#solutions amiables

[nfavocats]

Les droits des héritiers en matière de succession immobilière

Les droits des héritiers en matière de succession immobilière

https://nf-avocats.fr/les-droits-des-heritiers-en-matiere-de-succession-immobiliere/

#Accords, #ActifsImmobiliers, #Désaccords, #DroitDeLaFamille, #DroitSuccessoral, #DroitsDesHéritiers, #DroitsDesHéritiersEnFrance, #Enfants, #Étapes, #GestionDePatrimoine, #Héritage, #HéritageImmobilier, #Héritiers, #Immobilier, #Législation, #Les, #LoiSurLaSuccession, #Médiation, #Obligations, #PartageDHéritage, #PartageDesBiens, #Pour, #Prendre, #PréventionDesLitiges, #ProcéduresDeSuccession, #SolutionsAmiables, #SuccessionImmobilière, #Testaments

[nunalastor]

Lucifer's noticed a certain pest in the halls of the hotel. It's silent and immaterial; not the sort of critter that Nifty has any interest in hunting. Unbothersome to most, yet so very maddening to him.

It's distracting, impeding, and generally a nuisance.

And it follows Alastor everywhere.

He's long wondered what exactly it is; a familiar, an offshoot of Alastor's soul, a shade- But it doesn't really matter. The problem is that it keeps getting in the way.

Every time they're talking, every time they're remotely near each other, it's always there. Watching, pointing, nudging, and tearing Alastor's focus away. It whispers things that only its owner can hear, pulls laughs and reactions from him that Lucifer's only had minimal success in accomplishing himself. It knows him.

It's infuriating. To be so helplessly aware that some other being, so much closer to Alastor than he could ever be, shares so much history that Lucifer could only hope would one day be shared with him as well. It's a revolting feeling that makes him want to tear his hair out, it burns something inside him that screams to just get rid of it.

Lucifer wants it gone.

He can't take it. He can't stand the bile at the back of his throat when he sees them together. He can't handle the feeling of his muscles tightening in on themselves as he wonders why he isn't good enough to be in its place. He can't handle the burning hatred of this lesser than being that's managed to put itself in between what he so desperately wants.

He learned very quickly that it was rather communicative with Alastor. The first and only attempt to 'accidentally' blast it with holy light ended with a very, very angry Radio Demon.

Every other more discreet attempt has ended in failure. Deals and negotiations didn't work; it seemed to not understand him- or at least pretended not to. Even when he cycled through every ancient language in his knowledge, it would simply tilt its head in the same cute manner as Alastor.

A sickening reminder of what he was doing this for.

He tries and tries to distract it, keep it occupied, keep Alastor's attention on him-

And he finally realizes the obvious solution.

He doesn't know what language this thing speaks, or if it's even open to communication with him. But a smaller facet of him might be more amiable. And, more importantly, more able to interact with it.

Regardless of where this creature comes from, it takes the form of a shadow. As a being of light, he's perfectly capable of creating the absence of it. Imbuing just a small part of his consciousness into his own shadow is easy, and after that, it's free to roam without him.

When he first walks into the parlor with his new companion, Alastor seems... confused. And then irritated. Which is fine, because this is just a means to an end. Most importantly, Alastor's shadow is very intrigued. It doesn't take long for it to venture over and meet its soon-to-be friend, circling around cautiously before beginning to prod at it. His own shadow prods back, and it practically jumps.

Lucifer can feel the connection, though very distantly. Easily ignorable; and so he does, in favor of moving closer to Alastor, temporarily free of the shadowy nuisance getting in his way.

"What is that?" Alastor asks the moment he reaches him.

"Hm? Oh! I thought your friend could use a buddy. Doesn't seem like he has any good company to talk to."

Alastor simply sneers at that, though any follow up questions on Lucifer's intentions are easily brushed off or eluded. The pest's attention is successfully enraptured by its new playmate, and Lucifer finally gets a moment of peace, and Alastor's full, undivided attention.

👀

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Hi Sunny! Happy Halloween! I rolled a 1d6 for your trick-or-treat options and rolled a 4 - Bagginshield trick, please? :D

I took this to mean a whump trick on top of that and chose "Panic Attack". Please enjoy and thank you for the ask! 😁

Bilbo honestly didn’t know what had set him off this time. He had been fine. He was down on the slopes of Erebor checking on the farming project he had set up last year. Most dwarves weren’t enthusiastic about wasting their time away in the dirt, but they had hired some of the men of Dale to farm for them. With fair wages and getting to keep a share of the crops seemed to be an amiable solution that worked for well everyone. 

Gustan was showing him around the fruit field, talking animatedly about how well the strawberries had come in this year. He had offered Bilbo a box of the red fruit, chilled from being washed in the river, and suddenly Bilbo had been transported back to that terrible moment during the battle. Where he had sat on the frozen land, holding Thorin together by a thread as blood dribbled out between his fingers. And Thorin had given him such a sad, defeated smile as he chose to sweeten their parting with words of friendship.

It wasn’t until he had quickly excused himself and managed to get back into the mountain that the worst of it hit. Bilbo’s chest started to shoot pains straight from his heart as if it were about to give out. His hands were shaking, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He fell back against a pillar, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his tunic and waited for it to pass. He had no idea how long he remained like this when a deep voice broke through the screaming in his mind.

“Where is he?!”

Bilbo felt his lower lip tremble as his eyes watered, unable to bring himself to answer. Suddenly a warm hand cradled the back of his head as he was brought forward into a broad chest.

“Shh, amrâlimê. Just breath and listen to my heart. That’s it. You’re fine. I’m fine.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo gasped desperately between the pain.

His husband just shushed him again and continued his mantra until Bilbo could unfurl his hands and breathe without it feeling like daggers stabbing his lungs.

“I didn’t mean…” He whispered.

“Don’t apologize. Not for this.” He spoke gently and confidently.

Bilbo felt exhausted. Like he could fall asleep right there in Thorin’s arms. The dwarves had a term for this. They called it ajbâlazgh or the ‘war vision’. Where past battles and pains haunted you to the point of activating your need to fight once more. 

“Let’s go to bed.” Thorin urged.

“It’s not even noon.” Bilbo slurred.

“Then just a little nap. I’ll be right there with you.” 

Bilbo hummed in reluctant agreement as he allowed himself to be lifted in Thorin’s large arms. Never once pulling himself away from that steady heartbeat that reminded him that Thorin yet lived.

Trick or Treat My Inbox

[ddarker-dreams]

Winter Wonderland.

Yan Chrollo x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 2k.

Bleary blankets of snow beat down on the isolated cabin you inhabit.

The hearth does what it can to stave off the relentless assault of nature, yet the biting chill sinks its teeth into you nonetheless. You glare at the frosted-over window as if the glass is a personal affront to you. An argument could be made that this architecture was intentionally sought out for its dilapidated quality and the certain advantages poor insulation could bring. A working theory, but the indignation it stokes within you is the most reliable source of heat you’ve discovered thus far.

The wind vocalizes a shrill aria, accompanied by the off-beat thump of loose roof tiles struggling to remain tethered. This orchestral procession keeps your mind on high alert. Exhaustion is a temptation you shoo away to the best of your ability. It’s difficult to imagine a restful slumber when every sound hints at some imminent collapse.

“Aren’t you cold?” Chrollo calls over, as if he actually needs your confirmation. “There’s plenty of room over here.”

What a revelation! Indeed, courtesy of your occipital lobe and functioning eyes, you’re capable of discerning the information he’s oh so generously provided. You grit your teeth and succumb to another shivering spell. Pride is a curse and you’re undoubtedly damned. Chrollo is the one who led you into this problem and still thinks himself deserving of offering a solution. He’s situated directly in front of the fireplace, on a loveseat, moved over to the left side in waiting for your inevitable resignation.

“Hypothermia is distinctly unpleasant, dear.”

You roll your eyes. You’re about to thank him for sharing such esoteric knowledge with you, when an alarming realization settles in.

Your hands are starting to go numb.

The crackling fireplace exerts a magnetic pull you’re growing increasingly unable to resist. Your survival instincts commit mutiny, overthrowing your incessant need to be as spiteful with Chrollo as humanly possible. Before you know it, your feet are moving in his direction of their own accord. You’d like to accuse him of using one of those Nen abilities, though when you get closer, his precious book is nowhere to be seen.

He pats the empty cushion beside him at your continued reluctance.

Thankfully, there are no demeaning words on his part when you resign yourself to your fate. Your weary legs cheer at this opportunity to relax. The rest of your body is already reaping the benefits too, thawing the layer of cold you were encased in. It seems whatever higher power exists has seen fit to continue smiling upon you, for Chrollo shares his blanket without you needing to grovel.

“Is that better?” Chrollo queries. You eye him with undisguised suspicion. This amiable mood of his is odd, a departure from the usual script. How much of it is manufactured or genuine is inscrutable. You try to read his face, like you’ve attempted thousands of times before, inspecting each crevice for hints you’ll never find.

He surprises you by chuckling. The sound is breathless, almost melancholic. It makes you frown.

“It never ceases to amaze me, just how many ways you can express your hatred without needing to utter a word,” he tilts his head, inspecting you in the same way you did him. He’s grown closer without you realizing it. He’s akin to a disease that way — always encroaching where he’s never welcome. “Does it make you feel better?”

“Yes,” your reply is instantaneous. His lips quirk up, but it’s far from a content smile. “However, it’s not for the reason you think.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Hesitation returns. You’re falling into his cadence, lulled like a lamb to slaughter. Having your brain picked by Chrollo is as regular a daily activity as eating. You’ve never arrived at a singular reason to explain his obsession with the act; whether it be depravity, curiosity, or to satiate the need for human contact he can’t get elsewhere. Perhaps it’s a mixture of all three. A malformed cocktail with ingredients too noxious to palate.

You’ll never get used to the taste, so it’s best to down it all at once.

“There’s something truly sad about you,” you lift your hand to touch his cheeks, made rosy from winter’s unforgiving embrace. It gives you the false impression of a cherub, the very being he’s the antithesis of. “You don’t know yourself, so you must dissect others. It’s safer that way. You don’t run the risk of discovering something unsightly if you never search in the right place.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was under the thrall of a hypnotist’s pocket watch. His gaze is distant yet somehow present, fluctuating between two extremes.

“It’s an interesting theory,” he allows. His voice is playful whereas his expression is not — you note the dissonance. “I can tell you’ve considered it at length. Do you think about me often, sweetheart?”

You sidestep the bait he’s set out for what must be the umpteenth time. “That was the primary goal behind the creation of solitary confinement, yes. Forcing the inmate to think.”

The jab at your living arrangement doesn’t go unnoticed. He raises an eyebrow.

“About themselves, wasn't it?”

“And the warden too,” you reaffirm.

He closes his eyes — contemplating whether to press you on this subject or another, no doubt — then reopens them with newfound conviction. “You’ve yet to explain your original point.”

“I was getting there, when someone saw fit to interrupt,” you huff. He never fails to get on your nerves. “Yeah, I’m sure petty satisfaction has something to do with it. You’re not above that yourself. It’s more than that, though. It’s about choice. It’d probably be easier if I went along with all your whims and acted the part of a starry-eyed lover. Then I remember you are who you are because you made the easy choices. So I don’t want to.”

Chrollo doesn’t bother trying to conceal the interest this piques in him. “You think I’ve made the ‘easy choices’ to get where I am today?”

A premonition coils its tendrils around you then, attempting to constrict you before you wander into volatile land. There’s no threatening lilt in his voice yet, or the look that tells you to keep your mouth shut before you regret it, but you’re getting there. Traipsing a steadily fraying line when it’d be simpler to cower back to safety.

It’s a wonder what you’re looking at is a human being. That your hand is touching skin, which bleeds when broken just as yours does.

“Cruelty is almost always easier than kindness. It’s our natural condition. That’s where humans are special, distinct from any other organism. Our capacity for growth. We can become kind, although we’re born cruel. I think that is strength. That is the difficult choice. Which is why you and the other Spiders don’t make it,” you drop your hand, finding it sufficiently warmed. “You refer to people as ‘puppets’ because it’s easier that way. You kill and steal for the same reason.”

Another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t realize you were such a humanist.”

“You didn’t?” Your expression conveys your disbelief. “I thought that’s the entire reason I’m here.”

“That’s certainly part of it.”

There’s unsteady silence for a moment. Most days, he’d counter your points and nitpick every little detail with the fanaticism of a zealot. For whatever reason, this method doesn’t interest him now, he seems content to take what you’re dishing out. Is he trying his hand at self-flagellation or something? Whatever the case, you’ve spoken your piece.

You turn your attention away to the fire. Its glow swaths the rustic room in a reddish hue. If you were here with anyone else, you might go so far as to call it cozy. That was probably Chrollo’s intention behind choosing the locale. The snowstorm holding you hostage was just an added bonus.

An arm slithers its way around your shoulders. You sigh but bite your tongue. The addition of his body heat at least has a practical use; he once mentioned mastery over Nen includes the ability to manipulate one’s physiology at will. That must be nice in conditions like this.

He tugs you toward his side, and you relent, knowing you lack the strength to put up a meaningful fight.

“I admire your tenacity,” he reveals. You stay trained on the flickering flames. “Most would shrivel up in fear before they spoke to me that way.”

“Should I fear you?”

“A little,” Chrollo hums. “Everything in moderation.”

The branch from a nearby tree beats incessantly against the window. You jump, attempting to twist your body to the left where the sound originated, but Chrollo’s grip grows impossibly tight. You may as well have been wearing a straight jacket. Figuring it’s just his way of reasserting dominion over you, you don’t bother dwelling on it.

“[First].”

It’s rare that he says your name. You’re normally assailed with sickeningly sweet monikers like dear or sweetheart, a tendency you’re half-convinced he developed to irritate you. Swallowing down your dread, you prepare yourself for the potential fruits of your earlier premonition.

“Hm?”

“You’re right that I chose to be this way,” he says. This catches your interest. “Whether or not it was an ‘easy’ decision by your definition of the word… I’m unsure. I became someone worth fearing out of necessity.”

His earlier melancholy weighs heavy in the air.

“That’s just as well. I don’t regret it. No… it’d be more accurate to say I’m grateful for it. Say I chose the ‘difficult’ path. Exemplified the virtues you hold so dear. I’d be awfully miserable in this proposed universe of yours.”

This is a trap you can’t sidestep. “Why?”

His lean fingers dance up and down your forearm. “Cruelty is my natural element, you said so yourself. I’d be denying the desire I was born with. I may even be denied you, consequently. What allows me to have you here, like this, the subject of your undivided attention and object of your thoughts? Is it kindness? Morality?”

His espousing of libertine values is nothing new to you, yet the resonance of his words is deeply unsettling. It’s as if they’re dawning on him for the first time. That by entertaining your discourse, you took him by the hand and personally led him to this conclusion. Nurtured a nascent idea he never would’ve found otherwise.

You feel cold again.

“No, it’s none of those things. I have you because I played dirty, [First],” his chest rumbles when he chuckles. “You are a wonder I can never lose my appetite for, every taste has me longing for more. Your mind, your heart, your soul… you bare them all so willingly, with a little prompting. How many would you have benefited if I never interfered in your life?”

It’s agony — still, you wrench yourself against his hold, to the degree he must loosen it, lest he break you — mustering up all your malice to glower at him. If you were capable of exerting bloodlust, it’d certainly be thick enough to devour anyone it came into contact with. You have no such parapsychological abilities, so you settle on what you can do, your animosity raw.

Chrollo’s eyes soften with warmth only you can draw out. “I’ll be the sole benefactor of your effulgence. If given the opportunity to do it again, I wouldn’t hesitate to go down the path that ends with you.”

Your lips part and then close.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to adhere to mind over matter. A few seconds that carry the weight of eternity pass. You relax your posture to the best of your abilities, your shoulders drooping and your body heavy as lead.

Once again, you raise your hand to touch the cheek you held earlier.

It’s wet.

“… I meant what I said earlier,” you observe the glistening of his skin with an impassive expression. “There’s something terribly sad about you, Chrollo Lucilfer.”

If he’s incapable of acknowledging this reality, you’re more than willing to.

[swampstew]

Eustass Kid, G-48 ~ Milking Table

Summary: It's that time of the month. The time when Kid really really needs your help to get through the deep-seated primal urges he has. Lucky for him he has someone as amazing and caring as you.

Warnings: Spicy, modern monster au, Eustass Kid as Tarbh-uisge with reader - implied relationship. Kid strapped to a milking table, use of milking pump, breeding kink, monsterfucking if you squint. Special mention to @don-mellow for being the reason this folklore creature was the first thing that popped into my mind for this prompt. Subscribe to their Patreon! Word Count: 772

Tarbh-uisge: Generally regarded as a nocturnal water bull, it is more agreeable than its equine counterpart the water horse, while having similar amphibious and shapeshifting abilities. It is able to shapeshift into human form and live on land or in water. It can also be amiable and sometimes helpful. The bull might have had a sacred role in various Celtic cult rituals. The Tarbh-uisge was viewed a symbol of fertility and abundance

You had Kid strapped face down on the custom milking table, an impressive feat in itself considering his hulking mass and general…defiant of authority attitude. In a harness that bound his flesh arm behind his back and his ankles to the table, you massaged his back with heated oil to soothe his muscles, helping him relax. The two of you had been at it for a while, and he had needed a break.

His muttering that he didn’t need to be babied let you know he was ready for the next session. Gently wiping the excess oil off, you scratch his back hard enough to leave red lines – each graze of your fingernails draws a shaky grunt from him. The purple faded lines of the previous marks littered down his back and ass, and you would have to remember to take a photo of how delicious he looked.

You moved off his muscled back and peeked under the table, pleased to find his cock swollen once more. Bless his stamina. Reaching out, you ran your fingernails down his shaft to his balls, watching in delight as his cock bobbed from the contact, and precum already leaking out from his slit.

“You’re doing so well. After tonight, I’ll let you have some rest and relaxation. You’ve filled up quite a few buckets. Then after, I’m going to treat you so good. Let you be my pillow prince to thank you for your sacrifice today,” you cooed, kissing his cheek. His damp locks plastered on his hair barely hid the flush in his face.

With a warm touch you begin jerking him off. Whispering filthy things you’d do to spoil him when this was all over. How you’d ride him for days on end, how you’d feed him while fucking him, not letting him leave the bed so you could give him all your love.

He leaked into your hand and that helped you fist him faster as he wasn’t able to do anything except struggle in his restraints – unable to even rut properly through the table to build his pleasure. He was entirely reliant on you and your methods alone to milk his cock.

If he was unrestrained, there was a chance he could go crazy in his lust and do something stupid like mount and accidentally impregnate you. Every month he would go through a cycle of needing to breed – a time where he couldn’t keep his cock down if his life depended on it – and you were kind enough to find a creative solution for you both.

Kid’s panting became louder, huskier as the tip of his cock turned deep red. You watched as his balls drew tight, signaling he was near release. You ducked your body under the table and formed a ring with your fingers, holding the base of his cock with a firm grip as you pulled out the milking pump.

“FU-FUCK!” he grunted loudly. “Swear you get off on doing that,” he spat out, hitting his forehead against the leather padded table in frustration.

“I don’t not,” you giggle, connecting the tube to the pump to the last vial you had. With a fat lick of your tongue from his perineum, over his scrotum, and up his shaft, your lips wrapped around his head giving him an urgent suck before you popped off him. Giving his twitching cock a kiss, you slid the pump over his cock and began pumping him faster than before.

“SHIT! SHIT! I’M-I’M CUM—” the rest of his stutter was cut off by a pleasured, dull roar as his hips squeaked and rutted against the table. You watched the pump line fill with the thick, white liquid going down the drip line and into its vial. The sound of weary panting left Kid as the line kept dripping until the vial was filled to the brim.

“I’m done I’m dooonnee!!” he cried from overstimulation as you pulled the pump off.

“I know love, I know,” you topped the vial and put the equipment in the bucket. Noticing a few drops weeping from his softening dick, you quickly crawled over and enveloped your mouth on his tip to lick him dry.

8 tiles to go, 49 calls made so far.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Hello! Any advice about writing Lily? I’m hopefully writing the co-writing summer challenge with her as one of the main characters, so any advice would be appreciated!

You mean Lily Evans?

Well, the thing is, @therealvinelle and I have... pretty much made that character up. I'll fully admit to it because what we're given in canon is hilariously small in comparison to James (given a lot more screentime and defining traits)

We're told that Lily was a favorite of Slughorn's (which per a post that has yet to be written was a... alarming scene in HBP, let me tell you) and that she was talented in Potions. She had a good wand for Charms. Those who talk about her say she was nice, perhaps had a bit of a temper, and then quickly pivot to James.

This was the invisible woman.

What this means is that you can pretty much do whatever you want and no one will cry foul at you. So long as you're consistent and have an idea of who you think she is, you should be good.

But I can tell you how @therealvinelle and I characterize her.

She's Scarily Intelligent and Ingenious

What we do know about her canonically is that she was the driving force of the protections surrounding not only Harry and the Dursleys. We're never told what she did, exactly, but we're told it's her handiwork and we see its effects.

No one can attack the Dursley's home or presumably cause harm to its inhabitants while there. Voldemort is unable to even touch Harry's skin without melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

These protections cannot be replicated on any other safehouse including Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, or any other place the Order has an interest in protecting.

To get around the protections, Voldemort has to create a homunculus using Harry's own blood (note this was not his first choice which was the Philosopher's Stone and had he not had this issue he may have tried a different 'enemy')

This is someone who managed this at 21 with no education after Hogwarts, who is locked in a house with very few books, and presumably does so under the nose of Dumbledore as well as her husband.

Depending where you lean headcanon wise/explanation wise, Lily also is responsible for deflecting the killing curse for Harry: something no one else had ever done beforehand or after (Harry resurrecting continually for unexplained reasons).

As a result, we tend to write her as an intensely thoughtful and innovative person who spends a long time thinking things through and searching for solutions to problems. We also write her as a very pragmatic person, the kind who would consider the solution of sacrificing herself for the protection of her son and family and then go through with it.

No One Realizes She's Brilliant

Lily is noted as being good at Potions in the same breath as James being good at Transfiguration. Now, James did become an animagi at thirteen, that's nothing to sneeze at and per canon is impressive, however it's not the protections placed on Harry.

The most credit Lily is given is from Dumbledore who... praises her as a woman who sacrificed herself for her child and nothing else. She's not noted as the greatest witch of her generation the way Hermione is or talked about much at all.

What we're looking at is someone who did well enough in school, probably better grades than Harry, but no one really recognized her for what she was (probably because she wasn't a memorizer/rote learner the way Hogwarts encourages).

As a result, @therealvinelle and I tend to see her as suffering intense imposter syndrome. She assumes everyone knows what she knows or that, when dismissed or contradicted (particularly by someone like Dumbledore), that there must be something she didn't consider that they must know of.

She's Well Liked But No One's Close to Her

Given the canonical reactions and the fact that she's cited as having no close friends beyond Severus (who she severed ties with), it seems that she was very amiable and well liked but that she put up walls and was a very difficult person to get to know without anyone realizing as much.

She's one of those people you meet who you think is charming but then realize later after you've walked away that you don't know a single personal thing about them. (If, of course, they realize this at all, which the entire world does not).

This is likely to hide vulnerabilities and perhaps in reaction to being Muggleborn in a wizard's world.

As a result, she's also an intensely lonely person for all she doesn't admit as much even to herself. James ends up her closest connection but their relationship is strained by being in hiding and ultimately having conflicting personalities.

The Snape Thing

This is where uh... there are opinions from other parts of fandom. This one you're on your own for in explaining why Lily left Snape and then dated James and how it makes sense for her as a person (whether you like it or not is a different story, but if you want a consistent character there should be a reason both of these things happen).

I won't get into this here as it's not really the post for it but it's something you'll have to understand if you want to write her consistently as a character (even if it's an AU where that event doesn't happen)

TL;DR

The best advice I can give is to read @therealvinelle or my fics featuring her as a character.

You got anything, @therealvinelle?

[the-strength-of-the-wolffe]

Finally! I get to share my headcanons about this loveable piece-of-work, my boy Sinker.

Like Boost, he didn't choose his name; their batchmates came up with it because of his pessimism, a quirk that stress exacerbated (more on that below).

He was a reluctant “older” brother—not naturally responsible or nurturing but arbitrarily chosen to be in charge of his batchmates by their superiors. Although it felt unfair at the time, it’s the reason he’s a sergeant at the start of the war.

One of their trainers didn't get on with him (personality clash) and took every opportunity to beat him down. He put on a front of insolent indifference, but the harsh words (on top of Kaminoan indoctrination) eroded his spirit, leading him to develop that famously bleak estimation of himself and all clones.

For an engineered soldier, stress had an unusually adverse effect on him. It didn’t just sway his mood; by young adulthood, his hair started to thin and show gray roots. He couldn't stomach shaving it off, nor admit his shame by dyeing it black, so his solution was to dye it entirely gray and pretend to own it.

Needless to say, he isn’t in the healthiest frame of mind as we meet him in “Rising Malevolence.” He has a callousness about him that strikes me as a defense mechanism. Sadly, he doesn't take General Plo's words to heart that day. In fact, he isn't sure what to make of the General for some time.

If he had met Wolffe under any other circumstances, they wouldn't have become friends; they're too different, and Sinker is nothing if not realistic. Suffering the massacre together, and later rebuilding the 104th, bonds them like nothing else could. Even though rank and duties often keep them apart now, they hold fast to that bond.

He tries to move past the loss of his old squad by falling back on cadethood excuses ("I didn't want this job!") and cold memorized truths ("that's the reality of war"), but the horror and guilt get to him on occasion. For a while, he's at turns distant and aggressively protective toward his new squad.

He takes an immediate disliking to Comet, regarding him as a liability at best and a threat to the squad's safety at worst. Truthfully, he sees a bit of himself in the rookie (that defensive apathy), and he hates it. The tension between them erupts one day into physical violence, which he immaturely instigates. The brawl puts a bad mark on his record (and is my explanation for why he doesn't seem to climb any higher in rank). However, by coming to blows, the two of them are able to confront their issues with each other. Gradually, they work toward a more amiable relationship.

His personal beliefs and his mixed feelings about General Plo come to a head during a dangerous search-and-rescue operation. When half his squad (including Boost) become trapped in a damaged building, he fully expects he'll have to leave them to prioritize civilians, a prospect he suddenly finds chilling. To his shock, Wolffe and the General converge at once, the former taking over evacuations while the latter goes after the troopers. In the end, not a single one is lost.

Because of this harrowing event, he realizes first how much he cares about his men, what their lives are worth to him (not expendable!), and second that he's not alone in feeling that way—General Plo meant what he said. He still has some qualms about the General (e.g. the health considerations are a source of stress), but his love language is acts of service, and the General's tremendous act of saving his squad wins him over.

From this point onward, he's able to shoulder his responsibilities with less fear, and that confidence does wonders for him. He really evolves as a character—just look at how different he is in "Mercy Mission"! (I've got a separate post about this in the works: contrasting his arc with Wolffe's.) He doesn't lose all of his rough edges, of course (he can still get nasty when stressed, and be rather angsty at times), but overall he rounds out to be a tough, conscientious, steadfast individual.

His sense of humor, however, does not improve.

[sgiandubh]

The sound of silence

With the end of August already in sight - somebody, please, tell me where did this botched summer go, all of a sudden? -, a somewhat different landscape is slowly emerging, on the S&C front.

Dare we hope? The new normal seems to be a mix of latergrams, sibylline tweets, ultra-muted innuendo (most of it the result of a couple of pundits' sterile speculations on meagre hints dropped on purpose) and secondary (even third-circle) players being conveniently called to the rescue. A low budget, almost homemade solution to keep the prayer wheels of this fandom spinning. A fandom both of these two know, by now, like the back of their hands.

For months and months in a row, I tried to understand something that puzzled me constantly: not the messages being ventilated in here, but their circuit and lifespan, if you want. For what is worth, the rinse and repeat image is fine in my book, but in no way comprehensive, nor intellectually satisfying. And then, a couple of weeks ago, I started to suddenly figure it out.

I am not going to insult you with savant jargon or Venn diagrams, rest assured. However, I need some arrows. I called it the 4 R Circuit and here we go:

(an information is being) Released (via Anons or DMs exclusively: it's never sheer luck, that is a bloody lie and a poor one, at it) -> (it then prompts a couple different) Reactions -> (followed by an almost immediate) Retcon (by the other side of this very antagonistic fandom) -> (in response, an old information is being) Recycled (thus effectively keeping the chatter alive, but re-oriented until ) -> (a new or old/new information is being) Released

Historically, the lifespan of this news cycle was never shorter than 24, but seldom (if ever) longer than 72 hours. This summer is a resolute break off this pattern, but old habits die hard: the collective attention span has been also conditioned accordingly.

And how could it be otherwise? Because neither of them had any consistent A-list level gossip history, the emerging fandom had to resume itself to their social media accounts, for a start. And boy, were we copiously spoiled, with banter and innuendo and double-entendre galore, and then with voluble Anons being simultaneously directed to the main players of all the factions. I bet it was elating. I am sure it was also great fun: a merry, sunny age of innocence. Until it wasn't and the ugly manipulative streak began its inglorious march in here. The thirst grew, and so did the stakes. Pictures, pictures or it did not happen. And when we got them, we started to immediately diss and hiss and hum and drum. In the Real World (you know, out there, where we all go every morning and are civilized, amiable people), this kind of behavior would be more than uncanny: it would be uncalled for and drastically sanctioned as such. But, I digress.

The result of this disco inferno by design is a pattern of reactivity I have never seen in my entire life. Nano-inquisitors immediately spring out of their chairs once you dare write something: why did you say that? how dare you speak your mind, you are supposed to be a stupid, stupid shipper? In the meantime, almost nobody bothers connecting the dots, finding a solid background for arguments, placing facts or speculation in a logical context. It's frowned upon. Yet, the whole experience would be way more enjoyable, if instead on focusing on idiotic and obviously doctored details, we could bring some perspective to all this hubbub.

Last case in point, this freshly baked imbecility:

We all know who the fuck Brave Heart is: the kilt obsessed, once Mightiest Troll of Mordor. The one who invented by herself the grotesque story of the Hôtel Costes Rash sightings, last April, via Anons written in painful English. Also, the one who spun, based on a friendly snap at a sportive event, the Ellenwood Innuendo, promptly ditched - it didn't stick well enough- now reactivated. A sample:

Calling all stations: there is no side exit at the Hôtel Costes' restaurant, you fool, who's been to Paris as often as I went to Oahu, which is to say never. There is a back exit, through the kitchen, madam: next time, do your damn homework properly! Unlike you, I often went there (I preferred other, less nouveau riche playgrounds, that being said), back in 1996-2002, when it still was the boldest celeb' spotting venue in town. Not anymore. And who in their right mind would bring luggage or shopping bags in a very peculiarly laid-out French restaurant, without immediately taking the risk of being a conversation stopper, a bull (heh) in a china shop?

The "have seen it with my own eyes" gave you away, this time. A classical, by the book way to spin a cheap lie.

Also, C's witty latergram, via a tertiary player. I am sure (and I will film myself eating my socks live, if proven wrong) that back in Mordor someone already came with the agit-prop retcon: "it's irrelevant when the picture was taken".

It is very relevant. July 31. One day before August 1st: I always admired her humor. But who would take the time to tell 1+1= 2?

If I could gift this fandom anything, let it be this: context is always important. Manipulation starts exactly when you stop questioning and let your brain live the 72 hours news cycle.

The only real sound of this August, on the S&C front, is the sound of silence.

I rest my case.

[waywardstation]

Not Intimidated

Ingo expected Akari to be a little more intimidated by him when Irida first introduced him to her at the training grounds - the same way the Jubilife children were, and how the Pearl Clan had initially been. She was not.

I wrote this for a request for my Minutes drabbles specifically, about Akari first meeting Ingo, and how she would not be unnerved by him the same way others in Hisui might have been. (I tried to fit in the other request about her getting him to smile, but the best I could do without compromising was her telling a joke that made him laugh a little at the beginning haha. Hope that's alright anon!)

OR read here on AO3!

Enjoy!

—————

“Does Melli do this a lot?”

He could feel the loose grip of one of her hands on his left sleeve - the solution to his advice for her not to uncouple from him. The other hand could be heard dully dragging against the rough cavern wall. 

“Ah, no, he does not. But then again, his tracks don’t often pass through here.”

The teenager chuffed in the dark, hand leaving the side of the cavern to touch air as they passed by a dead-end passageway. “Bet it’s because a zubat attacked him once.”

Ingo made his own small sound of amusement at the visual that conjured up, just audible over the constant low droning of air passing through the compact tunnels. Water could be heard dripping somewhere off in the darkness.

The warden had only become acquainted with this survey corps member - Akari - this morning, and only aware he was going to do so ever since Lady Irida had requested his services the day prior.

“Commander Kamado of Jubilife has requested you travel down to the village tomorrow, and meet with Akari.” Irida had told him, holding him back at the end of one of their clan meetings one night. “To guide her to Lady Sneasler.”

Ingo had offhandedly heard of the girl before, from the things Irida had told the clan, and the anecdotes some of the wardens had shared themselves about their experiences with her; someone who had fallen from the sky, strange and unaware of anything around her, but astoundingly comfortable with Pokemon and their behaviors.

Just like him.

Ingo had been intrigued on who this girl was ever since he realized she was somewhat like him. Did she come from the same place as him? Was she also missing her memories?

He was concerned that he had made a bad first impression when he had greeted her outside her housing unit the morning they were supposed to meet. It had been done as a simple gesture to reassure her he was amiable, and not as intimidating as his appearance seemed to suggest to so many people. But regardless, her expression had been startled.

He had apologized to her for it when she officially met himself and Irida at the training grounds, but he worried that it had not been enough to undo the damage of the first impression. She had been quiet throughout Irida’s entire introduction of him, and he had been painfully aware of her sparse glances at him throughout their conversation.

Akari had remained initially quiet when the two of them had first left the training grounds together. Traversing the Coronet Highlands often took a day or two, and Ingo had started to anticipate a long, awkward journey with little conversation between the two of them. He was concerned he had intimidated her much like he possibly had with the young boy who often worked with Professor Laventon, the last time he had visited Jubilife. 

But soon after they had passed under Jubilife’s gates and crossed over into the wilderness, she had started small talk with him. 

Mostly, it consisted of general questions about Lady Sneasler (which he could answer just fine) and himself (which he regrettably could not answer as easily). And even a hesitant inquiry asking if he happened to have an ‘arcphone’ like her (The device was entirely foreign, yet its function sounded strangely familiar when she showed it to him).

Ingo felt a bit disheartened that he could not answer many of the teenager’s questions, and the more times he answered with variations of “I’m not entirely certain”, the more he could see that she clearly felt guilty for apparently reminding him of how little he knew about himself. 

So when they had reached the edge of the fieldlands, he had instead started asking her general questions about herself and her experience with the Galaxy Team, in an effort to distract her from the guilt that he felt was unwarranted.

Akari’s answers had initially been restrained, he assumed out of politeness, but he found she gradually became more comfortable the more she talked; shorter answers stretched out into more genuine anecdotes as they approached the highlands. By the time they had approached the entrance to Wayward Cave, she was already telling him about Ember, her quilava companion.

Uncertainty (or hesitance?) had still been there throughout her conversation, of course, and it was still yet to fully go away. It was reasonable, and expected; he was a total stranger to her, someone she really didn’t know at all. He would have been a little concerned about excessive naivety if she had already entirely dropped caution with him otherwise.

But it was a different sort of caution than he had gotten used to. Different from the way the Pearl Clan members had kept their distance from him for well over a month after his initial arrival, or how the children in Jubilife would stare at him the few times he had entered the village. How conversations with others were rarely initiated by anyone other than him. 

No, Akari did not treat him like this. She was not intimidated by him as others seemed to be. Perhaps it was because where she came from, his knowledge and adaptability to pokemon was admired rather than questioned. Or his clothes were perhaps not as bizarre as the Pearl Clan made them out to be. Or the phrases he used that perplexed even himself were actually common, everyday terms. 

Perhaps he was just the average everyday person where she came from, and maybe that meant he had come from the same place.

Or maybe above all, she had looked past his set frown, found his deeply-repressed tendency to feel lonely, and felt empathy.

Within the deep, cool darkness of the cavern, the breeze ceased where it shouldn’t have. Ingo paused for a moment. Akari bumped into his side, and she steadied herself as he glanced to the right. The darkness stared back, heavy, and alive, and breathing. Waiting.

"Please forgive the unscheduled stop, Miss.” Ingo whispered, keeping his voice low. “I detect an alpha Crobat to our right. Under normal circumstances, I doubt its presence would obstruct someone so competent as you. But given the poor visibility, I propose a track change in the interest of safety.”

He gently guided the teenager along into the branching tunnel off to the left. “Please follow me."

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

12 and 22 for Robin

✧ ━━ "𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐎 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄" 𝐎𝐂 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙸𝙽 𝙰. 𝙱𝙰𝚄𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙴 ; 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝙶𝚄𝙴 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴

12. Have they ever done something illegal? What was it? ━ Despite his rather amiable, charming nature; Robin's past is a mess of illegal activities as he climbed the ladder in the underground world of crime in Zaun. In his time there, he slowly adapted and Abel taught him almost everything he knows now ( No! Abel did not manipulate Robin to do any of this, he just helped him achieve his goals, whatever those goals were ). He soon learned to possess a monstrous charisma and learned an inhuman prowess for manipulation, and as seen in threads he is a very eloquent speaker and is incredibly persuasive/charismatic when he wants to be. A terrific planner, coming up with both long and short-term solutions to subdue enemies using a Machiavellian style in execution of those plans. He is happy to not be the center of attention and is satisfied with the role of puppeteer, unobtrusively pulling the strings to control or minimize other people’s influence. Robin can be extremely brutal if the situation calls for it, methodical in approach, yet he has never killed anyone himself, but … If you want me to list a few of the things he's done: - Aiding And Abetting - Assault And Battery - Blackmail - Breaking And Entering - Coercion - Conspiracy - Conspiracy To Murder - Counterfeiting - Destruction Of Property - Extortion - Fraud - Gross Negligence - Harboring A Fugitive - Illegal Possession And Use Of Firearms - Incrimination - Jailbreak - Kidnapping - Mafia Affiliation - Obstruction Of Justice - Racketeering - Sabotage - Smuggling - Stalking - Torture - Trespassing

22. Do they have any mental illnesses? ━ I think it's almost impossible for Robin to not; but I've always been wary diagnosing him with anything because I do not have the qualifications to do that. Rather I'll detail the traits of different illnesses he has, and I'll let you all draw your opinions from it. I went into his traits regarding NPD Here ; but he has a lot of ties to the Dark Triad (sans psychopathy). During his teen years he definitely went through an entire depressive episode that culminated in him making a pact with a demon so his suicidal ideation/survivor's guilt wouldn't eat him whole. These negative emotions continued up until and even after his death; but thankfully he seems to have found a sort of peace nowadays. Admittedly Robin did have what I imagine to be an anxiety disorder ( this I feel comfortable saying he had due to my own diagnosis with it haha ) in his teens too, being up in Piltover was a very stressful experience - however with Abel's assistance and teachings Robin was able to overcome this as well. I would say the most enduring part of his personality is his Machieavellian way of dealing with the world, but that is a personality construct and has never been classified as an illness; but is closley tied with anti-social personality disorder due to these interpersonal characteristics being common in individuals with APD. Again, I cannnot confirm or deny if he falls under any of these unmbrellas. He thinks unemotionally and logically when it comes to problem solving, and he has a very in depth understanding of how neurotypical people will react to certain situations/stimuli.

[injouable]

Was Franz Joseph as boring as he seems?

There are hudreds of different types of media dedicated to empress Elisabeth, including films, books, tv-shows and musical. And in most of them the figure of her husband Franz Joseph, who was much more important in historical and social context, is barely a piece of furniture in the backgroung. Even if his character is somehow developed, the central figure is always Elisabeth and never him. It is simply explained by the outstandind personality on the empress, that can have a lot of more or less romanticized interpretations. Compared to her, the emperor is just a boring and worthless normie, that noone would be interested in. But here are some facts about his young years showing that he also deserves some attention.

1. Just look at this twink and his tiny waist.

I'm 100% sure that he wore corsets.

2. Franz Joseph had a fenomenal memory. He never forgot names and faces and could easily memorise large vocabulary, which allowed him to learn six languages (German, French, Polish, Czech, Hungarian, Italian and a little of Latin and Greek). Also he was a really good dancer and had a talent for drawing. Here's his pencil drawing at the age of 13.

3. That little line from the musical "Feelings are forbidden for me" was actually a really big thing in his upbringing. His mentors literally didn't allow him to show any emotion to make him elaborate an iron discipline and self-control. Eventually his character became highly reserved and devoid of compation and warmth. And when he was already 17 his mother Sophie *suddenly* realized, that it all went in a wrong direction. The best solution that she came up with was to force her son to play a comedy role in a private perfomance at the court, so that he could gain more easiness in communication. Franz hated the whole idea and hated every minute on stage. But, supposingly, it did actually help him to imrove his social skills, because after that contemporaries always described him as a totally amiable and charming lad.

4. Franz Joseph became an emperor when he was 18. At that point the country was on the edge of revolution and the previous emperor, his uncle Ferdinand, decided to simply run away from Vienna refusing from the crown and left the reins of government together with a political disaster to his young nephew. Rumour has it, that when Franz Joseph returned after the transfer of power ceremony he burst into tears.

5. Two weeks later, when it was known, that austrian troops entered Hungary to suppress the rebellion and the civilian war has actually started, there was one peculiar incident. During an evening ball FJ's youngest brother Lugwig Victor accidentally cracked a mirrored door and asked the emperor to protect him from punishment. Unexpectedly Franz Joseph asked his mother, if he could smash the door completely, when there's already a crack in it. And after getting a permition he frantically and furiously shattered the glass into pieces. I didn't find any information about did he do it with some object or with bare hands, but just imagine, if he did it with bare hands.

The craziest is that it wasn't even at the imperial palace, they were on a visit to some archbishop and the man was totally pissed off by this prank.

There will be no conclusion.

[rimeiii]

Random demon HCs (SFW)

Eyo, it's your girl, the one WHB poster who's interested in this game for all the wrong reasons with something non-gameplay related for once! Part of what definitely interests me is the demons in general and how they'll play off with each other + the MC. Doesn't even have to be related to the sexy stuff - some of these demons I feel have the potential to have interesting and complex dynamics with each other, particularly the Avisos demons!

So, um. Yeah. Enjoy my brainrot-

(Also I will be particularly biased towards the demons who've caught my eye. Refer to tier list below. So, um. Yeah. Sorry about that orz)

I feel like out of all the demons in Hell, Belial would be the one most attuned to music. He'd be the one to replay songs again and again, probably wearing noise-cancelling headphones so that he'll truly be immersed in the music. He probably used to love singing as a child, so when his voice was taken away, he was completely and utterly devastated. To compensate, he'd take up an instrument (like an acoustic guitar) or learn how to compose, so that at least he can express his love for music and performance...

Gusion desperately wants to cut down on work, but it's hard. He spends countless days and nights just going around solving problems - and there's an abundance of them in Hell. Honestly, he thought of creating systems to help streamline his work and problem-solving shenanigans, but holy shit everyone just loves wrecking those too, huh. After calculating and approximating the time and effort required to perform his duties, merely solving issues as they crop up is the more effective and less tiring solution to everything. Which is saying something, when that in itself is already tiring as fuck.

Leviathan is a gentleman, through and through. Cool, calm, and collected on the outside, he practically perfected the art of hiding away his negative emotions behind a charming smile and a no-nonsense attitude on the battlefield. The only people able to pry away his emotions from beneath the mask are his fellow kings, the demons of Hades, and eventually MC. And even then, he'll only be able to show his most vulnerable sides to his nobles and, again, MC (eventually). It's hard to win his trust and openness, what with his jealousy often getting in the way of him forming healthy relationships with others.

Beelzebub is actually a pretty bad cook. Like, Mystery Food X levels of bad - at least, starting out. Now, though? Well, the people who said they enjoyed his cooking have somehow deluded themselves to think it's good before the side effects kick in. Does it have hallucinogenic properties? Is it a side effect of Beelzebub's tendency to have weird things happen around him? Or perhaps he really did improve on his cooking? Who knows...who knows.

Naberius and Gusion are the perfect drinking buddies. They'd get together at a random pub somewhere in Hell when they have the time, and they'll spend their time getting buzzed while unloading everything weighing them down at the moment. Honestly, this started as an effort to help Naberius - letting out his emotions bit by bit to ensure everyone's safety is much more preferable than letting his anger and annoyance explode to an extent he becomes a Kerberos. Sometimes, they'll be joined by Bael, although rarely as he is standing in for Beelzebub. More often, Satan shows up and chats with them, as amiable as always - and they end up being his main listening ears if he needs to vent. Satan's secrets are always safe with them, and for that, he is forever thankful.

Leraye and Paimon often make things together! The former has a knack for sewing, while the latter has a lot of ideas for clothes and stuffed toys! Working together, they'd be able to create a large variety of trendy clothing and cute plush toys.

I know a lot of people HC this but yes, Marbas would be a gentle giant. While he's aroused by being restrained, I'd like to think the reason why he's always restrained is because something bad happened while he was doing something while not being restrained. Perhaps he accidentally killed someone with his sheer strength, during a more "daily life" scenario. While his strength is his pride, his ability to heal is a larger source of pride for him - which is why he agrees with the notion that putting restraints on him is for the best.

Sitri is a tea connoisseur! He likes tea, knows which tea leaves are the best, how to make specific blends of tea, how long each tea needs to steep in order to bring out a specific sort of flavor...and among the demons in Hell, there are few who can appreciate the finer details in tea brewing like him. Some of these demons include Barbatos (surprisingly enough), Foras, Bael, Bathin, and Paimon. They regularly get together to sample his teas!

Whenever Bathin wants someone to accompany him in his travels, Amon often takes him up on his offer. They'll wander around without any prior destination, dealing with problems that crop up during their travels along the way. They both live in the moment while traveling, letting the winds dictate where they'll head to next. Amon deals with most of the logistics of travel while Bathin would focus more on finding and learning about the points of interest wherever they end up. An MC who enjoys traveling would love being travel buddies with them!

Mammon's way of showing his affection is gift-giving. Though his gifts might come across as overboard sometimes. Because what do you mean he already sent over some more jewels your way? Nobody needs that many jewels, sir! Either way, Tartaros is a prospering land purely because of the many treasures Mammon gives away to his people. Whether or not these overflowing treasures gets sent off to other areas is a different story entirely.

Andrealphus would be the most sympathetic towards MC, I feel. He knows how it feels to lose someone you care about deeply, to have your life ripped away from you in an instant. He had already been in that position a long time ago, and it would greatly please him if MC would let him support them any way he can - up to and including sticking by their side to protect them.

Out of all the demons in Paradise Lost, I feel like Morax would be the one most versed in the logistics involving healing and first aid. Which is understandable - his method of healing involves transferring his patient's wounds onto him in the form of pain. As a result, he'll have to be able to gauge just how far into the healing process he should perform with his abilities - especially on the battlefield. He'd have his nose buried in books during his free time just so he can increase his healing efficacy.

[strawheart-pirate]

Revelations

Donquixote Rosinante x gn!Reader

December 13th 2023 Words: 888 CW: SFW, Fluff, modern AU, established relationship, food, Rosinante’s nickname is Cora or Corazon

It was Christmas Day and that meant your brother-in-law was coming to dinner. You were worried because he had high expectations and your partner... well, he's a bit clumsy. Let's see if Corazon's wish for a perfect Christmas dinner comes true.

"We'll have smoked salmon with beetroot and vodka crème fraîche as an appetizer, roast turkey with lemon, parsley and garlic as the main course, with scalloped potatoes and cacio e pepe Brussels sprouts as a side dish. And for dessert, we'll have vanilla-infused panna cotta with a pomegranate glaze. How does that sound?" Cora smiled as he read the Christmas menu to you.

"Sounds wonderful, how can I help?" you asked as you tied on your apron.

"You can start with the potatoes while I stuff the turkey."

"All right."  You smiled and began to peel the potatoes. You had a certain routine in the kitchen, so it was no big deal to clean and thinly slice the potatoes. Occasionally you watched Cora struggle with the turkey. You could see that he was very focused on what he was doing because his tongue stuck out a little, and that brought a warm smile to your face.

The two of you worked in sync and finished the preparation in no time. You had already prepared the plates for the starters and dessert, so nothing could go wrong with those dishes. Meanwhile, Cora was already putting the turkey in the oven, since it would take the most time to cook.

"All done, thank you." Cora came over and gave you a kiss on the cheek.

"Anytime." You smiled as you set the table.

The afternoon passed in eerie harmony. Cora didn't set anything on fire or trip over his own feet. It was suspicious. An hour before Doflamingo arrived for dinner, you showered and dried your hair. You were about to put on your favorite Christmas sweater when you heard a loud bang coming from the kitchen. You threw your sweater on the bed, ran downstairs, and found Cora on the floor with the still-raw turkey in his lap and shards all around him. The glass of the oven door was shattered, and he looked like a beaten puppy.

"Oh dear ... What happened?" You helped him up and wiped the broken pieces off him. He placed the turkey on the counter.

"I ... I checked on the turkey and ... noticed that the oven wasn't on at all and somehow ... the door ... broke and I got scared and ... the turkey ... somehow ... flew right into my lap." Corazon stood there stunned, looking at the broken oven door.

You looked at the clock. "It's not your fault, Cora. We'll find a solution," you said, reassuring the big man with a gentle hug. "Go get ready so you're ready when your brother arrives, and I'll find a solution.

"Why is everything closed on Christmas Day?" You complained as you drove around town trying to find a place to get something to eat. After cleaning up the mess while Cora got ready, the two of you decided to get takeout for the main course. The turkey, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts were still raw, and there simply wasn't enough time to get everything ready before Doffy arrived. So, you drove aimlessly and frantically around town while Cora waited for his brother.

After hours of searching for food, you pulled into your driveway and hurried into the house with the food. You were relieved to find Cora and Doffy in the living room, chatting amiably and drinking wine as you sneaked the containers into the kitchen before going to greet your guest.

"I'm back. Hey, Doffy." You hugged your brother-in-law and winked at Cora. "Shall we eat?"

"Ah, finally. I almost had the feeling that Corazon was hiding something from me, but there you are. Fufufufu." Doffy laughed, and I saw Cora start to sweat.

"Oh, are you worried, Doffy?" You teased.

"Of course, I am. I just want what's best for my family." He grinned wickedly.

After serving the prepared starters, you sat down at the table and began to eat. The salmon was delicious, and you complimented Cora on the vodka crème fraîche he had prepared. Even his brother didn't make any snide comments about the food, he even seemed to like it. But you could never be sure because he never took off his sunglasses. You grabbed the empty plates and went into the kitchen to prepare the main course. You were so nervous as you arranged the food neatly on the plates, even adding fresh parsley to make it look home-cooked. You straightened your back and went back into the dining room to serve the plates.

Everyone dug into the warm and delicious smelling food, but you found it hard to eat because you were so nervous. You watched Doffy's every move, and after he took a few bites of his chicken and sides, you were finally able to relax and eat your share without tension.

That was until he spoke.

"Why does this food taste like KFC?"

Silence. You felt like you'd been caught out. Who were you kidding? He was Doflamingo and you thought you could fool him with cheap fried chicken from KFC? Pathetic…

"Because..." You were about to spill everything to him and explain it when Cora interrupted you with a questioning look on his face.

"Wait, how does your gourmet palate know what KFC tastes like?"

The look on Doffy's face was the best Christmas present you could have asked for.

All content unless otherwise stated belongs to: ©Strawheart-pirate. Please do not copy / modify / translate / repost my writing, banners or art on other platforms. Comments, reblogs or likes are highly appreciated! Snowflake banner by ©firefly-graphics

[moseslikellamas]

♱𖣂 Redfork Menace ♱𖣂 pt.22

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!OC

Summary - The Blackwoods and Brackens plan to disrupt the upcoming marriages.

Warnings - fem!reader, suspense, adult language, period typical misogyny, condescension, adult language, feelings of shame, feelings of guilt, manipulation, benjicot brainrot, Kieran Burton fancast.

Word count - 2.2k

Okay, am I dragging this out? Maybe a little. But I am a sucker for shenanigans. Sorry its late!! I was too tired last night.

Benjicot came into her room that night victorious, with a smile so big it was like to break his face. He’d picked her up and spun her around laughing. To say her mood was less jubilant was an understatement. She’d spent the better part of an hour consoling Martyn who was utterly baffled that he might be used as a political pawn as an eleventh son. Royce had been pleasantly surprised and amiable towards his match once he saw his betrothed. For that she was thankful, one less headache to deal with. It was clear Benjicot had not spent that same time trying to reassure his aunt. If anything he had probably avoided her, afraid of showing his hand and gloating too loudly.

But he would hear none of her complaints when she tried to voice them over his joyous celebration which included laughing himself silly and booping her on the nose when she grew irritated. It was maddening but she’d eventually dissolved into laughter herself at his antics. He was a man grown acting worse than someone half his age, running around her room like a chicken with its head cut off.

“Stop it! Have some self respect would you?” The sting was taken out of her words by the giggles still escaping her.

“We’ll be married on the morrow. We’re the only ones using the godswood. Gives us the best time slot.”

He winked at her but all of the laughter had died inside her throat. Noting her sudden frown he inquired about her sudden change in mood. His own excitement dwindled down to smolders. He approached her slowly before grabbing both of her hands.

“Surely you’re not still shocked at this?” He smoothed out her wrinkled collar before laying a hand on her cheek. Delicately rubbing the skin beneath her eye with his thumb. “I couldn’t have spelled out my intentions any plainer than this. What troubles you?”

What wasn’t troubling her? She was not so sure that mass forced marriage would absolve the riverlands of generations of grudges. What guarantees did they have that upon returning home the same attitudes wouldn’t start back up? How was she supposed to respect a marriage sanctified by gods she didn’t recognize? How could they make a successful family together if his guardsmen made nasty jabs about her children's cousins or uncles? It seemed to her this issue was more nuanced and complicated than the solutions proposed. Sure it would take time but it would also require a conscious effort on their part to ensure change was made.

As she contemplated this the answer came to her quite simply. If she wanted to ensure a change in the values of the people around her, she had to embrace that same change within herself. Now was not the time to rock the boat. The marriage would happen all the same regardless of her behavior. She knew it would be best to raise her complaints once they were gone from RiverRun. She did not intend to sit idly by and allow Benjicot to rule her life for her. She would insist on a sept at Raventree. And that was all there was to be done about it. Compromises were going to have to be made to bring this new chapter to life in the riverlands but Shanda knew when to push and when to pull.

“I’m just lamenting my last hours as a free lady. I should check on Alysanne, as I’m sure she’s experiencing a similar feeling. And you were no help, no doubt.” She huffed pulling his hand from her face and walking away from him.

He caught her hand and pulled her back, grabbing her shoulder when she turned back to face him. She hadn’t expected to leave that easily and it was nice if nothing else that he was predictable to her now.

“I did check on her, I’m not an animal. But believe me you don’t want to be around her right now. She’s been giving Lord Elmo an earful for hours by now.” He rolled his eyes and poked her in the side, unhappy with the scowl plastered on her face. “I’m not worried for her, you should visit your brother if anyone.”

That was probably true but she knew Alysanne was actually plotting a revenge attack against the Lord Elmo. Nothing too crazy but a tad dangerous and definitely something Shanda wanted to get in on. If the Lord wanted them all to spend more time together, to get on like a proper family, then a prank was the perfect way to cement the bond. Shanda was not going to let Benjicot in on that or any other man if she could help it. She’d already clued Bellena in and was assured that meant the rest of the women would follow shortly after.

“Perhaps you're right but either way, you should be on your way. I’m sure there’s a large barrel of summer wine being tapped right now. You wouldn’t want to miss out.”

He only grinned at her and took a step forward, crowding in around her.

“You’re plotting something.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes, like a rabbit right before it bolts.” He leaned in closer as if he could hear her heart thudding in her chest.

She tried edging around him but he continued walking her backwards, his hands shooting out to cup her face as her legs hit the back of the bed frame. She stopped in her movements and stubbornly stared up at him, crossing her arms. Her mind was a steel trap and there was no way she was going to spoil the surprise by letting him in on it.

“Tell me.”

Predictably he went for the direct approach first, bloody brute.

“I don’t know what you mean, ser. But I’ll thank you to unhand me.”

He paused, his eyes gauging her reaction. Testing her to see if this was really how she intended to play this. When she held her head high and did not buckle, he smirked.

“You know, a lady shouldn’t wander the halls unaccompanied. Just isn’t proper, especially in strange walls unfamiliar to her. What if you got lost? The guards around here are just never on duty are they?”

He was looking down at her with an arrogant expression that made her blood start to simmer. She knew what he was getting at.

“I’m afraid I must insist on accompanying you to your destination. So, where are we going? To see your brother I presume?”

His voice was nothing short of cordial and proper, an insult when contrasted against the way his hands held onto her, making sure she couldn’t leave.

Her face was flushed and she was working hard not to let her breathing pattern increase with her frustration. She knew there was no shot he would let her walk out of the door without him.

“You truly are fucking insufferable.”

The hand holding her waist came up to rest on her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers.

“A lady should watch her language.”

“Better I wasn't a lady then, incorrigible prick.”

In a blur of shifting colors she was suddenly flipped over, disoriented; it took her a second to realize he’d shoved her face first into the bed. She could feel his body heat against her as he ripped her arms back behind her before laying on top of her, where she was bent over the bed. His breath was hot on her neck when he spoke.

“You don’t mean that baby. If you weren’t a lady, I’d have ripped your dress off an fucked you that first night.”

The hand that wasn’t gripping her hands snaked up to pull her head back by her hair and her back arched with the pressure.

“Don’t you remember? You would’ve been so cute, gasping for air in the pouring rain, half covered in mud.”

She couldn’t think straight anymore. She knew in the back of her head he meant to throw her off. Get her to tell him about Alysanne’s plan but in the moment she thought only of his words. Her mind flashing back to that night, his blade pressed firmly against her neck.

“And you’re still a spineless brute.” She huffed back trying to keep her mind focused, then she stamped her heel into his foot as hard as she possibly could.

The only sign she had that he felt it at all was the sharp little exhale he did and that was enough for her.

“Don’t you ever think of anyone else besides yourself?”

She was annoyed by his continued presence and lack of respect for her plans.

“I think about you day and night. I wake up at your altar and linger there late into twilight. I look at the moon and see your face.”

He pulled them both up off of the bed, his arms wrapped lovingly around hers. She was so warm and held securely but she couldn’t care as long as he keep talking.

“I won’t spoil your fun, I promise.”

He rocked them from side to side, his lips brushing against her neck feather light.

“Just let me come with you.”

She prickled at that. “We’ll have the rest of our lives together. Can’t you give me one last night?”

As much as she verbally protested, she didn’t mind him wanting to tag along. She had enough of being alone for a lifetime. It would be sad to leave RiverRun after seeing so many people and embracing long lost cousins. Despite the problems that seemed to needle her mind constantly, it was a relief to see Benji cared to be around. Enemy husband or not, she didn’t want a cold, touchless home.

“Do you really want me to go?”

She felt the rumble of his words through her chest and closed her eyes. Maybe it was time to start making this union work for her.

“Let’s find Alysanne.”

***

“Oh you spineless cunt.”

Benjicot was smirking at his aunt while she berated Shanda, who looked rightfully abashed. But felt unashamed in her heart. Alysanne shook a finger at her and grabbed her by the shoulder, walking her away from Benjicot.

“You’ve really got to get a grip on him, you know. And you need to find a way too soon or else he’ll never leave your side. You’ll be packed up and taken on the road with him everywhere he goes.”

Alysanne had turned back to make an obscene gesture at her nephew then before continuing. She snapped at Shanda who had also looked back and became ensnared in golden eyes.

“Listen, I know you aren’t thinking with your head right now but this is important! Benjicot doesn’t give up easily, he does everything with all of his energy. That includes winning arguments, so figure it out!”

It was honestly good advice but she wasn’t of a mind to listen currently.

“Anyway, just be glad I gathered the girls elsewhere.”

Had Alysanne anticipated that Shanda would give their position up to Benjicot? That thought was amusing to her and annoying. The Blackwood brood was too observant by half. That was a problem for a girl who liked to move in the shadows.

“I’ll worry about Ben, you need to sneak into Lord Elmo’s study. On the top shelf of the bookcase behind his desk he keeps a little blue book. It has gold filigree on the outside of a jumping trout. You’ll know it's the right one because it has finger indents in it from use over the years.”

Shanda nodded listening as she laid out their plans. The book was full of riverland secrets and she was practically salivating as Alysanne explained the plan to her. It didn’t matter if the prank worked at all now, looking inside that book for a second would solve all of her curiosity for many moons. What did Elmo have on the Brackens? Once she knew what was at stake there was no question about doing it.

“What’s the distraction?”

It would be hard to draw the lord's attention away. He was wise to their shady ways. You don’t become next in line for Lord Paramount without being able to read people and Lord Elmo was the best at it in a generation.

Alysanne snorted. “You should be familiar enough with it, you used the same tactic many times before.”

Momentary confusion settled over Shanda but then she remembered Martyn and Alysanne would be spending a lot of time together now.

“You talked Martyn into it?”

She shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I handled it, now get out of here before Ben comes over.”

Shanda snaked through the hidden hatch Alysanne had led her over to as they talked. It was no more than a fancy hole in the floor but there was a torch waiting inside. Alysanne looked down at her, handing her a slip of paper. It was a fantastically drawn map of Riverrun, outlining her trip to the study. She knew Alysanne had done the map in Raventree Hall’s library but here was the proof. It was incredibly detailed and she wondered how long the lady had been working on this.

The door above her closed and she was alone in the cool, dark place. They had a short window of time to pull this off and Shanda didn’t intend to miss it. Picking up the torch she began the long walk towards the Lord’s study.

[eco-lite]

Time to share both sillies and beautiful words from @dianeduane 's The Wounded Sky!

[Text ID: “’And greetings to you also, Mr. Sc’tt; well met indeed! A long time now I’ve wanted to meet the man who has so many times has pulled the estimable Captain’s nuts out of the fire.’ Jim put up an eyebrow. Scotty reddened, and held his grin back from becoming a laugh. ‘I thank ye, lady,’ he said, ‘though it’s not often been so dramatic.’ ‘The idiom, though, would be “chestnuts,”’ Spock said, utterly deadpan. ‘Oh? Thank you.’” End ID]

Okay, starting out absolutely bonkers, got it. For real, I wish ST media played more with language mistranslations/misunderstandings.

[Text ID: “For once Jim had no eyes for the window in the officer’s lounge, despite the radiant view outside. He managed to get a good part of his steak down before the ship’s computer spoke softly to him, telling him that Spock has logged off the Bridge and had instructed the lift to drop him at deck six. Jim bolted the rest of the steak, had the table dispose of it, and was working on a salad when Spock came quietly in. ‘May I join you, sir?’ Jim waved a forkful of greenery in invitation.” End ID]

This is so freaking funny. This could either be taken as Jim not wanting to offend the vegetarian Spock by eating meat in his presence, or that Jim knows he's supposed to be on a diet and doesn't want Spock to see him cheating. And the way he's instantly acting casual with his salad as Spock walks in. Perfection.

[Text ID: “’This would normally be morning for me. Bit I wanted to be here at “night.” So do a lot of my people, evidently…’ Jim nodded, smiling slightly; the computer, somewhat bemused, had told him that such shift-trading and shuffling was going on all over the ship. ‘Some “dawn” for you,’ he said. ‘Well…it is. It is.’ Uhura didn’t take her eyes away from the great silent pool of light. ‘First time any of us have seen this light after all…’ ‘I would hardly say that, Lieutenant,’ said the quiet voice on Jim’s left hand. Jim didn’t even have to move; he just let out a small breath of amusement and gazed out into the dark, listening to the old familiar game among his officers begin. ‘This light has rarely left Enterprise’s hull since her keel was flown. For an expert in communications, you exhibit a shocking imprecision of expression. Were you instead to say that you have never seen the Galaxy in this particular fashion—’ ‘Mr. Spock,’ Uhura said with great affection, ‘you are incorrigible.’ ‘Only impermeable, Lieutenant,’ Spock said. His voice was calm as usual, and revealed nothing; but Jim stole a sideways glance and saw that shadow of a smile that Spock occasionally wore. The Vulcan did not lean on the railing. He stood straight, but his stance had comfort about it, and his eyes were lifted up to the great darkness as if inviting it to appreciate his humor—though not to do anything so gauche as laugh out loud. It cooperated.” End ID]

I love banter.

[Text ID: “Jim bent his head a bit, speaking only for Spock to hear. ‘I was going to congratulate you on your timing, by the way.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Getting us out of there. –We were there?’ ‘Surely I was. And I perceived you to be.’ ‘Mindlink?’ ‘Again, I think not, sir. Though stress on either member of a …team… that has mindmelded in the past, will sometimes reactivate the linkage, this experience did not have the same “flavor.” Also, I was unable to break it, as I would have been able to do were it a true link—so I must decline the congratulations with regrets. We must look for another solution—and, I suspect, a more complex one.’” End ID]

...team... .........TEAM........

[Text ID: “’This the popular name, “creative physics.”’ There was an amiable snort from a ways down the railing, to Spock’s left. Jim glanced in that direction and noticed that McCoy had joined them, and Harb Tanzer was leaning on the railing on Bone’s far side. ‘How do you “discover” a statue you have yet to sculpt?’ McCoy said in good-natured derision. ‘Because you have sculpted it, even before you pick up your first chisel. This time scheme discards both succession—“cause and effect”—and simultaneity, as fragmented and incomplete glimpses of the larger continuum in which both coexist. In such a scheme, the rude comment you make in a moment has existed complete since the beginning of time—it “was, and is, and shall be,” to borrow a phrase, “forever and ever.”’ McCoy glared at him and said nothing. Harb laughed. ‘But Mr. Spock, he didn’t say it!’ ‘That is entirely like the Doctor,’ Spock said with an expression of mild annoyance. ‘He cheerfully flouts that natural course of a whole Universe to prove me wrong.’” End ID]

Bones is so belligerent. I love him.

[Text ID: “Deliberately, then, as if turning away from even her slight safety, Jim brought himself about to look at what cast the starlight on her hull. And the view was very different from the vista available on the observation deck, where one was snug inside a ship. There it hung above him. A galaxy, the Galaxy, not shut safely outside a clearsteel window, not even nearby any longer, but more distant than the Magellanic; a bright-shored island hanging grand and silent in the airless wastes displaying all of its starry majesty at once. Jim just drifted there, letting himself see. Sol was lost in the sweep of stars in the leftward arm, an utterly insignificant 24th-magnitude spark that not even the great ten-meter Artemis/Luna reflector could have made out at this range. The whole Federation, from the Orionis worlds to the Vela Congeries, was a patch of sparkle that an upraised finger could cover The Klingon and Romulan empires were almost entirely— Awe grew in him again, and a muted joy; but also an increasingly powerful disquiet, so strong that inside the suit Jim simply shook for a moment. The world that all his life had been around him, was suddenly outside him—and he was outside it, way out in the coldest deeps where no star shone. Jim gazed in uneasy wonder at the little spiral-shaped home of life, with all its lights left burning in the dark. It finally sank in, as it hadn’t even after the first jump, what he’d done to himself and the people he commanded. He’d gone too far, this time. He and four hundred thirty-eight souls were truly where no man had gone before, alone as no one in history had ever been. It delighted him. It terrified him. His voice sounded loud in the helm as, meaning it, he whispered that old phrase he’d read first in Anglish: ‘O Lord, Thy sea is so great, and my vessel so small…’” End ID]

And now we get to the beautiful language parts. For context, the Enterprise has transported outside the Milkyway galaxy in a very dangerous way, and Jim is taking in the vast beauty of his home from this far vantage point. But it's also finally sinking in how deeply in trouble they are.

[Text ID: “The doctor saw Jim’s stunned look, spoke a word or two to a couple of the people who were keeping him company, and left them behind to see to Kirk. Kim literally had to squeeze his eyes shut as Bones approached. McCoy blazed, not with light, but with an intense compassion that could be felt on the skin, even from a distance, like the sun in a desert. Jim had always known Bones cared deeply about people, but he was unprepared for the full truth of the matter—” End ID]

Bones literally glows with compassion in this strange liminal space realm. Yeah, that makes sense. I love how Diane writes Bones' character. I feel like she really understands him.

[Text ID: Two pages. The first page says: “’Captain,’ the other familiar voice said on his other side, ‘are you well?’ And Jim turned to look at Spock, and was dazzled again, but this time he couldn’t look away. Spock hadn’t changed; but here his spirit showed as it never had before, even in the harrowing intimacy of mindmeld. From the meld, Jim was already familiar with the incessant activity of that cool, curious mind as it tirelessly hunted answers. But now he saw where the activity came from—Spock’s utter certainty that there was no higher purpose for his life than to burn it away in search of the truth, and to give that truth away when he found it. More, Jim saw what fueled and underlay the certainty: a profound vulnerability paired  with a great, unreasonable joy—the deepest-hidden parts of Spock’s Earth-human heritage, both of them sheer terror to a Vulcan mind. Even when Spock had been trying to suppress or deny those hidden legacies, they had managed again and again to escape and express themselves as valor, and wry humor, and the endless good-natured fencing with McCoy. But Spock wasn’t denying the inheritance so vehemently any more, and the power of the older, wiser man was a joy to behold, and a terror. This great mind has been standing behind me and quietly obeying my orders for all these years? Why?? He could be so much more—But in this place, the answer was plain to read. Loyalty was frequently unreasonable and illogical—and Spock had long since decided that this one aspect of his life could do without logic. ‘Spock,’ Jim said—and ran out of words. He was deeply moved, and didn’t know how to adequately express it—until he abruptly felt Spock feeling the emotion with him, and knew there was nothing more that needed saying on the subject. ‘I’m fine, Spock,’ he said then, and glanced over at McCoy. Bones was gazing at Spock in a curious, almost grudging calm.” The second page says: ‘Leonard,’ Spock said, ‘you are not seeing anything now that you have not long suspected was already there. Nor am I.’ The shadow-smile, the flash of humor, pierced Spock’s outer and inner sobrieties once more. ‘And you need not be concerned about your “dark” placed revolting me. I have seen them before, in meld, and may yet see them there again. More apparent here is that neither of us is quite the hopeless case the other has sometimes considered him to be.’” End ID]

This is so powerful--this understanding of each other they've all come to. Being able to see each other fully, and not shy away. This is the emotional connection stuff that should be explored more in sci-fi. The genre is a perfect medium for it.

[Text ID: “Moved far past words, Jim gave his gift, the thing sweetest to him. To sit at the heart of four hundred thirty-eight souls, and be truly their heart, and their head; the one they gave their power to—not unquestioningly either, but after consideration, by choice, and sometimes )though he would never understand it when it happened) by love. To command them, to be (by that command) in service to them. To suffer their pains and joys as they did his. To be companion to them, to delight in what the all did together—explore, dare, adventure, work, play. In all the Universe he could think of nothing better to give, nothing more worth being remembered when he and all the humanities and the Galaxy itself were merely old stories. He gave the memory, the feeling of what he loved, to the Others; and tears fell again as he realized who he was, and how lucky he was to be him.” End ID]

It's complicated, but essentially the Enterprise crew has awakened this entity with their zero-space jumping, and now the entity doesn't want to give up their sentience. The solution was to erase the memory of their encounter with the Enterprise crew, but let them keep their sentience and create a whole new universe in this other dimension they live in; one made up of all the qualities the Enterprise crew wants to share. This is what Jim shared. I love seeing this side of him. As always, Diane is a legend at believably expanding upon the TOS characters, and further exploring their emotions and relationships. It's really beautiful to see.

[coldshrugs]

longing's favorite season 🔹 part one

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau rating: general word count: 3.8k additional entries: prologue 🔹 part 2 🔹 stable scene 🔹

"Saulette, could I trouble you to draw the curtain?"

Io looks up from her book to the cold, clear ray of midday sun streaming through the glass window and directly onto her left hand. An unwelcome distraction, the way it catches the faceted stone there, sending tiny colorful, refractions across the page. She twists the band until the gem is inside her fist.

She squeezes until the metal begins to dig.

When the girl doesn't answer, she asks again. "Saulette?"

New to the staff at Fortemps Manor, Saulette became Edmont's solution to Io's frequent lack of company: a handmaid and potential friend in one convenient package, of course, but Io is not Emmanellain.

Saulette is nice enough, eager and amiable. As a blessing, she is much less intimidated by Io after her extended residence at the Alicorn. But she's very young and, at times, overly familiar. Io has had to ask her to refrain from hanging over the back of her chair as she reads, or not to cling to her arm during their afternoon walks. Luckily she has learned to knock and wait to be let in, instead of barging. 

Now she is nowhere to be found.

Just as well. All the good reading materials were exhausted three moons ago anyway, so she closes the book with a mind to pillage the kitchens.

The east wing—a relatively small two-story annex comprised of a few private apartments—is empty. Once, it was a refuge for Io and her friends when they needed it most; now, the Lady Greystone de Fortemps quietly wiles away her days here until called upon for a social gathering. The warmth offered by these halls has all but seeped away, like the letters from her former Scion associates, save Y'shtola. Even Haurchefant's flame for her has burned inconsistently since she denounced life as an adventurer, just as Edmont predicted.

Her footfalls echo softly in the carpeted corridor until she reaches the parlor.

Murmurs creep through the door before she can open it, including Saulette's excited trill. Io doesn't bother trying to listen; she suspects they're on about the next high house luncheon or some other event she will be politely forced to endure as an envoy of Lord Edmont's great vision for opening Ishgard's borders. She hadn't planned for her exoticism to be his first import, but it seems her marriage to Haurchefant required it.

The voices hush as she enters, but the staff cannot hide their interest as they huddle around the long wooden credenza by the main hall's entrance. Io blinks curiously as they rustle a missive between them.

"Mistress Io!" Saulette rushes to her side, taking her hand and bowing awkwardly at the same time. "Have you heard the news? Ser Es—forgive me—the Azure Dragoon has returned to Ishgard. Just days ago!"

"Estinien is here?" Io musters her composure. She pulls her hand out of Saulette's and spins the ring once more.

Saulette nods vigorously, beaming at Io while the rest of the staff return to their chatter.

"I have some errands to run in the crozier, and may wander down to Foundation." Io places a hand on Saulette's shoulder when she tries to follow her toward the cloak rack. "I'm fine, really. I expect to be back in a bell or two. Take the afternoon to yourself."

Outside, the air is filled with wispy white flurries floating lazily toward the ground, one of the more pleasant types of snowfall in this place of endless winter. Not even the ever-present chill can temper the excitement flooding Io's chest at the thought of reuniting with someone so dear to her.

The friendship forged during their travels was shaky in the beginning, but she and Estinien grew into the sort of silent understanding she can't recall sharing with another since... maybe since she arrived on this continent. Their pasts, their journeys, and the titles they donned as armor were all congruencies that smoothed the initial frustrations of their forced proximity and made them walk in lockstep. When it was time for him to leave and make his amends, there was nothing painful in the departure—he needed time and space to grieve, and she would want the same for herself—so there could be nothing but happiness in his return.

And Io could use a touch of happiness. No one's been in her corner. Not like she needs.

Aymeric fusses over her wellbeing during this banquet and that gala, or calls on her when he has a moment to spare, but his new responsibilities leave little time for depth to accompany his fondness.

She rounds the corner of the manor to avoid too many eyes, then twists her aether in on itself, small enough to fling toward the pinprick of energy closest to her destination.

In an instant, Saint Valeroyant's Forum takes shape around her. Imposing charcoal stone and metal spires meet the snow-bright sky above, but on the ground, folks pick their way around crumbling rock and rickety boardwalks. Half of Valeroyant still reclines against the edge of the fountain. Io assumes this courtyard was once elegant to behold, but in its current state, she sees only a fitting metaphor in the fallen statue: how much the nation demands of her soldiers, and the kind of rest they might find in their futures.

The air is thicker in Foundation. Smoky, colder, and colored by the scents and sounds of the Forgotten Knight: brewing ale, smoked meats, and rowdy laughter. It is only midday and the tavern is already in full swing. She remembers staying in a dingy Cloud Nine room that was never quiet enough to rest soundly, but Gibrillont made sure she, Tataru, and Alphinaud were warm and fed. That was plenty, after what they'd fled.

Nostalgia's inviting whisper almost pulls Io into the tavern... but a soldier clinks past, reminding her why she's here. She bears straight ahead, into the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly.

"Greetings, Laithe." Firmalbert's eyes crinkle beneath his helm in a smile. He does not correct his address.

She returns his smile and continues inside, where more than a dozen knights pour over various duties. More still wander up and down the stairs, going to the barracks and offices above, or leaving the premises toward their latest assignment. In the center is Ser Handeloup, third in command of the Temple Knights, bent over a table laden with documents, sorted linkpearls, and maps with scattered pins indicating troop positions.

Io's approach does not break his concentration. She waits across from his, her smile stretching with each passing second she goes unnoticed. Aymeric's choice of leadership may as well be his reflection. "Do you ever stop, Handeloup?"

"Io? You're a welcome sight." There is little surprise in his expression, a sign of his constant preparedness. He brightens easily, happy to shed a pressing responsibility or two in exchange for a chance to chat. "Apologies, I haven't had the opportunity to congratulate you personally. I hope you and Lord Haurchefant still bask in wedded bliss." He smiles, pausing graciously to let her answer.

Io's lips curve into the barest smile, but she offers only a nod.

Handeloup clears his throat. "My wife was delighted by the invitation. You see, families as middling as ours rarely have the pleasure of attending such events, and your wedding was an experience neither of us will soon forget. You have my gratitude."

There is a thick, faraway drumbeat in her ears. Her vision shifts focus, clear then blurry, seeing him but not. The false smile sticks in place. She sinks. 

This dread was there in the beginning, but has only grown heavier over the last few months. Handeloup is happy for her. He wishes her well and only means to share in what should be a joyous time. Shouldn't she be happy too?

Why is it so difficult?

It's only half a second before she resurfaces. 

"Careful, or I'll have to see you invited to the next soiree. You think you know exhaustion now..." With luck, she downplays her unease. Handeloup even offers her a polite chuckle. "But I'm afraid I didn't come with an invitation at the ready. The true reason for my visit is rather removed from the joys of high society. I've just heard Estinien has recently returned to the city. Is he here?"

At this, Handeloup's smile falters. His posture straightens. Io readies herself for some grave news of her friend's demise; was his return not a safe one? Or perhaps he's left again and she missed him by days, or merely hours.

"I am sorry, Lady Greystone, but Ser Varlineau is disposed. He and the Lord Commander are in a meeting just now and cannot be interrupted."

'Lady' Greystone, is it? Was she not simply 'Io' a moment ago?

At least her question has a direct answer.

Io straightens her own back, clasps her hands firmly. "Come now, Handeloup, you know the three of us are close friends. I am no stranger to their meetings. I'm sure Aymeric is currently making a generous proposal and Estinien is pretending to shoot it down with an in–"

"I am afraid the Lord Commander has asked for no disturbances." Handeloup looks to the stairs he has seen her climb time and time again to access Aymeric's office. "Glad as I am for the ways Ishgard is changing because of your deeds, there are some things that will ever be the same. As you are now the lady of a High House, I must ask you to stay here, until the Lord Commander has given his approval."

The disappointment is difficult to swallow, but she has already struggled too openly in this conversation. If it is a matter of approval, surely Aymeric will give his. She needs only to play the game as it is laid out before her.

Io inhales, then smiles. "May I leave a message with you?"

"Aye."

He passes her ink, quill, and paper. just She quickly scrawls her note and folds it in half once the ink has dried.

"For Ser Varlineau, with a post-script for the Lord Commander. I will not expect haste, but... it would be most appreciated." She places the scrap of paper into Handeloup's waiting hand.

"I will see it delivered," he says with a formal nod. There is a finality about it.

She could wait. But waiting might be considered an overreach, which could be perilous to the image Edmont has painstakingly crafted. Besides, they could be up there for half the day, and she told Saulette this would be back soon. Easier to leave without a fuss.

Midday gives way to early evening, and with it comes a heavier snowfall. The Jeweled Crozier doesn't flinch.

Ishgard's upper echelons (and those vying to join them) trawl the street in search of their next beloved frock, necklace, or hairpin. Treasures they will count as priceless for a single evening, deemed untouchable the following morning, for who could bear the shame of being seen in the same thing twice?

There is another form of commerce in the market, featuring treasures far more valuable, and intangible, than the goods on display in the shop windows. They are all watching, eager to glimpse who stops to chat with whom, who gets snubbed, which debutante praises the broaches at this artisan stall, what tailor the High House sons swear by this week. They trade stories of betrayal and betrothal, laugh at falls from grace in the same breath they lament the fallen. This is foreplay for them, the first sparkling sip of champagne lingering like lace on their tongues before venturing into heavier spirits, as vital as attendance at any charity gala or dinner party.

Io has no interest in being part of their performance, but her refusal to engage must come with a veneer of politeness. She keeps her smile soft, she keeps her head angled just so, away from the oncoming shoppers as she picks her way through the street. Few in this crowd want to speak to her, the anomaly, anyway—at least not here, where her past cannot be recounted as a series of amusing anecdotes over hors d'oeuvres.

She is only here to purchase an unremarkable trinket, some small proof this outing wasn't in vain before continuing back to Fortemps Manor.

An unpopular stall carrying wooden hairpins is her solution. The fashionable Ishgardian favors polished metal and gleaming jewels, neither of which appear on this display. Each pin is ornately carved and richly lacquered to accent the natural pattern of the wood. Io inspects a long, curved pin in the shape of a feather. The barbs are so delicately ridged... her muscles twitch, remembering days spent fletching arrows until her fingertips grew numb, the feel of smooth ash wood and sinew, cut feathers and twine. The work, its memory, moves under her skin.

"You will do," she says, passing her payment to the vendor.

With her task accomplished, she ascends the stairs that lead to the Pillars' residential areas.

"Warrior of Light," a gruff voice calls from behind.

She freezes, breath catching in her throat.

When was the last time she heard (his voice) that title? In hearing it, part of her feels restored. Hope, or something like it, flowers in the hollow of her chest. The shadows move.

With one hand on the balustrade, Io turns.

Estinien stands at the bottom of the stairs. At a glance, he is as gray and severe as the city that surrounds him, but Io has always considered him out of place here. This is no different. The icy breeze jerks at his untucked cotton shirt and loose silver hair, and he cares not what the onlookers at his back make of his appearance. One boot-clad foot is on the bottom step, the other hangs frozen in the air.

He looks... a bit stricken. Soft... His eyes widen, his mouth is open as his breath mists around him. A kind of surprise she's never seen him wear, as if he expected to find himself face-to-face with someone else entirely—he doesn't seem disappointed that he's found her instead.

His guard returns in the moment it takes him to bound up the steps. "Though I've just heard you've earned yet another title... I endure days of Aymeric's fondness for idle chatter, yet he failed to mention your developments." He looks her over in quick inspection, from head to toe, and shrugs. "Do not expect me to call you 'lady.'"

Io grins at him and nods toward the pillars, beckoning him to join her. In place of the hug she longs to give him, it is the best she can do. With Estinien at her side, the walk goes slower.

"If holding back the eighth calamity hinged on that alone, I believe you might let the world fall to ruin."

"Aye." He does not elaborate. "Should I congratulate you?"

His eyes are sharp and searching, the same shade as the darkening sky above, and they bore into her. She feels a question in them, one he doesn't ask. In truth, he doesn't need to.

It is simply: why?

"Gods, no. In six moons, I have had all the congratulations I can bear. You are too late, I'm afraid." Io clears her throat and steers their conversation toward a more interesting subject. "How were your travels?"

Estinien tears his attention from her face to the mountains that surround them. "Educational, as the last year has been," He pauses. Io waits.

They feel out this familiar rhythm, the rests and surges so common in their conversations. Generous spaces where thoughts collect in their own time, the places where meaning hides, waiting to be found. Always followed by something plain and true. It was the same on the road, once they found common ground enough to talk.

"I am not certain they've concluded, but if Ishgard has need of me, I will avail myself a final time."

"Ishgard?" she asks, ignoring the implication he may leave again. "Or Aymeric?"

He dips his head and smiles, a small thing she knows well by now. For a long time, it was the only part of his expression he would allow her—or anyone—to see. "Funny. I suppose I should try my hand at this 'commanding' business, what with being the Commander of the Knights Dragoon."

"Ah, I see that going smoothly." She does a poor job of hiding her amusement. Snow crunches softly underfoot, each step heavier than the last as the Alicorn's peak comes into view.

Estinien snorts as they enter the Last Vigil, "More smoothly than you as a housewife, surely."

She stops. Her pulse rises to her ears for the second time in so many hours. No. She finds the banister with an uncertain hand, propping her elbows on the snow-covered railing. Stay here, Io wills herself, don't go down there. She pushes back against the deafening rush of blood, slowing her inhales until each cold breath is comfortable. It helps to focus on the distant mountaintops haloed in gold from the setting sun, or the calm and cloudy sky above them, touched by the first traces of night.

Her pulse recedes, leaving the world strangely silent. The street lanterns flicker to life on either side of her. She cannot say how long it took to recover this time.

Long enough to leave her wondering if Estinien has left in the wake of her awkward retreat. If she turns around and finds herself alone–

"Io."

His hand falls on her shoulder, heavy. Steady. The last of the dread falls away.

He pries her away from the stone railing, and the unspoken question from earlier remains. But he smiles again, playfully jostling her shoulder until he coaxes one from her too. Io looks around the square; now that the crowd has thinned, she throws her arms around him and squeezes until he shakes with low, rumbling laughter.

"Oh, shut up." She rests her head on his shoulder, arms held tight around his neck. Warmth bleeds through his cold clothes, and he doesn't sway when she leans against him. His arms wrap around her, obscured by her cloak. He squeezes back.

The world threatens to fall away again. Her head buzzes with a new rush—a pleasant one. Instinctively, Io pulls out of it. She steadies herself with a deep breath and releases him.

Estinien drops his arms. There is a crease between his brows. "All right?"

They walk on. "I'm sorry. If you must know, I am a bit jealous of you. Your continued adventures. I haven't adjusted to standing still."

"Easily remedied, no?" Estinien shrugs casually. "We will make our own adventure. Unless you've been chained at the ankle, what keeps you from going where you please, at least for a day? If you want for decent company, well, I cannot claim decency. But we are friends, are we not?"

"Of course we are." Io bumps her shoulder against his. "Alas, the chain is metaphorical, and therefore heavier than you've imagined, and it has everything to do with the title you'd rather ignore."

He crosses his arms, steps slowing as they near Fortemps Manor. "You don't even mean to try?"

"I did not say that. I only meant–"

"Io, dearest! And is that Ser Estinien?" Haurchefant's high, clear voice cuts through her retort. She did not hear the door open, but she certainly hears it shut as he takes the opportunity to join them. "The steward said you were out on errands, but I never expected you to procure such a treasure as the nation's final Azure Dragoon. How are you, my friend?"

Haurchefant extends his hand to Estinien, who clasps his arm with practiced neutrality. Io doesn't miss the tight line of his lips signaling his annoyance at this interruption. For a blessing, this escapes Haurchefant, but there is comfort in knowing she is not the only one hanging to her charades by a thread.

"Fine," Estinien says. His gaze follows the arm he's just released settling around Io's waist. "And if we must go on about rank, 'Knight Commander' is the less abrasive option."

Haurchefant's expression brightens beyond possibility. "You are returning for good then?" In his excitement, his clutch on Io tightens. She breathes deeply.

It isn't always like this. His touch is one of the easier things to bear.

"For now."

"Then I pray we might catch up, though my post occupies the majority of my time. But Io is in residence, and I daresay the two of you would enjoy revisiting your treacherous expedition, or those most glorious of battles at journey's end. Would that my joining you were a certainty, but you need not delay on my account."

Estinien turns away from them, facing Haillenarte Manor and the path he would use to depart. A shoddy attempt to hide his growing grin. "A shame."

Haurchefant's face whips toward Io, and there is a look in his eyes she hasn't seen in moons: interest. Some reminder of her valorous past washes to shore and he desires her.

"Shall we go inside, my dear? I fear my visit here is not an extended one." He speaks only to Io now, in a voice he has barely lowered. Io has no doubt Estinien overhears. Perhaps the boasting is the point.

"Is it ever?" She swallows her sigh, feeling two things equally: grateful for a night of attention, and already eager for his return to Camp Dragonhead. Before he can answer, she sways out of his grasp and towards the manor door. "Goodnight, Estinien," she calls behind her without looking.

"Goodnight Io. Ser Haurchefant." She catches his reply as Haurchefant follows her inside, just before the door closes.

"Ser Varlineau (as I am expected to address you, apparently), Your arrival comes as the most delightful surprise. I expected you to stay away for far longer. Though you neglected to seek me out, I forgive you. And I think you will enjoy the fact I've made a fool of myself in looking for you. Please do come see me. It's been too long. Your friend, Io P.S. Aymeric, must your knights refuse to let me up the stairs?"

—A note found while cleaning the desk of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights.

"–saw him just days ago, in the Crozier of all places. He still cuts quite a brutish figure, but I make no pardons for saying it is a figure I would not mind viewing more thoroughly. A blessing directly from Halone, Herself... Oh, before I forget, are you planning to attend the Manseauguel affair? I simply cannot decide what to wear—"

—Lady Aileve, overheard at a formal Dzemael luncheon