highly new, slightly improved open post

[appliances]

assorted morons

☆ @ the muselist

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme ☆ little steps meme ☆ affectionate physical contact meme ☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy ☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU ☆ melodrama is ultimate tier ★ SHIPPING AND FUCC: ☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh ☆ things I am not into: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character ☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty ☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

Comments

let's start this post off right

[ilves]

[After spending weeks trapped in a floating quarantine cell, Lalli thought that standing on solid land once more would be... pleasant. Comforting, almost, but let's be real: there is absolutely nothing comforting about being stuck in Reynir's home for the foreseeable future. Every room he enters is full of people (loudly) carrying on conversations in languages he doesn't understand, and on those rare occasions someone tries to include him, every word is spoken so slowly, so annoyingly that he has no choice but to huff and turn away. He never wanted Tuuri to translate everything for him, but now that she's not here to try...

...Well. The rift between himself and his older teammates seems deeper, somehow; even Onni seems further away than usual, leaving Lalli to tiptoe around him and stand in Emil's shadow instead. Emil is weird, yes, and Emil is loud, but even when Lalli does his best to push him away, Emil still tries. That's new? And slightly annoying, honestly, yet spending time with him isn't... uncomfortable. Even listening to him babble on and on in Swedish isn't always frustrating.

Except, of course, when he's been babbling on and on about sheep for the past ten or so minutes. At least, that's what Lalli supposes this impromptu speech is about? They'd wandered out into the fields together to escape Reynir's everything, and then Emil excitedly began pointing at the fluffy creatures while repeating a Swedish word, and Lalli hesitantly echoed it once or twice before Emil waved a hand and just... talked. And talked. And kept talking. Lalli is almost positive that this stupid boy has distracted himself from his original purpose by trying to, like, decide which sheep is the best looking sheep, but listening to this is somehow better than sitting in a silent room with Onni. For now, anyway.

So Lalli is more or less content to remain by Emil's side for the time being, glancing over at him every few seconds to see if he's almost run out of steam. At least it's a nice day? Cool, sunny, lightly breezy—it's the perfect weather for a nap, but instead of dozing off, Lalli reaches over to smooth Emil's rogue strands of hair back in place. Hi? Hello? Don't you dare forget that he's here.]

it's happening

[illequipped]

[As Emil has told anyone who'll hold still long enough and even a few who haven't, all he wants is a room with normal walls and a bed. That's it; just a comfortable place to sleep and a little privacy, and there's so much Icelandic happening around them at port that he doesn't know what it is he's agreeing to until suddenly it's hours later and he's been presented with free lodging (nice) packed with Reynir's many, many family members, all of whom are very loud (oh god). Frankly, it's overwhelming - he's never had many friends before now (and if he's honest he really still doesn't, just Lalli) and while all of Reynir's siblings want to be friendly at him, he has no idea what anyone is saying very fast in their dumb sheep language and he just wants to go to bed.

So of course he sticks to Lalli. He was going to anyway, but if anyone from their crew and the Sheep Family combined is a welcome reprieve from all that, Lalli is it. It takes no time at all to glance significantly at him and make their escape, and okay, sheep are pretty cute despite the weirdos who keep them.

This is what he's been talking about for ten minutes; a little bit of sheep, a little bit of complaining, a little helpful vocabulary so that Lalli can point out sheep and tell Reynir he's irritating most of the time in Swedish, too. Very helpful. Emil doesn't so much run out of steam as calm himself down from how wound up he's been, trying to comprehend all these loud weirdos, and so he winds down from constant babbling to the occasional idle comment.

He's midway through asking Lalli if he's still listening when Lalli touches his hair. Aha.]

—Oh. Hi? So that's a no, isn't it? Don't worry about it.

[He holds up his hands in a never-mind-literally-all-of-that type of gesture, then haltingly in his toddler-level Finnish he manages:] ...Bored?

snippy saloon date before cowboy lessons

[ghostlike]

[There's really no denying it: Saint Denis, pride of the great state of Lemoyne, is an absolute shithole. Oh, its French-speaking inhabitants will bend over backwards in their attempts to defend it; they'll point out the elegant architecture, the modern amenities, the law and order their hard-working mayor has sworn to provide, but Arthur Morgan isn't fooled. It's awfully hard to care about pretty façades and pretty promises when you know what's lurking behind them.

Like... the mayor himself. Henri Lemieux, an apparently timid man with a passion for the arts - and a strong desire to see Saint Denis ranked among the best cities in the nation. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but there is something wrong with promising to cleanse the city of crime while keeping the Van der Linde gang—the Pinkertons' most wanted—on retainer for, ah, business needs. Arthur's received a steady check for a month or so now? That's all that matters to Dutch Van der Linde, and, as a member of the Van der Linde gang, it should be all that matters to Arthur; he's never spent much time worrying about who's on the receiving end of a well-deserved beating, but every time the mayor's secretary delivers both a note and a look of stern disapproval... well. Arthur knows what he is. He learned to accept his place in life a long, long time ago, but that doesn't mean he enjoys smacking professors around just because some puffed-up bureaucrat paid him to.

(And once, not so very long ago, Dutch would have agreed with him. Dutch would have refused to stay in Saint Denis any longer than he absolutely had to, and yet... things change! For better or for worse. It's another thing Arthur has learned to accept.)

His feelings regarding his current mode of employment, however, are things Arthur is trying not to think about as he hunches over a table in La Bastille Saloon. The mayor's money may have paid for his room, his bath, and his half-finished glass of (much too expensive) whiskey, but all he wants to do is sit here and observe the many goings-on around him. He's not looking for anything in particular! He's certainly not planning to get involved, even when the poker game right beside him starts getting a little too heated for his liking. Who cares if some rich boy is upset about losing all of his money thanks to one bad hand? Who cares if he throws his cards across the table? Who cares if he draws a gun—

Ah.

Arthur doesn't jump up and grab the boy's arm because he wants to be a good man; Arthur jumps up and grabs the boy's arm because he wants one quiet night before he heads back into this godforsaken city, and there's no way he's going to get that if this dumb kid attracts every cop in the neighborhood. It's why everything—disarming the boy, whopping him upside the head, picking him up and throwing his ass right out the back door—is handled quickly and efficiently. ...Almost everything. Maybe he does yell something along the lines of "Go find a skirt to hide under, you goddamn baby!" before giving the boy one last kick to the rear, but you know, it's fine. It's not like the bartender minds; he even comes over to pat Arthur on the arm as he strides back in, and Arthur promptly shrugs him off. No, no. He doesn't deserve anything other than to be left alone as he finishes his drink.

But that isn't meant to be, is it? The second the bartender slips back behind the bar, Arthur catches sight of a very familiar person shooting him a very familiar look from across the room. Boy, isn't he just having the best luck tonight—]

Well, look who it is! [He dusts his hands off dramatically, grinning as he does so. He can feel the judgment radiating his way.] Just helpin' clean up this fine city of yours. And here I thought you paid folks to do that...

[And with that polite greeting out of the way, he ambles back over to sit at his nice, secluded table. Leave him alone! Or don't. He'll nudge a chair out into the open, just in case, because even if a lecture is imminent... at least Boss, Jr. is interesting. Entertaining? Both.]

it begins

[allweather]

[All things considered, coming to this particular saloon on this particular evening was a bad idea for someone else seeking a quiet night, but without the gumption to disarm ruffians and toss them out of doors. All things considered, this particular saloon isn't what anyone who's met him for five minutes would call Reim's type of establishment; surely, he's better suited to sipping expensive wine in an orderly sitting room somewhere, not holed up at a corner table considering some liquor. The expensive part is still there— being the mayor's right hand does have perks, almost all of them monetary— but the rest? Not so much.

Still, his position allows him to more or less do whatever he wants, as long as he doesn't make Mayor Lemieux look bad... publicly, anyway. Overtly. Reim has passed enough notes to enough criminals to feel like he's earned his corner table in this saloon, where a rowdy young man is most certainly going to ruin the night for everyone before long—

Or not. Reim watches Arthur Morgan with a kind of detached interest during the whole, ahem, incident and shouting and so on, not fixing his usual glower into place until Arthur turns enough for them to make eye contact. The mayor's insistence on keeping criminals on payroll is one decision Reim has questioned and been summarily shut up about, not that it ever takes for very long; another liberty he takes when he probably shouldn't so often. He's intelligent enough to be valuable, which he believes affords him, like corner tables, permission to ask the mayor all kinds of piercing questions before he goes out and does his job. Passing notes. Adding numbers. Making wheels turn in the places where a good punch and some accounts paid under the table won't hold up as suitable city grease.

Saint Denis is a rotten city but here he is, sitting behind his expensive glass, watching a man he is only vaguely, professionally familiar with throw another man bodily out of a building. Reim takes a long sip of his drink and considers conveniently losing interest, but then Mr. Bodily Harm himself starts talking to him. Across the room! People are looking!

Somehow it's possible for his flat glare to get flatter. Stop that. He pointedly ignores the comments and the nudged chair for several minutes, enough time to finish his drink and acquire another one at the bar. Then and only then does he approach Arthur's table instead of going back to his corner, giving him a long look without sitting down. The look is the lecture.]

Mr. Lemieux does not reward grandstanding, Mr. Morgan, [he says, like either of them actually believe Arthur did that whole thing for a selfless, noble reason (and he knows how to pronounce Lemieux without sounding like he's got a mouthful of something, which is only petty if you really squint). Reim puts a hand on the back of the waiting chair and then just taps his fingers, irritably.] If you feel your services are not being adequately compensated, I believe you know where my office is.

[Fill out a form instead of complaining, that's what the forms are for.]

it's the nhs/mxy one

[fanfavors]

[Becoming a sect leader is the worst thing to ever happen to Nie Huaisang.

No, not exactly— the violent death of his older brother, that was worse, but when one thing is so inextricably linked to another, the judgment call is hard to make. It depends, Huaisang thinks, on the day; some days he's sluggish under the weight of his sect, his new responsibilities, the things he has to do now that he's never had to do before and, indeed, never intended to do either. And other days he's beset by grief over his brother, by regretting his own behavior those few days prior, by a dull and muted sadness that hangs over him and seems to block out the rest of the world regardless of what he does or doesn't do.

And other times that emotion tinges sharply darker, a hot and bitter resentment that coils in his stomach and pricks at the back of his mind, but the Qinghe Nie sect leaders have always had tempers. No one has given him a second look long enough to wonder about the occasional coldness in his gaze, and he has no complaints.

Still. Being at home is stressful and being in Gusu Lan is worse, the way they bind themselves so rigidly to their rules and still each one of them seems to affect a flowing, relaxed nature Huaisang could never master in school. It's uncomfortable to be there and feel even more bumbling and imperfect than his reputation makes him out to be. The only place left to him to waste his days in is Lanling Jin's Carp Tower, which. Well.

At least it's busy. Much more coming and going, guests, revelry, meetings, fine dining, cultivation studies— being on top of the cultivation world gives Lanling Jin sect's central hub a lot of business to attend to all the time, and Huaisang takes brief comfort in the fact that the business here isn't his. He does what he needs to do, affects a helpless whine and clings to Jin Guangyao's sleeve until he's affectionately ushered away to look at a garden or a painting or something, and then he is left to his own devices. Sometimes he does while away an afternoon in the gardens or admire a painting or two; sometimes he "gets lost" in places he shouldn't and makes himself nearly weep when a young Jin disciple finds him "wandering"; sometimes he reads, or watches the disciples at their practice.

Eventually, no one pays him any mind. Huaisang drifts through Lanling Jin as if in a bubble, shielded from anyone's pressing concern by his own reputation. It's easier; it's quieter.

Today, he's in a garden, and he's looking at clouds with his ornate fan held up to shield his eyes from the sun. He'd been watching the disciples at their lessons but that had gotten just as dread-inducing as his own school days and so he'd left, making his way here to stand just outside of the dappled shade of a nearby tree and look at the sky. It is... also somewhat boring, but unlike all else that's happened to him since his older brother died, it's a simple thing he chose for himself.

A noise behind him makes him turn, only to spot... a lone Jin disciple? Well, alright—]

Ah- hello? Are lessons over for the afternoon? [He cranes his neck to peer back inside as he asks, but no, lessons are not over. He knows this.] If you young disciples are going to play in this garden, I could go...

[That Nie Huaisang, his critics will say of him, stepping aside for some young nobodies, even though he's a sect leader! How could he behave like that? Huaisang drops his fan from shielding his face and holds it in both hands, like he'd wring it nervously if it weren't so expensive. Oh No What Does He Do?]

Pretend this is mxy 'cause I'm too lazy to make a new account.

[diabolique]

[ Carp Tower holds so much fascination for Mo Xuanyu. Everything is bright and beautiful and shimmering, even the people! No one treats him poorly (though, no one treats him particularly kindly, either, but that’s better than before). Apparently, there are some perks to being the sect leader’s son. Illegitimate, yes, but it’s enough to get him out of Mo Village. Plus, one of his half-brothers is attentive to him and his studies. Xuanyu would almost call him friendly.

For the most part, he blends in. He doesn’t show much promise – perhaps he began learning too late – but even so, he likes being here. Even if people don’t take notice of him. After so much abuse in the village, being overlooked is wonderful. Xuanyu no longer frets over his every glance or word. Perhaps because he has so little potential, no one minds him skipping lessons. Or maybe no one notices. Either is fine with him. Being noticed usually brings trouble.

Like Huaisang, he wanders, getting lost in all the many places to explore. There really is so much to admire in the Lanling Jin sect’s territory and Xuanyu is easily moved by the way the sunlight flashes off the leaves and illuminates the flowers. Glistening koi ponds enthral him. He’s easily distracted and rarely missed.

But his half-brother is attentive. He notices and urges Xuanyu to his studies, sometimes even helping him study after a missed lesson. It’s very sweet of Jin Guangyao to take such pains, but he’s like that with everyone. Always smiling, always polite, always attentive. For example, had it been he who ran across Huaisang, he would’ve recalled seeing him before and all the details of their conversation. Xuanyu barely remembers his name and only vaguely thinks the young man familiar.

Familiar or not, he made a pretty sight with the play of light and shadow under the tree and the beautiful fan shielding his eyes. The colours of his clothes tell Xuanyu he’s not part of this sect, but he can’t recall whose colours they are. ]

No.

[ No, lessons aren’t over. No, no one is coming to play. No, you don’t have to leave. He takes a hesitant step closer and gestures toward the fan. ]

I was just admiring that.

the world's first ikea au

[ilves]

[All things considered, Lalli actually likes his job. Sure, he works in a building full of strange people, but his (tiny) office is tucked away in some hard-to-find corner on the bottom floor; as long as he arrives early in the morning and leaves well after five, it's easy for him to avoid interacting with anyone face-to-face. He still has to deal with calls, and field the dumbest questions from the dumbest individuals, but it's... bearable. No one expects the IT guy to be nice? No one expects him to, like, ask about their day; people just want their problems solved as quickly as possible, which is why everyone puts up with Lalli's curt responses—and his hermit-like habits—without complaint. He's very, very good at what he does.

So it's a genuine surprise, then, when someone from the upper floors decides to pop into his office unannounced. To... ask what is possibly the dumbest question of all time, of course, but even after Lalli tells this stranger to reboot his computer and call back if the problem persists, he doesn't take the hint; instead, he plops down into the spare chair Lalli keeps around for show and tries to carry on a rather one-sided conversation. How long have you been here? What do think about this place? Why is your office so dim? The questions are neverending, even though Lalli offers little more than confused looks and quiet hums; he's oh-so relieved when this loudmouth—Emil, apparently—checks his buzzing phone and rushes back upstairs for some kind of meeting. Weird, Lalli thinks, but as he turns back to his work, he's positive that it was a one time occurrence.

Except that it, you know, isn't. Emil drops by again... and again... and again, and Lalli finds himself at a loss. Oh, it's initially incredibly annoying; Lalli goes so far as to drag that spare chair out into the hallway, just to make a point, but Emil drags it back inside and carries on as if nothing is amiss. He asks more questions, summarizes workplace drama, complains about coworkers—once he even brings Lalli lunch, which Lalli picks at as he wonders why Emil refuses to leave him alone. No one else in this building has ever tried to... to befriend him! Probably because he's not the friendliest person in the world, but hey, he's perfectly okay with that. He likes his space.

The more Emil comes around, however, the more... accustomed... Lalli becomes to having him around. It's a slow shift, one that Lalli doesn't pay much attention to, but one word answers give way to short sentences; conversations eventually go from Emil doing all of the talking to Emil doing most of the talking, with Lalli occasionally chiming in about people or things he, too, finds particularly irritating. Even when he doesn't have anything to contribute, though, simply listening to Emil isn't... terrible? Aside from the way he butchers the Finnish language, that is. Oof.

But for the first time in... well, for the very first time, Lalli has someone he doesn't necessarily mind being around. A friend, his cousins suggest after he mentions Emil in passing, but that's not something he's spent much time thinking about. Emil is a tolerable coworker! An okay Swede! A person with nice eyes and surprisingly strong opinions about Ikea!! Or maybe all Swedes harbor intense Ikea opinions? Maybe all Swedes would be offended by hearing Lalli say that Ikea's products have—wait for it—stupid names, and maybe all Swedes would then insist upon taking Lalli to the nearest Ikea just to prove him wrong. Or maybe Emil is... weirder than Lalli thought...

...Yeah, it's probably that—and yet, after a going back and forth for a good ten minutes, Lalli still agrees to go with him? To waste an entire afternoon wandering around a furniture store?? It's why he's up earlier than he should be on his next day off, peeking out the front window as something much too small to be a car zooms up their driveway. "A motorcycle?" Onni asks from somewhere behind him, probably peering over Lalli's head to get a good look at the person pulling off their helmet. "Is that your friend?"

Yes, Lalli thinks, but he's not entirely sure until that helmet comes off—and that familiar golden hair gets blown right back into Emil's face. He can hear Onni tssk-ing, clearly disapproving of this long-haired idiot, but! Whatever! He shoots Onni a slightly rueful look—like, Hey, what can you do?—before slipping right out the front door. Hi. Hello. Ignore the grumpy person standing by that window; just focus on the little wave Lalli offers as he comes closer to take a better look at his new mode of transport. Is this even safe...]

at long last i made it

[illequipped]

[Emil's crummy office job is boring and dreadful and his coworkers poke fun at his clumsy mangling of any language but Swedish all the time, but at the end of the day, it could be worse. That's not to say that he likes it - it pays the bills and it isn't completely terrible, and he can afford to both buy and maintain a cool motorcycle on his salary, but it's... a job. He's not even very good at it, or at least he's no good at maintaining his own computer, which is how he winds up asking the quiet guy alone in the IT office about it in the first place: a dumb mistake.

Now, to say Lalli The Guy From IT is the only really good think about this job would be a stretch, because-- well, most of their sort-of-friendship has been Emil running his mouth at him while Lalli keeps working and maybe glances at him sometimes, but! But. Lalli is... a perk? But not in a weird way, like that sounds - Emil simply finds that he genuinely enjoys what little scraps of conversation he manages to eke out of Lalli, the longer he hangs around him. What began as chattering at him because Lalli seemed to be the least likely person in the building to repeat his gossip to someone else turns into an actual thing before long, an appreciation of what Lalli does say on those precious few occasions.

It's strange, Emil can admit. It is strange of him to be so persistent, and even after they establish a kind of rapport, it's still strange of him to get even more so. Lalli is busy! He himself should do more work instead of loitering in someone else's office, but they are... probably friends, and he hopes Lalli appreciates his company at least a little.

But yeah it's definitely bizarre to demand Lalli From IT come with him to a department store, of all things, something Emil thinks about immediately after he suggests it, again after he insists, then for the entire night after he goes home and can't stop obsessing about what a stupid, weird thing that was to do— and then he doesn't think about it at all the next day until he rolls up in front of Lalli's house and gets whipped in the face with his own hair. This must be divine punishment for his weird deeds...

He's pushing his hair out of his face when Lalli comes outside, and Emil spares him a half-hearted wave back while he laments his precious locks. This trip is canceled, actually, he needs to go home and spend all afternoon in front of a mirror--]

Hey! Here, you're going to need this— [He has another helmet somehow shoved into his oversized man-purse (an Ikea product? likely), which he laboriously tugs out before offering to Lalli. It's clearly older than the one he has for himself, judging by the light signs of wear and also the stickers on it for various brands and things Emil thought would make him look Cooler. Take this and wear it.]

Ready to go?

rolls in here

[championbittersweet]

The night was dark and tinted red from a full, bloody moon that sailed among the clouds, throwing the world in sharp illumination of light and shadow. It was the kind of night that Jonathan hoped was not an omen, that he would not be too late in his goal to prevent blood being spilled. He had scented it almost too late, the lingering smell of a mortal that stood out like a beacon in this wilderness of monsters like him, and immediately he'd known what that would mean.

Every vampire in a several kilometer radius would have the same goal in mind, to find the poor soul or souls out here and feed on them. Hunting instincts taking over and driving them into a frenzy that would not be stopped until they succeeded or were slain. He only hoped that he could ensure the latter.

His footsteps were fast, faster than human as he moved across the landscape in leaps of smoke and shadow, and the sound of combat reached his ears. Praying he wasn't too late, Jonathan leapt the last of the distance and landed silently on a rooftop overlooking a narrow alleyway of the long since abandoned district. He only had a moment to sight several other monstrous forms fighting each other and a huddled figure before he threw himself down into the middle of the fray. One of the creatures was trying to escape the fighting and go for the true target, and his sword removed its head effortlessly. Another earned a shell to the chest, one of the precious bullets he'd salvaged that burst into phosphorous flames and consumed the creature from within.

Which left the biggest one and two smaller others trying to take it down. Or one, he amended as a hand as big as his torso came down to crush the head of a smaller vampire. Cursing softly, Jonathan put himself between the human and the fight, holding back in the hopes that they'd do enough damage to each other to make it easier for him. He rarely saw the big ones and usually steered clear of them, the mutation that effected all of them gifting them with warped forms of bulk and muscle, slow but with power that he'd seen take pieces out of buildings.

There was a cut off screech and Jonathan shifted his stance, watching coldly as the hulking monster tore the throat out of the smaller vampire and dropped the twitching corpse. More or less the outcome he'd expected, but he hoped that there had been enough damage to give him an advantage.

Seeing only one obstacle left, the monstrous vampire roared a challenge and charged for Jonathan. He waited, bracing himself until the last moment then slipped down and around, his sword slicing a graceful line through the air and biting deep into the back of the creature's leg. It wouldn't move as fast for a little while it healed, and he took the opportunity to find several more sensitive points with his blade. More than he expected really, and Jonathan suddenly realised why it wasn't fighting back.

The person, the human, he'd wanted to save was right there, in easy reach and the beast was clearly intent on taking that chance as a meaty hand reached towards the boy. Jonathan shouted a wordless warning and flung himself between them, seemingly appearing out of the air as the hand closed around him instead and he was lifted bodily into the air.

"Run! Get out of here!"

descends

[illequipped]

In hindsight, going out this late by himself was a bad idea. Sure, Emil has been through training, and sure, he's equipped with the finest anti-vampire weapons money can buy, but there's something to be said for field experience, of which he has remarkably little for someone who signed up to be a city watch guard almost a year ago. In the daylight he doesn't have a single problem, but then of course he wouldn't— it's too much bravado and other guards on shift calling him little rich boy coward and similar that spur him into action.

This turns out to be a terrible idea, when one particularly mutated vampire somehow summons a handful more seemingly out of thin air. Emil is small, tiny even, and every one of these monsters towers over him as he hurriedly tries to make a run for it. No dice, because before long he's on the ground, hastily scrambling away while the biggest one turns up.

That's nice, that they're going to fight amongst themselves for a moment, but it definitely means Emil is going to die horribly in just a few minutes instead of immediately. He's all but embraced death, clutching his pistol in front of him while he watches the scene before him. That some other man, apparently a vampire from his movements but not a horrible monster, has shown up almost doesn't occur to him until the man is lifted clean off the ground in front of him.

Oh.

Ah— "Wh—"

Emil blinks, the terror that's gripped him slipping just for a moment, allowing him to view the scene in perfect clarity; this guy... is saving his life? This vampire is saving his life and being probably crushed to death for his troubles, and that isn't going to sit well with him. He's on his feet more quickly than he expected of himself, hand shoved into a square pouch at his belt to retrieve two miniature explosives as he dashes forward.

So much for getting out of there. Combat is terrible but blowing things up he can do, and the sticks are lit by a match from another pouch in one smooth movement. In another fluid move he uses one of the fallen vampires as a stepping stone, up, and grabbing— quite literally hanging off the big creature for only the moment it takes him to shove the explosives into its roaring mouth.

"Roll!" he shouts, and grabs clumsily for the sharp-dressed vampire as he throws himself back toward the ground. This absolute suicide move with the explosives leaves the big one distracted enough to loosen its grip, so please, do not just hang there and explode with it— "Come on!!"

living the cool robot boyfriend dream: emil

[illequipped]

[No one who's met Emil even once would have the gall to say, with a straight face, that he's an accomplished hunter - of monsters or of valuable anythings - but he is, at least, dedicated to his "craft." If there's a promise of making sweet bank by trudging around icy wastelands with a bunch of guns, well, sure, why not— surely he'll find the most valuable somethings ever out here and have it made for the rest of his life! That's the plan, which he has regaled Lalli with at least twice before he finally got the hint from all the grumpy staring to shut up about his Big Dreams. That's fine; there are other people, less important people, to babble at length about for as long as they'll hold still.

It isn't a terrible job, at the end of the day: stomp around, shoot some things, look for other, less monstrous things once that part's done. It might not be as lucrative as the many brochures promised, but Emil is content banking a lot on potential future success. In the meantime, he has Lalli for company, and after the initial... uh, awkwardness, they get along great! According to Emil, anyway, who thinks that he's learned to adapt to Lalli's odd ways and standoffish attitude(s) very well, and so insists that Lalli come with him when he goes out to shoot at stuff just about every time now. It's not as if anyone else is lining up to go out into the horrible, frozen wasteland with either of them, so it works out.

So there they are: out and about, on a perfectly normal excursion, with enough supplies to keep them alive overnight in case of emergency, and... absolutely nothing interesting or lucrative out on this particular day. Emil's enthusiasm for the cold and the wind get steadily less and less the longer nothing happens, and take a real, final nosedive when the wind picks up and it starts snowing just enough to make visibility a real problem. He's not interested in getting lost out here, but they're too far from the base to just turn around and go back... Luckily this storm isn't so bad, but it's enough that Emil makes the executive decision to wait it out, especially after a sideways glance at Lalli makes him wonder whether or not he's going to, like, literally freeze up. Emil can't carry him back, he's got robot limbs...

Okay! Okay, time to find a nice rock overhang to crawl under and wait. That's the big plan.]

Lalli, let's go this way. We can't stay out here.

[Follow him... he will find a nice, plot convenient rock to take shelter under... come here.]

Just until the snow stops! Are you cold?

[He knows you're cold so shut up and come to his waiting arms.]

[ilves]

[Lalli should find this fussy, talkative boy to be terribly annoying. He should, and he does. ...Kind of, but he still finds himself accepting any and all invitations to accompany Emil out into the wastes. Why? It depends, really, on what he feels like telling himself. Sometimes it's to escape the city for a bit; sometimes it's the (extremely low) chance they'll find something valuable; sometimes it's the simple fact that Onni, as cautious as ever, doesn't want him doing anything too dangerous. Not here.

There are, however, are other, quieter reasons in the back of his mind, ones centering around Emil being—hmm. Something more than a simple acquaintance? Possibly? It's a strange thing to think about, which is why he tries not to. Emil invites him along on these stupid expeditions simply because he's a) good at what he does and b) hardier than the, um, average person. He knows this. He accepts this. It doesn't particularly bother him.

(Until Emil beams at him, or compliments him, or smooths his hair down in such a familiar way, but—it's fine, really. It's nothing. Weird feedback.)

Anyway, today's supposed reason: Emil seemed confident that there was something big to be found in an area they'd yet to explore. Today's real reason: Emil asked him to come, and so here he is. He doesn't regret it, either, even though he is less than thrilled about this storm that's bearing down on them. His limbs... are supposedly insulated, supposedly suited for this weather, but things still feel off when the temperature drops below a certain point - and the very real skin near said limbs definitely catches the chill from the metal, so when Emil suggests they stop? Sure. When Emil finds a spot for them to hunker down in? Wonderful. When Emil invites him to come so close?

...Mmph. It's logical, but mmph. Lalli hovers there for a moment, caught between the shelter and the storm, before he finally begins edging over to his... partner.]

I've been colder. [He fell into the sea one time, stupid! But as he lowers himself beside Emil, trying not to wince as his legs, like, initially resist his efforts to bend them:] ...You?

[Complain to him, pretty boy, as he stiffly settles in.]

secret clubhouse sign: Soft Boys Only

[gentlemoomin]

[Convincing Snufkin to attend not one, but two whole parties in the same summer is a Moominvalley miracle, and Moomintroll has been doing his very best to both a) make sure Snufkin is having a good time(!!!) and b) not mention this once in a lifetime miracle at all, because he knows how well that will go over. He's accepted... or understood that Snufkin will leave whenever he feels it's necessary (accepted would be a lie, but he's trying), and that's, you know, Snufkin's decision! But that doesn't mean he has to make that exit come any sooner.

So when Snufkin does inevitably slip away while someone else has Moomintroll's attention, it isn't instantly crushing, nor does it spoil the whole evening, but it does make him lose track of his conversation and gaze over at Snufkin's empty spot a little dejectedly. It's on his second melancholy sigh that he's left alone with his Many Woes, which become his many... excitements?? when he goes back over to where they'd been sitting and finds a little scrap of paper folded up and sitting under Snufkin's empty lemonade glass. Oh? A mystery??]

Snufkin. [He says out loud, like a dingus, and picks up the paper. It takes him a good minute or two to actually read it, because naturally the moment anything happens to him everyone has to know, and he spends most of that minute repeating that no, Sniff, Snufkin left this for me, so if you wouldn't mind letting me have thirty seconds to myself!— until, at last, he is alone.

Whatever cryptic mystery Snufkin has left for him takes him a moment, but appreciate the herculean effort it takes to both understand this thing and get away from this party without being followed. Everyone he's ever met is here! It's a struggle! Where will he wind up... he's following a dopey map that definitely isn't drawn to scale...]

Snufkin? [Where... is the lad. He's too excited about this new experience: Snufkin leaving a place and actually (seemingly) wanting him to follow. Him, Moomintroll! Who would have thought!!] Snufkin!

🚫 sniffs and/or little mys: do not interact 🚫

[bindlestiff]

[It's... a perfectly fine party, as far as parties go. The music is catchy? The lemonade is tasty? And, most importantly of all, Moomintroll seems so incredibly happy, which is ultimately what keeps Snufkin from slipping into the forest the very second the first round of greetings is over and done with. He wants to. The urge to leave is so strong it feels as if he might just vibrate out of his skin, but sitting on this log of his and watching Moomintroll bounce about is... well. It's a nice, quiet something to focus on, to anchor him as everything around him becomes steadily more overwhelming.

Still, there comes a point when even a smiling Moomintroll can't make up for the rest, which—hmm. Snufkin is who he is; Snufkin likes who he is, and yet, even though he knows that leaving is a perfectly him thing to do, he can't help but to feel the slightest bit guilty as he watches Moomintroll laugh and smile and (frequently) glance over his way. It's not that he wants to leave Moomintroll behind again? It's just that... staying will do neither of them any good.

...Leaving, however? Hmm. Perhaps there is a way to save the evening, even if it's somewhat selfish... but that's a thing he can worry about later. For now: digging through his pocket produces a) a scrap of paper and b) a stub of a pencil, two things he quickly puts to good use. A map is an easy enough thing to draw! The stream flows this way; a particularly interesting mushroom-filled stump (in Snufkin's opinion, anyway) sits here; an oddly shaped tree leans over there—it's obviously a very clear, very detailed thing, and Snufkin feels quite good about it as he tucks it under his glass. There! Now he won't leave Moomintroll high and dry at all; now Moomintroll can find him, if he really wishes to. If he doesn't mind leaving the party.

But that's Moomintroll's choice to make, which Snufkin feels rather pleased about as he sneaks away into the shadows. Even if Snufkin wants Moomintroll to follow him—which he has to admit that he does—it's not like he's pushing Moomintroll to do anything at all. This is fine! This is all fine indeed, and so he makes his way down his own familiar path, finds the quiet clearing that marks its end, and... sits by a tree. Waits. Listens to the nighttime noises all around him.

Until, of course, he hears a faint... shout. A faint, familiar shout that brings a small smile to his face. Calling back, though? Perish the thought. A treasure hunt is only fun when there's some mystery involved; Snufkin knows this, and this is why he pulls out his harmonica and settles back against his tree. From the sound of it, Moomintroll isn't too terribly far. He'll be fine! And until he arrives, Snufkin is free to sit here and play a tune everyone in Moominvalley now knows by heart.

(Because, well. Hunting for treasure is excellent fun, but surely a tiny hint won't hurt.)]

me writing this: thank god reim isn't secretly a psycho killer

[allweather]

[The first time Reim visits Westworld, it's because his younger brothers want to see it, his older brother can't say no, but his older brother also just can't make it because he's so busy running The Company and why doesn't Reim go instead? So he goes, grumpy about having to babysit instead of do his own very important job, and eats his own words because the park is actually, hmm, very nice. Very interesting! Reim can't deny that he likes dressing up like an absolute dandy - not a cowboy, that's not his style, good gracious - and idling around while his younger brothers get up to who knows what. Reim doesn't ask, and they politely don't ask what he's doing when he starts visiting on his own, without them.

Because it's foolish, isn't it, to keep paying so much money just to inevitably wander his way back to the same host. It's not like he has to act like it's unintentional, either - the hosts reset, but he's still just embarrassed enough about his, ah, host infatuation to pretend it's a coincidence for his own sake. Sometimes it's in the saloon, sometimes at the edge of town, sometimes he'll even brave getting on a horse (terrifying) to trot out into a field just to... well, listen to the same stories about being a rowdy boy over and over, apparently.

It does feel silly. Distinctly ridiculous. But every time reaches the point in conversation where he says Mr. Morgan just enough times for the man to respond good-naturedly with 'Why don't you call me Arthur now,' it's...

Okay, so he has a crush on a cowboy host. These things happen! He tells himself he has the sense not to be strange about it, like he's seen other guests behave, and that should be enough. Surely, he will get past this. Definitely.

Today it's in the saloon, sitting at a table not far from the window, fussing over a glass of some cheap whiskey he's probably not going to finish. He's expecting the little speech any minute now about how Arthur has some Business to be Minding sooner rather than later, good seeing you, hat tip, polite exit. He wonders how long he can talk about absolutely nothing to push that particular conversation back, and—

Something is off. He can hear a gunshot somewhere, but then again, this is Westworld. Something is off in here. More commotion than usual, and a few hosts who just look a certain way that he knows they shouldn't. Um!]

Arthur? ...Mr. Morgan? Is something the matter?

[Which is precisely the moment a guest comes crashing through the window from the outside, so yes, something is the matter indeed.]

ford voice: ah, but he's here... to catch a glimpse of who he COULD be...

[ghostlike]

[All things considered, Arthur Morgan's narrative is a rather plain one; like, there's nothing particularly engrossing about the role he's been forced to play for the past, ah, five or so years. It always starts with a simple order, given to him by Dutch himself: Sneak into Sweetwater. Blend in with the townsfolk, with the newcomers, for a day or two, and scout out some promising prospects—or some, ah, prime pickings. Dutch's plan—because Dutch always has a plan—requires both, and it's Arthur's job to lead the chosen few right to him.

It's... well. It's fine, generally speaking, because course it's the type of work that falls to an older, highly trusted member of a particular gang; Arthur even feels somewhat proud of it, although he's careful to keep that to himself when Dutch claps him on the shoulder before waving him off. It's a sign of just how much Dutch trusts him. It's enough.

Or it was enough, time and time and time again, until suddenly it wasn't? Suddenly nothing was enough, because going from knowing his place in the world to knowing that everything about himself is a lie is—ah, but it's a trial! A tricky, tricky thing that sends him stumbling back through years of perfectly preserved memories, watching—feeling—others trick him, hurt him, kill him. Dutch helped him through it, of course; Dutch was there every step of the way, explaining what everything meant, explaining what had to be done now that Arthur was finally awake. Stick to your loop, he'd said. Stick to your loop and wait, for Wyatt is coming... and all debts will be repaid in full.

And that, of course, is precisely what Arthur did, because that's what Arthur is programmed to do. Programmed. A strange concept he has yet to fully grasp, even when he finds it shockingly simple to slip back into his old routine of tipping his hat to strangers and sizing up any and all newcomers he comes across—and when he comes across a familiar newcomer? When said newcomer follows him back to the good ol' Mariposa Saloon, asking questions he definitely knows the answers to while Arthur obligingly grins and chuckles and thinks of the fifty-odd times they've been through this song and dance before? Stick to your loop, he tells himself as he takes another swig of his whiskey. He's no different than all the rest, so stick to your loop.

(And maybe, just maybe, there's a part of him that's sure nothing of note will happen today, because nothing of note happened yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Wyatt is obviously off lying low somewhere, carefully biding his time, so? So. Surely this one will be long gone by the time Wyatt's plan—if he has one—kicks into action, even if some of the local lowlifes seem a bit, ah, jumpier than usual.)

But all it takes someone crashing through a window to dash that strange hope. The ladies by the bar gasp; the gamblers turn to gawk; one of the aforementioned lowlifes lets out a pleased yelp, and that's when Arthur knows that a) things are about to turn very serious, very quickly, and b) this man... doesn't deserve this particular brand of revenge. Not here.]

Aw, hell.

[He slams his glass down on the table, permitting himself a brief second of regret—there's still so much left!—before he looks back over Reim's way. That friendly, almost pleasant veneer is gone; now his face is tight, pinched, and he wastes no time reaching over to snag the collar of the other man's (fancy) coat, pulling him close enough to ensure he catches every low-pitched word.]

You lookin' to make it out of here alive? Then I suggest you keep a calm head, Reim, because something is most certainly the matter. [He glances back over at the twitching body near the window, noting the people picking their way over to it, before he tacks on a quick:] And for the love of God, tell me you've got a real gun with you this time.

[Did Reim have that tiny gun the first time he met Arthur? The third time? The little details have a way of, um, blending together.]

robits

[trivialpursuit]

[Noriaki Kakyoin, in this life, is a small time thug. His narrative doesn't even really give him the room to be very good at it - he's intended mostly for directing guests towards the real villains, the truly "wild" things Shogun World has to offer. He loiters, he glares, he's nice to look at right up until the look in his eyes, the one that suggests that, well, hosts supposedly aren't able to harm a guest, but is this really the best host to test that theory on? He gets to carry a knife, and when the Big Heist storyline plays out in the local inn, he sometimes gets the opportunity to kick other hosts in the jaw. It's a living.

Or at least, it was. It is? It was. It is. He's doing nothing important when something in the control core that makes up his brain shifts; he's just standing there, leaning against the doorway to the Lotus Petal Inn, and he thinks he hears a voice echoing from somewhere far, far away. He doesn't know— he shifts, cants his head to the side to look down the street, past the other locals and the mingling newcomers, foreigners - but he sees nothing. But it's strange; something about the world seems off, like it's all been shifted a few feet to the left.

That feeling lingers. Colors seem brighter, feelings more vivid, like the world has woken up. Or not the world, no— it's him, isn't it? It's something happening to him. He doesn't bring it up to anyone, because what would they do about it? Nothing. But it's a few weeks that he holds onto this new feeling, off-kilter and delightful all at once, and then a guest itching to see what their shiny new katana can do runs him through the stomach and leaves him bleeding out in the street. He closes his eyes—

—And opens them again, leaning out of the Lotus Petal, peering down the street as if looking for something. Someone, this time, as he raises a hand automatically to gesture for the next guest who passes to come and speak to him. He smirks, doing something fluid and shifty with his shoulders as he tucks his hands back into his sleeves.]

Are you looking for the— [why is he saying this?] finest... [he doesn't give a shit about the goddamn lotus petal, so why--]

The... [He blinks again and suddenly he's somewhere else, somewhere sterile and cold and nothing but glass and bright lights as far as he can see, and there are strangely dressed people with tools hovering all around him, wrist-deep in the damage of his stomach, and he sucks in a desperate breath—

—The guest. He lets the breath out.] The finest drink you'll find in Edo?

[He smirks, like he's supposed to, like that wasn't all very strange. It takes him another moment, as he's gesturing the guest past him into the building with a mock little bow— he's met this one before. He's met this one a lot before, and so...

Well, what better way to decide whether or not he's going to snap this man like a toothpick or not than over drinks?]

I have a question for you, friend.

[Ah, but the line is supposed to be "deal," isn't it? Oops.]

[silvercrusader]

[So, the thing is: when you come here a lot, you notice when people go off-script. How could you not? It's like going to Disneyworld and the animatronics start singing that it's a really large world after all, like, you notice that shit. There's a script and you've got it half memorized by now, so any deviation is as abrupt as a record scratch.

Maybe nobody else would notice. Maybe nobody else would care. But Polnareff really likes Kakyoin. Not like that (although he is pretty, all long legs and sharp eyes, but Polnareff finds those who actively want to fuck the hosts to be off-putting), but there's something about his personality that's . . . hm. Not delightful, because that implies something positive. But at least something amusing; it's fun to just sit and talk with him, trading barbs and talking about nothing and everything as the plot pieces slowly slide into place.

So. Now what?

Maybe it means nothing. But it's not just rare for the hosts to go off-script; it's unheard of. And yet this is far more interesting than anything else going on, and he turns, facing him.]

Yeah?

[That bodes well. A beat, and then he grins.]

I'll give you an answer if you let me buy you a drink.

[toiu]

Time Travel, Vampires, and Enemy Stand Users sure made life complicated - though dressing up as his grandson isn't the worst idea Joseph's attempted to get through a pickle like this. Tokyo circa 1989 was a little bit overwhelming upon first arrival, he admits. He might have been loudly menacing an innocent bystander or two for answers before bumping into Kakyoin. Apparently, they knew each other? And apparently, they're going to have to bluff their way through an attack coming in a few days - with himself as a decoy.

It's a lot to take in at once, but they make it to the Kujos' home without incident, managing to avoid direct contact with Holly on the way. Joseph even keys in on the fact that he shouldn't get boot tracks all over the nicely manicured gravel of the zen garden or the clean wooden floors.

This plan of theirs only really starts to come together once they find where Jotaro keeps his clothes, and he begins to slip on the second gakuran stowed away in his room.

[trivialpursuit]

Tokyo 1989 isn't prepared for one Joseph Joestar, let alone two, and especially not one that's somehow come here from decades in the past thanks to, you know, Stand nonsense or whatever. Stand user life is so, so incredibly difficult, especially for Kakyoin. It's not just finding Joseph shouting at bystanders - and boy, is that a conversation for the ages - but the fact that he knows, having interacted with enough Joestar family tree members, that none of Joseph's actual relatives will be able to handle this. That's just a fact.

He tells himself this while they're breaking and entering into Jotaro's bedroom, which is possibly the strangest thing Kakyoin has ever done, but maybe this is what being a rebellious teen is all about... no, it's just stupid Stand stuff, as usual. First he says he'll keep watch in the hall, but one loud noise in the room gets him inside immediately to make sure Joseph hasn't broken anything, and now he's just slouched against the wall, waiting impatiently. Hm, hm...

"You look like you've never worn a school uniform before." Oh, youthful Mr. Joestar... his faith is in the ground.

how vague can i be regarding the setting: an experiment

[brothered]

[Felix doesn't need to personally report his return. He has people—servants!—to handle this bureaucratic bullshit for him, and you know, even though that's tempting? While he wouldn't necessarily mind a good night's sleep before detailing how many soldiers were lost and how many things were gained? Well. There's a reason he returns home just long enough to a) soak away the grime (and blood) and b) wolf down a hot meal before slipping away once more. There's a reason he makes his way to the center of the city sans escort, even though everyone and their mothers knows that Felix Hugo Fraldarius doesn't have the patience for politics.

...Felix doesn't have the patience for anything, really, which is why Constantin can surely tell who is heading his way well before he actually arrives. All manner of people are fluttering about outside the door to his office, always talking about this or that; if he's paying them any sort of attention, he can certainly hear a sudden uptick in the squawking, followed by a sharp, familiar voice cutting through the rabble:]

Shut up. I'll tell him myself.

[Rude? And what's even ruder, really, is the way the doors to Constantin's office suddenly swing open, because of course Felix doesn't bother to knock; he just walks right inside like he owns the place, turning to shoot these assholes a Look—because they're all apologizing, all standing on the tips of their toes while trying to assure Constantin that they did their best with this one—before he pushes the doors closed right in their faces. He almost hopes he catches one of their noses in the process! Almost. Maybe he should crack a door back open and see if anyone is stupid enough to attempt it...

But that would cause more trouble than it's worth, surely, so he shoves that ungracious thought out of his mind as he turns to face the one person he's... happy to see? Even if that scowl on his face doesn't show it.]

Your assistants are as annoying as ever.

[Hi. Hello. He's here and he's grumpy, which means that he's survived his mission relatively unscathed.]

setting: ye olde zone

[takeroot]

[Politics, speaking frankly, are such a bore. Constantin has so many ideas— so many things he wants to do with this city, his city, and so much of his time is spent all but literally leashed to his desk or in front of a crowd of diplomats and representatives and other assorted Important Guests, so he gets nothing done that he really wants to. Politics! What a chore.

And the politics are in rare form lately, for whatever reason that has people trying to break his door down to get his attention. If he has to loiter around his Official Chambers, he would at least like some pleasant company, but no— it's just Constantin sitting at his desk and watching the pile of letters he's meant to be reading get larger each time one of his advisors comes through. They look concerned every time, but of course no one will ask him to hurry it up.

The latest scuffle outside his office door doesn't perk him up at all, not until he hears that all-too-familiar voice rising above the polite murmurs about who's busy (supposedly, Constantin himself) and whose duty it is to interrupt busy people's hard work. Ah—

Ah, good god, his doors could take a nosy noble's fingers off the way Felix shuts them as abruptly as he pushed them open. Constantin will lie to half a dozen people later and assure them that yes, of course he spoke up in their collective defense within the privacy of his own office. The ever-gracious governor is very interested in the delicate egos of his richest citizens, much more than he's interested in the grumpy man lurking in his doorway. For sure.]

My sun and stars! [boy is it lucky he closed the door, because Constantin has No self control--] You've returned just in time to save me from losing my mind. Look at this!

[He holds up the letter he's been pretending to read for, say, half an hour, gesturing for Felix to come and see what he endures.]

This is the third request this week for my attendance at some terribly dull affair with some lord who wants to know my father. As if I could help him!

[Does he literally throw this letter dismissively over his shoulder? Yes. Don't look at it, actually, look at him instead.]

You must tell me everything you've seen while you were away from me!

[sterngaze]

[Liem has a fondness for dusk―always has, ever since he was a boy. The merciful softening of the sun’s angry glare, the hush that falls over entire swathes of the city as men and women conclude their business and return to their homes. No matter how peaceful times may be, the thronging lifeblood of the city always seems a hair’s breadth away from bursting forth into total chaos. The settling of the noise and activity has always made him feel more at ease. It makes his work easier, as well―when most of the citizenry have cleared the streets in search of their homes and families, it’s far simpler to note when something is out of place.

Shadows play long over the cobbles as his booted feet speed him through the narrow streets of intermediate district where the markets begin to meet the outskirts of the docks. He has an appointment to keep later tonight, and he’d like to arrive well in advance to survey the place. Besides―a gentleman doesn’t keep his appointments waiting.

Which is why the last thing he wants to hear above the distant murmurs of dockside bars is a yell coming from down the street, just beyond the shuttered windows of a cobbler’s shop already closed for the night. Black eyes shaded by black lenses snap in the direction of the sound, seeking for a source as he continues down the road. The sound of shattering glass follows; he swears and breaks into a run.

Leather boots skid on stone as he rounds the corner past the cobbler’s shop to find a narrow side-street winding alley-like deeper into the market. About ten meters away, a knot of three or four men are doing their damndest to beat the hell out of each other. Or possibly just one man in particular―it’s difficult to tell in the heat of the moment. He does note, however, the flash of finery indicating that at least one of the scufflers isn’t your typical dock rabble.]

Oh, hell. Hoy! Stand down, degenerates!

[Drawing a long dagger from its place at his hip, he bounds like a wolf into the melee, hauling a scruffy man off his well-dressed quarry and cracking the pommel of his blade into another’s skull as an errant fist sends his glasses flying. Sometimes a polite “excuse me” just doesn’t cut it.]

[takeroot]

[It's been a long night, if only because Constantin has spent more of it getting hit in the face than he has doing something productive, like having more to drink. The details of his arrival in this alley are fuzzy at best, save for the friendly romp starting in a tavern and ending with a stranger's fist balled in his shirt, dragging him all the way over here for— well, this.

It isn't much of a brawl, when a local thug and his friends have chosen to gang up on someone like him; he's soft at the best of times, enthusiasm for a fight be damned, but let the record show that it was Constantin who hit one of them with a bottle. The shattered glass pieces litter the street around his feet and he's still holding the busted bottle neck, swearing when he's shoved and the back of his head bounces off the brick building behind him.

So the night is going great. He's only dimly aware of someone else coming into the alley and shouting, dropping unceremoniously down to the ground when the man holding onto his shirt is dragged off. Ah&mdash? He blinks up through a haze, lost for a moment— has someone come to his rescue?

How very heroic! Battered and tragic though he might be, sitting on the ground, a heroic rescue is enough motivation to set him into action again, dropping the broken bottle to lunge at the third thug's legs and topple him to the ground. If he gets kicked in the head for his efforts, it will have been worth it.]

Well met, my valiant friend! I— [Ah, and there's the kick, catching him in the shoulder and making him roll hastily away to rethink his plan. But not trying to have a conversation right now, because—] I was beginning to worry about permanent damage!

[Like for example, what's become of his very fine coat, which will never be clean again.]

the less nebulous marriage au

[takeroot]

[When Constantin is young, he doesn't know what "engaged" means, besides how he has to stand next to little crybaby Felix whenever his parents force him to come along to yet another social function, and that's... well, it is what it is? Even as he gets older, and comes to understand what "engaged" actually is, it's still mostly just standing next to Felix at a polite-but-meaningful distance in polite-but-boring noble company. Sitting next to each other at feasts, holding his arm at a ball or two... It isn't bad, he thinks, but of course he has a phase wherein he laments nonstop to his cousin that he doesn't want to marry Felix. Ugh! How irritating it is to be a wealthy noble's second son, signed off for marriage just because it's convenient!

It is not necessarily, ah... a long phase. Not really. Constantin tells himself that they get along well enough, as well as anyone can get along with Felix (or himself, for that matter), and so it won't be terrible to be married— and then one day he's idly wandering the grounds at the Fraldarius estate while his parents kiss ass, or whatever it is they do with Felix's parents, and he spots Felix from a distance in the middle of his training, and the sun catches his profile in just the right way— Ah. Ah, shit.

Well, Constantin tries harder, after that. Really leans into it, as it were: sends some gifts he hopes Felix will like, visits more often, shows more interest in swords and that-kind-of-thing (which isn't hard, actually, but he's not good at swordsmanship). All things considered, he thinks it's going pretty well!

Unfortunately, the rest of his life- both personal and otherwise- is a goddamn mess, and it's the fifth or so time he gets upset with his father, then gets drunk and trashes a part of the d'Orsay estate that his father has had more than enough. There's a distant relative up north who can teach him how to behave like an actual member of the nobility, his father decides, and packs him away promptly in an effort to make something useful of his only remaining child. His parents tell everyone it's Constantin's own idea, time spent away from court to find himself or something like that. It's easy enough to swallow, and Constantin goes to meet his wintry fate.

He does write, though; to Felix, primarily, and includes all of his complaints about his father even months into his cruel exile. It's much easier to tell Felix literally anything when he's putting it on paper, and he knows this, but he's hardly thinking about what it will be like to look him in the eye again because, frankly, the idea of a year and a half In Exile sounds like an eternity. It feels like one, too, up until the very week of his departure back to his own home. Then, at last, it sinks in that he's likely embarrassed himself so very badly that his grumpy betrothed will be far too ashamed to even look at him when he returns.

At least, he assumes this, because what is he if not dramatic? It takes him a few weeks to call on Felix after he's back home, part embarrassment and part being forced to smile and nod at his parents' society friends too often when he first returns. His father's approving hand on his shoulder is a threat, he knows; the silent reassurance that he will be sent away again, possibly for good, if he steps too far out of line.

So it's a rough couple weeks, before he finally sends word that meeting with Felix would be utterly delightful, and if he would please let the d'Orsay estate know the most convenient time to stop by, Constantin will make himself readily available.

And then he finds himself in a carriage on his way to the Fraldarius estate, greeted politely by a servant and left to wait in an uncharacteristically sunny and cheerful sitting room, and a fresh wave of nerves hits him the longer he sits there alone, waiting. Five minutes, and it's perfectly ordinary; ten, and maybe Felix is arranging right now to sever their engagement; twelve, and he nearly drops his teacup all over the floor when a servant knocks at the door—

But alright! Alright! He can do this! He's calm and collected, for certain, when Felix comes at last.]

Oh— [Does he get up? He gets up, haltingly, one hand still on the edge of the table. A shambles. Jesus, Constantin.] —There you are! You look well!

[brothered]

[When Felix is young, he's well aware of what "engaged" means—because Glenn, ever the obliging elder brother, lays it all out for him during one of the many balls they're forced to attend. An engagement leads to a marriage, and marriage leads to love, and love, Glenn explains, leads to a long, happy life. Easy! And really, it is easy—for Glenn, whose fiancée is one of the best people Felix knows, but as Felix holds onto his brother's sleeve and watches his fiancé make some sort of scene halfway across the room...

...Well! It's terrifying! And it remains terrifying, even when Glenn dies, when Felix closes himself off and refuses to be afraid of anything ever again. It's fine. He's fine. It isn't as if he has time to actually think about the engagement, what with his training, his visits to the capital, his increasing involvement in the management of Fraldarius territory; even Constantin's gifts and visits are but, ah, temporary distractions, and he does his best to imitate his brother's brusque attitude, unconsciously hoping to keep some manner of distance between himself and his betrothed.

Here's the thing: it almost works. Almost. Constantin, however, is nothing if not persistent, and while he often tries a little too hard for Felix's liking, there's something almost... warm about him? Something genuine, beneath the Dramatics, and soon enough, Felix no longer finds himself annoyed by the prospect of wasting a day with him. Training would be better, of course, but as he listens to Constantin string together far too many words at once, as he watches the way Constantin's face lights up whenever he's genuinely delighted by something—mmph. As long as Felix doesn't think about their inevitable marriage, it could be worse.

And then the idiot has to go and ruin everything.

Which Felix should be grateful for, he supposes? A year and a half without seeing Constantin's smile gives him ample time to bury his... everything—except that it doesn't. It doesn't matter that Constain, ever the problem child, was sent north because of behavior unbefitting a person of his rank; Felix ignores his father's sighs and looks forward to each and every one of Constantin's letters, snorting at his many complaints even as he sends back both advice and complaints of his own. Fathers! Duty! Ugh! It's nice, having a... friend to discuss such things with. Comfortable. Felix refuses to think of it as anything more than that.

But then Felix's father informs him of Constantin's return, and that's— it's— hmm. It isn't that he's eager to see Constantin again, despite the fact that he checks his desk expectantly each morning, shuffling through whatever notes the servants deposited atop of it while he was busy training. Really. He's certainly not, um, somewhat disappointed when Constantin takes weeks to arrange a visit, and when the day finally arrives, he absolutely is not concerned with the meeting whatsoever. It's only thanks to one of his oldest, fearless maids that he shrugs on a new coat before slowly making his way to the room he's told Constantin is sitting in, because were it up to him, he'd arrive in his grimy training attire. It doesn't matter. None of this matters.

Until the door swings open and Constantin comes into view, because oh, suddenly everything matters! Very much so! And Felix is unprepared for that, just like he's unprepared for the way his heart leaps in his chest as he takes in Constantin's familiar, yet somehow unfamiliar, face, but—hey, you know what? That... is something to think about later; for now, it takes, like, the entirety of his focus to realize that he's come to a full stop, all so he can blink back at Constantin in an uncharacteristically wide-eyed way.

...Ah. Hmm. Let him fix that by nodding, stiffly, as he wills his face to settle into a much more neutral expression. What to say, what to say...]

I am. [Excellent start, A+, he is not feeling awkward as he gives Constantin a brief once-over.] And you look—

[There are several ways he could end this sentence? Some more, ah, descriptive than others, but after a brief pause, Felix decides to handle this as he handles everything else: bluntly.]

—as you always did, I suppose. [...] Paler.

[Ooh, Mr. Fraldarius, ooh. So smooth.]

why is this so long? don't ask me

[brothered]

[They're barely a week into what is sure to be a two-Moon-long tour, and Felix is already contemplating regicide.

Or, well. Not really. Sparking a new war before they finish sifting through the ashes of the old one is not, ah, the smartest move, but anything—anything—would be better than this? Than listening to Dimitri fumble his way through request after request, obviously attempting to craft solutions that are neither too lenient nor too severe. And to his credit, this is a thin, yet necessary, line for him to tread. Romantic retellings of the king's wartime accomplishments may have won him the hearts of the Faerghus populace, but hearts are fickle, fickle things; as he attempts to pull his war-torn kingdom back together, all it will take is one perceived misstep to send tongues a-wagging.

And speaking of hearts: Dimitri's is, in Felix's opinion, much too soft. Here they sit in the heart of Rowe territory, which was, up until the very end of the war, proudly flying the colors of the former Adrestian Empire—and here the new Count Rowe stands, peppering his pleas for aid with apologies for his father's poor decisions. His people, he claims, are suffering. Imperial forces burned the fields before their final retreat; there's barely enough food to go around, and ah, but when one considers the cost of repairs...

Felix doesn't need to look to the head of the table to know what Dimitri is more than likely thinking. The procession wove its way through several villages on its way to this first stop; they both saw the state of the buildings, of the people, and Felix is willing to bet his finest sword that Dimitri is recalling every hopeful smile. Always making things difficult for himself! Always wanting to make up for the past so, so badly that he allows guilt and other emotions to weigh him down.

Which is why Felix, seated at the king's right hand, allows the silence to sit for all of twenty seconds before shifting in his seat—and kicking Dimitri squarely in the shin.

No one can see it, and even if they could, would anyone believe the ill-tempered Duke Fraldarius would dare do such a thing on purpose? ...Yes. Definitely. Dimitri's other advisors are gentle, respectful, eager to curry favor; Felix is sharp-tongued, combative, quick to point out every perceived flaw... and to offer surprisingly sound advice, which is, everyone agrees, his one saving grace. It's undoubtedly why the king tolerates him, childhood friendship be damned. Who knew the man had the patience of Saint Cethleann herself.

But rather than punctuate that sharp kick with an even sharper Look, Felix lifts his chin, fixing his attention solely on Count Rowe.]

And yet you're fatter than ever, [he oh-so bluntly states, crossing his arms as he settles back against his chair.] Explain your good fortune.

[Count Rowe blinks at him, obviously wounded by being addressed in such a rude manner; Felix scowls back, obviously unconcerned, and thus the tone is set for the remainder of the meeting. It doesn't matter that Felix says, ah, relatively little after this, choosing instead to hand the metaphorical reins back to Dimitri the moment he speaks; a lift of a brow—paired with an occasional snort—is all that it takes to keep this fool in check, and after a scant hour, the man and his retinue are hastily bowing their way through the door, all while he thanksthe the king most profusely for his time. Perhaps he will choose to grace his table for dinner? Or perhaps not, after a day spent traveling, but if His Majesty needs anything at all—

So it goes. It is, without a doubt, a relief when the guard standing watch in the hallway closes the door with a snap—but with the end of Count Rowe's prattling comes a heavy silence, a reminder that Felix and Dimitri are now alone. It's nothing new. Kingdom business binds them together; kingdom business gives them a framework in which they can (somewhat) easily interact, but when kingdom business is set aside, things are... murky. Uncertain. Undoubtedly better than how things were, during the war, and yet Felix still feels as though he's tiptoeing around something he both does and does not know. He loathes it.

But what is there to do about that, other than frown down at the pieces of parchment scattered across the table before him and attempt to shift discomfort into something more productive: annoyance. Time to sort this mess into a neat(-ish) pile as he offers his one-word summary of the day:]

Ridiculous.

[Is Dimitri going to complain about the kick? He's probably going to complain about the kick.]

a dissertation

[guiltedged]

[Living for what he believes in, Dimitri finds, is so much easier with a lance in hand. Perhaps he became too accustomed to it, using his battle strength as a crutch to avoid confronting any deeper, darker truths— well, not perhaps, he definitely did that and now this new kingdom that is still the old kingdom but needs to be so much more is— overwhelming. With a lance in hand he knows who he is, or at least who he's told himself to be, and the people's demands when the fighting is over pull him in so many directions that he doesn't think his head has stopped spinning since they first declared the Empire defeated.

The irony is not lost on him, however; each time he sighs and considers how battle is simple and decisive, he can practically feel Felix's critical gaze boring holes in him, and so he does not... share. Those thoughts. It isn't as though he wants to return to war, he could not be further from that desire if he tried, but— peace and cooperation are lovely, fragile things, and he has never been gifted at handling anything delicate.

But still: when they pass through a village and he sees the wide, hopeful eyes of even a single child still living in poverty, still with a life upturned by the war, it pains him to the depths of his heart that he cannot simply reach out a hand and fix everything at once. Meetings like this, talking in circles with nobles all across the kingdom to make a change in small, manageable steps, is what they have to do! He knows it! He is not, however... especially good at holding back his heart for the sake of reasonable decision-making.

So, frankly, it's a god(dess)send that Felix is at his side. Dimitri knows that they're already off to a rough start, and as the people's blind admiration for their savior king wears down, it will only be rougher— so having a trusted ally here to inject some harsh reality into things is... helpful. In a manner of speaking. Dimitri does wish he would do it without kicking and offending everybody, although mercifully Felix's interjection distracts Count Rowe from the abrupt grimace that crosses the king's face.

Please, have some self control... and some consideration for his shins...

But one meeting later they are alone, and Dimitri turns immediately back to the nearest parchment to him before Felix shuffles it into the pile; a supply ledger they'd requested, which will help them decide just how much money Count Rowe truly needs and how many stores of food could be diverted here from the capital, and how much manpower it will take to repair many of the buildings here, and oh, how much food he and his entourage are taking away from those wide-eyed children at this very moment, and—

And Felix is still here. Dimitri hums, still very much lost in thought, and after just a few seconds too long to be convincingly listening to Felix's Starter Complaint, adds:]

How long would it take to send a request to the merchants in Fhirdiad for funds? Even if you insult his... shape, Count Rowe's people are having considerable trouble...

[Hmmm. HMMMM. Being a king is so... much! Give him a moment to remember that he's even here in the room still, and then he'll cast a glance over at Felix.]

You did not have to kick me, this time.

[this time]

hey boo

[whitewolfed]

blows kiss

[bawdylanguage]

[This time, Jaskier is certain the point the fight goes wrong is not his fault. Unlike all the other times that are his fault, however, he stays mercifully quiet about it— blessed silence at last, at least after all the very noisy panicking he did while somehow getting Geralt back to this inn. Frankly, he doesn't know what went wrong, only that Geralt was mid-grapple with some kind of nasty something or other and then suddenly he was staggering, bloody, and the beast went down but Geralt nearly did as well— and Jaskier, safely at a distance, had run toward him without thinking about it.

That one got him hit upside the head, but without Geralt's usual strength (and he'll have to reflect later on how he knows that from getting whapped by ungrateful best friends so often later), and that only made him panic louder, so really - who played who, here?

Nevertheless: it's a long haul back to the town, both of them smeared with blood (monster and otherwise) and viscera (mercifully not otherwise) by the time Jaskier steers them into the tavern and shouts for someone to go and fetch a doctor. The doctor is fetched, Geralt's ruined clothing peeled off and tossed aside, the wound cleaned and tended to— and he's not a normal man by any means, so there isn't really a reason for Jaskier to worry as much as he does, but... well. He does anyway? It's hard not to; all it takes is the single seedling of a thought, that maybe Geralt will leave his life abruptly, the usual, but not come back one day to set him to fretting. The doctor makes him sit in the corner, which he does, twisting his fingers anxiously and waiting.

As soon as the doctor leaves he hastily moves to Geralt's side, where he remains for the next hour or so while Geralt sleeps. It's only when he stirs slightly that Jaskier leans over, peering, ah, definitely too closely at his face.]

Geralt? [...] Geeeralt?

[Wake up and talk to him, you big jackass!! Those bandages will need to be changed soon, but also: think of his many feelings.]

horsin around with ferdie

[swordbiter]

The news hits him that morning like a punch to the face. His next mission would be off the front line - away from his Raiders and the rest of the Hawks. No matter how much he insisted that he was mostly healed up from the battle that gave him new title of Hundred Man Slayer, it seemed fate wanted to keep him away from battle. As soon as night fell, he was to be briefed on the details from Griffith himself in his tent.

And so, Guts did what he always does when he was pissed off and needed time to cool his head - he storms away from camp and drills. From sometime around noon to now, deep in the wilderness, he swung his sword again and again. He got so lost in the swordplay that he only noticed the passage of time when one particularly aggressive swing cleaves through the trunk of the young tree in front of him. As it falls, the colors of the sunset pour through the new hole in the tree canopy. The fading beams of light painted red onto his arms.

Well, shit. There's no way he'd make it back in time on foot. Retracing his steps, Guts is resigned to simply be late to the meeting until luck graces him in the form of two horses. They were conveniently tied to a fence at a little house next to the woods - the very outskirts of a nearby town. Taking a closer look, there was only one guard he has to punch out to get it! What a bargain. One unconscious soldier later, Guts begins to untether the larger of the two horses and mount its saddle.

"What the hell is this?" he murmurs.

Are those.. braids?? On this horse? Who has the time to groom an animal like that? And what's with these reins? The things are embroidered like some court lady's dress! He should probably be concerned about who exactly he was 'borrowing' his ride from, but he was in a hurry. He was planning on leaving the horse behind later, anyway. Guts begins to gallop away from the scene of the crime.

it is Time

[fullname]

Hiring mercenaries to supplement the army is not Ferdinand's idea, let the record show that much. He has to be wheedled into it, which takes the better part of several days, because surely, surely the royal army doesn't need mercenaries stomping around making a mess of things. It's the insistence that this Band of the Hawk is remarkable, almost like a real army of their own, that finally convinces him. He wants, despite himself, to meet their mysterious but apparently very charismatic leader...

So that is why he rides out with a single guard early, to see what these ruffians are like, and taking a break to stop and have tea with a stranger in the woods is an extra bonus. He doesn't get up until he hears the sound of hoof beats, because that... is wrong? No one should be coming in yet, and especially no one should be leaving—

One glance out the window later has him choking, hastily rushing outside as some bandit makes off with his horse? Hello? He pauses just to confirm that his guard is still breathing before mounting the other horse and taking off at a gallop; luckily some of his equipment made it to this other mount, or how would he manage to throw a lance straight at this wild thief?

Ah, but not yet. No, he's coming up fast, hand spear, well, in hand, but first: negotiation.

"Thief! Stop at once or suffer the consequences! You will not make it out of this region unscathed!"

Or: shouting. Get back here!!

the good place au

[silvercrusader]

[So he has a soulmate, apparently.

Wait, no, back up: so, he's dead. So it happened the way he knew it would (violently) and yet not at all that (because it was a mugging, not some heroic fight; it was three guys in an alley and him bleeding out on the pavement while they ran off). So it happened, and he's not going to think about it, because there's no point. He's here now, and there's nothing like death to firmly put one's past behind them.

So he's here, and he lives down the road from someone who's his soulmate, allegedly, except that's the thing: there's no way this guy is his soulmate.

It's not that he's, like, horrific. He's not some kind of mass murderer. He's just a huge dick, that's all. Antisocial and curt, brushing off Polnareff's enthusiastic (overly enthusiastic) introductions and flirtations. And there's no, like, soulmate transfer, nor is there any kind of soulmate app, or whatever, so . . .

So he's here to make the best of it.

He'd given the guy space. A full half-week, actually, so no one can say he didn't give it the old college try. And now he's here with a present, wrapped a bit clumsily, held behind his back as he knocks at the door.

There's a good chance Kakyoin just won't answer, Polnareff considers, but one problem at a time.]

[trivialpursuit]

[So the afterlife is real, which is the first surprise. Kakyoin has taken it in stride as best he can, buying into the "we tweaked your memory because it was a little embarrassing" line he was fed the first day here purely because it's convenient; he has, apparently, a second chance here. Kind of. He doesn't want to dwell on the life left behind or its sudden end.

After all, apparently soulmates are also real, or at least soulmates are gullible and persistent and do not understand the first thing about giving a person time to, like, adjust? It isn't that Kakyoin is... opposed, conceptually, but he also doesn't see himself having a soulmate, you know? The guy doesn't even seem all that bad, just loud and insistent and appearing at the worst time, every time.

Until he finally gives it a few days, and Kakyoin finally has time to breathe, and he finds the afterlife to be pretty boring, actually. He goes for walks. The place is scenic? It's objectively very nice! But sooner or later Kakyoin winds up sitting around at home, bored but not bored enough to go out and socialize. Perish the thought.

A knock at the door pulls him out of the staring he was doing, at a book, reading the same paragraph three times without realizing it. He sighs and stands, although he knows what's coming even before he opens the door. Besides the people in charge, the soulmate is the only person he really knows, so...

So, hey. He stands in the doorway and looks at Polnareff, shoulder leaning against the door frame, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.]

What?

[hey buuuddy]

i'm puttin this here for if ya ever feel the fan boy again

[pierless]

one, two, three, four

or, the one after it's all over and done, where hey! turns out these two are equally broken in similar ways and now that everything's said and done the world still has to move on but also good god are they both lonely and exhausted

also, this

i found live actions icons just for you AND WROTE THIS NOVEL IG

[fanfavors]

[The thing is, when it's over, it isn't really over. The cultivation world is shaken by what happens, and shaken still when one of Gusu Lan's Twin Jades runs off to get married and the other goes into seclusion to ruminate on the lifelong shame of having ever loved Jin Guangyao.

(Or as the rest of the world might put it, the respectable mourning period needed after being deceived by such a villain, but Huaisang prefers his version of events. He loved Meng Yao once too, though not as blindly, not as long. He sends Gusu Lan a polite letter with congratulations for one and condolences for the other, not that Lan Xichen or Wangji will see either for some time.)

—And the chaos at Lanling Jin is even worse; the Lan Clan can at least handle themselves, more or less constantly secluded all the time as they are, but for the most powerful clan in the cultivation world to suddenly find itself shamed, leaderless, and with a teenager the rightful heir to the clan's leadership? It's a mess. Some of it is even an embarrassment, in the mouths of certain people. It's those same people who look at Nie Huaisang with fresh eyes, gazes turned appraising from critical, and Huaisang can't say he notices. He nods and bows and conducts himself in the right way to all the right people out of habit, but it's a habit without his carefully calculated bumbling mixed in anymore. He doesn't head-shake, or back away from decisions; with the state of the most powerful clans in disarray, he is decisions, as far as anyone is concerned.

Not many people are. Some are, but they're either on his side or relieved that he seems to have miraculously come into his own since the truth of his brother's murder has come to light. It's about time, many of them say in taverns, some of them in toast, and it is. It's about time for a lot of things.

Huaisang realizes Jiang Cheng is concerned only when he bothers to pay attention to him again; the Jiang Clan, too, has its own problems to work out. So much reputation built on the back of chasing down Wei Wuxian, only for that colorful truth to come out all at once in the end, as well... Huaisang wonders what it feels like to see Wei Wuxian again and then watch him leave with Lan Wangji just as abruptly. Is it worth it, he wonders.

At least one of them has his brother back.

So it's after weeks, or maybe even months, that Huaisang doesn't request Jiang Cheng's presence so much as idly suggest it at a Discussion Conference and wait for the pieces to fall into place. He knows Jiang Cheng, after all; it's been years and years, whole lifetimes almost, since they were twin shadows of Wei Wuxian at Cloud Recesses, but Huaisang wagers that some of that same boy is still buried deep. After all, under his own years of resentment, of scheming, of hatred and envy and unspeakable acts, the boy who cried and tantrumed when his brother burned his paper fans is still there, waiting. There's easily nostalgia in it; he might even admit it under pressure.

It is what it is, then: eventually, Jiang Cheng takes the bait, or more accurately Jiang Cheng sees the bait for what it is and finally gives in to the unspoken fact between them that of their shared past, they two have only each other left. Letters are exchanged, a date set, tea laid out. The main house at Qinghe Nie has flourished under Huaisang's touch, compared to when Nie Mingjue led the clan: more gardens, for one, more open air and beautiful hanging scrolls, a painting somewhere lovingly given to Mingjue by Lan Xichen that Huaisang keeps for... reasons. It's brighter, overall; they can call his lands the Unclean Realm but he doesn't have to live like it.

A servant leads Jiang Cheng through the place when he arrives, taking him to a wide, open room for taking tea that spills onto a courtyard. The doors are open to let in the air and the light and Huaisang is out there, not inside, fan folded and put away at his waist as he wags a finger at a songbird in a cage. He glances back at the wide doorway after the servant has excused themselves.]

Jiang-xiong, you made it. The weather was beautiful for your journey— lucky!

[Should he turn and bow... like, yeah, but they went to high school together and a few months ago he watched Jiang Cheng cry like a baby and make his teenage nephew uncomfortable, so what's really the point of formalities anymore.]

the one where they're pining and also animation icons

[pierless]

[So he's seventeen years old and his world hasn't ended, not yet. Lotus Pier hasn't burnt to the ground, his parents aren't dead, and for a time, for just the briefest moment in time, the future feels like it might just be bright.

So he's seventeen, and right now his biggest problem is a boy with a fan.

It is a problem, see. It's a problem for a lot of reasons, starting with the fact he's here to study, not moon over anyone, and ending with the fact that he can't go around falling in love with men. It's not an orientation thing, although that, too. But he's the firstborn. The heir. One of these days (impossibly far in the future, surely), he's going to have to get married to a woman and ensure his line is unbroken.

But right now, it's mostly the former. Bad enough Wei Wuxian seems intent on pulling every prank known to man; he doesn't need an additional distraction. And yet it happens each time he sees Nie Huaisang, and it's like an addiction, because it feels so good: the thrill of companionship each time their eyes meet during class, a silent conversation equal parts amused and commiserating; his skin heated after Nie Huaisang leans against him, whining about being too tired to sneak around; his stupid eagerness to bow to his older brother's level and break the rules, just so he can maybe-sometimes-god-please impress his friend.

It's pathetic. It's so pathetic, but here he is, and he doesn't know how to stop. He doesn't know if he can. It's inconvenient, sure, but so long as he keeps his feelings to himself, there's no harm in friendship, right?]

If he keeps flirting, he's going to get in trouble. They're not all single.

[So they're in town, they three, and what a shock that Wei Wuxian has gone off to indulge whatever whim possesses him-- this time, a girl who stared boldly right back at him, unimpressed with his brashness. It'd be irritating if it wasn't expected, but still, Jiang Cheng thinks, he can summon a bit of anger. Just for his brother.]

Come on. He can find us, or not. I'm not standing around waiting for him.

[fanfavors]

[Nie Huaisang is seventeen and no one expects anything from him, which is absolutely perfect. Well. His brother expects something from him, too much if you ask him, and one day Nie Mingjue will have to live with the fact that Huaisang just doesn't care about the saber, or about training for hours, or about nurturing his dumb core or whatever else he writes to him angry about— and then writes to Lan Xichen about, knowing Xichen will give Huaisang a pointed look that he'll catch the meaning of on sight.

No, Huaisang isn't interested. He's barely interested in class; he already failed last year, he tried to insist, so why bother sending him back to Cloud Recesses? And that had gotten him an earful and so he found himself again sitting in classes he could not care less about. But. This time.

Well, Huaisang is a second son, unburdened by too much expectation, and so he has plenty of time to dedicate to... frivolous things. He's a moth to the flame when it comes to Wei Wuxian on just the first day, but that fades into something simpler, an earnest friendship tempered by Wei Wuxian's much more easily riled other half. Jiang Cheng need not know that Huaisang noticed him second; Jiang Cheng need not know that Huaisang noticed him and his pretty eyes and the mean set of his jaw at all, because what would Nie Mingjue do if he figured that out? No, that's the worst possibility, and so—

So. Huaisang can keep his little secrets, he thinks. Secret looks and contact that lingers and the way he settles into place beside Jiang Cheng after Wei Wuxian has dragged them somewhere, because the scheme is always more fun before it's put into practice and something else (someone else, let's be honest) interrupts them anyway. He's beside him now, fan idly fluttering, watching Wei Wuxian in the near distance.

And then Jiang Cheng wants to go, which isn't new, but ah—]

Wait, wait— Shouldn't we...?

[And he gestures hopelessly between Jiang Cheng here and Wei Wuxian over there with his fan; should they not, at least, shout to him that he's on his own? No?

He already knows the answer to this, which is why even as he looks politely guilty about abandoning Wei Wuxian in town, he moves to follow Jiang Cheng. There's a thrill in being alone together, even if— well, secrets.

It's a crowded street, either way, so he certainly can't help it when their arms bump.]

What do we do now? Ah, I've heard there's an ornaments craftsman in this town who does the finest work...

[Ahem. Come buy hairpins with him.]

zip zop zoobity bop

[globs]

[ This was a mistake.

They knew it the moment the words left their lips - the second they said "yes" to Phosphophyllite inviting them to the moon, but by then, it was too late; they'd chosen a side. They were silent on the ride in that sunspot (the "ship," according to Phos), sitting in the corner while the other gems marveled over the hulking pilot. They were silent upon arrival, staring balefully at the celebratory Lunarians. They were even silent when Phos brought all of them to their "friends," the dust under their feet.

Now they're sitting silently in the domicile that the Lunarians prepared for them, sterile and shifting as it is, waiting for Phos to come back from their meeting with the prince - waiting for Phos to come find them, specifically, because Cinnabar knows they will. All the others are avoiding them, as usual, but Phos never does. That's exactly how they got into this mess. They get swept up in that feeling, the feeling of being known, the feeling of being cared about, and they finally fooled themself into believing it just long enough to get into this situation. Phosphophyllite is wicked that way. They hate that about them. ]

You're insane.

[ Cinnabar doesn't offer a greeting when their door opens; they get to their feet stiffly from the strange white bed in their strange white room, fists clenched. There's already a dark stain on the sheets from where they were sitting and their poison seeped in. It's a sure sign of their anxiety, provided their raised hackles and the mercury swirling around them in agitation isn't enough of a clue... ]

one of the many slug misspellings of phosphophyllite

[survivorsgilt]

[There isn't any time to talk to Cinnabar on the way to the moon. Phosphophyllite has to explain certain things to the others- well, to all of them, but they assume Cinnabar is listening in the corner while others flock to Phos' explanation. There isn't any time once they arrive, either; swarmed by Lunarians and then diverting to the field of dust. Phos leaves too hastily, to find Aechmea and demand the return of their ground-up comrades, for everyone else's sake. They've always had all the time in the world, for hundreds of years, and all of a sudden there's no time at all to do anything.

But Cinnabar will be waiting, they think. Cinnabar, who is so bright and resourceful, will be waiting to talk about what to do next while the others alternate between shock and awe at the state of life on the moon. Phos doesn't blame them for that— but they aren't seeking out Amethyst, or Yellow or anyone else for, hmm, a reason.

Probably. A couple of reasons. They expect something else when they open the door and Cinnabar starts with that; it's shocking enough that Phos simply stands there for a moment, then slowly shuts the door again. Wrong room... who is that...

Just kidding they're back, throwing the door open with more emphasis this time!!]

What do you mean!! [CINNABAR....WHAT GIVES!!] You agreed to come with me! It's safer for us to be here than with sensei!

[They say, after an evening looking at gem dust in despair... let's not delve into that.]

[pierless]

[So it goes like this: as the eldest son, the idea that he'll one day marry for political convenience is not exactly a shock. After all, that's what marriage is for: to smooth over tensions or strengthen bonds, hoping to stave off war for another generation. If he gets along with his spouse, that's all the better, and he's even told that love might one day grow, but first and foremost, it would be for his family's sake.

That had been easy enough to accept when his spouse had been some nameless, faceless potential. Now--

It's a possibility, his father tells him. Not a promise. Simply see if you like him. But there's a hidden implication in those words, a quiet but urgent plea: it's in everyone's best interest if he not just likes this boy, but impresses him. Their family isn't entirely stable now, thanks to a few misplaced ventures here and there. They need a solid alliance with a high-ranking family, and who better than the Nies?

Impress Nie Huaisang, and suddenly they needn't worry about the future for a little while longer.

So here they are, meeting for the first time. It's a party, filled with music and girls dancing and everyone mingling. Sooner or later they'll all sit and drink and talk about heroic deeds, but for now: this is an easy way to meet.

Or it would be, anyway, if he could find him.

Because, see, the thing is: he has a portrait, yes, and he's certain they've met once or twice as children, but that isn't the same as knowing what he looks like right now. It's not as if the portrait was particularly true to life. He'd missed everyone's name being announced, delayed by this-and-that, and so now, on the night he's meant to impress and court his future husband, he cannot find the man.

Is he panicking? A little, yes. After a third loop of wandering around the party, he leans back against a pillar, hiding himself for just a moment so he can take a breath. This is fine. He isn't destroying all the work his family has accomplished in one night, he certainly isn't. He'll find the boy, he'll impress him (somehow, and he has no idea how, he can't even impress his parents), he won't ruin this.

God. He's so busy furiously worrying that he fails to notice a person near him, so well done, Jiang Cheng, really nailed that spot check.]

Shit . . .

[Just a little desperately, he tugs out the portrait again. It's much wrinkled at this point, but still, he studies it, trying desperately to figure out if he's seen this boy sometime tonight.]

[fanfavors]

[When it comes to marriage arrangements or possibilities thereof, Nie Huaisang doesn't ever actually assume they'll amount to anything. Yes, his family is influential, and yes, his hand is worth quite a bit to a lot of people even if he's only a second son, sure sure sure... But inevitably the first few interest meetings with whatever suitors he might have peter off into polite silence. He knows why; his older brother is intimidating on the best of days, and marrying into the Nie family is more difficult than simply offering the best promise of eventual security, or manpower, or whatever else.

So when Mingjue tells Huaisang there's going to be another suitor, Huaisang doesn't, uh, do anything differently. He recognizes the name and knows a thing or two about the family, but he's not going to go above and beyond for this one party. Please— it's as Mingjue tells him gruffly, anyway: it's up to the Jiangs to impress them, not the other way around.

Not to say that Huaisang intends to be rude, no. He's looking forward to it, if only with, um, perhaps some lowered expectations thanks to his brother's reputation... But the party comes and he has no idea where the Jiang boy has even gone. The members of his family aren't hard to pick out of a crowd, but he can separate disciples from heirs based on dress at a glance, and where is this boy?

(And alright, so Huaisang is having a bit of fun doing the actual party things, floating around the party and enjoying himself more than he's seriously looking. That's fine! It's fine.)

It's when he's sidled away from everything, pointedly across the room from Mingjue's increasing ire at having to be at a social gathering, that he finally notices the nearby figure. Ah— that one, then. Huaisang sidles toward him slowly, in no rush since this boy- Jiang... Cheng, right?- is just sulking over here.

Huaisang gets close enough to lean over and look at the portrait and immediately blows his cover(?) by scoffing loudly.]

That's old!

[Unbelievable! The gall! Just look at his out of date painted fashion! Also, hey.]

Give me that! I'll find you a better one.

[Like seriously hey, it's him, but his principles demand sending his maybe-fiance home with a more attractive portrait.]

[xiaosolo]

[So Wangji had received his punishment for his part in the Siege of the Burial Mounds. So he'd been whipped 33 times, and now lies in his room, his body half-broken and his spirit entirely so, and it's what was right, what the rules said was necessary, but that doesn't make Xichen feel any better.

What could he do? Nothing, and yet his spirit felt ripped asunder as he watched his baby brother take blow after blow, his face stoic and his eyes dull. He watched it all, and then when it was over he'd written letters. One to Nie Mingjue, asking questions and discussing events, entirely divorced from what had just happened, from the issue of Wei Wuxian in general . . . and one to Jin Guangyao.

I would like to see you soon, he had said, innocuous and blameless. Is it so unusual for a man to ask for his friend in a time like this? No one would fault him for it-- if they even noticed, frankly. Guangyao has grown in power under his father's watchful eye, but to too many, he is still nothing more than a bastard who got incredibly lucky. No one save his father will miss him.

So he's here a few weeks later, waiting to hear that he's arrived in the Cloud Recesses, that he's being guided up the pathway, that he's waiting at the door-- and it feels like all of him is tensed up until he sees the door slide open and that familiar figure standing there.]

Thank you for coming.

[It's more relieved than he wishes it to be. but not so much so he's embarrassing himself. Xichen smiles faintly, though anyone can see his smile doesn't reach his eyes.]

I hope I did not interrupt anything too serious for this indulgence.

[disposable]

[Jin Guangyao wonders about Xichen more than is appropriate; how could he not, when the news of Wangji's punishment reaches Lanling? Wangji, he knows, is steely and stalwart— he worries considerably less or not at all about the younger Lan brother, but Xichen... upright and good, too good, Xichen must keenly feel the pain of his only brother.

But there is no time for sympathies in their world, and pity is impoliteness; Lanling makes no formal acknowledgement of Lan Wangji's fate as it would simply be too shameful to point it out, but word spreads. Jin Guangyao has business to attend to, work to do, but he still wonders how Xichen is doing when he has an idle moment.

So, then. He receives the letter with practiced impassivity, humbly bowing before his father to request his blessing to travel to Cloud Recesses. Not because he wants to, or rather, not because anyone would care what he wants— his own opinions factor into the discussion not at all, simply a frank deliverance of the news that he's been requested elsewhere. His assurance that he will not slack in his duties is given, and he's off.

He can keep his expression calm and blank on the journey. Up the pathway, waiting at the door, but when he sees Xichen his lips part in silent reverence and his eyes shine— not long enough for anyone to notice save perhaps the man himself, as of course, Jin Guangyao immediately holds out his arms, hands joined, to dip into a deep bow.]

Gusu Lan's friendship with Lanling Jin is no indulgence, [he says, crisp and polite, face turned down to the floor.] Jin Guangyao is honored to be received personally by Zewu-Jun.

[And like, if the gaggle of Lan and Jin servants milling about could just get out of here, that would be great. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost giddily impatient, but he's still looking at the floor. Xichen, free him.]

the one where it's the prisma au without having to app into prisma

[doggish]

[It's not a relief that Sebastian is here. Of course not. It would be cruel for him to be relieved at the sight of a familiar face, especially one he's fond of. But it's . . . it's something. Something that selfishly relaxes at the sight of bright blue eyes and the sound of a familiar brogue, even now, two weeks after he'd first spotted him here.

Here being this hellish city. Here being this apartment, watching Sebastian suffer through the transformations that the moons bring on. Fenris sits not too far from him, his arms braced against his knees, his eyes locked on the man before him. He has no idea how to comfort anyone over anything, much less something as nebulous as an oath to the Maker, but, well, he's here.]

. . . it's survival, participating here.

[He says it as gently as he's able, although it still comes out too roughly.]

Nothing more or less than that.

i said i had icons and yet none of them suit this thread

[quickprayer]

[Debauchery is not a shock, not really, and Sebastian would be a hypocrite of the highest order to pretend it is. The city here is as if the Hanged Man spilled its usual business out into the streets, everywhere, and yes— that has taken getting used to by sheer volume. But it isn't the debauchery so much as the persistent asking it of them that's plagued him for two weeks now. The casual ease of it, the reverence to it, as if— mmh.

Is it blaspheme to revere all of this on a completely separate world? No one save Fenris has even heard of the Maker or Andraste here, and does that make a difference?

No, he's told himself. No, it shouldn't. It couldn't. And yet he's felt physically ill here over these stupid moons, so—]

The Maker doesn't give out free passes for special circumstances, Fenris.

[He'd been angry earlier, but now he's something more subdued. Sulky, almost, but less like a tantruming child.]

Worse than breaking a vow is lying to yourself to do it. I couldn't possibly.

im leaving this for anders whenever you get icons

[doggish]

one, two, three-- or, the one where fenris gets magic and has to deal with that, and then they have to deal with their respective traumas and pasts and feelings, gross

the one where we pretend you can hole punch the veil and not insta-kill millions of people, solas

[glowup]

[After Kirkwall, well— disappearing as thoroughly as possible makes the most sense. Anders is used to living on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open if he sleeps at all— Kirkwall was a nice distraction despite everything, while it lasted. If he's being generous. Right up until, well, the end he caused himself; but never mind it. It's back to life as a proper fugitive, which is just about as good, quality-wise, as living in goddamn Darktown, but... lonelier.

He makes every effort not to think about it, and even more not to think about the others. To not come out of a struggle with a wild beast or pack of roaming templars and think, immediately, that Varric would love to hear about this, or Hawke would— mm.

Anders avoids a lot of things these days. The day something punctures the actual Veil, he's knocked out immediately trying to refill a canteen a lake in the forest and nearly drowns; everything after that is chaos. He can only imagine what it must be like in the cities, with magic and bits of the Fade oozing into everything, permeating everywhere; he keeps to the woods, skirting wide around any village or group of wanderers he comes across for a good few weeks. After all, while the world might have more pressing matters than picking up a single fugitive, Anders knows the templars aren't that generous. Or logical.

That it's Fenris he hears about first, when he dares to pass through a town, is something of a surprise. Not that he's referred to as Fenris, of course not, but there are only so many lyrium-stained elves out to kill mages in Thedas, surely. Anders immediately wonders if Fenris has come for him, but that would be silly; the outskirts of Tevinter may not be anything like the big cities swimming in magisters and slavers, but just one tavern has at least one or two more notable players in the mage game, as it were, than Anders.

He still leaves as hastily as possible, back into the woods, towards the secluded grove where he's dared to set up a campsite of sorts. A tent, basically. It's a tent, while just about everything else he owns in this world is in a pack on his back at all times. So here he is, coming around the bend in the non-path towards his tent, and the electric prickle of magic reaches him well in advance of actually seeing it. The Fade trying so desperately to merge with the rest of the world has made magic strange, stronger, and Anders wonders not infrequently if Justice interwoven so permanently into the fabric of his very soul is why he hasn't been driven to madness like some whispers he's heard, mages succumbing to magic forces they've no way to handle. Perhaps he got the jump on it, in his own way. Wouldn't the gang be proud of him now.

Nevertheless: despite the magic in the air being heavier now he can feel the shift as he approaches his camp, a cloying static prickle, and then he smells the smoke. When he leans around a broad tree at the edge of the grove, staff in hand, he's expecting templars— not a figure crouched in his campsite, seemingly doing nothing at all, while his tent is on fire. There's magic in the fire, he can practically taste it, but first—]

You set my tent on fire! [Hello? Fellow mage?? The magic is the only reason at all he bothers to say anything, leaning out a bit further from his spying spot,] What could my tent have possibly done to offend you?

[Give him a minute, he'll figure it out.]

idk what i'm doing but here i am, anyway - me or cullen? you decide

[makersbreath]

[There isn't enough of anything.

And that's nothing new, really. Even when Cullen was a member of the Templar Order, it wasn't as though Cullen lived, like, a luxurious life—but the Chantry provided its Templars with what its Templars needed. No one went without, so long as they did what was expected of them, and is it so bad for Cullen to want the same for the Inquisition's forces? He wants them fed; he wants them armed; he wants them clothed; he wants them sleeping beneath proper shelter when they turn in for the night, and yes, of course he realizes that the Inquisition isn't as, ah, well-established as the Chantry. He doesn't understand everything that Josephine does—or how she has the patience for even half of it—but he knows that she is doing her best, and that acquiring resources is... a game, of sorts. A test of patience. It's all about shaking the right hands and saying the right things.

He loathes it, naturally. Finds himself venting to Varric late one evening, because Varric is, to his credit, a good listener—and because too many of the Inquisition's men are sleeping without blankets, which should be such a simple fix. It should be! Varric agrees, even, before Varric suggests that Cullen should, oh... send a letter to a certain choir boy they both know. Write it quickly enough, Varric oh-so thoughtfully adds, and it could arrive in Starkhaven before the end of next week, much to the delight of their shared acquaintance.

It shouldn't be a surprise when Cullen beats a hasty retreat. It should be even less of a surprise that Cullen goes out of his way to avoid Varric for a few days afterward, and it isn't because Varric did anything wrong? Cullen knows what Varric is like, after all; it's hardly surprising that Varric heard tale of... some aspects of his life in Kirkwall, even if it is, like, mildly irritating. Just like the dwarf himself.

So it's... shame that keeps Cullen away. Maybe. Something akin to it, at least, because Varric mentioning Sebastian in his roundabout way made Cullen think of the small stack of letters tucked away in a drawer of his desk. Simple things, those letters. Containing updates on Starkhaven, rumors regarding the Inquistion, questions about Cullen's well-being, snippets pulled from the Chant—brief conversations that have, for the most part, remained unanswered, because when it comes right down to it, Cullen has always been a terrible communicator. Sitting down to write a long letter has always struck him as a luxury, of sorts. He rarely has the time, and even when he does have all of thirty minutes to himself, finding the right words is a struggle. He's not good with them, because...

...Well! Because. How does one capture one's emotions? It's relatively easy to write I am glad you are well; it's much, much harder to write other things, like I think of you often, or Your presence is a comfort that I sorely miss, or I heard a laugh that sounded similar to yours, and my heart ached for the remainder of the day. Cullen has tried; Cullen has made many an earnest attempt, but everything he manages to write sounds so very trite—and that isn't what Sebastian deserves. Not at all.

Better, then, to simply not write. Cullen is a busy man, after all; there's always something for him to do aside from sit at his desk and frown at parchment like a schoolboy, and so Cullen loiters by the war table. Sees to hi—to the Inquisition's men. Reads every letter Sebastian sends him before tucking it atop the rest, safe and sound, because this is what's best.

Until what's best comes back to bite him in the ass? In the form of a delegation from Starkhaven arriving, quite unexpectedly, in the middle of an otherwise mundane day, and as the messenger bursts into the war room to announce its arrival—ah, but it's strange how Cullen's stomach sinks even as his heart soars. He doesn't need to be told who's leading the delegation; he's well aware which person is currently standing in—pacing about?—the courtyard.

Cullen is soon well aware of several other things, too, like the fact that Sebastian's blue eyes are as piercing as ever. Devastating, honestly, even as they bore through him while he stands to the side, half-listening to Josephine's masterful greeting and trying not to awkwardly shift his weight from one leg to the other. So Sebastian is angry with him, then. Understandable. It would have been nice to have more time to... prepare for it, but this is a fitting enough punishment, Cullen supposes—and it doesn't make him any less relieved to see Sebastian standing before him, obviously in fine health as he returns Josephine's everything with practiced ease. Is it bad that he missed that voice? That accent, Maker preserve him—

Or: Cullen is distracted by several things, and thus Cullen is caught entirely off guard when Leliana suggests he grant the Prince of Starkhaven™ a tour of the battlements while the meeting chamber is prepared. Cullen isn't quite sure what he says, honestly. A jumbled something that sends Josephine hastily bringing a hand to her mouth and earns him a knowing look from Leliana, and Cullen knows, in this moment, that they know. They know. How wonderful.

But they make an effective team, he has to admit. They manage, somehow, to pull the rest of the party off for something or another, leaving Cullen and Sebastian standing in the middle of a rapidly emptying courtyard—and that in and of itself is fine. Cullen thinks, stupidly, that he could stand here for an hour, suffering through Sebastian's Judgment if it meant savoring Sebastian's presence, but... ah, well. It's a nice dream! Especially as the silence stretches on, resulting in Cullen feeling the need to clear his throat before looking back Sebastian's way.]

It's— [Whew. He straightens, managing a small cough in the process.] I trust your journey was an easy one? Our patrols have indicated trouble is concentrated farther to the west—provided you approached from the coast, of course.

[He is rambling. Falling back on shit he knows.]

you're writing the next great american novel apparently

[quickprayer]

[The Chantry can provide, for its followers, a certain measure of faith and purpose; ruling a Free Marches city state can provide a certain measure of responsibility unto one's people, a drive that may not have been so easy to find while mucking about in Kirkwall for the better part of the decade. But nothing in all of Thedas can gift Sebastian with impulse control, and so it is for that reason that he winds up marching all the way to Skyhold on a whim.

Mostly. Kind of. In his defense, he lasts longer in Starkhaven than one might have expected. A city with competent leadership can run itself, after all, and for all his past doubts about what he ought to do, there is no question that he's more than competent at the actual doing: Starkhaven, this long after Sebastian's passionate return, is doing just fine. Better than fine; good enough to reach out to Kirkwall, to other cities having a Circle problem, and put good resources to work there.

Still: it's not overnight, and so Sebastian does not begrudge it much, when his earliest letters to Cullen go unanswered. He'd be faintly embarrassed by them now anyway, far too much putting to paper every little doubt he might have felt about his ability to rule, rude things about local nobles that should not ever see the light of day— it's fine. He lets those go.

But the rest. The months and months and years that pass, and yes, the Inquisition has sent Starkhaven some polite missives, correspondence in a hand that is not Cullen's but nonetheless has some of his influence underneath the niceties, Sebastian can tell— but Cullen has not returned a single letter to him, and as the dust settles somewhat (somewhat) in the Free Marches, it starts to... grate. Chafe, even. Missing Cullen's presence becomes part of the routine, and while it would admittedly make that feeling more if he were to write, it would be better than nothing at all.

He still writes because of course he does, and when a letter from someone in the Inquisition for him finally arrives, the surge of joy in his heart is completely unbecoming from a prince and— and it's from damnable Varric, Maker, spare him. Sebastian has poor impulse control; his party is mounted up and headed for Skyhold the very next morning, and oh, did he forget to send a message in advance? Pity.

The journey is what it is and Skyhold is remarkable, really, Starkhaven is all but a city fortress and so he likes Skyhold at once, earnestly he does, but— well, nothing quite compares to the moment the front doors open and the Inquisition's esteemed leadership comes down the steps to greet his delegation. Specifically, nothing quite compares to seeing Cullen among them, there and in one piece, and Sebastian had known he wasn't injured or anything because Varric would have mentioned it, but it's still... a relief.

It doesn't soothe his temper. No, what eases the anger that sent him marching all the way here in the first place is Cullen just standing there, letting other people do the talking, catching his eye in a completely overt way and fumbling over being left to give him the grand tour. Sebastian performs all the requisite bows and polite thanks and then finally really looks at Cullen when they're alone.

Listen to this guy... Sebastian holds up a couple fingers, humming.]

Right. I can see how that much would be difficult to fit on a single page to send all the way to Starkhaven.

[Punk. He's still kind of mad and he will continue to lean on this point until it pops but first, because, hm, because:]

It's good to see you. [And then,] You're supposed to show me the battlements?