I think Dirk gets a bit too much flak, both from the fandom and the comic as well. If I had to constantly listen to a copy of myself when I was 13 I'd mentally be doing way worse than him.
Dirk gets too much flack from the fandom the comic, and from himself. Guy is an infinite source of flack.
" Blackwing’s global search only produced two genuine empaths: Svlad Celli, who came to be known as
Dirk Gently, and Bartine X. Curlish. Both were brought in briefly as teens. However, General Scott
Riggin’s search was wide enough that a few extras were caught in the net…though they weren’t the kinds of “psychics” anyone on the research team was expecting. These four “extras,” collectively dubbed
“Project Incubus,” had a different gift entirely. They seemed to be able to “smell” the various conditions of human existence; their abilities functioned very literally like a sixth sense, as they seemed to “smell”
and “taste” emotions. But these talents were discovered to all be secondary manifestations of a much
darker central power.
The Incubus subjects are vampires.
Not the nightwalking bloodsuckers of legend, but rather something much stranger; they feed on
emotion, on the electrical energy of the human mind, which they extract in blasts of crackling pink
electricity. “Smelling” Dirk Gently’s energy on another floor, the Rowdy Three, then little more than
teenagers, used their psychic link to fool their guards and breach Dirk’s area. Feeding on the terrified young Dirk’s amplified aura, they were able to fully charge themselves for the first time since their
incarceration. This is how they escaped, with brutal, destructive force. In the aftermath, Blackwing was closed, and annexed into the CIA. Meanwhile, the Rowdy 3 have tried to make a life for themselves out
in “the real world,” forever hunting Dirk Gently, the Rowdy 3 have taken up the habit of deliberately
entering Dirk’s life in moments where it will cause him the most emotional terror, and TURNING IT UP. "
JAMFIC: chamomile, rose water, and other unlikely intoxicants (2/?)
"Would His Majesty ask it of me?"
A hot flush floods your face as you stare at him, baffled by his boldness. "What are you implying?"
Jake bows his head again, eyes low. "Only that you might ask it of... familiar hands?"
this is a continuation of this jamfic from last night.
For the longest time, you don't see Jake English. As the days slide into weeks and months, you are terribly conscious of the way the tension in your body rebuilds itself, a kudzu vine regrowing rampant until every tendon and chord in your body is conquered. Now that you've had a glimpse of what it's like to not feel that way, the contrast is stark.
Someday, perhaps you will pull too tight and your bones will collapse inward.
All you can do is hope it's not today, or the next day.
You have Jake's oil and his little setup to heat it, all settled on a shelf in your room. You can't imagine doing it yourself will be as effective, so the bottle remains stoppered, and you slowly forget the keen details of the feeling.
That, by all measure and logic, should be the end of it. Time slides out like a tide, and you move on. You oversee the kingdom of Skaia, and ever once in a while, you mount up and ride out, sword in hand, to remind the creatures outside the walls to keep their distance.
It's not until the time comes to change your retinue that anything changes.
It's another way the people of Skaia apparently need to repay the Prince. A collection of ladies-in-waiting who come and go freely, tending to whatever tasks need to be done, and to you when you let them. Which, admittedly, isn't often. There is always something uncomfortable to having them around, but it never outweighs your gratitude for what they do.
You've never questioned the fact that your handmaidens are maidens. It just... was how things were. The way you understand it, given the air of... weird divinity around your rule, it's a spiritual service? But the more you think about that, the more you want to kind of claw your skin off, so you don't.
Before winter settles in, though, the shifts change. Some of the older women leave, back to their lives outside the castle. New candidates arrive to fill their places.
And one Jake English, carrying a bag over his shoulder and the same confident smile.
You watch from the balcony above, trying not to feel like a lech as you observe the short initiation ceremony they go through. You see the precise three seconds of hesitation the high matron goes through as she reaches Jake, kneeling patiently in the line, and for all three of them, you think this is going to go bad here, that Jake is about to be shown the door. Will the matron consider this rude? Or simply judge him unsuited to the role? Do they even have robes for a male handmaiden?
(A valet? A retainer? A page? A handmaster? Well, that last one is accurate.)
Apparently they don't have separate robes for him, and the bundle he's handed is the same lilac robe that all of them wear. He sets it in his lap and bends before the matron, respectful and quiet as she moves on.
You hurry back to your rooms, mind spinning.
The details of initiation are none of your business, and you don't like to pry into things that don't concern you, especially aspects of Skaian life that veer so close to spirituality. You do what you have to: say the right script at the right times, wear your crown and choker when needed, and don't make people stand when they kneel in reverence to you.
You also don't venture out to where the kneeling happens most, so.
But regardless, it's over a week before you even catch a glimpse of Jake. You're walking through the castle with the master of coin, Jane getting you up to speed about upcoming trade possibilities you need to know about.
You both walk past the banquet hall, and see a cluster of lilac maidens setting the tables, their voices bright as they talk through their work.
Jake is there, his arms full of a large stack of plates, following the others around. They take plates from him, put them in place, and playfully prod the slight strain in his arms.
The sleeves of his robes are tied up by his biceps, but he's still wearing them, undeniably part of the retinue.
"Dirk," Jane whispers fiercely. "Really?"
You go still and look back at her. "What?"
Her hand alights to your shoulder, directing you to look at the papers she's trying to show you. You have work to do, you can't just stare at the handsome boy who offered you his hands and now his service.
The second time you see him, he walks right into your rooms with a handful of long matches and a few fresh candles.
It's common practice to... not acknowledge the handmaidens as they come and go. Just keep to your work and let them do theirs.
You are already doing a shitty job of it, your movements stilling as Jake walks in and starts changing the burned-through candles, replacing them and relighting. At least it's mutual; he keeps glancing at you.
The illusion of work is completely gone. You set your pen in its holder as he lights the last few candles.
At last, he turns to you, blowing out the match and waving the lingering smoke away. "Your Majesty."
"Alchemist English," you greet.
"Oh, so you remember me!" He beams tucking his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't sure you would, it seemed frightfully presumptuous on my part, but I hoped. Did..." He looks down at his feet, head bowed, the first expression of deference you've seen from him. It's incredibly... compelling, the way his eyes nearly close, lashes dark over his skin. "Did you get any use out of the oil?"
You take a breath. Relax, for goodness sake. "It was a gracious gift."
"Oh." Now his voice is small.
You feel a pang. You didn't intend to upset him. Your mouth runs away before you can catch it: "I've wanted to use it. But it's... difficult to administer on oneself."
Jake lifts his head again, head tipped to the side. "Oh." It doesn't sound so hurt this time. "Well, you have a score of very kindhearted ladies, many of whom I'm bullseye certain wouldn't mind laying on hands if you needed."
The details carved into the edges of your desk are suddenly very interesting. Far more so than Jake's sharp gaze. "It's not something to ask of them."
There is a suffocating stillness following that. You can feel the tension growing in you as you fight to hold still and not look up, as if all your desires and foibles will be painted on your face for him to see.
"Would His Majesty ask it of me?"
A hot flush floods your face as you stare at him, baffled by his boldness. "What are you implying?"
Jake bows his head again, eyes low. "Only that you might ask it of... familiar hands?"
The weight of all the things Jake isn't saying is crushing, making it hard to breathe. Your hands curl into fists, the fanned tendons in the back of your hands pressing against your skin. It stings.
Now would be a good time to send him away. Before you do or say something rash.
While you're lining up the correct words to say, he moves. First, to the shelf where the bottle of oil has been left sitting. He holds it by the neck and flips his wrist this way and that, the oil sloshing around inside, mixing and reintegrating.
He returns to your side and smoothly drops down to his knees beside your chair.
You let out a tight gasp, pushing back against the cushions. "What are you doing?"
Jake doesn't answer you, which is a kind of boldness you are even more startled by than the rest of his manners. Instead, he struggles to uncork the bottle. "Blasted thing," he mutters and yanks the thing out with his teeth, getting the cork loose and triumphantly plonking it down on your desk before spilling some over his hands.
You can hear your own breathing. This is really going way too far. You anxiously glance at the doorway, but Jake is not a visitor from outside the castle now. He's meant to be here, at your service. There's no discrete guard this time.
Bottle set aside, Jake rubs his hands briskly together. "It genuinely works better when its warm," he says, as if to explain. The noise, slick skin vigorously rubbing against its kind, is so loud in this room.
This is not in any script. You aren't sure what to do here.
Eventually, Jake holds out his hands, fingers curling invitingly. "As I remember, I owe you that hand massage, Your Majesty."
You tell yourself he has you cornered, and your only choice is to roll up your sleeves and rest your hand in his.
Jake lifts up a bit on his knees, closer to you as he bends over his diligent work. His thumbs frame your wrist, just tracing the taut lines, almost clinic examination of what he's dealing with. He presses firm against the epicenter of your pulse, and drags upward; his hand splays wide as he reaches higher, working at the muscles in your forearm, pulling back down, fingers looped around your wrist.
He stretches out your thumb, pulling it so far you open your mouth to say something, but he simply holds it in place, and you feel the muscle pull, pull, pull, until he folds your thumb back down, and moves onto your fingers.
Your head sinks back against the chair. When he pauses to put more oil on, you want to thank him. Instead, you silently offer your hand back up. The way he sneaks a smile up at you is warming and sweet.
By the time he finishes with your left hand, your eyes are shut and your breathing is calm and steady.
He releases you, resting you on the arm of the chair so your hand hangs lax off the edge, oiled skin clear of anything precious.
Then he lifts your right hand, pulling it close and starting over again.
A knot is a metaphor. You are knotted. Even if you don't have any recourse for it, you know it's true.
Jake's touch is gentle, but firm, broaching no arguments as he finds the loose threads and unravels them from the tangled clutch they've formed. More than once, there's actual pain when he presses against the ball of your thumb of the muscle of your forearm.
You're so undone, you can't resist the instinctive jerk back from his hands. And every time, he holds on, doesn't let you get away, and works the hurt until it releases, leaving you sore in the best way every time.
Your cheek rests against the back of your chair, eyes shut, dozing as your tended to. This, you know, is the stated purpose of the handmaidens, to take care of the Prince. For the first time, you don't mind the treatment.
After a long stretch of time, you come to realize Jake is through with his massage. Instead, he's holding both your hands in his, his thumbs moving in unison as he strokes the backs of your hands.
When you dare to open your eyes, just enough to see, Jake has slipped out of his kneeling position, just sitting at your feet, his legs tucked around him. He's looking away, at the fireplace as the flame licks and pops.
That is what rouses you. The feeling that you're looking at something you ought not. It shames you like a slap, and you finally sit up properly.
"Better?" Jake asks before you can say anything, derailing you right from the start.
"I-- yes, thank you. That was..." Your face feels hot. "Very thorough. And helpful."
"I'm glad. It's again my honor, and you give the impression you sorely needed it." He smiles warmly, and you look away, down at your rejuvenated hands. They feel like they're barely a part of you, like someone else's have been transmutated onto your body, it's nearly alien.
He puts a hand on your knee as he pushes up to his feet. "Matron's gonna wonder where I've wander off to." He tugs and settles his robes around him, and offers up another smile.
If he's aware that he's reached into you and plucked an old waterlogged knot loose for the first time in years, he shows no sign. You swallow against the tightness in your throat. "I see. Thank you for-- thank you."
"Always, Your Majesty. It's what I'm here for." With a bow, he shows himself out, leaving you to the rest of the evening, alone with your thoughts and kindling desires.
