#and the scrawny well dressed man is the feral one

[jade-of-mourning]

Tenzin stares down at the scowling, scrawny kid. He's dressed in a patched grey shirt bound hastily at the forearms, equally-patched trousers hanging off his frame despite the long length of his skinny legs, and his feet are currently bare aside from some more dirty wrappings around the arch and heel. A shockingly red scarf loops around his neck, several times too-big and frayed at the ends. He's maybe fourteen or fifteen despite the heavy grey lines underscoring his features, because there's a familiar despair written in the recurring story — prominent cheekbones sticking out of his thin, pointy face, lips chapped and pale from the freezing winter nights of Republic City, gold-flecked brown eyes glaring back at him defiantly. 

And he's in a pair of handcuffs.

"So this is the one, you say," he addresses to the woman standing next to him. Her arms are crossed against her chest, a glare plastered across her face — precisely mirroring that of the scrappy boy handcuffed to the table in front of them. They're having an intense stare-down.

If he didn't know any better, he'd almost think this was her kid.

(But he knows all too well that he's not.)

Lin Beifong scowls. "Fucker tried to hit Jian with lightning after spotting her during a stakeout on a Triple Threats warehouse. He then managed to single-handedly fight off three officers while the rest of the gang bailed, looking like a feral, lightning-happy pyromaniac while at it —" The feral, lightning-happy pyromaniac looks pleased for a moment, before promptly dropping back into a glower "— and when I sent a cable at him from the back, he shot a pillar out of the concrete ground to block it."

"How do you know it was him?" Tenzin asks. 

"I know the motions. I am an earthbender, in case you forgot."

"Perhaps there was another man waiting behind to assist his escape, who earthbent the ground upon seeing his comrade in danger."

Lin grunts. "The team split when the cowards scrammed, and managed to capture a few of the accomplices. None of those fleeing were in the vicinity by the time the incident occurred."

"There could have been more of them involved than just the ones you saw fleeing the scene," Tenzin suggests.

"We were in the middle of a stakeout, Tenzin. If you need a definition, a stakeout is a period of time where the police conduct surveillance on —"

Tenzin cuts her off, conceding before she can keep going on at him. "Understood. But how can you know for certain that there weren't other members coincidentally passing through who elected to lend a hand?"

Lin acknowledges the point; the outside world doesn't come to a standstill when there's a fight inside. "One of the captured men said that the kid is Zolt's protege, which adds up with the frequency of which I see him in the aftermath of incursions. They're shamelessly bitter about him being the boss' favorite, and they clearly don't hold any well-regards towards him, so they don't have reason to offer assistance, aside from attempting to curry favor from a fourteen year old — and no faces were shown to that point, so that's out of question. Besides, they're gangsters. What sense of loyalty to each other do you really think they have?"

"More than you've got to the city." Both Tenzin and Lin whip their heads around in surprise at the low, raspy voice, having forgotten of the boy's presence during their back-and-forth. He looks almost like he wants to curl inwards on himself, but instead raises his chin higher up and manages to glare at them with even more force, if possible. "You police ain't done shit for us. You're all the same purposefully ignorant bastards. That's how we get here, but you knew that." The subject of we goes unsaid; all three of them in the closed metal room know precisely what he's talking about.

"So are you saying that one of your loyal friends stayed behind and bent that earth for you?" Lin demands, ignoring the jab at her dignity. Tenzin knows she's retracted the heel of her uniform, searching for a heartbeat.

The boy leans back in the chair flippantly. "Nah," he says curtly. "They're smart enough. None of 'em would stick 'round for me." It's contrary to the earlier claim of mutual loyalty, but unsurprising.

"So it was you," Tenzin concludes.

"I never said it was."

"Then who else could it have been?" The frustration is bubbling up in him, the way it always has since he was a kid; Dad had always laughed and said that he must've gotten it from his mother, quick to anger and full in force, but Tenzin has never been able to quell the feeling down despite his best efforts to be more like his father.

"Bet it was one of your cop cronies." There's something intense and unhinged and wild in the kid's half-pyrite eyes, almost glowing in the gleeful challenge. "Pro'ly got bored of the metal rod permanently stuck up your ass n' thought it'd be funny if —"

"Young man! You will not speak of —"

"I'm jus' sayin' —"

"Enough." Lin slams her fist down on the table, and the light in the boy's eyes dims in an instant. "I've had enough of your hog-monkey shit. Either you be straight with me and we can settle this quickly, or I'm holding you here as long as I deem necessary."

Which can be a very long time, goes unsaid.

Tenzin inspects the kid carefully, sees the minute way his shoulders slump down, and suddenly, all he can see in front of him is Jinora, hunching in on herself as her parents lecture her about not feeding her dinner to the sky bison. He doesn't know why — after all, this is a lightning-bending gangster, almost certainly raised by the streets in poverty and desperation; he couldn't be further from Tenzin's family.

But.

He's still just a kid.

Beneath all that bravado, those bitter, biting words, the degenerate behaviour that brought him here in the first place, the skin stretched too-thin over bones jutting out of his face — the harsh exterior is made to protect a kid who's seen too much. Tenzin knows that for certain.

And Tenzin is suddenly tired, because the boy is right. There's a reason that kids like him run with gangs, learn to fight dirty and low and vicious, and he's not naive enough to believe that it's not in-part due to their own failure as adults in power. He places a hand on Lin's shoulder — a silent request for her to step back and trust him. She looks over at him, green eyes meeting blue, and he's struck by how beaten down she looks by this conversation despite her infallible presence. Despite their time away from each other, despite the inevitable fallout that halved their world together like a splintering ravine and left no chance of reprieve, she knows him. 

She steps back.

Tenzin seats himself at the table as Lin moves to the corner of the room. Takes a deep breath to steady himself, tries to channel the way his father always made people feel like everything would be alright. "Young man," he says in a reasonable tone, "please, let's try again. Would you be willing to tell me your name?"

"It's —"

"Mako," the boy interjects before Lin can finish for him, take his autonomy, eyes dropping to the table. There's an unmistakable air of defeat around him, one at total odds of the snapping, feral boy described and seen from before. "My… My name's Mako. Why's it matter to you?"

Tenzin nods resolutely, ignoring the question. "Well, Mako. I have a proposal for you — one that should keep you out of the police station." 

A raised eyebrow.

Once it's out of his mouth, he can't retract it. He knows that there will be consequences for speaking without consulting Pema, Lin, his kids.

But his heart is telling him that this is right. Not just that it's the right thing to do, but also that the kid sitting handcuffed to the table in front of him is the Avatar. He can see it in his eyes, hard and resentful and gold-brown and so different from his father's, yet still the same in some inexplicable way. Reconciling the idea of this lightning-bending gangster of a street kid with the man who co-founded this city is… overwhelming, and Tenzin would almost rather blow this situation off and let himself live in remembering his father for who he is, not for whoever Mako turns out to be. But Tenzin has a duty to the world, and a duty to his father, and so he will ensure that he does the new Avatar right.

"I would like to invite you to stay on Air Temple Island for the time being. We can discuss the objective after I am able to gather the resources necessary to run an evaluating test. Do you accept?"

Mako glances over at Lin; Tenzin resists the urge to do the same. He doesn't need her approval for this — it's his home, and he knows what he's doing. He can't read the thoughts behind the boy's eyes as they flick between the two adults who hold an infinite amount of power over him, can't follow what internal strife might be occurring in his head.

Then Mako shrugs, an abrupt, jerky motion. "Sure."

Lin Beifong throws her hands up in the air, and leaves the interrogation room. She can't be bothered to deal with this; it's five in the morning. She needs some fucking sleep.

my ao3 (but it's not posted there)

sorry this was a crack idea i had while practicing piano and i had to crank it out. i Might write a series of oneshots on this if i get too inspired lol (similar to what empty shores was supposed to be)

yes bolin is alive in this au, yes i have an unfortunate amount of ideas, yes i'm still writing my normal conceivable-to-complete fics.

if tenzin thought korra was hard to work with, he is going to have a blast with mako, who comes pre-packaged with fifty times more trauma that korra had when she pulled up to air temple island. (and is also prone to stealing, and running away, and murder as necessary, probably.) (this is going to be so terrible on all sides until it gets better!)

[mahimahi713]

I want to do an AU. Danny is the ghost King to be. Sam was literally born to be his wife one day. No, there’s no big age gap. I think Sam is gonna get her plant powers. Probably be born with it? Idk. I’ll figure how to work that in.

So she’s born to a wealthy and healthy couple of good standing. She receives the best education and all that. Of course, it’s Sam. So she Rebels just like she does in the show. Learning how to sew and mend? Fine. But she’s gonna do it her way. She’s gonna also learn to spar and sword fight and archery. She grows up hating Danny, loathing the fact that she has to marry him one day. Which is why it makes it all the better that she hates the dresses and girly stuff her mom tries to force on her. She loves it but the prince?? He’ll HATE it. What kind of wife will she be? Not one any man would ever want. Her mother tells her So.

But then the day comes that she is to meet the price who shall one day be king and sue his queen and he’s…actually really okay? He’s nice? He thinks she’s fine the way she is and even thinks she is….pretty?? They get along? Shared interests???

Basically, Sam is basically the feral unfriendly cat to Danny as the friendly big doggo to pure for this world.

Of course, enter the two best friends, Valerie (Sam’s best friend) and Tucker(Danny’s best friend), who know these two idiots are perfect for each other.

Parings would be

DannyxSam, obviously

JazzxTucker

ValeriexDani

Its slow burn and all that.

“I know you’ve been against this marriage, and with good reason. But I have to say, I feel strongly for you. And, for me at least, it will be an awful shame to not have you as my partner.”

And Sam is of course, fighting so hard against it. Even though she loves him. Because it would mean giving into what was planned for her. Woild make her parents so SMUG. But he’s just so wonderful and handsome and he’s so genuinely kind and cares for her.

Id like to add, when Sam finds she likes him and then those feelings start, she just. Sits there. Seething in absolute annoyance while Danny sits there, clueless. Like. She is. So angry she likes him. It is completely illogical. It is irrational.

I’d also like to add. Thaw yes, Danny is sweet and nice, but he defiantly has his moments of confidence. The boy knows he’s good looking and he knows he’s got a great body. He knows he has a lot going for him. So that defiantly comes out.

And while that level of confidence usually annoys her (because it’s always been arrogance and over confidence), it works for him. Because he pulls it off so well but also because it’s deserved. He worked hard to get that nice body. The height is genetics. But after being kinda scrawny and shortest in his family, he shot up. And he is also genuinely kind and a good person. So it’s fitting

[phoenixkaptain]

I like Luke and Grogu’s teacher-student relationship because students can teach teachers as much as teachers teach them, and I think it would be very meaningful to Luke to see all the ways the Force can be used positively and helpfully, like with healing.

I think it would be nice for Luke to learn that he is not just a weapon of mass destruction and that he can help people without hurting others.

I think Luke and Grogu should help each other heal from their traumas and I think the teacher-student relationship is very cute and they should go further with the dynamic

[tumbling-darkling]

Some Danny Phantom/DC crossover thoughts

So I love these kinds of crossovers, and they vary just because of the different kind of series and canons that exist. And I have very basic knowledge regarding a lot of DC related topics and characters but we all know Batman and usually that’s enough. There’s good Justice League intervening and finding a small ghost child somehow keeping godly creatures of chaos in order with a mere glare, there’s teen titans and Danny interactions, there’s a lot of Danny’s friends and family dying and him getting adopted into these groups, basically you can find so much content.

One of my FAVOURITE concepts is the whole ‘Danny is Batman’s son’, which my favourite execution of it is The Phantom and the Knight by savya398 on Archive of our Own! Why is this my favourite? Why not a ‘Danny is Richard Graysons twin/lost brother? Because Dick is a nice dude, maybe getting serious from time to time but generally? He’s a good bro, makes me think of Jazz and Danny’s relationship.

Now Danny as Batman’s son? Well this has many implications. And my favourite is this makes DAMIEN Danny’s brother. Literal demon spawn finds out he has a brother and it’s DANNY. This child of pure chaos would not be impressed at all with this scrawny, c student mess. How dare this sorry excuse of a teen even be considered in being related to him! Or the great Batman!! The pure feral sibling bonds are to die for.

Even better is that this fic DOESN’T kill everyone off. Which I enjoy very greatly!! So yeah, if you like crossovers between Danny Phantom and Justice league where they don’t kill everyone Danny knows off, this is a good fic!! And while I’m at it, I’m gonna recommend some other really great Danny Phantom/DC fics!

The Meddling Jerkwad League by StrawberryCamel

A series that has the Justice League accidentally medaling while Danny and Tucker slowly finds less reasons not to strangle them all. It’s funny and entertaining!

Ghost Kings and Gotham Bats by BlueGhostCardinal

This is a good one. Phantom gets caught up in Gotham stuff, Danny gets mistaken as Damien, Bruce wants to adopt him naturally, everyone thinks he’s a clone or lost twin or something, and while we are at it, there’s a lot of established ghost lore!! King Danny heck yeah!! As well as the classic batfamily banter!

And so it Ghost by Evandarya

This one has Vlad as Danny’s guardian and Danny looks into getting into collage in Gotham! Of course it goes wrong and attracts the attention of the Batfam as they try to figure out what is going on with this kid that knew a little too much about the villain that attacked.

Operation I’m Totally 300 by I_Am_Toast

This one. Is hilarious I love this fic. It’s just Danny trying to convince the young justice league that he’s an old wise ghost based on the recorded appearances he has of himself in the past. We all know Danny just sucks at improv and so shenanigans are ensued.

Dressed for Death by Nohvarrs

Another great one, Danny ends up in John Constantine’s house and then he can’t seem to stop showing up wherever he goes. Danny’s problems only get more annoying when the Justice League tries to find out who he was before his death.

So yeah! Superheroes and Danny Phantom! I’m a big sucker for Danny Phantom crossovers. Especially since this child is ridiculously OP. He’s like an invasive species. He is a basic teen hero in Amity because he faces people and enemies that have very specialized weapons that can affect him. You drop him anywhere else? Almost nothing can touch him and he’s basically One Punch Man. Amazing.

[your-nerd-is-showing]

AOT Alpha Levi x Omega Reader

Hi I am alive lol just had writers block.... Well still kinda do so this is something I had in the works and just needed a little bit to finish! Enjoy!

NSFW AFTER PHOTO

Content: Smut

Warnings: Slight bondage, unprotected sex, knotting, minors not allowed!

“Captain Levi!” Shouts a female voice. “Come on let's go out and have a drink!” The unknown female grabs his arm leading him down the street.

He walks into the bar but still can’t make out her entire face all he can see is long flowing (H/C) hair and beautiful piercing (E/C) eyes.

Suddenly there is an explosion, everything turns black and all Levi can hear is the female’s voice screaming out. “I’ll find you in every lifetime my love I swear it!”

Levi jolted awake from his dream drenched in sweat his breathing was heavy. “The same female in every dream of mine…. It has to mean something…. Could my mate be closer than I think? I have to find her soon…. (Y/N) where could you be?” He sniffed the air. “What's that wonderfully sweet aroma? It’s faint but it smells so good.”

Levi Ackerman thirty years old a very well known Alpha in search of his mate, but not any Omega it has to be her, the girl from his fantasies. The girl he has been with through every life time… (Y/N).

He rolled over and looked at his clock. “It’s only eleven pm?” He growled in frustration as he got up and got dressed. “I’m going to get a damn drink.” Levi headed out the door.

He made his way through the city, suddenly he smelled the same sweet aroma this time even stronger and before he knew it his feet were moving on their own in the direction of the sweet smell. His nose lead him to a bar. “The Moonlight Bar. Tch…. Sounds like a breeding ground for packs…. Not my kind of place.” He turned to leave.

“Levi!”

He whirled around. “Who’s there?” He called into the darkness but no one was around. He looked over to the bar entrance and saw a young female with long flowing (H/C) hair walk into the bar. He sniffed the air. “There's no doubt about it that intoxicating smell is coming from in there.” He rubbed his temples and sighed. “But why here? I remember hearing that this bar is for the black market of our kind and they auction off Omega's to pompous rich bastards that are too lazy to look for their own mates. I would never be caught dead in a place like this…. But against my better judgment….” He sighed again. “I’m going in.”

Hesitantly he walked up to the door and was instantly recognized by the bouncer.

“Ca- uh I-I mean Alpha Levi?” Said a young man with chestnut brown hair and green eyes.

“Tch…. Yes that’s me….” He replied.

The young man just looked at him dumbfounded.

“So are you going to let me in or am I not good enough?”

“S-sorry sir of course you can come in! I just never expected that you would show up here of all places.” Replied the young man as he opened the door for Levi.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asked Levi.

“He doesn’t remember anything from our past lives? Odd.” The young man thought to himself.

“My name is Eren Jaeger.” He held out his hand to shake Levi's. “I’m a member of your pack actually that’s why I'm so surprised to see you here. You never struck me as the type who would want to buy themselves a wife.”

He shook Eren's hand and got a flashback of him riding on a horse. He was with a group of people, the only faces he could make out were Eren's and now he could finally see the face of his beloved (Y/N).

“Eren I know you from my past life?”

“Yes we served together in the Scouts. It’s good to see you it’s been too long. Come inside there’s a bunch of your friends in here we all work here.” Eren turned to his coworker. “I'll send you out back up ok?”

They went inside the bar, the sweet smell was now overwhelming his senses.

“Hey Eren do you smell that extremely sweet smell?” Levi asked him.

Eren sniffed the air. “No I don’t smell anything. Maybe one of the females is going through her heat cycle right now.” Eren's eyes grew wide.

“What?”

“When an Alpha smells that sweet aroma that means his mate is close! Only Alpha's can smell Omega's heat cycles remember?”

“That's why I’ve been brought here then and I'm guessing because I know you, you know who my mate is.”

“Right you are Levi! And good news she works here with us but isn’t part of our pack, she’s been waiting for you for a long time Levi.”

“Well what are you waiting for? Bring me to her you brat.”

Eren chuckled. “Still the same Levi with your sharp tongue. Okay follow me.” Eren brought Levi to the bar. “Here have a seat I’ll go get her.”

Levi sat down as Eren disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

“Hey Hanji where's (Y/N)? Levi is here for her.”

“She went to the bathroom the poor girl is in heat this one is really bad. She’s going crazy…. Babbling on about some irresistible musky smell. I'm worried about her with all the Alpha's around here.”

“And you let her go to the bathroom by herself!?”

Levi glanced over and saw you go into the bathroom, seconds after you went in a male followed you in. “Tch…. Like hell I’ll let that happen!”

You stumbled into the bathroom dizzy you couldn’t think straight as you collapsed on the sink. “W-what the hell is going on with me? I'm so out of it.” You tried to pull yourself up. “That smell…. That wonderful musky smell its overwhelming….”

“You know girl you really shouldn’t be here when you’re in heat like this.” Said a man from behind you he pushed up against you grabbing at your clothes. “Someone might get the wrong idea Omega…”

“What are you doing to me get off!” You wined out.

“You reek of pheromones you’re just begging to be wrecked by an Alpha!”

“Yea too bad it’s not you!” Shouted Levi as he pulled the Alpha off of you.

“L-Levi!?”

Levi punched the Alpha out with one hit.

Instantly your animal instincts took over and you pounced on Levi tearing at his clothes as you locked lips with him. He broke the kiss. “Seriously (Y/N) here in the bathroom that’s disgusting.”

“Levi!” You squeaked out as you grabbed his hand shoving it between your legs so he could feel how wet you were. “I honestly can’t help it my-my body is moving on its own. Please h-help relieve me, I've been waiting so long for you my love…. I've endured many lonely painful heat cycles without you…. I'm begging you.” You locked the bathroom door and pulled Levi's pants down taking his member in your mouth.

“Ung.” Grunted Levi his animal instincts getting the better of him. “O-okay (Y/N) quickly then I am taking you back to my apartment.” He pulled you off his member and pushed you up against the wall without a second thought you wrapped your legs around his waist. He moved your panties to the side and slipped in instantly giving you relief.

“Oooooooh L-Leviiiiiii!” You howled out as he went deep inside you.

He held your hips and thrusted deeper into you making you soak the floor.

You grabbed his head and attacked his lips kissing him passionately as you moaned into his mouth while he pounded into you.

Suddenly he stopped. “No we can’t do this here (Y/N)…. Our first time can’t be in the bathroom. You've heard how it gets the first time an Alpha and Omega mate.” He pulled himself together along with you.

“Levi!” You wined out as you tugged at his shirt.

“Behave brat.” He said as he carried you out of the bathroom. “If I have to keep my composure so do you.” He let you down instantly you clung to him.

All eyes were on the two of you as you made your way out of the bar another Alpha twice the size of Levi was stupid enough to try and come between you and him.

“Hey beautiful.” He reached out his hand to you. “Why don’t you leave this scrawny bastard and get with a real Alpha!” He boasted.

You growled as the Alpha tried to touch you, Levi broke his hand.

“How dare you try and lay your filthy paws on my Mate!” He snarled as he broke his other hand. “Let this be a lesson to anyone who underestimates me!” He kicked the Alpha breaking his ribs.

Levi ran out the door carrying you, with each second passing it was getting harder and harder to control himself. He groaned out in discomfort as he felt his member become unbearably painful. Your pheromones were driving him up the wall as your sweet secretions leaked all over his arm and pants. He started to run faster through the city and before you knew it he was busting down his door tearing your clothes off.

He threw you onto the bed and attacked your soaking core like a feral animal, lapping up the sweet juices dripping out of you. He growled as he dove deeper into you nibbling your clit.

“Ah-ahhhh L-Leviiiiii!” You cried out in pleasure as he bit your inner thighs marking you.

“At long last, you’re finally mine (Y/N).” He kissed your abdomen before diving back in attacking your clit once more instantly making you squirt.

Wildly you thrashed at every little touch as he ate you out. “L-Le-Leviiiii!” You howled out as he slowly dragged his tongue along your clit.

With every passing minute, Levi's animal instincts were becoming harder and harder to suppress. “F-fuck (Y/N) I can’t take it your sweet smell is driving me crazy.” He came up from between your legs and walked over to his closet. “Time for some real entertainment.” He came back over to you with a collar, chains and a paddle.

You looked at him all excited. “Oooooooh this is going to be fun!” You giggled.

Levi grabbed you and put the collar on your neck. He yanked on the leash hard pulling you over to him. He turned you around and pushed you onto the bed ass straight up in the air your sweet secretions dripping out of you. Levi took the chains bounded your hands and feet. With one final tug he spread your legs wide open putting you on display for him to marvel at. “That’s a good girl so willing and ready for her Alpha.” He wrapped his muscular arm around your stomach forcing you down the air got thick all of a sudden, as you gasped in surprise. “I’m going to take you now.” He whispered into your ear, you felt the knot in your stomach get tighter as your heart tried to beat out of your chest.

For so long you’ve waited for this day, for so long your body has been begging for its mate. You gasped in surprise as Levi rammed his cock inside you while he bit down on your neck hard marking you again. He yanked on the leash choking you as he pounded into you. You arched your back howling out in pleasure as Levi clawed at your stomach going deeper and deeper with every thrust. “Ohhhhh my God Levi!” You moaned out as he slapped your ass with the paddle.

“That’s a good girl fuck (Y/N) you feel so good on him!” Levi howled as he grabbed your hips pounding deeper and deeper.

“Oh, oh, Ohhhhhh Levi fuck that feels amazing, Ohhhhh yes just like that!” You moaned out as he rammed deeper into you. You felt the knot in your stomach tense up as you became wetter with every thrust, your knees started to shake. “Fuck L-Le-Leviiiii I'm, I’m, I’m gonna c-cu-cummmmmmm!” You howled out Levi pounded into you even deeper as your toes curled, back arching, body trembling Levi earned your first orgasm.

Levi pulled out and undid all the chains so he could lay you down on the bed. He spread your legs going back down on you licking up your sweet juices as he inserted a couple fingers.

You moaned out as you grabbed small fist fulls of Levi's soft raven hair gently tugging it as he nipped at your clit making you squirt. You slowly moved your hips as Levi's fingers moved faster in and out of you.

He pressed his tongue to your clit and swirled it around, Levi felt your body tense up as your walls clenched around his fingers feeling your juices leak out of you as he got another orgasm from you. “That’s a good girl cum for me!” He pulled his fingers out and licked up the juices. He positioned himself between your legs.

You looked up at Levi. “I want to be on top…. If that’s okay with you Levi?”

“Of course it is (Y/N).” Levi laid down and you mounted him slowly sliding down on his throbbing cock making him moan. “Fuck (Y/N).” Levi grabbed your ass spreading your cheeks as he pounded into you.

You wildly rode Levi's cock feeling the growing knot at the base of his shaft, your core was throbbing as you felt yourself preparing to take his knot. Your body started to tremble as Levi's knot became bigger and bigger with every thrust. “F-fuck Levi I'm ready! My body is begging for you to shove your knot inside me! Give me your children Levi!” You howled out as you leaned down and bit his chest marking him.

Levi obeyed without hesitation and rammed his knot inside you, your walls clenching down on it as he released his seed.

You collapsed on his chest. “That was amazing my love.” You tenderly kissed him on the lips.

Levi removed the collar as he kissed you back. “Yes it was (Y/N I love you so much.” Levi moved his head towards your neck licking it until you fell asleep on top of him. He grabbed the blankets wrapping you and him up in them. He held you close still connected to you as he drifted off to sleep.

[madhyanas]

the sweetest and most important sound

Part [TBD] of the Hospitality series

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13 (Mainly due to verbal teasing and extremely mild language)

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: None, really. Some non-sexual intimacy, if you’d like to avoid that.

A/N: this is my first fic that’s staying posted, so feedback is welcome. i do have a series in mind with paz and this specific reader. check it out on ao3, too, if you want to see more detailed tags. title comes from a quote by dale carnegie. 

big inspirations for this were @no-droids​, @vercopaanir​ and @its-alltheway​​. also, i’m very new to tumblr, and @jangofctts​ has been lovely :)

Golden.

That’s what you see, what you feel. Stopped on some backwater, Outer Rim planet, your little travelling party finally has some time to relax. To tread on soft, grassy earth, and breathe in the sweet scent of flowers in the breeze. It’s a welcome change from recycled air and solid, mechanical floors.

The fresh, crisp forest atmosphere. You can taste it on your tongue, feel the chill of it as you inhale. You can detect the fragrance of berries, somewhere far off in the trees, and the earthy, waterlogged scent of silt closer by. A stream, perhaps.

You don’t know the name of the planet; you didn’t bother to ask Mando, excited as you were. You suspect it doesn’t have one; so untouched by war and Imperial rule that it just… remained. Literally, a land that time forgot. Someplace so out of the way that it soothes even Mando’s constant vigilance.

Two suns set over the horizon, and the sky is a dreamy blaze of orange and violet. Insects buzz faintly in the background, and you sigh.

The Hawk IV stands behind you, hatch down, as you rearrange some logs around Mando, who’s preparing firewood. Vosca’s giggles fill the air as she scampers through patches of tall grass. Keeping a close eye on her, you catch flashes of a crimson forehead as she stalks some kind of creature. A frog, you think.

The mild, familiar scent of her is comforting. You rub the white, geometric markings on your cheeks absent-mindedly, and will yourself to relax. She’s close, she’s safe, she’s happy.

It’s a nice thought to have.

“Give me a moment. I’ll be back,” Mando says suddenly, and you blink. The fireplace is lit, you notice, flames crackling. Your sturdy canvas satchel has been moved to sit upon one of the logs, noticeably dusted off. He stands, patiently waiting for you to respond before he goes. Helmet inclined towards you with a respect that manages to warm your cheeks every time.

“Ah, yeah. Of course.” You pause, and joke, “Just don’t run away with the ship, huh?”

There’s a burst of static through the vocoder, and you think it could be a snort, before he steps forward. His gloved hand falls on your shoulder, and you swallow thickly at the closeness. A scant few inches lie between the tip of your nose and his cuirass. “I would never.”

There’s a depth to his low voice that resonates within you. As if he’s taking an oath, kneeling at your altar. It’s… a lot more sincerity than you expect.

“Oh. Well, of course. I think Vosca would throw a fit.” You grin, attempting levity, but he shakes his head firmly. Leaving no room for debate.

“Even then, even if she were with me. I would— I would not leave you. I could not.”

The hand on your shoulder squeezes gently, and his helmet inclines down to your face, like he’s imploring you to understand. Staring up at him, your lips part as his meaning finally reaches you. His broad figure is backlit by the dusky glow around you, casting his silhouette over your smaller frame, and you like to think that behind the helm, those eyes are staring back with just as much wonder.

Your mouth is dry, as if you’ve crossed a desert for years. Only now finding the water to quench your thirst. His hand on your shoulder, as heavy and muscled as you know it to be, does not feel like a weight. It’s pulling you up, rising, and there are no words to describe the lightness in your heart.

He ducks his head then — the movement registers as shy, impossibly — and the palm slides off your shoulder, lingering down your arm, before ultimately leaving you at the hand. The cool kiss of leather on your skin makes your breathing hitch. A modulated sigh, before he repeats softly, “I’ll be back. Faster than you know.” He turns and begins the short walk to the ship.

There’s a bubbling urge to say something. “No need for dramatics,” you call after him, wiggling your toes in your boots. “But best hurry back, Mandalorian.”

He hesitates, a split-second pause that you would have missed, had you known him any less. You almost think you’ve imagined it, because when have you ever known Mando to hesitate? But then he continues without looking back, disappearing into the hull of the ship.

You slump down on a log bonelessly, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Your cheeks ache, and you realise you’re smiling.

“Ruusaan, Ruusaan!” A whirlwind of scarlet limbs tumbles in front of you. Startled, you blink at the little Zeltron girl. It’s rare that anyone manages to get the jump on you, but by now you know that Mando and his ward are exceptions to almost every rule in your book.

There are leaves and twigs stuck in the two brown braids running down the back of her head. She grins toothily at you, a smear of dirt on one cheek. Really, it’s more a bearing of teeth than anything else, feral thing that Vosca is. Her eyes are bright, shining with the thrill of a successful hunt, and she thrusts her little arms towards you. “Look what I caught!”

In Vosca’s grimy grasp, there’s a blue, particularly fat creature, rather like a toad. Held at the middle, its six limbs dangle loosely at the sides. Your nostrils flare minutely, but can’t pick up any scents of poisons or toxins, and you relax a fraction. It casts an unimpressed gaze over you once, and attempts a croak, but the child’s clutching grip digs in too deep to allow for the swell of its belly. Those lazy, golden eyes widen in panic, and you balk.

“Hey, bug, let’s just put it down for now, yeah?” Hastily, you extract the toad from Vosca’s hands, and she pouts at you. You still, and cradle your palms around the creature’s stomach, fingers resting gently on the front, in a caress rather than a pincer-grip.

“See here,” you explain, leaning in, as if you’re trading secrets. She ducks her head towards you in curiosity, and there’s a burst of tenderness in your chest. “We’ve got sharp, pointy fingers for animals like these. Gotta be careful. Be soft with it.”

Vosca’s eyes widen and she nods her head vigorously. A few dried leaves fall to the ground. A beat, then she asks shyly, “Can I try, please?”

Always so polite. While you don’t know for sure, you suspect it’s Mando’s influence. In any case, you don’t think you could deny her even if she’d demanded it. “Sure, bug.” Gently, you pass the toad back into her dusty, red palms. With a watchful eye, you see how quickly she takes to correction. Now holding the scared little thing with more care, less force. Precariously tilting it onto her chest, she frees one hand to stroke it tenderly across the back. The corner of your mouth ticks up fondly.

Then, carefully, she kneels down, and releases it. The toad immediately hops away into the tall grass with a vengeful ribbit, and your brows raise. Sensing the question on your face, she turns her face up to yours, doe eyes blinking up at you.

“It wasn’t prey,” Vosca says simply. “S’just for fun. Wouldn’t be fair to hurt it.” She shoots you another toothy smile, filling her whole face with innocent joy.

Huh. Always keeping you on your toes, this one. You return her grin as she sits next to you on the log. “Ah, that’s right, bug. Good girl.”

You lift your arm and she snuggles into your side, her scrawny body fitting into yours neatly. Lovingly, you press a kiss into her hair, eyes falling shut. You keep your head resting on hers, and she heaves a sigh as you idly stroke through the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

This is how Mando finds you, later. Half-asleep, curled around each other. Your eyes open at the fuzzy, tingling feeling on the back of your neck, and lo and behold: he’s watching you as he makes his way towards the makeshift campsite. His gait is familiar to you; the broad saunter of a man confident in his abilities, yet not foolish enough to be cocky. As if he couldn’t fill up a room already, his walk only amplifies his presence.

You blink lethargically, trying to focus. The sky is now a deep indigo, the bare beginnings of twinkling stars appearing across the heavens. It’ll be fully dark, soon.

The Mandalorian comes to stand over you. Once, you would have found his constant presence menacing. But now you smile at him, grateful for his company. It’s sweet, you think, how awkward he is. If you know what to look for. Most don’t have the chance to look beyond the beskar, and the assortment of weapons he lugs around.

He seems… duller, somehow. You shake your head lightly, dusting off the lingering fatigue, and you realise it’s true in the most literal sense. He’s not reflecting light as much as you would expect.

Aside from the helmet, he wears no beskar at all. Dressed in a dark, high-necked, shirt and canvas trousers, Mando seems comfortable. Relaxed. It’s a good look for him, you think.

“Did she fall asleep?” he asks you, nodding at Vosca, nuzzled in your arms. Her head emerges from where she’d buried it in your side, yawning blearily.

“I’m not… M’not sleepy,” she whines, squishing a chubby cheek against you. You and Mando both chuckle.

“Of course not, ad’ika.” You think he’ll hold his arms out to hold her, pick her up, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he just takes a seat next to you. The log creaks under his bulk, even without the added steel.

Vosca grumbles something under her breath, and you snort as she wriggles further into your warmth. She slumps bit by bit, falling asleep once more. You glance down at her, and the love you feel is all-encompassing.

Because you do love her. Your girl, just as much as she is Mando’s. You don’t know if she thinks of you as a mother, and the thought stings a little. An aunt, perhaps?

But without a doubt, you know she’s your child.

You’re startled out of your thoughts as a weight settles over your shoulders, and you look at the man next to you. Mando’s draping a cloak over you, tucking it around your frame and over the little girl in your arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you recognise the sturdy, brass-coloured clasp as his own.

“O-oh. You don’t have to…”

“You’ll get cold.”

He shuffles closer to fasten the clasp. As he raises his gloved hands and leans in, you wet your lips nervously.

His helmet shifts, ever so slightly, to follow the motion.

“But what about you?” you ask quietly, heart hammering in your chest. His long fingers meddle with the clasp at your clavicle; the weight of them on your person seems astronomical, for such a small, small thing. In the shining surface of the helmet, you can see the outline of your face, small and vaguely illuminated in the firelight, framed by those bold white strokes. But when you see them in Mando’s helmet, for once, you don’t think of your father’s matching stripes, of what you inherited from him. You think of how close you two are, in this moment.

He’s so close you can hear him breathe, too faint to be picked up by the modulator. There’s a small puff of air, escaping under the lip of his helm. Raw, unfiltered. You cling to it with all your heart.

“I will be fine, Ruusaan,” he rumbles. He’s leaning over Vosca’s snoozing body between you, arching carefully so he doesn’t disturb her. He’s… really quite close now.

Inhaling as subtly as you can, you catch the scent of him. Lingering on the thick wool, a clean blend of soap, blaster residue and freshly cut grass. Something smoky, too. It’s more soothing than you expect. Involuntarily, your nose twitches in delight, and his helmet tilts a fraction in response. You rush to distract him.

“But— But the armour.” Mando stares. “You’re not wearing any. Isn’t it cold? With— Without it, I mean.”

He dodges the question entirely. “Would you like me to put it on?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, sweetening his low baritone, and he quietens to a murmur as he sticks his head forward condescendingly. “I understand if this is too… scandalous."

You stifle an outraged squawk, and remove an arm from holding Vosca to swat his bicep. Your hand bounces harmlessly off corded muscle and you look away from him, cheeks burning. He just laughs at you, muffled for fear of waking the girl at your side.

You huff, resolutely averting your gaze, but it’s for naught. A large palm comes to cradle the side of your face, and your face feels tiny in its hold. He directs your eyes back to the visor with more care you’d ever expect, had you not known him so well. The smooth leather against your cheek is grounding, an anchor amongst the dizzying, overwhelming ocean of his presence. Surely, he can feel your flaming blush through the glove. In your embarrassment, a peculiar strike of courage grabs you by the throat.

With your free hand, you hold the glove cradling your face. Without taking your eyes off him, you lean into the touch, exhaling gently.

Mando stills. You can’t tell who’s predator or prey, here. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Deliberately, you squeeze your fingers around his own and an unfamiliar, choked noise comes out through the modulator.

You stare at him, and realise there’s hardly any distance between you. It’s nothing obscene, never could be with Vosca dozing in your arms, and yet you feel so giddy. There’s a type of intimacy here that you’ve never experienced before, never imagined before.You’re close enough that your breath fogs on the beskar.

“Mando…” you breathe.

Suddenly, the figure between you stretches awake with a yawn. You jump away from Mando as Vosca awakens with a long, languid yawn. The man beside her, a little subtler, leans back with the fluid, practiced grace of a warrior.

“Are you okay, Ruusaan?” she asks sleepily, oblivious to the moment now broken.  She pulls the cloak away from her to face you properly.

“W-what? Of course I am, hun, why…”

“S’just,” she starts, rubbing one eye. “I got woken up. Your heart’s beating really fast.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. You try to backtrack, “How about you go back to sleep, bug? It’s late.” You can feel Mando’s stare on you. Piercing, even through the steel.

Vosca frowns at you, scrunching her nose up endearingly. “But then you and alor’ad will be without me.”

After a moment of floundering, struggling to come up with an answer, Mando beats you to it. Planting a gentle, reassuring hand on her head from behind, he says simply, “We’ll never be without you, adi’ka. You know this.”

She leans her head completely backwards, and her braids dangle in the air. Arching her neck to look at him upside down, the vibrant red of her skin reflects in his helmet. There’s a flash of hesitation as she considers, and you jump at the opportunity.

“Bedtime, bug,” you say, standing. Mando’s nearly your height, you notice, even as he sits. You stuff the thought down. Later. “Got a big day tomorrow.”

Vosca mutters something under her breath moodily — something about how everyday’s the same — but her eyelids are drooping, and you figure you can let it slide. Just this once.

Maker, you’re impatient.

You sigh. Again. You hate to undo Mando’s work, but… “C’mon, hun. Floor’s more comfortable.” You undo the clasp deftly, and some subconscious level, it occurs to you that Mando is dextrous. More so than anyone you’ve ever met, probably. Fastening the clasp would take seconds.

No reason for him to linger as long as he did.

You smile faintly to yourself, and the ever-present heat burning in your cheeks this evening unfurls through your face.

You bundle the girl in Mando’s cloak as she lays down in the shallow grass. Tugging your canvas bag towards you, and place it beneath her head.

Kneeling down next to her, you stroke her hair once, twice. “G’night, alor’ad, g’night, Ruusaan,” Vosca mumbles, eyes falling shut once more.

“Goodnight, bug.” You lean down to peck her forehead tenderly, and she snuggles into her covering.

“Goodnight,” Mando returns kindly. At last, when you’re convinced she’s really out for the count, you steel your courage and look back to him.

From this angle, he’s glowing. Your lips part in wonder as you marvel at the rolling flames reflecting in the helmet. The flickering bronze and gold and scarlet washing over his bulky frame, defining the hard lines of his arms and chest beneath the shirt like something out of a painting. A relic of another time. Beautiful in its detail. Regal, even when most relaxed.

Silently, he holds a gloved hand out to you. You blink at it for a moment, too overwhelmed by this man you know so little about but oh, would you like to learn.

You take his hand, and suddenly he’s pulling you up with him to stand. Stumbling a little, your other palm comes to steady yourself on his chest. The movement feels so natural, so instinctual, and you worry you’re being presumptuous.

But then Mando’s free hand comes to rest on your waist — “Oh.” — and all other thoughts leave your mind.

“She’s asleep,” he notes, and you can feel his deep voice rumbling. Through the shirt, vulnerable and unprotected, his chest lies beneath your fingers. Solid muscle, yes, but there’s the soft give of flesh just like anyone else. It’s… nice. Pleasant, in the way it reminds you how human he is. How he lets himself be, in these fleeting moments of peace.

You hum. “Finally.” The hand on his chest gradually makes its way up his pectoral, tracing the ridge of his clavicle, before coming to rest on his shoulder. Without the pauldron, you can feel just how taut he holds himself. “Relax, Mando,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb back and forth in an attempt to soothe whatever’s running through his mind.

“Could tell you the same,” he replies smoothly, but you feel the strain in his shoulders lessen slightly under your gentle ministrations. The helmet tilts forward to hover next to your ear; it’s somewhat awkward, with how much he needs to bend down to do it, but that’s alright, you think. “Careful, Ruusaan. Does your heart still beat so quickly?”

Your jaw clenches momentarily, if only out of sheer embarrassment, because you know he’s right. “That’s— that’s not— Come on, Mando.”

The man chuckles, and at this meagre distance, you can feel it in your soul. Straightening just a little, he rests the side of his helm against your head. Not leaning, per se, or applying weight. Just touching. Keeping contact. The cool surface of beskar feels chilling against your molten cheeks.

With the hand joined with his, you curl your fingers, embracing the gaps between his. You both linger like that, for a while. Basking in the haze of firelight and safety; frozen in a half-dance, holding each other contently.

Then you realise. In another, strange instance of boldness, you murmur, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed yours either, smooth talker.” The reassuring thud thud thud beneath your fingertips is steady, as always. But you feel it’s more insistent, more urgent than you’d expect.

He doesn’t stutter or fumble like you do, but there’s a bashful sort of groan through the vocoder. It really shouldn’t be endearing as it is. “Ah, well. Seems I’ve been caught.” He plays along in a plaintive, mournful tone, and you stifle a snort. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

You nudge the helmet with your cheek playfully. “Oh? What’s that?”

He breathes a particularly wounded sigh, and you feel rather than hear him sober as he murmurs, “This is what you do to me, Ruusaan.”

Your jaw falls slack. Oh.

Your head is reeling with the implications of it. Him affecting you was one thing, because how could he not? With the way he fills a room and laughs at your stupid jokes and tells Vosca bedtime stories and holds you so carefully it feels like a lover caressing glass, about to shatter any moment—

Kinda how he’s holding you now, actually.

Your hand on his shoulder brings his head up from where it rests to look at you properly, and holds the blue steel in the indent where his cheek would be. You’ve been struggling for words, wondering how to respond to the affections of someone you admire so much. How to do him justice.

“You are so much to me, Mando.”

Timidly, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and once more, his helmet tilts to follow the movement. You feel a kind of longing in that little shift, an age-old yearning borne of dedication to the Creed, from a man who feels everything so strongly.

The knowledge that you two will always be separated by a layer of beskar is always floating over your head. To say that you’ve made your peace with it would be a bold-faced lie, but—

Well, it’s who he is. To disrespect his Creed would be to disrespect him, and that you cannot allow.

But for the first time, you wonder how he feels about it. If that perennial ache in your chest whenever you glance at the helm resides in his, too.

Mando’s hand, previously resting on the slope of your waist, comes to hold your cheek. As if there’s a mirror between you, paralleling your stance to each other like clockwork. Two halves of a whole, reflecting each other.

Gradually, he tilts your face up to his. Leaning in, he touches the forehead of the helmet to yours, and your eyelids flutter shut, lashes barely grazing the metal. This time, the cold metal against your skin feels like a reprieve, freeing you from the burning sensation.

Like a kiss, you think absently. Is that what this is?

You’ve seen him do this before, with Vosca. Never truly knowing what it meant, what it signified to him, you’d left it alone.

You try to ask him, to make sense of the maelstrom of affection and yearning and want. “Mando—”

But his shoulders tense suddenly. “No.”

You blink. “N-no?”

He draws away, then. His hand is still cradling your face, but the helmet retreats, and you panic. What happened? What did you do? What boundary did you overstep to ruin something so torturously good—

He says your name. The name your mother gave you, not the nickname he and your girl call you in their language. “May I give you something?”

You’re confused, to say the least. The emotional range he’s currently choosing to display could give you whiplash. He’s not a very materialistic man, you know, and what could he possibly be giving you now, in this moment?

“I— I don’t think you could give me anything greater than this.”

He deflates. “Oh, ner kar’ta,” he croaks, stroking his thumb over your flushed cheek. Even through the modulator, the foreign syllables drip from his mouth like liquid gold, tongue rolling over the consonants in a way that makes you shiver. “I would be honoured to try.”

Wordlessly, you nod, still not fully comprehending what he means.

He must sense your bemusement. The grip on your side tightens nervously, and you dig your heels in to swallow a squeak. “My name is not ‘Mando’, cyare.”

And the world collapses beneath your feet.

This is new territory, dangerous territory. This is uncharted land, and you feel like you’re trespassing on the tricky, treacherous land of his very being.

You must look ridiculous. Like a fish, mouth bobbing open and shut. He chuckles, a small, subdued thing, and you immediately think it doesn’t suit him. The urge to fix it, to help him, crawls up your spine and settles in your gut.

You bite down the nerves scrambling up your throat to accept what he’s giving you. To reassure this man in your arms, who you have come to care for so deeply, and for yourself. To satiate the niggling curiosity in that corner of your mind left forcefully ignored for so long.

“If you’re sure.” You pause, and add, “Only if you’re sure. This isn’t… an obligation.” It’s somewhere between a question and a statement. You can both hear the moniker you’re avoiding, the cavernous gap opened up by what he’s offering you.

“I know. This is what I wish to give.” And there’s the Mandalorian you know, steadfast and confident, unwavering in the face of adversity. Willing to cross the gap into the unknown with you.

You remain silent, and step closer to press yourself to him. Feeling his pounding heartbeat against yours. Allowing the words to come from him, at his own pace, the warmth of your combined body heat hopefully calming his nerves.

Just as your eyes drift shut, content to wait as long as he needs, you hear it. Quiet, rasped through the helmet.

“Paz. Paz Vizsla.”

You inhale sharply, and look up. Oh, stars. It feels surreal, having a name to the face. Or lack thereof. To think he’d really trust you with such a core part of his being. You’re not sure if this breaks his Creed, or if there are loopholes, but as of now, you don’t care.

It… suits him. Short, robust. Yet somewhat lyrical on the tongue.

“Can I say it?” you ask meekly. The last thing you need right now to is to overstep, not when you’ve come so far.

“Please,” he breathes.

And the floodgates open. A smile breaks over your face, soft and eager, and you swell with affection. “Paz.”

A beat passes, in which everything you love hangs in the balance, and then he laughs. A true, full-bodied, bark of laughter that would ring in your ears long after it stops, but it doesn’t — it spills out of him like water spluttering through the fissure of a dam, bursting forth with all the weight of its years of confinement. He keeps laughing and laughing and then he’s holding you tightly with both arms, swinging you around. With anyone else, the action would’ve scared you. Would’ve been interpreted as a wild, uncontrolled invasion of space.

But with Mando— No. With Paz, you feel like you’re flying. You’re reminded of your days piloting through hyperspace, and the pride of swimming amongst the stars.

You shriek as your feet leave the ground, but it soon dissolves into giggles as he holds you above him.

(The ease with which he can manhandle you, can wrap both of those large, large hands around your comparatively diminutive hips, brings a blush to your face. But that’s a thought for another time.)

Eventually, he places you back on solid ground, and you beam up at him. He’s panting lightly, though you know lifting you was an easy task for someone of his strength. It’s okay. You feel breathless, too.

“Only with me,” he says. “And Vosca.”

You nod gravely. Maker, you’d never use it with anyone, just for the pleasure of knowing he trusts you. “I give you my word.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the girl in question snoring lightly, still bundled up in Paz’s cloak. Somehow still asleep; you’re immensely grateful.

He returns the nod, and it’s funny how formal it seems compared to the little display you just put on. Paz stares for a moment longer, then huffs. “You sound like a Mandalorian.”

“Is that… good?”

He’s quiet, like he’s trying to find the words. “We may rubbing off on you— I may be rubbing off on you.”

You take a moment to look at him. Beskar gleaming in the moonlight, softly reflecting the fire behind you. He’s bared before you in a way that makes you feel safe. Maybe even loved.

“That might not be too bad.”

And so it goes. You and Paz stand under the stars, flames crackling at your feet, bending towards each other like flowers to the sun.

———

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s MateChapter 15

Gin was following like water as was male attention. Jaskier had placed her in front of him as he pranced around the stage he had made in front of the fire. It allowed him to serenade her with sweet song and have an overexcited member of the audience to crowd cheering. The soft siren-like voice eased her into a good mood.

Adva had to admit the bard was very good, there was a clumsy awkwardness to his lyrics, but they words fitted well in the theme of the song and with Jaskier overall character which made him a sensation. It was nice to be able to listen to him properly on the stage where he seems most at ease and confident. Adva had to admit it, she like Jaskier, his eternal boyishness was endearing, and his company was easy and fun, and he had a very good eye for fashion. Looking down, Adva was beginning to enjoy the dress she wore, the colour was very much suited to her, and despite her lack of confidence in her body, the dress emphasised her curves and softness. Many men and women had complimented her on her fashion, and she let herself be cheered by it. For once it was nice to be the centre of attention, and after all, it was only for one night to help Jaskier and to get away from Geralt.

Adva’s mind was distracted from the hulking Witcher when sauve and polished man approached. With all the civility of a knight honouring a fair maiden the man begged to keep her company.  He introduced himself as Earl Crispin Troyden, leaning against the chair with an easy smile. The Earl wore a silk doublet of a quilted design of a rich purple his jewelry dazzled in the firelight. The richest opals she had ever seen, so blue she could almost see the deep of the sea in them and hear the soft roar of the waves. Brown eyes radiated out from a chiselled face with a disarming smile that warmed the room as he observed her gaze with interest. With a soft giggle she forced her gaze away from the beautiful gems and on the bard instead.

‘Your friend, the bard, is very talented.... What brings you to the quiet hamlet?’ Crispin asked gently as he poured her some water, and called a serving boy to bring them some food and drinks. The smell of strawberry and rhubarb made her heady, and all shyness had melted away.

‘I am…taking instruction from a master, yourself? Adva answered she didn’t know why but wasn’t really comfortable discussing her training with the Mage to a stranger. There was something unsettling about the man, not in his manner or actions but in his eyes. They where bottomless, and of a captivating intensity that gave her an immense feeling of comfort. Yet they made her uncomfortable and wish she was staring into golden orbs instead.

‘Education is important. So many young women don’t care about such things; they keep their knowledge based solely on the home and fashion when there is so much more to try. I am here to browse some more books to add to my library collection’ the man smoothly added as he lifted his goblet to his lips. Breathing the smell of books and candle wax deeply invaded her senses, it was oddly comforting within soft undertones of musk and sea salt. The smell remaindered of the gentle ocean breeze that would roll off the dock on a sunny day. Despite its soothing nature, it didn’t very little compared to the of the spiced scent of Geralt, who smell she could drink in for days upon end.

‘You have a library? Tell me about it’ Adva gasped, the gin still flowing through her head.

Over dinner, the man regaled her about his library, the titles the authors. They discussed the finer points of several novelists and books on nature that Adva herself was aware of, it was nice to chat to someone who seemed genuinely interested in her for her not what she could do for them. Crispin even invited her to visit and use his collection to further her studies.

‘And you have no formal education; I find that hard to believe’ Crispin smiled as he poured her another cup of gin.

‘Never, I would just pick up anything and read.’ Adva laughed as she took another sip of gin. Was this her sixth or seventh cup or was it her tenth, she had lost count seven songs ago.

‘So your patron is very lucky to have awarded with such diligence. He must be very proud.’ Crispin causal commented, leaning back in his seat to fully observe her, something glistening darkly in his eyes.

‘It is hard to tell he is very…steely faced. Most of the time I think he helped me find Triss because he took pity on me’ Adva confessed, taking another sin of the fizzy gin.

‘Your Triss’s new student…then you must be very bright. I have known her for many years; the first time I have ever heard her take on a student. Don’t sell yourself short.’ The man cooed.

A small blush crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. When the meal was done, Crispin excused himself reluctantly to attend to business but not before he paid and left a generous tip for the meal; and gave a generous handful to the singing bard and shooting her a dazzling smile. The Earl didn’t go far; his meeting was only across the room with two older gentlemen in fine clothing. Now and then he would cast her a smothering look that made her turn a look away; he was very captivating. Intelligent and kind.

‘Seems you had found a suitable beau’ Jaskier purred and he slipped into the seat opposite that was vacate and pour the Earls handful of gold coin into his purse till it was ready to split at the seams. ‘If he attends all of my performance, I will be able to return to a little city holding and start publishing my collection of poems.’ Jaskier ordered his meal and paid with a flourish as he sank a tankard of ale.

‘If it isn’t my little brie lover’ The Cheesemonger mocked as he sauntered to the table. ‘I thought we were supposed to meet?’ the Cheesemonger was not bad looking but had a thin hooked nose from which he seemed to look down on everyone. It gave him a proud and arrogant appearance which he seems to like to live up to.

Rolling her eyes, she took another swig of gin; this on was mixed with rhubarb cordial and something fizzy that cause little bubbles to explode against her throat as she swallowed. Settling her cup in front of her she squared her shoulders as she turned to him.‘Look Smiggle; I have no idea what you are talking about…I don’t want to talk right now…I am enjoying an evening with someone.’ Adva smiled.

‘No-no-no. The Mage told me you desperately wanted to meet me in the tavern.’

Jaskier smiled into his cup. It was working; all he needed to was to keep a straight face and wait. Casting his eyes across him, Adva stared confused up at the rat-faced man and did her best to ignore it. The gin was giving her the confidence to try and ignore his constant demands; it seemed with gin all manners went out the window, replacing the quiet girl with a bemused woman. Jaskier watch with a masterful nonchalantness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar figure lurking in a dark corner. Triss was right, after all, a surge of triumph roared within him, and he readied himself to fulfil his part.

‘Must be some confusion good cheese seller’ Jaskier sung. ‘She is already married to a lovely kind man who provides her with an excellent education and has a very with a large sword’ he winked at her ‘so she is good.’ Jaskier beamed up at him, shooing him away with his hand.

‘Married? Bah! Do you expect me to believe it is to you! For the past few weeks, I have only seen her with that Mage and some one-hit Jester who I very much doubt has a ‘large sword’, but I am sure he provides her with more than an education’ The man snarled haughtily, and he bent down to glare into Jaskier face. From the other side of the table, Adva could smell the stale smell of brandy, and the fistful of betting slips tucked into his pockets, all torn and rip, properly from a very unsuccessful night betting with some high rollers. Misery and self-pity fuel the man blindly as he started to jab Jaskier doublet hard with his slimy finger. Casting her eye about she saw Crispin stare amusingly at Jaskier with a hint curiosity.

‘Firstly, it is pronounced Jaskier, Sir. And secondly, I never said I was her husband that is her husband.’ The bard cheekily declared, winking at her.

‘Jaskier stops it; enough I am not married. He is just drunk he’ll….’ Adva groaned in annoyance but stopped as a deadly hush fell over the tavern.

A large black shadow fell over the two men, and Jaskier looked over the other man shoulder smugly. Geralt stood in his undershirt with his sword in hand as he glared down. Adva gasped, she couldn’t help it. Geralt eyes were almost all black like a man possessed. Stood to his full height, the cheese seller barely came to mid chest.

‘See even the lady denies it…just because…’ The cheesemonger breath caught in his throat as he turned and cranked his neck as far back as he could to see the ominous Witcher hunching over him. ‘Are you propositioning my wife?’ Geralt low grunt trickled down the man's neck as he towered over the scrawny man.

Turning around sharply, the small man jumped back in fear, ‘Your…your Geralt of Rivia…. The Witcher…Butcher of Blaviken…I am sorry…I didn’t. I didn’t know that Witcher could get married. She said she…She led me on…’ The man's petty excuses died on his lip, as the Witcher stared unwaveringly at the man.

‘Get up we are leaving’ Geralt growled his eyes following the man who back out the room.

Adva made no move to leave. Instead, she folded her arms and scooted herself around the table. ‘No thank you Geralt I am spending the evening in the tavern.’

Geralt eyes slowly trailed down to her face, letting his dark eyes drink in her defiant feature. Adva stared up at him for what seemed like an age; she was taken about how feral he looked still. Hair wild and menacing sword glistening sincerely in his hand. The Witcher said nothing but his malted golden eye swirled with angry, body tense, a wave of power rippled from him.

‘Adva, are you okay? Is this man causing a problem?’Crispin cut in, eyeing the bard and the Witcher respectively.

‘Who the fuck is this?’Geralt glanced back over at the woman and did a double-take final taking in her form. Her breasts were pushed high up and spilt over the top of the bust, with her breath they flutter gently. Tight and fitted cut left nothing to the imagination ‘and what the fuck are you wearing?’ Geralt snapped and pulled a cloak from the back of Jaskier chair and flung it around her.

‘Geralt stop’ Adva stood and pushed the cloak off her.

‘I think you are making the lady uncomfortable, how a respectable lady dresses has nothing to do with you and I would appreciate it if you didn’t swear when a lady was present. Respectable men don’t.’ The Earl bite out, taking a step closer.

‘Or what’ The white wolf goaded as he advanced on the man.

‘Geralt….Stop it’ Adva push between the men, lips pressed into a tight line.

‘I said we are leaving,’ Geralt growled not taking his eyes off the other man, but a hand curled around her arm and pulled her behind him.

‘Or I will be a force to place the lady under my protection.’ Crispin stood toe to toe as they stared off at each other.

Even at full height, Crispin was still barley 6ft to Geratl massive 6ft 5. Jaskier was scribbling furiously into his journal and gazed a shrug as Adva glared desperately at him for help. She had seen the Witcher in action, and even without a sword, he could easily thrash Crispin without blinking.

‘Adva is under my protection, and if you so much as look at her again, I am going to cut you in two.’ Geralt spoke in deadly calm.

‘My duty is to keep defenceless women safe…I; therefore, place Lady Adva….’ Crispin fell to the floor mid-sentence. Geralt gave a growl in approval pulling back his fist before slinging her over his shoulder and matched from the tavern, ignoring the burst of chatter bubbled as he slammed the door behind him.

So what do you think? Thank you so much for all the pet name ideas! I have a very good idea what is going to happen next. But some of the characters are refusing to cooperate *face palms* But I have up to chapter 22 all planned out.

If you wished to be tagged please message me :)  Please leave a comment.

@broco8​ @introvertedmouse​ @threepupsinapuddle​ @shesthelastjedi​ @luxyash​ @wonderlandfandomkingdom​ @crazynocturnalkiki​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @whitespring21​

[sslasherss]

Sinclair Twins, Jason, the Leatherfaces as dads (all separate), but someone they're about to kill somehow gets away, gets into their home, but takes their little baby and is like "let me live and I'll give you the baby back" or someone thinks the baby has been kidnapped so they try to 'rescue' the baby. I read something similar to this years ago with a different fandom, and its low-key became my favorite thing lately.

Readmore bc it’s a long boi 😂😂

Bo

★ Hoo boy, Bo is gonna go fucking feral. He’s never been so terrified in his life and he hates the vulnerability, so he hides it with excess hostility and rage.

★ But they have his kid, and he can’t just kill them, not without risking his kid. So he panics, anger and fear rising until he can’t take it any more.

★ People rarely escape Bo, so when this particular man slips from his grasp, he’s furious. He charges after him, bellowing threats - until the guy somehow loses him.

★ He wanders the house searching, growing increasingly uncomfortable. He’s alerted to something wrong when he hears his kid crying, their bedroom door open. Fear strikes him as he charges in, ready to murder the man for daring to go near his child -

★ There’s a knife to his child’s neck. Instantly he freezes, the man’s threats falling on deaf ears. How dare they.

★ He lets this one go, for the sake of his child. No one’s ever gotten away from  Bo Sinclair, but he’s too relieved to care, rushing to hug his kid.

★ Downstairs, Vincent lurking in wait. No one hurts his niece/nephew. The man doesn’t make it out alive after all.

Vincent 

★ He thought he tied them up properly, thought it was fine to leave one person while he worked on another. But somehow she broke through her restraints and slinked off without his notice.

★ Of course he panics. What if she finds a way out? What if she alerts the authorities? Possibilities run through his mind, each one worst than the last.

★ He never expects to see his victim, a young woman, tugging his kid to her chest, ignoring their squeals of protest. What he hell is she doing, touching his kid?

★ Yet when he storms over, the woman isn’t afraid for herself. She clings to his kid, as if fearful they might disappear. “Leave this child alone,” she screams, “why would you hurt a baby?”

★ He’s stunned. Then it clicks; she doesn’t know the child is his. His anger dissipates, but only briefly. Suddenly the woman is running again, still clutching his child. Vincent pursues.

★ Eventually his child squirms from her grasp, desperately fighting her, and the two tumble to the ground. Then the kid runs to him, shouting for their daddy, and Vincent scoops them up.

★ The woman doesn’t get it, of course. But she never has time to think about the weird family - Vincent doesn’t let her live long enough.

Jason

★ People avoid the lake now, so maybe having a kid let Jason get soft. His patrols become shorter, and he stops worrying about people on his turf.

★ Until his son goes missing one day. Jason searches for an hour, further and further from the safety of his cabin. Then he hears it; crying. Relief floods him as he rushes to his son - only to see him being tugged along by a man. 

★ Oh, he’s angry all right. Who’s trying to kidnap his kid? He storms over, knife clenched in a white knuckle grip. The man turns, fear and recognition sparking in his eyes. Everyone knows what lurks in Camp Crystal Lake.

★ But Jason only sees his son. He’s so gentle as he gathers his son in his arms, careful hands brushing through his hair. But the expression he shoots the man through his mask is terrible.

★ Yet he still has enough bravery to ask, “so you kidnap children now too?”

★ Kidnap…? Oh. Of course, no one would imagine the Crystal Lake killer could have a child, let alone know how to care for one. Jason draws up to his full height, gently pushing his son behind him, and raises the machete.

★ No one messes with his family.

Bubba

★ In the chaos, Bubba loses a victim. It’s happened before, no big deal, and Drayton often deals with it. He doesn’t even care about the insults shot his way - he just wants to get this over with.

★ He finds the victim cowering in a barn, bleeding and crying. Bubba reaches for his chainsaw, hands poised to kill - until he sees his daughter emerge from the hay loft. 

★ She loves to play there, he should have considered it!

★ The victim’s eyes dance from Bubba to the girl - and in a flash they have her in their arms, blood smearing across his daughter’s pretty summer dress. She cries out, hands reaching for him, and he snaps.

★“Let me go, and I’ll give her back to you.

★Bubba freezes. They’d really do that? Hurt his child for the chance at freedom? Panic blooms in his chest, the chainsaw falling to his side with a great thud. He’s shaking. His daughter is pleading to be let go. It’s awful.

★ Finally the victim lets her go, and she runs to him. The two embrace, both sobbing and babbling incoherently. The victim takes their chance to run.

★ But they can’t let someone go. So Bubba regretfully lets go, whispering nonsense words of reassurance, and goes after them. 

★ The victim doesn’t last five minutes after that.  

Thomas

★ His son isn’t old enough to be involved in the ‘family business’, but bless him he wants to help. So for once, Thomas lets him tag along. As long as he promises not to get too close.

★ They hunt down a victim together; a scrawny teenager with a busted leg. It doesn’t take long to catch him, and Thomas is so proud of his son for all the help.

★ But Thomas misjudges. He isn’t unconscious, only pretending, and as Thomas lugs him over one shoulder the boy breaks free. In a flash the boy is on his feet, grabbing blindly for anything to use as a weapon. When he comes up with nothing, he grabs Thomas’ son.

★“Help me,” the boy mutters, but his son only shrugs. This pisses him off, and before Thomas can react his son is being dragged backward by the hair. Thomas panics, immediately blaming himself for letting his son tag along.

★ But his son breaks free, snapping the man’s already injured leg with one well placed kick. Then Thomas storms forward, weapon raised as he unleashes all of his fear and rage.

★ They drag the body back together, and this time they make sure he’s dead.

[deviant3lover]

Hi, My favorits characters are Zombieman, Metal Bat and Garou. I'm curious to know what to you think about them and to know which are your favorites :)

Garou… the best of both worlds, at the cost of alienation and disillusionment.

Never quite fully villain nor hero. The perfect blend between slender and built. The line between feral and noble. Theatric but isolated. The embodiment and enforcer of yin and yang.I love this guy. Somehow he’s caught in the middle between almost any two opposing concepts and manages to be the perfect offspring of the two of them, executed with such grace and finesse. You have the well built, streamlined upper body of an warrior, and the soft, elegant, almost delicate looking lower body that befits a slender beauty. This man was made to be an Adonis.

(Which is why I’ll always see Garou as a MASSIVE SWITCH IN BED. He’s inexperienced, but damn, can he play either role just as satisfyingly as the other.)

He’s the chaos that incites a call for order and truth with the threat he brings. He unearths and collapses the city to show the skeletons it was built upon to those who need to see it. He’s the wildcard that wants to serve a purpose far beyond what most people can’t see or comprehend.And I live for it.

Metal Bat. I honestly didn’t care too much about him until I explored the Batarou ship and saw how others wrote the dynamics between him and Garou, and how they saw him. He went from ‘generic affectionate parody of lovable pompadour punk’ to ‘a straightforward yet complex individual if you look closely at what made him into the man he is today.’ See my headcanons for him on this if you want~ :3

Honestly? In the trio, I feel like he’s the ‘Heart’ between the three. He’s the most empathetic and understanding, but he isn’t helpless. In fact, he could rival both Genos and Garou in terms of sheer badassery. 

He always struck me as the sort of guy who, in an RPG/Isekai universe, will be the one powering through and levelling up from sheer will and determination to get stronger. Metal Bat’s the guy who quickly beefs up from being a weak, scrawny rookie, to the guy who becomes a beefy morale booster, to a powerhouse + tank who can send the bosses running when they hear his name. I love it; initiative at its finest. 

He knows what to do, why it’s important, and doubles down to get it done and over with ASAP. Badd doesn’t screw around.

He’s another one of my faves~

Zombieman… honestly? I’m not too sure if I have much of an opinion on him. I love how he’s written as a hero overall, and the way Murata and ONE pulled it off seemed really thoughtful and clever to me.

He’s an expert at using weapons that are commonly used to kill zombies, and I always appreciated that sort of subversiveness. He also has that film noir feel about him with the way that he dresses, his personality, and his skills at being a detective.

I also admire his patience. He gets annoyed at Pig God’s constant eating, but he also puts in a little effort to be polite towards Child Emperor and check in on how he’s doing. Not to mention, his tolerance at losing a billion times before he can kill his enemy is outstanding: this man embodies the meaning of ‘battle of attrition.’ 

I’m really glad at how well he takes it. He doesn’t let the way that he fights get him down or make him believe he’s ‘less of a hero’ by outlasting his enemy whilst keeping a level head on how to kill them. In his battle against True Blood, he doesn’t get frustrated and rush in with the same tactics before: he switches up his strategy so he can see if it better it works against him, and changes his tactics accordingly. 

Now that’s something exceptional. Kudos to you, dude~

While I don’t venture too much into the fanfic reserves to read more about him, I really like Zombieman. He’s a cool guy~

[captain-azoren]

The Spirit Forged: A New Breed

Since I’m going to be kind of busy for the foreseeable future, I don’t know how much time I’ll have to actually write fanfiction. So for now, I’m going to post outlines for the stories I do have in mind.

This right here is a prequel story to my current Spirit Forged fic, detailing how my OC Raiga came to be. If you have the time, read it and leave me a comment. I might actually write it out in full.

-------

·         The story opens with a group of loggers in a forest at night; the trees are massive as they walk between them lit by lanterns. Deer-ox haul something massive on a cart, hidden by a tarp.

o   All the men are nervous as they hear a growl in the darkness. They scream as a large animal pounces on one. The carriage bolts as the rest of the men, wielding spears and earthbending, fight the creature, but are nearly defenseless in the dark.

o   The last man standing runs in terror as the creature watches him flee, eyes glowing sapphire in the dark.

·         Aang and Katara visit the Eastern EK for a vacation, one of the few places they had left to see.

o   They are there to see the Immortal Forest, one of the oldest and nearly unchanged wilderness areas in the world.

o   Toph is busy with the metal bending academy.

o   Zuko is busy being Fire Lord, with the Kyoshi Warriors still acting as body guards.

o   Sokka is spending time with Suki for his vacation.

·         Aang and Katara overhear a logger arguing with a businessman over how dangerous the forest is. The logger quits and the businessman, Shung, yells back that he’s replaceable like everyone else.

·         Aang and Katara learn about mysterious attacks happening in the forests outside a developing city and decide to investigate.

o   The attacks have either been on lumberjacks or on travelers who strayed too far from the main paths into the forests.

·         Some people claim it’s a spirit, others claim it to be bandits, some dismiss it as wild predators.

·         They go investigate and meet the Zhang tribe in the forest.

·         The Zhang claim it isn’t them behind the attacks, but there have been territory disputes between them and the city folk over a specific spot in the forest.

·         The Immortal Forest is rich with giant trees extremely suitable for lumber, but it is considered sacred. The Zhang believe only they are allowed in there, as this is their homeland. Anyone else who enters will be hunted down by Bao Hu Shou, the King of Beasts, unless they are brought in by a member of the tribe.

o   Bao Hu Shou is a lion-tiger spirit, one of the oldest and strongest, only surpassed by the likes of Raava and Vaatu.

o   Bao Hu Shou was the guardian deity of the Zhang in ancient times. It was said he protected the tribe from other spirits in the era before the Avatar and before bending.

o   Some legends say that Bao Hu Shou would grant his power to a worthy champion, called a Spirit Forged, who would aid in protecting the people and the lands from threats.

·         The Zhang debate allowing the Avatar into the forest.

o   One of the Zhang objects, a burly man in his mid-20s named Grola, but another one, Raiga, argues to let the Avatar help clear their names.

o   Raiga has light brown hair styled into a mohawk, hazel eyes, dresses in brown hog monkey skins and wields twin daggers. He also carries gear for climbing trees. He is in his late teens and has many scars.

o   Grola shouts at and belittles Raiga, but the Zhang elder agrees with Raiga.

o   They perform a ritual to bless them.

·         Raiga eagerly volunteers to be their guide. He is scrappy and hotheaded, but means well.

·         They journey with Raiga through the forest and learn a bit about him.

o   Raiga’s father was an outsider, possibly a Water Tribe warrior who left the South Pole to fight the Fire Nation, and his mother was a sickly member of the Zhang. For most of his childhood he was scrawny and weak, called a runt by the others, but he has persisted and grew into a nimble scout and hunter.

o   Raiga was there at the Great Divide, but none of the gang remember him.

o   He has so many scars because he keeps throwing himself into danger, even though he’s not a great warrior. He is a good climber and decent hunter though.

o   Raiga proves to be somewhat annoying and overbearing, trying way too hard to become friends with Aang and Katara, though he seems to mean well. This makes it very hard for Aang and Katara to have any alone time.

·         As night begins to fall, the group has an encounter with Bao Hu Shou. It knows they mean no harm, but tells them to leave anyway. It does not want any more humans in the forest.

o   Bao Hu recognizes Aang as the Avatar, and voices its disappointment; this is not the first time an Avatar has come to intervene. Humans have tried to exploit the forest for centuries, and Bao Hu has fought them off. Avatars in the past promised to keep humans out, but sooner or later humans would break the promise.

o   Bao Hu takes note of Raiga, who shows the spirit the utmost respect. Bao Hu allows them to pass through the forest for this.

o   Bao Hu is very old, and time has taken its toll on him. The shrinking of the forest and the loss of followers has caused him to lose much of his strength and power. Aang pleads to let him handle things, but Bao Hu ignores him and departs with one last warning to not linger too long.

·         The group sets up camp for the night. In the middle of their sleep, they are ambushed by bandits. There is a fight and Raiga discovers the bandits are other Zhang tribe members, the ones who bullied him and are led by Grola. They have abandoned their traditions in order to turn a profit;

o   The Zhang bandits have made a deal with Shung to act as guides and security through the sacred forest so that they can brings heavy logging machinery in and chop down the trees for lumber.

o   One logging machine is a large mecha tank on treads with a massive chainsaw.

o   They offer Raiga a chance to join in on their scheme, but he refuses and fights back, but to no avail.

o   Grola pushes Raiga down the side of a cliff, providing a distraction as they flee from Aang and Katara who go searching for him.

·         Raiga is fatally injured from the fall, but is found by Bao Hu Shou. Impressed by his audacity and determination, Bao Hu Shou offers to save Raiga’s life by merging with him.

o   Bao Hu knows that he has little time left on earth as the forests continue to shrink, but by merging, they can save both their lives and have the power to take back the forests.

o   With little else to lose, Raiga agrees, and Bao Hu Shou merges with Raiga, transforming him into a beast man with claws and fangs and a tail. Raiga’s body is healed, most of his scars vanishing, and he soon finds he’s been gifted with incredible strength, agility, and heightened senses.

·         As Aang and Katara search for Raiga, they stumble upon the logging camp. They try to confront the loggers, but a fight ensues.

o   The Zhang fight like Jet, able to nimbly navigate the trees to fight. Others use logging machines to fight, like chains and saws and axes. Some are Earthbenders, who use their bending to uproot the stumps left behind.

o   The trees hamper Aang and Katara’s ability to fight back; they don’t want to destroy any trees, but the trees get in the way of their bending.

o   Katara has little water to work with, the roots prevent any major earthbending without knocking the trees over. Firebending is out of the question, as it could easily start a forest fire. Aang’s airbending skills are effective, but they’re outnumbered and they can do little to stop the logging mech, which is piloted by Shung.

o   Eventually, both Aang and Katara are bound by chains and rope. Aang laments not learning metalbending, and he wonders if he needs to go into the Avatar state.

·         The tide of battle turns when Raiga appears in his new form, to the shock of everyone.

o   Raiga begins to tear apart the loggers and the Zhang bandits, easily able to catch the ones in the trees and take them out one by one.

o   He breaks the chains holding Aang and Katara with sheer brute strength.

o   The last opponent standing is the logging mech. It tries to grapple Raiga with its claw arm, but Raiga is able to overpower it.

o   Raiga rips the mech to pieces, but leaves the trembling businessman when he sets his sights on Grola who tries to get away.

·         High off the adrenaline and his new power, Raiga mercilessly attacks Grola, mauling him out of anger and vengeance for all the years of bullying he suffered.

·         Aang and Katara are able to pull Raiga away before he can kill the leader, but Raiga has gone berserk, the spirit of Bao Hu Shou beginning to overwhelm his mind.

·         Aang tries to calm Raiga down, but Raiga realizes what a monster he’s become and runs off into the forest, his roars echoing through the trees.

·         Aang and Katara clean up what’s left of the camp, and Aang declares that the sacred forest is completely off limits to all except the Zhang tribe, who promise to more vigilantly protect it.

·         The tribe asks about Raiga, and Aang explains what happened with him and Bao Hu Shou. They say that Raiga has become Spirit Forged, but at a price; he has lost a piece of his humanity.

·         Aang decides to try and find a technique to calm spirits. He will look to the past Avatars and learn of the toll Kuruk suffered from fighting spirits directly.

·         We see Raiga standing on top of a cliff looking at the stars. He lets out a roar before vanishing into the night. This is not the last they’ve seen of him.

-------

There you have it. I did consider having Sokka in this, but then I thought the fewer characters to juggle the better.

I might consider having more stories with Raiga set during Aang’s time as the Avatar. He’s basically immortal so he can show up at any time. Something eventually happens to him to make him go into the feral state he’s in by Korra’s time.

[faveficarchive]

Summer's Circus: Part 1

By Barbara Davies

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle (uber)

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Summer Walsh owns a struggling circus with a dark history. When journalist Alison Carmichael walks through her Big Top, though, things might just start looking up for the distant Ringmaster.

It was late Wednesday evening when the last trailer finally limped on site. Summer watched anxiously as it eased its way between the other trailers, caravans, and vans to its designated spot, its tyres leaving huge ruts in the turf.

So much for 'Flaming June'. Rain had soaked the work crews as they pulled down the Big Top and loaded the unwieldy poles and sections of canvas onto the long trailer kept specially for the purpose; rain had streamed down her van's windscreen every second of the journey by tortuous, winding B road; and it was *still* raining, the hills surrounding Cheltenham almost invisible through the downpour.

She sighed. At least Cox's Meadow had turned out to be a proper field, she consoled herself, not one of those derelict building sites that were all most councils could seem to spare these days. She wondered who Cox was and what he would have made of the meadow that was rapidly turning into a swamp. For this they were paying £1,000 a week? Tomorrow they'd have to get the boards out - couldn't expect the public to wade through mud. She rubbed her forehead tiredly.

"Headache, boss?" Pyotr Dyakonov had come up behind her, unheard in the pelting rain.

"Yeah," Summer confessed. "Just the usual 'Will we be ready in time,' 'Will people like us enough to pay to see us' kind of headache."

"We always are; they always do," said the acrobat complacently.

Summer raised an eyebrow. "I thought Russians were s'posed to be pessimists."

He shrugged. "Things always seem to work out OK when you're around, Boss."

Summer snorted. "Yeah, right."

"It's true," protested Pyotr, stroking his moustache.

"Tell that to Uncle Tommy," she murmured, too low for Pyotr to hear. She turned away and began the tricky process of picking her way carefully between the ruts and puddles towards her caravan.

***

Alison replaced the telephone receiver and let a broad grin plaster itself over her face. "Tomorrow, I'm going to the circus!"

For a moment she allowed herself to feel the excitement she had felt as a little kid, even hopped up and down a bit, then she sobered. This wasn't for pleasure - well, maybe just a bit. This was her chance to prove she could hack it, to call herself 'freelance journalist' and mean more than the book reviews and column fillers that were the only things on her CV so far.

She paced up and down, hardly seeing the little sitting room, considering what to take with her. Her camera, of course. The article would be nothing without pictures, but she was good at photography - she could probably come up with something colourful and spectacular. Her tape recorder. Some spare batteries, a pen and notepad, just in case.

If all went well, she'd be interviewing each of the performers, maybe even the owner of the circus herself. Summer Walsh; what an unusual first name. Alison crossed to the table and rechecked her notes. Yes, it *was* Summer. And not many British circuses were owned by women, according to her research.

Would that make the interview harder, she wondered suddenly. Men were so easy - you just dressed femininely, batted your eyelashes, and simpered. Her Mother had taught her how to flirt with them from an early age, and then been devastated to learn it had been a waste of time. She sighed, remembering how difficult it had been coming out to her mother, how she had wished that her father had been alive to take her part as he always had.

She shook off the melancholy memory, and her doubts. "I can do this," she told herself. "I *will* do this." After all, all circus owners, regardless of their gender, would welcome a chance of free publicity, wouldn't they?

Alison remembered the circuses of her youth, full of horses, elephants, tigers, and lions. These days British circuses without animals were the norm - unrelenting pressure from animal rights protestors and the RSPCA had seen to that. She wondered if the show could possibly be as magical without animals.

Well, tomorrow night she'd see for herself, wouldn't she.

***

"Out of the question." Summer glared at the man who had barged into her office five minutes earlier, and who, rather disconcertingly, reminded her of an orangutan. (It must be the ginger hair and long arms, she decided.)

"I don't think you quite understand." His earlier affability had vanished.

"What's to understand?" she demanded. "I have all the permits and licenses I need. Why should I want to spend more than I have to?"

So far she had managed to keep a tight rein on her temper, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Especially since she was exhausted from helping the work crews to assemble the tiered seating inside the Big Top.

"For a quiet life," he said. "For oiling the wheels of progress -"

"For greasing your palms, you mean." If he thought the sunglasses and leather jacket made him look cool, thought Summer, he was wrong.

"Call it what you like, Ms Walsh. But I think you'd be very unwise not to -"

"I said 'no'. I meant it."

"I see. That's unfortunate."

Summer stood up, placed her hands firmly on the desk and leaned forward, fixing the man with a feral glare from which, to her satisfaction, he flinched. "You're just running a glorified little protection racket, aren't you? Well, no deal." She bared her teeth at him. "You haven't met Tonio and Marcello yet, have you? They're strongmen, they perform under the stage name Men-o-War. I'm sure, if you met them, you'd understand why."

Her visitor was already backing towards the door, looking anxiously through the glass as though expecting the two strongmen to be waiting outside for him. Which, if she'd known he was coming, they would have been, she thought sourly.

"This is probably the worst decision you've made, lady -"

"What happened to 'Ms Walsh?’"

"- in a long, long time."

As he disappeared, like a rat up a drainpipe, she wondered gloomily if he might not just be right.

***

Alison halted just inside the tasseled blue-and-white marquee that was the Big Top, and surveyed her surroundings. It would hold about four hundred people, she judged, but it was barely a quarter full. She checked her watch. There was still ten minutes before the performance was scheduled to begin, but she was doubtful the place would fill up.

She tried to get a sense of the kind of people that had come to the circus. Some were parties of adults only, chattering excitedly to one another; some were adults with children, the parents wearing longsuffering looks; and some, like herself, were alone, their wistful expressions indicating a desire to recapture the magical experience of their youth.

Alison suppressed a smile and searched for Block D. Ah, there it was - the far side of the tiered seating, near the ramp that led from the ring to backstage. She eased herself along the row of tip-up seats until she came to the one that matched the A9 on her ticket stub then sat down gratefully.

She made herself as comfortable as possible on the very basic seat then opened the brochure, emblazoned: 'SUMMER'S CIRCUS', that had cost her a pound. As she had feared, it consisted mainly of advertisements for ice-cream and hotdogs - but a loose sheet of A4 itemized tonight's running order.

She closed the brochure and leaned back, squinting first at the apex of the Big Top high above, then at the trapezes, wires and safety ropes a little below it, then at the ring itself - not covered with sawdust, these days, she noted - which was a lot smaller than her childhood memories had led her to expect. Not bad, she decided, feeling pleased with herself - she should be able to see the performers close to as they came up the ramp into the ring. She pulled her camera from her pocket and hung its strap round her neck ready.

A group of well dressed people - businessmen and women and civic dignitaries by the look of them, one overweight man even wore a chain of office round his neck - approached her block and began to take their seats in the front row. A rather striking dark-haired woman was directing them - her scarlet jacket had wide lapels and tails, and she was wearing a matching bow tie.

The woman smiled brilliantly and said, "I hope you enjoy the show." Alison eyed her with interest.

"I'm sure we will, Ms Walsh," said the man with the chain.

So that was the mysterious Summer Walsh? Well, well.

As the scarlet-clad woman strode away, Alison found that she was suddenly looking forward to interviewing the circus owner.

***

Summer made her way backstage. It was chaos; organized chaos - at least she fervently hoped so.

"Five minutes to the Overture," she yelled. "Everyone okay?"

"Okay, Boss," came the chorus of replies.

She stepped over the pile of baseball bats that looked like wood but weren't. They belonged to Egor and Maks who were due on first after the Overture. As she negotiated the clowns' other props: a foam rubber hatchet, a scrawny looking chicken, and a huge inflatable ball that after the Intermission would be bounced off the audience's heads to screams of fear and delight, her mind returned to the mayor's party.

"Pompous ass," she muttered. He had insisted on complimentary tickets for his wife and colleagues too. "Does he think we're made of money?"

Summer knew the figures all too well. Just to survive, the circus needed three thousand customers a week. Paying customers, like that little blonde who had been sitting just behind the mayor and his cronies. Her thoughts dwelt pleasantly on the woman's interested green eyes for a moment, then she remembered her intention to see how the Ticket Office was getting on.

She was heading for the office wagon at breakneck speed - she had barely ten minutes before she was needed in the ring - when she noticed that a weaselly little pickpocket was working the queue.

With a growl of anger, she somersaulted neatly over the goggling members of the public and launched herself at the man whose hand was about to delve into an unsuspecting customer's coat pocket.

He took one startled look at her and tried to bolt - but by then she had him by the back of his coat collar.

"'Ere, what d'ya think you're - Ulp!" His protest became a strangled squawk as an arm strengthened by years of trapeze work held him effortlessly six inches above the ground.

"Going somewhere?"

He struggled briefly then stopped and concentrated on simply breathing.

"You have a choice, sunshine," growled Summer. "You can spend this evening down the nearest police station...or..." She lifted him higher and watched him think through the implications.

The thief smiled rather glassily at her. "No harm done, lady," he babbled. "I was just looking after a few things for their owners. Know what I mean?"

She lowered her arm, and saw relief wash over his face as his feet touched the ground again. Then she released her grip on his coat collar and held out her hand meaningfully. "Give."

Reluctantly he reached into deep raincoat pockets and began to pile purses and wallets and wristwatches into Summer's hands. From the Big Top came faint music, the first bars of the Overture, reminding her that time was passing.

"Need a hand, Boss?" Tonio and Marcello had joined the little crowd of bystanders watching the proceedings as though it were part of the evening's entertainment.

She nodded, relieved to see them. "I'm due in the ring. Make sure these -" she pushed the pile of purses and wallets into Tonio's huge fists "- are returned to their rightful owners. Most'll have some kind of ID or photo in them, I expect. The rest - well, you may have to ask members of the audience to check if anything's missing."

She rubbed a hand tiredly across her forehead, annoyed at the extra work the thief had caused. If she reported him to the police, even more time would be lost. No police, then. Unless...Suddenly, she remembered the orangutan who had tried to sell her protection.

"You," she turned back to the thief. "Who are you working for?"

"No-one. I'm strictly freelance."

Summer put on her best scowl and took a threatening step towards him.

"Honest." He raised a shaking hand in defence.

She nodded. "Okay. One other thing."

The still unnerved thief looked expectantly at her.

"If I catch you in my circus ever again, I'll let these two - " she indicated the strong men examining the stolen booty "- tear you to pieces. And have no doubts, they can do it, too." She glared at him. "Do I make myself clear?"

The thief winced. "As crystal."

"Now, get out of my circus."

The thief needed no further urging.

***

The Overture ended with a flourish (*Also Sprach Zarathustra*, if she wasn't mistaken) and Alison clapped appreciatively. It amused her that such a tiny orchestra - two men, a drumkit, and what looked like a steam powered synthesizer - was capable of generating music with such power and volume. Circus people, she was rapidly learning, were nothing if not resourceful.

The ringmaster had just stridden into the ring - she recognized the dark-haired woman in the scarlet jacket immediately - when Alison became aware that a big man in black sweatshirt and jeans was easing his way along the row of seats towards her. She frowned.

"Excuse me, Miss," he said politely, as he got nearer, easing her fears, "but is this yours?" He was holding out a wallet similar to the one she owned and pointing to a strip of passport photographs.

Abruptly, she recognized the unflattering snaps she had had taken at the Post Office photo kiosk last week. She gasped and felt for the pocket where she usually kept her wallet. It was empty.

"That's mine. But how did you? I mean - "

The man smiled and handed her the wallet. "Pickpocket was working the Ticket Office queue," he said simply. "The Boss caught him. Persuaded him to return the stolen goods."

There was a subtle emphasis on the 'persuaded' that piqued Alison's interest, as did his accent, which was, she realized, foreign. She checked the contents of the wallet, and was relieved to find that nothing was missing. "'The Boss?’ You mean, Ms Walsh?"

"Yes. Everything there? Sorry to rush you, but I've got several more owners to locate."

"Oh, sorry. Yes, everything's here, but -"

But the man was already turning to go. "Enjoy the show, Miss," he called back to her.

Still feeling rather stunned by this turn of events, Alison turned her attention back to the ring. The attractive ringmaster had disappeared and two short men with unwieldy moustaches and red noses, dressed in appalling yellow-and-black checked suits and bow ties, were starting to hit each other with baseball bats.

***

The trouble with seeing the show from the inside, thought Summer, was that, unlike the appreciative audience - who were clapping wildly at every little thing - you were all too aware when things didn't go right.

For example, the music had started off slightly too fast, but Ruud and Jan had quickly corrected that. Then Egor had tripped over one of Maks' big feet but had deftly turned it into an extra piece of ' business'. And Grigori had almost dropped one of his flaming torches, but an extra flourish distracted the audience from his mistake.

The ringmaster sighed. No matter how often and thoroughly they rehearsed, it was always the same. First-performance-in-a-new-town nerves. But as the evening progressed, she could feel the nerves calming, the professionalism of the performers taking over.

But it was time to announce the next act. She strode out into the ring, fixed a smile on her face, and clicked on the microphone.

"And now, for your enjoyment, Summer's Circus presents, all the way from Greece: the *stupendous* Miss Clio."

She gestured extravagantly towards the maroon velvet curtain that hid backstage, and, right on cue, a petite figure in a pale pink leotard appeared and bounded up the ramp to join her.

"Break a leg, Clio," she murmured. Her reward was a dazzling smile.

Summer withdrew, and watched Clio go into her act.

First came the smile and wave to the audience, then the Greek woman reached for her little ladder and began to climb, adjusting her balance constantly so that the unsupported ladder would remain vertical. When she was settled, Andor, her young male assistant, appeared, carrying a pile of cups and saucers, and proceeded to throw them to her one by one. Almost nonchalantly, Clio would catch each cup or saucer and then throw it up so that it landed on the top of her head. Gradually a stack of alternating cups and saucers grew.

Summer had had no doubts at all, when she'd first seen Clio's act, that she was a must for the circus. On paper, catching cups and saucers while balancing on a ladder was a nonstarter, but in real life there was something about the precision and skill displayed by the young Greek woman that made the audience hold its breath.

As Clio caught yet another saucer, and was greeted with wild applause, Summer's thoughts turned inwards.

It looked like her gamble that the affluent Cheltonians would flock to the circus hadn't paid off - the Ticket Office receipts had confirmed what her squinted glances into the spotlights told her: the Big Top was only half full tonight. What with the appalling weather, the orangutan demanding protection money, the pickpocket ripping off customers, and the question of what would happen when Uncle Tommy discovered his least favourite niece was back on his patch. She sighed.

A teaspoon landed with a loud clink in the topmost saucer, and the audience went mad. Clio's act was winding down. Almost time to announce the aerialists, thought Summer, rising to her feet.

The Finale had met with sustained and enthusiastic applause, and the two man band was playing music calculated to get the audience heading for the exits, when Summer went round backstage congratulating the acts and patting people on the shoulders. There had been no major mishaps, and everyone was feeling relieved.

She was looking forward to a shower, a hot meal, and an early night, and was half way to her caravan, when she remembered she had rashly agreed to see a journalist - Alison Carsomething - about a possible article on the Circus.

She groaned, and trudged over the waterlogged ground towards the trailer that housed both the Administration and Ticket offices.

A blonde woman was waiting for her outside the Admin office. She looked vaguely familiar, thought Summer, traipsing up the short flight of steps.

"Ms Car-" She trailed off.

"Alison Carmichael," said the woman helpfully. "And you must be Summer Walsh." She held out a hand.

Summer grunted, gave the hand a perfunctory shake, then began to unlock the door. "Come in."

She switched on the light, and crossed the office to the battered old desk. The journalist followed her inside, glancing at the dingy interior assessingly. Hmmm, thought Summer, having noticed the camera around her visitor's neck, I don't imagine you want to take a photo of *this* for your article, Ms Carmichael.

She dragged a plastic chair from its place by the wall and indicated it before moving round behind the desk. The journalist sat down. Summer did likewise.

"I really enjoyed the show tonight, Ms Walsh."

"Thanks."

After a moment's silence, the blonde woman realized Summer wasn't going to say any more and picked up the conversation. "Um, we spoke on the phone, about the possibility of my doing interviews with you and with your performers."

Summer nodded.

"So, I was wondering..." The journalist bit her lip.

Summer glanced at the message pad where she had written details of their telephone conversation and frowned. What had she been thinking? "I don't seem to have made a note of which paper you write for, Ms Carmichael," she said apologetically.

"Oh, well - " A slight flush covered the blonde woman's cheeks. "I'm a freelance, but several publications have expressed an interest in the article -"

Summer realized abruptly that there was no point in continuing this conversation. "Then I'm afraid it would be better if we didn't waste each other's time, Ms Carmichael," she interrupted.

The look on the other woman's face made Summer aware that her bluntness had been misinterpreted as offensiveness.

"By the time you've written it and placed it, probably with a local paper," she explained, "the circus will have moved on. Such publicity will be of no benefit to us." She groaned inwardly, realizing that she had only made things worse.

A red spot now burned in each of the blond woman's cheeks. "But, you said on the phone..." Green eyes flashed with indignation.

Green eyes, thought Summer suddenly. Of course. The row of seats behind the mayor's party. Another headache was lurking behind her eyes. The sooner this was over, the better.

"I've changed my mind," she said, sounding more curt than she'd intended. "If you'll excuse me?" She stood up to indicate the interview was over.

Lips pressed in a grim line, the young woman snatched up her gloves and stalked off.

I could have handled that so much better, thought Summer regretfully as she watched the young woman stomp down the steps outside. She sighed, then switched off the light and locked the office door behind her.

As she walked down the steps herself, she glanced absently at the distant figure walking disconsolately towards the carpark. The rest of the paying audience had gone home, and a single pale green Fiesta remained. One of the carpark floodlights was out. Summer made a mental note to get it replaced, then noticed movement in the shadows. She stopped, her senses on alert. A mugger, or worse. And Alison Carmichael, her mind on other things, was heading straight for him.

The rush of adrenalin banished her tiredness and incipient headache instantly, and she broke into a run. "Look out," she called, even as she realized that running wasn't going to get her there in time and launched herself into a series of somersaults and flips.

The journalist had halted near her car and was looking back at her, mouth open in amazement. Summer growled as the figure in the shadows chose that moment to attack, and forced herself to move faster, feeling her muscles burn with the effort. The attacker - a man, by his build - had got an arm round the journalist's throat and was tugging her back into the shadows when Summer flipped over his head.

As she landed behind him, he glanced round, and the momentary distraction enabled the blond woman to break his grip round her throat. One punch with all Summer's weight behind it was enough to send him flying, and two kicks, one to the stomach, one to his unshaven jaw, rendered him out for the count.

Summer stooped over the man and checked his pulse. He was still breathing - she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. She straightened, and rubbed her bruised knuckles ruefully, then became aware that the journalist was standing beside her.

"He attacked me!" mumbled the blond, her voice shaky, her breathing uneven. "Oh my God, if you hadn't -" She began to cry.

For moment, Summer stood frozen, then she pulled the sobbing journalist into an awkward hug. There was a moment's startled resistance, then Alison sagged into her embrace.

"It's okay," said Summer. "I've got you." She rubbed a hand soothingly over the other woman's back, encouraging her to cry herself out, her own mind churning. My fault. All my fault. If I hadn't been here...For Summer had no doubt at all that the attacker was working for the man who had tried to sell her protection that morning.

As the sobs dwindled to sniffs, and the tension in the muscles beneath her hands eased, her thoughts turned to the state of her ringmaster uniform. It hadn't been designed for people to cry on.

"Do you still want to do that article on the circus, Ms Carmichael?" Summer was as surprised by her own words as the journalist appeared to be.

"But you said -" The journalist took a step back, and Summer released her.

Colour had returned to the pale cheeks, and bewilderment, coupled with hope, had replaced the fear in the green eyes.

Summer smiled, partly in relief, and shrugged. "I've changed my mind."

The journalist considered for a moment. "What if you change your mind again?" she asked at last.

A fair question, Summer admitted, since from the journalist's point of view, she'd changed her mind twice already. "I won't," she said firmly. "If you want the interviews you asked for, you can have them."

A moment longer, then a smile split the blond woman's features and she nodded eagerly. "Please."

"Tomorrow, then, 10am," said Summer. "I'll give you a guided tour."

"Great."

They stared at one another for a long moment, then Summer sighed and glanced down at the still unconscious attacker.

"In the meantime," she said, "I suppose I'd better see about calling the police."

***

"It was great, Mother. There were clowns, and acrobats, and trapeze artists, and a woman who balanced at the top of a ladder while catching cups and saucers on her head...Yes, that's what I said. Um, it looked like real china from where I was sitting."

Alison could tell her mother wasn't impressed by her enthusiastic description of the circus. Opera was more the older woman's 'thing' - so much more 'adult'. No doubt her mother's opinion of the circus would sink even lower, if that were possible, if she told her about the pickpocket and the attack in the carpark...

She sighed and changed the subject to her coming interviews, then wished she hadn't.

"You're not still intending to be a journalist, are you, dear?" Her mother's tone was disapproving. "My goodness! I thought that was just a fad."

A fad! thought Alison. In fact, the dream of being a reporter had been with her since she was a child, but it was only recently she had decided to do anything about it. Coming out - to herself and to other people - she realized suddenly, had been the catalyst. It had strengthened her determination to live her own life not let others live it for her.

"No, Mother," she said evenly, "it's not a fad."

"It's not as if you need the money, dear."

Alison sighed. It was true that the Life Assurance from her father's death had left them both more than comfortably well off. But she wanted the satisfaction of paying her own way for a change.

"Mother, we've been through this."

"Well, if you *must* occupy yourself, dear, why don't you do some voluntary work? It's so much more...respectable."

"Mother." Alison had reached the end of her patience, and some sign of it must have travelled down the phone line because her Mother went quiet.

"Well, dear. Perhaps you know best." The tone made it clear her mother thought exactly the opposite. "It's past my bedtime, yours too if you're sensible. So I'll say goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mother." Alison replaced the phone receiver and sighed.

The flat that was her pride and joy, her first taste of independence - she was twenty-seven, for heaven's sake; other people left home at eighteen - suddenly seemed drab and pokey. Perhaps it was the contrast with the Big Top and its colourful performers, not least among them the tall ringmaster.

Once more Alison heard the distant shout and turned to watch the ringmaster somersaulting towards her across the carpark. Once more she felt disbelief and bewilderment that the woman who had just dashed her hopes so rudely should be following her in such a spectacular way. Then came a jolt of terror as someone wrapped his arm around her throat. Followed by sheer relief, as Summer tackled the attacker and then held Alison close.

Alison swallowed over a suddenly dry throat, then laughed wryly at herself. What a strange evening it had been! And now here she was feeling gratitude, hero worship, and, if she were being honest, straightforward attraction for a woman who until this evening had been a complete stranger.

Even more ironic, being rescued by a circus owner would have made a *great* story, but Summer was concerned that a mugging might keep paying customers away. Since the policeman who took their statements didn't envisage any further involvement for either Summer or Alison (Alison, though severely shaken, hadn't actually been hurt, and the still groggy attacker had quickly realized it was in his own best interests to confess) Alison had agreed to keep the incident quiet.

Which was probably just as well, she thought sleepily, as the seesaw of raw emotions finally caught up with her. Because then, her mother wouldn't learn of the incident and come rushing over ready to sweep her daughter up and take her back to the claustrophobic home from which she had only just escaped.

Alison had feared the mugging would prey on her mind, but as she got herself ready for bed, she found to her relief and slight embarrassment that her head was full of the music of Strauss and images of clowns and acrobats and a tall, striking ringmaster with blue, blue eyes.

***

"It's going to be muddy, I'm afraid." Summer ushered the young journalist out of the admin office and down the metal steps.

"That's all right." Alison smiled back at her. "What's a little mud between friends?"

Summer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They walked across the boggy field towards the Big Top.

"We call this the Back Yard." Summer ducked under the cordon that marked the area as off limits to the public, and began threading her way carefully between stakes and guy wires, generators and storage bins.

Alison hurried to keep up. "So," she said, holding out a small tape-recorder. "What made you decide to own your own circus, Ms Walsh?"

"If we're friends, you'd better call me Summer." The tape recorder, she noted absently, was voice-activated.

"Then you'd better call me Alison, or Ali."

Summer caught the faint hesitation. "Which would you prefer?"

"Alison, if you don't mind."

"Alison it is."

Summer held back the tent flap and waited for Alison to duck under it. "We call this the Back Door - it's the performers' entrance." She followed the journalist, her pupils adjusting quickly to the dim lighting of the backstage area.

"Hi, Boss." Egor came somersaulting over and stopped in front of them. "Who's the beautiful towny?"

The little clown's interested gaze was resting on Alison, who blushed. It suited her, thought Summer, suppressing a grin.

"That's what circus people call outsiders," she explained. Then to Egor, "This is Alison Carmichael. She's a local journalist, so be nice - we don't want any bad publicity."

"I thought any publicity was good publicity, Boss." Egor winked at her.

"Yeah, well you thought wrong."

Alison shot her a glance. "You don't have to worry," she said reassuringly. "I really loved the show last night."

"You did?" Summer felt her slight tension ease.

She guided Alison towards the maroon curtain separating backstage from the auditorium, then paused. "I should warn you before we get near the ring," she said, "don't, whatever you do, sit on the edge of it facing out."

Alison stared at her. "Why not?"

Summer shrugged. "It's bad luck."

The journalist leaned forward eagerly. "Oh! So you have your own set of superstitions, like theatre people do?"

"I suppose so. Peacock feathers are bad luck too. And whistling in the dressing room."

Alison's eyes danced and her tone was mock serious. "Okay. No whistling or peacock feathers, and no sitting on the ring's edge facing out. Got it."

Summer started to say something in defence of circus traditions then decided against it. She pulled back the curtain and they walked through.

The Dyakonovs were rehearsing their trapeze act high above the ring, and she stopped to allow Alison to watch. After a long moment, Alison tore her gaze away from the graceful flips and twirls, and Summer gestured towards a row of ringside seats. They covered the distance quickly and sat down.

"I noticed last night that most of the acts in your programme are foreign," said Alison. "Is that coincidence or policy? Or is it simply that Brits don't make good circus performers?"

"Hey! Are you saying I'm no good?" Summer smiled to remove the sting from her words. It was a good question, and she considered her answer. No need to mention that Uncle Tommy had made sure no British performer would work for her anyway, she decided.

"It's a question of cost, actually." Alison glanced at the sound level meter and moved the tape recorder closer to Summer's mouth then her gaze drifted upwards again. Summer smiled. She too felt the magnetic pull of the trapeze.

"When the USSR collapsed," she continued, "so did its circus funding. At their height, they had seventy permanent circuses, you know. That's about fifteen thousand performers."

Alison's startled gaze met hers. "Fifteen thousand?"

Summer nodded. "Which means that now the Russians are desperate for work and -" she spread her hands expressively "- very cheap."

"So *that's* why most of your acts are Russian?"

"Mmmm." Now it was Summer's turn to gaze up at the Dyakonov Troupe. Cheslav, she noted absently, was clasping Irisa's ankles in his brawny fists. "Though actually, the circus band is Dutch." Alison chuckled at the mention of the two musicians, and Summer glanced curiously at her. When no explanation was forthcoming, she let it go and continued. "The strong men are Portuguese. And Miss Clio, of course, is Greek. I take it you'd like to meet the company?"

"Please."

The journalist's obvious enthusiasm pleased Summer. Maybe it was because Alison was a freelance, she thought, and hadn't yet reached the embittered 'just going through the motions' stage.

A faint stomach rumble reached her ears, and she noticed Alison was blushing again.

"Haven't you had any breakfast?"

"Um, yes," admitted Alison. "But it was a couple of hours ago. I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee and a biscuit, if you have them."

Summer rose to her feet. "I'm sure we can rustle up something." She was amused by the look of gratitude that flashed across the blond woman's face.

"Follow me."

***

The trailer that Summer called the 'cook wagon' was hot and fuggy and smelled absolutely wonderful. Coffee and doughnuts, thought Alison, identifying the aromas. Her stomach grumbled more loudly and her mouth began to water.

"It's help yourself in here," instructed the tall woman, busying herself with heating water for two cups of instant coffee. "Just take what you fancy."

"Okay."

While Summer carried their coffees to an empty table, Alison inspected the cardboard box of goodies and chose a large sticky, sugarcoated doughnut. Then she joined Summer and sat down opposite her. She placed the tape recorder on the table between them, and gazed at their spartan surroundings.

"So, this is where you all eat?"

Summer took a sip of coffee than nodded. "We can connect the wagon up to the mains water and power supplies. Not all sites provide access though, so then we have to make do with Calor gas and bottled water."

"I expect you've got moving between sites down to a fine art?" While she waited for an answer, Alison picked up her doughnut and took a bite. Brilliant red jam squirted down her chin and across the table. Fortunately, it didn't reach the ringmaster.

"Oh!" Alison's cheeks felt hot with embarrassment, but Summer just chuckled and reached for a paper napkin.

"I'm always doing that," she said consolingly. "Here."

"Thanks." Alison took the napkin and wiped her chin with it. "Um." Her mind had gone blank and the confusion must have shown on her face.

Summer took pity on her. "To answer your question, yes, after you've been on the road for a while - and this circus has been touring for years now - you get to know the drill." She took another gulp of coffee. "Circus people are pretty tough. Everyone helps with the build-up and pull-down."

"But the circus can't always run smoothly," prompted Alison.

"No. We've had our share of accidents, and some of our vehicles are aging - they're always breaking down. Fortunately, Grigori is a top notch mechanic as well as a juggler. What else?" Summer looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, two years ago, a generator caught fire - we were lucky it didn't burn down the Big Top. And last year we had a blowdown - that's when a storm blows the Big Top down."

Alison would have whistled but remembered their earlier talk of superstition and thought better of it. "That must have set you back a bit."

"Yes. Luckily we got it back up double quick - only missed one matinee. We can't afford to miss many performances."

Alison finished off her doughnut and wiped her hands on the napkin. "You're that close to the line?"

For a moment she thought the other woman wasn't going to answer, then Summer tapped the tape recorder pointedly and said, "Off the record?"

"Oh, okay." Alison pressed the pause button.

"Things are pretty tight at the moment. If they don't get better soon ?" The ringmaster's gaze was suddenly bleak.

"Can't you put up ticket prices?"

"We're already as high as we can go without putting audiences off." Summer shrugged. "Trouble is, we've got so much to compete with these days - TV, video, cinema - football. People just aren't as keen as they used to be on circuses. Especially circuses without animals." She grimaced. "It's a no win situation. If we use animals - we get attacked by the animal rights protestors; if we don't use them - the audiences stay away."

Alison frowned. "That's not fair."

"No, it isn't." Summer sighed.

The journalist suddenly remembered the tape recorder and pointed at it. Summer nodded, and she resumed recording.

"So why do you do it?" asked Alison.

"Do what?"

"Own your own circus. Keep on touring."

"It's in the blood," said Summer simply. "And," she gave Alison a wry smile, "I don't know how to do anything else."

As if regretting her sudden candour, the ringmaster looked away. "Have you had enough?" She indicated the empty plate.

"Oh, yes. That was great, thanks."

"Good. Because we've got quite a few introductions to get through, not to mention photographs."

Alison stood up at once. "Point me at 'em," she said brightly, pleased when the remark earned her a laugh from Summer.

The dark woman led the way out of the cook wagon.

***

Summer managed to prise Ruud and Jan Dekker away from their instruments and get them to talk to Alison. At first wary, the brothers soon opened up under the journalist's genial questioning, revealing a sheepish passion for Country and Western music that was news to Summer. Tonio and Marcello were glad to take a break from rehearsing, and were soon posing and flexing their rippling muscles while a suitably awed Alison took photographs. And Egor and Maks abandoned their discussion - heated, as always - of ways to improve their act and were only too happy to educate Alison in the intricacies and history of clown makeup.

Summer found watching Alison work relaxing, and she was letting the good natured banter flow over her, when Pyotr came running up, breathless.

"It's Cheslav," he said, without preamble. "He's sprained his wrist."

"Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Alison had come over to see what the aerialist's gloomy expression and Summer's unguarded exclamation were about.

"One of the catchers has sprained his wrist," explained Summer.

"Catchers?"

"A trapeze artist who catches," she said absently. Pyotr was looking expectantly at her. "The routine's the same?"

He nodded. "We added a few frills, but the basic moves are unchanged."

"Okay. Give me five minutes."

Summer regarded a bewildered Alison. "You'll have to look after yourself for the next hour, I'm afraid. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Uh, no. But...um, Summer, what are you going to be doing?"

"Taking Cheslav's place."

Alison's eyes widened. "Up on the trapeze? But I thought you were the ringmaster."

"I have many skills," said Summer nonchalantly.

[kittenshift-17]

👀 Howdy and Happy New Year uwu!👀

Happy New Year! This is an excerpt from one of my upcoming Houndrya fics (aged-up Arya and Aged-down Clegane). It’s called Snap and Snarl.

Sandor Clegane hated balls. Standing around in Court and guarding Prince Joffrey was bad enough at the best of times, but a collection of High Lords and Ladies all gathered together to forge alliances, or pick fights, or plan marriages was his idea of torture. And as someone who lived in constant pain from true torture in his youth, that was saying a lot.

Worst of all, tonight’s stupid party was all for the sake of marrying off the Stark Bitch. The Hound curled his lip as his eyes scanned the hall from the seclusion of his corner where he was already skins and skins deep into the finest Mereenish wine. Joffrey, having been forced to wed the Little Bird in wolf’s colors was grousing and whining about something or other to whoever he thought was most interesting in the room from a boyish perspective on knights and kings and war. Stupid cunt. Sandor was still surprised the little shit could tell the blade from the pommel of a sword, even though he’d been the one to drill it into the little cunt’s head.

Too much like Gregor, that one. Sandor would be long shot of him if it weren’t for an oath he’d taken and a lack of anywhere else more decent to go. Guarding the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms came with certain perks he wasn’t willing to part with so easily, including access to all the sour wine he could drink, fine quarters with a soft featherbed, and Gold Lions filling his pockets to be spent on whores and whatever else took his fancy. Even if it was boring as fuck.

“Sulking, dog?” Joffrey piped up, always willing to kick the mutt that guarded him if it might make the other little pricks laugh.

Sandor looked down at the young prince, though he was now a man grown, and smirked a little at the thought of what the cunt might do should his faithful Hound turn on him and rip his throat out. After some of the screams he’d heard from their shared bedchamber and the marks he’d seen on the Little Bird, Sandor knew he’d be doing the kingdom and its future queen a favor if he did.

“Ugly beast, isn’t he?” one of the Tyrell cunts said none-too-quietly, eyeing Sandor’s ruined face with disgust as though it was his first time witnessing such gruesome horror.

His fist clenched tighter around his tankard, but Sandor showed no other outward sign of imagining what it would be like cleaving the cunt’s head in two with his axe. You’d think that after a lifetime, they’d have all stopped staring quite so much at the burns marring his ugly face, but dumb cunts would always be dumb cunts, he supposed.

A cry of surprise followed by hissing whispers fell over the hall at that moment and the Hound tensed, his gaze searching for the threat that had set them all off.

Rage festered in his gut, turning the wine sour when he found it.

The Stark Bitch had arrived.

Sandor curled his lip like a mongrel dog, his angry eyes drinking in the sight of the bitch as she strode into the room on her father’s arm. By the gods, there was a woman who could match his rage tonight, Sandor thought, smirking a little as he traced his eyes over her. Jammed into a dressed that nipped her waist in and shoved her tits up onto display, she couldn’t have looked less like she wanted to be there had she carved the words ‘FUCK OFF’ into the skin of her forehead. She looked uncomfortable. She looked angry. She looked like she’d sooner kill every cunt in the room than spend a single second consorting with any of them.

Worse.

She looked like a fucking feast.

The Hound gripped his tankard tighter, drinking in the angry flush staining those pale tits a creamy shade of peach and the luscious curves she’d been hiding under her tunic and jerkin. Fuck, if every cunt in the room didn’t want to nail her to the throne and fuck her until she howled. His cock stirred in his britches and Sandor was thankful for the armoured uniform he wore that hid it from view.

Gods, but he hated her.

Feral little bitch, she bared her teeth, and gnashed her fangs at him every chance she got. She never cowered back from his terrible sneer, nor flinched when he spat the most vulgar and hateful things he could work into any conversation. She never backed down, never backed off, never gave him a fucking inch. He hated her. Since the day she’d set her wolf on Joff, and he’d hunted some bloody butcher’s boy, she’d wanted to shove a sword through his eye, and he’d wanted to wring her scrawny neck. Seventeen, she’d turned at her last name day. Just ten years his junior and growing more beautiful by the day.

But she hated it. He knew that much. He’d watched her enough to know that she’d hack those lusterless brown locks from her head and lop her tits right off if she thought it’d get her more than the life she was doomed to. Tonight, she might very well find herself betrothed to the richest fucking cripple in all the Seven Kingdoms. And she’d probably kill the cunt for it.

This one wasn’t made for silk gowns, and soft bairns and sweet songs.

This one was forged from ice, a flesh and blood wolf in human skin, ready to rip the throat out of any who crossed her. And it wasn’t so hard to cross her. Kill a bloody butcher’s boy, and she’d threaten to string you up by your innards, one day. Only his size and strength had stopped her, he reckoned, and one day even that might not be enough.

"Willas is a lucky man," a Tyrell sitting with Joff commented, eyeing the girl eagerly. "And when his bum-leg keeps him from fucking her properly, reckon I'll be there to see her right."

The shit eater grin on the cunt's face boiled Sandor's blood, but he didn't say a word.

"Ever thought of sampling both Stark sisters at once, your grace?" Another cunt asked Joff.

Joffrey rolled his eyes, much to Sandor's surprise.

"I'd sooner cut my cock off than lay a finger on that frigid cunt," Joffrey declared. "Icy bitch, more a Wildling than a highborn lady."

"She's timid?"

Joffrey laughed. "The opposite. She'd cut your throat in the night and be gone before they could find your corpse."

"Dangerous?"

"She thinks so," Joffrey answered, looking over at the Hound. "You've seen her ‘dancing lessons’, Dog. Is the Stark Bitch dangerous?"

More than you, cunt, Sandor thought cruelly.

"Only to herself," Sandor smirked instead. "And anyone who gets in her way."

"Really?" A Tyrell asked. "Have you ever been in her way, Hound? I've heard talk that she lashes out viciously at you."

"Every day," Joffrey complained. "Vulgar little bitch, she doesn't even flinch when he calls her a cunt or baits her about the traitor she loved."

No, she never flinched, Sandor thought, eyeing her as she was swept across the room and presented to the awkwardly standing heir to Highgarden. The bitch never flinched when he loomed, or barked, or growled. She sneered and snarled and bit at him as cruelly as any wolf. Among the roses of Highgarden, she would be a wicked frost and likely spell their doom.

She curtsied clumsily before the lord when he bowed and kissed the back of her hand, but the curl of her lip told a tale all its own. Sandor's brow furrowed when he caught the way she winced as she rose, and the rigid way she held herself, like she couldn't hardly draw breath.

Was she swooning for the bloody cripple? Or dying in her dress?

Sandor's eyes narrowed when she declined a seat, but greedily accepted a cup of red wine, and gulped it down. Her Father never released her arm as he introduced her around the room, and the Hound watched the girl gather lustful looks like a bitch in heat.

She never smiled. Her mouth often twitched in a mockery of one, but it didn't reach her eyes. As soon as her Father was drawn into discussion with the King, Arya Stark slipped away.

And unbidden, the Hound followed.

There were enough other guards about that he need not watch over the prince so closely, hence his heavy drinking, and no one batted an eye when he circled the festivities as lords and ladies danced. Probably thought he needed a piss. Wasn't a bad idea.

But first, he had a Wolf to bite.

When he found her, she was gasping, leaning against the stone wall of a darkened corridor far beyond the noise of the great hall and sounding like she was dying. Her hands clawed at her back, arms bent unnaturally, scrabbling for the ties.

"Pretty little Wolf, all dressed in sheep's clothing, eh?" He sneered, announcing his presence and stepping out of the dark.

He anticipated a snap about his own well-shined armor and freshly bleached white cloak. And the bitch left him wanting.

Only another rasping breath filled the hall, accompanied by the sound of fingernails scrabbling against silken ties.

"The fuck are you doing?" He asked, annoyed.

"Can't... breathe..." she choked out, turning toward him and by the light of a torch far behind him, he could see the wideness of her eyes and the angry flush of her cheeks. Her lips were turning white.

"For fucks sake," Sandor growled, lunging for her and yanking loose the ties of her gown, huge fingers pawing at the delicate silk until it hung loose.

Still, she gasped raggedly. Still, she clawed.

"Corset," she gasped out. "Under... the silk."

"They'll try to take my head for this," Sandor grunted, digging his fingers into the silk and yanking it apart to reveal a stiff and evil looking corset of brittle whale bone beneath.

He yanked at the ties, but the fuckers wouldn't budge, too delicate and slippery for his drink-clumsy hands.

"Cut it," Arya gasped when he swore.

He did. The blade of his dagger desiccated the nimble threads and the wolf-bitch groaned before inhaling a deep and greedy breath, slumping against the wall.

"For fucks sake, girl. Why the fuck you wearing it, if it might kill you?" He growled, spinning her to face him and watching the way she drew breath after breath, still without the energy for snarling in return.

"Mother's orders," she managed to grunt after an eternity when he shook her, demanding an answer. "To make me look like a Seven damned Lady."

"Not enough silk or wine in the world to make that happen," he sneered.

She shrugged her shoulders free of his grip, ignoring the jibe. Sandor watched as she leaned back against the wall, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as she breathed deeply. The move exposed the long, pale column of her throat and drew attention to the way her tits still sat shoved up toward the low neckline of her gown, offered to him like a glorious feast.

Sandor clenched his fist around the pommel of his sword, unable to tear his eyes away, and unable to deny the throb in his blood-heavy cock. Fuck, he hated her, but what he wouldn't give to drag his teeth across her jugular. He could just imagine how she would whine like a bitch in heat, unafraid to claw him to bits in return.

Fuck.

He couldn't stand it. Growling under his breath, the Hound turned away. She wasn't his to devour, no matter how glorious the fight to the death might prove. His blood pounded in his ears as he began to stomp away, but her low voice called him back.

"Wait..." she said. "I... could you re-lace my gown? I can't reach them on my own..."

Sandor turned back, and he saw the shock register in her eyes at whatever evil lust glinted in his glare.

"Do I look like a fucking handmaid?" He snarled.

"You look like a man who doesn't want to be found out for unlacing the dress of the Hand of the King at what may prove to be her betrothal feast."

Fuck. The bitch had him there. Sending for a maid would be admitting to unlacing her to begin with.

Growling again, he stomped back, roughly grabbing her and shoving her face-first against the wall. She grunted at the impact, and started to turn back, all too willing to slug him one for the attack, but Sandor pinned her cheek against the stone with one huge hand on the back of her head.

"Hold still," he growled when she tensed, before his fingers grasped the thin ties of the gown and yanked them tight.

She gasped when he pulled too hard and Sandor cursed again, loosening them again before jerking them into a quick knot. When he was done, he stepped back quickly, pulling his hands away before he could smooth his palms over her corset-forged curves like his cock was begging of him. The last thing he needed was the trouble that would follow a mistake like that. It had been risky enough following her. No matter the way his cock twitched for her or any other highborn lady, he was just a dog from a lower house. She wasn’t meant for the likes of him. Hells, no one was meant for the likes of him, miserable fucking shit that he was.

Stomping back in the direction of the feast before he could do something that he’d regret – or, more likely, something Lord Stark would make him regret when the little birds and spiders haunting every corner of the city spotted him and reported to someone more important – Sandor turned away from the girl, intent on drowning the stiffness of his cock in enough wine to wilt the fucker.

[eriisaam]

Little tiny notes on boons and banes I want to expand on bigger HCs eventually, but for now I’ll just make notes of boon/bane ideas for the squads (although for most/all of them, the bane does eventually drop over time like how merges do I’ll get around to thinking how merges work too eventually:

Tl;dr version:

---

Erin / +Res -Atk

Teru / +Def -HP

Sparrow / +Spd -Atk

Kyo / +Atk -Spd

Eclair / Neutral

---

Ryoma / +Atk -Res

Lif / +Atk -Res

Camilla / +Def -Spd

Hrid / +Def -Atk

---

Reinhardt / +Atk -Def

Xander / Neutral

Takumi / +Res -HP

Gunnthra / +Def -Spd

Tethys / +Spd -Def

---

Chrom / +Res -Atk

---

Kamui / +Atk -Def

Lifonse / Neutral

---

In-depth version under the cut:

Erin / + Res - Atk = Resilient and willful, just has focus most of the time in areas besides raw strength, particularly when her dragon form was the smallest, technically physical weakness, and she’s stronger in other areas instead.

Teru / + Def - HP = He has great durability and bulk, just his health in other regards is really poor, reflective of just how often he’s so sickly from his condition. Arguably, he had good mental fortitude as well in contrast to being too chronically ill to engage when and how he wants to.

Sparrow / + Spd - Atk = She’s the quickest, not just on her feet, but reflective on her adaptability. However, she doesn’t start off the most battle-ready/inclined right away. (With her digimon, the power she borrowed from them were notably more in a support role as a battle healer, rather than someone like Chrom)

Kyo / +Atk - Spd = He hits like a truck. He just goes right in and lays down the law with very little regards of himself. However, unless he was transformed into something already inclined to be fast, he’s a mighty glacier in his style of fighting in comparison to the others.

Eclair / Neutral = As he was made as almost a blank slate, he has no real strong strengths or weaknesses, and still had to take time to find himself. Whether or not this reflects back on his image-sake (Kiran) or his name-sake (Eclat) is unknown, but likely, doesn’t. Also exists to look cute and be babie until he suddenly has reason not to be as harmless as he seems.

---

Ryoma / + Atk - Res = In any other regard, he’s normally the one who has the strongest mental fortitude between his meditations and the way he mediates or acts like the supportive Big Bro/Team Dad of his supports in fussing and protecting them collectively with Second-in-Command Camilla. When he battles, however, it’s a whole other side to him that focuses far more ruthlessly in combat and making sure the thing he’s fighting is struck dead for daring to hurt his supports, arguably not thinking the most collectively during the moments he’s at his most stubborn and angry.

Lif / + Atk - Res = Like Ryoma but worse. At least Ryoma has some level of calm or pretend-calm, but when Lif is in a mode to battle, he fights with an utterly brutal style as a remnant of his trauma under Hel’s heel, which his feral-like mood and mindset doesn’t lend itself particularly well to thinking calmly, rationally, or in ways that doesn’t potentially break himself along the way either. It’s not uncommon for him to snap out from his daze with several new, fresh wounds he doesn’t remember getting.

Camilla / + Def - Spd = Tanky, bulky, and can withstand quite a bit, but isn’t particularly the speediest while doing it. While she’s plenty brutal when she strikes, what’s more impressive about her is how strongly she carries herself and braves through pretty dangerous rough points in battle just before laying down the law.

Hrid / + Def - Atk = Compared to the others who are much more brutal when and how they strike, Hrid is much more focused on resisting attacks and fighting in a style on the defensive than striking others down fast, hard, or particularly viciously. His kingdom’s peaceful yet resolved way of thinking and general combat style might have contributed to this, especially as physical weapons take more resolve compared to how easily magic can turn deadly all on its own.

---

Reinhardt / + Atk - Def = When he strikes, he strikes hard, brutally, and with immense strength in his thunder magic. He lives up to his reputation in people’s beliefs of being the second coming of Thrud. However, he’s far from the most physically built or bulky, especially in comparison to his supports besides Takumi and Teru, and as all his strength drew to his magic and swordplay, he’s not as able to take more direct hits otherwise. With the power of Mjolnir’s heavy motifs toward thunder, and his striking resemblance to Thrud, one wonders if Mjolnir’s blessings still carried through to a possible reincarnation that transcends Reinhardt’s lack of direct blood otherwise, especially as he’s now in company of more direct relations to gods.

Xander /  Neutral = He trained heavily and stressed heavily on excelling in every field and area in battle. The major weakness he has, however, is the sheer amount of toll it took on his mind and mental health despite his will remaining strong and fortified in battle. He is equally a deadly force to be reckoned with as he is a man who is one misstep away from collapsing at an instant.

Takumi / + Res - HP = Despite him showing the complete opposite earlier on, given how he initially heavily worked against himself and his strengths, when he got guidance to hone his strengths over defy it, he’s actually far more mentally fortified or inclined to than he was initially presented (which was marred heavily in his deep-seated insecurities, jealousy and self-depreciation lending to why he was far more vulnerable earlier on). However, as he got older, he unfortunately also showed more how much he inherited qualities from the previously-terminal illness Ikona had, lending to his health being much more fragile than it initially seemed.

Gunnthra / + Def - Spd = A mighty glacier. She isn’t the quickest in combat, particularly when she focuses on a form of magic utilizing her element that has enough range not to need to move as much physically (particularly as her style of dress would be cumbersome to expect swift movement anyways), but like her brother, she’s plenty bulky, and defensive-minded in withstanding quite a bit.

Tethys / + Spd - Def = Even if she isn’t the sturdiest among Gerik’s band or her supports, she’s content with this, as this wasn’t her focus on her role anyways. Her focus is more on her dancing, and with the style of dance she performs being much more lively and energetic (compared to Azura’s focus on being slow, fluid and graceful), she’s very swift in general.

---

Chrom / + Res - Atk = He’s... he’s being helpful... orz... 

More seriously, his attack strength dulled heavier than other Chroms to a point it reflects on his health from his grief, intense stress, and initially not taking the best care of himself past his incredibly strong will remaining fortified. However, as he had been training and exercising regularly, and mindful for Sparrow’s care alongside his, this is why only his raw attack power was the most affected, in comparison to his health in totality. 

---

Kamui / + Atk - Def = Tiny but bitey. Compared to his older brothers, Ryoma and Xander, he’s scrawny, small, and looks about as easily squishable as he is. However, he strikes hard and true with his sword, and just as ferociously if not moreso as a dragon. 

Lifonse / Neutral = Much like how he was when he was fully Alfonse originally, he is trained to be balanced without having any true definite weak areas, but also not really any major strong points either (unlike Lif, who found his own niche as he became more battle-hardened under grueling circumstances). 

[chiseler]

The next to last MOVE

[The release of Delbert Africa after 42 years in prison has lit me up like fireworks. Most of what's below was written several years ago, so this is a minor update. But goddamn am I glad he's out. It doesn't put the end to anything – one other MOVE member is still languishing – but it lends the closing bracket on a time and place that's long, long been central to my life. I never talked to Delbert, but I was never less than monumentally impressed by him, even though I thought MOVE was basically off its nut. See what you think.]

In the summer of 1978, my wife Linda and I had fun towing her little red wagon full of rocks through the police line during the first confrontation between the city of Philadelphia and MOVE.

Never heard of MOVE, or only recently with an odd revival of interest? I'm not surprised. Only in Philadelphia could the record of summer-long martial law effectively... vanish for decades.

Back then, MOVE was often called a "back to nature" and/or "anti-technology" outfit: A back-to-nature-anti-technology outfit that used bullhorns, lived in the middle of a city of 1.5 million inhabitants and organized protests of Jane Fonda and Buckminster Fuller. Demonstrating against the then-82-year-old champion of the geodesic dome – who would do such a thing, why?

Only MOVE, only in our itty-bitty liberal enclave of Powelton Village, and I think no one will ever know exactly why. They followed the teachings of Vincent Leaphart, whose rambling treatise made little sense to anyone beyond his small band of raucous believers. "MOVE" wasn't an acronym, just a word, but always capitalized. Leaphart changed his name to John Africa and insisted his followers all take the last name of Africa.

Powelton, a ten-square-block Victorian snippet of West Philadelphia north of Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania, began as the city nabobs' summer-retreat in the late 19th century, just across the Schuylkill River from Center City. By the late 1960s it had attracted a loose rattle of quiet leftists and inoffensive layabouts who were tolerant of most anybody but Drexel, which was determined to devour as much of the community as it could ladle down (and has now debased the area with overpriced apartments for its students.)

During the late '70s, Powelton's squishy acceptance allowed MOVE to occupy a pair of brick twins at 33rd and Pearl Sts., no more than a block from our commune, where they nailed together huge, ramshackle ramparts, kept a pack of half-feral dogs, ate raw meat and tossed their garbage in the yard. An all-black group (except for one scrawny white woman), they were dreadlocked and more physically fit than any health poster.

For income, they washed cars on 33rd St. (and did a damned fine job of it). On no particular provocation, they would mount the ramparts, pick up a bullhorn and harangue the world. It made a hell of a racket. They could also explode into sudden violence, especially against the police, though I regularly walked past their house and was never harassed.

The city, citing housing and sanitation regulations, declared them pests and obtained a court order telling them they had to go. The order set off one of the strangest confrontations in modern American history.

On a quiet summer evening, the MOVErs mounted the ramparts carrying rifles and dressed in camo fatigues. You'd think the police would act. Well, they did: They blocked traffic on 33rd St. That was it. They never approached the MOVE house. During the protest, Delbert Africa, their chief spokesman (one of the most beautiful human beings who ever existed) issued this statement, part haiku, part tautology, that has always defined MOVE for me:

"Any motherfucker

tries to take away my motherfuckin' rights,

that man is a motherfucker."

I doubt their guns were loaded (they have since claimed they were not). For one thing, they were pointed straight up, for show. For another, the fatigues still had folds in them – the protestors had bought them that afternoon, probably at I. Goldberg's, a decades-old army-navy surplus store.

The city's mayor was Frank Rizzo, former police commissioner from South Philly, idolized by the Italian community, hated by the gays and blacks he had hounded throughout a career of sneering, swaggering machismo (my favorite quote: "I'll make Attila the Hun look like a faggot").

Rizzo's response to MOVE was incomprehensible and ultimately ruinous for the city.  Rather than clear the house of this rabble on outstanding charges of health and safety violations, he directed the police department to place a cordon around our neighborhood and wait for MOVE to capitulate. (If China had suggested starving out a bunch of dissidents, the U.S. would have been mightily upset.) Worse, he announced his plans a couple weeks in advance, giving MOVE's supporters ample time to haul in truckloads of supplies, including a skid of dog food.

For the next roughly six weeks, Powelton was occupied by up to 2,000 police and support personnel. I still find it hard to grasp that a judge blithely approved a state of martial law to enforce health regulations. And that his ruling was never seriously challenged or overturned.

To those familiar with MOVE, the result was foreordained—they simply hunkered down and refused to... move. Us Poweltonians, meanwhile, had to show identification to enter our own streets. The local activists, in their vocal but placid way, formed so many committees to discuss the situation – roughly equal pro- and anti-MOVE – that a higher committee coalesced to coordinate them all.

About then, Linda was moving back to the commune where I'd met her and where I still lived. We had no "transportation" beyond a battered wire shopping cart and her little red wagon. Back and forth we clumped from her apartment, the wagon loaded with books, kitchen equipment and the big garden rocks she'd brought from her home in Kansas. After awhile, even the cops found it ridiculous to keep asking for our IDs. They'd grin lightly, look bemused, then stand aside.

The immense police presence was absurdly ineffective. They exempted the street behind us from the cordon, and since our block had no internal fences, I would walk Pearl, our exuberant St. Bernard, down our front steps and half way around the block, then in the back way, without a single police challenge. The neighborhood also experienced a marked increase in breaking and entering – I guess it heightened the crooks' street cred to thumb their noses at the Man.

Across the city, the police force was in a shambles from diverting 20% of its resources to a pointless, static operation. (Once the blockade was lifted, they found that MOVE had moled a tunnel through to Powelton Ave., sneaking in supplies during the entire occupation.)

As I hazily recall it, the city and MOVE reached an agreement that if the police lifted their blockade, MOVE would hand over their guns. The police lifted the blockade, and –surprise! – MOVE handed them a bellylaugh.

Then one morning Linda and I were awakened by a short, intense rattle of gunfire. It hit like a mallet: "My god, they're killing them all." As it turned out, one police officer, James Ramp, was killed but no MOVE members. Despite conflicting forensic evidence on where the shot had come from, nine MOVErs were convicted of third-degree murder and for decades were regularly denied parole.

When I returned from work that afternoon, the street in front of our house was scored with caterpillar treads. I followed them around the corner to 33rd St. The MOVE houses were gone – three-story brick Victorian twins evaporated, the ground a smooth expanse of Philadelphia's yellow-brown clay. As Linda's young son Ben said, "At least they didn't salt the earth."

The occupation and confrontation were big news in city media back then, but they never caught national attention. Why? Can you name another example of weeks-long, uncontested martial law in a major American city?

That wrapped up MOVE for Powelton, but not for the city. Seven years later, on May 12-13, 1985, under Mayor W. Wilson Goode, the local government again lost its ability to think like adults in response to MOVE. The remaining group had moved to Osage Ave. on the city's western edge and again erected ramparts, but the local population was less willing than the loosey-goosey Poweltonians to accept such disruption.

This time, the city cut corners and turned to direct confrontation. The result was an armed standoff that ended when a collective of official imbeciles OKd dropping a parcel of C4 explosive onto MOVE's roof bunker. As the resulting fire spread, rather than endanger the firemen standing ready (or so read the official rationale), it was left to go its merry way.

The entire square block of over 60 rowhouses burned flat. When the smoke had cleared and the flames died out, 11 members of MOVE were found incinerated, including John Africa and five children. There were only two known survivors, Ramona Africa and nine-year-old Birdie Africa, who was permanently disfigured.

A footnote: Ramona, along with Birdie's relatives, were paid millions in damages. Ramona bought a house in the city's Kingsessing neighborhood, where she and MOVE remnants live a relatively quiet life. After hemming and hawing, the city agreed to rebuild the houses destroyed through its asinine incompetence. As a monument to shoddy, graft-infested contracting, the replacement homes proved uninhabitable, the contractors faced criminal charges, and the bedraggled homeowners were once again evicted while their "new" homes were razed and replaced.

by Derek Davis

[im-a-goner-foryou]

@goldenbadass sent me this idea of an au with criminal! Tony who lures and manipulates prison guard! Peter into helping him escape so here's the trash, this is about as Family Friendly as I can get:

- Outlaw! Tony Stark having been the culprit of many high-profile criminal cases over the decade, terrorizing the entire country with his cruel and heartless acts of violence and his extensive criminal records; when he's finally detained after somehow successfully fleeing custody for years, no one is surprised with the sentence he's given.

- And so Tony is transferred to one of the most secure prison with maximum security, prided for having a clean record of detainment. Everyone- including the convict himself- is certain that there's absolutely no chances of escape now, that the killer would finally meet his deserved end.

- At least, before an unexpected newcomer shows up-- the young son of prison governor Richard Parker, the boy barely an adult really-- who just graduated early from college and was looking for work experience in the law enforcement. The kid's a scrawny little thing, that much Tony can tell even under the crumpled material of the oversized uniform; he looks more like a teenager playing halloween dress up than anything else. Which is why in the beginning the inmate cannot, for the life of him, understand exactly what it is about that boy that piques his curiosity.

- As the both of them begin to spend more time together (well, as much as possible with one being detained in a barred cubicle) however, Tony quickly realises why. "What's your name?" he had asked while the kid was shuffling a little too hurriedly by his cell. Hazel brown eyes fly up to him, startled by the gruff tone after such long silence, wide and glassy with palpable fear; Tony tracks the dry swallow of the boy's pale throat, the way those pretty cupid-bow lips fall open and closed in hesitance. "What, you mute or something, kid?"

- "I-- I, my name's Peter," he finally stutters, a look of regret written plainly across his face even as he replies to the older man. It's a bad move, both Tony and the kid himself is aware; with what was supposed to be a confident stride but more of a frightened scurry, Peter practically sprints down the hallway. Tony watches as he rounds a corner, catches the barely-there flush at the tip of his ears, and grins to himself-- finally, something interesting around here.

- It doesn't take long for Tony to figure out the details of Peter's roster schedule, and at every timing he situates himself feet away from the steel bars, reclining against the wall with a practiced causal air. And every day without fail the kid will trot by, trepidation evident even in his steps; shoulders curled in on himself in a way that Tony's sure the poor thing isn't even aware of doing. Their eyes will meet at least once, a brief encounter in the form of a split-second glimpse, before Peter's face burns the most bashful pink and he tears his gaze away, fists clenching painfully tight at his sides. Sometimes the man will offer a word of greeting, only to be ignored; it seems as though the kid's learnt from his previous mistake.

- Somehow though, Tony isn't surprised when he wakes up from a nap one day to the distinct and unmistakable feeling of eyes on him-- stretching out his arms lazily before hanging it limp over the edge of his cot, he turns his head to meet the wide, doe-eyed gaze of Peter Parker. "Hello there," he grins, flashing his sharpened canines; it's a smile that never fails to inject either fearful apprehension or something entirely else to the recipient, and whatever suspicions Tony has is confirmed when he sees the boy's knees wobble. "Didn't your daddy ever tell you how rude it was to stare? At a sleeping individual, no less. And here I thought you were a good kid, Peter."

- Peter's mouth drops open at his words, then snaps shut almost instantly. His face burns a fiery red. "D-don't call me that," he finally says, words no more than a whisper. "I'm not a kid."

- "Sure you're not," Tony replies, voice dripping with sarcasm; he moves to sit upright, and the boy instinctively stumbles back several steps until his back hits the opposing wall, hand fluttering to the holster on his belt. "Woah, take it easy, kiddo. I'm not going to hurt you."

- That earns him a glare, some semblance of dignity returning to the younger man. "Oh yeah? Well, your criminal records say otherwise," he spits. Tony just grins at him, drawling out, "you've been reading up on me, huh? Like what you saw?"

- "No," Peter snaps, the teasing clearly striking a nerve in him. "You're-- you're a killer. Nothing but a... heartless monster."

- "Oh, now you're just hurting my feelings baby boy," the inmate fake pouts, clutching his hands over his heart; expecting hot rage from the kid for the term of endearment. Peter's response is anything but-- the spiteful words visibly dying in his throat as he swallows dryly, glassy brown eyes widening behind those thick lashes. Tony stares questioningly at the no silent boy, at the bright crimson flush that returns with force and colours his cheeks, the tips of his ears. When the realisation finally hits, it hits him hard; almost leaves him reeling. Then an almost feral grin twists his lips upwards, allows a dark rumbling chuckle to escape. "Well, who would have guessed? You're full of surpises, Pete. D'you like that? Some convicted killer callin' you baby--"

- "Shut up!" the boy bursts out, louder than Tony's ever heard him speak; bottom lip almost wobbling, Peter abruptly turns on his heel, fleeing off away from the cell and missing the pleased smile from the older man watching him leave. Perfect, Tony thinks silently to himself. Something i can use in my favour.

[insoucicnce-aa]

their beginning.

they remember trying to assimilate to humanity -- the cautious hands held out like dealing with a rabid dog, uncertainty glimmering in irises because they were more beast than child. snap of teeth, rows of sharp enamel to clasp onto fingers, twisting of a tiny, lanky form. phoenix can still feel the slap of a meaty hand on the back of their head, scathing words and in their confusion and rage, they let go and turn to the one who'd hit them.

an old human, weathered and stocky. he reminded the creature of the tall, formidable mountains they'd once read about during captivity. golden brown gaze glared down at them, snatching them up by the scruff of their shirt and dragging them off. and oh, how they fought, growling and snapping, wiggling in that mighty hold but nothing fazed him. tall buildings loomed overhead, loud sounds of a bustling town, the honk of pieces of trains without tracks, er cars, and the overwhelming smell of something quite delicious. an old dirt road followed, somewhere secluded and they panic. was someone going to be trap them again?

stomping up the steps, the old man dragged the weird, little guy with him, opening the door and dumping him into the foyer. vincenzo doesn't need to see that this child was something that had been made. oh, a true beast spliced with human's genes and yet they were still a child. long, unkempt juniper strands covered the majority of a mud stained face, algae clinging to the tattered clothing and long, scaled tail that protruded from his tail bone.

❝ what's your name, kid? ❞

❝ subject 009. ❞ words come out stilted, faint traces of an accent coating his tone. golden brown irises narrow, thick fingers rubbing at his beard as he continued to watch him. strange gaze turns toward him, and vincenzo nearly jumps back when a damn third eyelid blinks over his gaze. what the ever loving fuck? holy shit. damn, so he hadn't been wrong in his assumptions, this kid was a damn lab experiment, probably gone wrong if the feral growls and croaks emitting from the child were anything to go by.

❝ i can't call you that. let's call ya something else. ❞

❝vin..vincezo? what....who is this? ❞ hearing his wife's voice made him wince. the one time she was actually home on time.

marie approached with cautious steps toward the...thing, who had focused on a scrap of paper on the floor, nails scraping across it as if trying to write something. a scrawny little thing with an abundance of hair and a tail. goodness, just where had her husband picked it up?  crouching down, she reaches out tentatively, fingers gently combing through the juniper mass, grimacing as fingers caught in several knots, oh that wouldn't do. and it was enough for the child, beast, whatever it was to turn on her, tails knocking her straight on her ass before jumping on her. marie couldn't describe it, but the reaction was familiar, the need to get away ( fight or flight ), and for the first time, she recognizes that she isn't in danger, not really. it had hardly attacked her, just staring at her, gold and green swirling like mercury in it's gaze. but fear and confusion was ever present.

raising her hand, she gently plucked it's nose, aware of her husband hovering with worry nearby. the child, beast ( they really needed a name ) covered it's nose, crawling backward, still staring at her but this time with more perplexity than anything. vincenzo's hands help her up and she dusts herself off. damn, there would be no saving her dress, such a shame. she walked toward it once more, hand coming down, watching it flinch away immediately before drawing back but she kept advancing, hand settling on the top of their head and crouching down to embrace it.

❝ marie...woman what are doing? ❞

❝ shouldn't i be asking you that? you bought it here. we have to name him or her, since you've obviously adopted it. ❞

❝ i was going to given them a scolding for nearly ripping someone's arm off, actually. ❞

❝ yeah, by bringing it through town all the way home, right. ❞

❝ since you're being a smart ass, why don't you give it a name, o' wise ass. ❞

marie rolled her eyes, noting how it had gone still in her embrace. amused, she gently smoothed juniper strands down. what could she name them? something that could represent a creature of their magnitude. there was still a story to find out after all, ❝ phoenix....let's name them phoenix.  ❞ clawed fingers gathered in the fabric of her shirt, a strangled noise leaving the child ( might as well call them that now ) and that strange gaze was fixated on her face. there was no words, just a straight stare filled with more confusion and acceptance?

the days to come weren't easy. teaching phoenix to be civil, to not bite when he felt threatened. sometimes during the years, he'd disappear and come back covered in algae, blood and mud, but they were too terrified to ask. phoenix who had never trusted anyone, had finally accepted that they weren't there to hurt them. they learned the meaning of family, of being accepted and the art of cooking from his grumpy old man.

sometimes, fate was a fickle thing, but phoenix was grateful for their patience towards him. he knew he hadn't been easy to deal with and his violent tendencies had gotten worse as he got older, but he wouldn't trade his parents for anything. every other human though? he'd eat them in a heartbeat.