want to visit you in jail.”

She hesitated before continuing. She had not voiced this to anyone, and she still wasn’t quite sure that she should--especially to him.

When the hood had been lifted, she suddenly realized that she truly could not live without him. Although the rational part of her knew that he felt the same--he told her himself, after all--she was scared to do or say anything that might make him think less of her, or treat her differently. Or not want her anymore.

But, studying his face--full of raw emotion, safety and something that looked a lot like unconditional love--somehow made her brave.

“When I returned--when you brought me back,” she said slowly, heart pounding in her ears. “He said that I was damaged goods. He was not wrong.”

“Screw him,” he said immediately with fire in his eyes. “You are not.”

“I am, though, Tony. Even if you do not count anything I did while working with Mossad,” she said, her voice shaking. “Being in Somalia...what Saleem did...hurt. He and his men...they left their mark.”

She looked at him again, this time letting a stray tear escape. He wiped it away and interlaced his fingers with hers, kissing the top of her hand.

“I’m so sorry, Ziva.”

"I know.”

His watery eyes bore into hers, desperately trying to send all the love he had for her into her soul.

“But, even that does not make you broken. You’re not...damaged goods.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. His heart ached as he saw the internal battle raging in her.

“You trust me, right?” Tony asked softly.

“Of course I do.”

“Look at me.”

When she finally did, he continued.

“You’re the strongest person I know, Ziva. You have gone through unimaginable horrors and made it through the other side. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a survivor, and for that reason alone, you will make an excellent mother someday.”

Ziva nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak as a few more tears slipped down her face. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Tony,” she said quietly as she settled back against him. He gently rubbed her back and kissed her hairline, hoping he alleviated at least a little bit of her self-doubt. They stayed like that, talking softly and enjoying the embrace, until sleep eventually claimed them both.

+++

“Just put it on the counter, Tali,” Tony instructed as he unlocked their apartment door and stepped inside.

“Okay, Abba,” she said as she placed a grocery bag in the kitchen and rummaged through its contents. “Can we watch a movie tonight?”

Tony chuckled and rubbed a hand through her hair. “Are you kidding? Why did you think we bought extra ice cream?!”

After they finished putting the food away, Tali and Tony walked into the living room, the latter frowning at the sight before him. Pillows, blankets and comforters were piled haphazardly on the floor in front of their sofa, and their spare sheet was draped awkwardly across it and two kitchen chairs.

“Tali, how many times do I have to tell you to please clean up after you’re done playing?”

“I didn’t do it!”

“Tali,” he said sternly, about to chastise her for lying, when she ran to her room and shut the door. He turned to follow when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“She is right, you know,” Ziva said, crawling out from under the sheet with a shy smile on her face.

Tony’s jaw dropped at the sound. He turned to finally see his love, standing in front of him, in his apartment, alive.

“Ziva.”

“Hello, Tony,” she said. “I am sorry. I meant to be finished before you came back. But, I have never actually made one of these before. It is much harder than it looks.”

Tony smiled with misty eyes and stepped closer, immediately wrapping his arms around her waist. Ziva’s smile grew wider as she put her hands around his neck, basking in his presence. His face looked a bit older, his hair a bit grayer, his eyes a bit wiser--but he still radiated calmness, safety and love, much to her relief.

“It’s really over?”

She nodded.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

He pulled her flush against him and touched his forehead with hers, tightening his grip to make sure she was actually real. She slowly looked down at his lips and then back up to his eyes, leaning in a bit--a silent, hesitant question. It was one that Tony answered immediately when he gently cupped her jaw and met her halfway.

Unlike their goodbye kiss, their heated ones in Israel, and their time undercover, this embrace was slow and strong. Tony’s tongue begged for entry, which Ziva happily granted. He cradled her head in his hand and deepened the kiss, never wanting to let go; her skin burned under his touch. She moaned quietly when he moved from her lips to her neck, briefly sucking on her pulse point before reclaiming her mouth. Ziva ran her hands under his shirt and up his back, causing a shiver down his spine. They spent several minutes reacquainting themselves with each other, reveling in the moment until she eventually broke away.

“Now that is a hello,” she said, breathing hard.

Tony chuckled and ran a hand through her curls. “Well, we have a lot of making up to do.”

“I know. And, we have a lot to discuss,” she replied, avoiding eye contact as fear started to rise. “Despite that lovely greeting, I do not want to presume anything, Tony.”

“Hey,” he said warmly, gently stroking her cheek and leaning in close. “We will talk. About everything. But right now, I am just happy to see you. I’m still not sure this isn’t a dream.”

She smiled weakly but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Ziva...It might take time--and a lot of work. But, I will do whatever it takes to make us okay. There is absolutely no way I’m losing you again. I promise.” He paused briefly before continuing. “I don’t have a choice, really. I can’t live without you. I tried. I couldn’t.”

“And I you.” She met his eyes, then, with watery ones of her own. She put her hands on his shoulders. “I am not sure what I did to deserve you.”

“See? We’re on the same page already,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Ziva chuckled and cupped his jaw.

“Shall we let her know she's off the hook?”

"I suppose,” she said, her anxiety rising again. “Does she remember anything?”

“It’s hard to tell. But, no matter what, she knows all about how strong her mother is, and how much she is loved. I made sure of that. I even taught her--and myself--a little Hebrew.”

Ziva smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Tony. Now, I know that I do not deserve you.”

“Cut that out,” he said with a playful glint in his eye. “Or I’ll make you stay in that fort until you do.”

“Is that a promise?" she asked, glancing quickly down at his mouth again.

Tony smirked, raising his eyebrows and thoroughly enjoying the first flirtatious moment they’ve had in years. There was still a lot to discuss, feelings to express and questions to ask. But, for now, with her in his arms, everything was perfectly aligned. They stayed like that for a few moments until Tali came bounding out of her room, evidently tired of waiting for her father.

Ziva froze as she took in the sight of her daughter up-close for the first time in three years. She was even more beautiful than she was before, if that was possible, with all the best parts of her and Tony. Her heart ached for the missed time, and it pounded as everything she had been working for was finally happening. This was it.

“Tali,” Tony said, breaking away from Ziva to meet her at the entrance. He took her small hands gently in his. “Listen, I’m sorry I yelled at you before. I know you didn’t make a mess.”

Tali grinned. “I forgive you.”

"Good,” he laughed. “And, honey...there is someone here who would really like to see you. Is that ok?” She nodded but looked at him curiously as he stepped aside and gestured to Ziva.

She made eye contact with her mother and studied her carefully, as only the daughter of a trained spy could. Ziva smiled softly and stood still, not wanting to spook her. Eventually, Tali recognized the necklace and instinctively raised a hand to clutch the one around her neck.

“Ima?” she asked hesitantly.

Ziva broke into a wide grin as she nodded, raising a hand to grasp the pendant. “Yes, Tali, it’s me.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes bright with possibility despite the touch of disbelief.

“Yes, ahuva sheli. Bo Hena?” she asked, opening her arms and gesturing for her to come.

Tali grinned and ran into her mother’s arms. Ziva knelt down to meet her and hugged her tightly. Gently stroking her back, Ziva buried her face in her daughter’s hair and started to sob, finally able to release the breath she has been holding for three years.

“Why are you sad?”

Ziva chuckled and pulled back a bit from Tali to look at her. “I am not sad, Tali. I am crying because I am happy. I am so, so happy to see you."

“I’m happy to see you too,” Tali said softly, reaching out a hand to carefully touch the pendant around Ziva’s neck, as if it was made of glass. It was a sharp contrast to the yanking of a toddler that she remembered.

If it was possible for a heart to explode with joy, it would have done so in that moment. Ziva wiped her face and couldn’t stop smiling.

“Is that for me, Ima?” Tali asked, eyes wide as she took in the mess in front of the sofa.

“Yes, Tali. Ken.”

Tali grinned and took Ziva’s hand, pulling her over to the fort. They ducked inside and Ziva waited as Tali took in the space. Tony watched from a distance with a wide smile, wanting to give them both the time they needed.

“Toda, Ima. I love it! Can I eat the ice cream in here after dinner?”

Ziva laughed. “I don’t see why not. But we should probably ask Abba, too.”

Tali grinned and stuck her little head out from under the blankets, just as Tony had done years ago. “Abba!” she yelled.

“Yes?” Tony replied.

“Can we eat the ice cream in here later?”

“Of course, kid.”

Getting the answer she expected, Tali popped her head back under the sheet and turned to face Ziva.

“Ima?” she asked shyly, fiddling with a thread on the blanket as her previous smile faded. The novelty of her mother’s reappearance wore off and was replaced with questions that only Ziva could answer.

“What is it, tateleh?” Ziva asked nervously, trying to ignore all the dark possibilities that immediately sprung to mind.

Tali looked away, then--a move she must have inherited from her mother--and paused before answering.

“Why did you leave?”

“Well,” Ziva started, her pulse racing as she tried to find words that would make sense to her. “What did Abba tell you?”

“He said you had to do something very important.”

“That’s right,” she said. “There were some...bad people who were mad at me. So, I had to try to fix the problem and let you stay with your Abba for a while.”

Tali nodded in understanding beyond her years. “So you had to keep us safe?”

“Yes.”

Ziva saw the fear in her daughter’s eyes, which almost broke her heart. “Come here, Tali. Bo hena,” she said, holding her arms open.

She obeyed, snuggling against her mother and burying her face in her shirt. Ziva stroked her hair softly. “Everything is better now, Tali. You, and Abba, and I are all safe. It is over. And I am so, so sorry I had to leave you for so long. Please forgive me, ahuv sheli.”

Tali nodded into Ziva’s chest. “Where are you going now?” she asked apprehensively, tightening her grasp around her mother.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tali. Ani lo e’zov. I promise.”

Tali leaned back a bit, a heavy weight off her growing shoulders. She raised her hand to gently grasp the Star around her neck.

“You probably need this back then. Abba said it was yours.”

“Oh no,” Ziva replied, shaking her head with a soft smile. “It is yours now, Tali. It looks beautiful on you.”

She grinned, finally, and hugged Ziva again. “Toda, Ima. Ani ohev otach.”

“Ani ohev otach, tateleh.”

+++

After making dinner, eating ice cream and watching Frozen, Tony and Ziva had finally convinced Tali to sleep. It was strange, having their bedtime ritual joined by the missing link in their trio. But somehow, it was also as natural as ever. Tali reveled in spending the day with both of her parents, showing Ziva all of her drawings and talking endlessly about how much she liked Olaf. Ziva tried to let Tony take the lead, as he was the one who had been raising her for the past three years, and she didn’t want to intrude or usurp him. But he would have none of it, consistently telling Tali to ask her mother what she thought, encouraging their bonding and stepping back to let them begin to make up for all the lost time. They were stumbling blindly through this new reality, taking it one moment at a time--but they were doing it together, as partners, just as they always had.

They spent a few hours after putting Tali to bed enjoying each other’s company, not yet daring to breach any sensitive topics. Still, they were content, lounging with the television in the background. Tony’s feet were up on the coffee table as Ziva’s were folded under her; her head rested on his shoulder with his arm around her back.

When a half hour passed without a comment from Ziva, Tony turned slightly to sneak a glance. He smiled when he saw her nearing the brink of sleep.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough to rouse her. Ziva blinked a few times and looked at him with sleepy eyes. “Come on,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to his bedroom. Or, their bedroom. Maybe.

Ziva opened her mouth to object, as they had not yet discussed sleeping arrangements--among many other things. She did not want to disrupt his life more than she already had. The words died on her lips when she saw the intense, loving and determined look on his face.

She smiled back and obliged, following him into the room and graciously accepting his old Ohio State t-shirt to use as pajamas.

They climbed into bed and reached for each other without hesitation. Turning to her side, Tony immediately followed and pressed up against her back. Draping a protective arm around her side, he pulled her close. That from any other man would have felt threatening, but after everything, Ziva had never felt more at home.

+++

Tony awoke to the feeling of loss. Realizing that the space beside him was cold and his bedside companion was missing, he sat up straight and tried to quell the rising panic.

He threw the sheets off, pulled on a t-shirt and opened his door, walking through the apartment until he saw a lamp on in the living room.

“There you are,” he said in relief as he walked to the entrance of the pillow fort.

Ziva smiled apologetically and reached out her hand. “I did not mean to worry you.”

Tony smiled back and climbed under the sheet with her. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Bad dream?”

“Something like that,” she said quietly. “We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“Yes. If you are able, of course,” she added hastily.

"Whatever you need, Ziva.”

She made eye contact with him then, letting him see the anxiety, fear and regret sketched all across her face. It looked like she’d been crying. He took her shaking hand in his strong one, waiting patiently for her to begin.

“I am so sorry, Tony.”

“I know,” he said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I got your letters from Odette.”

“I thought as much, when you did not shoot me out earlier.”

“Throw you out. And I would never do that. No matter what.”

Ziva squeezed his hand. “Are you...are you angry?”

“No. Well, maybe a little bit.”

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Tony. What I did is almost unforgivable. You have every right to be furious.”

“Operative word being almost, Ziva,” he said softly, stroking her hand with his thumb. He paused for a moment before continuing. “I was angry, when I first found out about Tali. Of course I was. But that was also tangled up in confusion, denial, and grief. It’s hard to pick it all apart.”

“I am sorry about that too.”

“Hearing the news about your ‘death’...even though I had my doubts from the beginning...it almost killed me, Ziva. It probably would have, if it wasn’t for her.”

She nodded but said nothing, urging him to continue.

“I understand why you did it. I do. I know that once the threat began, you were trying to protect her, and that you believed the best way to do that was to keep a low profile and eventually use the attack to disappear.”

“But?”

“But,” he continued. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me the moment you found out you were pregnant. Did you really think that little of me? That I wouldn’t want to know?”

His eyes bore into hers, exposing the pain and rawness that he had been suppressing since she broke into his apartment. She wiped a tear from her face and forced herself to respond. Not to run.

“Of course not, Tony. I knew you would have been perfect. Honestly,” she said sadly. “I do not think there is any reason in the world that could justify what I did. I will always regret it.”

“Try me.”

Taking a deep breath, she tried her best to explain her deeply flawed thought process.

“After you left Israel, Tony, I was not doing well. I thought that spending time there would help me heal, bring me closure. Help me put an end to everything I hated about myself. I was wrong.”

He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“Instead, it just made everything worse. I convinced myself that you--that everyone, really--would be better off without me. I thought that little of myself. Not you. When I found out I was pregnant, I did not know what to feel. There were days when I wasn’t even sure I would keep her. It was...a very dark time,” she admitted.

“I still deserved to know, Ziva,” he said, his voice breaking.

She put her hand on his cheek and felt his stubble underneath her fingers. She gave him a pleading look, one that begged him to understand what was not understandable and forgive what was nearly unforgivable.

“I know. And, I eventually figured that out too. Having her, holding her in my arms, allowed me to finally dig myself out of the dark hole I found myself in. It was then that I realized what a horrible mistake I made. But by then it was too late. The danger was already present. I simply could not risk it.”

“And then of course, once I heard of the pending attack, I knew that I had to disappear. There could be no doubt that I was dead, or they would have used Tali against me. They would have used you against me. So, I did the only thing I could do. I faked my death, and I sent Tali to the only person I could ever trust to protect her. And...you know the rest.”

“You didn’t have to do that, though. I could have helped protect you.”

“I know you could have. But I simply could not risk anything happening to you, Tony. Leaving Tali without both of her parents, or leaving myself without--without you. I just could not take that chance.”

He said nothing, still processing what she said. She waited patiently for as long as she could in vulnerable silence.

“Please say something, Tony.”

A tear escaped and traveled down his face as met her eyes. She padded it away and took his hands in hers.

“We really screwed this up, didn’t we,” he said.

“I suppose we did.”

“I am sorry too, you know.”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t have left you in Israel to wallow by yourself, Ziva. I should have stayed with you, if you didn’t want to return. Or at least made more of an effort to check in on you.”

“Tony,” she said sadly. “I did not want you to. And you had your whole life in DC.”

He laughed softly, running a hand through her hair. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetcheeks. I left my life in Israel--I left you. And her, although I didn’t know it then.”

He paused before continuing, not wanting to stumble this next line. “At ha’or shel hachayim sheli, Ziva.”

[You are the light of my life.]

Ziva smiled and leaned forward, kissing his cheek.

“So what now, Tony?”

“Now, I think we should really try to get some sleep.”

“Tony,” she said, clearly not quite finished with the conversation. “I need to know what it is you want.”

He studied her briefly before responding.

“Well, that depends. Do you promise not to run again?”

“Yes. Ani lo e’zov, Tony.”

[I won’t leave.]

“Good. Then...come here,” he instructed, rising and stepping out of the fort. Ziva did as he requested. He led her over to the bookcase and turned away to rummage through an old shoebox he kept at the top.

“I saw this when Tali and I first arrived in Paris,” he rambled as he continued, increasingly frantic. “And I knew it was a long-shot, probably a stupid idea, but I didn’t care, really. I just had this feeling that I--”

“Tony,” she said, exasperated. “Please answer me.”

“I will. Right...now,” he said with a wide smile as he finally found the object of his search.

He turned to face her with a wide grin on his face. “I never thought I’d have the chance to use this. Hoped. But I never thought it would actually happen.”

Ziva smiled softly, still a bit confused until he opened his hand to reveal a small velvet box.

Her jaw dropped when she realized his intentions. “You’ve had that all this time?”

“Yes.”

“Tony, I...I do not want you to do something impulsive, or feel a sense of obligation, or--”

“Ziva," he said, his eyebrows raised. “I promise you that I’m not, and I don’t. I got this because I knew that if I were to ever find you again, I wanted to be ready.”

She was silent for a moment, processing his response. “I...I do not know what to say right now,” she said, laughing softly to herself as her eyes started to grow misty.

“I’ll take that as my cue, then.”

Their hearts both raced as he lowered himself to one knee.

"The past six years and, especially, the last three, have been the hardest of my life,” he started. “But, what they’ve taught me is simple. We’ve wasted so much time, and I don’t want to spend one more second without you. So...what I want--or, what I need, really--is you. Us. All the good parts and the bad parts, forever. If that’s, of course, what you want.”

Ziva smiled wide as she wiped her eyes. “That is the only thing I want.”

He smiled back and stared deeply into her eyes, exposing his nervousness and vulnerability as he opened the box. He let out a shaky breath as he prepared for the most important question he’d ever have to ask.

She saw the worry in his face and stretched out a hand to cradle his head, nodding in encouragement. “Ask me, Tony,” she said quietly.

With a new bout of courage, he gently took her hand. “I know we still have a lot to discuss and work through. I really wasn’t planning on springing this on you so fast after you got back. But, our timing has never been good anyway, I guess,” he chuckled to himself.

“None of that matters, though. The only thing that does is that I love you. I have for years. I am hopelessly, hopelessly in love with you. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much I do. So...Ziva David, will you marry me? Titchatni iti?”

“Yes” she said immediately, grinning as the tears she had been holding back flowed freely down her face. “Yes, a million times over.”

He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning as he placed the ring on her finger. As soon as he did, she pulled him up to her and kissed him deeply. He returned the embrace and pulled her closer to him, marking the beginning of the rest of their lives.

“I love you too, you know,” she whispered when they finally broke apart. “I have for a long, long time.”

Tony smiled and stroked her cheek, both reveling in the happy silence for a few moments.

“Come here,” she said as she started to pull him away from the shelf and walked backwards toward the bedroom.

“Finally ready to sleep?” he asked lightheartedly, following her without hesitation. He’d follow her anywhere.

She smirked, tilting her head suggestively and shooting him a look that could set water on fire. “Not in the slightest.”

He grinned and bit the corner of his lip. “Good. Neither is your fiancé.”

#kristen says things #tiva #ncis #Ziva David #Anthony DiNozzo #fanfiction #my fanfiction #tiva fanfiction #coffeedepablo

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merryfortune · 4 years

Text

Flower Power

Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

Ship: Huntara/Perfuma

Word Count: 3,272

Tags: Post Canon, Slight Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Pansexual Perfuma

Something strange was beginning to happen around Huntara.

Flowers were beginning to bloom where she stood and lingered too long, she could swear that if she thoughtlessly used her hands to talk, the plants around her would bob and move with the way she moved.

But, surely not right?

Magic was not her forte at all but she supposed that if stars could return to the night sky, along side the moons and clouds, then maybe it was possible that she was, quite literally, a late bloomer when it came to magic. It helped that this new found affinity she had with plants seemed to coincide with when her dominion, the Crimson Waste transformed from a hinterland to a beautiful and burgeoning metropolis. And yes, that was correct, it was still her dominion even though the peoples of it, scarred and roguish, were beginning to reconnect with the outside society they had shunned and they had crowned Huntara their regent.

She was their leader, not their queen and certainly not their princess. She was Huntara of the Crimson Waste - and yes, it was still called the Crimson Waste even though it was no longer how it had been for a millenia. Scorched red sand and a hopeless place. All sandy valleys of death and the lost with a harsh sun and foreboding conditions which made it impossible to thrive. Now that magic, all magic, had returned to Etheria from its core, the Crimson Waste had been renewed as an ecosystem. There were oases, real and genuine, in the sands which now teemed with all sorts of insectoid life and the like.

Plants, too, apparently. Not just cacti but there were a few other, desert hardy things which had begun to spring up and bloom in the Crimson Waste and these strange things, with huge mottled petals, had a definite preference for popping up wherever Huntara was and she was in a lot of places. As leader, her people - her subjects, if she could be so bold and it felt awful, for once, to be that bold - had a lot of need and want for her opinions and she was a woman of the people. She wanted to be there. On the ground, helping. A strange difference from fighting but it felt good to do good.

But she couldn’t ignore herself. She needed a little bit of help as well. And she knew exactly who to ask to get it.

Perfuma had received her with open arms - and then closed ones. She was a hugger after all. Huntara stiffened at the reception of such affection but she didn’t revile it. That would be rude and she was a leader now. Huntara had to be this new thing called “polite” and Perfuma made it easy. She was such a goody two shoes sweetie after all and despite it all, Huntara was a softie so she indulged but patting the top of Perfuma’s head as her skinny little arms tried their darned best to squeeze the life out of Huntara.

When she finally let go, Perfuma had to take a very deep breath. Only for her arms to fling back again and she beamed, so big and wide and proud.

“Welcome to Plumeria, Huntara, Princess of the Crimson Waste!” Perfuma bellowed so cheerfully.

“Hold on, hold on, I ain’t no princess, princess.” Huntara scowled as she corrected Perfuma.

Perfuma looked up at her, all innocently confounded. “Oh, my apologies,” she said, her hands shrinking in on herself, her dress crinkling, “I had received word that the Crimson Waste had made you their leader and since your efforts have been to reconnect the Crimson Waste to the rest of Etheria, I assumed that a new kingdom had been… reborn.”

“Your right on those counts, I can’t blame you fer gettin’ your wires crossed… but I ain’t no princess.” Huntara said only to turn uncharacteristically ginger. “But I guess that’s why I’m here. Strange things are happenin’ and I figured you might know a thing or two. You’re the one with the green thumb. Not me, mine’re, uh, purple.”

Perfuma giggled but she nodded. “Here, allow me to show you to my inner sanctum, we can talk there in private.”

“Much obliged, flower girl.” Huntara smiled weakly.

Plumeria was a very beautiful place. That was an objective fact. It was verdant and lush, easygoing and relaxed.

Huntara found it weirdly fitting that she would come here again. She had been part of an invasion which had hassled Plumeria a long, long time ago, when she was in the Horde. Returning from that outpost in Plumeria had been the catalyst that Huntara needed to desert the Horde. Seeing its wealth and bounty had made her yearn for more than what she got at the Horde. She didn’t deserve to eat grey ration bars when there were real fruits and vegetables out there. She didn’t deserve to only know hatred and misery if there was genuine love out there; of course, she came to convince herself that a coward like her, on the run from the biggest and most terrifying force in Etheria would never be truly deserving of such things so she ended up in the Crimson Waste.

But now, she was back and that felt oddly right.

Perfuma had them settled down by the shade of some overhanging linen strewn about in the trees and on pillows with a small, wooden table by their side. A servant appeared and offered them tea and other light refreshments, some of which were tiny in size. Perfuma pecked at a few and then drank from her cup of tea.

“Rose petal,” she said, a fanciful sigh escaping her lips, “my absolute favourite blend, it’s divine.”

Huntara awkwardly accepted. The social customs outside the Crimson Waste were egregious to her but to be courteous, she drank some. It was hot, but not too hot for her mouth, and okay. Not her favourite.

“So, what does bring you to Plumeria? You mentioned that you wanted my counsel for an important matter but were evasive over the communications… I’ve been shivering in anticipation for your arrival.” Perfuma rambled.

“I feel like I’m going crazy but… but I think I have magic now, the same as yours.” Huntara stiltedly replied.

Her eyes were far off into the distance, she sat, cross legged, and away from Perfuma. Anything to avoid her gaze. It was too intense and not in the way that Huntara could usually bear the brunt of because Perfuma’s intensity was very, very sparkly for lack of a better word and right now, she was incredibly sparkly even by her measures.

She gasped, eyes widening, “No… way!” she exclaimed.

“I-I’m not certain. I just think its possible, when She-Ra rejuvenated Etheria with a thousand years’ worth of stored magic that I absorbed some of it since I am, er, the leader of the Crimson Waste and, for whatever reason, leaders on this planet generally tend to be, uh, gifted. So to speak. With magic.”

Hunata stared at her hands. They were not the hands of someone who ought to excel at magic or even have the rare privilege of practising it in any way, shape, or form. All the sorcerers that Huntara had the pleasure of meeting had these tiny, soft hands which were dainty and squishy. Perfuma’s hands were a fantastic example of Huntara’s observation, for instance. The only exception she could think of to such delicacy was Scorpia, but her heart and mind were plenty soft and squishy to make up for the fact that she had pincers.

“O-M-G!” Perfuma squealed. “We could be flower power buddies! Doesn’t that sound awesome?”

Huntara growled. “I told you.” she all but snapped. “I don’t know for certain. Maybe I’m just seeing things.” She huffed through her nose, a hot exhale. “It could be coincidence or whatever.”

“I think we should at least try.” Perfuma gushed. “I believe in you.”

Huntara stiffened. Perfuma’s words were so saccharine but so sincere as well. She huffed again, more defeated this time.

“Yes,” she supposed, “I guess we could try.”

That word had become the bane of an entire inter-galactic empire. Maybe it could become the boon between a princess with confirmed flower powers and a totally not princess with unconfirmed flower powers.

“Here, let me come closer to help.” Perfuma said and she rocketed to her feet.

She pranced about only to plop down next to Huntara. They were knee to knee, nudging up against each other. Perfuma held onto her ankles and leaned back, her hair falling back behind her and she looked at the sky. Huntara wondered if she ought to do the same so, she did. She tilted her head back and through the foliage of the trees above, she saw scant traces of the big blue sky.

“Huntara, dearest, I want you to think about your happy place.” Perfuma said. “We are going to do a spot of meditating. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“Uh, I guess. Told you, flower girl, not really my thing.” Huntara said, gruffly reminding her.

“But plant based magic is my thing and I want you to unlock your inner Plumerian so we can get to the bottom of this whole thing you're experiencing. It's scary and exciting, don’t you think?”

“Uh, yea-” Huntara interrupted herself with a cough. She was Huntara of the Crimson Waste. The strongest being in the Crimson Waste. She wasn’t wishy-washy or the like, she was of the toughest resolve. Or so she would damn well remind herself. “Yes. It is.” She was still staring at what could be glimpsed of the sky through the dense forest. They both were.

“I was taken to the Heart-Blossom all the time as a baby, by my parents, so I could receive its blessing but the earliest I actually remember being taken to the Heart-Blossom was the day I activated my connection with it and I used my powers, my magic, for the first time.” There was a nostalgic sound to Perfuma’s voice but it was tinged with something else. Something more bittersweet. “I was so excited but it was so scary. My mouth opened, my eyes glazed over - or so I’m told - and I just became an unstable conduit for the Runestone’s powers… I hurt a lot of people that day. Friends, family, both…”

Huntara looked away from the sky and unthinkingly, she reached out. Her fingers grazed Perfuma’s upper arm in some scant attempt to comfort her. She looked down from the sky as well and met Huntara’s gaze. It was saturated with concern for her.

“No one died that day but my parents still had some of the injuries I accidentally inflicted that day on them. My Mother and my Guardian… but they never blamed me. They helped me understand my powers and control them. I want to help you do the same since… since I think you're the same. You're scared by these new things but they are so, so rewarding when reined in correctly. That’s what makes it exciting. I have the utmost faith in you, Huntara, so believe in yourself. Let’s do it. We can do it.” Perfuma rambled. There were tears in her eyes.

“Yeah, we can.” Huntara grunted.

She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. Perfuma guided them both through the meditation. Huntara tried to focus on Perfuma’s voice and Perfuma’s voice alone but it was so difficult. Incredibly difficult as Plumeria was so alive. The wind sang in the branches of the trees; birds flew and flapped about; people came and went merrily as they pleased. There was so much to listen to but Huntara endured even though something as simple as sitting down and clearing her mind was strangely difficult for her.

But Perfuma was soon more than satisfied with how Huntara did, ending the guided meditation after a minute or two, Huntara didn’t count and she had to control herself not to, she spoke again: “How do you feel?” Her voice was light and airy.

“Focused.” Huntara elected to reply. She could think of dozens of disparaging or self deprecating replies but at the very least, she owed Perfuma something constructive, even downright positive.

“Excellent. Open your eyes.” Perfuma ordered her, her words beginning to tumble with her excitable nature. She wanted to confirm Huntara’s magic powers more than she did.

Swallowing, Huntara obeyed. She opened her left eye and then the right, only to be immediately dazzled by how bright the sunlight here was. It was a gentle sunlight, though but she still had to squint ahead.

“I think you can do it. No, I know you can do it. Try and use your powers, Huntara. Please.” Perfuma told her next. It felt inciting but not like an order. Strange.

Huntara took a breath and she stared at the ground, drilling a hole between the plush blades of grass around her.

“You can do it. Visualise a flower. Any flower you like and make it grow.” Perfuma encouraged her.

Huntara growled as she tried to follow through on Perfuma’s encouragement of her but it was very difficult. Her muscles visibly strained, her cheeks flushed, as she put all her might and power into trying to make one, teeny-tiny flower. Her efforts in vain, elicited something like sympathy from Perfuma.

She reached out to her and her fingers caressed Huntara’s thick forearms. Her touch was surprisingly cool. Or maybe Huntara burned too hot but either way, she was soothed by how Perfuma’s fingertips ghosted over her leathery skin and Huntara breathed a bit more easily. And when she stopped trying so hard, lulled by Perfuma’s quiet encouragement, it happened.

Magic happened.

Before their very eyes, a flower managed to raise itself up and out of the grass, nigh out of nowhere. It was feeble and quite battered looking but as its petals, pink with white trims and golden middles, unfurled, it had an air of grace and resilience. It seemed to respond to how Huntara held her hand out to it, as though it wanted to be pet by her hands.

Huntara’s jaw slackened and when it popped back into place, it turned into a grin. Gawky and toothy but an ecstatic grin all the same. Beside her, Perfuma squealed with joy - a helluva lot more than what Huntara had. She hugged Huntara from side on, snuggling into her rock-hard side and beaming as well.

“You did it.” Perfuma cheered.

“Y-Yeah, I did. I’m not goin’ crazy. I’m magic.” Huntara sounded breathless.

“Yes, you are. You are very magical, my beautiful desert rose.” Perfuma told her, her voice husky.

“You are very bold, flower girl.” Huntara half-warned her, she caressed Perfuma’s narrow face and tilted it upwards towards. Her arms slackened but Perfuma was very handsy, they remained nestled on Huntara’s hulking legs now.

Perfuma giggled. “I’m about to get much bolder.”

“Oh?” Huntara was intrigued; her brow quirked.

“In my eyes, you are Princess Huntara of the Crimson Waste and I propose that the Crimson Waste becomes a vassal territory of Plumeria. I believe we have a lot in common.” Perfuma said and she seemed all too cocky, fluttering her long, blonde eyelashes and Huntara couldn’t be mad. She wanted to be but she was charmed by the strength that Perfuma was exhibiting instead.

“That is bold.” Huntara agreed.

“So, what do you think?” Perfuma asked.

“I think I would prefer to be Huntara, Strongest of the Crimson Waste, brilliant and dashing leader, partner state to Plumeria and that’s it.” Huntara bargained, voice dropping low and even flirtatious.

Perfuma giggled, she reached up and toyed with the jagged fluff of the collar on Huntara’s jacket.

“How about… partner to the Princess and acting Queen of Plumeria?” Perfuma asked.

“That’s a bit more up my alley, flower girl.” Huntara said and she caressed Perfuma’s chin gently and leaned in.

Completely oblivious to such a signal, Perfuma squealed: “Ooh, it’s so exciting! We’re going to be in cahoots! I’ve never been in cahoots with someone before- and oh my gosh, you are trying to kiss me now aren’t you?”

Huntara laughed as she poked Perfuma’s cheek with her thumb, stroking it backwards.

“Ayup.” she grunted.

“Please do that, thank you.” Perfuma smiled.

“Sounds good, flower girl.” Huntara said.

She leaned in and their lips connected. Perfuma giggled through the kiss, it reverberated on Huntara’s lips and she didn’t dislike it at all, as annoying as it was, and in fact liked it quite a bit. Still, it was more a kiss of lip to teeth but Huntara didn’t mind much as she there was so much joy in how Perfuma reacted to being kissed. So, Huntara kept at it, more than happily. Perfuma’s mouth was sweet with the taste of tea and the other confections which she had been snacking on. It was nice. Best of all, she didn’t mind one bit that Huntara had such big teeth jutting out her mouth, it seemed she even relished how they nudged up against her face as Huntara kissed her.

Perfuma sighed when Huntara, regrettably, pulled back. They both had to breathe, after all. Perfuma giggled an awkward and overjoyed giggle. It was painfully shrill on Huntara’s ears but luckily for Perfuma, Huntara was endeared to such a raucous noise for one reason or another.

“To a long and prosperous union between Plumeria and the Crimson Waste.” Perfuma said.

“Sure thing, short-stack.” Huntara replied, bearing a cocky smile of her own.

Perfuma smiled back, eyes closed, lashes fluttering and when she opened them, they were brimming so happy. Her hand swept aside and she plucked the flower from the ground, the one which Huntara had managed to make rise up from nothingness.

“Ooh, a plumeria.” Perfuma gasped as she half-heartedly examined the flower, twirling it between her slender fingers.

“Heh, yeah, whaddya know, it is.” Huntara replied, pretending that she was any good at identifying flowers outside of what was edible and what would poison you.

“A good omen, I think. Most fortuitous.” Perfuma nodded sagely. “Hey, may I press this flower for you? I want you to keep it, a memento of the first time using your powers on purpose.”

“I’d like that, kiddo.” Huntara said and she petted the top of Perfuma’s head. Her hair was so tightly bound back over the crown of it and fed into that big, fluffy ponytail of hers. It was nice.

Perfuma laughed and playfully swatted Huntara’s large hand away from her. She got up, her petalled skirt shaking and shimmying about as she dusted herself down.

“I’ll be right back,” Perfuma said, “and when I do come back, I’d like it a lot if you let me help you practice your magic some more.”

“I’d like that a lot too, flower girl.” Huntara replied, something of a contented sigh escaping her mouth as she leaned back, one arm planted to the ground to prop her up.

Perfuma squealed excitedly again and Huntara cringed but if Perfuma was happy, she was happy. Simple as that. Perfuma hurried off and Huntara very much decided she liked to see that girl go; that halter drop on her back was very nice. But what was nicer, was how she treated Huntara. Felt weirdly good to be worthy of commemorative knickknacks and kisses. She couldn’t help but look forward to future lessons, speaking strictly as a liaison from the Crimson Waste, not their princess, merely their leader and liaison, both romantic and official to the Princess and acting Queen of Plumeria, of course.

#femslash #shera #she-ra and the princesses of power #she ra and the princesses of power #spop #light spop spoilers #she ra #huntara (spop)#perfuma (spop)#hunfuma #huntara x perfuma #perfuma x huntara #writing tag #flower and power

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wordcubed-writes · 4 years

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Alternate history timeline for my AFO!Izuku fic

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Fanfic: untitled AFO!Izuku fic

Context: This is the history timeline I’m using for my villain!Inko and AFO!Izuku fics. It’s definitely not compatible with… whatever canon thinks it’s doing.

What I’m trying to do with this is make the My Hero Academia world feel bigger (there is an entire world! It’s not just Japan!) and ground its history in… I know “historical materialism” sounds really pretentious, so I’ll just go with “shit happens for a reason”. I’m also trying to answer obvious problems that are never addressed in canon, like “how come heroes get to do the things they do?” or “Why are they considered separate from the police?”

It’s so fucking long. I’m sorry. Yes this did take me a week to hammer out.

____________________

• 1948 First confirmed Quirk. This is considered the start of the “First Generation” of quirks. Most are barely noticeable, and would only be verified after extensive demographic studies a century later. Some are very noticeable. A few dozen are immensely powerful.

• 1950 All For One born.

• 1954 All For One's younger brother born.

• 1950s The rest of the 1st wave of eventual-supervillains, including the Machine Queen, born. Many governments start projects to weaponize Quirks for both the military and as a new form of domestic control.

• 1962 US government openly starts using Quirks to speed up moon landing project, and as attempt to calm public anxieties about Quirks. (All of the Quirk-users to appear are still children.) Reaction against this leads to eventual exposure of other, more-harmful projects using Quirks.

• 1963 By this time, every Quirk-user who would eventually become a supervillain is a part of some kind of government project.

• 1966 Meta Liberation Society (MLS) founded as a response to reactionary attacks against Quirk users. (The oldest Quirk-users are about 18 years old at this point.)

• 1967 “Second generation” of Quirk users considered to start here. None of them are as powerful as the hundred or so first-gen Quirk-users who would eventually become supervillains, but their Quirks’ strength is more evenly-distributed; almost all of them have a noticeable quirk that affects their lives.

• 1968 Quirk Liberation Army (QLA) founded as more militant splinter group of MLS.

• 1970 QLA assassinates both the Soviet Union premier and the United States president. The strongest government-project Quirk-users attempt to seize power in both countries.

• 1970-1981 The Bleeding Years: civil wars become norm; most national governments fail; lots of major infrastructure is left to decay or is destroyed in violent conflicts. Around this time, All For One finds and steals an immortality Quirk.

• 1971 All For One forces a Quirk on his younger brother, ostensibly to protect him, accidentally creating One For All.

• 1981 All For One becomes dictator of Japan. Age of Supervillains begins. Various immensely powerful quirk-users have successfully carved up the world between themselves. (Technological progress is much slower than it otherwise would be, as most dictators focus on consolidating power more than anything else.)

• 1980s Due to his interest in collecting Quirks, All For One allows any Quirk-user to immigrate to Japan, and offers generous benefit programs to further encourage this. This has three major consequences:

‣ ‣ Japan becomes substantially more diverse and has a much higher population than it otherwise would, and has a far higher Quirked-to-Quirkless ratio than other countries.

‣ ‣ As Quirks become an integral part of the economy, other countries attempt to copy Japan. These pro-Quirk benefit programs would be pared back decades later, as more and more of the population is Quirked anyways, but they leave an important legacy: if you’re Quirkless, you get less.

‣ ‣ Across the world, demand for specific Quirks (both from employers and consumers) and the search for communities that can better support Quirks leads to populations rapidly urbanizing and densifying. Rural areas eventually hold most of the Quirkless, the elderly, and socially-unacceptable-Quirk populations.

• 1983 The Consortium is formed by Machine Queen to mediate between various supervillain-ruled nations in order to prevent any major wars.

• 1990s Supervillains’ children are noticeably weaker than their parents. The Consortium attempts to genetically engineer a Quirk.

• 2002 First genetically-engineered Quirk-user born. Code-named “Cesium” due to how volatile their Quirk is.

• 2010s Arranged “Quirk Marriages” become popular to compensate for weaker Quirks of second-generation supervillains, and hopefully ensure 3rd-gen supervillains will still be powerful enough to rule.

• 2016 Genetic engineering of Quirks is banned in most countries after Cesium’s Quirk proves too powerful to control and too unstable to be reliable.

• 2020s The Consortium orchestrates a peaceful transition of power between the aging first-gen supervillains and their children. (Excepting All For One, who is immortal and has no living family.) The Machine Queen has developed her technomancy Quirk enough that she goes full transhuman and, like All For One, is effectively immortal.

• 2028 Cesium marries a Quirk researcher with one of the earliest-known Quirk-disabling Quirks. They live a relatively normal life.

• 2030s Cesium’s son, Platinum, proves to have a remarkably powerful and stable quirk. This is widely credited to the mixture of his parents’ Quirks, further boosting the popularity of Quirk Marriages.

• 2050s 3rd generation supervillains come to power (again, arranged by the Consortium) and are still noticeably weaker than second-gen supervillains despite quirk marriages.

• 2055 Platinum founds the Renaissance Project, a training program for the elite, intending to overcome younger supervillains’ lack of inherent power by developing the Quirks they do have as much as possible (and usher in a “Supervillain Renaissance”).

• 2070s Fourth-generation supervillains also much weaker than their parents despite quirk marriages. Skill and creativity with Quirks becomes more important for maintaining power, and Platinum solidifies his position as the headmaster who guided a generation of dictators.

‣ ‣ A new theory suggests that the vastly-above-average Quirks of the first supervillains will continue to "regress to the mean" and weaken each generation, while the overall population's average Quirk strength will continue to increase.

‣ ‣ Supervillains fear a "crossover point" where their citizens are as strong as them, and begin massive crackdowns on Quirk usage. The phrase "Quirk Singularity" is coined to describe when the average person's Quirk strength will match that of the god-like first supervillains, thought to happen sometime in the 25th century.

‣ ‣ Supervillains start recruiting some stronger Quirk-users to enforce their will, as they can no longer singlehandedly control a whole country without extensive support. These were the forerunners to the first hero organizations.

• 2078 A man called Earthmover is imprisoned for illegal quirk use after he rescues hundreds from a landslide. This sparks protests and Japan’s League of Ten—previously government enforcers—side with the protestors and rebel. Age of Supervillains ends, Golden Age of Heroes begins.

• 2080s The crackdown on Quirk usage combines with a severe economic downturn and uprisings break out across the world. Many Quirked state enforcers side with the rebels.

• 2080 By this point, the majority of the world population has a Quirk.

• 2086 Nana Shimura born.

• 2090s Various supervillain dictators fall to uprisings. The Consortium shifts from preserving the status quo to building up underground villain organizations in the face of the new "heroic" society.

• 2092 All For One abandons the Japanese government to the rebels, hoping to continue exerting control through more discrete means than as public dictator. His new underground organization starts absorbing the remnants of other deposed supervillains and becomes the League of Villains. Earthmover & other condemned “heroes” are rescued from prison.

• 2097 The Consortium negotiates with various provisional governments, working to preserve the status quo as much as possible by simply swapping out supervillain dictators with democratically-elected “unitary presidents”.

‣ ‣ This is more or less accepted with a major compromise: No major rebel-hero groups formally dissolve or surrender, they are just in détente with the state. Furthermore, “hero” becomes an official title, and heroes form a parallel pseudo-government, determined by popular vote and with effective veto power over many major state actions. This is rejected by groups like the Meta Liberation Society, who want Quirk regulations abolished, and the Quirk Liberation Army, who want a true revolution.

• 2098 Japan's first Top Ten heroes are selected. Golden Age of Heroes ends, Silver Age of Heroes begins.

• 2099 Earthmover elected first President of Japan.

• 2100s Tensions mount between surviving villain groups.

‣ ‣ The Consortium is largely obsolete without supervillain rulers to coordinate with. The villainous Renaissance Project has been replaced with various hero training schools. Both groups are weakened and rapidly fading, meanwhile, the League of Villains is larger than ever, and All For One’s influence is no longer limited to Japan. All three groups hate heroes, but the other two blame All For One for “giving” Japan to the heroes and empowering other uprisings across the world. (All For One is removed from the Consortium’s board of directors, ending its official ties to the League of Villains and further weakening it.)

‣ ‣ Platinum revamps his organization to become CORE (Counter-Revolution), with the express goal of destroying the hero system.

‣ ‣ The Consortium openly allies with the few remaining villain dictators (no longer “super” after six generations of regressing to the mean), and discretely allies with newer governments that are increasingly nervous about hardline rebels like the QLA.

• 2100 Quirk marriages made illegal in Japan. Most other countries soon follow.

• 2101 UA is founded. Platinum (re)starts genetic engineering program to create super-soldiers for a counter-revolutionary army.

• 2105 Earthmover reelected.

• 2106 Earthmover drafts almost every geokinetic Quirked in Japan to physically expand Japan’s landmass to counter rising sea levels. (Yes, global warming is still happening in this timeline.) This is very popular with the general public, though the actual results are mixed. The project is only half-finished by the time a different president is elected. Within a couple decades, the western coast expansions become a haven for the wealthy while the eastern coast expansions are unfinished and regularly-flooded slums.

• 2109 Nana Shimura becomes 7th holder of OFA. Earthmover announces his retirement before third Japanese presidential elections.

• 2110 Second President of Japan inaugurated.

• 2110s Quirkless discrimination is growing worse. Many believe Quirkless people are naturally going extinct. Employers start preferring any Quirk at all—even an unhelpful or mediocre one—as being better than no Quirk at all.

• 2111 Toshinori Yagi born, Quirkless.

• 2120s Protests by the Meta Liberation Society against the harsh and byzantine Quirk licensing system (including the special status of hero licenses) lead to major police crackdowns on unlicensed quirk usage, fueling the growth of the more radical Quirk Liberation Army. Several countries near civil war as reactionary movements, including old supervillain loyalists, CORE, and the League of Villains, clash both with each other and with groups like the QLA.

‣ ‣ Due to their status as non-state entities, most heroes don’t strictly enforce Quirk regulations, preferring to preserve their popular image as benevolent and non-political guardians, but they are, by now, very invested in the status quo, and merciless in dealing with any perceived violence by the QLA.

• 2125 Toshinori meets Nana Shimura.

• 2128 Toshinori becomes 8th holder of One For All.

• 2130 Nana confronts All For One; he kills her. Toshinori—now going by the hero name All Might—is sent to America to assist in destroying the League of Villains branch there. Second Age of Villains begins.

• 2131 Platinum destroys San Francisco Bay Area. CORE guerillas attack and kill major heroes in Europe (the region where the League of Villains is weakest), planning to crush the hero system there and rebuild a supervillain society outside of AFO’s influence. Quirk Liberation Army and League of Villains clash in Tokyo.

• 2132 All Might stops Platinum from destroying Los Angeles. This incident makes All Might globally renowned, and encourages more international cooperation between heroes.

• 2133 CORE forces start attacking heroes in Russia. An international union of heroes confronts and kills the strongest CORE Quirked in Moscow.

• 2135 At over 100 years old, Platinum is increasingly reliant on Quirk-made support tech to continue working. Though other major villains consider the CORE super-soldier project a failure, he still quietly restarts CORE’s genetic engineering program, this time to produce “perfect” successors to continue his legacy.

• 2138 International cooperation between heroes is now routine, and the League of Villains splinters into hundreds of isolated local groups as All For One fails to keep his organization whole in the face of global coordinated attacks.

• 2139 Quirk Liberation Army collapses under pressure from heroes, who consider them villains. Current Japanese President discovered to be under mind control and peacefully removed from power by vote of the Top Ten heroes. Age of Peace begins.

• 2140s Japan is the heart of the hero system. Its heroes are considered the best, and heroes are effectively Japan’s biggest export to other countries.

• 2150 Izuku Midoriya born, Quirkless.

• 2159 All Might successfully hunts down All For One, but is grievously injured while (seemingly) killing him.

• 2164 Izuku meets All Might.

• 2165 Izuku starts at UA. Technology equivalent to about 2020-level in our world, with the exception of special Quirk-made tech.

‣ ‣ Japan’s population: 250 million.

‣ ‣ World population: 12 billion.

‣ ‣ At 136 years old, Platinum is reaching the limits of what support tech can accomplish, and begins plotting to kill as many heroes as he can before he dies.

• 2166 All Might's final fight with All For One, and retirement. Age of Peace ends.

____________________

Other Notes: This timeline isn’t just abstract worldbuilding; most stuff I wrote here is referenced by characters in-story or directly affects the circumstances characters find themselves in.

For example: the Consortium is villain!Inko’s biggest ally, and later on she moves her base of operations to Japan’s aforementioned east coast slums. The Machine Queen is AFO’s only remaining peer from his dictator days, and serves as a frenemy he can, like, actually talk to. CORE serves as a looming threat from overseas—if/when AFO falls, they will move in. Platinum’s genetically-engineered successors are intended as a villainous mirror to Endeavor’s family. I’ll go further into my villain OCs in this story in a follow-up post.

The countries that the various supervillains ruled over had very different borders than our world’s. Bigger countries tended to get split up between rival dictators, and smaller countries with no major geographical barriers between them often got subsumed and ruled as a single country. (Japan was lucky in that it was already an island nation, and stayed whole before and during All For One’s rule.)

The Public Safety Commission (and its equivalents in other countries) is the official interface between the Japanese government and the parallel pseudo-governments that heroes represent. It is both important and fiendishly complicated.

As a result of the unitary president system most countries run, most governments are hilariously corrupt and barely functional. Heroes are mostly okay with this because, hey, if it’s broke it can’t be tyranny! Neoliberalism still sucks, even in alternate universes, so welfare barely exists, and most people in need have to search for a hero-sponsored charity that caters to their specific circumstances.

There is no World Wide Web. The Consortium encouraged isolationism, trying to limit each supervillain’s ambition to their own fiefdoms. As a result, there are dozens of incompatible networks and computing architectures. (This also made censorship MUCH easier.)

Social media sites like Twitter still exist, because I want to use them as a narrative tool like other fics I’ve seen. But there are no globe-spanning networks of servers, just local subsidiaries running servers dedicated to a single country, and there is no physical infrastructure enabling them to talk to each other. This does become a plot point a couple times.

(It’s considered a big deal that UA has a special computer capable of directly communicating with overseas computers. At another point, All Might has to physically mail a recording of something to another country, because it’s literally the only way he can guarantee somebody across the planet can view the same footage.)

My “technology develops 2 to 3 times slower in this AU than it does in our timeline” rule of thumb suggests, frighteningly, that Twitter has existed for around 30 years in this timeline. (Their technological equivalent of 2007 would be about 2133, while their technological equivalent of 2019 would be in 2163 or so.)

I left out all of Inko’s villain adventures and Izuku’s upbringing, because… I haven’t settled on a timeline for them yet. Also, at a certain point, it just becomes a summary of the fic itself, which isn’t the point of posting this timeline.

#AFO!Izuku AU #MHAfic #Boku no Hero Academia #BNHA #fanfiction

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natsubeatsrock · 4 years

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The Rewrite of Fairy Tail: Bonus (What If? #7)

What if Fairy Tail was like Shooting Starlight?

tfw spoilers kind of mess with this post concept

Fairy Tail is not Edens Zero. I made an important post about the different drives between the two for EZ Week 2019 on my main blog, so I don't want to say too much about this here. However, I have to admit that this isn't an unfair aspect to discuss when the two come up in my discussion. Especially since this was what drove my post.

Although, I feel like this isn't impossible as it may seem. Fairy Tail may have a reputation as a sort of "family outside of the family". But how would I "corrupt" the guild's nature?

For the uninitiated, Shooting Starlight is the guild members of the main cast of Edens Zero is a part of. While their involvement with the guild is rather inconsequential, the guild isn't as friendly towards its members. The bond between members is more arbitrary than Fairy Tail members. One member outright antagonizes another.

Now that's all well and good, but what's this have to do with this idea? It's not like there's a way to do this justified by canon, right?

Consider the following.

First, the guild has a fairly bad reputation in the land of Fiore. The fact that the manga starts with the council talking about the crazy antics of the guild is fairly important in canon. But this is something that could be manipulated towards my purposes.

The rest of the first arc has moments that could work towards this end. Natsu (very understandably) isn't excited to entertain Lucy as she joins him and Happy to find Macao and (less understandably) tricks her into the Daybreak mission. He goes to find Macao only because Makarov said that a wizard who couldn't survive the mission doesn't deserve to be a part of the guild and refuses to send help to him.

Keep in mind all of this happens after a giant guild-wide brawl. Miraculously, the guild functions despite these being regular occurrences. That everything else happens on top of that, I could easily make this idea work.

Finally, for this rewrite, Natsu doesn't love the guild to start the series. You know that speech about how he cares about the guild members as his friends, including Lucy and the people he was fighting? Not in the rewrite. His logic of stopping Bora as a phony Fairy Tail wizard? Not in the rewrite. I have him grow into his canon love and that would help with this type of guild.

What that would look like in Fairy Tail is interesting. While I could imagine several ways to do this, the best way to do this in my mind is to play off the Phantom Lord event. In canon, Laxus has an issue with the way the incident was caused by Lucy joining the guild. I would make that the start of a rift in the guild. The camps would align behind Laxus and Erza depending on how members think of their bonds as guild members. (I don't need to say much on the differences.) The issue for Makarov would be recognizing that dichotomy and doing his best to keep the two sides within one guild.

This would come to a head with two big events in the series. The first would be Fantasia. I don't want to go into too much detail about how this arc would change (read: I don't want to think too hard about this). The important thing is that Laxus is expelled from the guild, as in canon. But with him, those who sided with him also leave the guild, obviously including the Thunder God Tribe. Erza, then, becomes the one to convince Makarov to say as the master. At this point in the series, Laxus won't have too many supporters.

That would change with the second big moment: Tenrou Island. I would make two big changes to the arc, other than the obvious changes affected by the first one. First, Laxus doesn't go on the island at all. The Strongest Team can defeat Hades without his help. Second, the guild swings in favor of Laxus' view. The members we see as part of the guild in the canon x791 arc are broken off into the "old Fairy Tail" while Laxus leads this "new Fairy Tail" as a separate guild.

There are two ways to go from here. One is to have the guilds come to join again as a whole guild at some point. Either they all come together after the Grand Magic Games as a win condition on some kind of bet or the Alvarez Empire invasion reunites the factions. Otherwise, the guilds continue as two separate entities. Though something like the aforementioned invasion may force them to cooperate, the guilds stay as two distinct bodies.

With this explanation, it sounds like I've forgotten the basic idea of "a guild that doesn't value members". While one would likely turn Fairy Tail into pre-Grand Magic Games Sabertooth, this method isn't without its benefits. My explanation of this doesn't account for an obvious point of emphasis for Erza's faction: is it worth it? Is splitting up the guild worthwhile when you want the members to be a family? Should they consider their old section as a part of their family in the first place?

This also helps when thinking about some of the background characters. You can delve into the logic behind a character who doesn't get much screentime. Would they side with Laxus or Erza, and why?

For example, Chico C. Hammit isn't a name I'd expect many fans to recognize. But I could use her secret feeling for Laxus as a reason for her to join his faction. On the other side, Bisca might find a connection between Erza's acceptance of Lucy, despite causing the Phantom Lord incident, and Erza's acceptance of herself into the guild, despite faking membership to threaten people.

As a side note, this adds some interesting dynamics to guild relationships. Elfgreen goes from a semi-canon ship we see by the end of the series to its original bickering state. Erza and Laxus clash as ideological opposites and guild masters. And don't get me started on how much of a field day one could have with the Grand Magic Games as a factor in this. If I were to do such a thing, original arc ideas would delve into what this divide means for the guilds.

The reason why I'm not doing this should be obvious. This requires much more thought and restructuring of the series than I can afford. Even my biggest changes to canon can still work without too much work. Even as I'd say the series is about the guild, this is more extreme than I can make happen.

Based on Part 1

#the rewrite of fairy tail #what if 7 #fairy tail #aye vey #this was a fun idea #i'm glad mashima didn't do this #and i'm glad i'm not #but this is a fun a idea #tomorrow will be better

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dorwinionwhining · 4 years

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Please share your thoughts on Russingon if you feel like it.

ahhh, i’m not used to being asked for my thoughts like this, thank you, anon!

and for anyone else who is curious: anon is referring to this lovely post on trauma in the silmarillion and the tags i left on it.

so, my thoughts.

i suppose i'll start with the wall of tags i was halfway through writing before deciding to delete them: maedhros and fingon are often portrayed as a pairing between a traumatized person and a person who helps and supports the healing of that trauma

this is a common couple trope that exists throughout many fandoms and i'm not all that shocked it's been latched onto for the two of them considering the main story we're introduced to their canon relationship through involves fingon rescuing maedhros from a widely known and accepted form of trauma: capture, torture and imprisonment by an enemy you're in the middle of fighting a war against.

but to me that portrayal does both of them a disservice. it dismisses potential sources of trauma in fingon's life as well as simplifying maedhros's trauma as resulting from a singular event that happened to him and that he was saved from.

one of the things i love about the silmarillion is how it shows suffering compounded by previous suffering. melkor's theme is repetitive. echoes of trauma build off of each other, rippling outwards so that eventually the entire world is infused with them down to its core.

look at what these two elves go through:

their homeland is invaded, their grandfather is murdered and the light of the world itself is extinguished.

the home maedhros is living in is robbed, his father instigates the kinslaying and the theft of the ships and maedhros participates. he then sets off on a harrowing trip across the sea to an unknown continent to fight a war against the strongest of the valar, and when he gets there his father decides to burn the ships, stranding them and preventing anyone from following. maedhros protest this but his father and brothers all decide to carry it out anyway, ignoring him. then his father dies. he inherits the kingship and is suddenly in charge of all his brothers and their men. this culminates in him getting tricked into an ambush where his men are slain around him.

fingon comes across the kinslaying as it's in progress and leaps in to defend fëanor's side without knowing what's happening, then fëanor and his sons set sail while he's left to wait with his father and their men for the ships to return. but the ships burn instead and his father decides to cross the ice. the descriptions tolkien gives of the landscape there make it sound like one of the worst places on earth. people die. fingon's sister in law dies. it's a terrible journey and when it's finally over they're met with a battle, which ends in a victory but also with the death of fingon's youngest sibling. then fingon hears that maedhros has been captured and is presumed dead, and he makes the decision to walk off alone into enemy territory in search of him.

this is just what happens surrounding their arrival in beleriand, it doesn't touch on maedhros's torture and it doesn't include fingon's rescue. it also doesn't include anything about the oath (despite my own personal belief that fëanor having his children swear it again over his dying body had to have been, uhhh, i'll say impactful to avoid going off on a tangent) and it doesn't include things that could have or had to have happened off page, the everyday stresses of figuring out food, water, shelter, combat, weather conditions, etc., or any of the politics, which would have been incredibly stressful, especially for maedhros after the death of his father and for fingon after fingolfin's arrival in mithrim.

and it's not like this just stops after the rescue. it's not like the two of them are ever given a clean moment to process what's happened to them. no one in this book is. new stressful events are always coming along on the heels of old ones, and often the best thing to do for everyone (because there's always someone else who is suffering more, now, in this moment) is to move on however you can. even if moving on means leaving pieces of yourself behind.

so fingon and maedhros interest me because their traumas, shared and separate, have so much potential to play off of each other, negatively as well as positively. how can they possibly navigate an intimate relationship with all of this behind them and even more ahead?

i understand why portraying them more simplistically is popular, why maedhros is often the one getting his traumas spotlighted with fingon as his well adjusted lover who helps him heal and offers him a bright spot in the darkness until he's tragically lost and maedhros goes back to unravelling. but for me personally i often wish there was more complexity.

i can work with maedhros carrying lasting trauma from thangorodrim. i don't think tolkien would have written the line about him carrying a shadow of pain in his heart if it wasn't important. the silmarillion isn't a book that prioritizes character details. but if he's traumatized and fingon isn't then there needs to be a reason, an explanation, some thought put into why that's the case. is it something inherent in fingon's nature, in maedhros's? are there some things elves can heal from mentally and some things they can't?

and fingon can be traumatized without overshadowing or taking away from maedhros’s trauma. there’s not a limit, unfortunately, on the number of people who can be hurt by others and by circumstance. i want to see his coping mechanisms, his pain and suffering and how it develops as he loses more and more of his family as his father’s reign unfolds.

there's a lot of room for variation. i'm always interested when i see people exploring these two, and i'm always craving more.

and i don't want anyone to think i'm saying there's a right and wrong way to portray their relationship. even if you're someone with opposite tastes to me who loves the version i'm currently complaining about then i want you to keep loving it. this isn't a fandom i'd ever want to take anything away from. i'd always much rather just add more.

and yeah, i think this wall of text is gigantic enough. i kind of lost some of the points i wanted to make along the way. must be because i never got to the point in school where i needed to learn how to write essays so all of this was just a stream of consciousness ramble. i'll probably remember something important three days from now and be kind of annoyed.

but, uhhh, there's some of what i was thinking. again, thank you for the ask, anon, and i'm sorry! you were probably expecting something a little less ridiculous.

#replies #the legendarium #oh god it's so long #and probably full of mistakes #and i'm always so nervous about posting meta in this fandom #i wasted so much time at work on this but i had to get it out #otherwise i would have just forgotten it #Anonymous

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kakuzhu · 5 years

Text

and as a follow-up to my post on the country takigakure is in, which I decided to call monsoon country or land of monsoons, here’s a meta post on the general culture and composition of takigakure itself.

as stated in the other headcanon, takigakure is canonically the only village outside of the 5 main villages (those being, of course, konohogakure, sunagakure, kirigakure, kumogakure, and iwagakure) to receive a tailed beast during the time of the first shinobi war. this act was done by hashirama senju in an attempt to provide a power balance between the strongest villages, which implies that takigakure, despite being in a smaller country and therefore with fewer resources and a smaller population, was in serious contention with the other great nations in terms of combat prowess. it was also stated in anime canon that takigakure has never been successfully invaded despite its smaller size.

in my meta about the land of monsoons’ environment, I described the natural fortifications that made this possible. however, in this post, among other things, I will describe what cultural expectations set forth by the takigakure people themselves were and why they also heavily contributed to takigakure’s strength and persistence to this day. this also gives some insight to kakuzu’s past and all the many cultural things that went into his assassination attempt on hashirama senju as well as his subsequent imprisonment.

takigakure apparently prides itself for producing strong ninjas as well as never having been invaded (according to the anime). coupled with the fact that the country itself is very small and presumably poorer compared to the other great nations, therefore, I assume the culture in takigakure is extremely militant and very strict. mind, it is not as bad as kirigakure got, especially the tradition of killing off fellow students upon graduation. this was partially because the takigakure never got that brutal, but also because they had a much smaller population and could not afford such traditions, anyway. in lieu of this, there were few civilians in takigakure; most citizens were shinobi and were encouraged to be shinobi since youth.

in takigakure, failure was extremely frowned upon and often referred to as a “luxury”. it emphasized typical, stereotypical shinobi values: individuals were meant to be used as tools, and represent the village and should behave appropriately. those that brought back failed missions, commissions, or other bounties were appropriately reprimanded and punished. these punishments ranged from simply being relegated to D-rank missions for some period of time to full out exile and imprisonment depending on the severity. the latter was incredibly rare, and typically, more common punishments were cuts in pay, rations, or additional menial task work added to the person’s duties. demotions were also given out when appropriate.

ultimately, however, what kept shinobi in takigakure from failing was the culture of high expectations. individuals from takigakure took their roles as shinobi seriously and often had high success and kill rates. that said, shinobi from takigakure were often under a lot of stress, and most could accurately be described as perfectionists. this stress about success, in particular, was due to the fact that takigakure was almost constantly concerned about being invaded and absorbed by one of the other great nations. during kakuzu’s time in takigakure, the village was incredibly sparse but emphasized most of its resources on military spending. by the naruto time period, however, during relative peace, takigakure had loosened its stringent policies somewhat.

takigakure, ergo, lauded its strongest shinobi and held them in high regard particularly during its earlier years. they are considered true representatives of the village and of the country, and to become so respected, they likely embodied the most core shinobi values. kakuzu, during his time, was publicly acknowledged as one of the strongest takigakure shinobi for his earth spear prowess, as well as for his impressive work ethic, practical attitude, and serious personality and presence. he also fought during the last years of the Warring States Period, which also gave him combat credibility and gave him some authority as a veteran.

while it would probably not be considered as such in the modern naruto time period, during kakuzu’s time, the order to be sent to kill hashirama senju was considered an honor. this mission not only acknowledged that the elders considered kakuzu strong enough a shinobi to carry out this mission (along with any others that were on it with him), but believed him a true enough shinobi to accept a widely accepted suicide mission. everyone in takigakure knew this would likely be a mission that kakuzu and any allies would not walk away from whole, but the perfect shinobi takes the most impossible mission no matter how bleak. the bestowing of this mission onto kakuzu, therefore, marked him as what was considered the height of shinobi excellence in takigakure.

this is also why kakuzu was immediately ostracized upon returning to takigakure alive and having failed his mission. now, in my opinion, kakuzu would not have returned to takigakure willingly. my current working headcanon is that kakuzu was heavily wounded in his fight against hashirama, and hashirama, unwilling to kill a downed man, ordered him to be nursed back to relative health and sent back to takigakure to be dealt with there. now, in doing this, it’s assumed hashirama didn’t know the extent of takigakure’s policies---and that kakuzu was sent back forcibly, which I think would make the most sense; I seriously doubt that kakuzu would willingly want to go back to takigakure after such a horrendous failure---because it was considered a huge failure, and on top of it, kakuzu was scorned for being alive after the attempt. he was given the mission to complete or die trying, as is expected of any shinobi. returning alive---and nursed back to health by the enemy on top of it---was the height of dishonor. further, with this assassination attempt and subsequent return of kakuzu by konohagakure’s hand, the takigakure were at a disadvantageous political position against them; not only did they attempt to kill the hokage, but they were done a kindness in return, which meant any repeat attempts would, in their opinion, probably guarantee a full out war or pressure on trade routes, etc.

as a result, kakuzu was thrown into prison, stripped of his rank, and tattooed. the tattoos around his arms are reminiscent of those that were commonly used in the japanese edo period, if my reading is correct, to mark criminals. I’m pretty sure it’s widely accepted in the fandom, therefore, that kakuzu’s tattoos are for similar reasons, and most also agree he was given them in takigakure prison (whether or not this was confirmed in some data book or something, I don’t know). so, the fact that he was given them, along with the fact that he was pitied by the enemy (at least, by his interpretation; hashirama was probably really just trying to be being nice) and having to return alive and whole to face his village, was the height of kakuzu’s utter humiliation. he was degraded here; these tattoos were more akin to a branding, and totally ostracized him from his community---which was, of course, the point. this is just an example of the most severe form of punishment from the takigakure. of course, since kakuzu’s break from prison and the general nature of it, I doubt the takigakure tried to do something as harsh as that again.

ultimately, takigakure strove to produce shinobi that were the very definition of what it meant to be a ninja: die for your village, be a weapon, and always complete the mission. because of the added pressure of being a very small country surrounded by greater ones, the takigakure in particular had stringent policies that all shinobi had to abide by. this was an effort to preserve the village’s territory, renown, and culture. but these days, takigakure is nowhere near as strict. while they still have high expectations for their shinobi, they do not have punishments as severe as this, and do not deny things such as food or other basic necessities for failure.

other fun facts of the village that are not directly related to the military culture:

the village sits at the base of a large tree in the land of monsoons, but there are also homes in its very thick branches and in its canopies. treehouses are not uncommon in takigakure, and in fact sometimes provide good watchtower vantage points during wartime.

takigakure’s prisons are below the ground, in the caverns that run alongside the waterfall that blocks the valley’s entrance and under the river that drops into. as a result, the prisons are damp and usually very cold---a stark contrast to the typical humidity of monsoon country. it was here kakuzu was imprisoned.

the takigakure also hide some of their most prized possessions and forbidden technique in these caverns. only high-ranked shinobi know the layout of these caverns. otherwise, they are hard to navigate because of the darkness. this is where kakuzu stole the forbidden technique: earth grudge fear when he broke out.

because of the general heat of the country, most shinobi uniforms from takigakure composed of sleeveless tops, shorts, or other light, breathable material that would not get damp too quickly.

most monsoon country natives have water or earth-release affinities.

like all hidden villages, takigakure ninjas have specialized techniques to suit their environment. almost, if not all, shinobi use chakra to repel the constant rain at all times, and many have mastered jutsus to completely disappear in the pouring rain. some of the most unique animal summons also come from the land of monsoons, and the takigakure shinobi probably have the most various and diverse types of summons of any country.

takigakure is not particularly advanced in medical ninjutsu, but has progressed far in medicines because of the vast variety of plant and animal life around it. their medicine to encourage longer life to reliving aches to just curing cold symptoms have grown to be one of their most lucrative exports. conversely, they also have knowledge of incredibly deadly poisons.

#shout out to mar for sitting through my theories about takigakure #esp during founders era LMAO #man feudal era type shit is fucked up #❰ 角 ❱ — headcanon 。

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bethkerring · 5 years

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Book Review: The Lady’s Guide to Petticoats and Piracy

I’ll be completely honest: a good part of the reason I decided to read Mackenzi Lee's The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue is because I wanted to read the sequel. In the end, I adored Gentleman’s Guide and ranted on as such in my review, but still, the first thing I did when I finished it was to put in a hold at my library for The Lady’s Guide to Petticoats and Piracy.

Warning: this review will inevitably contain spoilers for Gentleman’s Guide, but I’ll try to keep them to a minimum.

Lady’s Guide isn’t a sequel in the most traditional sense, as instead of following the continued escapades of Monty and Percy, the two main characters from the original, it branches off into the adventures of Felicity Montague, Monty’s younger sister, a year after the end of the first book. Lady’s Guide follows Felicity as she pursues her dream of becoming a doctor, struggling to push past the raging sexism of her time period and hunting down her idol, Dr. Alexander Platt, in the hopes of working at his side. But of course, nothing is ever simple for the Montague siblings, and Felicity finds herself in a greater mess than she had ever anticipated, complete with pirates, legends come to life, and an estranged childhood friend.

The first thing that drew me to Lady’s Guide—and, in fact, to Gentleman’s Guide—was the fact that Felicity is canonically both aromantic and asexual, a rare character trait in contemporary fiction and even rarer in historical novels. Though the topic was only briefly touched upon in Gentleman’s Guide, I was impressed by the respectful and accurate portrayal and eager to see how Felicity’s orientation would be expanded upon in her own story.

And as expected, the representation of asexuality was even better than the taste I got in the original book. Though Felicity’s asexuality is far from the main topic of the story, it plays an important role, and is both questioned and explained in ways that seem both historically realistic and accurate to modern experience. Even people who support Felicity’s dream of becoming a doctor find it confusing that she has no interest in romance or sex. This is further compounded by the challenges women faced making a life on their own in the 1700s: an English woman had limited career prospects, and marriage was, for many, if not most, the only way to have a comfortable life. So Felicity faces not just the sort of judgment that many asexuals face today—the confusion, and even concern, over not having “someone by your side” in a romantic and/or sexual sense—but a fear that, if she rejects romance entirely, she will have no way to support herself.

Lady’s Guide also continues to explore Felicity’s confusion regarding attraction in general, a topic initially touched upon in Gentleman’s Guide. Though Felicity understands the basic concept of romance and sex, it’s foreign to her, and that makes it even more difficult for her to understand and accept her brother’s romantic relationship with Percy. Views toward homosexuality in eighteenth century England were, of course, far from favorable, but despite Felicity’s open mind and understanding toward various marginalized groups, it takes her longer to accept this, since she doesn’t have the framework of her own attraction to start with.

However, as exceptional as asexuality was represented in this story, sexism and the wide range of women’s struggles absolutely take center stage. It is, after all, the primary obstacle to Felicity attaining her dream. But again, Lady’s Guide goes above and beyond the standard. Of course, Felicity experiences a great deal of sexism, and is told over and over again, by a wide range of men, that she can never be a doctor simply because of her gender: that she is inferior, overemotional, and unintelligent, among other common insults. But no matter how often these prejudices come up, what strikes me most is how the story presents sexism as it affects women themselves: their identities, their views of the world, and their relationships with other women.

Though Felicity is without a doubt determined and able to withstand many of the insults and discouraging remarks thrown her way, she isn’t immune to doubting herself. The environment she’s grown up in has had a strong effect on her, and there are quite a few moments where she thinks that maybe what everyone says is right: she can’t reach her goals simply because she’s a woman. I rarely see this combination of strength and weakness, as well as the acknowledgement that even those marginalized people who stand strong for their rights sometimes doubt themselves, and that being told, over and over again, that you are inferior can easily lead you to believe you really are.

Lady’s Guide also shows how this internalized sexism affects Felicity’s views of other women in her life. Felicity has come to view conventional expressions of femininity—especially cosmetics and fancy outfits—as a weakness, since she believes that men will not take a woman seriously unless she adopts a more conventionally masculine appearance. This leads her to judge women who express themselves this way and to distance herself from them, defining herself as “different” and “separate” from other women because of her own expression. She has come to believe that she is one of the only women like herself, and tends to prejudge women she meets without considering that they might have dreams just as strong as her own, even if they express themselves differently than she does.

But this book shines in how it both acknowledges and subverts these views, showing that all ways a woman might express her identity are valid, whether she doesn’t wear cosmetics at all and doesn’t care about her outfits or whether she takes pride in frilly dresses and carefully-applied makeup. Just because a woman expresses herself in a way that fits with traditional gender roles does not mean that expression is wrong.

This, to me, is one of Lady’s Guide’s strongest points: how it allows both women and men to both fit into gender roles and completely subvert them. Men can rescue women, but women can also rescue men. Women can be emotional and compassionate, but men can be as well. Neither feminine nor masculine traits are “wrong,” regardless of the person who is expressing them, and a single person can embody both.

Finally, this book exemplifies one of my favorite concepts in fiction: the value and strength of platonic relationships. Felicity, being aromantic and asexual, doesn’t have a love interest, but even several characters who do feel attraction have stronger platonic bonds than romantic. Though Felicity relies so heavily on herself when the story begins, feeling that she has to be as independent as possible to reach her dream, it is the relationships she shares with her friends and family that turn out to be one of her greatest strengths. This exemplifies the fact that she is no worse off because of her lack of romantic attraction, and she won’t be condemned to a life alone because she doesn’t have a partner. She has people she loves who love her in return, and to me, it is those relationships that make Lady’s Guide a truly moving story.

If you enjoyed The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue, I feel confident you’ll enjoy Lady’s Guide. Even if you just read the first book for the adorable gay love story—a perfectly valid reason—I still highly recommend the second. Lady’s Guide might follow in the footsteps of its predecessor, but it still holds its own, and is just as worth a read.

Original post on my website.

#writerblr #book review #the lady's guide to petticoats and piracy #the gentleman's guide to vice and virtue #asexuality #feminism #historical fiction

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