#how are you such good friends with the most frightening man I've ever seen?

[softquietsteadylove]

What if the roles are reversed? Thena being the kind and gentle one and Gil being the introvert and quiet one?

He catches her in the corner of his eye, a room away, talking with Kingo and Sersi. She does well with the humans, with her soft voice and gentle touch. They're talking with some as they celebrate the victories of today. She smiles at him.

He catches himself smiling back before he takes his leave. He's not one for the revelry of things. He much prefers taking up his post on the high walls of Babylon temple, scouting for Deviants, being the Strongest Eternal in every sense of the word.

Thena is meant to be beloved.

She glows, in a way. She is both a paragon of their team of Fighters as well as one of the most adapted to life on this planet. The humans think of her like an angel, or a goddess. He understands how they would come to think that of her.

They're more...frightened of him.

Thena swears they aren't--that all they need do is get to know him. See the gentle nature he has with her. But she doesn't seem to realise that she is the oddity. She is this completely new and unique thing unlike any other in his world.

She is his whole world.

"Here."

He smiles as she sets down a full mug of wine in front of him. She's always doing little things like that for him. He looks at her, "and you?"

"Hm, I'm not one for it, you know that," she shrugs, her voice even softer than usual with him. It assures him that the soft spot she has in his heart matches the one he occupies in hers. "But it was quite a fight today. You should let yourself relax."

"Revel, you mean?" he chuckles, but does take a sip of the human fermented wine. It's not nearly strong enough for the makeup of their cells, but he supposes it's not unpleasant.

"Fine, indulge in some revelry," she laughs under her breath, and it's a beautiful sound. "For me?"

He would rip the planet in two for her. "Fine."

She grins at her victory, her smile showing off her pearly teeth. Everything about her is pearly. "Were you listening to Sprite's story?"

Thena looks at him though with crystal green eyes like the seas across the entirety of the planet. She slips her hand under his, "you don't scare me."

He shrugs, leaning more easily on the railing of the mezzanine. "It's a nice story--don't think it's gonna change anyone's mind about me being the scary one."

She scares him, though. The rhythm of his heart shifting to match hers scares him. He smiles, "nothing scares you."

"That is true."

He chuckles this time, just a little, and she looks like she's taken on a hundred Deviants and come out with victory. She's funny, and yet she acts like making him laugh is the highlight of her day.

He takes another sip of wine so he doesn't start telling her that she's the highlight of all his days, too. "Shouldn't you be down there?--revelling?"

She looks at him as if the answer is quite obvious, and maybe it is. "Why would I want to be down there if you're up here?"

He stares down at the crowd, at Sersi dancing with the humans and Ikaris clumsily trying to join in just so he can have a chance for his hand to brush the Elemental Eternal's in passing. There are plenty of things he doesn't like about his brother, but this part--this, he understands.

"Hm?" Thena prompts him again, bringing herself even closer to him. She's tall, and lithe, even against his intimidating frame, although he's quite sure she weighs the same as a human child. But she never hesitates to put herself close to him. She almost seems to enjoy it.

"You win," he concedes, because she loves winning. She gets this little look on her face, and he wonders if he should participate in more of Kingo's antics or Ikaris' little contests just to see more of that look.

"As much as I do relish victory of any sort," she indulges with a grin. She looks at him, and it softens like the sun melting into the horizon. "I would rather be here with you."

By all the stars in the sky, his heart beats for this woman. Not that he has the poetry to express that, so instead he puts his hand on her back, and she lets him. His lips pull up slightly, "then I'm honored to have the Goddess of War choose my company."

She gifts him with another laugh at his little joke before leaning into him again. She's not afraid of affection--not like he is, fearful of hugging someone too hard and breaking their bones. She allows Kingo to pat her shoulder, hugs Sersi and Makkari and Sprite, even Ajak from time to time. She and Ikaris jostle each other in good faith (most of the time).

But with him, she leans in, rests her head against his shoulder, as if he is a safe haven for her in which to find rest. And he may not understand it, but if that's what she needs from him, then he will be that for the rest of his days.

He holds her delicately, but the fear of his strength leaves him. Because every breath they take together is a push and pull, perfectly balanced. He doesn't have to be afraid with her. For all his rough, unbending edges, she has fluidity and grace. She doesn't mind his withdrawn nature or quietness or intimidating stare.

"Gil?"

"Hm?" he responds, because he loves it when she calls him Gil. No one else does. To anyone else, he's not a nickname person. But she can call him anything she wants.

"We have watch," she reminds him gently, moving away but keeping his hand in hers as she starts drifting outside the party room and towards the walls. "Shall we?"

He will follow her anywhere, across this whole planet if need be. But instead of saying that, he squeezes her hand and says, "after you."

[ktsumu]

retired apartment neighbour!john price who just misses protecting someone warnings: he's tampering with your stuff, implied home invasion, stalking

belatedly dedicated to @soumies who brainstormed this!!!

-

Your sink isn't working again.

Two months ago, it was a worn washer and something else the repair guy that your landlord sent told you. The last time, the drain wasn't up to fighting anymore.

This time? You don't know what the fuck it is.

Sometimes, you can fix it yourself— save some good money. Sometimes, something's obviously loose, because you remember that you tightened it well the time before. You make it right again and leave it, but then it just drips again. It makes you worry about the day you don't notice the sound and the wood starts to rot.

You've asked down the hallway a bit about whether their kitchens suck too, but they give you funny looks. You don't know why you've got the cursed unit, but it seems that everyone else is doing just fine.

Everyone but John, at least, because he worries about you.

John Price is half-neighbour, half-friend, half-stranger. That's too many halves, but he's big enough to fit them all.

The five months he's lived next to you, he's been nothing but kind. He's caring, funny when you're tired, helpful. You call him Price in passing, John when you need him for something; he answers dutifully to both.

(He's protective, too, frightens boys you bring back for yourself. You guess that nature came with the dog tags.)

He's kind, but you don't know him outside of when you need him, really. Neither of you seem to mind, though, since you're sure he's a busy man and he probably thinks you're too young to waste time on.

Now is one of those times that you need him.

The wrench in your cramping hand clatters against your kitchen floor, sweat beading at your hairline and under the neck of your shirt. It's the hottest night recorded in a decade and here you are; working on your fucked up sink instead of taking a cold shower.

Being too loud isn't a concern— your hallway is full of rabbits and your building manager lives below you; you hope he hears you groaning.

When you hear a knock, knowing who it's from, you start to care a little bit.

"Everything right?"

"I'm fine," you tell him, but it's wheezy. "Sorry for being loud."

Price simply opens your door, enters your home. It's barely ever locked when you're here, you aren't as careful as you used to be. Sometimes, if he's talking to you, he walks right in.

You never really say anything about it. You don't mean it as an invitation, but it comes out as one.

"It's that sink again?"

"How'd you know?"

Price is already in your space— looming over you, squatting to a kneel. One of his hands guides you away from the cabinet and you follow him without question.

He takes the wrench you gave up on. "S'always the sink with you, kid."

You see glimpses of history in Price. Like how he slides himself under your sink even though it's small, almost silent. Like how he grips your rusty wrench like a knife, backhanded, thumb closed over the handle's end.

His skin is covered in sweat, too, dewy under your kitchen light. It beads by his beard.

There's an ugly grind of metal versus metal, something tightening or being forced back into place. Price drops his thick arms again, lifting himself out from under your counter, and he hands you your tool back.

"How did you," you trail, "how did you know—?"

"Knew where to look, love." He laughs quickly when your face is blank. Price is taller than you remember when he stands, leaning on your kitchen island. "I've seen worse than some sink pipes, yeah?"

Of course he has.

It's why you mostly get him to fix things up in your place. Always knows what's wrong with your stupid apartment.

"Yeah, sorry."

Price doesn't leave when he helps you, either.

He waits, eyes trained on you when you get around your kitchen, getting the water jug and your tray of half-frozen ice cubes, asking if he wants some water. You think most people would kindly refuse, but Price always sticks around.

This time, though, he seems like he's gotten his fill, eyes lidded as he waves a hand when you go for the fridge. "M'good, love. Just call me when it goes again."

Your kitchen is uneasy. You know it isn't him, and it's probably you and the stress from the fact you can't sleep in the heat. The AC sounds like it's fighting in your window.

"How do you know it's gonna break again?" you ask. You know it sounds dumb, because you know your whole unit is a bit of garbage, but he's quiet. "Didn't you fix it well?"

John isn't looking at your eyes, he's looking at where your arms are crossed over your chest, hiding the sweat under your arms and collar. He's looking at your bare legs.

"I did," he assures you, always. "It's just a bad sink, lovie."

Just a bad sink, s'all it is.

"Yeah, it is, huh?" you ask, breathing a laugh at the stupidity of it all. At this rate, he'll be coming in to help you until you move out.

He steps toward you again, resting a heavy hand on the small of your back. You don't realize, don't even notice the fact he's nearly guided you out of your apartment until you're at the door.

Are you seeing him out, or is he seeing you?

John feels intimate when he's this close— head tilted, brows slightly raised, thumb tapping on your spine.

"Call me next time, alright?" he tells you, like you'd imagine he'd coo at a rescue. "I'm always around.”

You just nod. Something is pushing you closer and something is pushing him out.

"I will, promise."

"Have a good one then, kid. Take it easy tonight.”

"Thanks, John. I really, really appreciate you helping."

"Just what neighbours do, aye?"

He waits by the door as you close it, watching your smile just as you watch his, warm like a fire. Something makes your hand rest on the lock.

(You know you shouldn't need to, but you kneel in front of your sink when he leaves, knees pressed against the cold floor.)

Something itches in your stomach, not intuition but not ease either, nipping at the back of your brain. You almost feel stupid, using your phone flashlight to feel around the pipe that's never right, looking for something to tell you that you aren't acting crazy for doing this.

There's something you remember seeing earlier, right? Something obvious that you checked to see if it was the issue, or something you replaced last time, or something you paid for.

Your fingers feel nothing where there should be something— a piece is definitely gone, a washer or a nut, maybe old putty you remember cringing at.

It could be lost under the lip of the cabinets, maybe. Maybe that's where it is. It isn't him, surely. He wouldn't do that. There's nothing for him to do that for.

John Price has does done nothing but be kind to you— who are you to blame him for anything?

-

A missing handful of little metal pieces is dropped into a duffel, out of his fisted hand. It clatters against the rest of them.

[jedimaesteryoda]

One trend I've noticed a lot lately in the speculation of Tyrion meeting Daenerys is how he'll influence her. The argument often is that Tyrion will encourage her more "fire and blood" destructive tendencies when they get to Westeros. However, this view is often one-sided as it's always about how Tyrion will influence Daenerys but never about how Daenerys will influence Tyrion.

"Daenerys, I am thrice your age," Ser Jorah said. "I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them. Even his beard wears false colors." That angered her. "Whilst you have an honest beard, is that what you are telling me? You are the only man I should ever trust?" He stiffened. "I did not say that." "You say it every day. Pyat Pree's a liar, Xaro's a schemer, Belwas a braggart, Arstan an assassin . . . do you think I'm still some virgin girl, that I cannot hear the words behind the words?" "Your Grace—" She bulled over him. "You have been a better friend to me than any I have known, a better brother than Viserys ever was. You are the first of my Queensguard, the commander of my army, my most valued counselor, my good right hand. I honor and respect and cherish you—but I do not desire you, Jorah Mormont, and I am weary of your trying to push every other man in the world away from me, so I must needs rely on you and you alone. It will not serve, and it will not make me love you any better." -ASOS, Daenerys IV

Daenerys is not the sheltered child Aegon was who Tyrion could easily manipulate as shown when she called out Jorah for trying to isolate her from other men. Even Tyrion admitted to Aegon, having never met Daenerys that "she is strong" and "fierce." Daenerys was more worldly at 14 than Aegon is at 16. Even as a small, frightened girl at age 13 in the beginning of the series, she had more street smarts than her adult brother Viserys and has shown to be a prodigy in the series. Tyrion would not be able to manipulate her easily, especially since would initially be wary of him for being a Lannister.

Tyrion at the end of the day would be serving as her subordinate, him being largely dependent on her. Tyrion largely is the way he is because of the toxic family he grew up in. The Lannister vision has no idea of a Good Society, it's just pure self-aggrandizement by any means necessary. As the adage goes, rot always starts at the head. The monarchs Tyrion served as Hand, Joffrey and Cersei, were both cruel, incompetent tyrants with senses of entitlement that outweighed their actual abilities. They also had no concept of the duties of a monarch to their subjects, and instead just abused their power over others, including sexually. The one who actually ran the show for the Lannister regime, Tywin, was a cold, abusive Machiavellian who brutalized the smallfolk and his children, seeing them as pawns in his schemes. Tyrion could be cunning and brutal, because it was both encouraged and necessary for the winner-take-all, dog-eat-dog world of the Lannister court. It was an environment designed to bring out the darker side of his nature.

However, since the beginning we saw hints of the lighter side of his nature such as when he gave emotional support to Jon and designed a special saddle for Bran. He even helped Catelyn when they were attacked by the mountain clans even though she kidnapped him. In A Clash of Kings, we see hints of Tyrion wanting to be something other than the cold Machiavellian like his father when he stands up for Sansa when Joffrey beats her, and he has Morec killed and Slynt sent to the Wall for killing Barra, wanting to "do justice." In A Dance with Dragons, he risks his life to protect Aegon and even in his lowest he looks out for Penny even though she is a complete stranger to him.

Daenerys is a foil to Cersei, whose ruling philosophy is expressed in the statement "Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?" Daenerys tries to live up to the image of an ideal monarch who protects the weak. She liberates the oppressed from slavery and tries to protect them, even performing acts like tending to those afflicted with the bloody flux herself, marrying someone she doesn't want and putting her plan of going to Westeros on hold to achieve peace. Working as Hand to Queen Daenerys, Tyrion may find himself in a change of pace in a different environment where for once his more positive tendencies are encouraged with his fondness for "cripples, bastards and broken things."

In short, in cutting himself off from his toxic family, Tyrion may actually find a new beginning in service to Daenerys. He's the Machiavellian polymath and court politician she needs, and she's the competent, idealistic monarch he needs.

[ultraericthered]

One Villainous Scene: The Thing That Keeps You Up At Night

Teen Titans' Season 3's "Haunted" is without question one of the most viscerally frightening and dark episodes of an animated kids show I've ever seen. Basic premise: the Teen Titans' greatest enemy, Slade, is still dead after the events of the Season 2 finale, but Robin is still in doubt that his archnemesis is gone for good. Then he starts seeing Slade still alive and on the move, he gets into fights with him, but he's the only one who can see and hear Slade, and the only one taking any injuries in the fights, almost like he alone is being haunted by the ghost of his hated foe. The other four Titans realize something is terribly wrong with Robin's mind and try to help him, but even back at the Tower, Slade just won't leave him alone. Not until he's dead.

And this climax is by far the most...well, haunting part of the episode. Raven meditates and projects herself into Robin's mind, reaching out to him and seeing reality through his eyes to show him that Slade isn't really there. Except then Slade sends another punch, sending Raven reeling from the impact. Raven concludes that even if Slade's not really physically there, he feels real in Robin's mind and thus it's Robin who's actually delivering the damage to himself and others. Robin and Slade's one-sided fight comes to a head with a truly wince-inducing moment where Slade twists Robin's arm behind his back, and you can even hear the sound of his bones cracking, prompting an agonized sound to come from Robin's mouth before Slade hurls the boy over the railing and continues to kick the crap out of him, sending him further down the stairs. It's at this point where the basement lights start to flicker on and off at various moments, and whenever the lights are on, Slade is no longer present, but when it's dark again, Slade is there once again. It's visual symbolism for Robin's state of mind. The "light" of his friends, his home, and his crime fighting career focused on the present and future rather than dwelling on the darkness of the past can keep Robin sane, but the memory of Slade and all the way he'd abused Robin in the past just lingers in the darkness, always in the back of Robin's mind, always threatening to come out and make him feel furious, anguished and afraid all over again, and too much wallowing in this darkness is what will lead Robin to possibly destroy himself physically and mentally.

By now Robin is too weak to keep fighting and he can only plead for Slade to stop assaulting him, his superhero bravado broken to reveal a scared kid desparately wanting to break free from the abuse of this terrible man. But Slade kicks him again and delivers the single most chilling dialogue ever spoken by Ron Perlman in this entire show:

"No, Robin. I won't stop. Not now, not ever. I am the thing that keeps you up at night. The evil that haunts every dark corner of your mind. I will never rest...and neither will you."

But the hallucinogen-induced Slade makes the error of bringing Robin's attention to all the bruises he's been given, making him realize that Slade's remained uninjured no matter how many times he's taken hits. He finally pieces it all together and declares that his friends had been telling him the truth his entire time - this Slade is not real. Even the nonexistent Slade seems aware of his true nature and is visibly agitated to hear Robin catch on to what's really going on here, and he makes a lunge for him, angrily stating "I'm real enough to finish you!" All Robin has to do then is turn on the light switch, and the specter of his archnemesis vanishes, like it was never there.

In some respects, this could be an allegory not only for Robin and Slade's adversarial relationship, but for Slade as a force of evil. Slade specializes first and foremost into getting into his opponent's heads, making them fear him, making them doubt themselves, making them enraged and fighting back in aways that only play into his hands, making them self-destruct while he delivers the physical beatdown. However, when all is said and done, Slade Wilson is just a man. He's a powerless mortal man in a mask and super soldier getup who preys on the young and vulnerable by making them believe he's the biggest and baddest monster lurking in the shadows, always poised to strike, and that when he does, there's nothing they can do to stop him. Just another mind game. When his enemy realizes that Slade is but a pathetic aging man indulging in petty cruelties, he ceases to scare them and it's not so hard to bring him down. This is what Slade was in life, what he continued to be in death, and what he goes on to be upon return. No matter how imposing, his darkness can be defeated if you find the light and shine it right in his direction.

[beyondtheegress]

HUGE POST ABOUT EUPHORIA

Euphoria is a crazy ass show

*Disclaimer: these are just my own opinions, and I might discuss spoilers so beware!*

I've seen Euphoria a few times but haven't had the chance to watch it recently. And this recent rewatch has got me thinking.

1) The main thing, the large majority of the reason I like this show is the visuals. You have the admit the actual filmmaking is beautiful. So many shots are visually stunning and iconic. So much creativity was happening surrounding the show, especially in the makeup world. The way the show looks is the main reason I turn it on, just being honest. It's fun brain candy until it makes you want to kill yourself.

2) I think the choice for Rue to verbally narrate was a masterful decision. Of course she can be unreliable within her own story but outside of herself she is generally all-knowing about the other characters' stories; she is sardonic and sometimes provides relief for the audience. I liked it.

3) Honestly the representation was kinda nice. They never actually pointed and screamed that someone may be different from the white heteronormative standards. Everyone just existed and had no real issue with identities. (Nate excluded but we'll get there)

4) I never liked Jules and her inability to ever communicate a single emotion in a non-destructive way. But to be fair they BUTCHERED Jules' character in season two. Cal's whole story is so depressing; just made me sad. Love Maddie, she's so herself I think she's one of the strongest, most sure characters. Cassie really needs therapy. Kat's focus was super weak which was disappointing because she had a really fun personality. I actually really like Lexi, she's the most normal. FEZCO, I love that character; he actually has interesting motives and he's got a good heart.

5) Nate Jacobs. He is so incredibly frightening. His behavior is much more extreme than just feeling repressed. He broke into a man's house, beat him within an inch of his life, showered and dressed in that man's clothes, and then took his gf on a date (who he later physically abuses and puts a gun to her head). He is wired wrong, he enjoys having power over other people and he's dangerous.

6) The music is addictive.

7) The whole second season is absolutely bonkers and makes very little sense. I'm aware there was a lot going on behind the scenes and unfortunately I think that bled through on screen. The second season is just so DISORGANIZED. Characters get forgotten about for extra titty shots, it's kind of obnoxious.

8) Everyday I worry about that big bag of pills and the fact Rue owes an emotionless drug lord thousands. And her mom/friends got riiiiiid of it!!!! That shit is so scary. That was a loose end that desperately needed tying up.

9) WHY the fuck was this set in high school. The age thing was just a plot device and nothing more; it added very little. There's almost zero paternal consequences and how often do you hear any of the characters talk about class or homework?? Like that's all you do in high school. This should have been set in college. Not even to mention the massive amounts of graphic sex that's supposed to be between teenagers. College. Should've been college.

These are just my opinions! It's fun to debrief after watching something that has tons of plot holes, problems, and toxicity.

{This show paired with Bojack Horseman make for grade A emotional self harm 😅}

[old-school-butch]

Let me explain how i think so you can answer the question better: Personally i don't think being trans makes you perfectly that sex, like I've seen post surgical images, it's a rough approximation, also i don't think minors should get hormones or surgery. I think some people unfortunately transition when they had other issues like female shame to sort out. It seems like other people feel a gross discomfort towards their bodies and transitioning cured it or at least helped it. I just, with all the back and forth, I really want to support something that will help my friends who are suffering. ------ So if there's research into alternate cures, that's something I would be interested in learning more about. Because I just don't want my friends to suffer. I have a close friend who was born a woman and is mostly attracted to men, but sees transitioning as a way to fix the crippling incongruency he's felt since childhood, he sort of sees it like disease and cure. He helped me thru a lot of stuff like when i first came out. So i really just want to support what will help people.

That’s very admirable anon. There’s not enough kindness in the world so being good to people who’ve been good to you is a wonderful thing.

Having a body is a difficult thing, it seems, for many people. So approach this problem with this frame-setting: they aren’t alone with this problem. Age, ability, size, race, and any number of smaller physical attributes have bedeviled many people over space and time to varying degrees. This is not a special or unique issue, it's a human issue and thus you can learn from other people and their strategies. Much of my critique of the modern medical approach is its ineffectiveness in reducing suffering, and causing harm by trying to treat the wrong thing. Even the more difficult mental illnesses like dysmorphia and dysphoria have been difficult to medically resolve. The most effective strategies have been time, and the acceptance that comes with maturation over time.

Older research, led by scientists and not activists, who study actual outcomes instead of self-reported feelings over longer periods of time find little support for long term improvement in mental health with medical transition. I’ve knew a trans man who passed effectively, had supportive friends and family, jobs that were basically talking about being trans… who still committed suicide. It was my first eye opening realization that maybe this wasn’t the cure-all it was advertised to be. Further research has confirmed this for me - the benefits don't last because the promises are not fulfilled. You can't ever, in the end, be anyone you're not.

Friends with eating disorders who struggled to 'fix' their bodies to conform to their ideas only stabilized their health when they learned to accept their bodies as imperfect, or even unimportant, and focus on other aspects of their existence. With aging, I have found that I'm happier when I stop the search for new wrinkles and accept, with difficulty I'll admit, the loss of strength and poise that comes with age. Acceptance isn't easy - because underneath our fear of looking old is the fear of actually being old, the deeper fears - and truths - of being less desirable, less socially important and ultimately closer to dying. Fussing about grey hairs is just a distraction from these deeper unpleasant truths, but endless rounds of plastic surgery and skin peeling is a self-inflicted torment that pushes the pain down the road, but never resolves it.

Acceptance is not a passive process, it's a long and difficult journey, but still the best odds of success and far less torturous that standing still and feeling helpless in the torrent of unhappiness.

Acceptance is not about feeling suddenly happy about something that's unpleasant. It's still unpleasant, still frightening, but you take courage and face the fear rather than turn your back on it or try to bargain your way around it. It's a curious experience, but real joy can only come after you've tasted grief because grief teaches us that everything is fleeting. True calm follows the moment when you swallow fear and start digesting it, because fear guides us to where we can find purpose.

Acceptance is not a meek process, it's a radical and bold questioning of your thinking. Changing how you think can change the way you feel. This is the miracle of life, to keep changing.

So, how then do the thoughts about her body lead to 'incongruity' exactly? Why does she believe congruity is possible or even necessary? Is she imagining her 50 year old self when she contemplates her path into the future? What freedoms, what futures, what responsibilities change for her when she changes the evidence of her womanhood? How will people treat her differently? How will she treat herself differently? There are far more straight men than gay ones, how does 'being a man' serve her in her quest to find a male partner? And most important, what lies underneath? This is less about looking like a woman than a rejection of physical evidence that she is a woman. How is that going for her? Where could she take her life, if she lived as a woman on her own terms? She changes everything she touches. And everything she touches, changes.

[joyfullyacat]

i've been stewing on this idea for a little while doing house projects, lets see where it takes us

cw: hurt into comfort??? the mental health of robots yes i had a detroit become human phase how could you tell word count: 1.5k (not beta'd and loosely edited i apologize)

It was never exactly on your schedule to become a criminal quite literally overnight but, then again, when did life ever go to schedule?

Robots, androids, animatronics, what-have-you had just become their own sort-of people with rights being debated as of you waking upon this very day and you had just staged a wonderful breakout of some creations meant children's entertainment with the help of a child and his definitely-not-an-animatronic-bear father.

So, all in all, it was a pretty productive morning and subsequent afternoon you had.

Now in the quiet of the night, tucked away in a - hopefully abandoned - lodge that was a fair distance outside city limits and ideally far enough that any authorities searching for you would call it quits for the temporary time being. It was Sun, mini Music Man, and you currently. Gregory and Freddy took the rest somewhere else and deemed it best you took care of the daycare attendant in these times.

Except it seemed like you were the least qualified person to manage this task at this point in time.

Sun was just about to pace a hole into the carpet, mutterings coming from his voice module that were unintelligible though you could occasionally make out friend and purpose.

You could only hazard some guess to what he was actually saying but you knew this was essentially a breakdown. The closest you've seen him come to it at least. He had never gotten even halfway to this point on the daycare's busiest days of snot-nosed children and flu season.

The only reason he hadn't switched yet was probably because he, as the very first thing, had turned on just about every light in the living room upon arrival and it seemed to be just enough.

Though he needed rest.

He needed a break from being at the front of the stage.

"Sun...?" You began warily, removing the mini Music Man from your lap and tucking him off to the side on the couch you were currently sat on. Standing up after and approaching the attendant.

Drawn by either your voice or your movements, blinding eye-lights snapped to you then. Optics impossibly wide and it almost seemed like he held a grimace.

A differing emotion from one quite literally forged onto him was... Frightening.

And incredibly sobering.

"Hey... Look at me, you see me, right?"

A single nod was all he offered you, the mutterings having quieted down now as you had his attention.

"Right, you see my hand?"

His head tilted down a slight, looking over your outstretched invitation and accepting it almost immediately after. Taking your hand into his with a grateful squeeze and then he nodded in affirmation.

"Good, could we sit down?"

Hesitance.

Another nod.

You guided him carefully over to the couch, the animatronic landing on a cushion unceremoniously with an almost comedic fwump as his weight settled.

"Okay... I'm gonna be right here with you but I'm gonna have Triple-M here turn off the lights alright? I think you need a bit of rest."

Sun busied himself with messing with your hand he had hostage, offering the most smallest "Okay." That you had ever heard from him yet.

The scuttling pitter-patter of the little robot was all you needed as indicator that your plan was in action, offering silent thank you to the sweet companion as you kept your focus on Sun.

One by one, the lights went off.

Bit by bit, the tension that he held in his form began to ease and by the time the final light as clicked, he looked to you with almost sleepy relief. Eyes lidded downwards and that smile no longer seeming strained.

One final squeeze of your hand before he relinquished the hold so he wouldn't accidentally crush the limb again in the transformation sequence.

A painful lesson both him and you had learned the hard way, though that was fine.

For these two? Any way was good for you.

The rays of his head descended in a wave, a typical nightcap popping up shortly after with a flourish and a little jingle of the bell that rested in the pompom at the end. The pants were replaced by another pair that shot down his legs from the hip.

Day turned into night quite literally before your very eyes and it wasn't long until an ambient red hue filled the room.

Moon looked up to you momentarily with that burning gaze before he dropped his head with a crackly sigh, taking a moment to loosen up in the body after being pent up for so long.

At least that's what you assumed, you weren't too sure how the inner machinations worked between them.

"Thank you for that, Starbright." He offered after a few moments of silence, when you had just began to pull away to give him some privacy.

You didn't think an animatronic of any sort could sound as exhausted as he did in that moment, brows knitting towards the center as you couldn't stifle the concern you felt. Moon had the energy of someone who had been too strong for too long and finally just got to decompress but wouldn't let themselves fall down too far just yet.

"You... Alright there?" You treaded the territory carefully, the two had always been a bit prickly when it came to their own needs and wants, it had taken much cajoling to get them to admit a number of simple things.

Cleanings, privacy, comfort, etcetera.

...Thinking on it now, no wonder the other company figured you'd be good to handle the intertwined duo. You had already been fighting for their own piece of mind for a bit now.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then all at once he grappled onto you, uncaring for your startled yelp as he clutched you close by your waist and hid his faceplate along your stomach, lengthy limbs encompassing you fully in a bodily embrace. Just sat there.

When no further action was made, you simply rested a hand on the edge of his hat, your thumb idly petting in small circles along what would be his temple.

You had always let them take the pace, even if that pace was a slow-burning candle or a roaring pyre.

Currently? It seemed the candle burning was steady after the initial burning of the wick as Moon spoke up.

"Sun is confused on why you did what you did... As am I. You've done much for us and you... Still find ways to do more."

The comment stumped you at first, your little soothing motions coming to a stop before they continued when you found your words.

"I think I've confused you before with my actions, haven't I?"

He nodded, not missing a beat.

"I know you've got a super memory in there, two in fact..." You teased kindly, leaning into him to lightly hug about his head. "What have I told you before, hm? I think I've given you many reasons."

"...You've apologized for liking us." It wasn't said unkindly, matter-of-fact and something you'd never quite live down it seemed as the very light jest was made.

"Yes I have and perhaps those two things are intertwined, if that's what you're trying to figure out. Though I'd do this for you even if I did not hold romantic interest - simply because it'd be the right thing to do."

Moon bit out with a withheld growl, "You've thrown away everything for us."

"I have but life never goes on a straight path - or at least you're often forced to make-do. You'll take wrong turns and go off trail. You'll come across holes in the way that you have to fill in by whatever means necessary."

"...So in this tangle of passageways. Where do we lie?"

You chuckled as Moon seemed to perk up at the use of metaphors, many night shifts you had spent with similar discussions. Always supplying much food for thought from your end and their own.

"I believe you are the beginning of a new path. I know not where it'll lead or what is in the way of that path but I will head down it with you all the same."

His hold momentarily tightened around you before he relaxed entirely.

"What was that thing you told us about caring, way back when."

Your brows furrowed involuntarily, immediately wracking your brain for thought.

"...When you begin to care for something, it'll tire you out in ways? But it is never regretted."

"That's right... I think Sun and I finally understand that now. You worry us but we care for you. We want the best of your health and safety and it is... Reciprocated?"

"Without a doubt." You quipped on the spot.

"Caring is a tiresome emotion but it is... A nice one. Is love the same?"

"It falls hand-in-hand with caring sometimes. It can be invigorating but draining... It is just as tangled as life I would argue."

"We'll have much unknotting to do."

You finally dropped the hug with an unbecoming snort at the joke, peering down to Moon who had finally peeled himself away to look up at you with that familiar impish air returning.

"I suppose we will, for now, let's take things one step at a time, yeah?"

"Yeah..."

-

trying to pin how i wanna write the two is a fun challenge

this is also a fun,,,maybe au to explore

i hope you enjoyed!!

[harryforvogue]

Part One | Chapter Three: Harry

London, England

December 1915

Christmas at the Styles' is quite different from how it is back home in Champagne. Having been brought up there in near isolation, being surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces can be quite frightening, and while I've decided to stay close to my friend for most of the morning, she's a socialite who insists on introducing me to everyone she sees and then disappearing for hours. She has a very big family and more people have gathered in this tight house than I've ever seen in my own home.

My friend, Thea, is the eldest daughter of the family I'm staying with for Christmas break. She's the only name I have remembered so far, but I'm sure when we're all a bit sober, I'll be able to recall and put names to faces.

People are still arriving, even though it's 9 in the evening. As I look around, holding a glass of wine to my lips, I notice that there are no signs of this party stopping anytime soon. While I'm growing tired by the second, it seems like this family is going to stay awake to see 1916 happen, and when they all kiss each other at midnight, they'll fall asleep as well. There are still 6 days until the New Year, but this family is certainly laughing and drinking as if it's their last month.

I drink as much as the average person does, having given into the invitations with some of Thea's older cousins. I find myself a bit tipsy, accidentally bumping into the corners of tables and chairs and laughing strangers as I find a place to sit. Most parties back at home aren't this lively, which comes as a shock to the English people I've stayed with because we seem to give off the impression as being well balanced in our daily and nightlife. That may be a part of French culture that I'm not all that familiar with because it's not how I was raised.

I was raised by my parents to be proper and courteous and docile even when I wanted to throw a tantrum and get my way. The first lesson I received was that things won't always go my way and it's my right to be the bigger person and accept it. Parties meant drinking and loud brash comments one could not take back.

But I am not that person who is proper and courteous, no matter how much it was drilled into me. I get angry easily, despite my better judgement, and I'm not often a good conversationalist.

I feel out of place right now. Thea is nowhere to be seen, so I sit down in the family room and watch the relatives hang by the fire, drinking and having a wonderful time. The small prick of tiredness has begun to grow and soon I find myself nearly fallen over, asleep.

When I'm very tired, I become a bit delirious. I'll hear ringing in my ears and stiffen as I fall asleep, and perhaps that's why I don't notice the person beside me. The room spins until I find the magnetic center, falling towards it. My temple hurts from the hard object poking at my temple, but it's support, regardless of how uncomfortable. The hum of busy people becomes a white noise, my brain shutting off, everything coming to a rest.

Suddenly, there's a voice, just a small murmur in my ear. The cracking of the fire nearly draws me back to the warm sleep I so desperately try to accept, but then the hard person nudges me. Forcing myself into an upright position, I open my mouth to apologize to whoever I've fallen on.

"It's fine," the drowsy voice says. "I was just making sure you're alright. Don't know what to do when people pass out, that's all."

My vision focuses on a man about my age with thick brown curls falling into his eyes, an amused expression on his face. His eyes, however, are just as tired as mine, a light green shade that reflects that orange flames from the fire.

"Sorry," I mutter, dragging my hand under my mouth because I've been one to accidentally drool in my sleep. "I just nodded off."

The man hums, raising his glass to the stairs. "Have you been given a room yet?"

"Yes. It's just that I don't want to be rude and head upstairs early." I put distance between us, scooting away. "Sorry, I just landed on you."

He ignores my embarrassed apology for a second time. "I can tell them to keep it down if you want to head to bed. It's not a big deal," the stranger offers with a new concerned expression. "You're Thea's guest, right? I'm sure they'll want you to sleep well after your travels."

I shake my head, looking back at the fire to wake myself up from the bright light. "Oh, no. That's alright. I'll just be up until they sleep."

The man leans in a bit. "Are you sure? It's not a big deal."

"It's alright." I pause, glancing over my shoulder. Sleep fogs my memory and my reactions are late. "Sorry, how do you know I'm Thea's guest? Everyone here is a guest."

With a quirk of his brow, the man says, "Right, well, it's just that I know everyone here except you, and you're the only one here speaking like... that."

I look back to the bright flames. "I see. I'm working on it but it's nice to know my efforts are failing."

"Trying to lose the accent?" the stranger asks, concerned once more. "Why? It's quite nice to hear something different."

The drowsiness is causing me to complain to a stranger. I barely register my shoulders shrugging and my mouth opening to speak again. The lightheadedness settles in, eyes defocusing despite the brightness of the flames. "People say they can't understand me. Leads to them not taking me seriously."

From the corner of my eye, I see the stranger sit back against his seat and shrug his own shoulders. "I understand you just fine. And I'm taking this conversation quite seriously even though you're nodding off as I continue."

I sigh, pressing a palm to my eye. "Sorry. Your voice is just... it's putting me to sleep."

Knowing I've said the wrong thing, the stranger and I sit in silence. A moment passes and he says, "What's your name?"

"Annaliese. It's nice to meet you."

The man laughs quietly, causing me to divert my attention back to him. As my eyelids grow heavy, my vision swims a bit, and I'm suddenly unsure if I'm dreaming or just that lightheaded. "Why are you laughing?"

"Well," he says casually, throwing an arm over the backside of the couch, showing off a pair of dimples. "You're saying it's nice to meet me but I haven't even told you my name."

I tilt my head back as it suddenly feels too heavy for me to hold upright. His voice sounds far away. "What's your name?" I hear myself asking. I have asked this question to at least fifty people today and I will not remember his, but I have to be friendly to all of Thea's guests.

The smile is evident in his voice. "How about I tell you tomorrow, so you'll actually remember it?"

"Sounds like an excellent idea."

The silence returns and I blink my eyes to keep myself awake, but the final nail on the head is when the man beside me stands up and holds his hand out. I don't know him, but he looks warm and inviting, so I put my hand in his. He hoists me up. My body leans on him for support unintentionally, however, he doesn't seem to mind except when he has to walk me up the stairs. There, he struggles a bit, and if I were in my right mind, I'd help him.

Lightheaded and dizzy, I'm willing to go anywhere, as long as I'm half carried like this. In a sober and less tired state, I'd be mortified, but I can't be bothered to lift a single foot until he murmurs in my ear that I must if I'm going to make it safely. Safely? Where are we going that the journey is expected to be dangerous? I want to ask, but it's in that exact moment that we stop. He pushes open a door for me and sits me down on the bed.

"Oh," I whisper. "It's my room."

The stranger laughs. "Glad I got it right. I'll tell them to keep it down. You get some rest." I need to change out of my clothes, but he lingers for a bit. "Are you alright?"

"So tired."

"Right. Well. Goodnight."

I think he smiles at me.

"You don't need to tell them to keep it down. The way I'm about to sleep, not even a gunshot will wake me up."

The stranger's footsteps are heavy as he walks away from me, closing the door until it's almost shut. The final thing I remember is his voice assuring me, "I'm sure nobody will be firing any guns tonight."

***

Apparently, I can't handle my alcohol well because everyone is chirpy in the morning while I cradle my head at the dining table, letting Thea laugh and poke me. I want nothing more but to head back to bed, but the family woke up early and began making a ruckus. I had fallen asleep in my clothes and they irritated me too much for me to sleep in.

I'm massaging my own head when a cup of coffee is put in front of me, and then the seat across from mine is taken by the man I vaguely remember from last night. He looks far more refreshed than me, light eyes awake and alert. He nods at the drink.

"It'll help."

I frown down at it, wrapping my hands around the mug. It smells lovely, but a bit too strong for my taste. Sipping cautiously at the bitter coffee, I peer at the man, tilting my head. He looks at me over his mug too, though from the movement of his throat, I can tell he's not taking small sips like me, but somewhat bigger gulps. Freshly showered and shaved, he looks handsome in his regular shirt and trousers, crossing one leg over the other comfortably.

"Harry," he says when he puts the mug back on the table. "We met last night when you were pissed."

"I wasn't pissed," I protest, putting my mug down as well, keeping my hands around it. The warmth causes goosebumps to rise on my arms. "I was just sleep deprived."

"Of course. My mistake. Did you sleep well?"

"I did."

He nods. "Good."

Thea returns to the table with a bowl of fruits, stabbing her fork into an apple slice. "You came home late last night," she tells Harry as she chews. "Mum said you'd be home by afternoon."

"I was visiting someone on the way."

Thea's eyes shine. "The girl you're seeing?"

Harry's eyebrows raise and he leans in with narrowed eyes. "How do you know about her?"

"Everyone knows. You think you can sneak off and go on dates and just expect us to stay in the dark?"

"I thought putting a few miles between myself and this house would give me the ability to breathe a bit better, but of course, I was wrong."

Thea bites into her apple. "When are you not wrong?"

I finally piece it together. This is Thea's brother, Harry, who goes to Kings College. He's graduating this spring. As if he knows I'm thinking about him, he looks over at me and says, "I thought Annaliese was going to be here a bit later? You said the 27th."

He's talking as if I'm not here. Having dealt with this before, I sit up straighter and answer for Thea. After all, he's speaking about me, not her. "Found no reason to do Christmas alone."

He nods as he takes a sip. "It's just that you've taken my room."

It makes sense. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why the guest room had a closet filled with men's clothing and professional attire. "I won't touch anything," I tell him honestly.

The amused expression that frequently finds its way onto his face returns, this time his eyes shining as well. Thea's audible chewing serves as a background noise as I lean in to listen to him when he speaks. The kitchen is filling up and the Styles family can be quite loud.

He doesn't answer my promise, instead saying, "Is there a nickname I can use for you? Annaliese is quite mouthful."

At that moment, I forget all my manners and the etiquettes I've been taught by my parents and the years of private schooling. This is a question I've heard too many times, and it irritates me to no end when I have to answer politely, providing them with any nickname, such as Ann or Annie. Perhaps it's my hangover mind that rejects all notions of politeness, but I suddenly can't take this question anymore. With my arms crossed over my stomach, I tell him, "No. It's either Annaliese, or it's nothing."

A smile spreads across his face. "But I cannot pronounce it right."

Thea is called by her mother to help in the kitchen. She leaves before I can answer her brother.

I say, "I'd like you to try pronouncing it correctly. That would make me happy."

"But I can't."

"Figure out how to pronounce it correctly."

"Is it German or French?"

"Both."

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully. "Alright. I'll just have to say your name frequently in order to get it right."

"It's really not that difficult."

Harry tilts his head and then stands up, neatly pushing his chair back in. "I'd still like to practice." My eyes don't follow him as he walks away. I can't help but be intrigued by the conversation, eager to hear from him again.

At least my mom was right about one thing. Drunk men are vastly different from their sober selves.

***

I continue to see glimpses of Harry as the nights go by because gatherings are held nearly every night. They go well into the morning and most people don't get to their beds until 3 in the morning. I am not one of these people. The Christmas carols have stopped and now the relatives of the family I'm staying with have turned to bellowing songs about the New Year. I don't know any of them.

I learn that Harry can be social when he wants to and that he loves telling stories about people he's met. He's very hard to avoid. It's also very hard to get him to stay quiet for long. The man loves to talk about anything and everything. He has an opinion for everything so getting sucked into an argument is very possible.

Harry and I have been talking more. I learn about how his dream job is to teach history while working with historians when he has spare time. He particular loves learning about ancient cities and ruins. Harry has a lot of opinions, but he also has a lot of facts. He's an intelligent man.

Aside from that, Harry's also very attractive. I don't become used to his looks for a while, my cheeks burning when I catch his eye from across the room or when he sends me that ridiculously attractive smile after he's decided he's won during a heated conversation between us.

I can't help the slight jump of my heart when I see him throughout the day and I've become excited to witness the next party even though I usually wouldn't have. He's charming, to say the least. How cliche is it for me to have a crush on my best friend's brother?

Harry's the life of the party every night. But he's also dead tired like Thea and I every single night.

It's New Year's Eve. Thea is nearly asleep next to me. Harry too, on the other side.

Finally, Thea decides to get up and head to her room, mumbling something about sleeping like the dead. Harry and I are left on the same couch once more, eyelids heavy.

"You can fall asleep on me again if you want," Harry murmurs, a deep sound vibrating from his throat that makes me want to take up on his offer. "Annaliese."

I glance at him. "Yes?"

"Nothing. Was just testing your name to make sure I got it right. Did I?"

"You did," I tell him, desperately trying to force my voice to stop being so high pitched. "I'm beginning to think you were just faking not saying it correctly. You're funny."

"I have been known for being quite a funny guy."

"Only when you're drunk maybe."

"What am I like when I'm not drunk?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should talk when you're not drunk."

He laughs and leans in. "I'm rarely ever drunk, Annaliese. What you see is the real me."

We continue our banter until I physically can't keep up and he offers to take me back to my room, half dragging as usual. I need to time my departure better. I can't be on the verge of collapse all the time.

He brings me to my door and lets me rest against the doorframe. The gentle music grows fainter, and colder air makes us shiver.

I look at him for a long time after my vision focuses on him, taking him in. He looks less tired than me now, while I'm about to drop. I reach behind me to open the door but Harry suddenly steps forward and stops my hand from twisting the handle. The close proximity forces me to get a whiff of his scent, alcohol mixed with some spice.

There's suddenly a loud cheer from downstairs and a shout of "Happy New Year!"

Harry doesn't say anything, but I notice that he's beginning to lean in. Suddenly excited, I lean in also, closing my eyes. His mouth is warm and hesitant, but when I wrap my arms around him, he holds my waist and kisses me firmly, pressing my back against the door. He tastes like the candy canes I've seen him eat all day today, peppermint on his lips and tongue. Having that taste in my mouth causes me to want to press myself closer to him while he's completely unaware of his effect on me.

"Annaliese," he whispers against my mouth, barely audible. "Annaliese."

I tilt my head back and open my eyes, dragging my hands down his shoulders. I hold his sleeves tightly. "Harry."

"Am I saying it right?" he grins, leaning in to kiss my neck softly. I give him more access, my breathing shaky.

"Yes."

"I like saying it."

"I like saying yours. Harry."

"Sounds good when you say it in your accent. From your throat." His thumb brushes against my throat as he says the word. "But you know what? I think like kissing you even more."

With that, he presses kisses to the other side of my neck. Embarrassingly enough, I'm nervous and I can't help but swallow anxiously. His kisses tickle so good. Harry smiles as he pulls away. "What?"

"Sorry! Sorry, no it's nothing."

"Sorry?" he repeats, brushing his lips up my jaw. "I don't like when people apologize to me. Don't do that."

He slowly pulls away and rests his forehead on mine, smiling sleepily. He steps back and reaches for my hand still on his neck. He kisses my palm and then sighs, "I've got to leave you now or you'll die from how tired you are. Goodnight, Annaliese. Happy New Year."

And that is the first time I think about how lovely it was to have Harry's mouth on mine. I hope he kisses me again soon.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 33

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

It is Yoruk who finds her, as she is coming up to the car park. He is coming the other way, and his face goes from a look of thunderous determination to one of anxious concern when he spots her. "My Lady Toreguarde?" he asks, and his voice is tremulous and low, the sort of tone one might use on a frightened child. "Agent Forhoksson," she returns in the most normal tone she can, for all that she is standing there with no shoes and probably twigs in her hair. "Are you… well?" he asks in that same cautious tone, as he takes a tentative pace toward her. Elo tilts her head in consideration, then with a brief fortifying breath, says, "I am… well enough, thank you." A dubious look skates over his features, highlighted in the pinching of his lips and the curving of his brow. Elo realises Yoruk doesn't know if he should believe her. For all that he is Merri's paramour and Elo her best friend, they do not know each other well. They've only met a handful of times; and one of those, Elo was threatening his life on her friend's behalf. "Agent Forhoksson… Yoruk, I'm sorry for causing such trouble." Elo tries to put weight into her words because she is sorry. "I should have said something, I should have tried, before taking off. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. But…" Elo purses her lips and looks away into the darkly verdant distance. "Have you ever…" She doesn't know how to name it. Elo has never been in a war – not like Aunt Alexis has, with bombs falling all around – so she can't call it shell shock. "Do you ever get…" He's frowning now, head ducked and hands at the ready – a gesture of imminent action should she do anything untoward. Elo presses at the spot between her eyebrows and flicks out a hand. "I don't have the words." "Take your time, my Lady."

Elo swallows, lets her eyes close. Lies are difficult for her to spin on a good day, but she absolutely cannot tell him the truth. And anyway, it's not a lie, not really. She might not have shell shock in the same manner as her Aunt, but Elo has seen her fair share of battle, has lost colleagues to the elements and weapons of man alike; and knows, she has not come away unscarred. Another breath. Lorcian once told her that acting is about stepping into the truth of another's shoes. So she takes a step into the shoes of the past. "I didn't mean to run off with no explanation. But I had a sudden, unassailable fear… Our perimeter, you see, it… it wasn't…" She swallows. "It was drilled into me by my Aunt that complacency kills people. I get… nervous when things are too quiet or too easy. So I needed… I had to go…" In a last-ditch attempt to make him understand, she says, "We had civilians. Children." "Easy, Elowyn." He reaches out, as if to steady her shoulders, but refrains from actually touching her. Elo takes another fortifying breath. "Thank you. I'm okay." Yoruk lowers his hands, nodding. "I think I understand. We use the German word, Kriegszilterer, for when the effects of combat follow you home." Elo stares. "Have you…?" "Yes. When an engine misfires, I instinctively take counter-measures." He gives her a half-smile. "A side effect of guarding our Regent – people like to shoot at him, and he must be protected."

In the distance, the racing wind of traffic can be heard. Around them, the trees shift restlessly and a bird twitters a goodnight. "Father Goodwin gave us the use of the old groundskeeping hut while we searched for you," Yoruk says, his posture now relaxed. He gestures behind her, up the lawn towards the Church. "If you can manage, there is a house full of people who would benefit from seeing you. It's perfectly okay if you're not – I can radio in that I've found you and take you home." Now Elo looks at him properly – despite the low light – she can see the strain around his eyes, the rumples in his suit, the paleness of his complexion. "How bad is it?" she asks. Yoruk lets out a shuddering sigh. His gaze flicks away for the merest of moments. "They'll be better for seeing you." He locks his gaze back on hers, and she hears the unspoken: 'It's bad.' "I think I can manage." He gives her a lopsided smile, and they start walking to the groundskeeper's hut.

"I am surprised," Yoruk says as they walk along the moonlit lawn, "that you managed to evade the search parties for so long. I realise you're a highly trained special forces agent, but General Strucker says he called in the best Rangers he had available." Elo raises an eyebrow. "I've been gone a couple of hours, and the Triumvirate felt they needed to pull in SpecOps to find me? I know everything's on tenterhooks between our nations, but that's a little overkill, don't you think?" Yoruk's steps falter and Elo senses his change in stance – the tension is back in his shoulders, the cautious, watchful air about him returns. And oh, isn't she glad it was he who found her, and not, say, Merri. "Elowyn," he says carefully, "it's been a day. Merri said you ran into the woods and vanished. She followed your trail, found your boots, but you were just gone. No trace at all." "I hope she's kept my boots safe," Elo says, unthinking. "They're a nice stout pair, I'd hate to have lost them." Yoruk stares and gives an exasperated, consternated huff. "Yes," he says flatly, "Meredith has your boots." He rubs at his chest. "How did you evade the search parties? It wasn't just Strucker's Rangers combing the park, but Kóngurinn minn called in a unit of our Special Forces to help." "Oh. I, uh, climbed a tree," Elo says. Yoruk goes quiet beside her, and she can feel his consternation building. "I climbed it quite far," she offers, as he goes still. "You climbed a tree. Quite far." "To the top, in fact. And I swear to you, I thought I was only gone a few hours." He swears in Icelandic – and Elo knows that curse; it's the one Merri used when one of their team had done something particularly reckless. "Is that everyone in the Groundskeeper's hut – Strucker and some SpecOps units?" Elo asks to change the subject as they start walking again. Yoruk huffs. "Would that were the case. Kóngurinn minn is a stubborn beast and declined to leave the park until you were found. Of course, this means that Meredith, I, and the rest of his security had to stay. Your General used his executive powers to coordinate the search himself instead of delegating, so is accompanied by a small staff. "Your Magister is a far more sensible man. He assisted your Mother in returning her brood home and has stayed away to smooth things over with your council. I understand there is some nervousness about what your sudden departure could have meant." He looks away, but Elo senses words unsaid. "What is it?" Yoruk purses his lips. "Someone leaked that you were sat next to Kóngurinn minn, just the two of you, at the edge of the party, before you fled." He looks back, face blank. "I have to ask–" "His behaviour has been above reproach at all times." The words are hard, caustic. Tension leaves Yourk's face. "Thank you." "Fucking optics," Elo says, pressing a hand against her head. "How did this happen? How the hell did I become the fulcrum of this deal?" "Do you want the supportive answer or the honest answer?" Elo shakes her head. "This is all the Exchequer's doing. I just don't understand why." She rubs her forehead again. "I hate politics." Yoruk reaches out slowly to pat her arm, and they resume walking.

The Groundskeeper's hut, a basic brick building more shed than home, comes into view. "Ah, I forgot to mention," Yoruk says. "Your Mother returned this evening in the company of Officer Breakwood and one of her children for an update." "She brought one of the kids?" "Apparently, the little girl with mousy hair–" "Dimple?" "–Insisted on coming along." Elo finds her steps slow. "Let me get this right: That tiny hut up there is housing a King, a General, two dozen various armed SpecOps and associated admin, a copper, a retired architect, and a little girl; none of whom will have slept well, all of whom are tense because of falsely engineered politics, and who probably want to wring my neck?" "Yes, I believe that covers it." Elo stops outright now. "Cuthbert brace me, I'm going to get mobbed." Yoruk halts and says gently, "Not if you don't want to be. I know what it's like to be deluged by concerned family who may not understand the delicate state you're in. I must report to Kóngurinn minn and your General, but I will do so discreetly. Wait out here." Elo realises she has been holding her breath, eases it out in a low hiss. She will have to explain herself to everyone eventually, but to do so one at a time instead of all at once – that would be a gift. "Thank you, Yoruk." The tension lightens around his eyes as he inclines his head – as much of a smile as he can manage in the circumstances, Elo supposes. "You're welcome." He slips into the hut, leaving Elo to loiter outside. Light from a window above pools around her like a spotlight, and she reflects again she's glad it was Yoruk who found her – Farren would have worked too – but not her Mother or Merri. She loves them both dearly, of course, but Yoruk and Farren understand, and she is so, so grateful that Yoruk has not made a fuss.

«So. They made you a full moss-licker then,» says a quiet voice from a small bush off to her left. He sounds faintly jealous, for all his snarky words – like he was hoping that maybe it would turn out she wasn't a moss-ears after all, but a green-skin like him. "No, Snotgrut," Elo says. "I don't know what they made me, but I am just me. I am not a moss-ears or a green-skin. I am both and neither." He harrumphs at that pronouncement. "Listen," Elo says, suddenly urgent; she has recalled the promise made. "I said I'd meet you and them on the tow-path at Silver Hooks at dawn tomorrow, so they could explain their side of things. But I have a feeling I won't be be able to get away. Can you tell them the time's changed – I'll meet you all at dusk instead." «Youse want me to willingly find out the moss-ears?» "Yes. I know you can do it." «Youse want me to be your… messenger boy?» he spits the words. «To a bunch of no-good, namby-pamby, bloody–» "Please, Snotgrut," she says quietly. There is a waiting silence then, and she can picture him shuffling, indignant, and trying to figure out if she's worth it. "What do you need to be convinced, Snotgrut? More clothes, more coffee? I can get you both." «Bah. Already bought me, dincha?» He makes a disgruntled noise. «We'll see you tomorrow then.» Then there is a subtle silence that tells her the Dvasia has gone. Elo leans back against the wall, a wave of weariness overcoming her.

The sound of the door opening alters her to another's presence. She lets her head loll in that direction, to see Strucker leaning a shoulder against the wall. He keeps his distance, hands tucked into his pockets. "You good?" he asks. "Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Mostly." Strucker nods, fixes his gaze on his shoes. "Storri's lad said it was an effect of battle trauma. I know I'm not the best for it, but if you want to talk any time…" "I know. Thank you." "Though I want a promise in return." "Oh?" "Quit trashing your bike. Spark plugs are cheap; bodywork isn't." Elo startles, pulling away from the wall. "You didn't have to–" "Like hell, I didn't." He sounds cross, but it's not just anger Elo hears there – there is a rough edge of affection too, and she is surprised by it. "I lost one of my little girls this week; I told you before, I don't intend to lose another, especially not through faulty machinery. If that means I have to fix your fool-ass back up with a ride, then so be it." He huffs. "That Atillia of yours is a rare beast. You need to take better care of her." Beneath his words, she hears the hidden meaning. But the implication he considers her family is unexpected. Perhaps it is by association with her aunts, or just that they have grown closer through tragedy. "General– Sir, thank you. I am deeply indebted–" "No. You aren't. My wife had a saying: 'Family is who you make of it'." He pauses. "Actually, she had a few sayings on that account, but another favourite was 'family looks after family'. You may not be my kin, but you're sure as hell my kith, so I shall pay for the bodywork of your dragon to be fixed, under the promise you don't wreck her again." He swings away from the wall, eyebrows raised. "I promise, I'll take better care. Thank you, Johan." She gets a curt nod in response and then he leaves.

Strucker is replaced with King Storri, who tilts his head, and says in a gentle tone, "How are you, sá litli?" "Better than I was, Your Majesty," she says. "I am glad to hear that. I was concerned I'd done something, but Agent Forhoksson said it was the effect of battle trauma." He leaves the comment hanging; if she wants to expand, she can. Elo thinks she owes him that. "Yes, Your Majesty. A type of… paranoia, that requires me to ensure my position is secure. It's worse when I'm with civilians. I left to climb a tree – the better to survey the landscape. I'm told I managed to stay up there for a whole day. I apologise for any inconvenience or worry caused." She doesn't intend it, but it comes out a touch acerbic. "I did not mean to pry," King Storri says, gentle but not condescending. "For all I may not have seen such things as you, I understand. My father was prone to bouts as well, though his were more… violent than yours." Elo makes a noise of sympathy, hearing what has gone unspoken. Her fingers seek out his as he leans against the wall next to her, giving a quick squeeze. The King lets out a surprised murmur of his own, squeezing back before allowing their hands to drop back. He takes a breath, continuing, "Yes, I was concerned for you – as I said, I feared I'd offended you or that you had taken ill… But you are now here before me, as whole and hale as I could wish, so any inconvenience or worry you may have caused me is rendered moot, I feel." King Storri pulls away from the wall, and with a warm smile, clasps her shoulder. "I am very glad you are well," he says and returns inside.

Farren's visit is short and sweet. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips as he looks her up and down, and he reeks of cheap tobacco. "Farren, I owe you–" He holds up a hand and removes the cigarette long enough to say, "Damn right you owe me. I need a new pouch of baccy after all this." "Brek–" "No. We'll talk about this later." "Why not just have it out now?" She was going to ask his forgiveness, but his attitude has struck a nerve. "Because you're exhausted." "I'm–" "It's written all over your face. And," he takes a puff, "I don't wanna say something I'll regret." Elo's mouth works. In the end, she can only say, "Alright."

Finally, Elo's Mother comes out, Dimple tagging along. Elo graces the girl with a faint smile before Oakrose is hugging her eldest daughter. Elo feels the older woman's shoulders shaking silently, knows she is trying not to cry – with relief or further concern, Elo doesn't know. But she holds her Mother regardless and strokes her back, offering assurances: Elo is just fine now, and she's very sorry for making people worry but it's all okay. A night bird calls, as they stand there. From inside the hut comes the thud of something being dropped. With one last quick squeeze, Oakrose releases Elo, offering a watery smile, and returns inside.

Dimple lingers, and Elo crouches to be level with the little girl. "Why did you come back with Mom?" Elo asks. Dimple turns her wide brown eyes and serious expression on Elo. "Because one of us had to look after her for you, while you weren't okay." "You drew the short straw, huh?" "No. I volunteered." Elo is taken aback. "Why?" "Oakrose talks about you a lot," Dimple says in her quiet, serious voice, her gaze locked unerringly with Elo. "She keeps a folder filled with newspaper cuttings about you." "I didn't know…" "Oakrose says that you risk yourself all the time so we can be happy and safe. "I know the other children aren't like me. Their Mamas didn't try to hurt them. Their Mamas couldn't look after them or just didn't want them. Which is sad, and I'm sorry that happened to them. But for this, Oakrose didn't need them. So I volunteered and the other children were happy to let me, because they know she needs someone like us, not like them." "I–" Dimple blinks at her, and Elo finds she has no idea what to say to this child whose life has been filled with strife and pain and yet stands, quietly strong, above it. What would she want someone to say to her, if their roles were reversed? So Elo says, "Thank you. You did a good job. I'm proud of you." Dimple blinks rapidly, rocking her weight onto her back foot. "You– You are proud of me?" Dimple's eyes widen. "Yes," Elo confirms, and then she feels a wildness take her. "Dimple, I need to let you in on a secret. Do you think you can help me some more?" The girl's eyes narrow shrewdly. "Depends." Elo takes a breath. "I'm working a case right now, one that's very personal to me. And because it's personal, I think things are going to get worse for me, before they get better. And it's going to cause a lot of upset, and Mom's going to worry. So if you can, I need you to help her, okay? I need you to be there for her, because I won't be able to. Do you think you can do that?" Dimple's gaze fixes on the darkness behind Elo. She blinks carefully, as the sounds of industry filter from the hut. "If it's too much, just say no," Elo says, fidgeting with her hands. Something rustles a bush. "I can do this for you," Dimple says, switching her gaze back to Elo. Then, with the tiniest of tremors in her voice, asks, "Are you coming back?" Elo swallows. "I don't know," she says – there is no point in lying to the child, after all. She hasn't let herself think about that possibility yet, but it's almost inevitable that she will not. This creature she is to fight is older, stronger, and more knowledgeable than she. It is not a conventional person she can deal with by simply using a gun or a knife. She's really hoping the Eshen oldster has some trick up their sleeve. But Dimple is still staring at her, so Elo says, "Expect the worst, but hope for the best." Dimple nods once, her long hair swinging in a curtain around her face. "Are you going now?" "No, not yet. I have things to take care of first." Because she needs information. She needs to know what Monday and Yates found at the docks, she needs to know how to fight the shadowling. She needs to get her will in order – because from what the Eshen said, this fight can only end with someone's death. Dimple gives her a slow, serious nod, and Elo feels herself relax. Talking to the girl has calmed her, and makes her think she can deal with the crowd within. Elo stands and reflexively holds out a hand. "Shall we go back inside?" Dimple looks at Elo's hand, then her, and back to her hand. "You're supposed to take it, dashur." "I knew that," Dimple mutters, petulantly. Cautiously the girl slips her small warm hand into Elo's larger cool one, and Elo curls her fingers carefully around it. Elo leads them around the corner of the hut, straight into a flame-haired shield maiden.

Elo's eyes fly wide with alarm, and she drops Dimple's hand. "Merri!" Her old friend is standing there, arms crossed and silently scowling. "How much did you hear?" "I heard enough," Meredith says, her tone bitter. "And?" Elo asks, her heartbeat speeding up. "And I know it's pointless to argue with you. You'll do what you will," Merri tells her, grim in both expression and tone, some combination of disappointment and dissatisfaction comes from her in waves. "I won't tell on you, and I won't try and stop you. Whatever you're into, I'd only like to help if I can, but," Merri purses her lips and pulls in a breath, "I suspect you won't even allow that, will you?" Merri's eyebrow twitches, her lips never moving from their grim line. Elo feels the movement shoot through her heart with the same damning velocity as a bullet. She swallows, reflecting that they know each other far too well. "Don't think this sits well with me, mind," Merri says. Elo barks out a laugh, startling them all. "I should hope not. I would think the world broken beyond repair if there was even a chance you would be happy with my poor life choices." Elo gives a wry smile. "Thank you for the offer, but this is a Toreguard affair – you can't be involved." Elo offers a hand. "Your silence is enough." No further words pass between them, but they don't need it. Merri eyes the proffered hand with annoyed resignation before clasping Elo's forearm as her sister-in-arms. Then Merri pulls Elo in closer, putting a hand on her shoulder to emphasise the message being sent with that tight-lipped glare, the thunderous frown and the eyes sparkling with something between anger, worry and resentment. Elo nearly laughs again. Because yes, her shield-maiden is worried about her, but that's not what the face is for. Merri is pissed off that Elo is going to go and have a bloody good fight without her; as if Elo's going to the coolest, most hyped party in town without her best friend, because Merri is not permitted to go. Elo raises her chin, offers her friend a tight smile to go with her serious eyes, and knows that Merri will see that while Elo is not sorry to be running off to this fight, she intends to come back. Elo knows Meredith will never be the swooning maiden to her shining knight. But it's still important for Merri to know that Elo will be better than the ravening darkness, and she will win, and she will come back to be with her friend again. By the slow blink, and sigh Merri releases, Elo knows the message has been received. Merri's expression softens, giving Elo an allowing smile and inclines her head.

Merri leads the way back into the hall, Dimple's hand slipping into Elo's as they follow. In between tool racks and gardening supplies, the inside of the hut is littered with signs of military occupation – sleeping bags fill the long-empty bedroom, the kitchen is home to a hot water urn and empty pizza boxes, the bench in the workshop is covered with maps, radios, and a miscellany of other equipment. Under the too-bright striplights, a mob of people in fatigues talk and gesture, all falling silent as they catch sight of their quarry waltzing in without a by-your-leave. "Pack it up, boys," Merri says. "Case solved, time to go." There is immediate babble. Some of it is aimed at Elo, some at Merri and Strucker. Orders are barked, activity flurries. Some of the Toreguard Rangers and Storri's Ubiquitous Black Suits approach to shake her hand, clap her on the shoulder, and share a few words. The volume is intense, Elo doesn't hear them, doesn't hear herself, lets her mouth take the lead. She's probably repeating herself, but no one seems bothered.

As suspected, Elo is not allowed out of eyesight. Farren and Oakrose stick to her like glue all through the general hubbub and walk to the cars, then she is being hugged again by her tearful Mother before Oakrose and Dimple are escorted home by one of Stucker's Rangers. Storri, after some brief words, is whisked away by an aggrieved Merri, and Farren allows Stucker to pull rank on him; Elo is to stay with the General overnight.

––––

After a diversion to Elo's place to pick up some necessities, they arrive at the Strucker household.

Elo is struck – as she usually is – by just how damn big it is. Unnecessarily so, perhaps. But once upon a time, it held three people and the promise of a fair few more, and all those required to attend those people. Once upon a time, it might have been a good size for the lives that should have lived here. But that was once upon a time. Now, as they come into the magazine-perfect foyer, it just feels cavernous and empty. Cold light from an over-counter spot spills from the kitchen. Strucker throws his keys into a bowl on the telephone table and runs a hand over his face, as though weary beyond belief. Elo stands awkwardly by the door. He called her kith, sure, but it's been a long time since she slept here; a guest, and yet not a guest. "The housekeeper's left a plate in the ice box we can reheat," Strucker says, holding a note in his hand. "If you're hungry, that is. Or you can retire, if you like. I don't have a bed made up, but it'll be short work–" "I'm fine with just a hot drink and sleep," Elo says, feeling as weary as he looks. "Don't worry about making a bed up, I'm fine with just a blanket." "You may be, but I am not. Allow me to fuss, just a little?" Strucker asks, his expression going from a frown to something faintly pleading. "Alright. I shall make the cocoa while you make the bed, deal?" "Deal," Johan smiles at her, a soft thing that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

So off they go, in that huge, too-quiet house – him upstairs and her to the kitchen. And she makes their cocoa sweet and milky, because it seems like the thing to do after such a day. Days. Whatever. Then she takes the drinks through to the den, because it was always cosier than the sitting room, and fishes out a record from his collection by a band she has been told is good, and puts it on, letting the coffee-sweet sounds of trumpet and piano and the soft voice of the singer fill the air. As Strucker comes in, she sees his face pinch a little. "That's a good song," he says, but his voice is pained. "I can turn it off, if you prefer," Elo says, and then cringes because she has just recalled who it was that told her this band was good. "I'll turn it off," she amends, moving to do just that. "No. Let it play. Just for a bit," he says and sits down, reaching for his cocoa. She joins him and they sit in silence. It is comfortable and companionable – and if it is a bit mournful, and a few tears leak out here and there, and the tissue box has to be fetched… Well, there's only them there and no one else has to know.

[thebranchesofshe]

Dr. Breyer

"Human beings, in their extremities, are gross. That's just the nature of it. I don't expect anything from you except to be sick, and to want to be well. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about you. Yours is the most advanced case of Phatch's Fever that I've ever seen."

Three words: righteous, intense, jovial.

Name: Martin Wesley Breyer

Date of birth: August 29, 1916

Age as of Chapter I: 54

Height: 6'2"

Gender: red-blooded American male.

Orientation: straight but he understands that he's a bit of a freak magnet.

Occupation: doctor but calls himself a sawbones and is only half joking.

Family: late wife Hannah, son Bartholomew, daughter Thomasin. Don't ask him about his father.

Veteran?: yes, specifically a medic in World War II. He was in his late 20's and had just started a family. It was rough.

Religion: practicing catholic, but normal about it. His take on spirituality has a lot of nuance.

Politics: a dove with the intensity and fervor of a hawk.

What does that mean?: sometimes if you want peace, you have to fight for it. He takes a firm position and the fact is, he doesn't like it when people hurt people for no good goddamn reason.

Favorite book: Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan. He is an introspective, meandering sort of man in his spare time.

Favorite film: it's a toss up between Dr. Strangelove and The Sound of Music.

Favorite treat: man's greatest luxury is a good cup of coffee.

Background: grew up in Decaelo, next door to the Farnsworths, an introverted only child with a domineering and jealous father. He and Liz were sort of sweethearts, but he fell for Hannah when he went to medical school, and Liz moved on, and their friendship matured when Breyer returned to Decaelo. Hannah was Jewish and an artistic type, and she really brought him out of his shell. They had two children, Bartholomew and Thomasin. When Liz's husband left, Breyer and Hannah frequently helped her raise her children. Hannah died nine years ago from a brain tumor, leaving Breyer a widower at the relatively young age of 45, with a son who would be drafted and a teenage daughter. He and Liz endured personal tragedies around the same time, and it brought them closer together.

Would he ever date again?: He and Liz are close, they've both considered it. But a few months ago, there was a schism.

A schism? What happened?: he started talking to Homer Smoot about what happened all those years ago. In particular, his memories of her father, Clarence Farnsworth. Breyer was blunt, as usual, but sympathetic to the man who was a gentle father figure to him. Liz, however, sees it as a careless betrayal. In her defense, her father's been badly misrepresented in the past. Breyer doesn't understand what her problem is, but respects her boundaries.

Any chance of a resolution?: maybe.

So he's a doctor. How's his bedside manner?: Lyndon B. Johnson's method of persuasion has been described by journalist Mary McGrory as “an incredible, potent mixture of persuasion, badgering, flattery, threats, reminders of past favors and future advantages." Breyer is as friendly as a St. Bernard and just as frightening, mostly due to the sheer fact that he could very easily make your life a living hell. Take your fucking vitamins.

His friends?: Myra, Warren, Homer Smoot, Liz (he hopes), Julius (eventually), probably his kids most of all.

His enemies?: Breyer doesn't have enemies because most people are smart enough not to alienate the only doctor in town. That being said, he has beef with Vernon Huxley, the mortician, and Cynthia Kline, the mayor's wife and local busybody.

Anything else?: he has two cats. Their names are Burger and Noodle. He talks with Homer Smoot frequently and considers him both a friend and a confessor. At present, he is Smoot's best primary source for information on the 1929 Disaster.

What does he look like?: tall stocky white guy with a graying crew cut, a prominent nose, and friendly but discerning eyes. Wears glasses. He's a bleeding heart free spirit but looks like a total square.

In my head he's a bit 'Bob Gunton in The Shawshank Redemption' and while he's scary as hell, he's ultimately a good guy. Just don't piss him off.

I don't usually make a habit of 'fancasting' my characters, but that's the vibe.

(Breyer is actually my favorite character to write. You put him in a situation and goddamn, shit is gonna happen. He's objectively the best character in Decaelo. I enjoy him the most.)

One more thing: among his hobbies is actually... swing dancing. He used to dance competitively back in college and occasionally afterward.

[limetameta]

You know me lads I love a good au:

This time on the table we got ourselves a serving of What if Kimblee got discharged from the military after Ishval instead of going to prison. So you have this really mentally unstable individual who is clearly going through a lot (though most notably for him is the ph stone being taken from him) told he is unfit to serve in the military anymore. And that he will be discharged on grounds of shell shock. Kimblee understands this is their way of getting rid of him, a nightmare to deal with.

He goes home. Well to the hospital first and then to some hearings and then the whole court martial situation and then he doesn't even get to go home but they shove him into a mental institution until he calms down. Because Kimblee? A bit angry. Let's not get into how or why he didn't blow people up let's just focus on the au because this isn't even the good part.

Man finally goes home after this ordeal. Has to reconnect with his family. Mama Kimblee my beloved is so happy to have her boy back from Ishval. If anything she's quite happy that her Solf’s not in the military anymore. If only he'd stop with the alchemy business too and focus on being a doctor or a banker or even a textile worker. Something real and safe and financially tangible.

Kimblee is not a military officer. He gets those veteran discounts and a veteran's pension and that's about it. So he focuses on research.

-When are you going to find someone to settle down with? Martina's boy is already married and he's younger than you!-

So he focuses on research.

-Not to mention that I'm worried about your health. You aren't eating enough. And I don't think I've seen you sleep once through the entire night since you've been back!-

He focuses on research.

-I mean, really, Solf, maybe you should talk to someone about this. Aren't you in contact with any of your war buddies? You never have anyone over. You can't be that disliked. I taught you how to be charming.-

Somehow he manages to focus enough on his research for long enough for his name to become synonymous with alchemy. Has written a plethora of articles and even helped write some books on alchemy. His theories are definitely something else and this gives him a certain level of infamy that the war didn't. Feel like the man gets a PhD. Just so he can write Prof.dr Kimblee. It's definitely filled some void in his chest. His mother's certainly proud her son's a doctor of SOME kind. Still not like Martina's boy who's an actual surgeon, but oh well.

At least he gets out of the house.

Kimblee remains in contact with two people from the military. Very one sided. Kimblee didn't even know these people liked him well enough to write him. But the whole hospital then discharge then PhD thing must be interesting enough to warrant them to write.

There's a whole little box dedicated to the photos Maes Hughes sends him. Kimblee is a bit frightened to think about what kind of box someone like Roy Mustang must need in order to encompass all of the memorabilia Maes Hughes sends him.

Maes is kind of like a normal friend Kimblee can tell his mother about. Because other than the neighbourhood gossip and the music scene in their hometown, he is painfully aware he is running out of topics to talk about w her.

The other person is. Well. Not a person, more of an angel of death if Kimblee can say so. Riza Hawkeye sends one or two letters per year. But she sends them. Kimblee thinks that's nice of her. He sends her cards on the major holidays. Has invited her out to come and go hunting with him in these parts. Has always had the offer declined. Does not mind.

Kimblee is a painfully smart man and he has a lot of stipulations put into place how he needs to use his alchemy and in which circumstances he is allowed to use his very destructive alchemy. It's...exhausting. though it is better than having a tattoo artist completely tattoo over his palms and effectively render him incapable of ever using it.

In comes Edward Elric. He has gone through so many books to no avail. He is at his wit's fucking end about finding any information about how he and his brother can find their bodies back. He has no idea who else he can harass.

Roy Mustang is just about to suggest Shou Tucker, the Life Thread Alchemist - when Riza just says, offhandedly: "I mean, there's always Kimblee."

Roy? Instantly grimaces. Horrified. What even is life?

This reaction? Just enough for Edward to go head first into his manhunt on the Kimblee guy. "I read some of his stuff and he seems really intense. How do you know him? I thought he wasn't a State Alchemist?"

"He was." Roy just leaves it at that. Smart man, this Roy. Not one to waste words.

Anyhow they track Kimblee down. Which isn't difficult. He's in the phone book. Riza has his address.

But it gets a bit funny when he reaches the destination. Edward just keeps pointing at people and going: ''Oi, are you Solf J. Kimblee?'' ''Oi are YOU doctor Solf J. Kimblee?'' ''OI, WHAT ABOUT YOU, ARE YOU SOLF J. KIMBLEE, DR PHD ALCHEMY GUY?'' (billy nye the science guy theme plays)

''He's gone fishing,'' one person says. Finally they point him in the direction of this guy who's on a little row boat out into a lake. He has a hat on and he's chilling. Edward, naturally, keeps shouting at him for attention from the lake shore. He's screaming atop his lungs. ''OI??? OI!!!! YOU DR KIMBLEE OR NOT??? OIIIIII, WE GOT SOME QUESTIONS, WE'RE ALCHEMISTS!''

Alphonse is like: ''Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's just some guy fishing.''

''How can he fish?'' Edward's pointing at the boat and the man in the boat. ''He doesn't have a fishing rod.''

Alphonse hums. It is pretty suspicious.

Edward won't stand for it, thanks. He and Alphonse are getting in another boat because they don't have any time to spare. The faster they get information the faster they can get out of here and maybe finally find a lead towards their goal. Besides, the ph stone continues to be an enigma nobody knows anything about! This guy could very well be a dud, but they'd at least like to figure it out quickly.

So, their boats are neck and neck. Alphonse introduces them as the Elric brothers.

''You're that twelve year old that became a State Alchemist?'' The man says. He doesn't seem surprised, only mildly curious.

''I'm fifteen now, thanks!'' Then. ''Are you that Doctor Kimblee guy or not?''

''If you're asking if I'm Martina Kimblee's son, Adam Kimblee the successful surgeon, I will have to disappoint you.''

Edward is fuming by the end of Kimblee's roundabout answers that he tells him he's come here for one purpose and one purpose only and that's to hear what Kimblee knows about alchemy and ph stones and that he won't be leaving until he gets what he wants.

''Sure,'' Kimblee says, ''I can tell you about my research. On the condition you kill more fish than I do.''

The boat Alphonse and Edward took to get to Kimblee has two fishing rods in it. And some bait. Though, Kimblee's doesn't.

Edward and Alphonse have accepted this bet

Kimblee's humming a classical piece. Maybe the Carmina Burana. He's grinning. He's having a fun time just chilling in his boat looking at these two very determined teenagers trying to out-fish him.

Edward is telling him that he's gonna lose so fucking hard. He hasn't caught one fish yet.

Kimblee points to all of their wriggling fishes. ''And those are still alive.''

Edward huffs and says they'll die eventually. There's no way Kimblee can beat them. They've caught like 5 fish so far. And Kimblee? A big ol zero! Nye-he!

Five fish turns into ten. They're celebrating on their boat already. The poor souls. Kimblee doesn't prepare them for what's coming. He leans over his boat and claps, sparks sizzling from his alchemical activation, and he very gently submerges his palms into the lake water. There's a big boom. Suddenly definitely-more-than-ten fish swim up to the surface, dead and dazed.

Kimblee smiles at them and waves with his moon array palm. ''I win.''

''You didn't CATCH any of them, though!''

Kimblee scoffs. ''I said kill, not catch.''

''He did say that, brother...''

''Motherfucker.'' Edward throws a fish at Kimblee.

''So rude!'' Kimblee says, barely dodging the fish.

[this-is-krikkit]

Top 5 queer characters

ooooh good one, thank you !!

5. Frankie Bergstein. The most gentle soul out there, hilarious whether she wants to be or not, an incredibly loving and warm character who ends up falling in love with a woman who's shown her nothing but disdain most of their lives before they end up in the same shitty situation. What i especially love about her is that in my headcanon where that show didn't queerbait us to death, she's the bold and crazy one who doesn't care about other people's opinion, she's the one you'd expect to be brave and loud and clear about how she's in love with her best friend and it's not just platonic. But i actually love the idea that she might be the one struggling most with that realization and how to act on it, because she used to be so open and loving of everything and everyone (and still seems that way) for the seven decades before the show starts ; and she got her heart broken so badly from the twenty year old affair, that although she did get attached to Grace quickly enough and jokes about being more than friends all the time, she's deadly afraid of those feelings and what may come of them. I absolutely love this strong and funny and silly woman on the outside, who hides a much more vulnerable and frightened woman on the inside, who deserves all the lifetime of love and affection Grace has never allowed herself to feel or show anyone.. until now, post-canon !!

4. Crawley, my actual demon child, who is way too good for this world, and the other two he's visited. (And i've been torturing myself for a solid half hour trying to pick between him and his equally amazing boyfriend Aziraphale, and ended up flipping a coin for it. I'm sorry Aziraphale. I love you so much.) Anyways, back to Crawley and his ridiculous crush on an angel that makes him do crazy things such as going to actual heaven to save said angel's ass, and who embodies Iris by the Goo goo Dolls so perfectly it's a lil suspicious and he probably had smth to do with that song coming to life while he was under cover on Earth. I love a tv show that brings a book to my attention, i loved both of those media and i cannot wait for season 2.

(do i need to explain that gif choice ? no i don't. bye.)

3. Charity Dingle, chaotic bisexual icon if i ever saw one !! haven't had a chance to catch up with the soap since the Vanity shit hit the fan, but i'll get back to her one day because i miss the truly Slytherin Queen that she is (sorry for the HP mention but it belongs to us now, fuck JKR and terfs in general). Pretty sure she's the most flawed character in this list, but i apparently LOVE a queer anti hero ? She's a lot of things and not all of them good ; she's a cheat, a liar, a bad mom most of the time, selfish and venale and has trust issues towards everyone and herself the size of a mountain. She's also a survivor of terrible abuse, a fighter, a love-starved but deeply insecure person who won't let that be seen easily. She's the only such representation i've ever seen of a wlw woman esp in a popular soap, and her simply existing gives me so much hope that society might just be evolving in the right direction ? Idk man, on the good days where i still have faith for lgbt future, she sorta gives me hope for our queer lives to become part of the norm and not just sensational and weird.

2. Regina Mills from OUAT. What a great show with a great lesbian power couple and awesome message about queer families, or so i'm yelling somewhere in that parallel universe where the two cowards who wrote it grew courage instead of magic beans and made Swan Queen canon. I grew to love this character, it wasn't love at first sight (although def lust at first sight, shout out to them Evil Queen gowns) and now i'm trying to write self indulgent fics from her pov and day dreaming about all the things she deserved that she never got. Best redemption arc (apart from my #1 down there maybe) i've ever seen, a full badass bitch energy. Sidenote, Lana Parrilla being the biggest and loudest Swan Queen supporter in the cast felt suspicious to me in the beginning (idk, i don't get me either), but i'm finally at a point where i can fully appreciate how awesome that was of her.

(Yes that gif was queerbait. Yes i still get excited seeing it.)

1. Obv my number 1 queer bitch forever is ROOT from Person of Interest, it's been 6 years and i'm still in denial of the byg trope they pushed down my throat a meer day after she finally got her tiny sociopathic soulmate back. She was a lot of things that i can't detail or i would die from dehydration bc the tears would consume my entire stock of water, but she also happened to appear in a TV show i actually loved. I mean i did start watching strictly for the gayness i vaguely knew was ahead, let's be real, but POI is a show i really came to love so much even when she wasn't a main character. It touched me deeply, and i still rewatch it and get blown away by the genius of so many of its episodes, from the mind blowing plot twists to the soundtrack. I had so many kids on that show and loved them all so much, just thinking about it hurts... We were robbed of a Shoot reboot, and i'll leave it at that.

(look at her being so passionate and right and fierce and hot. loooooook. i would have followed her into battle from day one of her psych ward escape 😢 )

[smol-chaotic-creations]

I got this idea based on art by @wingless-cupid and it really helped me get back into the writing groove! Characters belong to Yuurivoice!

Mansion's Secret

Black clouds blanketed the sky and the wind blew as if a storm was imminent. This didn't fare well for the young cryptid hunter that rode down the one-lane road, who was following an anonymous tip he had gotten about a mansion far back in the woods. Rumors had spread that the mansion was haunted by a rather mischievous entity, but no one had been able to see it for themselves. Now, Seth was determined to be the first to see said entity and the first to document it. As he pulled up to the building, the brunette couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated by its aura. It gave off a sense of ancient power, and that only made the mansion seem larger than it was.

Seth parked his bike without breaking eye contact, and slowly approached the door. Once his hand landed on the doorknob, his body felt cold and in a sense... dead, in some way. "No," the male thought, "I've gone hunting in way scarier places than this! An abandoned mansion is nothing!" With that, he threw open the door to reveal the beautiful, open foyer with an old chandelier hanging from the ceiling. As he walked in, the house creaked in defiance, as if it was upset by the younger presence. What the male couldn't see, was a tall and slender figure watching him from one of the higher platforms.

The vampire smiled wide as he watched the human, making sure to take in every part of his figure. Alphonse had not seen another mortal for quite some time, heck, he hadn't seen anyone in a long time. Being a vampire trapped inside of a dusty old mansion by himself, really wasn't as glamorous as it sounded before he died. He tended to spend his days sleeping and thinking, which was not a good thing either. The boy longed for someone, anyone, to find his mansion and keep him company, even if that meant them visiting.

"Maybe this is my chance," he thought in excitement, "This human must not be frightened if he walked in here so boldly!" With that, he began to float and followed the cryptid hunter as a way to figure out how to reveal himself.

Seth wandered the old house, carefully looking around every corner and examining anything he could get his hands on. Most of the items in the house were dusty and untouched, but that was until he found what looked to be some kind of journal. As the brunette picked up the book, Alphonse felt himself stiffen and reach out to lightly smack it out of Seth's hand. "What in the sam hill," the other shouted, pulling his hand back and bumping into the vampire behind him.

As the boy froze, Alphonse felt his brain scramble to find some way to respond to the sudden reaction. He watched as Seth slowly moved to hold his flashlight up and turn to look behind him. So, he wrapped his arm around the other male and smiled wide as he gave a greeting, "Sorry about that friend. That's a bit of personal work." The brunette was frozen in place and stared at the vampire with a mixture of fear and excitement. His frozen state soon passed, allowing him to spin away so he could face the vampire before him, making sure to keep his flashlight on the being.

"What do you want," he demanded, gaining some confidence to glare at Alphonse. The vampire was confused but excited by Seth's excitement nonetheless.

So, he answered in a chipper manner, "Oh I don't want anything. I just heard you come in and decided to follow you." The muscular man raised a brow, confused by the sincerity in the undead being's tone. "You know," the other continued, "You're the first person that's ever come here so confidently! Everyone else was always so scared, and honestly, it was really getting annoying." Now, that took Seth by surprise, causing him to loosen up his stance.

"Wait," he questioned, "You're not going to uh... try and kill me?"

Now it was Alphonse's turn to be confused, "What?! Is that what the townspeople are saying?! I have enough blood in storage to last me years! I would have no reason to kill anyone!" The 'blood in storage' comment concerned the brunette, but he felt no need to dwell on it, considering it might just anger the being in front of him.

"If I play my cards right," he thought, "I might just be able to befriend this thing."

Meanwhile, Alphonse could only think, "If I'm careful, I might be able to actually make a friend!"

[professorspork]

If you're accepting non-superhell prompts, I'd love to see a conversation between Nora and Emerald! I've been REALLY loving these microfics, I've subscribed to you on Ao3, I'll read whatever else you write

[Gahhh that’s so nice you’re so nice!! thanks for being patient on this one, finding my Nora took some doing]

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before.

You say that like you’ve ever had any friends before, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mercury needles her, but she brushes it aside. Like—okay, yeah, she’ll concede the point when it comes to Cinder. In hindsight, whatever they’d had going on between them may have been... super intense... but it probably had never been friendship, in the usual definition. But she and Mercury were friends, no matter what the judgy little shitstain version of him who lives in her head has to say about it. They’d always gotten along. Told each other stuff. It’s not like there’s more to it than that, right?

It had always been like that. Been—instinctive somehow, with guys. Before Cinder, on the street, it was always the men who’d been easiest to manipulate; who would empty their pockets for a smile and a sob story. And then she and Merc had been two sides of the same coin for so long, and then... well, Hazel’d liked her enough to die for her, apparently. (Which—that’s a door that she keeps closed, thanks. She shuts it firmly again, now.) Oscar seems fond of her, in a sweet, uncomplicated sort of way that she really doesn’t know what to do with, seeing as he shares headspace with like a trillion year old man and the idea that anything to do with that kid could be “uncomplicated” is batshit. Ren vouched for her once, and then again, and now he keeps doing it, like it’s habit, like she should just be used to the fact that people are going to have her back, to ask her if she’s eaten, to turn to her with a raised eyebrow in conversation like her opinion would be constructive.

Anyway.

Now that she’s noticed the pattern, it seems like the kind of thing she should probably… work on, or whatever. And Nora seems like an obvious place for Emerald to start. They’ve been thrown in together a lot, lately, Emerald and Oscar expected to fill in the gaps of what’s left of the old JNPR by default. Not that they’ve ever really had a conversation about it—Emerald can’t think of the last time Nora said two words to her that weren’t combat warnings like “more Grimm coming” or “on your left,” but. That’s probably just because things have been tense. She remembers Nora being friendly, on the whole of it. Off-puttingly friendly, even, back at Beacon.

How hard could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is absurdly hard. Nora’s barely ever in the temporary barracks they’re all living out of, instead always checking on the refugees, going on supply runs over esoteric requests, volunteering for extra patrols. Emerald used to find that kind of dogged do-goodery gag-inducing, but now that she’s been the helping hand herself a few times, she’s starting to see the appeal. The way people look at you when you’ve been of service, it’s—nice. Really nice. But Nora works utterly thankless jobs, the kind most people don’t even notice, let alone appreciate. And when they have their insufferably long leadership meetings and they’re talking about distribution of resources or whatever, Nora’s a fierce debater—jumping in to advocate for the people from Mantle sometimes even before May can. As far as Emerald can tell, she does this stuff just because... she believes in it. Because it’s the right thing to do, and someone has to.

She can’t imagine what it would feel like, to have the attention of someone like that turned on her. She’s craved it from the wrong people for so long, but now that she has her pick of options... she’s letting herself actually want the right kind, for once. She thinks.

Which is all to say that largely through no fault of her own, Emerald unexpectedly finds herself sitting with a profound, fervent desire for Nora Valkyrie to think she’s cool.

She hates that.

-

Fighting with Nora is easy.

(—er. Alongside. Fighting alongside Nora is easy. Emerald’s done fighting with these people. Very done.)

It’s weird, because Emerald’s finding working with a full team to be a real adjustment. When battles get big enough to merit it, she’s used to keeping to the sidelines to use her Semblance for nefarious purposes, or, in a jam, used to having Mercury’s six—literally, because all the forward momentum from his feet-first style always left his back wide open. Figuring out where to put herself so that Oscar can use her shoulder as a fulcrum as he dodges, or trying to aim for the Grimm Ren isn’t already shooting (ugh)—it’s taking work.

But somehow, it’s not work for Nora. Nora seems to anticipate with perfect ease how Emerald will move or what she’ll be doing; Nora bobs and weaves around their ragtag little band with her war hammer like it’s breathing.

It doesn’t bother Emerald until it does, and she means to bring it up casually but there’s never a good time. So it just… stews, and stews, until she can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Which means that instead of the earnest question she intends it to be, it comes out like this:

“Okay, seriously? It’s creepy how you do that.”

It’s just the two of them, plus the handful of dweeby Atlesian tech-types they’re escorting back from their foray installing some fancy hydro-filtration modules on the outskirts of the camp. And it’s not like Emerald had felt outmatched by the half-dozen Ravagers that had decided they looked like lunch—she can shoot Ravagers in her sleep, at this point—but still. The way Nora had moved around her, it was like they’d been fighting side by side for years.

Nora just cocks her head to the side. “Do what?” she asks, like she hadn’t just basically read Emerald’s mind in front of the water nerds.

Emerald does a complicated gesture with her hands, wrist over wrist, and then flicking two fingers—trying to evoke the way Nora had flipped over Emerald’s back and then kicked off, just trusting Emerald would reel her back in with a chain in midair before a Grimm could fly away with her sorry ass. “That.”

“Oh!” Nora laughs and rubs at the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing. I guess it’s just not a big deal for me? Like—I was there when Ren built StormFlower. The cables are newish, but we practiced so much back in Atlas… I dunno. It’s just reflex, when your weapons are so similar. Fighting with you, it’s almost like fighting with him. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Nora swallows, then, and makes a face Emerald can’t interpret—disappointed, maybe, or ashamed. Which: good. She probably should be, taking things for granted like that.

“Well—just—” Emerald’s not even sure what she wants to say. Ask, next time? Don’t? “You shouldn’t make assumptions. I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

The venom she puts behind the word is directed more at herself than Nora—frustrated, again, that she’s put herself in the position of wanting so desperately to be liked.

Pathetic.

Nora just nods, looking glum.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, cheeks pulling in a bitter smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep that one straight, huh?”

She says it with such pointed irony that for a second Emerald wonders if she’d gotten it wrong somehow, but like—Nora and Ren are a thing, right? That’s—everyone knows that.

“Hey, what—?”

“Let’s just go,” Nora says, and Emerald automatically falls into line behind her.

They make the rest of the walk back in silence.

-

Sometimes at night, when she can’t sleep, Emerald likes to climb up to the roof of the barracks and look out over the refugee camp.

It’s—peaceful, is all. A good reminder of where she is; how far she’s come. The night sky in Vacuo has more stars than she’s ever seen, and being able to watch over all these people who have somehow become her responsibility… well.

A part of her will always be standing on the rooftop at Beacon, looking down on pure chaos as a queasy, frightened sensation twists in her gut and its noxious voice whispers you did this, you did this, you did this. What did you think was going to happen, you stupid little girl? You don’t get to feel sorry for it now.

But she does.

Weird how the only thing that’s helped is actually doing something about it.

She hears a scuffling noise over her shoulder, and she’s got Thief’s Respite drawn and ready before she can even really register what she’s heard. She relaxes when she sees it’s Nora at the other end of the barrels, unarmed and hands raised—a funny little smile on her face, like yeah, fair enough, I should have known better than to try and sneak up.

“Just me,” she says, unnecessarily.

Emerald holsters her guns. “Can I help you?” she asks, and—what is it about her voice, that makes sentences that would be nice if any other human said them come out straight-up hostile?

Nora shrugs, hands dropping to her sides. “I was hoping we could talk; I figured you’d come up here if I waited long enough.”

Well, see—what kind of lesson is she supposed to take from that? She’s been hoping for Nora to talk to her for weeks, and acting like a bitch is the thing that gets her what she wants? Good guys are supposed to know better.

And there’s the way she said it, too. Like everyone knows Emerald comes up here to brood; like it’s a big open secret. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in her stomach, makes her feel watched. Even now, even here, she can’t get a moment alone. Not really.

“What, so you’re spying on me now?”

Nora’s eyes narrow. “I have a pretty bad track record when it comes to losing people. Makes a girl want to put in a little hustle when it comes to keeping tabs on her friends.”

And Emerald would snark at that, or maybe apologize, or something, only—

Nora thinks they’re friends?

“Well, take a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, scooching to the side as though she needs to make room on the massive, empty roof.

Nora walks over and joins Emerald on the asphalt, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Seemingly unsure of where to start, she stares at her hands. Emerald stares too, but her eyes can’t help but wander—tracing the way scars, silvery in the moonlight, spiderweb up Nora’s bare wrists and forearms to fetter her shoulders, clavicle, neck. Like cracks in a pane of glass, right before it shatters.

(Only that’s not it at all, is it? It’s not a sign of weakness, but a warning of strength. I care this much, her scars announce to the word. You wanna try me?

Hazel’s arms always looked like that.)

Emerald doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, sure that whatever she’d say would be incredibly stupid.

Luckily, Nora has no such qualms, and opens with: “I really admire you, you know?”

Emerald stares, jaw slack, certain she’s heard wrong. “I—what?” She’d say something defensive, like yeah right or you don’t have to make fun of me, only Nora’s eyes are so wide and so guileless they don’t leave any room for argument.

“I mean it,” Nora adds. “I know we don’t know all that much about each other, but… here’s what I do know: I can’t remember a time I saw you without Mercury right behind. Just like me’n Ren. And the way you fought for Cinder…” Nora smiles a sad, private little smile. “You don’t fight like that unless it’s personal; unless someone means something to you. Just like me’n Ren. And now you’re here. All on your own. And you didn’t have to be. That’s—don’t you think that’s crazy brave? I sure do.”

Of course she fucking doesn’t. Crazy brave would have been walking away the first, tenth, hundredth time she had a flash of panic about what she was doing. Or, better yet, doing something about it. Crazy brave is taking thirty thousand volts to get to your friends; it’s flooding your veins with pure crystalline power and saying Go, I’m doing what Gretchen would have done, it’s—

She closes that door.

“It’s not like I really had a choice,” she sighs, dodging the question.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Nora scoffs dismissively, tilting sideways to nudge Emerald with her shoulder.

And Emerald jolts, because—look, it’s not like no one touches her. They have to manhandle each other all the time in battle, and… and Oscar gives her high fives sometimes, which makes her embarrassingly pleased. But what Nora’s offering now, that kind of buddy-buddy casual contact…

… it’s been a while, is all.

“So, why did you want to talk to me?” Emerald asks, overwhelmed and suddenly desperate to find a way to get this conversation over with. She feels like she’s sprinted five miles; like she’s had the crap kicked out of her and she has to go somewhere to lick her wounds. Too much, too fast.

Nora laughs—a chuffing, cynical noise that doesn’t sound at all like her. “Looking for pointers? See, I’m trying this thing where I do things on my own, but I just—I suck at it. Like today; you saw. Even when I’m not with Ren, all I do is… is act exactly the same way I do when I’m with Ren. Like I literally don’t know how to exist without him, whether he’s actually there or not. And I know that’s not fair to anyone; I didn’t mean to treat you like—” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “You’re not just some stand-in. It’s not you at all. I’m just—broken, or something. One trick pony.”

“No, hey—”

“But you figured it out,” she barrels on, which is good, because Emerald doesn’t actually have a clue what she would have said there. “You don’t have anyone and somehow you’re just, like—good to go!” Nora says it cheerily, like it’s a compliment, but has the grace to balk a little when she hears how it sounds. “…sorry. That’s—sorry.”

Emerald shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She feels like an idiot; building it up for weeks like spending time with Nora would solve all her problems when, surprise surprise, Nora’s just as fucked up as she is.

“Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have any hot tips,” she mutters into the crooks of her elbows. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Like—you want to know the really sad part? I was just following your lead.”

“My…?” Nora can’t even finish repeating it, which: Emerald can’t blame her. It’s so dumb. “Huh?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I don’t,” Nora says, voice thick with exhaustion. Like she’s sick of herself. “Ask anyone—I’m not the brains of the operation.”

Hearing Nora talk about herself that way makes Emerald’s chest feel tight; like her ribs have locked in place so her lungs can’t expand. She doesn’t know how to explain it; not without sounding like a starry-eyed fangirl or a moron with a crush and that’s not what this—it’s only that—

She chooses to start a different way.

“You wanna know why I switched sides? Like, really why?”

Nora softens, and reaches out to touch the back of Emerald’s left hand, where it dangles over her knee. “Sure,” she says, but Emerald barely hears it; it’s taking all of her concentration not to clench her fist or pull away in response.

“I overheard Oscar—or, Ozpin, I guess, I don’t know—talking to Hazel about Salem, about her goals. And… listen. No one joins under Salem because they’re trying to kill the world, okay? I mean, no one but Tyrian, anyway. We were all just trying to… find ways to get by. And when Cinder found me, she—” Emerald swallows, hard. This cuts too deep, too close. It’s not something she can just say. “I wasn’t trying to be some big villain, or something. I was just—looking out for the people who were looking out for me. And why wouldn’t I? No one else ever seemed to think I was worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Nora cuts in, quiet but vehement. “Everyone is.”

“See, the worst part is that you mean that when you say it,” Emerald grumbles, scrubbing at her face until smears of color kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. “I figured people like you didn’t exist, and then Cinder and Merc were glad to prove me right, and—I let them. You know? And maybe if I’d just held out a little longer…”

“You’re not the only one here who’s ashamed of her past. Harriet tried to blow up Mantle, like, a month ago.”

“That’s not—forget that. I’m talking about you. Nora.” It’s the first time she’s ever said her name like that—addressing her, in conversation. It feels… astonishingly intimate, for so small a thing. Emerald powers past it. “Every day, I see you do something ridiculous, like double back on a patrol because you forgot you promised some kid a candy bar, or something, and that—matters. To me. It’s so stupid, but it’s not, because… argh! I want—it’s—” She tries to get her mouth to form the words, that’s the kind of person I want to be, but they stop in her throat.

Still, Nora seems to get the message. Her eyes seem suspiciously shiny for a moment—but when she blinks, it’s gone. “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emerald grumbles. Saying it like she means it: seriously. Don’t mention it.

“I understand what you mean, though. For years, the only person who looked out for me was Ren. And if he’d said…” Nora trails off, then, cocking her head to the side as she works through something. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just. I remembered something. I was about to say that if Ren told me the only way for us to get by was a life of crime, or something, I would’ve taken his word for it, but—the opposite happened. We decided to enroll at Beacon. And that wasn’t his idea; it was mine. I always wanted to be a Huntress. To… to be the one strong enough to help people, instead of always needing the help. He wasn’t sure if we would make it, but I was. We were together, right? How could we lose?” She chuckles, a little, shaking her head at herself. “Get a load of that. He followed me.”

They smile at each other, then. Like they’ve figured out something profound. Maybe Nora has; Emerald hopes so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emerald,” Nora says, and—there it is again. The frisson of electricity that comes with being referred to by name.

Of course, then Emerald ruins it by blurting out:

“Of course you are, all your other friends are dead.”

Which—“Fuck!” she sputters, because she didn’t mean to say that. What is wrong with her? “Sorry! Sorry.”

Nora only grins at her, feral and incisive. “Yeah, well. Yours are evil, so. Pick your poison. At least I’m proud of mine.”

Touché.

“Still glad I’m here?” Emerald jeers, because her first instinct is still to press on the bruise to see how much it hurts.

Nora laughs, and gets to her feet. “Believe it or not, yes. If putting your foot in your mouth was all it took to get booted from Hero Club, I’d have been kicked out a long time ago.” She reaches down to offer Emerald a hand; Emerald takes it, letting Nora pull her to standing. “Now go and get some rest, huh? None of us can ever sleep when you’re up here thinking so loud.”

“That an order?”

“Advice. Friends give it, from time to time.”

And—yeah. Maybe they do. 

[leagueoflegendsimagines]

sfw and nsfw headcanons for jhin x sona please?

Hello my lovely! After a long wait, here is the fruit of your patience. As a side note, I'd like to say that I'm not very keen on writing championxchampion ships - but I still do it because it's good to leave my comfort zone.

It's double the effort, you know. I try to... maintain the characters in their personality or twist them in a way that would at least make sense. I don't enjoy going too out of character with them. That beats the point of writing them in the first place, doesn't it?

Because you didn't specify what you want more exactly, I've decided to write a Sona and Jhin scenario in the Blood Moon universe. I think I've seen a post about it a long time ago. And I believe that Sona would fit well into this, with how elegant and gentle and regal she seems to be.

It also makes things easier for me to write. So I will stick to this idea for now and if you wish to see them in a different universe or scenario, you can always send me another request.

SFW & NSFW

~ They had first met during a concert.

~ In such turbulent times, things were quite harsh in Ionia. Many people were living in fear, dreading the moment when the Blood Moon would show itself again - dreading a moment that could bring forth their death.

~ Sona had no such fears, however. She played her divine instrument in a flawless manner, weaving notes of peace and quiet for the frightened souls that would gather up to watch her. To admire her strong spirit, her pure and undefeated passion.

~ And her days were quiet. She didn't live in fear like many Ionian citizens. She didn't watch the Blood Moon with frightened eyes. She didn't avoid going outside when the moon was covered in that carnal and animalistic red.

~ One of her greatest admirers bestowed his protection upon her. A tall, elegant man with horrifying mismatched eyes. A being of pure hunger that haunted her soul. Her very being.

~ A man that would always watch her performances from the shadows of the large and dark theatre, a glass of crimson wine pressed against his pale lips. He'd never wear that dreadful mask in public displays.

~ Here, he was only Jhin. Here... things were different. He seemed to be another man when the demon inside him slumbered.

~ Elegant and powerful, Jhin was like no other man she had ever encountered. There was something ethereal and hypnotizing to see in even his slightest and most casual movements, something so hard to resist.

~ Something ancient. Something older than the world itself, rotten and dark and... ~ And enchanting.

~ And the intensity of his gaze always left her quivering in fear and anticipation, wondering what would come next. What he would do next.

~ It took Sona a long time to get used to their... arrangement. She wasn't quite certain what it was. Being courted and wooed by such a powerful individual - it brought certain benefits to your life.

~ People treated you differently. People feared you. They feared hurting you or offending you in any type of manner. While many of them didn't quite know who Jhin truly was, everyone had a strong awareness of his importance in a fearful society.

~ A patron of the arts for some. A cruel and strong man for others. ~ Always willing to do anything it might take to reach his objective.

~ And always willing to do so with the utmost grace, dragging his enemies through dirt and trash with a steady hand until they became a begging, frightened mess.

~ Her performances were indeed something when he was around to watch them. But the aftermath was even better.

~ Jhin was a man of culture. He knew how to court women, how to treat them properly. ~ He knew how to bring them pleasure - and pain, if it was necessary -. He knew how to bring them to submission, how to make them kneel in front of his being in both pleasure and fear.

~ He knew his craft better than anyone else in his clan. And Shen, even as his bodyguard and trusted friend, would never understand how precious the love of a woman like Sona could be - such a sweet, pure fragrance for him to enjoy. Such a delight of the senses for both him and his inner demon.

~ He treated her like a queen in exchange for her love and devotion. His gifts were otherwordly. The food he'd serve his dinners with held the most exquisite flavors she'd ever had the chance to taste. The flowers he brought her held fragrances long forgotten to the world, strong and dizzying in their sweet and exotic scent. The silks he gave her, the dazzling jewels he'd leave behind for her to enjoy...

~ Sona never thought anyone would spoil her in such incredible ways. She never thought anyone would care for her so much. Not when she was an orphan. Not even when her benefactor adopted her.

~ His touch always left her trembling, an aftertaste of old things and ash on her tongue. It made her skin prickle with electric energy - the touch of a being stronger than she would ever dream to be.

~ A touch so unholy and carnal - long fingers brushing against her naked collarbone, tracing the brilliant jewels of her necklace, the precious stones shining in the low light of the burning candles.

~ He'd always be so gentle at first. Caressing her pale skin in a reverent way, breathing in the tender scent of her skin, the light breeze of her modest perfume. A greedy being, the lust in his eyes would burn bright into her skin.

~ And her blood would boil with shameful need and desire when his nimble fingers would brush against the rich curves of her breasts, their heat haunting her through the soft and slim silk of the richly colored gown.

~ His kisses were always hot and heavy, burning into her very core. Jhin knew how to make her lose any sense of individuality with the experienced strokes of his tongue, with the possessive hand squeezing her nape - enveloping her fully in his broad and oppressive presence.

~ There were no declarations of love. Those seemed to be forbidden for beings like them. But she could always read it in his touches, in the way he'd wrap her in his very presence. In the force behind his thrusts when he held her down, driving inside her with a passion and carnal power only a man like him could possess. ~ There was no need for him to talk about his love when he could see it in his eyes in late nights they'd spend together, entangled in a sweaty mess of limbs and luxurious sheets. ~ And Jhin was very well aware of the love she held for him. A love that burned as bright as the light of a new day, as pure as her gentle heart. ~ The only man to love her for who she truly was. A monster - but one that made her happy. ~ A man that loved her more than she could ever hope to love herself. ~ And if she needed to accept the demon inside him - if she needed to love even the darkest side of him...

~ She would do so with her utmost devotion and dedication.

~ And she'd show no hesitation in bringing down anyone who would dare harbor any ill-feelings toward her benevolent patron, her one and only love.

[animereaderinsertwriter]

Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

Part I

A lamb in a den of lions, he thought, watching the newcomer as she settled in, ordering whiskey neat. A fool, for sure.

A fool she may be, perhaps, but even fools could be dangerous. Eren had known that the young woman was a Hunter from the moment she entered the bar (everyone else had, too) but something told Eren that she was hardly cut from the same cloth as the average Bane of Creatures. There was something in her movements— a predatory grace in her stride, perhaps, or a stiff, straight posture, with muscles tensed and ready for action— that betrayed her power to him; but for all that, she really was lovely, and the image of a rabbit caught in a patch of bramble came to mind whenever he looked at her.

Sitting in a corner, drinking his B-neg, he watched the woman as she sipped her drink, checking over her shoulder now and then. She was wary— as anyone with good sense would be— but she didn't appear frightened, and Eren's curiosity was piqued. It wasn't every day that someone so bold happened across his path, and it became harder and harder for him to resist the urge to approach her.

Eventually, Eren gave in to his curiosity— he never had been very good at or even particularly fond of restraining himself— and when he came silently up behind her, the newcomer didn't even notice his presence until he murmured a greeting close to her ear.

"Hello, little love," he said, and she startled in her seat. "Are you lost?"

She turned around then, her eyes big and bright in the dim lighting of the bar, but by the time she managed to look at the spot where Eren would have been, he was already seated on the barstool beside her. Eventually, though, her eyes found his, and when their gazes met, Eren was amused to find no fear in her visage.

"Far from it," she told him, turning her body towards him. "I am precisely where I mean to be."

Eren blinked, nonplussed.

"Curious," he said, leaning forward so that she could see the sharpness of his teeth as he spoke. "Do you fancy yourself a wolf among sheep, little Hunter? Did you really not think we would know you for what you are the moment you crossed the threshold of this place?"

Any normal, human ear would have missed the way her heart leapt in her chest, but Eren missed nothing. The fear he had hoped to inspire in her was present after all, but her face never moved from its impenetrable mask— an affectation that was somehow both soft and steely at once.

"That's not what I'm here for," she told him, widening the distance between her knees as she readjusted on the stool. "I'm here to discover the truth."

The truth— what an odd notion!— and yet Eren sensed no lie in her.

"You're a strange one," he told her, but forced himself to relax his posture to appear lazy, almost drunk. "Most Hunters— even ones so pretty as yourself— shoot first and worry about the truth later. What's your name?"

Her nose crinkled. "It's polite to give your own first."

Sharp, he thought, watching her closely. Names have power.

"Eren Jaeger."

"Eren Jaeger," she echoed, then extended her hand. "My name is (Y/N)."

That name sounded familiar to Eren— and though most names did after living a few centuries, this one seemed to hit closer to home. He knew that name, and knew it well…

"What's your surname?"

(Y/N)'s eyes flashed with an emotion that Eren didn't catch.

"Kirschtein," she replied, averting her eyes. "I'm Jean Kirschtein's great-great-great granddaughter."

And damn if Eren didn't want to laugh. Perhaps his nosiness into the posterity of his old acquaintances really was as bad of an idea as Armin always seemed to imply.

"I see," he said, and he truly, truly did. "Then you know who I am— what I am— and what I've done."

More than that, if she truly did know who he was, it was unlikely that she had come without a specific purpose in mind.

(Y/N) nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I was digging around in my family history and— well— I read what my grandfather wrote, and I just— I wanted the truth."

So wide-eyed, so innocent— so alive. Eren could see now her resemblance to Jean; if they were not similar in looks, she had his sharpness, his humanness… and, as he always had Jean, Eren envied her for it.

"If that's the case, then I'm sure you know that you don't get something for nothing," he told her, sipping his drink just to watch the expression on her face as he let the warm blood slide down his throat. "And that dealings with me can be dangerous."

"Jean Kirschtein loved you, Eren Jaeger," she told him fiercely and with such conviction that Eren nearly choked on his drink. "To take such a tone with me, to threaten me, the last living remnant of him, is the most disrespectful thing I've ever heard."

Eren was about to say that he didn't owe her, Jean Kirschtein, or anyone else any sort of respect, but she plowed on, unwilling to let him say his piece.

"You broke his heart a million ways by doing what you did, but— but he was your friend through all of it, no matter what side each of you were on," (Y/N) continued, passion aflame in her eyes. "I can't even imagine what inspired such a love, such a loyalty from him that he would forgive you for the horrors you caused. That's what I'm here to find out— what you have that a man such as him would find you redeemable."

The reproof in her words stung, but Eren was too old to argue. She could never understand what it was like back then.

"I understand more than you think," she snapped, and Eren actually flinched. "I understand that you hurt the woman my grandfather loved immeasurably, and that he forgave you for that even though he never even particularly liked you. I understand that you were ready to sacrifice the world for that selfsame woman, for Jean, and for all the others. I understand that you're a monster who loved and was loved back, but I want to know why."

How? Eren thought, shaken.

How had she known his thoughts? It was as though she had seen straight through to his innermost being.

Without speaking, she answered his question. (Y/N) took a hand and rolled up her left sleeve, presenting to him a scarred marking in the shape of a pentagram.

"My grandfather didn't settle down with just anyone," she told him, holding his gaze. "I come from a line of powerful witches, all of whom possessed strong claircognizance. Paired with my nature as an empath, you can assume I know what you're going to say before you say it."

Eren hummed, trying to appear less perturbed than he was.

"And yet you hunt Creatures for a living; strange, since you're practically one of us yourself."

(Y/N) glowered. "I hunt monsters that prey on my people, not Creatures. No innocent has died by my hand."

The unlike you went unsaid, but that didn't mean that Eren didn't hear it anyway.

"Don't get high-and-mighty with me, girl," he told her roughly. "Knowing is one thing, but experiencing what we experienced is another."

"I'm not here to judge you," she replied. "I told you, I'm here for truth, nothing more."

"And I told you that the truth doesn't come for free," he told her darkly. "You must give me something in return."

(Y/N) set her jaw.

"What would you have of me?"

It was a mean, base request. Eren was wicked for even thinking it, and vile for wanting it— but looking at the great-to-however-many-degrees granddaughter of a good man that he had once known, seeing the vitality that brought a flush to her cheeks and thumping to her heart, he knew he couldn't pass up this golden opportunity.

It had been so long since he'd had a Companion.

"Become my cupbearer for six moons," he told her, crossing his arms. "Starting with tonight, the moon becomes new; let me drink from you until six of these have passed, and along the way, you will learn what you want to know."

(Y/N) eyed him warily.

"Can you assure my physical safety?"

Eren grunted, almost amused. It was a bit late to be worrying about that.

"I think you know that I can."

"And will you let me continue in my duties as a Hunter?" she asked, her eyes searching his own as if she would find the answer to her question there inside the same eyes he'd had since he was nineteen. "Completely uninhibited?"

"That depends. Will you kill Creatures in the discharge of your duties?"

(Y/N) made a face. Eren had forgotten how expressive mortals could be, but he found that being reminded was not altogether unpleasant.

"You know I will," she replied, "But you have my word that any killing won't be unprovoked."

Eren supposed it was as close to a compromise as he could expect.

"As you wish it, so shall it be."

He turned away, signaling to the bartender for another drink, but a lightning-fast hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Swear it," she demanded. "I need us to be Bound by it."

The meanness in Eren finally won over. He reached forward, grabbing (Y/N) by the neck, and the silver rings on her fingers burned him as she pulled at his hand to try and restore her breath. Eyes from all around the room were on the two of them— had been, since the very beginning— but it was only once the Hunter before him began to look appropriately humbled that he withdrew.

"Do not touch me without my permission," he said, "And I will return the favor."

(Y/N) looked at him then, but there was still no fear in her eyes. Anger, yes, but no fear.

She must be mad, or foolish one, he thought, considering her for a moment. I always have been partial to mad fools in general, but…

Something about her seemed different, and Eren didn't know what to do other than accept what she had to offer. Heavens knew he was getting the better end of the deal anyway.

"Swear it," she repeated, this time more quietly. "Give your word, and I will be your cupbearer."

Eren brought his hand up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. At his will, the nail tip of his forefinger sharpened, hardening into a point; he used it to draw an 'X' onto the skin just over where his heart rested inside his chest, cold and dead. Blood welled into the cut— precious little, compared to that of a human, but still enough to run down his chest in smudges— and it was by that blood that he swore. He spoke the terms of their agreement, then took the blood from his wound with the pad of his finger and marked the same spot over (Y/N)'s own heart.

"Satisfied?" he asked, their faces almost touching, and (Y/N) shivered.

"Yes."

Her warm, living breath fanned over his face with her reply, and Eren took the moment to close his eyes and appreciate the scent and sensation of it.

"You may think you're satisfied," he told her, pulling away, "But you don't know the meaning of the word."

She eyed him warily, but before she could speak, he added, "In six months' time, I'll ask you the same question, and it is then that you will truly know what it is to feel satisfied— satiated in every way."

"As you say."

It was a throwaway comment, nothing more than a dismissal, really; but Eren felt like it was the start of something truly remarkable.