#because he most definitely deserves to walk away carrying gold for his performance as this character

[doortotomorrow]

cooper "the ghoul" howard » portrayed by walton goggins

#Fallout #Cooper Howard #The Ghoul #Walton Goggins #falloutedit #I sincerely hope the producers and team behind Fallout have begun the award campaign process for Walton #because he most definitely deserves to walk away carrying gold for his performance as this character #such a captivating performance that I can't stop talking about

[pendragonfics]

Patch

Paring: Leonard McCoy/Reader

Tags:  no gender for reader, no name for reader, no pronouns for reader, post Star Trek Beyond, protective Leonard "Bones" McCoy, fights, missions, angst and hurt/comfort, resolution, fluff, medical, injury recovery

Summary: Reader and Leonard have an argument over Reader's attendance on an away mission. But when Reader returns injured, will all be resolved?

Word Count: 1,566

Current Date: 2021-01-19

According to the statistics, it was improbable that your return to the USS Enterprise would be on a hover stretcher. There was a truth to it, and it showed in the data. Sometimes, casual dating was a fun exercise in romantic growth with others. However, when casually dating Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, CMO of the ship and resident grump, it wasn’t easy. You were a hands-on learner! A xeno-geographer worked better in the field.

Despite your inclinations, the data showed a different story. Crew admitted to Medbay worked largely in security and on away teams. An overwhelming percentage of those wore a red uniform. The statistics reduced for casualties for sciences blue, and lesser so with gold. The statistics had abated your worries. But despite the numbers, Leonard was not having it. It had been a passing conversation over replicator coffee. Five minutes before departing for the alpha shift, he had downed his black, no sugar and no cream, and gave you a most definite no you had ever heard.

“I won’t condone it,” he said, gathering his holo-pad. “Look - I’m not calling you a bad officer! You’re damn fine at your job.”

“Is that why you’re acting my father instead of partner?” You retorted hotly. Something about his obstinance reacted unfavourably with you, “You’re not my keeper.”

He blinked, and slowly, placed his mug upon the table. “My apologies, Darlin’,” He said, in a low voice. “…that I am not.”

It was then he walked away. The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of preparations, and without a moment to think of Leonard, it quickly became pushed to the back of your mind.

The away mission was simple. The people were a previously uncontacted civilisation on the northern hemisphere of a Federation planet. The southern populace had been contacted some years ago. However, the mission was to observe and document its cultural landmarks and social evolution.

Come the arrival, however, your nerves got the better of you.

You felt like your head was getting the better of you. All the unspoken words you wished you had said to Leonard at the forefront, not your job. While the rest of the team made their way to the outskirts of the citadel, you fell behind.

Had that been your first fight as a couple? What if you never saw each other again? What if that was the last thing you ever said to him?

That was how you did not see the trap in time. Up you went, the rope snagged around your leg, hoisting yourself into the air. The crackle of your comms buzzed, but it fell out, and no communication was received. The other members of the party turned at the commotion, coming to help you.

"I said to look out for that," a security officer muttered, lowering you from the uncomfortable hoist. "Now we sprung the trap, the people are sure to know we are here."

"Are you hurt?" one of the others asked.

Before you could find the words, however, you heard it. The distinctive twang! of a string-based weapon. Despite your vast knowledge of the weaponry used in evolving alien civilisations, that alone did not save you. Because as soon as you heard the release, the projectile was coming for you. And as fast as you were, there was no way to dodge it.

You blinked.

A flash of blinding pain erupted from your shoulder as an arrow-like object embedded itself within your flesh. The words were lost in your throat, but holding them in, a reactionary gurgle of agony escaped.

The security officer shouted something into his comms. The away team scrambled. Someone pulled you from the path, but not before the twang! and release of more projectiles was heard again.

You hadn't been shot before, but now you had. The voices around you seemed to fade out of volume, though they were nearby. Your head swam with confusion and fear. All of those aside, it was the sensation of beaming on board that brought you back to lucidity.

All you could think of was not on the primitive projectile jutting from your shoulder. Not the hazy fog that filled your thoughts, like a slow poison. It was with your boyfriend.

"Get them to Medbay! We need help!" someone called for help.

Despite the lucidity, you felt a prisoner in your body as they helped you onto a stretcher. Carried toward the Medbay, you tried to parse your thoughts into a coherence, but it was no use. The faces of those around you were blurry, some doubling. Their voices faded in and out, and slowly, you felt less and less control of your limbs.

Upon arrival into the Medbay, the white light overwhelmed you. If you weren't already having trouble comprehending the world around you, the commotion in the Medbay brought vertigo-like nausea to you. Despite your understanding of your surroundings being hard to pay attention to, you knew the blurry silhouette at the end of the stretcher.  The appearance of the CMO was something that would've been comforting to some. Despite having little control over your body, you try to move from his sight, lamely shifting away to evade his gaze.

“What are you waiting for, divine intervention?" his voice cut in. "I need a bed for the patient, stat.”

You tried to roll the stretcher once more, but your already turning stomach turned some more at the movement. Your shoulder burst into another wave of pain. A gentle touch upon your collar stopped your movement. You didn't need to open your eyes to know whose hand it was. You were well versed with those hands. You knew the good and kind work those hands performed, the love and tenderness behind his touch. But you also knew what those hands had done in the seconds before you parted.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but they weren't for the pain. No. The fading rush of adrenaline somewhat helped with that. The tears were for a different pain.

"It'll be okay Darlin', you'll be okay." He says, voice low, hurridly. You felt his hand upon your cheek, cupping it. "You have to be."

Soon after that, all the noises of the Medbay blended into one. A prick of a Hypospray led to a loss of sensation in your arm. Then torso. And slowly after that, a loss of awareness. But as your eyes fluttered to a close, some part of you fighting the anaesthesia, you caught sight of him. He stood at the end of the cot, a chart in hand, speaking with a nurse.

As the world faded from view, you felt his name on your lips.

---

When you next opened your eyes, there was no denying the throbbing pain. Slowly beneath the bedsheets, you tested the muscles in your body, moving them slightly. Your fingers moved on command, toes too. As you shifted your arm, you realised that the projectile you had taken a hit with had been removed. Glancing up, everything in sight was as it should be, no doubled vision. The screen beside you that housed your vitals seemed to wake up with you. It hummed a similar tone to that of your heart; a soft ba-dum, ba-dum.

It wasn't long before a nurse arrived. But as quick as they came, another person appeared. But he was no nurse.

Leonard looked as tired as they came. His bags under the eyes were dark, his skin sallow, his dark hazel eyes somewhat vacant. You had no idea how long you had been under; it could only have been one day, right? But Leonard looked haggard. The previously sexy stubble of five o'clock shadow looked dishevelled, unkempt.

"I didn't mean what I said," you blurt, trying and failing to sit up. Silently, Leonard came to your side, helping you do so. The bed, adjusting into a seating position, whirred to life. "I was just frustrated. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied softly. "But there was truth to your words."

You watch as he takes a seat at the bedside, his hands lingering at the edge, not moving to hold yours. "You're nothing like my father, Len." You reassured him.

"I know." He says. "...but I was being your keeper. You're a free spirit; you deserve to be unfettered. Free to do what you want - free to do what your job needs."

"I'm not a pigeon that flew inside a public building, Leonard," you hum. "I'm a person."

He wipes a hand over his face. "A hell of a person, at that." He says, quietly. "In truth...you reminded me of her. My ex-wife. Elinor. She was always stubborn, that's why we got hitched, and why we fell apart. But with you..." You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with your own. "Darlin', you can handle yourself. You're a tough cookie. But with you – this is your life. You work as a xeno-geographer," He sighs, "Who am I to stop you?"

"Leonard..." you squeeze his hand.

"It was wrong of me to try to stop you. And even though you did get hurt, it took all I could to keep it together, treating you."

"Thanks for trusting me," you whisper, squeezing his hand once more. "I promise next time I'll be even more careful."

He smiles. "And even if you get hurt again, I'll patch you up."

#Leonard McCoy #leonard mccoy x reader #leonard mccoy x oc #Bones #bones mccoy #bones x reader #bones mccoy x reader #Star Trek 2009 #star trek fanfic #star trek alternate original series #star trek x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #gender neutral reader

[abluescarfonwaston]

Did someone ask for a quick and angsty immortal jaskier prompt? "It was supposed to be the music," he whispered, voice breaking. Heart breaking. "The songs. I wanted my songs to be remembered forever. I never wanted this."

Why would you do this to me anon. i’m already crying over the fact dandelion outlives everyone he loves. Major Character Death Warning. Obviously. Literally everyone dies. Uuuh also this kinda turns into Lambert/Jaskier at the end but like. They’re both Centuries old so nothing Happens.

When the wasting sickness swept through Lettenhove it killed his Mother and his Father and his Sisters and left him untouched. 

He was ten and the world was over. Except he kept waking up in the morning.

At thirteen a girl at Oxenfurt, Essi Daven, played her Lute in the commons and sang and had the most beautiful cornflower blue eyes. And for the first time in years he sang a duet with her and suddenly he was a bard and he had a little sister again. 

Maybe the world hadn’t ended. Maybe it finally restart.

At seventeen he met a man with white hair and seemly as many scars on his body as his heart and fell in love. Because Bards fell in love easily and he was impossibly easy to love.

The witcher plead for his life. Plead for them to let the bard go.

“No. Both of us or neither.” He was done outliving those he loved. At seventeen he was already done with that. “You kill him and let me go and i’ll destroy your mountain. Kill every last one of you in revenge.”

He’d leave behind a song. The one he’d written as a child and had swept the town more devastating than even the scarlet fever had been. It would live on past him. He would be remembered. The people he loved would be too. Toss a coin to your Witcher. The people he loved immortalized in song.

It wasn’t supposed to make him immortal.

“Give it a rest Jaskier.” Danity snapped. “It’s not you that has to be afraid of anything. No one ever touches a troubadour. For unfathomable reasons you’re inviolable.”

He’d still feared then. Chappelle could have had him killed. He was pretty sure he could die. Mostly he feared the pain. Or dying alone.

“When an old woman gets tired of life she walks into the woods without a weapon. The results are guaranteed.” He’d told Geralt when he’d moaned about how the world was changing and -more importantly- that he had no work.

Remember how I don’t even carry a knife when I follow you out on an adventure? No weapons at all. Ever. Just me and my lute.

He’d brushed death. A thousand times he’d almost met her. He followed Geralt- who was prophesied to always have death follow after him. You’d think at some point they’d meet.

Essi and Geralt fell in love on the coast. He wrote a ballad for them. About how their love was so powerful not even death could come between them.

He never played it. Not to anyone. He didn’t think it was actually about Essi and Geralt.

When rash appeared on Essi’s face in Vizima during the quarantine his hands shook.

“Not her.” He’d screamed at the gods. They didn’t exist of course. If they had then they’d abandoned them all long ago. “Not her.”

“Jaskier?” She shivered violently. “I don’t want to be burned.”

“You won’t be. You’re going to be fine.” He promised. Clutching her hand. “Promise Poppet. You’re going to be fine.”

The cremation fires blazed outside.

“I want to be buried in the woods. With my lute and-” She hurled mostly into the bucket. “My necklace. Please Jaskier.”

“Course Poppet. When you’re old and grey I will bury you out in the forest.”

“Thank you.” She clutched the little pearl. “For giving me him. I love him.”

“I never saw him happier than when he was with you Poppet.”

“What about when he was with you?”

“Oh come now.” He shifted her in his arms and moved the bucket a little further away. “You know me. I’m insufferable.”

“I love you Jaskier.” She cried as she shivered with less and less energy.

“I love you too Poppet.”

He carried her from the city. Into the forest. Her heart stopped beating before they arrived. He dug her grave and buried her with her lute and her pearl necklace.

With the pearl he’d given to her as a birthday gift. From him and Geralt.

When Regis passed it felt absurd. Humans weren’t supposed to outlive goddamn vampires in their fifth fucking century.

And then there was Geralt. Died in Yennefer’s arms along with her.

“It was supposed to be me.” He told no one as Ciri led their bodies out to the lake. “I was supposed to die with him.” Love so great not even death can part us.

But the story was never really about him was it?

Nenneke had a garden full of plants that grew under a crystal skylight. They didn’t grow anywhere else in the world anymore.

He’d asked Geralt about it. She’d said something about the sun and how it was changing. Apparently Geralt had asked why they all didn’t live under crystal skylights then, if it was so deadly.

“It’s already too late for us.” She’d said.

She talked liked the world was ending but the world ended all the time. And he still woke up in the morning.

Zoltan’s beard turned grey. He supposed he should have been thankful that Zoltan got to turn grey. It was better than most of the people he’d loved.

“How’s your fucking hair still Gold. You’re supposed to be getting old too!”

“I dye it.” He lied with a roll of the eyes. He’d stopped dying it years ago.

That winter he buried Zoltan too.

Golden eyes stared at him in confusion. “You look just like.” He started. His thin hair was grey. His wolf medallion gleamed in the sunlight that streaked into the bar.

“You’re one of the last Witchers i think.” He told him as the waves crashed outside. “Might even be the last.”

“Fucking hope so.” He sat down across from him and stole his beer. “Shitty job and a shitty life.” He squinted at him- which Jaskier knew was entirely unnecessary. He just forgotten to adjust his eyes. “What’s your name bard?”

“Dandelion.” He answered. It had been for the last century. “Yours?”

“Lambert.” He downed the drink. “You really think i’m the last? That worth a song? One of my brothers had a lot of songs.”

“Yes I suppose he did.” He waved for another drink. “And look what it got him.”

“Died surrounded by people who loved him.”

“Are you sure you know what a pogrom is?”

That got him a sharp toothy grin.

“I could write you a song but-” He was tired of burying people he loved.

“But?”

“I’m cursed you see.” It was definitely a curse these days. “I’ll live until the last of my songs is forgotten. I really don’t need anymore material.”

Lambert leaned forward curiously. “Doesn’t sound like a curse.”

“You don’t think it sounds like a curse?” He sneered. Lambert’s face faltered. “To outlive everyone you love?”

Lambert paused. Thinking. “Write me a song then. Play it just for me. So if my song’s the last we’ll go together.”

“And what’s my payment for this song?”

“Company.” Lambert’s grey eyes glittered. “You look like you need it.”

“Not as much as you. I bet you talk to your horse.”

“Well i know you do pretty boy. Heard you in the stable.”

He leaned back on the bench. “So what’s a Witcher do in a world without monsters?”

He shrugged. “Fish mostly.”

“I can do that. Once almost snagged a catfish the size of you. Got a djinn instead. Very bad deal honestly.”

“You expect me to believe that? I know about Bards and Ballads and how you’re all rotten liars.”

“Don’t forget about fisherman and their tales.”

The boat leaked worse than an old drunkard but it was small enough and the lake calm enough that it didn’t make him sick.

“I could just kill you. Curse probably can’t fix decapitation.” Lambert offered with his stick in the water. He claimed were bombs they could use instead if they got desperate. Or bored.

He smiled and shook his head. “Give it a try.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow but pulled a silver blade from it’s sheath.

His pole reeled and the boat tilted to the side, plunging him and the sword into the water.

He laughed as the attempted to drag the monstrous fish to the boat. Lambert cursed and climbed in. Yanking at the rod until the line snapped and they fell back into the boat in a painful pile. Laughing.

He didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

“Sing me a song bard.” Lambert would request from under his floppy sun brimmed hat. “No else up here but me.”

“There’s an entire stone keep on the hill.”

“No ones lived there in centuries. No one can hear you up here but me.”

He frowned at the ruins on the hill. Lambert kicked him.

He grinned and for the first time in decades - sang.

Maybe. Maybe the world hadn’t ended. Maybe it had finally restart.

“What was this place called?” He asked as they wandered through the crumbled ruin, covered in moss and ivy.

“Kaer Morhen.” He said like the words hurt him.

They hurt him too. He laughed.

He laughed some more.

He couldn’t stop laughing until Lambert smacked him hard enough to see stars.

“I never got to come here. Geralt.” He caught the flinch but moved past it. “Never trusted me enough to even let me know which country it was in.”

“So you were his bard.”

He nodded as Lambert kicked a stone apart. “He was right not to tell me of course. But.” It still hurt that his best friend hadn’t trusted him with his home. He’d taken Yennefer here. But not him. Never him.

He didn’t deserve Geralt’s trust. A thief, a liar, a spy, a bard. It still hurt.

“Well a wolf finally took you here. Is it everything you fucking dreamed?”

He took it in. “Nah. It’s rubbish.���

Lambert smirked. “Yeah. At least that hasn’t changed.”

“You’re hairs getting grey bard.”

“What?” He nearly leaped into the water in his haste to look.

Grey strands streaked his beard.

“Thank you.” He cried. “Thank you.”

“Still owe me that song Dandy.”

He wrote Lambert a lot of songs. Performed for an audience of one.

“Are you really okay with the fact no one will ever hear them? I mean what’s the point in being immortalized in song if-”

“Yeah. Didn’t give a shit about the songs.”

“Hey!” He protested. Kicking him where he lounged in front of the fire. “They’re good songs!”

He grunted in fake pain. Wiggled out of range. “Did Geralt ever tell you why he liked having you around?”

“My charming personality I assume.”

Lambert snorted.

He sat down on the floor and poke him. “Don’t fall asleep. Tell me why you think he did.”

“No one tells Witchers bedtime stories.”

“Oh.” Lambert was halfway to sleep already. “Would you like one?”

“Yeah.”

“What you think happens after?” They were huddled together. Old and grey as a storm raged outside. “We die.”

“I gave up on gods when i was a child.”

“So did i.”

“Then.” He paused. Listened to the howl. “Whatever’s next at least neither of us is going alone.”

Lambert squeezed his bony hand. “What’s the chance we see them again?”

“Hm.” He pretended to consider. “Well we’re definitely going to hell so-”

“Like anyone we gave a shit about wouldn’t be.”

“Point.”

He closed his golden eyes. “Hey Dandy.”

“Yeah?”

“Sing me out.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

And quite singing filled the drafty cabin until the song stopped.

The world ended.

And at long last no one woke up in the morning.

#geraskier #Jaskier x Lambert #Immortal Jaskier #jaskier #Essi Daven #canon deaths #play me out Dandelion #Let's go together #also Anon I specifically Requested NO IMMORTAL JASKIER CAUSE IT NOW BREAKS MY HEART #damnit #hope this breaks your heart you bastard #thanks for the prompt #someone send me fluff #writing

[random-mha-thoughts]

Mama’s Boy/Lover’s Boy (Bakugou x Reader)

Pairing: Bakugou x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Inspo: “Down for You” by Cosmo’s Midnight/Ruel

Summary: Bakugou hates being dragged to fancy parties for many reasons, but only one thing makes it all worth it.

Word Count: 2,322

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​ @bunnythepipsqueak​

a/n:  I absolutely adore this picture, ngl that was the whole inspo for this.

It's not fair that a whole Katsuki exists while I'm bleeding out and my hormones are out of whack.  I'M A LOYAL SHOUTO HO, STAY IN YOUR LANE KATSUKI!  DON'T TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY INSTABILITY LIKE THIS!

When I was at the last few paragraphs, I realized I would've loved to let Baku lose his shit and almost crash the entire thing like in Murphy's Law (man I loved writing that), but that wouldn't be good.  We love a good chaotic fluff monster.

This turned out a lot longer than I thought it would, but I really like how it turned out!  Definitely more fluff than I expected, but who's mad at that?  I'm bleeding out of my uterus and my mom and dad got me feverish and sick and I definitely needed this, so I KNOW you Baku stans are gushing at this too.  Thanks to @rubyred-imagines​ for one of the story beats here!

Spice might be incoming in the next day or two ;3  Not sure which character yet, but it's gonna happen!

"Babe, your face."

"What about it?!"

"Stop looking like you want to kill everyone."

"But I do!"

"I know you do, but don't look it."

Katsuki walks into the grand hall, muscular arm linked through his dazzling girlfriend's slender one.  He really doesn't want to be here; he hates these high-class, uptight gatherings, he hates this constricting tuxedo he has to wear, he hates how he barely knows anyone here, and he especially hates that he could've been on a date with her alone instead of being surrounded by these suffocating faces.

His lovely girlfriend announced this unfortunate outing a few weeks ago right before Katsuki was going to suggest the idea of having a date night, since they haven't had any quality alone time together in a while.  Her eyes lit up when she reported that she RSVP-ed for both of them to attend her company's fancy dinner.  And his plans were crushed like that.  He wanted to grumble and refuse, but she'd yell right back at him anyway, being the stubborn person she is.

She reminds him of his mother.

"You're just like my mom," Katsuki rolls his eyes.  "She used to drag me to her company dinners all the time, too."

"We won't stay for long, I promise," she pats his arm with her perfectly manicured fingernails.

"She used to say that too, and then we'd be out for hours," he mumbles to himself.

The girl looks up at him sweetly.  "And you'll be a good boyfriend and stay here with me the whole time, right?"

The blond growls low in his throat.  "I don't even belong here, you were invited, not me."

"Katsuki, you're my guest, of course you belong here."  She leans up to whisper in his ear, "Besides, you're more handsome than any of the guys here, show them all up."

That makes Katsuki smirk.  "Damn right I am, babe."

The couple find their table after an irritating amount of time.  Every few steps, some other pretentious stranger from his girlfriend's company sweeps over to exchange empty kisses and the same empty conversation.  Katsuki thinks it's some kind of script everyone practiced from, no one deviating from the script or else the entire simulation might fall apart.  Actually, he would like to say something inappropriate just to relish their horrified or disgusted faces, but he for the sake of his precious girlfriend, he keeps his mouth shut, teeth grit, and smile plastered each time he's introduced to a new face.

"Do you really know everyone here, babe?" Katsuki mutters in her ear as they finally approach the table.

"Not everyone," she hums in response, "I don't know most of the employees from the other two companies here, but I know the higher-ups through my boss."

He briefly remembers her saying this dinner was for a big merger deal between these three companies.  His girlfriend works tirelessly for her boss, usually taking on more than she can handle and coming home late most nights.  She'd been promoted from just being a regular company worker to being in a near-the-top position right under the main board managers.  He admires her dedication, but he's always worried about her health and energy level.  He may be a Pro Hero, but she's the real superhuman in the relationship.

Katsuki does the gentlemanly thing of pulling the chair out for his lady and pushing her back in before settling in his seat next to her, purposely shifting closer to her than the person on his other side.

"What manners your boyfriend has," one of the older ladies at the table coos at the couple.

"Thank you, I'm very grateful to have him," the girl smiles politely in response.

Katsuki's heart melts at the pride dripping from her voice as she compliments him.  "And I'm very lucky to have her."  It felt like the right thing to say as he squeezes her hand under the table and briefly glances into her eyes.

The two don't tear away from each other until someone else approaches his girlfriend and she stands to greet him briefly.  Katsuki surveys him in case he would do something ballsy to his girlfriend.

She turns and places a hand on Katsuki's shoulder.  "This is my boyfriend, Katsuki Bakugou."

Hell yeah, I am, you better not pull anything, dumbass.  He stands and shakes the other man's hand, polite but stiff.

"Nice to meet you.  Your girlfriend is honestly a powerhouse, she's amazing," the man gushes.

"Yes, I'm aware," the blond replies tersely.  He's on guard because he doesn't get a good vibe from this man.

Sure enough, he goes on a little too animatedly about how much his girlfriend does for the company and the rest of the company.  It comes off to Katsuki as fake and kiss-ass.  Nonetheless, his girlfriend accepts all the compliments like the graceful goddess she is.  He realizes this boy is one of his girlfriend's juniors as they descend into a conversation surrounding work and future projects.

After dismissing him, another group of his girlfriend's underlings rushes over with compliments and "Oh my gosh, senpai!  You look amazing!" and the like.  Each time, she would accept the praise, introduce him, before launching into more work-related subject matter that Katsuki learned to tune out eventually.

Honestly, he's annoyed at how everyone here is overwhelmingly toxic.  All the subordinates or peers are kiss-ups and her superiors are pretentious stick-up-their-asses that look down on his girlfriend.  He can't stand that his lover is surrounded by this atmosphere all day.  They don't know the genuine type of person she is, other than that she's kind and easy to walk all over.  No one seems like they care enough to carry genuine conversation, and he'd rather not tune into that energy.

Instead, Katsuki directs his attention to his lovely girlfriend.  Staring at her face, he recalls how painstakingly long it took for her to paint her face with makeup to look this flawless.  He's sure she would've had a mental breakdown while doing her eyes, especially putting on her eyeliner.  She was chanting to herself cutely to get them even, almost coaxing her shaky hands in front of the mirror to perform some kind of magic.  If he had done the wrong thing and hurried her or teased her habits, she would've unleashed all her anger on him.  He's learned that the hard way.  In the end, she was able to achieve this masterpiece on her face without making herself look like a completely different person, highlighting her natural beauty.

Scanning downward to her dress, he remembers fondly going shopping with her last weekend.  Her hair was in a topknot as she fumbled through the racks for a dress to wear.  She had dragged him along because she trusted his opinion on fashion choices.  While he would've liked for her to choose a scarlet red gown, Katsuki knew she'd look infinitely better in the sapphire blue number she's wearing now.  The skinny straps holding the dress up leads down to a not-too-plunging neckline that suits her shoulders, collarbone, and chest perfectly.  The dress cinches in at the waist to emphasize the figure he knows she has before falling straight down from her hips, and the mid-thigh slit on one side is subtly sexy without having her risk overexposure.  Finishing the entire outfit is a classic pair of nude pumps, a dainty gold necklace, matching dangling earrings, and a clutch matching her shoes.  Her hair is curled in waves cascading down her back with some stands hanging over one shoulder.

Katsuki can't help but smile unconsciously.  He can't wait to someday place the finishing touch she deserves: a simple but elegant ring on her left hand.

After all the formalities, the two finally sit down and start eating the dinner courses that have started gracing their place settings.

"I know you wanted to go out for date night today," his girlfriend begins gently, "But we can imagine this is a fancy restaurant with just us two, and everything else is just a backdrop."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention to what's going on?" Katsuki quirks an eyebrow.

She waves her hand and takes a refined sip of her wine.  "I've already heard them practice this speech too many times."

The devilish blond smirks and slinks closer to her.  "That's not something a good employee would do, is it?"

"I'm not working right now," she smoothly responds back, replicating his energy.

The organizer of the dinner finally takes the stage and starts his speech.  Katsuki keeps his gaze on his beautiful girlfriend, admiring her delicately picking and eating at her plate.  She's so precious to him, he doesn't care if he's making heart eyes and everyone can see.

When the speech finishes, his girlfriend's glass also empties and she indicates that she's going to get another.  It leaves him on edge, he hates being alone with all these strangers even for a few minutes.  He doesn't want to tell you this, but if one of these people try to small talk him without you here, he might actually break something.

"So, Bakugou, what do you do?" the same lady from earlier chirps at him.

He whips his head up.  For fuck's sake.  "I'm a...public safety worker of sorts."  He tries so hard to sound polite for his girlfriend's sake.  He also can't resist scanning the room for her as a safety reflex.  With all the shady people around, he doesn't trust that something bad won't happen.  And he also wants your comfort in these uncomfortable situations, but he'll never admit that either.

"Oh, I see."  The old lady seems satisfied with his tone, barely noticing his fidgeting as she launches into a whole story about her grandson wanting to do something like that, and all the tangents related to that.

Katsuki is relieved that he doesn't have to talk for the rest of the time, just nodding along  and humming to prove he's passively listening.  He finally spots his angel a few tables away, groaning internally that she was stopped by someone, keeping her from coming back to him.  It seems they were having a deep conversation at first, but suddenly the man cracks a smile and a joke that makes her cover her mouth in respectful laughter.

Katsuki's annoyance is cut through at her wholehearted display of emotions.  The entire night, he's been complaining about how much he hates everyone here, but it's only now he realizes how relaxed she looks in the entire situation.  She's completely in her element; he'd get easily drained by all the suffocating small talk, but her?  She thrives off this, she gains energy from it.  Although she comes home late, overworked and tired, she still faces every day with a smile on her face.  She makes it look so easy to talk to people, striking up and following conversations with everyone in the most endearing and poised way possible.

Katsuki smiles to himself, warmth washing over him.  Yes, just like his mom, but it makes his girlfriend all the more stunning and admirable in his eyes.

His girlfriend finally returns to the table, her recently-acquired glass already half empty.  "What did I miss?" she asks, buzzing with both energy and alcohol.

Katsuki leans his head on his palm.  "Nothing much."  He's still basking in the glow of his wonderful girlfriend, casually sipping his own wine absently.

She turns towards the clearing in the center of the room and takes his free hand.  "Let's go dance, babe!"

Any other time, Katsuki would have sternly declined, but he can't resist her today.  Without a single complaint, he rises and lets her drag him by their entwined hands to the dance floor.  Guiding his large hand around her waist as her one hand plants to his shoulder, she raises their joined hands and starts swaying them to the classic orchestral ensemble's upbeat performance.

The man doesn't know if it's the overwhelming feeling of pride he recently uncovered, or the way their bodies press together gently as he inhales her floral perfume, but he can't find the words to describe everything he wants to say. He settles on simply smiling warmly down at her as he whispers, "You're amazing, you know that?"

His girlfriend's cheeks flush and she erupts into giggles.  "What's with the sudden compliment?"

He shakes his head.  "I just realized it, that's all.  Just like my mom."

"You sure are a Mama's boy, aren't you?"

He scoffs at the idea.  "I love the old hag, but I'll never tell her that.  Besides, I'd say I'm whipped for a different woman in my life."  He brushes hair behind her ear, her earring glinting against the light, and places a kiss on her perfect temple.  "You look stunning tonight."

His girlfriend's eyes close in half-lidded affection.  "I'm sorry this isn't the perfect date night you wanted."

The blond leans his forehead on her's, slowing their pace to allow time to pass much more leisurely around them.  "I get to dance with you, I think that's a definite win."

"I guess so."

Katsuki comes to realize that he can be forced to come to all of these events.  All that matters is his enchanting lover and her smile.  When the night is over, he can't wait to let her take her heels off and carry her bridal style to their car as everyone watches in envy and awe.  He'd let her recline and rest her weary feet, telling her stories of his adventures of night outings with his mom to lull her to sleep in his passenger seat.  And then he'd carry her sleeping figure up to their bedroom and wake her gently so she can clean herself up and change into her cute pajamas, just so they can cuddle in each other's warmth until they fall asleep.

Maybe he's not a Mama's boy anymore.  More like he's a Lover's boy.

#Bakugou x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bakugou fluff #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #female reader #bakugou imagine #bakugou scenario #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

[indiavolojones]

Diavolo eats a pomegranate while Lucifer works. Lucifer doesn’t realize that the plate of pomegranate seeds that’s just been steadily growing is, in fact, for him. 

alternate summary: serving/sharing fruit with another is one of the most tender shows of love in the world and i am a soft, gentle soul that just wants canon-compliant-ish domesticity somewhere in the 1800s?? idk, they’ve known each other a damn long time. u_u 

2.2kish words, G, dia/luci, #no warnings apply except for like, idk, a sizzle of diavolo thirst on lu’s part. we can angst later, y’all

Special thanks 2 @canonlucidia for being 1) my rock and 2) my resident lucifer expert that wrote the report line and lastly 3) just being so, so good with lore and patient with me when cv brain go wuh??? 

-

A memory, a snapshot in their thousands of years spent at each other��s sides, the scene burned into his mind. 

Not all their moments are stretched to the extremes, interactions eternally caught in fire and brimstone. Some of them rest here, in a gentle domesticity that Lucifer is hesitant – and rightly so – to acknowledge. 

Here, with the two of them alone in Lucifer’s office, is a tentative, trembling contentment that Lucifer has yet to fully take apart in his mind. 

Lucifer sits at the desk with almost painfully perfect posture, as lamented by Diavolo, several sheets of parchment paper drying in front of him. A small white plate with intricate gold designs burned into the glaze rests nearby. Diavolo pulls out a blade from thin air, cutting it into a ripe pomegranate with the practiced efficiency of someone who grew up with the trees keeping him company.

“I will not be re-writing these reports if you make a mess,” Lucifer says apropos of anything Diavolo might do, on purpose or otherwise. 

The admonishment in his voice half-hearted at best, even as he warily eyes Diavolo slicing the fruit open. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Diavolo quips, returning a cheeky grin, slouched over the empty side of Lucifer’s spacious desk as he cracks open the pomegranate into fours. 

Diavolo opted for his human form today, which is a laughable concept to Lucifer in itself. Diavolo’s aura can barely be contained by him in his demon form, but to see his essence stifled into a mortal’s appearance… Diavolo’s human teeth are always a little too sharp at first glance or in one’s peripherals. His gold eyes are too molten to match any human shade. 

Pair it with Diavolo’s inability to sit on anything without it becoming a throne – sprawling with languid, regal grace as natural as breathing, much to Lucifer’s annoyance – and discretion is a difficult request. 

Lucifer has called him out on his slipping control of the glamours before, especially in the instances where they find themselves working in the Human Realm, the risk of detection a very real threat. Not that many princes are discrete, but Lucifer supposes that if he expected someone to spill out past the seams, it would be Diavolo, who has always been larger than life in both personality and power. 

Despite a grandiose description, Diavolo’s attire does not reflect his status. His outfit is more fitting for a common human rather than the next ruler of Hell. 

The other is dressed in indecently tight trousers and a loose, finely-woven off-white tunic that dips low on his sculpted chest. Cording at the hem of the shirt drapes over his exposed skin, and Lucifer offhandedly wonders why they even bother getting Diavolo fitted for garments if he’s just going to wear things too loose, too tight, or forego most clothes altogether. 

In the past, Lucifer might have asked why are you here? or don’t you have your own work to do? All such inquiries have been shut down with a colorful multitude of responses, displaying the future king’s creativity. 

Some honorable mentions being:

Diavolo’s wild claim that Barbatos was staging a coup, and clearly, Lucifer was the only one who can fight off someone with control over time. Lucifer had asked when Barbatos was hosting the next recruitment session, which led to a troublesome, if not amusing, outburst from Diavolo.

A somehow unionized group of suitors threatened to storm down the palace gates for his hand in marriage. Diavolo was merely hiding in the safest place, for once they believed he was not home, they would give up and leave! 

"A curse, Lucifer. It was a curse!" If more than two pairs of eyes were to witness Diavolo, he would surely burst into flames. That's why he tried to hide behind the door when Barbatos came to collect him!

Nowadays, when Lucifer can’t kick Diavolo out of his study/Barbatos is off running the household and can’t drag him away, he allows himself to lean into giving Diavolo a hard time – nothing unbecoming of their stations, nothing disrespectful – but enough to give Lucifer quiet vindication. 

It serves him right, for all the grievances he causes Lucifer on a daily basis. 

(Levi calls it teasing, but Levi has not left his quarters since the last major war killed one of his favorite authors before a series was finished, so what does Levi know of social interaction?) 

“If you’re in need of something to do, Barbatos and I found a few errors in your last few missives…” Lucifer begins. 

Diavolo, surprisingly, doesn’t jump to the bait.  

There are no witty remarks that come from the future king’s lips, only the lazy upward curl of a smile and a contented hum in return. 

Unused to the lack of a response from the other, Lucifer glances down at the small plate, Diavolo's cultivated pile of seeds gathered in the shallow puddle of juice.

Another pomegranate seed plinks onto the plate, and Lucifer watches through his peripherals as it topples the delicate balance of the seeds already there. 

He narrows his eyes at it briefly, as if it holds the answers to his obvious questions, but says nothing. Diavolo works at a steady pace, humming quietly under his breath as his nimble fingers pluck seeds from the fruit. 

For a while, they go on like that. 

Diavolo alternates between quietly munching on seeds and adding to his growing plate. Lucifer scribbles away at the parchment, his clean script much more legible than Diavolo’s own. 

Diavolo deserves an award, Lucifer thinks, for the longest amount of time spent not getting into trouble in Lucifer’s recent memory. Perhaps he should be more suspicious of the other’s uncharacteristically quiet nature, but Diavolo looks at ease with his menial task.

Diavolo’s tune continues, a soothing, low cadence to his voice offsetting the relative quiet of Lucifer’s quill scratching at the parchment. It’s a waltz, syrupy sweet and with a dreamlike quality as Diavolo’s humming carries the notes into creation. 

It casts a spell with charisma alone, and Lucifer doesn’t notice when his hand stills, quill hovering over the page as he tries to recognize the tune. A smile twists the prince’s lips, his lips stained darker with the sweet purple nectar.

Diavolo doesn’t hesitate in his motions, only glancing up at Lucifer through his lashes. Lucifer’s breath involuntarily catches in his throat.

Lucifer does not think about how Diavolo’s fingertips are stained as well, stained deeper than the curve of his lush lower lip. Does not think about the juice dripping down his tanned skin, drying sticky on his wrists. It is in the middle of these not-thoughts, their gazes catching in passing, that Diavolo speaks.

“20%.” 

“What?” Lucifer startles, despite himself, brows cinching with narrowed eyes. Diavolo reaches down with one long, purple-dyed finger to point at the line where Lucifer’s quill has stopped. The smile only grows, Diavolo tilting his head to the side as he reads the line off of Lucifer’s report.

“‘The sixth circle has under reported their amaranth yield again this quarter, their numbers being off by roughly,” He pauses for dramatic effect, which Lucifer finds wholly unnecessary considering this is a report, not a performance, ”20%.’”

Diavolo purses his lips, before it turns into a huffed laugh, “It’s probably because they pay tithe to Beelzebub. You should talk to him about that.” 

His eyes and hands go back to the fruit in front of him. Lucifer does not admit that the next part of his report was about to mention that it is likely due to his hungriest brother.

Saved from having to formulate a response, there’s a knock at the door, and Barbatos’ muffled voice on the other side calls, “Lucifer? Have you seen Prince Diavolo?” 

Diavolo’s posture immediately jerks up, and then his shoulders curl in on himself, like a child that knows he’s been caught. Barbatos is, most definitely, here for Diavolo. 

Lucifer is absolutely not relieved at the distraction. He levels Diavolo with a singular stare that somehow says I’m not covering for you, and nearly rolls his eyes when Diavolo returns a pained look that begs please?

A strange, out of place idea has Lucifer wanting to concede to Diavolo’s whims, to pretend that no one is there. Ridiculous. As they sit in the silence, there’s a moment where Diavolo’s eyes light up, as if thinking that Lucifer might actually help him out –

“He’s in here,” Lucifer says, because of course he is. All three of them know there’s no way that he wouldn’t be, and Diavolo deflates. 

It’s clear from the slight, upwards quirk of Barbatos’ lips that he knows Lucifer’s hesitation. Lucifer bristles at the thought, at Barbatos’ ability to always see more than is shown. 

Barbatos does not startle easily – in fact, Lucifer believes he can recall maybe a handful of times that the other has reacted with little more than resigned acceptance or rueful amusement. 

It wounds his pride, in a sense, to have Barbatos walk in on a scene like this (like what? Diavolo slowly working at Lucifer’s carefully constructed walls, trying to carve a contented little spot in Lucifer’s life? Yes. Lucifer is aware.) and have his reaction be anything less than shocked. Appalled? 

Perhaps aghast, that Lucifer too has fallen to the whims of his lord. 

Unless Barbatos thought that Lucifer would cave from the beginning, Lucifer realizes, and it sours his expression in the slightest. 

“Barbatos!” Diavolo grins, still slouched over the edge of the desk like it pains him to have good posture. 

“I have been looking for you, my lord,” Barbatos says, his voice as even and polite as ever. 

“I’ve been taking a break!” 

“It’s been four hours since you said you would be right back, sir. I thought I would help you find your way, since you seem to be having some trouble.”  

Diavolo, a devil of almost immeasurable power and status, has the gall to look sheepish in front of his butler and aide. He glances big, pleading eyes at Lucifer as if asking for help again, and Lucifer cocks one brow, saying nothing. 

A beat of silence passes, before Diavolo suddenly exhales loudly, tossing his hands (one of which is holding a knife, and the other a pomegranate, and juice splashes on the desk alarmingly close to his nearly-finished report) into the air. 

“Okay, okay! I’m coming,” Diavolo concedes, still brimming with amusement as he easily disposes of the empty pomegranate husk with his magic. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes the remnants of sticky juice off the blade and his fingers, staining the pristine white purple. 

“Let’s stop by the kitchens on the way there, Barbatos. Fruit has only made me realize how famished I truly am!” Diavolo says, placing the handkerchief down and stretching his arms up as he stands. 

“I can bring something to your office, my lord.” Barbatos shoots down the attempt at escape, and Diavolo tsks under his breath. 

“You’re too smart, Barbatos,” Diavolo says, walking towards his butler and patting one hand on the other’s shoulders, “You know all my tricks by now.” He nods sagely as they walk to the exit of the room. Barbatos gives a soft sigh. 

“We both know that’s not true, my lord.” 

Lucifer watches, unafraid to admit to himself that he finds some amusement in Diavolo’s plight, before he realizes the mess that Diavolo has left behind. 

“Your – ” Mess? Pile of fruit seeds? Penchant for completely derailing Lucifer’s productivity? Whatever Lucifer had intended to say is cut off by a dismissive wave of Diavolo’s hand and a cheerful slant of a smile on the other’s face. 

“Those are for you!” Diavolo laughs, and Lucifer doesn’t have the opportunity to get a response in before Diavolo whirls into the hallway, Barbatos shutting the door after him with a soft click. 

Lucifer sits in silence, listening to the muffled, familiar chatter between the two, fading as they travel further from the door. He tells himself that this is to make sure that Diavolo has truly left, not for any other frivolous, flowery reasons that his brothers might claim, were they to know of his lingering gaze on the plate, the stained handkerchief Diavolo left behind. 

The plate of pomegranate seeds rests in the corner of his desk, still untouched.

Lucifer ignores it until the candles in the room burn dangerously low, the only indication of time passing thanks to the endless twilight of the Devildom. When he finally decides to stop, he rolls his neck to alleviate the stiffness, eyes fluttering shut at the tension. 

When they open again, his gaze lands once more on the plate. 

This time, it stays. 

Alone in the privacy of his office, Lucifer props an elbow unceremoniously on the table. He brings his hand to his chin, gloved fingers tapping at his lips. More silence passes, a decision is made. Lucifer tugs off the glove of his right hand.

For him, Diavolo had said. 

Lucifer isn’t particularly fond of pomegranates. 

The flavor isn’t anything amazing to him, and they’re much too messy, but there’s a strange, perverse pleasure beginning to blossom inside him at the fresh memory of Diavolo devoting his time to a task solely for Lucifer, understanding coloring where there was once muted shades of gray.  

Kings are servants to their kingdoms, but there’s an undeniable intimacy in the act of servitude for one. 

It makes the initial burst of flavor on his tongue all the more sweet. 

#ch: diavolo #ch: lucifer #pr: dialuci #writing #did i post something incredibly personal and then also post dialuci to draw attention away from the personal post? #yes

[spirit-of-vengeance]

@spxcemuses @mr-mansnoozie @xxstar-bluesxx

Guess who gathered enough mind to finally write her full backstory of Western Verse. Her being a bounty hunter is set in the Wild West time period (1865-1895), there is no current year(s) to set her story in mainly because I don't want to make a mistake messing up the timeline.

Calm before the storm

Her father, Attila a lesser Hungarian noble whom supported the 1848-1849 revolutionary war but after the failure of it he escaped emigrated to America to avoid the Habsburg revenge, soon followed by his brother Gábor. He could save a small amount of his fortune along with his two most important horses: a purebred Lipizzan stallion and an extremely rare Akhal Teke mare. He had settled near a small town, due to his financial situation and education as a noble he established a school with the support and approval of the local church. To quieten his guilt for abandoning his country in its peril, he poured all of his heart into educating children; at least he is still useful in some way.

One day, a group of artists traveling artists, acrobats traveled through the town and the aristocrat fell in love at first sight. She was like the queen of fairy from the folk tales he'd heard in his childhood, she was tall, blue eyes sparkled like light sapphire, long golden brown hair floated ethereally with every twirl. The smitten lord shamelessly courted the the graceful acrobat, determined to know at least the name.

The group had stayed in the town for a few weeks, allowing Attila's and Myra's romance to blossom; after a month she ended up staying with him, just like in true fairytales.

My obsession with angst backstory strikes again

The lord was in love, deeper than poets could express it. Since the loss of his home and country he had found his place in the universe along with the perfect companion by his side. He paid less attention to the school, the church and other public affairs; it wasn't like he abandoned them but became more withdrawn to spend time with the love of his life, especially after the birth of their daughter. She was almost the perfect miniature of her mother, same beautiful hair glinting gold in the sunlight, only her eyes were the brightest emerald green he'd ever seen.

While Myra's heart and aura was as pure as a fairy's; the local church was beyond distressed. They claimed that Attila had completely abandoned helping those in need because of her wicked seduction. When they witnessed her performing for the amusement of the crowd, the 'temptress witch' brand couldn't be lifted. They gathered a few enthusiastic townsfolk whom shared their views and a few morally questionable men whom only wanted a piece of the lord's fortune.

10 year old Karma was awakened from her deep slumber by her frantic father; smoke and yelling blinding her senses as he carried her out of the burning house into the nearby forest so the mob won't find her. He promised her he will be back but he had to return into their home for Myra; he couldn't leave her inside. Karma watched her dad disappear into the flames, the air filled with suffocating smoke and religious shouts for god to smite the sinners. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the spot where her father was gone, waiting for her parents to stumble out of the half collapsed building; but that never had happened. She sat unmoving from her spot, struck staring into the flames then into the ashes as the sun has risen.

Birth of the marksman

Attila's brother, Gábor arrived the next day after hearing the news, he was the one whom found Karma still staring at the ruins in a catatonic state. He couldn't avenge his sibling as it meant endangering his niece and she has lost more than enough.

Gábor expected her to become a soft spoken, reserved lady once she overcame her trauma; that theory was soon abandoned when once he had awoken to his niece practicing with his rifle outside with frighteningly great accuracy. The young girl naturally had an extraordinary aim and after a few long talks, he'd seen the determination burning in her to avenge the murder of her parents. Given by her mother's dance lessons, she was also flexible and capable of many different acrobatic moves; this combined with her aim proven to be a very dangerous combination.

To not awaken suspicion he told his friends Karma was an orphan whose parents were killed by bandits and he had adopted her to give her a family and education. Karma was fascinated chasing greater heights of her skills, this involved reading every possible book about anatomy, marking, engraving the useful spots of the body. Karma knows where to shoot to disarm, to cause a slow death, to paralyze, to disable for life and when it is only a warning: an injury which will heal with time. Along with her accuracy, her drawing speed only can be compared to lightning. Although she prefers/most comfortable with her dual revolvers (model undecided yet), she is still a menace with shotguns, rifles, flintlocks and even bows due to Gàbor's 'A Hungarian is not a Hungarian if they can't use a bow' mindset.

The bounty hunter quicker than death

Karma had her first official gunfight at the age of 18 on the auction. for Vihar (Storm), the filly of her father's horses.

Detailed post about Vihar

She officially entered the bounty hunter business when she was 20 and Vihar was 2, aiming for the most dangerous criminals whom committed the worst acts possible. In her early years after the kill she slit open corpses she trying to find the bullet, surverying the damage it caused and adding filler information to her anatomy knowledge. Of course she didn’t bother burying the bodies, she knew as a woman she has to be extremely vicious above talented to be hired and mutilated dead bodies did send a great message & served as cement for building her reputation. The name Karma wasn't entirely her idea, many thankful family members claimed that karma has came for their loved ones' murderers. Her talent spread like wildfire among the men of law, glad to be rid of the dangerous scum; with careful planning, use of environment and Vihar as backup she had wiped out gangs, not solely focused on individuals.

Unfortunately her reputation summoned an unofficial grand price on her head as well in certain circles; they had tracked her back to her uncle's house. The battle claimed Gábor's life and nearly her sight as her right eye was almost slashed out. The new loss opened old wounds: her not being able to protect her loved ones. She couldn't look into a mirror, the scar a reminder how despite all years of training she wasn't untouchable; after burying her uncle plan to gain control over her psyche already formed.

She took a knife and carefully carved four half circles around her eye to form a crosshair with her pupil being the middle of it. She made sure she kept the wounds open for enough time to scar as visibly as the vertical cut; she wanted a symbol to add to her legend. Excuse my pathetic excuse of an edit, I'm not good in this, nor I can draw.

Now Karma is 25, Vihar is 6, both of them in their peak physical prime; the name Vihar is also symbolic a little, Karma is the lightning to her horse. She is dancing on the thin edge of bounty hunting and being an outlaw as she often takes...side jobs to help people who deserve it and usually that person doesn't have a bounty on their head, therefore it is technically murder.

Local antisocial feral monk & cocky gunslinger feral lady / addition of the AU with the amazing @mr-mansnoozie

Near her uncle's house, Karma had discovered a cave and a grumpy mute monk living in it along with his pet bear. The monk, Sandy eventually became a second uncle to the traumatized angry orphan, he taught her how to move & creep upon someone soundlessly, disappear without a trace, cover her stances and behavior patterns of various animals. Before and after returning from a job she always visits her uncle of choice for a chat; a silent way to prepare him to the possibility of her not coming back. But she always do. She considers Sandy as part of her tiny family, although his...copying mechanisms with his own traumas were a bit strange to get used to; she adapted quite fast, after all who is she to judge with a past like that?

I'm a dead man walking, Hell's at my door.

aka collection of small headcanons

🎯 Her dual revolvers are called Salvation and Damnation because she's dramatic

🎯 Karma has a small sketchbook filled with anatomy drawings for further practice.

🎯 She actually can sing, but rarely does, only to Vihar since she never received positive feedback on it. Her voice is gritty, rugged and deep; definitely not the usual and desired sounding from a woman.

🎯 If her target was an outstandingly cruel bastard and/or one of those whom killed her parents she uses a little psychological torture. After fatally wounding them she starts whistling (for the most terrifying experience wear headphones & close your eyes while listening) as they try to crawl away or beg for mercy. The first time the whistle gets shrill & more intense is when she lazily reloads, knowing she has both the time and the upper hand. The second pace shift is when she aims; she shoots during the last, long drawn out high note.

🎯 This is her only verse where Cindy is afraid, no terrified of fire; during her....26 AU's she's always been associated with fire despite dying in or being wounded by it. In this verse she is more tied to lightning, the scent of smoke is enough to send her into a silent panic attack and despite loathing the cold she will never sit close to the fireplace. Her other deep fears include injuring her hands & sight and losing Vihar. Her horse is the only remaining family member of hers, she can't fail her too.

🎯 Most of Karma's scars, injuries are a result of her standing between Vihar and a knife/bullet/ even a bullwhip when a criminal was smart enough to catch on their deep emotional bond.

🎯 She has recurring night terrors about the night her parents died, she always wakes up in cold sweat; she's sort of used to them. Though, sometimes she still cries but thankfully Vihar is there to comfort her.

🎯 Karma has a special morning stretch routine to keep her flexibility and warm up her hands & keep them steady and fast.

🎯 Due to her dad and uncle she received high quality education

🎯 For the untrained eye, the belt of her hat are simple crosses while in reality, they are inverted crosses to symbolize her stance with Christianity

🎯 Karma's middle name is Emerald, given by her father due to her eye color.

🎯 Karma was first inspired by League of Legends Miss Fortune because that name alone is great but unfortunately she is too pirate coded for a western so I abandoned the relation. Though when Karma is not being the 'Call me a slow reader but I only made it to the Dead part, the or Alive didn't register.' ; her personality is similar to hers.

🎯 Due to her dad, Karma is actually half aristocrat. Not like she cares about it the slightest; the only indication of noble blood is her idle stance. It is an unconscious mirror of how her father used to hold himself: back straightened to almost impossible point, left arm behind it, right hand resting on the grip of in her case, revolver instead of hilt of a sword.

🎯 If given the chance to live a normal life, she would've grown into a captivating, lively young woman, much like her mother but with the aristocrat elegance of her father; finding a suitor who lives up to her parents' and her standards would've been the challenge of the century.

🎯 Her special move is called Dance of Death. This is used as last resort when she's facing more opponents up to 12, as with her dual revolvers she has 12 bullets without reloading. She mentally marks the stances of all opponents, predicts their movement, firing order and possible way of their bullets before whirling out of her hiding place. Each pose minimizes the chance of getting shot, and with each change of movement two bullets are fired, two men drop dead.

🎯 Her accuracy isn't just 'gun goes boom >:D' but a combination of natural talent, endless practice, movement prediction, sharp, quick thinking & analytical skills and different techniques molten together to utilize them all at once

🎯 Her hair is now as long as her mother's, she always keeps it in a single tight braid to keep it out of the way; without her hat and hair down she actually loses some of her dangerous edge.

🎯 The only physical memory Karma has of her parents is her dad's hussar sword she found underneath the ruins of the house, it was protected by a very thick wooden box & a lock of her mother's hair is tied to the grip. She has hidden it in the nearby forest, her thoughts often wander to it along with the wish to wield it.

#🦂 western au🔥| one shot; one kill #🔥headcanons🔥 | secrets of the fire #I can't help myself with the little hungarian details can I? #it just makes me so happy because my country doesn't really get any recognition in media & it feels good to weave the history of my country #into a badass character #I also spent 2.5 hours typing this. my fingers ;-; though totally worth it 😄 #🔥alright to reblog🔥| let the wind carry the cinders

[cheatdeathsarchive]

META: six post sierra madre.

note: canon divergence. any npcs mentioned are in direct reference to the storyline i use for six when i write her alone, and is not what i anticipate or expect out of the rpers who portray said characters.

upon coming back to the mojave, six is traumatized, which... i mean, obviously. the first thing that six did upon coming back was beeline to the brotherhood bunker, express she had news about father elijah, and used the opportunity to infiltrate the bunker to blow it up. upon returning to the lucky 38, she is a mess.

the sierra madre jumpsuit, a bruised and chafed neck. her hair is matted, uncombed, and dirty, and she’s covered in dried blood and dirt with makeup that was applied and ruined at least a week ago. mr. house did not care about any of this when she went to see him, which was the very second thing she did. six then gives herself about a week to recover, feigning that it’s just because she wants the injuries where the collar had been around her neck to go away, but even as it’s gone she deals with much more beyond.

it takes her a bit of time, but six is able to bury deep all the trauma, heal from it some, and eventually move on best that she can. she finally closes the book on it all when dean domino makes his way to new vegas and starts performing at the tops, and when she happens upon god/dog in jacobstown who is healing and doing better as well not too long after. seeing both of them moving on makes six finally feel like maybe she can, too. both dean and dog/god’s arrival to the mojave occur post dam.

before then, however, six challenges her traumas head on thanks to knowing that it isn’t “normal” and it would definitely alarm the people who know how she tends to behave. things like walking by the king’s school and seeing the speakers outside terrifies her, for example. her usually enjoying the radio but shooting the one in her suite soon as she gets back another. she doesn’t like the way people look at her during those moments of panic.

those things are not normal, and so six spends quite some time coping in private ( that week she grants herself ) before allowing herself to go out and feign normalcy again. it is also is helpful that the war for hoover dam occurred so soon after she didn’t really have time to keep hiding away. she had places to be, things to do. she had to be there, and that distraction helped pull her back out of the sierra madre to the mojave.

i’m trying to not jump around too much. here are the main areas that affected six the most:

killing: while she has killed out of necessity and self defense before, for quite a while after returning six keeps a cosmic knife close to her at all times. she is not strong, has not been strong, nor will ever really be strong, but after killing raiders, fiends, and the ceasar’s legion assassins who tail after her, she methodically and extremely detached from herself mutiliates the bodies with the knife. it’s a reflection of the ghost people who, to her horror, kept on coming back. it was paramount to destroy their heads, and it’s something she does basically on autopilot. it just... needs to be done. it’s a reflex to ensure survival.

addiction: sleeping was unsafe anywhere the toxic cloud was. because of this, six comes back to the mojave dependent on psycho, steady, and other uppers to keep her awake. she is also addicted to sierra madre cocktails. with the help of julie farkas she is able to curb the addictions with a lot of fixer and detoxing, though she denies that sierra madre cocktails have addictive properties and continues to knock those back even after she has curbed her addiction to the others. she hides them everywhere. eventually it comes out that they are addictive, and six dumps the rest and has a very ugly time recovering from her dependency on the rat poison dorito blend.

the radio: six cannot stand the radio for awhile post return. her radio in her room she shoots until it’s a smoking mess. she makes victor take all the radios off the floor that the presidential suite is on until she misses music so much that she recruits help in someone turning on the radio and letting her take a few steps towards it, holding her breath, and seeing that it won’t blow her up. she runs dozen upon dozens of tests, disassembles and reassembles every radio in the lucky 38 she can get her hands on, and to this day the sound of radio static leaves an unpleasant feeling in her heart that takes a few moments to shake after it’s gone and music replaces it.

the collar: six does not like things around her neck, does not like people touching her neck, and does not like having her neck exposed. for a long time after, even once the physical injuries are gone, six has a small habit of holding her neck in her hands and rubbing the skin there, a soothing reminder she does not have a collar on.

her pip-boy: six paid someone to get her as many pip-boy supplies and mick and ralph would sell her. because of how elijah took away so much of her freedom with those collars, and how he spoke out of her pip-boy, a large part of her felt hypervigilant and paranoid about what might have remained in her pip-boy. she also spends a few nights, still high on things to keep her awake and alert, on breaking her entire pip-boy apart, making sure it wasn’t bugged, tampered with, etc. she finally feels comfortable enough to not do this any longer after the third time of doing it and seeing nothing had changed.

veronica, christine, and the others: this is the big one. without thinking six took vera keyes’ dress, the one from her suitcase because she had a feeling veronica would think it was beautiful. despite meeting christine and putting it all together, she didn’t tell christine that she knew about any of it. post elijah’s death, all who had been brought together by elijah met up and sort of... made sure they were all on the same page about things being safe. that the collars were not working. they took inventory, made sure that six promised up and down that elijah was dead, and then all went their own ways quietly.

six gave dean a business card to the tops and the one gold bar she could carry out. she gave dog/god a map to jacobstown. and christine, she gave elijah’s pip-boy, a kiss, and an apology that the brotherhood in the mojave was wiped out -- that ncr did it after they failed to hold poseidon energy and as the ncr was finding their footing in the mojave.

not all of it was a lie -- and the parts that were lies that six could correct she did upon immediately returning.

something else to add but doesn’t deserve it’s own whole category is that it only reinforces her absolute fear of the dark, people sneaking up behind her, and loud booming noises.

#this is my fave dlc #and i love the implications of all of it #how scary it is #real ass survival horror hours #( ooc. ) now loading. #( meta. ) i’m a helpless soul with a hopeless hand. #( hc. ) can’t be bothered by the mistakes she has made. #ask to tag #long post #long post / #addiction / #addiction tw #drug use / #drug use tw

[ronjohnnsurfshop]

Conan

Outside of family or friends, Conan O’Brien may be the most important person in my life. For me the great Conan awakening happened around the 6th grade way back in the year 2004. At a time most kids were going crazy over things like the newly released American Idiot album, reality shows on MTV, skateboarding, and football players I was obsessed with a 6 foot 4 pale talk show host with red hair who’s show was too late for me to stay up for but ran in syndication every afternoon on Comedy Central. Conan (along Comedy Central reruns of SNL) was my great introduction into what the world could be when you injected comedy into it. 

Growing up I had very few friends. I have had one best friend, Graham, since the 3rd grade but other than him, I didn’t really make any other GOOD friends until I got to high school and beyond. That, combined with going to a different school than my best friend, made for my preteen years to be somewhat of a living hell outside of the house. This is around the time I discovered Late Night. I can’t really remember my first time watching Conan but I do remember my obsession with the show and the man as a whole. 

My preteen years, like most kids, were a very awkward time. I had just started at the Catholic School that my parents switched me to, I was away from my best friend, and I knew absolutely no one. I made friends alright but none of them really lasted and I had to endure, not terrible, but some light to moderate bullying through my catholic school years. Around that time I was growing out of Nickelodeon and my attentions were turning to the likes of Comedy Central. It was there that I discovered the pale, red headed giant named Conan. For the first time I was experiencing grown up bits like the Masturbating Bear, Celebrity Survey, and Minty the Candy Cane. It was incredible. It was so dumb yet so funny and smart. I never knew comedy could be like this. I would come home from school and sit my ass in front of the television every day to experience the best form of escapism I had ever known. 

I think the most important thing I learned from Conan was the art of self deprecating humor. As kind hearted as Conan seemed, throughout his years as a comedian he could also be a great insult comic, up there with the greats like Don Rickles, but there was no one he was more insulting to than himself. This opened up a new world for a lonely, pudgy, budding comedy nerd like myself. Now when the kids picked on me in school I would join in. Not only did it disarm the bullies when their target was beating them to the punch with his jokes but it also led to laughs from other people. From there I knew all I wanted to do was make people laugh. Conan taught me that you could make fun and degrade yourself without disrespecting yourself and everything changed. With these newfound skills, I went from the quiet kid with no friends to, I don’t want to brag, but the funniest 7th grader at the, now defunct, All Saints Catholic Academy. It eventually became like a drug. All I wanted when I walked through those doors was to feel the high of an entire class of my peers laughing hysterically at something I said or did and I carried that mindset over into High School. 

Once I got to high school and convinced my parents to send me back to public school, it took some time to warm up to the new people around me but soon I was right back at it. I spent my days trying (and just as often failing) to make everyone around me laugh as hard as they could. I wanted to embody the spirit of Conan and his humor and, in some ways, I wanted to literally be a 16 year old Conan O’Brien. And the Conan O’Brien masterclass in comedy certainly paid off. I know it can be kind of pathetic to dwell on the past but I don’t care. Two of my biggest accomplishments that I had in high school, that I am still proud of to this day, were being voted “Class Clown” my senior year of High School and hosting the talent show, two things that would have never happened without this man who I have never and probably will never meet. I remember hosing the talent show very vividly. My close friend Jared, who was responsible for many of my laughs in school slept over the night before the talent show and we literally stayed up late writing jokes. In a way he was (and still would be if I ever had a career in comedy) my head writer. He would constantly feed me jokes in school that he was unable to say aloud because he, self admittedly, had poor delivery (something I still disagree with him on to this day). Anyway, we stayed up writing jokes all night and then came time for the big show. I remember telling myself that I wanted to channel Conan. Be like him in every way I could because he had already perfected the job of host in my eyes. The show actually went well and it felt absolutely amazing getting laughs from the 100s of audience members that included not only my peers but adults too. I was making grown adults laugh! While that may have been the peak of my career as a comedian, I still look back on those days quite fondly and credit Conan with being the inspiration for it all. 

When Conan was screwed out of The Tonight Show by an vastly inferior talk show host he went on tour. Having never been to NY or LA, it was finally my opportunity to see him live. My mom took me to see Conan, during this tour, when he stopped in Toronto, just 3 hours from where I live in Rochester. It was one of the best nights of my life. I got to see my idol live. I was literally in the same room as him. We were on an upper balcony and the highlight of the show was definitely where we were sitting for one reason: At one point in the show Conan was singing a song and playing guitar when he rain into the audience and my jealousy furled from not being even closer to experience that. But, as chance would have it, he disappeared for a few seconds, only to show up directly behind me in my row and ran down the isle performing. I was even able to reach my hand out with everyone else and brushed his shoulder. I was a 12 year old girl at a One Direction concert. It was a true “I’m never washing this hand again” moment. 

Now enough about me, back to Conan. Conan had some of the most out there, insane, gut bustlingly hilarious bits. I think one of my favorite bits was always Celebrity Survey. If you’re unfamiliar with it, Late Night would “send out” average survey questions to 3 different celebrities. The first two would “answer” normally while the 3rd would have some crazy, hilarious answer. He had so many great people on his show too. Whether it was Robert Smigel showing up as Triumph the Insult Comic dog or doing the voice of someone like Bill Clinton when he “video called” the show or Brian McCann showing up as Preparation H Raymond, Minty the Candy Can, the guy with bulletproof legs, etc. you always knew you were in for big laughs. Not only were these performers amazing, but what made the bits truly funny were Conan’s reactions. If a joke was dumb he would literally act disgusted by the joke and embarrassed by how low brow it was making it that much funnier. However, I think my all time favorite bit of his, which really showed just how funny Conan’s reactions could be was the Walker Texas Ranger Lever. When NBC and USA network became sisters stations Conan suddenly had access to all of this new content and capitalized on it by introducing the lever. It was a long red and yellow lever that sat next to his desk for a long time. Whenever he pulled said lever, an incredibly cheesy, poorly written, outdated clip from the television show Walker Texas Ranger would play. The clips were not only hilarious on their own but the reactions Conan would have to the clip and the enthusiasm he showed for pulling the lever made it comedy gold. 

I could probably sit here all day and talk about the different bits on Conan and the things he did to not only make me laugh and cheer me up but to inspire me to be a better, funnier person but I don’t want to drone on any more. Conan was my idol, he was the person I used for my senior quote in high school and the person whose praises I sing the most when people as me about comedy that I like. What really helped me to idolize him too was that you could just tell he was a genuinely good, kind hearted person both in front of and behind the camera. I remember when he left the Tonight Show he made sure, at his own expense, that every single writer, crew member producer, etc. was taken care of and not just out on the street with no job and that kind of stuff really sticks with you when you’re idolizing a person for not only their comedic abilities, but as a human being. I can safely say my life would be different without Conan O’Brien or Late Night. I don’t know if I would have ever found comedy as such an immersive outlet like I did as a kid without him, and the man is single handedly (okay my mom deserves credit too) responsible for getting me through Middle School. This man taught me how to be funny, how to respect people while being funny, and how to appreciate comedy as one of the greatest things to get you through this fucked up world. I will forever be grateful to and idolize him and he and his comedy will always hold a special place in my heart for what it has meant to me over years, which is something I still don’t feel I have adequately put into writing with this Tumblr post. I’ll be counting the days until he returns to our televisions on HBO MAX. 

[johannstutt413]

“Leader! Leader, are you almost done?” At her desk, a red-headed angel was juggling bullet casings. “You’ve been working all day, but you didn’t give me anything to do, and I’m booooored.”

“Yeah, Exia, I’m almost done.” Technically, the Doctor called her “Exusiai” like everyone else, but he’d convinced most of the other Operators to let him short-hand it. Especially since her name came up often in combat reports, almost exclusively with praise.

She sighed. “Alright, but I’ll believe ya this time. Why’d you ask me to be your assistant if you weren’t gonna give me work, anyway?”

“Because you make great eye candy,” he replied with a straight face, “which helps me keep my speed up, and I know that if I do need something, you can take care of it without any issues.”

“Eye candy?” Exia maintained her juggle while tilting her head to watch the Doctor better.

He shrugged. “Yeah. I like looking at you. Is that strange?”

“I’ve never heard someone be so blunt about it.” She caught the casings in her left hand, tossed one into the air, and flicked it directly onto the Doctor’s desk. “Besides, if I’m going to be here for the next week, I wanna be doing something, you know?”

“Alright, I’ll have something for you to do tomorrow...and done. You can head on home.”

Exia didn’t get up. “Are you staying here?”

“Not for work, but yeah.” He propped his feet up on his desk as his computer began shutting down. “It’s much easier for me to relax in my office than my dorm.”

“So you don’t wanna come out for drinks with me and the girls, then?”

The Doctor shrugged. “I don’t get out much.”

“Because you don’t like it, or because no one asks?”

“...I mean, most of the other Operators don’t seem to care one way or- okay, that’s not true.” He sighed. “Most of them don’t think to ask, you’re right. I’m their boss, and no matter how good the conversation we have, it stays like that. Are you inviting me?”

Exia shook her head with a sigh. “Lord help ya, of course I’m inviting you! Come on, have some fun tonight! I can pick up the slack if I need to, but let’s go party, huh?”

“Alright. Lemme go back to my place and change first; I’ll meet you there?”

“Nah, I’ll come get ya.” She winked at him. “These wings aren’t just for show, you know.”

He smiled. “I guess not. See you later.” With that, they got up from their desks, walked out of the office, and went their separate ways.

Later that night, the Doctor - after trading out his uniform for a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers - was sitting with Exia, watching Sora attempt to cajole Texas into doing karaoke with her as the Lupo’s defenses slowly collapsed. “You know, they’d make a good couple.”

“Because one’s high-energy and the other’s a big grump?” His drinking partner offered.

“Because one knows how the world works and the other can ignore it when she needs to,” he countered, “but yours wasn’t far off, I guess. You ever wonder what it’s like?”

She shook her head. “Not sure what you mean, Leader.”

“Being part of a couple.”

“Eh?” Exia laughed. “Leader, I think the drinks are getting to you.”

He shrugged. “Maybe so. Is that a no?”

“I mean, I can have plenty of fun being just friends with folks, you know? Besides, Sankta have to be more careful with things like that.”

“Really?” The Doctor waved a server over for another bottle. “Why’s that?”

She shifted in her seat. “Well, you gotta be sure the person you pick isn’t gonna end up in Hell when their time comes. I’d hate to make it in and find out my favorite person in the world got stuck on the other side.”

“Huh. I’ve never thought of it like that, I guess. Makes sense, though - I mean, it must hurt plenty when you fall from Heaven yourselves. Knowing it’s gonna happen to them...yeah, would ruin the fun.”

“Wait, you think I fell from Heaven?” Exia chuckled. “You might wanna check your source on that.”

He smirked. “I mean, they say all good things come from God, right? And all you seem to do is good.”

“Oh, no, I make my mistakes. Don’t make every shot, let bad guys through, lose my focus - not even Sankta are perfect.”

“Oh, I never said perfect.” The Doctor swirled his now half-empty bottle. “But every word I hear from someone’s mouth about you is either praise or thanks. I mean, I get it - a tall glass of water like yourself with a good head on her shoulders and a heart of gold is already the whole package, but then to be a killer shot in the field on top of that? Yeah, they’d be all over you like flies if you let them.”

Exia glanced at the three cocktails she’d finished and his six beers and decided, yeah, that was probably enough to get away with this. “Hey Leader, you wanna know something I really can’t do?”

“What?”

“Can’t sing for the life of me.” She smirked. “Betcha we can get them to close the karaoke booth if we go up there.”

He set his bottle down and stared her down. “You think I can’t sing?”

“Can you?”

“Oh, I can sing, Exia.” He stood up and scanned for the DJ. “There they are. I’ll go sign us up right now. ”

She laughed. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“It’d better be. Hey, DJ! One-Winged Angel by Sankta Surreal.”

“...No, he’s not.” Exia watched as he got up on stage. “Nope, Leader, you can’t make me-”

The Doctor took a pair of mikes and tossed one to her - a good five-meter toss. “Come on, let’s get our jam on, huh?”

“Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“Yes! I am!” As the backing track began to play, every unexpressed trace of levity sparked onto his face. “You wanted me to have fun, right? Well, I’m really gonna enjoy this!”

She glanced around the bar, a bunch of expectant faces watching them hash this out. “I’m gonna kill you for this, you know that?”

“If you do, I deserved it, now get your ass up here!”

“...Yep, once we’re done here.” Exia was already lining up the shot in her mind’s eye, “I’m plastering him against that wall.”

Which...ended up being true, sort of.

As it turned out, “can’t sing” was in comparison to Sora, and both of them could carry a tune in a bucket. The pop idol eventually came on-stage, dragging Texas behind her, to make it a full quartet performance, but the Doctor was the one who really sold it. 

When it was over, Exia pulled him aside. “You know how lucky you are that you’re my boss? Because if you weren’t, I’d be introducing you to your own corpse right about now.”

“Come on, it was fun, wasn’t it?” He smiled, albeit a little glassily. “Besides, you sold yourself short.”

“...Alright, you got me there. You know what I could really use, Leader?”

The Doctor took a wild guess. “You wanna go get some pie?”

“Seriously? I mean, spot-on!” She glanced down at her jeans pocket. “Don’t have any cash on me until next paycheck, though-”

“I don’t mind buying for ya.”

Exia smiled. “Are you sure? I go through a couple tins on a good night.”

“It’s fine, trust me.” He glanced over at Sora and Texas, who were currently playing hide-and-seek with a certain white-haired Lupo. “Should we tell them?”

“Nah. I told them before I came and got you we’d probably head out early.”

The Doctor thought that was a bit odd, but didn’t ask her to explain. “Alright, then, let’s go get you that fix.”

“It’s not a drug, Leader,” she smirked. “But it’s like they say - ‘sugar, spice, and a little vice make even just desserts a sinful delight.’”

“Where do all the calories go, if you don’t mind me asking?” At this point, they’d left the bar, putting more and more distance between themselves and the raucous mid-week party.

Exia shrugged. “The halo’s gotta get its power from something, I guess. What are you trying to say?”

“I’m just impressed you can keep a figure like that with all the sugar you and the other Penguin girls eat.” The Doctor’s arms were swinging slightly with every step. “Perfect for your line of work.”

“Are you trying to make up ground for the karaoke stunt?”

He nodded. “Don’t want my favorite person here mad at me.”

“Your...favorite...person.” She stopped walking. “Leader, did you remember our conversation from earlier, or was that just luck that you said it like that?”

“No, you’re definitely the person I’d want to be in a relationship, but like you said, if I’m just gonna end up in Hell-”

Exia dashed in front of him, propelled by her wings. “You? No way that’s gonna happen to you.”

“I’m sorry, did you invite another ‘Leader’ to drinks tonight?”

“No, I invited you.” She smiled. “Stubborn, deadset, sober-grump you.”

The Doctor sighed. “Fantastic. Look, are we getting pie or-”

“Depends.” Exia hovered an inch or so off the ground, taking his hands in hers.

“...Depends?” He blinked. “Depends on what?”

She drifted closer, smiling but focused. “Depends on how sweet you turn out to be~”

“...Oh.”

#arknights #exusiai (arknights) #yeah i don't know how this got so long #she's almost too wholesome #like seriously #it worries me #arknights fic

[an-aura-about-you]

Sealed With A Kiss

Hey, when inspiration strikes, you gotta write.

“Will you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

Autor looks askance across the table at Erina. It’s probably the best reaction she could have asked for, honestly.

“Why?” Autor asks.

Erina puts her hands along her nose, fingers at the bridge. “Because if I have to hear Mr. Felidae ask me one more goddamn time if me and Fakir are gonna get married, I’m gonna scream.”

His face scrunches a bit. “That’s pretty inappropriate to ask.”

She slips her hands together so the palms meet and pleads, “C’mon, won’t you pretend to be my boyfriend to get him and like the half of Goldkrone that’s trying to pair me up with Fakir off my back?”

He’s got one why covered now, but Erina’s response hadn’t answered the others implied by his asking.

“What’s Fakir said about all of this?”

She scoffs, letting her arms drop to the table. “He doesn’t care. If it’s not dancing, writing, or his duckling, he just ignores it. Good luck finding someone he looks at with even half as much affection as he does that duck.”

He considers this while sipping his tea, glad Erina didn’t take him up on the offer to make some for her and that his parents are out for the time-being. His mind wanders off to whether spilling tea or his parents hearing Erina’s request would be worse, but he reins his thoughts in.

“Why a pretend boyfriend, though? Surely you could find a real one.”

“Uggggggh, I don’t have time to put that much into a relationship.”

“And you don’t think you’re going to have to put in time with me to make things convincing?” Autor puts his tea down and crosses his arms. “Why ask me at all? Real or fake, there have to be other guys you could ask to do this.”

“Yeah, but you’re not gross around me,” she answers. “Or at least, I haven’t caught you leering at me or anything. And you got your own stuff going on like books and piano, so if people ask why we’re not all hanging on each other I can say, ‘Oh, Autor had to go study; you know how he is,’ or, ‘Autor’s practicing a new piece and needs to concentrate.’ You know, you’re a real person like that.”

It’s an odd sort of compliment, if she even meant it as one, but Autor accepts it as one anyway.

When she doesn’t put anything else forth, he sits and contemplates her case. She’s trying to make things complicated, or at least she doesn’t understand how complicated it can get. Being a verbal excuse is one thing, but it won’t be enough for the gossips in town to actually leave her alone. They’ll want evidence. Which means, if he agrees, he has to be willing to provide it. Is he willing to do that? And if not, where do they go from here?

“C’mon, please?” she asks again.

“I’m thinking about it,” he answers. “What’s in it for me?”

“I have money,” she says.

Autor scoffs this time. “Money for this?”

“I have jewelry shop money,” she clarifies.

“And I have descendant of a fairy tale author, son of a successful opera singer money,” he retorts. “You don’t want to give me money. You don’t want someone willing to take it to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

“Well then, what do you want?” she asks.

Autor loosens the fold of his arms a little. What does he want? Within Erina’s scope of granting, that is. Nothing jumps to mind, so he lets himself think once more. And once again, Erina interrupts the thoughts.

“Oh wait, I think I’ve got something!” she says. “It’s not with me, but I can get it for you to see. It’s a piece of jewelry my dad made, the AURYN.”

His eyes widen, his arms drop, and just like that her mouth pulls into a satisfied smirk.

“What?” he gets out. “He made a replica of AURYN from The Neverending Story?”

“Yep!” Erina answers, taking her turn to fold her arms. “He’s actually made a few of them, with the inscription on the back and everything. He likes working on the little details of the piece. Some of them are cheaper metal, so I can get you one without him making a fuss-” She lifts a hand up here, pointer finger up. “-if you’re willing to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Just like everything that came before, this new offer deserves Autor’s thought as well. But any arguments he might have had against it are crumbling. In a flash he’s back in the shoes of Bastian Balthazar Bux, shoes he’s walked in at least a dozen times if not more, and he’s being offered the Gem, the Glory, by the Childlike Empress herself. Come to think of it, her brown eyes do have a touch of gold in the light. Is that why her father likes making replicas of AURYN or does he just appreciate a good book, too? But besides that, he understands enough to know that he doesn’t want or need the actual AURYN, not when his family is born with the ability to do what they wish without the same dreadful consequences.

Autor takes a deep breath and goes, “Fine. Okay. You win, Golden-Eyed Commander of Wishes.“

“Yes!” Erina calls, pulling her arms in and balling her hands up in success.

“But,” he cuts in. “If we’re going to do this, we need to set up the rules of our charade.”

“Rules?” she asks, carrying that familiar tone of What Am I Getting Myself Into? that Autor’s heard so often.

“Like how far we’re going to carry the act,” he says, matter of fact. “Obviously the whole point of a pretend boyfriend is to be performative, but how far does the performance go? Where does it end? Clearly, I’ll need to know so I don’t make a mistake later.”

“Now look, if I thought things were gonna get this complicated, it’d probably be easier to get an actual boyfriend.”

Autor shrugs. “I guess there’s nothing stopping you from doing that, but it’d lead to a boundaries talk, too.”

Erina leans her hand on her cheek. “You just like writing rules up, don’t you? I get the feeling you’d do the same thing if I asked you to be my boyfriend for real.”

He gets out of his seat to fetch a pen and paper. “Come on, you want this to be convincing, right? If it’s not, half of Goldkrone is going to keep trying to play matchmaker between you and Fakir. They might anyway if they think I’m not a good boyfriend.”

“Fine,” she agrees, drumming her fingers against her.

And with that, the negotiations begin. The two manage to set the rules of secrecy and schedule a regular public date night, the framework of their relationship easy enough to build. But as with most negotiations, the details need the most work.

“Okay, what am I permitted to call you with regards to terms of endearment?” Autor asks, scratching the outline of a new section.

“Really? That seems like something we’d figure out in time.”

“Maybe if we were an actual couple, but if there’s anything that I absolutely can’t call you, it’s better if I know now.” He taps the pen at his chin. “For example, if I end up calling you kitten and you leave in a huff, people who thought we were dating might think you’ve ended it.”

Erina sticks her tongue out when he says kitten. “Okay, I see your point. Definitely not kitten. How about you just run through some and we’ll see what I do?”

“All right. Honey?”

She scrunches her nose a bit, pulling her lip up almost in a snarl.

“Liebling?”

She tips her head from side to side, shaking the word about to see if it fits. It doesn’t.

“Pet?”

“Ew, no!”

“I should probably just steer clear of animals and words relating to them entirely,” he says, making note of that. “Do you have any nicknames?”

“Not really?” she tells him with a shrug. “Most people just call me Erina.”

“I could go with The Neverending Story again. How about Moonchild?”

“Except for that.” She even holds a hand up. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because sometimes my dad calls me Moonchild. It’d be weird for a boyfriend to call me that, real or fake.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees. Maybe he’s right about his guess on Erina’s father thinking of Erina like the Childlike Empress. “And Golden-Eyed Commander of Wishes is a bit lengthy for a pet name. Maybe once in a while if you want me to be particularly mushy, but not all the time.” He writes it down separate from the other names he’s gone through, listing it out as an extreme cases nickname. “With your name being so short, it’s not like there’s much to shorten it to in the first place. Erin? Rin? Rina?”

Erina’s eyes widen a bit at the last one. “Wait, Rina is cute.”

“Oh?” He writes it down and jots, “maybe?” beside it.

“Yeah. How come no one’s ever called me that until now?” She waves her hand to permit it. “You can call me that all you want.”

He scratches out, “maybe?” and puts down, “Definitely,” in its place.

“So what do I get to call you?” she asks, propping her elbows on the table and setting her chin in her hands. “Do you have any nicknames?”

“Not really,” Autor admits. “Guess there’s not much point when my name’s only two syllables.”

“I could call you Tory.”

He hums, his pen to his mouth. “It’s not bad. We could try it if you like, but I don’t know if I’d answer to it.”

Erina hums in return. “That’s a good point. What about honey?”

He shrugs.

“Sweetheart?”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal but as though shaking his hair out. “That just seems wrong.”

“Dear?”

“Maybe, though it doesn’t feel terribly personal.”

“Well, how personal do we wanna get? That can turn into a slippery slope.”

“That’s fair.” He makes a note on the page. “Look, I’m probably not going to get offended by anything you call me, so why don’t we just leave that alone for now? We have other matters to discuss, anyway.”

“Like...?” she prompts.

“Like where I’m permitted to kiss you.”

Erina lifts her head away from her hands. “Excuse me?!”

Autor rolls his eyes. “I mean for chaste public displays of affections. Honestly, if you don’t care about it looking real, what’s the point of having a pretend boyfriend?” He takes down another note. “I was considering lips, cheeks, and hands.”

She sighs, partly in frustration and partly in relief. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Or at least, lips and cheeks do. Why hands, though?”

“Like this,” he says, holding his hand out to her.

Slowly, Erina puts her hand in his, and he brings it up to leave a brief kiss on the back.

“Oh...” she says in understanding. Or perhaps something else. “Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

He takes his hand back, letting it slip out from under hers. He briefly presses his lips together a moment from a strange, inexplicable spark? Why was there a spark? And he continues writing. “All right. What about holding hands and hugs?”

She takes her hand back, tapping her fingers against her lips and occasionally looking to the spot where Autor kissed her. “Holding hands is fine. Hugs will probably be better later when I’m more used to this setup.”

“Fine with me; I’m not big on hugs myself. Is there anything else I should know about as far as date topics or actions that are off limits?”

“I mean, this all sounds pretty good,” she says. “I can’t think of any specific topic that’s a definite no on a date, and I’d probably tell you then and there if something comes up, anyway. Don’t worry about, like, chivalry or whatever, though. You don’t have to hold the door open for me or pay for dinner or bring flowers or anything.”

“Okay, but what if I want to bring flowers as part of the act? If I’m going to pretend to be your boyfriend, I want to look like a good one.”

She smiles against her fingertips. “I can’t argue with that. If you want to bring flowers, then I’ll accept them, but they’re not a requirement.”

He nods and adds another note. “And your favorite flowers?”

“Orange roses.”

Autor looks up from his paper at her immediate answer. “That didn’t take you long.”

Erina shrugs. “I like roses, but I get tired of the red ones and white ones people give after a performance. So I like the ones that are different, and orange is my favorite color for them.”

“Well, that’s fair,” he agrees, taking another note. “And if you like, when you feel I’ve done my duty to earn AURYN, you can give it to me on one of our dates. I think that will really help the verisimilitude.”

She laughs at this. “Paying you for your fake boyfriend services in front of other people while they think I’m just giving my boyfriend a gift? I love it. I’ll wrap it up and everything for you.”

He scratches in a few more details and then sets his pen down. “There.” He turns the paper for her to see. “Does all of this look agreeable to you?”

She picks up the paper, squints her eyes a moment, and frowns. “Your handwriting is awful.”

“That’s just my notes. If you’d like me to write it up properly, I can. Or I can dictate it to you and you can write your own copy for...”

She looks at him when he trails off and goes, “What?”

He covers part of his face with his hand and goes, “I was going to say you could write your own copy for your records. Why in the world would you want a record of this?”

She snorts and laughs again. “Good point. Well, if it’s everything that we just talked about, then it’s fine with me.”

“That’s settled, then,” Autor says, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to her.

“Hm?” she hums in curiosity.

“Well?” he says. “We’re making a deal. Shouldn’t we shake on it?”

Erina stands as well. “Shake on it? That seems awfully impersonal for my ‘boyfriend’ to suggest. If we’re gonna have to get used to kissing each other anyway, why not seal it with a kiss?”

Autor’s eyes widen as his arm drops to his side. “I wasn’t exactly planning on kissing anyone today.”

“You already did,” she says, showing him the back of her hand. And with that same hand, she reaches to him and tugs him closer by the collar of his shirt. She stares him down, pointedly not saying anything about the tiny gasp he made.

He pulls her hand away from his collar but doesn’t move back. “Fine. But we go in together.”

“Fine,” she agrees.

And with that, they both lean in towards each other and briefly meet their lips together in a chaste press of a kiss.

Autor slowly pulls away, telling himself the new spark he feels on his mouth is not that but a sting. He has just agreed to lie, might as well start by insisting in his mind that this is a good idea.

“So, shall I pick you up at the time of the appointment?” he makes himself ask.

Erina smiles and answers, “It’s a date.”

#Princess Tutu: I might need my notes for this... #yep. you guessed it #it's a fake dating setup #with my favorites #I mean if you guys didn't see this coming I don't know what to tell you #I have no idea if this is set in any of my established postcanon stuff or not

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Darth Vader

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

Here he is. The big one. The world’s most famous villain of all time, and this is no exaggeration; even people with only a fleeting knowledge of Star Wars, even people who have never seen it before in their lives, probably know who Darth Vader is. The dedicated an entire trilogy to showing how he ended up this way, and an entire trilogy to defeating him, and even after he’s dead his shadow looms over the new trilogy.

It’s really not hard to see why, either; everything about him just screams cool. He’s an intergalactic dictator wizard monk cyborg with a laser sword who has a castle on a lava planet and a space station the size of the moon that blows up planets, and that’s not even getting into the fact that he has the voice of Mufasa. Darth Vader is an icon, plain and simple, and if you think his status is all surface-level, well, this will hopefully show you there’s more to him.

Actor: There are a lot of people who put in the time to bring Vader to life, but let’s just go over the most notable actors. A lot must be said of David Prowse, the man in the suit during the original trilogy; while James Earl Jones’ voice certainly did a lot of work towards making Vader as intimidating and cool as he is, Prowse’s physical presence should absolutely not be understated. He’s the one who does the movements, who walks into the scenes, he was the one physically there, and it really cannot be said enough that he is a key aspect of why the original Vader worked, even if his voice was nowhere near intimidating enough.

Jones, of course, had a voice that was intimidating enough, and while Prowse brought the physical intimidation, Jones brought the vocal brilliance. Vader’s voice is so oft-arodied and iconic, and it’s all thanks to James Earl Jones’ stellar performance. IT’s just absolutely legendary no matter which way you cut it, to the point where even when he’s portraying a freshly-christened Vader who is still in the mindset of a whiny Anakin and screaming a massive NO to the heavens, he’s still awesome.

Of course, that does bring us to Anakin Skywalker, portrayed by Hayden Christensen, and who is the most divisive actor who played Vader, albeit in his pre-cyborg form. I think a lot of the problems Christensen was criticized for while portraying Vader in the prequels was due to Lucas and his poor direction, and not due to any inherent fault on his part, as Christensen is a good actor otherwise. Case in point: any scene in Revenge of the Sith where Christensen does not have to speak and instead has to rely on giving evil glares or just looking intimidating works. I think he does a great job in Revenge of the Sith overall, and his portrayal of Anakin definitely works best in that prequel due to him really selling the frustration of his superiors not taking him seriously or trusting him, which makes his eventual slide into villainy after putting his trust in Palpatine a lot easier to swallow.

Motivation/Goals: Vader’s motivations and goals are not exactly where he shines, as it is pretty standard evil overlord stuff: he wants to crush the rebels, serve his master, and do whatever needs to be done to ensure that the power he has does not get taken away. It’s standard stuff, and even at the time it likely wasn’t a wholly original idea, but part of the reason it probably feels so generic nowadays is that so many people in every art form imaginable – books, TV, video games, and other movies – have ripped Vader off to the point where he almost appears to be a generic doomsday villain if you only look at a summary of his goals. Thankfully, this is far from the case.

Personality: Vader’s personality is where he really shines. Revenge of the Sith paints the portrait of a brilliant, talented young man who is constantly looked down upon and ignored by his peers despite his numerous successes and who is unable to openly be with the woman he loves and who carries his children due to ridiculous rules; is it any wonder he was taken advantage of by a predatory elder and groomed into a psychopath, only realizing far too late what had been done to him? This aspect of his personality has often been criticized by those who hate the prequels, but I think it is important to show that Vader was once a normal, frustrated young man who honestly had good intentions and wanted to protect others, because it helps make his eventual turn away from the Dark Side and redemption at least be a little believable.

Once he truly becomes the Vader we all know and love, he loses sight of who he was and buries himself in the Vader persona. What happened on Mustafar with Padme and Obi-Wan broke Anakin, and so he truly throws himself into the Darth Vader identity. He becomes cold, ruthless, and downright terrifying, with only brief glimpses to the cornier, kinder persona that the man who hates sandf with a passion once had, the moment where he makes a lame pun in Rogue One being the perfect example of the cheesy Anakin of the prequels shining through if only for a brief moment before Vader’s final scene in Rogue One shows that Anakin has once more been suppressed and the terrifying Vader persona is out in full force, with the real Anakin only breaking through in the end to restore balance to the Force.

Final Fate: Vader, in a final act of heroism, picks up Palpatine and tosses him down into a pit to save the life of his son Luke. Ultimately, this means that Vader fulfilled that prophecy from so long ago and restored balance to the Force, redeeming him in the eyes of his son and allowing him to become one with the Force itself and stand beside his former mentors Obi-Wan and Yoda in the final scene. It is a bit cheesy and even a little hard to swallow if you think too hard, but come on, it’s a fun space opera where good triumphs over evil and true love prevails, so just let Anakin have his little redemption.

Best Scene: The scene in which he emerges from the pitch black hallway in Rogue One and mercilessly slaughters a group of rebels with absolutely no effort, washing away decades of diminishing returns and undermining of his threat level in under a minute as the franchise reestablishes Vader as the horrifying threat he originally was.

Best Quote: Can it really be anything other than the (at the time) mind-blowing reveal he drops on Luke in The Empire Strikes Back after Luke accuses him of killing his dad? Say it with me now:

“No, I am your father.”

Some of you probably said it wrong, but I can assure you the line written above is exactly as it was said in the movie.

Final Thoughts & Score: There’s honestly no denying the level of impact Darth Vader has had; I’d say he’s up there with characters like Mickey Mouse and Mario, just an instantly identifiable character anyone off the top of their heads can name. George Lucas struck gold when he came up with this guy, that’s for sure. Is it any wonder that there are so many characters all across fiction who draw inspiration from Vader?

Vader stands tall as one of the greatest creations in pop culture, and though characters that copy him tend to offer diminishing returns – with a few notable exceptions, of course – he definitely is a wonderful source of inspiration, especially when it comes to designing a character who is still interesting and absorbing despite having seemingly simple, cliched motives. And while it is true Vader comes off as a bit cliched these days because he pretty much wrote the book on a lot of the cliches attributed to him and his ripoffs, my point still stands, because even in modern times you’d be hard pressed to hear anyone call Vader a poor villain despite his main goal basically being “kill rebels.”

Vader is a rare breed, and so deserves a rare score. He is the only villain as of now I think truly deserves an 11/10. He is the villain other villains wish they could be. He is the most striking character in the entire cast. He’s so downright cool, is it any wonder his own grandson decided to emulate him by becoming his biggest fanboy?

While Vader does ultimately redeem himself in the end, it serves as a culmination of one of the most profoundly tragic character arcs in cinema, as a wide-eyed idealistic boy full of love, hope, and a sense of righteousness is slowly and surely broken down by the world around him and the very heroes he idolized to the point where he is preyed upon by a predatory authority figure who whispers everything he wants to hear in his ear and offers him something he never got before: respect… and then from there, his life spirals downward ever further, until he ends up being utterly consumed by hatred as he burns alive on an alien planet before the man he considered a friend and a brother, the knowledge that his wife feared him in his mind as he was fried to a crisp; and when he is finally brought back as a cyborg, his first moments awake again are shaken by the revelation his wife is now dead, and he is responsible. And then from his lowest point, we see Vader climb again into the light, extremely slowly, until that final choice he makes where he can either do the right thing as he was always meant to or continue subjugating the galaxy that beat him down and abused him.

The fact he chose to be good in the end despite everything in his life prior, despite all of the crimes he committed, really makes him a far more interesting character than if he had been straight-up evil to the core. Instead, he is the ultimate darkly tragic fallen hero given one last shot of redemption in the arms of death. It’s beautiful in the cheesy, dramatic way only Star Wars can be, and I think that more than anything is why Vader has endured as a cultural icon, because at his core he is everything beautiful, tragic, and cheesy about Star Wars rolled into one awesome, black-clad Sith Lord.

#Psycho Analysis #Darth Vader #Star Wars

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: What Comes After (1/?)

Summary: Dead Like Me AU. After Belle French loses her life in an accident, she finds out that she has been recruited to join the ranks of the Grim Reapers, helping souls pass on. It’s a huge upheaval to deal with, but her fellow reapers are there to help her out, especially head reaper Gold.

Who says you can’t find love after life?

Rated: T

Warning: Character death. Sort of. Well, the premise kind of gives that away a bit. The entire fic will contain a lot of discussion of death, grief and mourning, much like Dead Like Me does.

Also note that the Storybrooke this is set in is a much larger town than in OUAT; it’s modelled after the town where I currently live. There are only so many people you can kill off in a town as small as OUAT Storybrooke…

====

What Comes After

Chapter One

The sky was purple. Of all the things that happened that day, Belle would always remember the colour of the sky, the heavy dark grey rainclouds and the waning light of a late February evening making the sky purple. It had been pouring down with rain all day, pelting ferociously and never letting up.

Belle had never minded the rain. In fact, sometimes she welcomed it. With so many people looking to get out of the rain in the hope of it easing a little and letting them go on their way, the library saw many more patrons than it normally would on a regular Thursday afternoon. It provided free entertainment for people who didn’t want to be at home and had nowhere else to go in the deluge, and some of the people who only popped in to wait out the storm outside were enticed to stay a little longer and check out books for later.

Technically, the library had closed ten minutes ago, Belle had made all the announcements over the PA system, but she could forgive people not being in any great hurry to leave considering the weather outside. She’d managed to coax most people out, and she was just performing the final sweep of the building to make sure that no-one would be locked in overnight. Her fellow librarians had already left for the day, and Belle was pretty sure that she was alone in the building.

Well, she had been sure until she rounded the corner of the least used part of the building, housing sheet music. It was dry and dusty round here, hardly ever frequented by anyone, but today someone was sitting at the little desk at the end of the aisle, hunched over a book. It was a woman with long, bright red hair, and she looked up as Belle approached.

“Sorry,” she said. “I got carried away.”

Belle looked down at the book that the woman was reading; it was a comprehensive non-fiction volume on the story of the Titanic sinking. She smiled.

“It’s all right. I know how it feels like to get lost in a book.”

“Yes.” The woman looked down at the book. “It’s almost like being back there.”

The turn of phrase was odd; as if the woman had actually been present during the Titanic sinking, but Belle thought nothing of it.

“The library’s closed now, but if you come down to the desk, I’ll check it out for you.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

There was a yellow post-it stuck in the book, and Belle could just make out the writing on it.

Storybrooke Central Library. ETD 5:56 PM

Belle glanced at her watch; it had just gone quarter to six, and she wondered what the woman’s appointment could be that was timed so precisely. It didn’t fit with any of the bus timetables. She mentally scolded herself for being nosy, and the woman plucked the post-it out of the book, pocketing it quickly.

“Thank you,” the woman said. She took Belle’s hand as if to shake it, holding on a little bit too long to be comfortable, and then she moved away, down towards the end of the stack.

Belle watched her go, perturbed. There was something about the woman that definitely didn’t feel right. She grabbed the book, going to put it back on its regular shelf, but when she reached the end of the aisle, there was no sign of the woman anywhere.  She couldn’t just have vanished, and there hadn’t been enough time for her to have left the building. If it wasn’t for the book in her hands, Belle would have said that she’d imagined the entire interaction.

Still somewhat uneasy, she continued her sweep of the building, locking up as she went and returning the Titanic book. By the time she was setting the alarm and locking up the outer door, she had almost managed to put the strange encounter with the red-headed woman to the back of her mind.

The rain kept pouring from the purple sky. Purple rain. Belle hummed a few bars of the Prince song as she put her umbrella up and headed towards the bus stop just up the road from the library. Ordinarily she would walk the distance to her home, she didn’t mind the rain, but even she had a limit for the amount of water she could take coming down on her from above. There were only a few other people at the stop, she’d just missed the previous bus whilst she’d been locking up the library.

She looked down at her shoes, once burgundy, the toes now stained black from the rain. They should dry out well enough once she got home and stuffed some kitchen paper in them, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about the rain until the next morning. The sulphur orange of the streetlights was reflecting in the slick road, splintering into shards as the rain kept pounding down.

Belle heard the screech of tires as a car came around the corner and aquaplaned on the road, out of control, and she heard the other people at the bus stop yelling. She only just had enough time to leap out of the way as it mounted the pavement just an inch from where she’d been standing.

Belle’s heart was pounding as the other people rushed past her towards the car; they were shouting that someone had been hit. She’d had a lucky escape then, and as shaken as she was, she knew that she had to go over and help.

She went to fold up her umbrella only to find that it wasn’t there anymore; she must have dropped it when she’d got out of the way of the car and not realised.

“Madam? Madam, are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, not looking over at the person who was hailing her. “Yes, I got out of the way, I’m ok.”

“Madam, I really don’t think…”

Belle didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. She’d reached the car, where everyone was crowding around the person who’d been hit.

The person was wearing burgundy shoes, the toes stained black from the rain.

Belle looked down at her own feet, at those exact same shoes, and she gasped, her knees buckling.

“Hey, it’s all right. It’s a bit of a shock to the system at first, but you’re going to be all right.”

It was a different voice, a woman this time, and Belle felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to the person who was trying to reassure her, shaking off the lady’s hand and taking a step back, pointing towards the car and her legs underneath it.

“How is this possible?” she asked. “How I am there and here? Am I..?”

The woman nodded.

“You’re dead,” she said apologetically. “There’s really no way to sugar coat that news, I’m sorry.”

“If I’m dead, why am I still here? And…” She looked back over at the car. She’d sworn that she’d jumped out of the way. She hadn’t felt a thing. She patted herself down for injuries, but found nothing.

“We took your soul out before you died,” the woman explained. “That’s why you didn’t feel anything. Come on, let’s get somewhere dryer and we’ll explain everything.”

A well-dressed man came towards them with a large golfing umbrella that he put over them both, and the other woman steered Belle away from the scene of her death. She couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, at the body that would never breathe again. An ambulance was pulling up, and Belle wanted to tell them not to bother, it was too late.

“They can’t see you,” the man said. Belle recognised the voice; he was the one who had first asked her if she was all right and had warned her against going to investigate the accident.

“Who are you people?” she asked, trying to pull away from the woman’s gentle touch on her back guiding her further and further away from her life.

“Grim reapers,” the woman said. “Although you can call me Mulan, and this is Gold.”

“Grim reapers!” Belle exclaimed. She looked back over her shoulder but none of the gathered crowd at the bus stop took any notice of her.

“They can’t hear you, either,” Gold said.

“So I’m a ghost?”

“Meh.” Gold held out the hand not holding the umbrella and wiggled it, the movement made somewhat more alarming by the fact he was holding a walking cane in it. Mulan had to side-step out of the arc of motion. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Belle was horribly aware of just how shrill she sounded, but she thought she could be forgiven considering that she had just undergone the most traumatic experience of her life, namely, the end of it. She shook her head. “Shouldn’t I be moving on to whatever comes next?” she asked. “Pearly gates and fluffy clouds or whatever’s in store for me? I’m not great but I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve hell.”

“Now, this is where the sort-of ghost thing comes in,” Gold said. “Come on, in here.”

They had walked a fair distance down the street to a pub, not too busy this early in the evening. Mulan led Belle over to a table in the corner at the back, unnoticed by the other patrons. Gold went to get drinks, and Belle noticed that he only brought two over.

“I’d offer to get you one too,” he said as he settled on the chair opposite her. “But you’re not entirely corporeal yet. Not whilst your actual body’s still out there.”

“What are you talking about!” Belle exclaimed. “Am I dead or not? Am I a ghost or not? How come you can drink whisky and I can’t, because I could really use one right now!”

Gold took a sip of his whisky, and then a deep breath.

“You can see why I wanted you to come along to this one, can’t you?” he asked Mulan. The other woman rolled her eyes and turned to Belle.

“I’m sorry, I know that this is very hard for you and it’s a lot to take in, and he’s not helping.” She jerked her thumb at Gold. “He’s been dead so long he can’t remember what it was like for him when it first happened.”

Gold didn’t say anything, and Mulan continued.

“Yes, you are dead. You just died in that car accident. Your body’s dead, but just before someone dies, we, that is grim reapers, take their soul out of the body so that the soul is free to move on to wherever it needs to move onto. We help people cross over.”

“Right.” Belle was no nearer to understanding what was going on, but sitting down out of the rain without her dead body just a few feet away from her, she was less inclined to panic. “Why haven’t I moved on, then? Unless this is you helping me move on, in which case, no offence, but you’re really not doing a very good job of it.”

Mulan shook her head. “No. You haven’t moved on because you were your reaper’s last reap, which means that the job automatically passes to you.”

“What?”

“Every reaper has a quota of souls,” Gold said. “When they reach that quota, they move on, like all the other souls.”

“So, this is some kind of punishment? Like purgatory?”

Mulan shook her head. “No, just the luck of the draw. Whether you become a reaper or whether you move on straight away has nothing to do with what happened during your life.”

“Oh.” Belle really wanted to say something along the lines of ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ but she knew that it would be pointless. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. That was the whole idea.

“Just before you came out of the library, did you meet a young woman?” Mulan asked. “Red hair, pretty smile, probably made a strange remark about the weather or water or boating accidents or the Titanic or something? Vanished into thin air as soon as you turned your back?”

Belle nodded slowly.

“Her name was Ariel. She was your reaper, and you were her last reap. She’s moved on now, and it’s up to you to take her place.”

Belle took a moment to let this information sink in. She was dead, except that she wasn’t really. Was she undead?

“Wait, you guys don’t eat brains, do you?” she asked warily. She knew how stupid it sounded, but it was a legitimate concern, all things considered. Mulan and Gold just looked at her, then at each other, then back at her.

“No,” Gold assured her. “No, normal food is perfectly good sustenance for us, as it will be for you when you become corporeal again. We’re reapers, not zombies. Or vampires.”

“They don’t exist,” Mulan pointed out.

“In my defence, I didn’t think that the grim reaper existed until I became one,” Belle said. “Now you’ve got me wondering what else out there might be true.”

That was a point, actually. She had always thought that there was just the one grim reaper collecting all the souls, dressed in a long black robe and hood with skeletal hands, holding a scythe. Now she knew that there were at least three of them, and there were no cowls or scythes in sight.

“How many others are there?” Belle asked Mulan. “The grim reaper is something of a singular concept. Most people think that there’s only one.”

“Lord no,” Gold said. He downed the last of his whisky. “Have you any idea how many people die every day in Storybrooke alone, and from how many different causes? One person would never be able to get everyone’s souls in time.”

Belle thought about it, and that brought her full circle to her own death, remembering that it had occurred just an hour or so before.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“Now, you make peace with your old life and begin your new one,” Mulan said. It was simple and eloquently put, but Belle was still having trouble reconciling it with what was going on around her.

“What about my friends? My family?” she asked. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“They’ll grieve for you, and they’ll continue living,” Gold said. “Nothing’s going to happen to them.”

“Can’t I let them know that I’m ok?” Belle asked. “That I’m still here?”

Mulan shook her head. “You’re not still here, though, Belle,” she said gently.

That was what really hammered it home, the final realisation that she really had parted company with her life. She would never see her friends and family again. This thing she was now was a ghost, and the thing she would become soon enough wasn’t going to be the Belle she had been before. Her body was probably still lying out there on the pavement by the bus stop, under a car in the pouring rain.

Belle broke down into tears, loud, wailing sobs that would have attracted the attention of everyone in the pub if they’d been able to hear her. Her life as she knew it was over in the most brutal and literal sense of the words. She felt Mulan rubbing her back, doing her best to comfort her, and she wondered how many other new reapers she and Gold had initiated during their time, and whether a reaction like this was par for the course for them.

They waited patiently until she had cried herself out, neither of them telling her to pull herself together.

“No matter what they say, the one death that you can never truly get over and move on from is your own,” Gold said. He handed her the deep indigo pocket square from his jacket to wipe her face with. “It will get easier with time, I promise.”

There was an earnestness in his face that Belle appreciated. Both he and Mulan obviously knew how difficult adjusting to her new life, or lack of, was going to be, and neither of them chastised her for her reaction.

“Now what?” Belle snuffled into the handkerchief. She wondered how come it didn’t go through her in her ghostly state, but she figured that since Mulan and Gold could see and hear and touch her when nobody else could and could also interact with the living, they probably existed on both planes at once and their influence extended to handkerchiefs.

“Now, we wait for you to become corporeal again,” Gold said. “Then everything can start over.”

X

Belle declined the offer to view her own autopsy. Apparently some people found it useful in helping them to let go of their former bodies, as seeing yourself clinically cut up by a coroner was usually enough to break even the strongest of attachments. Nevertheless, Belle really didn’t want to see what injuries she might have sustained in the crash. For now, she was just extremely grateful that it had not hurt, and she wanted to keep the memory of a quick, clean death for as long as possible, and not have it shattered by seeing what had actually happened.

She did, however, go to her funeral. Attending one’s own funeral was a privilege, Gold explained as the three of them walked up the path towards her father’s house where the wake was taking place. Only reapers were allowed to attend their own funerals. It was part of the process of becoming corporeal and being able to interact with the world again, that ultimate and final goodbye to life.

The wake was awkward at best, although not because of all the grieving friends and relatives. Belle could handle those, even if she did want to go around and hug all of them, telling them that she was all right and she was going to stick around for a while helping other souls. It was more the fact that people kept walking through her, and she kept walking through things. It was a horrible sensation, and it made Belle feel like even though they were at her wake and were celebrating her life, she was being forgotten already, people seeing straight through her.

She found Mulan in the kitchen.

“I don’t like funerals,” the reaper confessed. “I know that’s terrible to admit considering my current vocation.”

“They’ve never been my favourite pastime either,” Belle said. She sat down at the table, looking at the spread that her father and one of the flower shop assistants, Brenda, had laid out there, ready to top up the food in the dining room where everyone else was gathered. It was making her mouth water, so many of her favourite foods were there, but she knew that she couldn’t have any of it.

The kitchen door opened again and Belle looked over her shoulder to find that her friend Ruby had come in and was crouched in the corner by the fridge, crying her eyes out. She looked up and saw Mulan sitting at the table watching her.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realise anyone else was in here.”

“It’s all right,” Mulan said. “Let it all out. It’s a miserable occasion, after all.”

Ruby nodded, burying her face in her knees again.

“I just can’t believe she’s gone,” she murmured. “We were going on a girls’ trip to Dublin this summer. I kept teasing her about getting lost in Trinity College library there.”

“You know, I’m sure she’s a lot closer than you think,” Mulan said. Oh, the irony. Belle desperately wanted to go over and comfort her friend, but all she could do was sit here in silence, knowing that there was nothing she could do to alleviate this pain.

There was a certain sense of catharsis there though. Although everyone kept walking through her and no-one could see her, Belle knew that they were definitely remembering her and were missing her, and that they would continue to do so. Despite the bleakness of what was going on around her, Belle felt loved. Everyone was unhappy, but even though she was gone in their eyes, they did still love her.

She got up from the table, taking a deep breath before passing through the kitchen door and moving through the rest of the house to find her father. He was talking to one of his friends from the plant nursery where he received all the stock for Game of Thorns, and it was clear that he was only just keeping it together for the sake of appearances since he was the host of the whole event.

Belle wanted to leave. The mourners’ grief was weighing heavy on her now, and although she wanted to stay and spend time with her friends and family, she needed to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of sadness.

“I think it’s time to go,” Gold said quietly in her ear. “Have you seen what you needed to see?”

Belle nodded. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Gold and Mulan said their goodbyes to Moe; no-one asked them how they had known Belle or whether they had just come to the wake for the free food, and then they were outside in the cold air once more. Belle shivered; she was still wearing the same clothes that her body had died in, and despite her coat and scarf she felt cold. It was the first time that she’d really felt the influence of her surroundings since she’d died, and she was so busy pondering it that she didn’t notice when she opened the garden gate to let them out instead of passing straight through it.

“Welcome back,” Gold said.

“Sorry?”

He nodded down towards her hand, resting on the gatepost, and Belle blinked. She was solid again, her ghost form having become a new corporeal body.

“So, I’ve moved on, then?” she asked tentatively. Gold nodded.

“Yes, you’re officially one of us now.”

Belle looked back up at the house, the realisation sinking in that now she could truly never go back there.

“What happens now?” she mumbled.

Gold smiled, his touch on her shoulder light and guiding her away from the house.

“Now, you become a reaper. Come on. Let’s go and meet the rest of the team.”

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #Belle French #Mr Gold #Mulan #Fic: What Comes After #death #mourning #grief #Dead Like Me!AU

[forged-through-trials]

Ruin and I legged back toward the entrance to Kerrach. There was found the Ayleid King, as well as all of the other ghosts I’d helped along this journey. I approached the king, and presented him with the white crystal. Ayleid King: “...You have it... champion... I can feel it... the Heart of Kerrach... give it to me... yes, YES!” Trials: “Why do you talk like that?” Ayleid King: “In... life... I had... a strOOOOOke.” Trials: “...well, sorry about that. Do go on.” Ayleid King: “We... are free... my people... free at last... Dagon’s spawn thrown down... thanks to our champion... our savior...” Trials: “...” I flushed, covering my face in embarrassed humility. Ayleid King: He held the crystal in his hands. “...I feel the Heart pulsing... it calls to me... to us... to all my people... we must go now to our reward...” Ruin: “Your reward?” Ayleid King: “Our reward is... to die the final death... to sleep forever... It has been so long... too long... We wish for peace...” Ruin: “I cannot imagine your torment. But you will have your peace at last.” Ayleid King: “...But you... our champion... your reward is not that... your reward is different...” Trials: “I...” I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t need a reward.” Ayleid King: “...Once... when Kerrach... was green... and the waters... flowed... bright and blue... when birds sang... in the trees... Then I would have given you... jewels... and riches... power... but no longer... now all I have... is the Sigil of Kerrach... symbol of my people... please... take it... it will help you... as it has helped me... these many ages... take it... and remember us...” Trials: “...” Reluctantly, I accepted the ring. Ayleid King: “...And now... champion... there is one... last task... to perform... for Kerrach...” Trials: “...anything. Name it, and I’ll do it.” Ayleid King: “...To watch our joyous death... to watch our passing... and to remember... us... there are no others now... remember us... “...We go now... to our reward... follow us... to the sacred well... and farewell...” The ghosts of Kerrach vanished one by one, fading from this room. When all of them had disappeared, Ruin and I rushed over toward the great well as instructed, as I was eager to offer that last service to these poor ghosts.

We arrived just in time. The formerly enslaved ghosts arranged themselves around the well, and the Ayleid King bathed the Heart of Kerrach crystal into the light-column over the well. The ritual had begun, and the king spoke words, which I didn’t understand, but I presumed that I was hearing the words of the ancient Ayleid language... which raised all kinds of questions about where these ghosts learned to speak Cyrodiilic. As the ritual commenced, and the Ayleid King spoke his long-forgotten words, pillars of light shot out from the statue of El-Ataran, and one by one, the ghosts that I had rescued vanished in brilliant bursts of light, starting at the far left from where I was facing the well, then the one to the furthest right, then the one to the inner right, then the one to the inner left, now leaving only the king himself. He spoke some final words in his ancient tongue, and as he vanished in the final burst of light, I felt that feeling of being squeezed through a tube of ice, and Ruin and I quickly found ourselves outside of Breakneck Lair. It was night, exceedingly late, and we both were tired as hell. Yet, I felt good. Sure, the Ayleids, in life, were bad guys--slavers!--but even they didn’t deserve slavery. After thousands of years under the torment of the Dremora, they’d more than paid the price for their crimes. It was more than time for them to go free, and I was happy to be the one to finally send them to their rest. And I am happy to be the one to carry the memory of Kerrach, as the king had requested. The last living reminder of a forgotten city and people.

Of course, it being nearly 3AM when we got out of there, we had to hike back to town through the dark to get our own rest. The following day, Ruin and I made the rounds to the shops, selling off the loot we’d plundered from Kerrach. That eventually brought us back to Mach-Na’s Books. While browsing her wares and offering my own, I remembered what she’d said the day before, about the local guards shaking her down. I asked if she could elaborate on the situation. Mach-Na: “Ever since Ulrich Leland took over the Captain of the Guard post, this city’s gone downhill. It’s getting almost scary to walk the streets.” Trials: I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Really, a Captain!? I guess we’re going to have to track down two witnesses to the Emperor picking his nose if we wanna oust him.” Ruin: “That’s still bugging you, isn’t it? Well, perhaps because this is not the Imperial City, the laws might be a little more lax this far out east. “But ma’am, go on. How has the situation deteriorated since Leland became Captain?” Mach-Na: “The guards have imposed new, ridiculously heavy fines for every infraction under the sun! They almost seem to make up laws just for charging fines.” Trials: “Really? Like what?” Mach-Na: “It is considered an offense to shower naked. “Stepping on a coin will be punished by a flogging. “Eating a neighbor’s baby is strictly forbidden--” Trials: “I would hope that last one would be illegal!” Mach-Na: “And lastly, it is illegal to die inside the town limits.” Trials: “Good luck collecting on that one.” Mach-Na: “If you can’t pay the fine, they can take your property away or toss you in the castle dungeon. Nothing we can do about it, really. “If you’re interested, go talk to Llevana Nedaren. She seems the most outspoken against Ulrich and his new fines.”

Ruin and I were on the case, and went seeking “Llevana Nedaren” as instructed. We found her near the town graveyard, and I got her attention, and spoke to her. Llevana: “You seem far too nice to be one of Ulrich’s men. What can I do for you?” Trials: “Well, you might say we’re investigating Leland’s administration. What can you tell us about the new fines he’s imposed?” Llevana: “Don’t even get me started! That madman won’t be satisfied until everyone in town is dead broke! Or in jail. I’m sure he’s just lining his pockets with the gold of the good citizens of Cheydinhal. “Take my good friend, ‘Aldos Othran,’ for example. In the last moth, he’s been fined six times! All for being drunk and disorderly.” Ruin: “Umm, was he?” Llevana: “Have you ever gone past a guard barracks? When are the not ‘drunk and disorderly’?? What kind of a stupid fine is that!?” Ruin: “That’s... not really how the law--” Trials: “’Rules for thee, not for me.’ Preachin’ to the choir, there, Sister.” Ruin: “...” He sighed. “Well, what became of your friend?” Llevana: “Well, Aldos couldn’t pay the last two fines, so they seized his home and threw him into the street until he could pay it. Bastards!” Trials: Sardonically. “You know, because being homeless is just so conducive to making money.” Ruin: “Trials, you’re homeless, and you have--” Trial: I immediately covered Ruin’s mouth. “Ruin, please don’t say out loud how much gold I have in a town where the guards are actively shaking people down for money.” Ruin: He brushed my hand aside, turning to Llevana once more. “Is there anyone who can help? The Count, perhaps?” Llevana: “The Count? He could care less about our plight. As long as the roast suckling pig is delivered to his feast-table, he’s as happy as can be. “But now that you mention it, there’s one man who seems to care; ‘Garrus Darelliun,’ second-in-command of the town guard. I hear he isn’t happy with Ulrich. I’m not sure if there’s anything he can do, but you might try speaking to him. He can be found roaming the County Hall of the castle most of the time.”

Thusly tipped off, we made for the castle, whereupon we saw the Count holding court. Garrus was in attendance. I thought briefly of speaking to Count Indarys himself, but after the experience in the Imperial City, and in Skingrad, I knew going to the top wouldn’t get me very far. Instead, we spoke to Garrus as instructed, once we were able to get him alone. Garrus: “What do you want?” Trials: “Hey, we’re kind of new in town, but we’ve been hearing some rumors about guard-corruption, and I was wondering if we could speak to you about it?” Garrus: “It appears you’ve spoken to Llevana, from the sound of it. I know she sounds like a raving madwoman, but she isn’t far from the truth. Ulrich is definitely up to something.” Ruin: “What makes you suspect him?” Garrus: “While Ulrich keeps his quarters locked, I’ve managed to get a glimpse inside once. The things he has in there could never be purchased on a Captain’s salary. At first I thought maybe he was from wealthy stock, but many of the goods have been delivered recently.” Trials: “Agreed, that sounds super sus’. So, why don’t we just skip the ‘two witnesses to Ulrich scratching his butt’ step and go straight to the Count?” Garrus: “I’d love to bring him to task in front of Count Indarys, but I dare not without a solid witness that will speak against him.” Trials: Sardonically. “Oh? Only one witness needed? How novel. “Anyway, Llevana seems ready to scream her head off about Ulrich at any opportunity. How about we get her to testify?” Garrus: “Honestly, she’s never done anything to be fined or get into trouble... yet. The person I’d love to bring in as a witness is Aldos Othran... that is, if we can sober him up for five minutes! “I haven’t approached him myself, as Ulrich has eyes everywhere--” Trials: “It sounds like it’s more than just Ulrich who is in on this. AGAB continues to be my Watch-Words.” Garrus: “...’Assigned Goose at Birth’?” Trials: “...” I shook my head. “No it means...” I thought better of it. “Never mind. I get it, we’re new in town, so Ulrich won’t be watching out for us. We’ll see if we can talk to Aldos for you. Where can we find him?” Garrus: “Aldos is living on the street now that his house has been seized. I begged Ulrich to give him more time, but he wouldn’t! “It shouldn’t be hard to find Aldos. Just follow the smell of stale mead.” Ruin: “That may just lead us back to Trials.” Trials: “Hey! I drink fresh mead!” Garrus: “One last word of warning; beware of Ulrich. I wouldn’t confront him at this time, as he’ll surely have you thrown in jail. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the consequences if you choose to strike him down. Even if Ulrich doesn’t do things by the letter of the law, I do.” Trials: “Ya know that sticking to ‘the letter of the law’ is what’s allowing Ulrich to get away with all this, right? And what ‘law’ says; ‘when in doubt, hire some drunk lizard to do ninety-percent of the legwork for you?’“ Garrus: “It’s right here, on page forty-two.” He offered me his guardsman’s handbook. Trials: I look into the book, finding the relevant passage immediately. “Huh... well I’ll be damned.” Garrus: “Why do you think the Empire tolerates adventurers in the first place? I mean, other than because one seems to save the world every few years?”

Once we were back on the street, we noticed this guard standing in front of a house. I assumed that must’ve been Aldos Othran’s former home. With no better leads, I decided to chat up the guard to see if he could point me toward Aldos. Guard: “I’m sorry, no one except the Cheydinhal City Guard are allowed inside this home. Due to outstanding fines owed to the city, Aldos Othran’s property has been seized and is now sealed until further notice.” Trials: “Ho, Class-Traitor. I was wondering if you could pull those jackboots off of the neck society long enough to point me in the direction of the previous owner of this newly stolen property.” Guard: He scowled. “Hey, I don’t need this sass. I’m just doing my job!” Trials: I waved a hand in front of my face with disgust. “Oooph, and which part of your job forbids you from dental hygiene? Just because I know you’ve been huffing your own farts doesn’t mean your breath needs to actually smell like it.” Guard: “Yeah... well...” He attempted a Speech-roll. “You’re... your hair is stupid!” [ Failed. ] Trials: I smirked knowingly. “Uh-huh, yeah, I’m sure your mother was very proud when you flunked out of the Fighters Guild and took this position as a consolation prize. I can’t imagine how stressful it is to guard an empty building all day. I’m sure Ulrich only sends his best for jobs like this! “Now could you please point that guar-butt you call a mouth away from me and tell me where I can find Aldos Othran?” Guard: “...” He scowled all the harder. “I’m going to talk to Ulrich and have him make back-talking a City Guardsman a fineable offense!” Trials: “Sure, hell, I got the coin to pay to dis you all day. How’s it feel to know some drunk lizard makes more in a day than you do in a year? But man-oh-man, imagine carrying a big sword on your hip and being that insecure. Sorry, can’t relate!” Guard: Visibly fuming. “Just... just get out of my face, lizard! Othran is in the alley to the left.” Ruin: “...did you really have to be so rude to him?” Trials: “I didn’t have to be, but I wanted to be, and when nine-times-out-of-ten I wind-up doing these chumps’ job for them, and the tenth-time-out-of-ten I wind-up cleaning up their corruption, I’m going to take every opportunity I can to rub their noses in it.”

By the City Wall, we finally found the Elf himself; Aldos Othran. Aldos: Singing. “Flyyyyyy, flying in the skyyyyy! Cliff-Racer fly soooooo hiiiiiiiigh! Flyyyyy!” Trials: “...ugh, please don’t remind me of those vile creatures. I still have nightmares of them chasing me across Lord Dres’ plantation.” Aldos: Slurred. “...wh-who’re you?” Ruin: He fanned away the air in front of his face and looked disgusted. “...Garrus really wasn’t kidding about the stale mead.” Trials: “Hey, we were wondering if we could talk to you about testifying against Ulrich Leland?” Aldos: “Ha! That stupid s’wit!? Throw me out of my home, will he?” Trials: “Well, uh, we’re working on getting your house back. We just need you to--” Aldos: “I’ll show him a thing or two about messing with an Othran!” Trials: “Okay, fine, just ignore me. I’ll be here when you finish raving.” Aldos: “All I did was fall down, sure. Maybe even vomited on the floor of the tavern. Charge me six times, Ulrich...? Charge me, you fetcher!?” Ruin: “That does sound like it ought to be up to he owner of the tavern to charge you.” Trials: “Six times! What, did they charge you per chunk you blew?” Aldos: “Well, I’m not standin’ for this any more. You, come with me and I’ll show you what the Othrans can do when their backs are to the wall!” Trials: “...I have a bad feeling about this.”

Aldos stormed off after that. Ruin and I gave chase, following him back toward his old home, where he immediately confronted the guard out front of it. Aldos: “This is my house! Get out of the way... move, I say!” Guard: “Sir, this property has been seized by his lordship, the Count of Cheydinhal. Leave immediately.” Trials: “Oh, Aldos, I don’t think this is a good ide--” Aldos: “I said move! Or by my ancestors I’ll put you on the ground with a split lip!” Trials: “Aldos, antagonize the guard, but don’t threaten him!” Ruin: “Actually, don’t antagonize him, either.” Guard: “Sir, I must warn you that threatening a city guardsman is an offense punishable by a fine of no less than 50 gold. Pay, or be jailed!” Trials: “...I don’t think you understand what a ‘warning’ is. Hint; it doesn’t include an ‘or else.’” Aldos: “You s’wit! How dare you! Ulrich be damned! He can take his fine and stuff it up his backside!” Trials: “As much as I appreciate that burn, you’re just diggin’ yourself deeper, Aldos.” Guard: “You’ve been warned. You are now under arrest. Please come with me.” Trials: I stomped my foot. “Look, bootlicker, I’ll pay his fine, just leave the man al--” Aldos: “I’ll go nowhere with you, fetcher! Nowhere!”

Guard: “Sir, I must inform you that dying within the city limits is an offense--” Trials: “You killed him, you bastard!” Guard: “You saw what happened. I had no choice! Aldos attacked first, and I had to defend myself.” Trials: “He came at you with a rusty butter-knife! That thing wouldn’t cut scrib-jelly!” Guard: “If you don’t like it, take it up with Ulrich.” Trials: I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, one day honest citizens are going to stand up to you crooked guardsmen!” Guard: He gasped, looking panicked. “They are!? Oh no! H-have they set a date?” Trials: I rolled my eyes. “Oh, so you’re a murdering thug and an idiot. Good to know.”

This was a fine mess to find myself in. Our key-witness was dead, and I had to bring the grim news to Llevana. She was Aldos’ best friend, so I’m sure she’d want to know what happened to him. I found her in her home, which was right next to Aldos’ former home. Llevana: Deadpan. “Oh no. They killed him? I can’t believe this.” Trials: “You don’t sound very broken up about it. I thought you were his best friend?” Llevana: “Although there is no change in my patrician facade, I can assure you my heart is breaking. “I’d grown to become fond of him. I wanted to take him into my house, but I was afraid. Now look what’s become of him.” Trials: “Aww, you wanted to be the next ‘Mrs. Othran’.” Llevana: With anger slowly boiling to the surface. “There are no more options left! Ulrich must be dealt with, and actions speak louder than words!” Trials: I blinked in surprise. “Whoa, that escalated quickly!” Llevana: “Dark elves come in two modes; drunk, and angry. And sometimes angry-drunk!” Trials: “Preachin’ to the choir, there, sister.” Llevana: “Now, you must do something for me! Go tell Ulrich that I have some information that incriminates him. Tell him to come alone, or he won’t get it. Then lead him here, and I’ll do the rest.” Ruin: “That seems like a rather obvious trap, madam. Are you certain Ulrich would fall for it?” Trials: “He might. If guardsmen were smart, they wouldn’t need me to solve ninety-nine percent of their problems for them.” Ruin: “Are you actually thinking of going along with this plan?” Trials: “Why not? Ulrich’s a bastard, and with our key-witness dead, what’re the chance’s he’ll ever see justice otherwise?” Ruin: “This does not sound like you, my friend. I think we should consult Garrus first before we make any rash decisions. He may be able to help us through the proper channels.” Trials: I sighed. “Fine, but only as a favor to you, Ruin. We’ll talk to Garrus first, but if he asks me to pull two more witnesses out of my butt, I’m going to punch him in the nose!”

#the elder scrolls #oblivion #modded #let's play #roleplay #ask blog

[newlyfaenesta]

Last Unicorn/ACOTAR fic

Title: The Lady and the Unicorn

Rating: General

Summary: A unicorn sets out on a journey to find the rest of her kind and is accompanied by Cassian the Illyrian Magician and the mysterious (and grumpy) Nesta Archeron. Following a narrow escape from the monster Bryaxis, Cassian accidentally changes the unicorn into a fellow Fae. While Bryaxis may be the one chasing down Prythian’s unicorns, following him leads to even more danger: the King of Hybern and his adopted son, Prince Lucien. The king does not trust Cassian and Nesta’s companion, the Lady Elain, while Prince Lucien is more than willing to get to know her.

Chapter 3 Summary: Lady Amarantha wants to use the unicorn in her carnival, but her Illyrian magician has other plans.

Main overall fic characters: Nesta, Cassian, (Nessian), Elain, Lucien, (Elucien), and Hybern.

Disclaimer and all posted chapters can be found on AO3 here.

Chapter 3:

Her eyes felt heavy, her mind foggy, her mouth dry. The world slowly, meanderingly, came into focus but grew no less confusing as the unicorn could not understand why she was lying on such hard ground nor why she could not smell the sweet scent of lilacs drifting on the breeze. But as her vision cleared and her awareness returned, the unicorn sighed mournfully, feeling a mix of consternation and shame, two rare--almost nonexistent--emotions for unicorns to have, which only made her feel worse.

She remembered leaving her darling little lilacs for tall sycamores, but there were no tall sycamores here in this grove, nor orange and red leaves blanketing the ground. She then recalled trotting past the sycamore trees into a land of snow and ice, but there was no snow soft and quiet as goose down here, nor razor-sharp spikes of icicles suspended from bare branches in the frigid sky above. She then recollected racing through the land of softly falling snow before falling suddenly into a world of melancholy and despair. A world of sorrow and distress. A world of wretchedness and discomfort.

She had been caught, and no one had ever caught a unicorn before. It was unthinkable. She did not know what to do or how to react in such a situation as the mere idea was so far removed from the consciousness of her kind that the protocol simply did not exist.

The unicorn took a deep breath, inhaling slowly through her nostrils to stem the tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm her, and took in her new surroundings. Iron bars stood on all four sides of her with a metal roof above and dirty straw below. Her enclosure was magicked, she discovered, for the bars did not even dent when she kicked them with her strong hooves, and if a unicorn could not escape, surely magic was at work.

She snorted loudly and tossed her bright white mane, panic giving way, conceding just for a moment, to anger. How dare someone capture a unicorn! Did they not know her unique? Did they not understand the worth of a creature such as she?

Just then, a shadow fell across the front of her cage, and the unicorn looked up to see a Fae with red-gold hair that shone like the sky at sunset watching her with crossed arms. “Well, well, well,” the female said with a smile. “I’m used to catching coal with my little puca trap. Imagine my surprise when it dragged in a diamond.”

She paced in front of the cage, and the unicorn noticed for the first time a large caravan of covered wagons just beyond her own sitting in a half-circle, taking up most of their little clearing. A long black canvas hung across two of them, proclaiming in giant red letters, “Lady Amarantha’s Carnival of Nightmares.” Underneath that, in smaller letters, someone had written, “Venture under the mountain and witness Prythian’s dark side.”

The unicorn shivered. She would find no help here, nor kindness from these fae. She was only satisfied that her kin had not ended up in this carnival, though that did nothing to temper the sadness she felt over her current condition.

“You shall be my show’s newest star, my little jewel. I shall attract all sorts of audiences and everyone shall be in my thrall.” A slow grin spread across Amarantha’s face, for surely that must be she and this must be her carnival. “It’s not everyday that one captures a unicorn, much less sees one. I hope you enjoy your new home, darling.” She leaned forward, her bright red lips just inches from the unicorn’s nose, and lowered her throaty voice to a whisper. “Because you’re going to be here for a very, very long time.”

The unicorn narrowed her eyes but did not deign to answer. This Amarantha did not deserve to hear the voice which had once blown wind back into a butterfly’s wings and dripped starlight into the eyes of a chestnut owl.

Amarantha straightened and snapped her fingers. Almost immediately, two male fae appeared from out of nowhere. “Bring our new guest some more hay. I have no doubt she is hungry, and we must keep our star comfortable.” She cackled again, each shriek a knife-like thrust in the unicorn’s heart.

The unicorn put her head down and watched as Amarantha’s two helpers argued over who would take care of her. The older of two males, hair graying at his temples, pointed in her direction several times. Both their voices rose and fell, up and down in roars and whispers, but she did not care enough to pay attention to the words. Hay was hay and captured was captured. The who and why did not matter.

Eventually, the older male threw his head back in a grunt of frustration, shoved the younger male aside, and stomped away. The younger one pursed his lips in grim satisfaction, and then cautiously turned towards her, approaching her cage at a careful snail’s pace. Whether this was due to nervousness or a quick perception of her worth and abilities, the unicorn could not hazard a guess. But as he gradually moved closer, she observed the Fae with her usual detached curiosity.

He wore a tattered brown leather tunic under a midnight blue cloak, which bunched up in back over his muscled shoulders as if he carried a great pack with him. He wore his shoulder-length black hair loose, and though he held his bronzed arms still as he walked, she was able to catch a glimpse of something glinting, metallic, sheathed in a brown belt around his waist. He was strong, she could see that immediately, but something about the way he moved proved he was also prudent in the use of his strength. The most remarkable thing the unicorn noticed about this male, however, were the red gems he wore in various locations around his body. She did not know their purpose nor did they shine very bright, but she counted seven in total: two each on his wrists and elbows and two on his knees, with the last and largest of them all resting on his chest against his collarbone just under the clasp of his cloak.

The unicorn watched, ears back and eyes alert, but did not move or speak.

Once he reached about a foot away from the bars of her enclosure, he knelt down in the dirt. “I am sorry I helped to put you in this cage,” he said quietly. “You do not deserve this.”

The unicorn silently agreed, but continued to regard him warily.

He exhaled loudly and scrunched up his face, conflicted. “Look, I can bring you some hay, but--”

“Hay is for horses,” she announced loudly, her objection to hay much more important than her resolution to remain silent. “I am no mere horse so I do not eat hay.” She was unable too to keep the superiority from her voice, and tossed her mane from one shoulder to the other. “I eat but sparingly, but when I do, I sip from the reflection of the moon in mountain lakes and nibble on honeycombs from the bees whose pollen is harvested from the tulips of the low valleys.”

He blinked in surprise at her outburst, and then chuckled quietly. “I am sorry, my lady. We are not quite so prepared as that, so I can only offer you hay. To be honest, I don't think any of us expected to find you for we thought your kind to be gone from our land completely.” He cocked his head to the side; it was now his turn to study her, and the unicorn found she did not like it. “Forgive me for being rude, but are you the last---the last of your kind?”

The unicorn snorted, blowing straw out of her cage and all over the male’s lap. He grinned and held his hands up in surrender. “I suppose I deserve that. Which means you definitely do not deserve to be in this cage.” He sat back on his heels then, casting furtive glances to his left and right. “I cannot claim to be all-powerful, but if you trust me, I will help you escape if I can.”

The unicorn eyed him suspiciously. “Who are you that I should trust you so well with the life of the last unicorn?”

He bounced back on his ankles once before popping up to this feet and flourishing her with a large bow, bending low over his right arm while throwing his cloak back behind him with the left. “You may call me Cassian, my lady! Resident Illyrian magician, at your service!”

“I have not heard of an Illyrian before,” the unicorn responded indifferently, “but I once knew a vole who enclosed a caterpillar within a daffodil only to remove it a few seconds later from the mouth of a very surprised fawn.”

“Well, there aren’t many Illyrians left either, so I suppose we have that in common.” Cassian gave her a lopsided grin. “I try to perform tricks. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. Mostly I just argue with Keir over whose turn it is to feed the other creatures.” He shrugged in an offhand, disquieted manner.

The unicorn remembered the older man from earlier and how he had yelled and shoved. “I know I would not enjoy living like that. Why do you work for this Amarantha when I am sure you do not share her delight in this carnival. Can you not work magic elsewhere?”

If it were possible, Cassian looked even more uncomfortable with her bluntness. He grabbed the edge of his cloak and wrapped it around himself. “She feeds me and provides me with a place to sleep. The war was hard on many of us. I needed something to do, somewhere to go.”

The unicorn cocked her head to the side. The farther and farther she traveled from her lilac woods, the more she found she did not know about the world. “War? What is. . . war?”

Cassian stared back, and then began to laugh. “If only we could all live in such secluded lands as where innocent unicorns prosper. I envy you your ignorance.” He dropped his cloak, looked down at his wrists, and began polishing one of the small red gems. “I used to be a great warrior,” he said softly. “One of the best. Until King Hybern appeared and stole a prince from one of the other Courts. War broke out as war will when kings are angry and bored. We all rushed to volunteer to fight. And why wouldn't we? Hybern’s own kingdom was small, tiny, with no army to speak of. It was an easy win--or so we thought.”

He shook his head in disbelief before looking again at the unicorn. “Are you familiar with the Mother of All, my lady?” He did not wait for a response before continuing. “They say she created the entire world with a great cauldron. The cauldron is the beginning of everything and therefore many hold the idea of it sacred, though most consider the whole thing just a story, a myth. We never thought the cauldron actually existed.” Cassian dug his toe into the ground, drawing random lines into the dirt, and did not speak for several long breaths.

“Until Hybern rolled the damn thing out on the battlefield and took out half our warriors in a single blast.”

The unicorn could feel the waves of sadness and anger rolling off the Illyrian as thick as syrup, and she whickered in pain and sympathy.

Cassian cleared his throat. “We threw everything we had at him, but when we discovered he was using the cauldron to not only destroy but create. . .” Cassian tapped the red gem on his left wrist. It flared briefly before emitting a flickering red light and, after another moment, went out again completely. “His creatures were too much. I was lucky to leave with my life.”

He continued to stare for so long at the red gems that the unicorn laid her head down against the floor of her cage and briefly closed her eyes.

“Anyway,” he said somewhat loudly with a laugh, “you asked why I am here and that is why. I have just enough power left in my siphons for parlor tricks.” To illustrate this, he pulled a small red ball, a children’s toy, from his pocket and began juggling it between his hands. As the ball arced in front of them, flying through the air from one hand to the next, another ball appeared, and then another, and yet another. The siphons on his knees blinked sleepily until Cassian stopped, clutching seven multi-colored balls within his arms.

The unicorn gazed at Cassian sadly, wishing she had never even learned the word for sorrow let alone the bitter aftertaste it left in her mouth. “That is a very good trick, magician. I am only sorry I cannot give you your strength back. I fear one unicorn is not enough to counter the evil the cauldron has wrought.”

Cassian frowned as he took off his dark cloak and draped it over his arm. “I would be glad indeed if someone could fix my siphons but I would give that all up if I could just once fly away from this dreary world.” The unicorn’s brow furrowed, confused, and he gave her a stiff smile. “You should rest. I’ll be back later when the others have gone to sleep so we can talk some more. In the meantime, I’ll try to find you the best of our hay.” He gave her a small nod and turned to leave.

As the magician strode off towards the other end of the caravan, the unicorn immediately saw and comprehended his cryptic words. Free from the confines of his cloak, giant membranous wings hung limp from his back. They were almost completely shredded, the talons pointing at awkward angles. It did not take a unicorn's eyes to see that he would never fly again.

#my fic #last unicorn au #The last unicorn au #acotar au #nessian #elucien #(eventually) #cassian #amarantha #nesta archeron #elain archeron #king of hybern #fanfic #acotar #acomaf #acowar #lucien #lucien vanserra #sarah j maas

[derrickperegrine]

come back down to my knees gotta get back, gotta get free

a continuation of the last meal

(click ‘keep reading’ or read on ao3)

‘It’s that house, right around the corner,’ Millicent’s voice confirmed through the legilimency link, authoritative despite the wavering connection.

Graham rolled into the cobbled streets from the shadows. ‘The red brick one, right?’ he asked as he tip-toed forward, although no one would have been able to hear him even if he had been walking normally.

‘Did you have to do a forward roll?’ Millicent hissed at him.

Graham grinned impishly. ‘Got to get into the character and mood, Hellcat.’

‘You’re not even that type of assassin! You’re a demolitions expert!’

Graham sighed dramatically. ‘A man can dream, though.’

‘You chose to be a demolitions expert, Cracker.’

Graham shrugged even though Millicent couldn’t see him. ‘Many of us hold down more than one job nowadays,’ he contended.

‘We have to, because there are no jobs for Slytherins!’ Graham could hear her rolling her eyes. ‘That’s the reason why we’re in fucking Norwich, in the middle of the night, hunting down a fucking ex-Death Eater, ex-Ministry employee.’

‘A doubly unsympathetic character,’ Graham shook his head as he melded into the shadows of the house. ‘Honestly, he deserves to know that we’re coming for him. Put fear in his heart for once,’ he commented as he snapped open the briefcase he carried with him. He stuck his hand into its endless maw and groped around for his first bomb.

‘Angel already explained; we obviously can’t,’ Millicent hissed, ‘Travers is too cautious and too skilled for us to hope to take him out, one-on-one, without causing a huge ruckus.’

‘Hellcat, I’m planting bombs. We’re causing a huge ruckus.’

‘Yes, I am aware, but at least we’re not going to be putting on a huge laser show for everyone while we’re at it.’

Ah, yes. How could Graham forget their near-detection at one of their earlier missions, in which an agent and a mark engaged in some serious dueling, resulting in colours of various kinds bursting at the windows, loud incantations ringing into the night, and a mess of magical signatures? It took them so long to cover up all their tracks from that one. Graham didn’t remember who was the agent for this mission. He paused to recollect as he fished his bomb out of the briefcase.

It might have been him.

‘I don’t remember exactly either but it was probably you,’ Millicent confirmed.

‘Laser shows are cool, though,’ Graham argued weakly.

He stuck his other hand into the briefcase and found a pair of spectacles in a side pocket. He slid the spectacles out of the bag, unfolded them by shaking them roughly, and slid them over his eyes.

A world of black and white, bones and shadows flashed before him. Pellucidity Lenses. Graham had snatched up a pair from Zonko’s during his school years and held on to them; who knew that they’d be useful tonight, years after, in the assassination of an ex-Death Eater?

The main supports of the building showed themselves before Graham, thick and sturdy wooden posts, exposed and vulnerable to Graham’s attacks. Taking out his wand, Graham levitated his bombs to the strongest parts of the building; which were simultaneously the weakest parts. For once you take down the sturdiest parts of a building, the more fragile parts inevitable cave in and collapse. Spectacularly.

The figure of Travers reclined above Graham in his bedroom, unknowing of his immediate fate, and unbothered by his identity. Graham smirked; it was just like Travers to be so arrogant, thinking that no one could find him, an ex-Death Eater, in lovely Norwich, so seemingly tranquil and un-evil, with its numerous cute tea rooms and colourful bookshops.

But Lucian could sniff out anyone. How he did it, Graham didn’t want to know.

Though, that being said, Travers was quick and slippery; after all, it took skill to be able to wriggle out of the rubble of the Battle of Hogwarts, to lie low for so long, and to make it away, undetected -- by most. Graham raised his wand and the words tumbled liltingly from his mouth; the air around the building shimmered with the faint glitter of a force field. Didn’t want anything coming out of the house, or hitting anything beyond the perimeter.

‘I hope he doesn’t see that,’ Hellcat commented boredly.

‘He won’t, he’s probably sleeping,’ Graham reassured her. Even if he were awake, it would be really strange for him to stare out the window, Graham thought to himself, He’s a known Death Eater, not some Emily Dickinson type.

Something crackled on Millicent’s end of the link, and it sounded like muffled laughter. Graham smirked to himself and got back to work.

To the casual observer, it may seem that bombing a house was simple and facile work; it did not require the exertion that physically murdering a person required, nor did it call for extensive magical skill and knowledge to execute.

However, to truly pull off serial bombings, it took skill.

Planning explosions are much like choreographing theatre, Graham considered. One must not place bombs at too obvious of locations for then the end result ends up looking evidently rehearsed, premeditated, unnatural; the goal was not to simply take out a victim, but to do it most discreetly.

Enough to pass under the noses of certain aurors. Minimalist enough to make it look like an accident; although with a varied enough arsenal to produce diverse effects, masking distinctive patterns and tell-tale signs; to eliminate all evidence.

Bombing a target was an art. It required imagination, technique, and vision; and of course, personality. A certain flair, a half-signature -- or else, how would people pick up that the Organisation was out there taking them out?

Graham placed his weapons strategically around the building, his mind whirring to figure out how they would detonate and how the building would collapse in onto itself; and how it would inevitably crush the mark inside, no blood on Graham’s hands.

It was simple, detached business; as simple as being a rogue assassin gets. You kill your mark from a distance, watching it all happen like you’re a bystander; you kill them without touching them, hearing them, seeing them.

That was good, Graham thought to himself; he never wanted to see a Death Eater again in his life. His chest burned with a feeling of annoyance at the thought.

‘You alright?’ Millicent asked.

‘Yep, m’alright; I’m almost done.’ Graham responded. He took one last sweeping glance over his work, and then checked to see if Travers was still in bed. He hadn’t moved an inch. ‘Hellcat, I’m on the move,’ he reported as he packed away his things and started walking quickly away from the house.

‘Keep to your side of the road, the Muggle cameras won’t see you as long as you keep to the shadows. The churchyard should be an adequate location.’

‘I copy you, thanks Hellcat.’ He lurched forward in the dark, until he saw the headstones of the old churchyard jut out of the ground like jagged dark teeth. He tiptoed behind the tallest one he could find -- one ought to be careful around old burial grounds, for frequently the dead are buried shallowly upon one another, and the ground will cave in under pressure -- and pressed himself against the cool stone.

‘I’m ready whenever you are,’ he said.

‘Detonate at will,’ she said.

Graham pointed his wand at the house, and twisted it in a quick circle. He cast a quick muffliato around his ears, and ducked.

There was a blinding flash of white light -- like that of lightning -- that briefly lit up the night, and a loud, angry bang; and then the dying sound of crumbling brick and rising dust; ashes to ashes. The building crunched apart easily and loudly; Graham needed to get out of here fast.

He stuck his head out from behind the gravestone to observe the devastation one last time. The top floor of the building had been blown to bits, and caved into the first floor,. The entire structure lay in jagged ruins. There’s no way Travers could have survived that. Graham waved his wand and performed a quick check for sign of life -- none. ‘Target neutralised,’ he reported.

He just caught the beginnings of Millicent’s ‘Good,’ before he apparated away.

The door chime pinged as Graham touched his card to the reader. He gripped the handle and pushed the door open; as he walked in it clicked shut behind him, and he threw himself onto the bed.

It would be too suspicious if there was surveillance camera footage of him coming into Norwich the day of the explosion and leaving right after it, so the Organisation had agreed that he should stay a few nights at a cheap hotel, laying low and pretending to be a traveller.

Graham flipped over onto his back and surveyed the room. It was a small, plain deal, with beige walls and brown curtains, and just big enough for a bed, a desk, and a closet-sized bathroom. Almost feels like a box, Graham thought, sighing. He sat up and removed his clothes, draping them over the chair by the desk. He crawled under the covers, and with the snap of his fingers extinguished the light.

What am I going to do tomorrow? he questioned himself boredly; then he realised that he asked himself this everyday. What was there to do for his kind? Sure, he still had his parents’ fortune and estate, but what’s a full vault if no one will take your gold, and what’s an enormous mansion if there’s only one person? What’s a home if your family will never come back, and your parents will grow old and die far away, in Bourges, where they went to hide from the worst of the War? Thanks to the current political atmosphere, it’s likely they’ll never come back.

Perhaps it’s all well that they didn’t come back. Graham imagined that it would be awkward to explain to them what he’s been doing. It was even awkward for Graham; in all his school-time daydreams about his future, being a rogue amateur assassin was definitely not on the list.

However, despite the nature and reputation of this sort of ‘occupation’, surprisingly it wasn’t totally objectionable, Graham decided. He didn’t mind the killing; it was necessary, he believed. Former Death Eaters definitely deserved to die, and moreover Graham wasn’t willing to let them live in order to incite another pureblood elitism movement. But he did not reap enjoyment nor righteousness from killing these Death Eaters; he wasn’t fueled by vengeance like Pansy, or indignation like Peregrine, or opportunity like Lucian. He was simply doing his part to prevent all their fates from befalling future generations. It wasn’t fair that their lives had to be decided by the actions of people who didn’t give two shits about them.

So Graham decided to take things into his own hands; to let his actions better the lives of those who came after him, because he cared. He had hope; after all Voldemort was finally dead, and wounds would heal. There could be a day when Slytherins were forgiven and pardoned; but that day would not come if Death Eaters had been allowed to exist, crusts of salt over old cuts. He had to remove them.

He sighed, turned to his side, and closed his eyes. He felt like he was nothing; he felt like a tired heaviness. Who knew how weighty nothing ended up being?

Tomorrow he would do something to lighten himself up; after all life is wasted if you spend all your time wallowing in your thoughts and marinating in your sadness.

Sun streamed through the big window panes of the tea room, a rare treat in the middle of March. Graham sipped his cup of assam placidly, feeling the aromatic warmth fill him up from his core to his fingertips. He put the cup down onto its saucer, and set them both on the table. Picking up the butter knife, he cut open one of his two fruit scones, and smeared it with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

As he bit into the buttery, sweet goodness, his mobile pinged with a local headline. He was sure it was about the job last night, and he knew that he really shouldn’t read it if he didn’t want to spoil his good mood; but he couldn’t help it. What if it’s something important? Setting down the half-eaten scone back onto the plate, Graham picked up his phone and tapped at notification.

BOMB ATTACK AT FORMER DEATH EATER’S SECRET RESIDENCE, the headline blared, with a smaller line of all-caps words along the bottom of it, AURORS ARE BAFFLED. Graham picked up his cup again and sipped nervously. It was not ideal that the aurors picked up on it being a targeted attack. It was alright, though -- the Organisation needed to remind people that they were out there, once in a while. Spook them out, make the chase interesting; or else assassination would just become a bore.

Graham put down his cup, and picked up his scone again. Between bites he read the article, and felt his heart grow cold despite the warmth of the freshly brewed tea. The aurors picked out Graham’s pattern-less pattern, correctly concluded that the house belonged to Travers although the body should be beyond recognition after the ordeal, and correctly identified the perpetrators as ‘The Last Meal’ -- which, actually, was not altogether unexpected, as they were the only known rogue assassin group. But, worst of all, they found bomb fragments at the site.

That was impossible. None of Graham’s bombs left any trace -- in fact, they were less traditional bombs, and more alchemical concoctions that he brewed in his parents’ empty estate; he encased them in a thin shell that usually crumbles to dust with the force of the blast; and any last remnants would dissolve with the evening dew. The fact that aurors found fragments at the site meant something very, very bad.

Someone was interfering with their assassinations.

Graham’s hand shook as he drained his cup and read on. The next line nearly had him spluttering.

‘The body was not identified to be Travers’. Aurors suspect that it belonged to an ordinary Muggle. There was no residual magic around the body.’

Graham’s heart sank so low that he was sure it rested under his feet, beneath the cold stone floor of the tea room. How could the body have been a Muggle’s? Travers lived in a Wizarding neighbourhood? Graham pondered to himself. Had he killed a Muggle?

The rest of the article yielded no more information. Nervously, he closed the application and asked the waitress for the bill. After paying for his breakfast, he walked briskly out of the tea room, hoping not to look too suspicious, straight to his tiny hotel room again.

As soon as he burst through the door, he dialed Lucian’s secure number, and tapped his feet impatiently as he waited for Lucian to pick up the phone. It rang a couple of times before Lucian managed to find it; Graham heard Lucian shutting off the coffee grinder in the background.

‘Cracker, what is it?’

‘Lumos, have you read the news today?’

‘No, not yet. Why?’

‘We’re in deep shit. Read it and get back to me.’ He hung up before Lucian could answer; rude, he knew, but he was too paranoid to stay on the phone for too long, even if their numbers were all secure. Supposedly.

He called Millicent next. ‘What have you done?’ she seethed through the receiver right after she picked up. So she had read the news.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Graham explained, ‘You know that I clean up a scene like no one else. I think someone has set us up. Or used us to set someone else up, rather.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ Graham confessed, ‘But I’m having Lumos look at it.’

‘Shit. We should tell Angel.’

‘Probably, yeah,’ Graham nodded to himself.

‘I’ll call him. Stay put, keep a low profile.’

Graham nodded even though she couldn’t see him. Millicent hung up.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed softly as he threw his phone against his bed. It bounced off and fell onto the carpeted floor. Graham didn’t pick it up.

This was impossible. They had pulled off the perfect hit. The most the aurors should have been able to do would be to figure out that it was on purpose, and done by the Organisation. That was supposed to be the worst case scenario. It wasn’t even supposed to get there.

What they got instead was incredibly fishy. Various theories raced through Graham’s mind -- it was possible that someone had the body replaced with one that was less mashed-up and more identifiable; after all, the bomb fragments were all placed after the deed. On the other hand, it was possible that ... someone had planted the wrong body there before hand. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth -- someone was out to screw them, why? They were doing the community a service, taking out these bastards. Or ... they might have really killed the wrong person. Graham immediately rejected that conclusion; no, something was definitely planted, or else how would the bomb fragments be explained? Moreover, Lucian was never wrong when it came to target locations ...

Graham’s phone began buzzing on the ground. Speak of the Devil. He picked it up and quickly dusted it off his trousers. ‘Lumos?’

‘What the fuck have you done,’ Lucian’s voice teetered along the edge of disgruntled and absolutely furious.

‘Listen, you know my methods, you know this wasn’t me,’ Graham argued defensively.

‘Are you saying I found the wrong target?’

‘No, no!’ Graham shook his head. ‘No, you’re never wrong.’

‘Then whose fault is it?’

Graham took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s an outside party.’

Lucian said something muffled that sounded a lot like Fuck!

‘I think someone is either using us to set someone up, or actually setting us up,’ Graham continued.

Graham heard the sound of things being kicked, and something that maybe sounded like Perry and bastard. Was Peregrine behind this? Graham frowned. It wasn’t like Derrick to do something like this; did he know something that Graham didn’t?

‘I’ll look into it,’ Lucian said suddenly, his voice seeming louder after the prolonged disturbed non-silence that he had performed. ‘I’m going to catch this fucker.’

‘Keep me updated,’ Graham said.

‘I’ll keep you in the loop. When are you coming back to London?’

‘The day after tomorrow,’ Graham answered.

‘Shit. I guess they can’t have you coming back quite so soon after the incident,’ Lucian reasoned, ‘In the meantime, can you comb the Norwich wizarding community for possible clues?’

‘I suppose my Glamour skills aren’t too rusty; I could cast a passable disguise,’ Graham agreed. Of course, a Glamour wasn’t ideal, but he did not have the resources nor the luxury to attempted something like a Polyjuice potion; he couldn’t be seen shelling out that amount of cash, for those very specific ingredients neither.

‘Good,’ Lucian said, ‘Be careful, Cracker. Something’s been afoot and this could be connected,’ he continued.

‘What? When were you  going to tell --’

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Lucian hissed, and Graham could hear the blade’s edge in his voice. ‘I’m trusting you. Don’t betray us.’

Us? Who was us? Graham decided not to press on further. Lucian would tell him all in time, he was sure. He trusted Lucian as well; though if something is truly happening around the Organisation, he wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.

‘Alright, we’ll keep in touch,’ Lucian said by way of goodbye and hung up.

Graham put the phone on his bedside table, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

He needed to fucking reset his brain. This was all too much.

Norwich was very pretty at sunset. The sky stretched on for many hues, smooth and warm, filling Graham with a sense of lightheartedness and strange wistfulness. As he walked down the cobbled paths, twisting into winding alleys, he looked up at the sky, looming reassuringly above him. He would have liked to seen it on a better day than today.

He reached up to scratch his head and found his fingers tangled in long, coarse, and unfamiliar hair; he still was not used to his Transfigured wig from an old cotton shirt. He let his hand drop back to his side, and sauntered up to the gate of the Alchemists’ Alley.

The wrought iron, recognising his magic, parted easily like soft wire for him, and he slid into the Alley. Graham surveyed the scene before him, and decided to head towards the busiest pub he could see -- usually there was good information to be picked up there.

He dropped into the Facetious Friar, and slid into a table in the corner. He ordered a gnome-brewed stout from the barmaid, and wandlessly cast a hearing enhancement spell. After being a part of the Organisation for so long, magic like that came naturally.

The barmaid brought him his stout and he nursed it slowly whilst eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations. There was quite a lot of talk about the bombing, unsurprisingly. A place like Norwich did not get many bombings or assassinations.

It seemed to Graham that the residents were mainly worried that there had been a Death Eater amongst their midst, and they had not noticed it. ‘Truly a slimy Slytherin,’ one man said disdainfully, and Graham felt annoyance twist sharply at him. It was annoying because it was true -- the Organisation was just as slimy and slippery, if not more so, than Travers and his type. Only Slytherins can capture Slytherins.

Hours passed as Graham listened patiently to fragments of conversations. Nothing important or significant came up, and Graham was about to leave, when someone suddenly sat down across from him, and looked him straight in the eye.

‘Graham Montague,’ Harry Potter said, ‘It’s been a while.’

Graham’s immediate instinct was to get up and run, as fast as he could; but of course that was a fucking foolish idea, Potter would catch him in no time. It’d just make him look guiltier. Not that wearing a Glamour and a wig wasn’t guilty enough; though how did Potter see through his Glamour? Graham looked at Potter’s bright red uniform with the Head Auror badge over his heart. Shit, he should have put more effort into his disguise if he was supposed to evade someone of that rank.

Nevermind, he can try his best to play along with it; if Potter ever asked him, it was for an amateur theatre production he just came from. Yes, theatre was plausible. Graham cleared his throat and tried to form a polite greeting in his head. ‘Potter, how nice to see you. Certainly wasn’t expecting to see you again, after school.’

Harry laughed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up amiably. Graham wondered how this man became the mascot of all those who hated Slytherin. He looked so relaxed, so approachable; which struck Graham as odd, given what Potter had gone through. What was his game?

‘Nice? Oh it’s certainly not nice to see me. I’m here on official business,’ Potter gestured at his auror uniform, ‘Unfortunately there’s been an explosion here, I’m sure you’ve heard already.’

‘Well, yes,’ Graham confirmed. He did not want to talk more about the incident; if Potter were to delve into the details of the case, he would have no choice but to lie even more, which would lead to more storylines for Lucian to follow and for everyone to continue playing. It would be a mess.

‘It’s not a nice way to go,’ Harry commented, and looked into his own drink. He was drinking some kind of ale, Graham decided. Harry wore a sort of expressionless look, but it could have easily been exhaustion from work, or his way of showing pity. He used to be an easily readable person in school; and Draco Malfoy delighted in driving him obviously nuts, but Harry after the death of Voldemort seemed much more like a guarded, impartial person. Graham wondered what he was afraid of, and what he believed in, for he could not see either fear nor belief in the post-War Harry Potter.

He tried to not watch Harry too conspicuously as he drank more of his stout. Harry still looked the way he did when they were at school; he had the same smooth brown skin and green eyes, and messy black hair which he now wore rather long. His face was sharper and older looking, but he was still the same boy from Hogwarts.

‘But he was dead before he got to the house,’ Harry said, and Graham nearly spit out his drink.

‘I don’t know if you’re supposed to be telling me that,’ Graham pointed out, although he did not object to Potter divulging extra information to him. Perhaps the bloke had a bit much to drink; but Potter didn’t look drunk. He looked perfectly lucid.

‘Of course I’m supposed to,’ Harry replied, ‘We’re on the same side.’ Graham looked at him unsurely, but Harry’s gaze was adamant.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Graham said quietly.

‘I know of your Organisation,’ Harry explained. ‘I admire your work.’

Graham shook his head. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he lied, ‘I know of no such organisation, I’m merely passing through Norwich on my way to see my uncle and aunt.’ Shit shit shit shit, how did Potter know? Were they exposed or something --

‘If I didn’t know about you and the Organisation, how would I have been able to find you?’ Harry continued.

‘F-find me?’ Graham stumbled. ‘You mean, you didn’t just bump into me right now, you’ve been ... looking for me?’ Shit, was it me? Was it me again?

Harry nodded. ‘I’ve been looking for all of you. The time is about to come,’ he explained opaquely.

‘How do you mean?’ Graham’s heart was thumping uncomfortably in his chest. Fuck, did Lucian know this?

‘It’s nearly time for dessert,’ Harry said simply. He whipped out his auror’s notebook and a quill, and wrote down a number on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my number; let’s keep in touch.’

Graham accepted it and started at the scrawl of numbers. His mind was wooden, unable to process all that was happening right now. Harry Potter? On the side of the Organisation? While it wasn’t hard to believe that Potter had interests in taking down Death Eaters, it was unlike him to be in contact with a rogue assassination association ... and to be so forward about it ... it’s possible that this is someone else, Polyjuiced as Potter. But how?

‘You can trust me, Graham,’ Harry reassured him. ‘I never meant for it to be this way. I’m going to help you all get back your lives.’

‘But why?’ Graham asked as Harry got up, about to leave.

‘You don’t deserve it,’ Harry explained curtly, and turned around; walking away into the darkening alley.

Graham was filled with an uneasiness for the rest of the evening. He walked back to the hotel slowly, thinking over everything that has happened to this point. Things just seemed to unravel, and any answers he received only turned into more questions. Half-afraid, he didn’t want to know the truth behind any of this; but he also felt compelled to uncover all this, even if it was just for his peace of mind. His curiosity always got the better of his common sense.

But, if it was something far more nefarious, horrifying ... Graham wanted to get out whilst he still could. He could still live a passable life; Draco, Blaise, Theodore, and Terence were all getting along alright ... it wasn’t a ideal life, but it was structured and normal; it was still something.

But part of Graham would miss his personal agency. The hope that he carried with him always. And a part of him that he hated knew that he would miss the thrill; the rush of euphoric fulfillment after a successfully executed hit, the knowledge that he made a difference in the world.

But Harry Potter promised him more of a future. Graham mulled over it in his head. It was true, he supposed that Potter could grant immunity to anyone; but if he truly wanted to, he would have done it ages ago. There’s no way this is fucking legitimate. Fuck off Potter, I’ll never trust you, Graham thought to himself.

His phone pinged beside him, on the bedside table. Graham picked it up and saw that the text was from Lucian. ‘Any new findings?’

Harry Potter visited me today, Graham typed out swiftly.

Fuck, Lucian responded immediately. Don’t trust him. He’s involved. Wait, when was Lucian going to tell him about this? How did Lucian already know about Potter? Graham stared distressfully at his screen. Could he not even trust his own teammate?

I know. And wasn’t going to, Graham wrote, finally.

Lucian’s side fell silent. Perhaps he had said all he needed to say. Graham put the phone back onto the table, and snuffed out the light.

He drifted off towards sleep, heavy with consternation and unfinished thoughts. For the first time since Hogwarts, Graham felt lost; disengaged and baffled. He could no longer trust what he knew to be true anymore; he could no longer control the outcome of his own life.

Man is truly never a master of his own fate.

#graham montague #millicent bulstrode #lucian bole #harry potter #hp fanfiction #saladstuff #saladfic #saladedits #the last meal #me: i'm going to write an interesting actiony chapter with explosions and shit!!! it's gonna be fun!!!! #me at 6 am: graham montague has an existential crisis #gjdkfjslgdf not quite but close

[while-my-tardis-gently-weeps]

Eurovision 2016 vs 2017

.So I’ve been re-watching Eurovision from past years to get me over my PED (Post-Eurovision Depression), and I thought I’d do a comparison of this year’s songs against ones from last year, inspired by Eurosong’s post here.

Here goes:

Albania: Fairytale vs World - To be frank, I’m rather ambivalent on both songs, but I went with “World” because of Lindita’s incredible voice.

Armenia: LoveWave vs Fly with Me - Armenia always does well, and it’s not hard to see why, looking at these two songs. Neither are really my cup of tea, but I connected a bit more with “LoveWave.”

Australia: Sound of Silence vs Don’t Come Easy - Isaiah did his best, but not many can compete against the vocal tour de force that is Dami Im, and Isaiah certainly isn’t one of them.

Austria: Loin d’ici vs Running on Air - Even though both songs are quite average, the decision between the two songs are actually quite easy for me because I was completely won over by Nathan Trent’s charm, charisma, and sheer enthusiasm. And that music video, now that’s just cheating. Scenery porn at its best. 

Azerbaijan: Miracle vs Skeletons - DiHaj wins this hands down. It’s contemporary, edgy, catchy, and modern (albeit slightly marred by mystifying elements in the staging; still don’t know what the horse head is all about). Miracle, on the other hand, is, I’m sorry to say, just boring. 

Belarus: Help you fly vs Historyja majgo zyccia - This one is another no-contest: Naviband of course, undoubtedly. Not only was it sung in Belarusian, it’s also a little piece of absolute joy condensed into around 3 minutes of music. As for Ivan’s “Help you fly,” there’s something wrong with the whole production if the only memorable thing about it is the outlandish gimmick. 

Belgium: What’s the pressure vs City Lights - Perhaps against common sense, I’m going to call this a draw. I appreciated City Lights for being a contemporary song with a distinct sound, one that is completely unlike the usual Eurovision fare, but I also thought it was vastly overrated. My regard for “City Lights” only decreased further after I saw live performances of it because there’s not much stage presence and charisma to speak of coming from this one, really. On the other hand, “What’s the Pressure” might be beyond dated, but Laura’s confident, lively performance definitely made it a lot more enjoyable to sit through than, if I dare say, this year’s “City Lights.” Now, if Eurovision were a radio show, the result might be quite different but as it is, I’m for “City Lights” in terms of the song alone and “What’s the Pressure” in terms of the whole package. 

Bulgaria: If love was a crime vs Beautiful Mess - Another hard one, but this one because both songs are so good and well-deserving of their high placings. I like both, really, but I love “If love was a crime.”

Croatia: Lighthouse vs My Friend - “Lighthouse,” definitely. Mad respects to Jacques for pulling off those Jekyllesque vocals,  but “Lighthouse” is definitely the better song, both objectively and subjectively speaking. 

Cyprus: Alter Ego vs Gravity - The latter, but only barely. Possibly because “Gravity” is more recent and I remember it slightly better as a result. 

Czechia: I Stand vs My Turn - Both are quite dull, but I found Gabriela to be the better singer.

Denmark: Soldiers of Love vs Where I Am - Do I have to chose between 90s boyband raised from the dead and every single X Factor winner song ever? Okay, Anja’s the better singer so I guess it goes to her. 

Estonia: Play vs Verona - The former for sure. It’s not increasingly grating upon each repeated listen, for one. 

Finland: Sing it away vs Blackbird - I still have extremely strong feelings about Norma John’s non-qualification. Gorgeous song, excellent vocals, dark, atmospheric staging, they’ve done everything right. I just don’t get it. Last year’s NQ, on the other hand, was only to be expected. 

France: J’ai cherché vs Requiem - The French delegation definitely knows what it’s doing, choosing two stellar Nazim Khaled songs in as many years. Both are great songs, but personally I’m a lot more partial to Alma’s “Requiem.” Especially the lyrics: “Des amours meurent, des amours naissent/Les siècles passent et disparaissent/Ce que tu crois être la mort/C’est une saison et rien de plus (Love dies, love is born/Centuries pass and disappear/What you believe to be death/Is nothing but a season).” Just exquisite. 

Georgia: Midnight Gold vs Keep the Faith - I hate myself slightly for choosing “Midnight Gold” really, because that was 3 minutes of my life that I can’t get back. Unfortunately, not much more can be said for “Keep the Faith,” despite my respect for Tamara’s vocal prowess, and at least the former sounds a little different...? 

Germany: Ghost vs Perfect Life - At least nothing about Levina and “Perfect Life” is absolutely offensive to me, which is a lot more than I can say for the former, starting with the bargain sale Kyary Pamyu Pamyu imitation fashion. If anything, parts of “Perfect Life”’s lyrics actually quite tickle my fancies. 

Greece: Utopian Land vs This is Love - I don’t like either, but Utopian Land gets some brownie points for being different. And those high notes in the live version of “This is Love” is just tragic. 

Hungary: Pioneer vs Origo - I love both songs, but went for “Origo” because of the use of Hungarian, the unique sound, and the emotional delivery. I still wish he did away with the rap section though.

Iceland: Here them calling vs Paper - Both lovely songs that I wished I could have seen in the finals. I connected with the latter song more though.

Ireland: Sunlight vs Dying to Try - Nothing to remember whatsoever vs. average song that is nonetheless memorable because of Brendan Murray’s unique voice (though not necessarily favorably so). But hell, Brendan nailed those notes during his performance in the Semi so kudos to him I guess. 

Israel: Made of Stars vs I Feel Alive - “Made of Stars” by a country mile. Hovi Star’s soulful performance was mesmerizing, whereas I still think Imri got through largely because of the running order. 

Italy: No degree of separation vs Occidentali’s Karma - Italy is my favorite Big 5 nation, and one of my favorite countries overall in Eurovision. They’ve always sent outstanding entries since their comeback, and the past two years were no different. I have great love for both songs and both singers, but that said, this one is actually one of the easiest decision to make out of this whole list. In fact, “Occidentali’s Karma” is my favorite out of all the songs from both years. The combination of catchy pop tune and deep, philosophical lyrics offering commentary and satire on Western materialistic lifestyle and cultural appropriation puts it leagues above most of the songs in this set. 

Latvia: Heartbeat vs Line - “Line” doesn’t stand a chance against the great Aminata, especially when you add Justs’ passionate performance to it (he’s no Aminata either, but he’s still pretty good). 

Lithuania: I’ve been waiting for this night vs Rain of Revolution - What happened to you, Lithuania? How did you go from the glorious Donny to...I don’t even know how to describe this? If I wanted to see Pikku Myy in Eurovision I would have gone for Elina Salo, thank you very much. 

Macedonia: Dona vs Dance Alone - I guess, because Kaliopi is a much better singer.

Malta: Walk on water vs Breathlessly - Because I actually remember how the song from last year goes. 

Moldova: Falling Stars vs Hey, Mamma! - Sunstroke Project wins this hands down. It’s a simple song, but what a enjoyable one, and what a performance! Congrats to them for giving Moldova its best placing in the finals.

Montenegro: The Real Thing vs Space - Surprise, surprise. What can I say though? The guy at least has guts for donning helicopter braids. 

Netherlands: Slow down vs Lights and Shadows - Objectively speaking, I actually think “Slow down” is probably the better song of the two, but I despise country music and always had a soft spot for well-done vocals (being a huge choir geek myself), which the latter has in spades with their stunning harmonies. 

Norway: Icebreaker vs Grab the Moment - I love both songs, and I’ve always been partial to the Norwegian entries ever since I was introduced to Eurovision with Alexander Rybak’s “Fairytale.” I’m quite close to calling this another draw, really, but I’m in a more “Grab the Moment” mood today.

Poland: Color of your life vs Flashlight - Both are average songs (though the former’s lyrics are a lot less dire), but Michal sells it a lot better with his emotional performance and gothic-chic style. I still quite like Kasia’s voice, though. 

Romania: Moment of Silence vs Yodel It! - I’ve only listened to the studio version of the former, but I think “Yodel It!” wins this round. Listening to it always make me happy, and you’ve got to give them credit for making the unholy combination of yodelling and rapping work, and work well on top of that. 

Russia: You are the only one vs Flame Is Burning - I’ve got to admit, I was kind of pleased that I didn’t have to sit through “Flame Is Burning” with the travel ban and everything. Now, let’s hope Russia wasn’t serious when they said they are sending it to Portugal next year... On the other hand, while “You are the only one” is very dated as a song in and out itself, Sergey and the Russian production team definitely performed the hell out of it.

San Marino: I didn’t know vs Spirit of the Night - Because “I didn’t know” is slightly more tolerable. 

Serbia: Shelter vs In Too Deep - Another easy pick. “Shelter” is both local and contemporary, and carries a message that packs an emotional punch and connects with you on a humanitarian level. 

Slovenia: Blue and red vs On My Way - Because “Blue and red,” while average, is at least not annoying.

Spain: Say yay! vs Do It for Your Lover - Surely this one requires no commentary or explanation? Just give each song a listen.

Sweden: If I were sorry vs I Can’t Go On - Time to be honest: I hated both songs upon first listen. The thing is though, “If I were sorry” actually grew on me little by little, to the point that now I’m only ambivalent about it, whereas “I Can’t Go On” simply got worse with each repeat. 

Switzerland: Last of our kind vs Apollo - Timebelle wins this hands down, even after they traded the gorgeous red dress and classy staging of the national finals with that bizarre Belle meets Big Bird meets Hercules eyesore. Now, I actually do think I would have liked “Last of our kind” a lot were it sang by a more competent singer, but Rykka’s vocals were grating at best. And the less said about those weird movements she made on stage, the better.

Ukraine: 1944 vs Time - Heartfelt ballad that touches you to the core vs clear sign Ukraine doesn’t want us back next year, to borrow Graham Norton’s words? No contest here. 

United Kingdom: You’re not alone vs Never Give Up on You - If you asked me this question before rehearsals started, I would have said “You’re not alone,” hands down. But Lucie Jones (and the BBC production team) made “Never Give Up on You” shine, to the point where you (almost) forget it’s nothing more than a paint-by-numbers ballad that’s been done to death already. 

The Tally:

Class of 2016 - 21 vs. Class of 2017 - 20 (1 draw not included)

#eurovision #eurovision 2017 #eurovision 2016 #personal opinion