aimless--archer

[aimless--archer]

Leaving FERP

Hi everyone!  I’ve had an amazing time in FERP for the last three years, and as a moderator for the last year and a half, but I’ve been mostly out of the Fire Emblem fandom for a while now, so I think it’s time for me to move on.  I’m so glad that this little group I first joined in 2013 is still going, and if I get back into the fandom with future releases I’ll definitely be back.  This blog will remain up, and might go indie if I ever feel like it, but for now it’ll remain as an archive of all the fun I’ve had.

Stay safe and good luck, everyone!

-Avi

[aimless--archer]

send 🐢 for a mental health headcanon

Python struggles a lot with self-worth. He grew up with an alcoholic, likely abusive father (something I headcanoned for a while that then turned out to be canon), and he received a lot of negative feedback growing up. His apathy stems largely from feeling like he got the same negativity whether he tried hard or not- nothing was ever good enough, so if he couldn't make his father happy no matter what he did, why put forth any effort at all? He was told enough times that he would never amount to anything that he pretty much believes it, and Forsyth was the first (and for a long time only) person to think otherwise. It takes coming out the other side of the war alive and helping save the world for him to start to challenge that view of himself.

As badly as he wants not to be like his father, he is still a cynic who hides his depression beneath glib comments and tends to drink or sleep away his feelings rather than facing them. But unlike him, he is not cruel, and he has more capacity to change than he realizes.

[aimless--archer]

⌛

send ⌛for a sleep headcanon

Probably pretty obvious, but Python is a weird gremlin who rarely sleeps during normal hours. Part of the reason he tends to spend his evenings in taverns and other less-than-savory places is that he suffers from insomnia and can't really sleep at night anyways. As a result, he naps at virtually every opportunity, which most mistake for sheer laziness (though sometimes it is).

(And then Forsyth wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn and the cycle begins again xD)

When he sleeps in a bed, he's a sprawler, and he will probably kick you. But he can curl up and sleep anywhere, even in decently sturdy trees.

[aimless--archer]

* talk about your muse!

send 🍯 for a food headcanon

send🥛for a drink headcanon

send 🐢 for a mental health headcanon

send 🦄 for a physical health headcanon

send ⌛for a sleep headcanon

send 💕 for a love headcanon

send 💣 for a stress headcanon

send 😵 for a sickness headcanon

send 🤲 for a religious headcanon

send 🏡 for a home headcanon

send 🍬 for a family headcanon

send 💼 for a work headcanon

send ⛈️ for a sadness headcanon

send 😡 for an anger headcanon

send 💩 for a ridiculous headcanon

send 🌼 for a happiness headcanon

[aimless--archer]

It’s so like Forsyth to only take the positive from his answer, but as much as he would never admit it, that’s part of what has always drawn Python to him.  He needs that boundless energy and optimism, even if he’s one of the only people to ever see them falter.  Sometimes it was all that got him out of bed when they were younger, or kept him going despite his complaining during the war.  He’s finally learned to get out of bed on his own, so in a way maybe he doesn’t need it anymore, and he knows Forsyth is proud of that.  But he will forever be fond of it nonetheless.

“There will?  Didn’t think you’d ever admit that.”  His tone is teasing as ever, but it’s true.  Not that that’s an outcome he’d ever want- he still dreads a letter from Clive every time a messenger comes- but Forsyth has always seemed determined to do this forever, to pour every bit of himself into battle and duty until it’s hard to imagine anything being left at the end.  It’s a relief to hear that maybe that isn’t the case after all.

“I dunno.  Guess we’ll find some village and settle down.”  Not this one, hopefully.  He yawns- when had the night snuck up on them?  “Might not mind doing some woodworking then, if my hands still work.  You could...I dunno, write a book about the grand adventures of Forsyth the Valiant.  Give the next weird kid somethin’ to dream about.”  He chuckles.  ���Or maybe plant a garden. Always thought you might have a green thumb.”

They’ve been soldiers for so long that it’s hard to remember what it was like as simple villagers, or to imagine going back to it.  But Forsyth is right, they won’t be able to do this forever.  And at least they could be simple villagers together.  “Doesn’t sound half bad, really.”

aimless–archer

“More the second, I guess, ” he shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t have to be me, but it’s gotta be somebody, so it may as well be.” The bug Forsyth had swatted finds a new perch on the tip of his nose, and he scrunches his face in annoyance, attempting to wiggle it away without lifting his sore arms. “Beats bein’ a carpenter or sweepin’ a tavern floor. I ain’t’ got a whole lot of other marketable skills, and food and ale don’t pay for themselves.”

It’s what he’s always said- that he works enough to keep a full belly and a bed under him, and that’s it. It’s not really true anymore- if it was, he probably would be a carpenter, and likely wouldn’t have a still-aching slice out of his arm. It would be an easier life, but monotonous, purposeless. And maybe he doesn’t completely hate that this gives him purpose. He doesn’t respond to Forsyth’s praise, but doesn’t roll his eyes either, just… accepts it, for once.

He lets the final question hang for a moment, finding himself without a ready answer. “I guess so. Not like I have much to compare it to.” And he doesn’t, he realizes- at least not since they were children, and those memories are hazy fragments that at times barely feel real. Has he ever been happy? His final years at home had been miserable, the militia not much better. The Deliverance had been…well, a lot of things, but the constant threat of violent death hadn’t lent itself to feeling especially content. He’s always just carved out bits of happiness where he can find them- in decent food or strong drink, in a warm body for the night, in teaching the village boys a bawdy song or a particularly good prank to play on Clive. In lazing around watching Forsyth train in the early morning, or squishing too close to him around the campfire at night. So much of it came from him.

“Could be happier, but…” He trails off. Forsyth is right- maybe not about “meant to be,” he still doesn’t believe in that- but that things are what they are and will never be perfect. In some ideal world, maybe they would want the same things, but this one isn’t and has never been ideal.

This will have to be enough.

He shakes his head, dislodging both the persistent gnat and his train of thought. The fever is making him maudlin. His lips curl back into their usual smirk. “Be happier if you kissed me.”

Normally, Forsyth would have snapped at that comment - Python, this is serious! - but this time, head heavy with the air in the barn and thoughts half-clouded, he simply smiled. Leaning over, he gave Python a long and lingering kiss, their lips clinging to each other momentarily as he pulled away. He lay his head back on the hay, still clenching Python’s hand and rubbing his thumb across the archer’s roughened palm.

The visions he’d had in his younger days still declined to leave him, haunting his mind like ghosts. They were on horseback, the two of them, clad in the armour of Zofian knights; his horse covered in resplendent green, Python’s a vibrant, sea-coloured blue. In their hands they carried standards graced with the image of the white tree, and they rode out together in search of some evildoers to fight, or a village to save.

It would never happen. But he could still see it, just out of his mind’s eye.

He sighed. “Well, I am glad to hear it, Python. If we had come all this way and you were still unhappy… I admit, I would be somewhat at a loss.”

A bird shrieked noisily outside. Probably a raven, he thought. They had always plagued the village’s crops, even back when they were children. Fitting, he thought, that some things never change.

His mind turned again, and he found himself looking at Python, who was nothing more than a shadow in the near-darkness. “But there will come a time when we can no longer fight,” he continued. “I wonder. What will we do then?”

[aimless--archer]

Straight Shooters [Alm & Python]

Starter for @caecus-imperator

"How would you feel about teaching some recruits to shoot?" the kid-turned- commander had asked.

Python raises an eyebrow. “What recruits?” he asks, clearly skeptical. He’s fletching a pile of arrows big enough to impress even Forsyth- it’s tedious, but at least it keeps his fingers moving enough not to freeze in place like the rest of him feels like it has. Besides, he has a feeling he’ll need them sooner than he’d like. “We’re in the ass end of Rigel, we ain’t had a new recruit in a month.”

Alm doesn’t argue that, so he must mean something else, and Python guesses, “You just mean people who don’t know how to use one?“ He considers for a moment, before shrugging. “Guess so, why not? Can’t promise I’d be much of a teacher, though.” It’s not exactly as though anyone has ever asked to learn much of anything from him- lazy ol’ Python doesn’t come off like he has much to offer. And he’d never had an archery teacher to begin with- among the other work of a carpenter, his father had made bows, but had little interest in using them. So he’d just picked one up when he was old enough to draw it and struggled until he figured out a serviceable way to use it. It was likely the most time he’d spent working on perfecting anything in his life, but it still wasn’t technically “correct.” He’d spent much of his time in the Deliverance waiting in dread for some puffed-up noble sharpshooter to mock or try to fix his form, but luckily he’d managed to stay largely beneath their notice.

Alm is still watching him in that earnest way of his, waiting a bit too intently for a straight answer, and Python siezes upon a realization. “Is that it, kid?“ he asks with an undertone of laughter. “You wanna learn? You coulda just said so, y'know.“

[aimless--archer]

❖ + Were you a part of the Deliverance more due to a sense of duty, or a lack of anything better to do at a time?

Python snorts. "Forsyth'll be the first to tell you that I wouldn't know a sense of duty if it bit me on the ass. It was just better pay and better rations, that's all there is to it." A pause. "Plus, he was goin' whether I liked it or not- which, for the record, I did not. Somebody had to keep him from embarrassin' himself too much."

[aimless--archer]

Python snorts. Real subtle. “Yeah, I think I do.”  Still, he’s lost the round fair and square, so he reaches back up to the front of his tunic and pops the fasteners one by one, keeping the pace leisurely.  (Thankfully he’s already ditched his armor and quiver for the evening, or they’d be here all night.)  He breathes a relieved sigh as he peels away the heavy quilting and the air hits bare skin, revealing a flat, mostly hairless chest, the slight bumps of ribs where he could probably stand to eat more, and the ugly, warped skin of the burn scar on his side.

He worries briefly that Niles will be put off by it- a few have been- but a man with one eye seems unlikely to be so shallow.  They likely both have nasty stories to tell, but tonight isn’t the night for it.  Maybe if they ever meet again after this.

He offers no apology for it, just tosses the garment onto a chair in the corner and picks up the dice again.  “Ready for round two?”  They roll across the blanket- a five and a six.  He grins.  “That’s better.  May as well take it off, honey.”

Quick Draw (Python & Niles NSFW)

[aimless--archer]

"More the second, I guess, " he shrugs. "I suppose it doesn't have to be me, but it's gotta be somebody, so it may as well be." The bug Forsyth had swatted finds a new perch on the tip of his nose, and he scrunches his face in annoyance, attempting to wiggle it away without lifting his sore arms. "Beats bein' a carpenter or sweepin' a tavern floor. I ain't' got a whole lot of other marketable skills, and food and ale don't pay for themselves."

It's what he's always said- that he works enough to keep a full belly and a bed under him, and that's it. It's not really true anymore- if it was, he probably would be a carpenter, and likely wouldn't have a still-aching slice out of his arm. It would be an easier life, but monotonous, purposeless. And maybe he doesn't completely hate that this gives him purpose. He doesn't respond to Forsyth's praise, but doesn't roll his eyes either, just... accepts it, for once.

He lets the final question hang for a moment, finding himself without a ready answer. "I guess so. Not like I have much to compare it to." And he doesn't, he realizes- at least not since they were children, and those memories are hazy fragments that at times barely feel real. Has he ever been happy? His final years at home had been miserable, the militia not much better. The Deliverance had been...well, a lot of things, but the constant threat of violent death hadn't lent itself to feeling especially content. He's always just carved out bits of happiness where he can find them- in decent food or strong drink, in a warm body for the night, in teaching the village boys a bawdy song or a particularly good prank to play on Clive. In lazing around watching Forsyth train in the early morning, or squishing too close to him around the campfire at night. So much of it came from him.

"Could be happier, but..." He trails off. Forsyth is right- maybe not about "meant to be," he still doesn't believe in that- but that things are what they are and will never be perfect. In some ideal world, maybe they would want the same things, but this one isn't and has never been ideal.

This will have to be enough.

He shakes his head, dislodging both the persistent gnat and his train of thought. The fever is making him maudlin. His lips curl back into their usual smirk. "Be happier if you kissed me."

aimless–archer

Python snorts.  “If Mila blessed anybody, it’s my hypothetical kids by makin’ sure they didn’t get stuck with me by existing.”

Even in the dim light, he catches the trademark flush of Forsyth’s cheeks at even the little touch, and his lips curl into a smile.  He makes no move to follow him- he hasn’t done anything outrageous enough to make Forsyth walk out on him (this time, anyways).  Even with his armor off (and Python’s vision still a bit blurry), he cuts quite a dashing figure silhouetted in the doorway with the moon behind him, and Python tucks away the mental image for later.  For now, the closing of the door is promising.

It really is like being teenagers again, he thinks- trying not to get caught. Not that there’d been much to be caught doing when they were young, besides avoiding their work.  But now…

Python feels an uncharacteristic bit of color rise on his own face- it’s the fever, he mentally insists- at the touch of Forsyth’s hand. It’s the sort of affection he once would shrink from or gripe about, but now he finds himself leaning into it, craving it after so long apart.  For a moment he expects Forsyth to kiss him- though whether he should right now is another matter- but it passes by, and they settle back beside each other.

At the question, he laughs.  “You were always soft.  You’re just not tryin’ so hard to hide it under all the blustering and yelling now.“  He breathes deeply, the musty scent of the hay making his nose itch.  “But nah, not bein’ in a hurry to go back to fightin’ just makes you sane.  Can’t say I am either.”  He lets his eyes slide closed, senses floating a bit between the fevered haze and the dull throb of his arm.  “I ask myself all the damn time why I’m still doin’ it.”

Forsyth lay quietly for a moment, head dizzy with the overpowering smell of the dry straw and dust. A gnat hummed near his ear, and he batted it away.

“There must be a part of you that wants to,” he said eventually. “Even if it’s not all of you.” He looked up at the ceiling - a faint series of beams he could hardly see in the dull light. “Or perhaps… perhaps it’s something you feel you have to do. Either way, I’m proud of you, Python. Valentia would be a much more treacherous place without groups like yours to keep the bandits in check.”

He reached out for Python’s hand, which was surprisingly clammy. As he held it in his own, he thoughts turned to the castle and the knights there. It seemed a world away from this backwater village, and it was. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that was what made this so special; these two lives he had, so different from each other, yet both so wonderful. A soft sigh escaped him.

“But… I think this is how things are meant to be,” he said. “I daresay things will ever be perfect.” He turned to his companion, a curious expression on his face. “Python,” he asked quietly, “are you happy?”

[aimless--archer]

Python snorts.  “If Mila blessed anybody, it’s my hypothetical kids by makin’ sure they didn’t get stuck with me by existing.”

Even in the dim light, he catches the trademark flush of Forsyth’s cheeks at even the little touch, and his lips curl into a smile.  He makes no move to follow him- he hasn’t done anything outrageous enough to make Forsyth walk out on him (this time, anyways).  Even with his armor off (and Python’s vision still a bit blurry), he cuts quite a dashing figure silhouetted in the doorway with the moon behind him, and Python tucks away the mental image for later.  For now, the closing of the door is promising.

It really is like being teenagers again, he thinks- trying not to get caught.  Not that there’d been much to be caught doing when they were young, besides avoiding their work.  But now...

Python feels an uncharacteristic bit of color rise on his own face- it’s the fever, he mentally insists- at the touch of Forsyth’s hand. It's the sort of affection he once would shrink from or gripe about, but now he finds himself leaning into it, craving it after so long apart.  For a moment he expects Forsyth to kiss him- though whether he should right now is another matter- but it passes by, and they settle back beside each other.

At the question, he laughs.  “You were always soft.  You’re just not tryin’ so hard to hide it under all the blustering and yelling now."  He breathes deeply, the musty scent of the hay making his nose itch.  “But nah, not bein’ in a hurry to go back to fightin’ just makes you sane.  Can’t say I am either.”  He lets his eyes slide closed, senses floating a bit between the fevered haze and the dull throb of his arm.  “I ask myself all the damn time why I’m still doin’ it.”

aimless–archer

Python laughs aloud in return.  “With all that muscle? Don’t think anybody could call you a girl.” He doesn’t try to hide the appreciative way that his gaze follows the curve of Forsyth’s shoulder.  His memories never quite seem to do it justice- or maybe Forsyth has just upped his training regimen.  “Then again, Eren’s arms have gotten kinda scary lately.” He snorts, cupping his hands behind his head.  “Let’s hope she never mutinies, she’d probably win.  Though at least that’d give me a break.”

“Sounds nice,” he grumbles of Forsyth’s father’s indifference.  “Exchangingmight be generous, Ma and I only write every few months, but she sure as hell manages to work the hounding into every letter.  I dunno why she cares so much.  Even if I made her some grandkids, I wouldn’t bring ’em home.”

Even the idea makes his skin crawl a bit- it just feels wrong. He’s always been careful with women, but he still dreads that some drunken escapade will come back to haunt him with a brood of little blue-haired terrors.  He wouldn’t have the first idea how to be a decent father, especially since he’d never had one to learn it from.  Forsyth might, but that idea feels just as wrong for different reasons.  He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, what might have happened if he wasn’t around.  Maybe in some world, Forsyth would have found a girl he couldbring home to his father, and been the doting father that Python knows he could be.

He can only hope that this- that he- is worth losing that chance.

He laughs again at Forsyth’s awkward question, pushing those thoughts aside. “You don’t think I’d make a good wife, huh?  I’m hurt.” He bats his eyes theatrically, nudging Forsyth’s leg with his foot.  It’s much easier to tease about commitment than think about it seriously. “I’d never do any housework, but I’d be killer to look at.”

“Ha!” Forsyth laughed. “Can you imagine?”

He could not help but laugh at the image of Python bringing home children. He’d always warned him – somewhat seriously, in that very Forsyth way – that he’d spent the night with so many women that it was bound to catch up with him someday. He smiled. “I must say, I’m surprised you’ve been so lucky. Mila’s blessing must have been with you after all.”

Python’s foot touched his leg, and a wave of adrenaline shot through his body. It was startling how much a simple touch could do; it was something he only got from Python, and he’d not realised how much he’d missed it. His mind started to wander, and he grimaced. He was supposed to be looking after him – not fooling around.

But still…

Scolding himself under his breath, he got to his feet and headed to the barn door.

The field outside was silent save for the murmur of crickets, and the distant chatter of Python’s band far away in the village square. Pulling the door gently closed so that it was mostly dark, he felt his way to the bale Python was sitting on and knelt beside him – taking care that his injured shoulder was on his other side.

“You would make a terrible wife,” he said, raising a hand to push aside Python’s unruly hair, which had grown long over his face. He gently traced his thumb over Python’s features, over his temples and across his eyelids, then his nose and cheeks, and finally his mouth. He hesitated for a second, then sighed and sat back.

“Am I getting soft, Python?” he asked. “I am due to head back to the castle in the morning. I should be preparing for the journey. But right now, all I can think about is… this.” He motioned his arms as if to encompass all of it – the barn and its musty smell, the sight of Python resting in the hay.

[aimless--archer]

//Social media and/or music?

Social media- As I’ve said before, he probably spends too much time arguing on social media.  I think he would tend towards sites like reddit and twitter that are primarily discussion, rather than something like Instagram that’s focused on images, since aside from the occasional shirtless selfie he wouldn’t really have anything to post there.  Definitely has both tinder and grindr.  While he will occasionally do some more serious discussion of politics and whatnot, he’s mostly a legendary/insufferable troll (which it is depends who you ask XD).

Interacts with all of Forsyth’s dorky twitter posts because bless him, somebody’s got to.

Music- a little bit of everything.  Definitely had a punk/emo phase in high school, and has mostly grown out of it but will still yell along in the car if he’s had A Day.  Probably enjoys EDM or other stuff that’s more focused on atmosphere and sound than deep lyrics.   Claims not to know the words to every Ke$ha song, totally actually does.

[aimless--archer]

Python hisses at the teasing- it’s nice but not nearly enough when he’s waited so long.  “C’mon, don’t mess with m- mmmmfuck.“ The words dissolve into a low groan of relief when she finally wraps her lips around him, his hand tightening reflexively on her head before easing up again.  He can tell she’s no amateur at this, and now that her mouth is on him, she doesn’t seem hampered at all by the blindfold.  It’s a struggle to let her keep control, but he forces himself still, gasping and petting her sweaty hair.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks in fond surprise.  It’s just talk- she’d better not stop what she’s doing to answer.  But she had asked to do this, and he remembers how she’d reacted before.  “Bein’ on your knees like a good pet.”  At a particular movement of her tongue, he swears again and laughs breathlessly.  “Fuck, that’s it.”  

His hips are trembling beneath her hands now from the strain of keeping still, and he can’t help but thrust slightly, chasing the wet heat she keeps teasing him with.  It’s a blessing and a curse- he’s on fire and needs more, far too turned on for the languid pace he often takes things, but if she gives it to him this way that’ll probably be it.  And there’s so much more to do.

o happy fair

[aimless--archer]

Pets, Activism?

Pets- Nah. He's not a big animal lover, and he and Forsyth don't really have the money to care for a pet at the moment.

Activism- While Python has strong opinions on many social issues, he's the type who spends a lot more time arguing with people on the internet than doing anything meaningful. He is particularly outspoken about class discrimination, and is always ready with a photo of a guillotine and a suggestion to "eat the rich." However, he's the cynical type who doesn't truly believe that a revolution will ever happen (or that things would be much better if it did), so his main focus is day-to-day surviving within the existing system.

He is also very open about his queerness, and is fairly involved in the local LGBT community thanks to working at a gay bar. He would definitely attend pride, and given his modern AU history, if he was to get involved in any real charity work, it would be with homeless LGBT youth.

[aimless--archer]

>(Sent at 2:01 p.m.) H he hello! Reason Razor Rye son?

>(Sent at 2:46 p.m.) uhhh what

>(Sent at 2:46 p.m.) wrong #??

>(Sent at 2:48 p.m.) wtf is a rye son

[aimless--archer]

<(Sent at 10:14 p.m.) uhhhh yeah you do

<(Sent at 10:16 p.m.) for the record tho

<(Sent at 10:16 p.m.) ive never seen anyone start a bar fight at 830 before it was kind of incredible

>(Sent at 09:17 p.m.) I need to tell you something.

>(sent at 10:00 pm) sorry bruh I was driving whats up

>(sent at 10:01 pm) it's not serious is it?

>(sent at 10:02 pm) I dont have to go bail Tilde out of the drunk tank again do I?

[aimless--archer]

>(Sent at 3:51 a.m.) nah its mostly witches a and swords and shit

>(Sent at 3:51 a.m.) very forsyth

>(Sent at 3:52 a.m.) star chick not bad tho

>(Sent at 3:51 a.m.) u didn't answer my question tho. would u

@aimless–archer | [blep]

>(Sent at 3:47 a.m.) …

>(Sent at 3:48 a.m.) that sounds more like a you movie than it does a forsyth movie

>(Sent at 3:48 a.m.) are the hot chicks nice

[aimless--archer]

>(Sent at 03:41 a.m.) Do you think stars have thoughts?

>(Sent at 3:44 a.m.) fuck if I know

>(Sent at 3:45 a.m.) fors has some movie where stars are hot chicks

>(Sent at 3:45 a.m.) id do a star

>(Sent at 3:47 a.m.) would u