#I find the shape of his face pleasant in its slight deviations and he does some good face acting at times

[pb-dot]

Coincidences

In catching up on some horror movies I've been meaning to see lately, I somehow managed to see two movies featuring David Dastmalachian in a supporting role twice in a row. Don't know about the odds of it all, but it is nice to see the boy get some work.

[yukiwrites]

Edelgard, Resolving Herself

Thank you so much for the support as always and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @xpegasusuniverse!!!! I hope today was a great day and hope you enjoy this pain!! :''D

Summary: The worlds of dreams ranged far and between the realms of humans and gods. Sometimes, they mixed within a tempest, engulfing one and all in their path, seducing them with dreams of happiness past... Faced with a memory long forgotten, Edelgard has to steel herself to pass this hurdle.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

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The world known as Askr held many mysteries. Ranging from floating isles that sometimes served as lifts to a seemingly infinite amount of portals leading to many other worlds, it held the Summoner at its center, as someone who could pull out a Hero from their home world without the need of a portal.

Honestly, to some Heroes, Askr was more of a central hub between many worlds. There were people who found each other even after death, or old comrades estranged by time were suddenly working together again. There were some Heroes with multiple versions of themselves, each hailing from a different possibility of their core worlds -- very few of those chose to keep to themselves, whereas the vast majority flocked together to talk about the small changes that led them to be where they were in their lives.

Sometimes, the tragedies that befell these entangled worlds converged themselves in Askr, in the form of a swirling Tempest. It distorted time and space, slowly and devastatingly mixing world upon world in its destructive wake.

It fell upon the Heroes summoned to Askr to put a stop to it alongside the original inhabitants of these worlds.

This time, however, the Tempest seemed to be rather tricky, as the Summoner gathered the team designated to fight within it: they hailed from the same world and shared the same teacher. Edelgard, Dimitri and Claude; followed by none other than their Professor, Byleth.

Usually, the Tempest only allowed four Heroes to enter it at a time, but this one had special properties that only those who belonged in a world akin to it could traverse unhindered: it was an amalgamation of a little girl’s dreams being forced into reality by the power of the God of Mischief, Loki.

Because of that nature, the ljósálfr from Ljósálfheimr, the World of Dreams, could act as guides to the Heroes braving the Tempest.

This time, the one who would guide the group was Peony of the Sweet Dreams.

She looked at each of them in turn, pointing at their noses with a stern face -- as much as she could do with her naturally bubbly features. “Listen to me carefully, alright? The worlds of dreams can be very dangerous! Even Ljósálfheimr, that’s the Land of Good Dreams, can trap a human forever inside of it if they’re not careful! This Tempest is made of many, many kinds of dreams, so it’s even harder to pass through it.”

They had heard the gist of it from the other Heroes who had experienced Ljósálfheimr first hand, so they were at least aware of what to expect. However, Peony made sure to warn them thoroughly because some Heroes from the previous team she guided got lost and it was an ordeal to find them back in one piece.

“You must keep walking a straight line. Don’t deviate from it!” She lifted her index, then another and another as she made her points. “The terrain in front of us will change to keep us from passing through, and, of course, there will be enemies, but as long as you don’t look back or deviate too much from ‘going straight ahead’, we can clear it! But, if one of you do get lost, follow my voice. only my voice! Since I’m a ljósálfr, I’m the only one capable of seeing through the fog of dreams to help get you back on track.”

Taking a deep breath, Peony fluttered her wings to stay a bit higher than the four of them so she could issue the last warning.

“And remember: the five of us are the only ‘real people’ in this dream. No matter how beautiful the world you see in front of you is, it’ll be… unfortunately, a trap from the Tempest to engulf us all. I promise to give you guys happy dreams once we’ve crossed it to make up for it, though! Gosh, seeing those dream-shaped nightmares makes my ljósálfr sensors tingle!” She puffed her cheeks adorably, making Dimitri and Byleth smile fondly at her expressiveness while Edelgard nodded calmly.

Claude raised his hand with his characteristic smile. “What happens if we get lost for a long time in there? If it’s a world of dreams…”

Peony lowered her head to the point that even her wings stopped fluttering and her feet touched the ground. “I’ll definitely find you if you get lost, so don’t worry!” She said in a cheerful voice after lifting her head, though her eyes held some hesitation deep in them. “... Depending on how strong the Dream’s grip is on you, it might take some… time to wake you up.”

“Some time?” Claude crossed his arms while the other three shifted their bodies to listen.

“It depends on one’s own will. I can enter the dream you’re having and ask you to come back with me, but if you don’t want to, then…” Her voice trailed off.

“Right.” Claude nodded amidst the increasingly colder atmosphere. Dimitri clenched his lance while Byleth closed his eyes to digest the information.

Edelgard, however, remained impassive. It had been many, many years since dreams had ever gotten a hold on her. The Princess had been plagued by so many nightmares since childhood she had forgotten how it ever felt to have a pleasant dream, so she took this mission as any other.

Defeat the enemy.

_______

Once they finally made their way into the swirling energy, their bodies were engulfed into a blue light, much akin to the one that had called them to Askr through the Summoner: it was very much like a portal. However, this time, they were walking inside the possibility inside a dream; in a world that was tethering between the edges of reality and illusion.

Initially, the thick fog around them concealed even the very ground they walked on, but as they progressed according to Peony’s guidance, the terrain changed little by little right in front of them. First, they were met with a rocky terrain, home to many Heroes from the Awakening world.

Under Byleth’s instructions, the students treated the battle much like they did the ones back in their home world: the familiarity of it made the anxious hearts of the two young men settle back into the usual course of things.

Yet, for some reason, the further they advanced; the more enemies they defeated, the thicker the fog became in Edelgard’s eyes. She hadn’t paid it any mind since the others seemed fine with how they were progressing, but by the time she next blinked, the fog had concealed even Byleth’s back, which had been Edelgard’s guiding beacon inside the Tempest.

Frowning, the Princess reached out to where she thought Byleth was. “Professor?” However, her hand simply passed through, as though there was no one else there in the first place. “Hm… Have I gotten lost, somehow? We’ve been walking straight ahead as Peony instructed…” she took one hand to her chin in thought.

Just as she was about to look around to change the course, she remembered Peony’s words, which held her in place. Closing her eyes, the Princess focused her senses around her, in hopes of finding traces of her teammates.

“Oh... -re sh-... is!” A faint voice rang in Edelgard's ear, making her focus herself even more.

“Peony?”

The voice was so faint she couldn’t tell whom it belonged to, so Edelgard turned to it in an attempt to find its source.

“Wha… -’re doi-... re alo-...?” The voice seemed closer than before, which made the Princess wonder if they had found her. In fact, she hadn’t noticed that her own feet walked towards the voice, making the world around her change with each step she took.

“You’re almost here!” Another, younger voice said with a slight pep.

Edelgard frowned, her eyes still closed. Why was there another voice? Wasn’t Peony on her way?

“What’re you doing, El? Open your eyes!” A pair of hands grabbed hers with a familiarity the princess had forgotten. “You’re missing out on such a beaaautiful day!”

“What is happening-” Somehow unable to shake herself from the childish grasp, Edelgard shot her eyes open.

She was immediately greeted with a vast prairie, lush with green, that extended as far as the eye could see. In its middle, there lay a round lake and an enormous tree that provided shade to a group of people.

One, two, seven… There were thirteen people frolicking about. People whose sight made Edelgard lose her breath and collapse on the ground, shaking and wide eyed. The young boy who held her hands had brown hair and freckles all over his face.

She remembered him well.

He had a fragile complexion, so he could barely leave his room -- and when he did, it was only for a few hours’ time.

The twins that rolled around the grass, as well -- they were inseparable, even to the point of pretending to be one another for fun. The tall man standing beside a sitting older couple; he had always been an insurmountable wall. He excelled in swordsmanship, politics, mathematics, you name it; he was unparalleled.

Smaller ones, too young to walk by themselves, slept on the older woman’s lap, wearing content smiles on their faces.

Edelgard’s eyes were shaking, as was her whole body.

These people… they were her family.

Her siblings, who had died painful, excruciating deaths right in front of her. Her mother, who had fled to another country so as to save her own life. Her father, who stood powerless in face of the overwhelming power of those who slithered in the dark.

They had all left her.

There was no way they could be here, touching her and laughing with her.

“What’s wrong, El? Does your tummy hurt?” The young boy in front of her asked with a worried pout. He put his forehead on hers and it was- it was unbearably warm. His touch in her small hands were terribly soft.

Blinking, Edelgard lifted her gaze to the boy, not realizing she had collapsed on the ground.

She opened her mouth to say something. Anything.

Yet, no words left her throat. Not even the name of those whom she loved and lost, nor the warm welcome she surely should have given them… nothing left her lips.

Her skin got colder and colder as the princess struggled to adjust with this ‘reality’. The boy in front of her crouched to better look at her face, patting her shoulder reassuringly.

There was no way they could be there with her.

Yet her heart beat with warmth and longing, wishing nothing but to stay with them a moment longer, a second longer…

Huffing, Edelgard lifted her eyes to the boy, intent on calling him by his name.

The moment her gaze shifted, however, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the water.

White hair.

So strikingly different from the brown and dirty blonde worn by all of those present in the scene.

Proof of what she had gone through. A mark those who dared to covet the blessings of the goddess engraved deep within her body, within her very being.

There was a reason why she couldn’t call them by their name, no matter how much she longed to do it.

She had forgotten them.

Amidst her ocean of pain; deep into the vast desert that was her broken mind, memories dissolved like sand. Pain had been her sole companion. Companion and reminder: that she could only walk forward.

Forward.

Edelgard got up abruptly, reaching for her weapon.

“-nd her…! Th- ..ay!” a familiar, peppy voice rang from so far it could’ve been an illusion.

But Edelgard remembered. She had to walk forward.

Brandishing her weapon, Edelgard lifted it towards the young boy in front of her.

“What’s wrong, El? Does your tummy hurt?” He asked in the same voice as before, his eyes seemingly hollow.

Edelgard’s chin trembled, but her hand on her axe was firm. Closing her eyes, she brought it down, searing into the boy’s body.

However, instead of the belching sound of pierced flesh, there was only a flash of light, which made Edelgard open her eyes in shock.

Shimmering butterflies floated away from the place the boy had been standing, as though he had dissolved into a mesmerizing light.

“El, are you alright? Does your stomach hurt?” One of the twins approached, repeating the same words as though a broken record. In truth, the dream started to shatter, so there was no more way to feed off of her memories to keep it alive.

To Edelgard, however, it only meant that the path forward was through these butterflies.

She swung her axe again and again, against those she had once called her family. Against those who had loved her until the end of their lives -- against those who had shared her same fate, but were lucky enough to be freed from it through death.

Edelgard’s eyes burned as she ran forward, bellowing a battle cry if only to keep herself grounded in her own conviction.

“Stay- where you belong.” She huffed, not realizing tears rolled down her cheeks. “My time is not now. Go back to my memories.” She pierced her axe on the ground, lifting her chin in a way that befitted the future Emperor.

The moment she did so, the scenery evaporated into countless butterflies made of light. The very ground she stood on changed to a hall of a castle of some sort.

“This way! Edelgard!” Peony’s voice finally rang loud and clear, making the princess snap her head towards it. She had truly strayed from the path, but the other three couldn’t look for her lest they, too, were engulfed by the fog of dreams.

Peony had been desperately calling for her, but as she had said before; it was only through one’s own power that they could break free from a dream, as tempting as it looked.

The ljósálfr sighed with relief as Edelgard approached, fluttering her wings. “I’m glad you made it! Thank you for following my voice!”

Edelgard simply nodded, then focused her attention to the path ahead.

Byleth, Dimitri and Claude could see the tear stains on her face, but none of them dared to ask, if only to allow her some space after everything that had happened. Dimitri reached out to her as she walked in front, but retracted his hand in the end, feeling powerless to help.

Leading the way beside Peony, Edelgard focused on the task at hand: there were still three more sections until they reached the center of the Tempest.

There was a mission to be done. A goal she had set for herself in memory of those she had lost.

And she would fulfil it, no matter the cost.

[asheva]

A New Soul

What happens to her happens to him. But what if this worked for any strong physical sensation, not just pain? Alternatively, a certain changeling learns a lesson in love. Set during Roaming Charges May Apply.

Read it at my AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332195) or below.

The abandoned hallways of Arcadia Oaks High — eerie in the dappled darkness of a waning moon — were perfect for his jaunts. Sometimes, one just had to have a…change of scenery. Strickler relishes the sensations of his true form, feeling stronger than he had for days. His clawed feet make a pleasant clack on the worn vinyl as he stretches his legs to their full stride. It was risky exposing himself, given the chance of tardy cleaners or one of the teachers returning, but such was his mood tonight.

He brushes his steel mantle lightly, fingers testing each edge, carefully as not to cut, before selecting the sharpest of his knives. With a lazy flick, he lodges it in a nearby poster. The keen blade neatly cleaves the love-struck Romeo in half. How appropriate, given the current situation. He went to all the trouble of raising a powerful troll assassin and yet the boy still lived! While Strickler could appreciate Angor’s strategy of patient study — far superior to Bular’s brutish tactics — he strongly suspects the assassin was toying with him as well. Unhindered, the Trollhunter sought a dangerous path that spelt disaster for all changelings. Ignorant child! How could he hope to defeat Gunmar, Gunmar the Black, the greatest of all Gumm-Gumms? Yet the possibility remained, and with it the chance that the Nursery would fall. That was something Strickler could not allow. Sighing, he frees his knife from the wall.

Suddenly, without warning, the changeling is struck with a profound feeling of suffering. His blade clatters to the floor, and his knees sink with it. “W-What…” Strickler gasps, clutching his side. Beneath his hands, his muscles spasm in ways unfelt in this form. Had Angor finally found a way to harm him? Summoning his will through the Inferna Copula, Strickler commands a vision of the troll assassin. He is met by the sight of dripping tunnels and a dais made from piled flotsam. The sewers under Arcadia, if he had to guess. So that was where the troll took refuge. Through Angor’s eyes, he sees a half-carved golem figurine and the rhythmic dip of a sharp blade. The assassin is completely absorbed in his work. An attack on his ringbearer seemed unlikely, then. But what was the cause of the pain? In a burst of green, he shifts back into his human guise. The phantom feeling hits him harder, drawing his breath out in small huffs. He immediately recognises it as the desire to retch. Trollkind — for all the unpalatable “delicacies” they consumed — are rarely struck with nausea. This resilience extended, in part, to the half-breeds or Impure. Even in human form, Strickler was only mildly inconvenienced by the sensation. It should be impossible for this to debilitate him so, unless…

“The binding!” The changeling yelps, forcing himself to his feet. Shoes, not claws, resound, as he tears down the hall towards the staff carpark.

***

A few minutes, one squashed goblin, and several ignored traffic regulations later, Strickler pulls up outside the Lake residence. Neither the wrath of Gunmar nor a raging Gronka Morka could drive him from the car and to the house more quickly. Shifting from foot to foot, he raps on the door sharply. No answer. “Barbara!” Strickler cries out, hating the desperation that creeps into his voice. The binding of fates was a brilliant strategy to control the Trollhunter, but he could not shake the thought it was ill-considered. As he knew from experience, humans were incredibly vulnerable creatures. If someone wanted to strike him down, it would be as simple as harming the woman while she slept. Granted, the Trollhunter was in residence most nights, but even Jim’s budding fighting skills would not suffice. He is honestly surprised Angor had not thought of it. As expected, the assassin was already testing his bonds. Fortunately, the mental compulsions bound with the Inferna Copula were enough to prevent any deviation from the ringbearer’s command…for now.

Strickler knocks again, more forcefully this time, leaving small dints in the paintwork. Was she still at the clinic? No, Barbara mentioned she had the rest of the day off after a fortnight of double shifts. The silence worried him, yet he knew — by virtue of his continued existence — that she still lived. Finally, he hears a reply, although faint and strangled. “One moment…urgh!” The magical echoes of suffering strikes him through the bond. Breathing slowly, Strickler grabs the door frame to steady himself. It would do them both no good if he was vulnerable to attack. He hears her now, shuffling towards the entrance. The changeling quickly straightens as the lock clicks. Barbara, still dressed in her medical scrubs, peers out. Framed by the dark wood of the portal, she is as pale as Myrddin’s cursed daylight. The fine copper strands framing her face are slick with sweat. “W-Walter?” Barbara squints into the cult-de-sac, swaying slightly.

“I…uh…was in the neighbourhood.” It pains him to smile, but after centuries of disguise and deception, very little discomfort shows. He punctuates his greeting with a slight shrug, inwardly cursing his lack of a good excuse.

“This isn’t r-really a good time,” she rasps, coughing at the words. Bile burns at the back of his throat. How unpleasant.

“Barbara, you look dreadful!” Strickler delivers his lines as naturally as possible, eye twitching. He closes the distance in a stride, pushing the door open ever so slightly. His eyes flick behind her, scanning for unseen threats. “Please, let me give you some assistance. It’s the least I could do.” She holds his gaze with those soft doe-eyes, red-rimmed and bagged with exhaustion.

“What have I done to deserve you?” She smiles weakly at him. Her misplaced trust unsettles him, but any unnatural feelings are soon replaced by another wave of nausea.

“Here, allow me.” He proffers his arm. She tucks against him and together they stagger towards the lounge room. The lights are dimmed and soft pop plays from an old radio on the bookshelf. He sets her down on the lounge, shifting the cocoon of blankets already in residence to make room.

“Ugh, thanks,” Barbara groans as she rolls on to her side. The changeling tucks her up again, smoothing the blanket across her shoulders. There is a chipped coffee mug of wine by the lounge. A spicy-sweet Riesling if he was any judge. A bowl accompanies the mug, half-eaten, with the spoon sticking straight up in stiff gloop. “It’s not food poisoning,” Barbara mutters from under the blanket, “just a bad batch of mac and cheese.” She laughs weakly. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He raises an eyebrow. To think, he, centuries-old changeling and leader of the Janus Order, could have been vicariously poisoned by cheesy pasta. Ever paranoid, Strickler checks the bowl for Trollish substances. Nomura may have been banished to the Darklands, but many of the Order still favoured her tactics. He finds nothing detectable, but the thought irks him.

Continuing his investigation in the kitchen, Strickler wades through a mire of dirty saucepans and stockpots. The blender, so conveniently and beautifully loud, dangles from the fridge by its cord. Still bubbling away on the hob, judging by its pungent tang, was the culprit. “Things have been crazy at the clinic,” she sighs, stretching out further. “I just wanted something comforting.” He sniffs the pot, immediately rebuking. There is a familiar odour. Fit for a troll, dare he say? It smelled of murkuun, the small balls of rat meat fermented in its own fat for several moons. Something he only tasted once — at knifepoint, in a Troll province under Capua — and never wishes to taste again. How a human could possibly recreate such a horror was beyond him. “Jim makes it look so easy.” Barbara sighs, sinking back into the lounge.

“And where is young Jim?” he inquires, although he already knows the answer. Ojos del Salado was an unforgiving realm and its overlord just as ruthless. With luck, the old volcano would deal with the changeling’s little problem.

“Still out camping,” she replies, sighing deeply. “I just don’t know anymore.” The changeling hums sympathetically, privately frowning. It would not be long before the Trollhunter exposed him, destroying Strickler’s budding relationship, or worse, broke Barbara’s heart. Put simply, it would be easier if the boy just vanished.

With Barbara having expelled most of the offending meal, Strickler figures she could use something to eat. The cupboards are well-stocked trove of exotic ingredients. Pickled ginger, saffron threads, Spanish cheese, to name a few. He should thank Young Atlas for that. Jim’s cooking was indeed superb: comforting, delightful, yet inventive. Much like the Trollhunter himself. A shame those skills would never flourish. The changeling settles on some battered soup tins from the bottom cupboard. It was unlikely anyone would miss these. Grimacing, he selects the most palatable of the bunch. The 'Cream of Chicken' squidges out in a solid, gelatinous, can-shaped lump. He hesitantly tastes it, gagging at the mush coating his tongue. Far too salty and artificial. Raiding the fridge, he finds some milk to dilute it. Now it smells…fairly edible. Changelings were voracious by nature, even at only a few decades old. While he had long since sublimated his needs to a human-like level, he could do with a good meal himself. Finally, he tops the steaming bowls with a few springs of freshly-snipped parsley. Not bad, for all its humble origins. The changeling was nothing if not good at disguising. As an afterthought, he throws the tins in the trash. Always hide the evidence. “Dinner is served,” he says with a wide smile, passing Barbara the soup bowl, “Just what the doctor ordered, I hear.” She chuckles lightly, then coughs as the air catches.

They eat in relative silence, save the soft clank and scrape of soup spoons. Strickler experimentally tries a spoonful of soup, then frowns as it fails to quench that persistent, annoying tickle in his throat. The binding was already becoming inconvenient. He watches her carefully over the rim of his bowl. She sips slowly at first, grimacing as broth irritates her raw throat. Yet, the nausea he sensed through the bond diminishes as she devours the soup. Soon, his dry, scratchy throat quietens. “Mmm. That was pretty good, Walt,” Barbara says, finishing the bowl. She runs a finger around the rim, “I feel… a lot better.” And he knows this to be the truth: their bond is quiescent now. She winks at him and the changeling could not help but beam. He feels…useful? No, that wasn’t quite it.

“Just something I threw together,” he replies, feigning modesty. Truthfully, her praise warms him, far more than the hot soup. He goes to takes her bowl, when a hand curls around outstretched arm, pulling him closer. Thrown off balance, his knees hit the edge of the lounge and he tumbles into her. Before he can right himself, her soft lips brush his, a gentle caress of appreciation.

CRACK! The bowl shatters under his preternatural strength. Barbara jumps at the sound and their noses bump together awkwardly, breaking whatever spell had overcome them. “Sh- sorry,” Barbara laughs uneasily, “I…better take that.”

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” his tongue intones automatically, while his mind reels with the kiss. He lets the bowl slip into her waiting hand, still stunned. Barbara shimmies out of the blanket and all but runs into the kitchen, cheeks burnished red. Strickler touches his lips, as if to ward off the sensation growing there. He had experienced kissing, lifetimes ago, but never like this. Never with the emotional sincerity that burns in his chest now. Gunmar take it, this was meant to happen the other way around. He was meant to be the one in control.

Unable to stop his steps, he follows her in the kitchen. Sauce and soup are splattered everywhere. Looking up, he can even see pasta shells plastered on the ceiling. Barbara is a tempest, a whirling flame of embarrassment. “Idiot, idiot...” she mutters under her breath as she aggressively stacks the dishes in the sink. Freed from its binding, her fiery locks lash like Medusa’s coils. Strickler pauses under the archway, unsure of what to do. This is still new to him — despite the advice he frequently gives. Uncertainty fades into resolve as he watches her unravel before his eyes. He spins her around, hands firm on her shoulders, stilling her movements. Barbara’s eyes widen like the proverbial deer-in-headlights.

“You are utterly enchanting,” he says, voice low and rough. The Morka take him for falling for this woman, this human. Someone who should have been a stepping stone, nothing more. All that frustration, that conflict, and, surprisingly, desire he compresses into a single, blistering kiss.

His hands are gentle but firm, his mouth consuming. Their teeth clash and in the heat of the kiss, he accidentally bites her lip. Pain spikes through the bond, mixed with something unfamiliar. Strickler scolds himself for his fervour, expecting Barbara to pull away. Surely humans didn’t enjoy that. If anything, the fierceness goads her on. Her fingers dig into his sides, pulling them both further over the counter top. Inspired, he bites gently, more of a nibble this time, and she melts against him. The taste of blood and bile is most unpleasant, but the thought enflames him. Trollkind are aggressive in their lovemaking: a play for dominance, with both sides feigning defeat to lure the other into overstepping. But that was not the human way, at least not normally. Yet a half-breed he was, and his warring natures certainly made things interesting. That being said, perhaps next time he would acquire breath mints.

That ridiculous thought wrenches him from his impassioned haze. He is suddenly aware of the precarious situation. Two adults — well, one human and a changeling — bent over a kitchen bench, necking like teenagers among pots and pans. His skin itches furiously. Tendons bound within corded muscles twitch, eager to stretch and change. Twin points of pressure bloom on his skull. Foolish, foolish! Strickler breaks the kiss, breathing hard. What in the Darklands was he thinking? Splayed in front of him is evidence of his zeal. Barbara’s glasses are askew, her lips dusky red and slightly parted. Her eyes, normally blue as the sky, are completely consumed by black pupils. The changeling can only imagine what he looks like. His front incisor aches, and he wonders if he had chipped it in his passion. He’d need to get that looked at. Truly a shame Gladysgro had been slain. She was an excellent dental hygienist. A cursory brush of his lips reveals a smear of red. He can still taste it, and that dances a little too close to his true heritage for his liking. It seems almost deviant. He was content to leave that for changelings like Nomura.

The silence is becoming uncomfortable. Was it too much? The unfamiliar feeling swells again through the bond. Stronger than before, as if duplicated. It wasn’t pain, but something equally as burning. Breathing out sharply, Barbara brushes the hair from her face. “I didn’t say stop.” She crosses her arms in a play of anger, but the impish smile betrays her.

“May I suggest somewhere more comfortable, then?” He suggests with a lopsided grin. His back was starting to twinge and, judging from the bond, Barbara’s was no better. Besides, benchtops were hardly romantic. He sweeps her into his arms, cautious this time, controlled, gentle.

“Hey!” She giggles, playfully hitting his side.

“Would you rather I leave you in kitchen? I do have several history papers to mark.” He deadpans while studying the nails on his free hand, knowing this will annoy her.

“Ass,” Barbara replies with no venom, allowing him to carry her to the lounge. She pushes him back lightly, making room for her to drape over him. Her weight, although light, compresses his chest. It is enough to remind him of stone hands and the first scorching crackle of his changeling magic. It is far too hot now. The cursed blankets twist underneath him, forming knots that dig deep into his spine. His hands stiffen, ghosting her side. Hers are on his shoulders, just resting, but they carry a weight of memories. An eldritch halo. The passage from dark to dark, and dark to light. Two worlds forever barred and only centuries of servitude to console him. He had only survived by adapting, by taking what he could control and bending it to his will. Making the best of a bad situation. Even his guise no longer felt unnatural. In fact, he hardly phased, unless the situation demanded it. Many of his ilk were disturbed by his interest in humanity. He would change their minds. He would rebuild the world for all his half-breed brethren. A chance for a life unfettered. And it starts with her, the woman tucked tightly against him. She is beautiful. Her scrubs have rucked up, exposing a creamy expanse of freckled skin, glowing with heated pleasure rather than illness. She is a radiant Aglaia, and he her supplicant. He surrenders to her, shoulders sinking back and brow softening. Truthfully, he had surrendered long ago.

She initiates a second time. A cautious kiss, a mere press that deepens into a flowing dance. Barbara softens him, tempers the fire inside. Her hands smooth his sides before settling at his nape. She twines her legs through his, not entrapping but encircling. He follows her movements, trying to learn the steps to their waltz. There is no set choreography, save a shared tenderness. They break rhythm, shift weight, dipping and spinning in tandem. Fuelled by their closeness, the bond fizzes with warm tendrils of energy. For a moment, there is no Trollhunter, no assassins, no Gunmar, no Order. But only for a moment. After some time, Barbara falls away from the dance with a gentle brush of her lips. Strickler opens his eyes slowly, afraid that this might have been some pixie-dream. “Oh, that was…” Barbara exhales, resting her head on his chest. Tentatively, he circles her in his arms.

“Exceedingly good?” He jokes, flashing a wry smile.

“I was going to say unexpected,” she huffs, butting him lightly. She looks away, shoulders tensing. “Was it? Good, I mean? I haven’t kis….”

“Barbara,” he interrupts, gently cupping her cheek. “Never apologise. That was perfect.” And this time, he truly means it. Not some lines he delivers to play a role, but an honest expression of emotion.

“You’re a good man, Walter." The words sting him. If only she knew. His keen ears pick up the chug and rattle of an old scooter down the street. So Jim had survived Gatto’s Keep. Hardly surprising, given the Trollhunter’s track record of near misses and lucky scrapes. Strickler had warned Angor not to underestimate the child, with good reason.

“I… should leave,” he says reluctantly. It would not do have the Trollhunter find them in a compromising position. Or perhaps it would? Changelings use any tactic to bring victory, and Strickler would do anything to unsettle his enemy. Besides, he enjoys tormenting the boy, if only to shake that idiotic innocence from his head. Gunmar would not be so forgiving. But lying here, content, in the arms of a woman he lo…strongly admired, Strickler couldn’t care less. And yet…

She hears the scooter as well, now idling in the drive. “Yeah…” Barbara sighs. They go about tidying their appearances, with minimal success. She re-ties her hair, finding her discarded glasses between two pans in the kitchen. Strickler fixes his sweater cuffs, straightens his jacket, which is hopelessly crumpled. Finally, he checks to see if his favourite pen is still inside the pocket. “Coffee? Tomorrow lunch?” Barbara asks as they reach the door.

“Sounds delightful.” He kisses her hand, a chaste reminder of the evening’s events. Heart warmed by the fire they kindled, he steps out into the chill of early evening. For the first time, he wonders if they have any future together. It is weak of him. There was still so much to achieve for his half-breed brethren. Yet, this, this is what he was fighting for.

And he would let nothing get in his way.