#emmry

[jomiddlemarch]

“Henri, you need not be gentle,” Lisette murmured, her lips nuzzling his unshaven jaw. She smelled of jasmine and sweat and the faintest hint of the turpentine she used to clean her brushes. She tasted of wine. Her dark hair curled wildly, her silk peignoir hanging off one shoulder. 

She was nothing like Emma. It was nothing like the woods, the creek, the War.

“Yes, I do,” he said. He knew what he was capable of. Assault, ravishing, uttering lies as though they were God’s word.

“You are broken, cheri. I am not. I shall break you.”

“Promise?” he asked.

[mercurygray]

Writing prompt: 04. — hunter, dealer's choice of fandom/character(s)? please and thank you!

It has been approximately 85 years since I have written for this pairing and I don't care.

He could not run when the moon was full.

Here in his room at Mansion House, Henry was safe from so many things. The charges that had haunted him at home were unknown here - he had a blank slate, room to start afresh far from the accusations that had dogged his steps. Accused - and yet not only accusation. That was, perhaps, the worst part - that not all of what they had alleged was a lie.

But war was barbaric, and among barbarians there was room for beasts. So he was safe here, for a while, at least, safe with a locked door and a candle burning against the dark. No one said anything here of blood or madness, or missing limbs, or gaping wounds. It was a hospital - they had those in plenty. But he could not run here - run away from what he was, run free with what he wanted to be.

So he remained caged, with his door and his candle and his dreams.

It was easier to fight his nature in the firelight. The dark was harder to deny. Night is full of things like me - fiends and foul things, and moonlight makes them seen. He felt seen tonight; the moon was full and he could feel it in his bones, straining against the golden circle of the candle, begging to be let loose. Let me run, his blood said. Let me kill.

On nights like these there were only creatures, the hunter and the hunted, and he could smell them in the dark - the ripening of the soon dead, the sluggish torpor of the still living. All of these, and Emma. Emma! Lovely Emma, with her red lips and her white throat. She was made for different evenings, the moonlight of night-blooming jasmine and tuberose, fragrant and heady and not for him. The want he had for her was different - to make her utterly his own, consumed without consuming.

And yet to think on it he could not help but growl. Henry paced the room, feeling himself fold into himself so that he might chase his tail and bare his teeth. Emma. Think of Emma. Her voice would be soft and warm, and her white hands gentle as feathers, and he would lay his head on her lap and let her pet him until he fell asleep, tamed and docile, repeating his name and telling him he was good, hands gentle on his skin, Henry, my darling boy, Henry, and she was what he wished her to be, a woman who was not afraid to love a wolf.

[thequeenofthewinter]

And I’m calling this done ✨

Iris and Emmrich can dance around the stars with swirly magic forever

[fericita-s]

Reading this with bated breath like

📓

Oh boy am I continuing to jinx myself by talking about this idea, but I am going to try to get it done for the FicWIP 5000 word AU challenge, but: the now-old-enough-to-go-to-kindergarten Mercy Street AU in which Henry Hopkins decides (after killing the Confederate soldier who took a potshot at him and Emma) that he's already damned twice and there's no point in trying to change what he is, so he leaves the ministry & the hospital without actually explaining himself to anyone, enlists in the Union Army, etc. Emma, incensed about this, still falls out with her family over her volunteering as a nurse and somehow gets around the rules about volunteer nurses needing to be a certain age and/or married (I have the vaguest recollection of what this is, exactly, but we're handwaving in here) with the help of Mary, Jed, and Matron Brannan. The war goes on, eventually Henry is badly wounded during the Overland Campaign of 1864 - my notes say Spotsylvania Courthouse but I'm open to changing things - gets sent back to Mansion House, of all places, to recuperate before being sent home.

I'm not sure if, in this AU, how much turn-over there's been at Mansion House - whether Emma's the only one left that recognizes him - or if the usual cast of characters is now playing the Greek Chorus to Emma's incredibly mixed emotions about someone she cared very deeply about (but who she not wrongly sees as having abandoned her for reasons she only partly understands) again; I've been leaning towards Emma is the only one left because at the heart of it, this was supposed to be about two people who successfully destroyed the people they had been before (not necessarily totally a bad thing!) now confronted with the ghosts of their pasts - someone who used to see the best in them, and believe in them - and I think some of that would be blunted if Jed is being acerbic in the background? Then again, the idea of Henry having the emotional intelligence to figure out how to apologize to Emma without having someone to talk to ... does somewhat beggar belief.

I also have no idea whose POV to go with - I'm leaning towards Emma's, since this is partly her trying to figure out what on earth is happening with Henry - but I keep flipflopping. Ah well.

[felikatze]

what the fuck happened to these character dynamics

[genjyoandgojyoandhakkai]

I can't draw but picrew (2) let me doodle about Them

[genjyoandgojyoandhakkai]

Screenshot of previous tags because FUCKING YES OMG

Everyone's always like "oh Taash is gonna teach Manfred how to say fuck!" or "Rook taught him how to say fuck!"

BUT CONSIDER: SPITE

[velvet-apricots]

New chapter posted!

Chapter 21 of Aftershocks has been posted!

Pairing: Emmrich Volkarin x Rook

Warnings: childbirth

Summary:

“Dahlia!” Emmrich nearly slipped on the slick stone as he finally entered the room. Ashur and Neve had created a little nest on the floor for her to recline on, and Ashur had found her an oversized tunic to wear for some semblance of modesty. “Emmrich!” His attention then went to Manfred, who got up from where he was kneeling. “Emmrich Emmrich Emmri-” The spirit's jaw, barely hanging on, finally fell off and clattered on the ground. He looked down at it, head tilting, then looking back up, hissing. “Oops.” “Manfred, what has-? Your skull, your ribs!” He watched as Manfred opened his little backpack in his abdominal cavity and pulled out the broken pieces. Emmrich looked to Neve, hoping for some sort of explanation. She gave him nothing.

Find the rest in the link above or click here!

[silshinobii]

Oh, What Smut 💚

Chapter 24 for Oh, What Smut is now posted and is very much dedicated to @thepalehorsevictoria - I am eternally grateful for your ongoing support and inspiration to my smut writing.

Read it HERE 💚

She wanted to say something smart, something snappy, as he glanced over the room before spotting her sprawled across the couch cushions - Sable lifted her head, mouth opening, before he strode quickly across the room. Whatever clever tease she thought she might have made caught in her throat as he leaned down, sweeping her off the couch in one quick motion before he slung her over his shoulder.

"Emmri-"

"Do you have any idea-" his voice was low, his palm heavy against the back of her thigh as he turned to leave the lounge. "-what you've been doing to me today?"

Sable couldn't help but laugh, the sound breathless even to her ears, as she braced her hands against his back, trying to keep her upper body lifted. "You're not the one who was being ignored all day."

She felt him hitch her a little higher against his shoulder. "I did not intend for you to feel ignored-"

"But?"

Emmrich heard her laugh again, her hips squirming as he steadied her with the hand on her thigh. "I couldn't risk getting caught with my hands down my trousers between meetings with potential investors."

Sable outright cackled at his response. "I knew you'd look."

"Of course I looked," his agreement came with a playful slap to her ass as they moved through the foyer. The squeak that slipped from her caught them both by surprise and it was Emmrich's turn to laugh - the hand on her thigh smoothed up, fingers dragging against her skin before they sank beneath her shorts.

[queenmuzz]

Zea Ingellvar’s Codex

Based off this prompt. I will attempt to put one out each day

3. A letter from Rook to someone in their faction

Dear Myrna,

I want to thank you again for interceding on my behalf to get the Mourn Watch Council to allow me to return to the Necropolis, even on a limited basis.  I know you would have had to call in a LOT of favours, (Please don’t tell me that Vorgoth did their ‘THE SPIRITS ARE ANGERED’ threats. It’s always embarrassing when they do that to get their own way.)  Don’t worry, I won’t squander this opportunity, I won’t be heading to the Necropolis much, except on business.  I intend to see this mission through, and hopefully if I’m successful, the Nobles will be too busy falling over themselves to thank me  for saving the world to remember that I pissed them off with my little stunt.

Thank you for the sack of dried Nevvaran cranberries.  It’s amazing how simple little things like those remind me of home.  Especially as everyone else’s portable travel food of choice is some sort of meat jerky.  I know you said consuming meat isn’t forbidden, especially as I travel, but I still feel squeamish about eating it.  It just feels wrong.  Thankfully, one of the people I’m travelling with, Lucanis, is an accomplished cook, and he goes out of his way to provide vegetarian versions of food for myself and Emmri the Professor.

Speaking of whom, Professor Volkarin has been a very helpful addition to our little group.  I know I never got to know the academic side of the Mourn Watch, being on Crypt Guard duty in the lower depths, but he’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met.  And very kind too! I didn’t expect any praise for my actions during the War of the Banners, but he told me that he respected the decision I took, and was impressed that I owned up to the consequences.  I won’t deny that I first felt like he was buttering me up, because I’m leading this little group for some reason, but the more I get to know him, the more I realize he really meant it.  He even took me to the memorial gardens to complete the rites, because I think he sensed I was a bit homesick.  It was actually very touching!

I would like to call in one more eensy teensy little favour, Myrna.  Next time I visit the Necropolis, can I borrow some books from the library?  Specifically a few written by Emmr the Professor.  Preferably without him knowing I’m borrowing them.  I would like to understand the subjects he teaches, even if as a non-mage, I won’t be able to appreciate them fully.  And you always taught me ‘The best way to gain knowledge is to seek it out.’  So consider this me taking the time to learn something.  Oh, and while I’m there, I’ll pick up Olaf.  Now that I have a place I can call my own, no one will judge me (openly) for having his skull in my quarters.  Thank you for taking care of him! Your Ward, Zea Ingellvar

(Written in a flowing script at the bottom)

It seems young Ingellvar is quite taken by the Professor.  I do hope he understands her situation, and does not take undue advantage of it.

YOUNG VOLKARIN HAS MY TRUST.  I HAVE KNOWN HIM SINCE HE WAS A BOY, AND NEVER HAS HE EVER CROSSED ANY BOUNDARIES WITHOUT REFLECTION AND MUTUAL ATTRACTION.

THAT BEING SAID, IF ANY HARM COMES TO INGELLVAR BECAUSE OF HIM, THE SPIRITS WILL BE ANGERED.  THIS IS NOT AN IDLE THREAT.

[jomiddlemarch]

I wish you would write a fic where…Emma runs into Henry and Lisette in Paris.

Je souhaite

Perhaps one day, Emma would grasp her sister was only capable of terrible ideas.

Demain, tomorrow, perhaps she would have understood it fully then. Not today, aujourd’hui, and certainly not hier, yesterday, when it would have been possible to insist she accompany Alice to the modiste or make arrangements to visit Notre Dame. In either case, a woman in the unbecoming, unrelieved grey of half-mourning would have been met with a respectful nod, not the almost theatrical exclamation Mlle. Beaufort made, complete with a wholly Gallic raised eyebrow and appraising glance.

“Mon Dieu! Why, it is the little nurse—Miss Green—”

“Mrs. McBurney,” Emma said.

If she had worn the bonnet with the veil, instead of listening to Alice who said no one would bother fussing about a veil this long after the funeral and did Emma want to look like a horrid old crow, if she had worn the veil and the cloak, no one would have noticed her, not even sharp-eyed Lisette Beaufort, who had observed everything during the short months she spent at the hospital, not only the burgeoning romance between Dr. Foster and dear Mary the artist had captured in charcoal before Dr. Foster had made any effort to propose and had spent most of his time between surgeries either quipping, sniping, or scowling. 

“Ah, yes. You married the ranking officer, Captain McBurney,” Lisette said. Henry Hopkins, still recognizable despite the full beard and the spectacles, stood at her side as still and solemn as he had been wont to do in mixed company. He had not even acknowledged Emma’s presence, though it was horribly rude of him, a typical Yankee Emma’s mother would have said, if Emma and her mother communicated beyond infrequent, brief stilted letters.

“Major McBurney,” Emma corrected. She’d married Clayton for his rank. She owed him this much, to give him his due, when he’d saved her sister’s life and honor, and other than one brief conversation, in which he made it clear he understood it was Emma who had compromised him, had never again mentioned it.

Never again had not proved to be especially long, as he’d been carried off shortly after the War ended by a bout of influenza that Emma had not thought particularly concerning when he’d complained mildly of a catarrh before walking into his study, a space sacrosanct and tended only by the housekeeper, a beetle-browed Mrs. Cooper. He was insensible when Mrs. Cooper found him shortly after midnight and hadn’t survived long enough for Emma to even send a telegram to Dr. Foster asking for advice. The mustard poultice she’d prepared cooled on the range, having never made it to her husband’s heaving chest.

“And he has some business to occupy him keeping him from escorting you around Paris, no?” Lisette said, worldly and charming and keeping her own gloved hand very firmly on Henry’s arm. The glove was embroidered, quite the most fashionable item Emma had ever seen, and she wished she envied Lisette for it and not Henry.

“No. I was widowed over a year ago,” Emma replied.

“My condolences,” Lisette said, a soft sincerity in her tone that could not be a pretense. Had no reason to be. “Such a terrible loss. Henri?”

“Such a terrible loss,” Henry repeated, but it sounded nothing like Lisette’s appropriate, anodyne  remark. He was asking a question and Emma could not help being glad it mattered to him, to know how she felt about her husband’s death, that he did not assume her grief-stricken nor relieved. He could almost have been a stranger, his appearance so altered, but his voice and the way he stood were all as familiar to her as the day she’d come to him to tell him of her engagement, her imminent marriage, when she hadn’t been able to beg him to understand because even the slightest comment might tighten the noose around Alice’s white neck. I wish you happy, he’d finally managed to say, ashen-faced, looking like a soldier about to bleed out, one Dr. Foster would not offer either the scalpel or the needle, only an obscene blessing, a God-damned shame, a God-damned waste.

“It was very sudden. A fever in the night. Dr. Foster said there was nothing anyone could have done,” she replied.

“Then you cannot blame yourself, for Jedediah has always kept apprised of the latest scientific developments,” Lisette said. How tangled it all was, Lisette who had known Dr. Foster long before he’d come to Mansion House, who might yet exchange letters with Dr. Foster or even Mary, Henry standing across from Emma, watching her with a steady gaze, with eyes she’d once seen wild with desire, with fear, whom she’d loved and abandoned. Who Lisette had welcomed, into her circle if not also her bed, though that gloved hand on his arm spoke of possession as much as support.

“What brings you to Paris, Mrs. McBurney?” Henry asked.

“My sister thought it would do me good, a change from home, and then, she wanted us, wanted me to get a new wardrobe made, for when my mourning is done. Alice is, well, she is herself,” Emma explained. 

“She hasn’t changed,” Henry said and that was the closet he would come to cursing Alice, whose inept espionage made her a traitor, made Emma throw away any hopes of marrying a hospital chaplain in favor of a well-connected Union officer. 

“People don’t,” Lisette said. “They pretend, to themselves, to others, that they do, but we know that isn’t so, don’t we, Henri?”

“No, they don’t. Not in their hearts,” he said. As a declaration of undying and constant love, Emma could not say it was as direct, as incontestable as she would have wanted when she had worked alongside Henry in Mansion House’s wards, but for a woman dressed in drab grey silk, unaccompanied in Paris, who had not mentioned Reverend Hopkins in even one letter to Mary Foster, it was bold enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“If you would let me trade upon our old acquaintance,” Lisette said, offering a lace-trimmed handkerchief to Emma, the monogram blessedly missing an H.

“Thank you,” Emma said. 

“I must fly, an appointment I cannot miss, but Henri might walk with you back to your hotel and take tea with you,” Lisette said. “It is easy to get lost in Paris, it helps to have someone more familiar guide you home.”

“That’s very kind of you, but you needn’t,” Emma began, pausing when Lisette lifted her hand from Henry’s arm and waved it gently in a gesture that was the dismissal of a great lady. Henry simply watched, but there was a new gleam in his eyes.

“It’s nothing and I know from experience that Henri needs tea and something to eat or he shall become a bear, so truly, you are doing me the favor, cherie,” Lisette said, smiling. “He will not admit it, but he likes pastries the best, pain au chocolat most of all.”

“I cannot keep you,” Emma said to Henry. “You must have other plans, obligations—”

“In fact, Mrs. McBurney, I don’t. I don’t make as many plans as I used to,” he said.

“And that is better?” Emma asked.

“It has served me well enough,” he replied. “Today, for instance. Today, it has served me exceedingly well.”

No matter what happened next, Emma refused to give Alice any credit. 

Happy New Year to @broadwaybaggins as well as all the old Mercy Street crowd and all my followers! May your day and year start with something as delicious as Henry's preferred pain au chocolat.

[mercurygray]

Ever since I read your Henry werewolf au I've got this image of a post-canon scene wherein Henry's comfortable enough to run around in the woods during the full moon, and the next day Emma's browsing in the market and one of their neighbor's is all aflutter because she'd heard something in her garden the night before and 'wouldn't you know it, some large animal got in my flowers!'. Poor Emma's thinking about the bedraggled bouquet Henry gifted her that morning and is like '😶 how terrible 😶'.

I haven't stopped smiling since I read this this morning. A+ use of AU, no notes.

It's an apology, right? For her muddy floors and having to fix the seam of his trousers again because he didn't get out of his clothes before he changed and he's sorry, really sorry, and he'll scrub the floors later but he has class to teach and the bell will go soon. They're only black-eyed susans, broken-stemmed and jammed into an empty canning jar, but she knows he carried them home in his teeth, laid them on the table as gently as he could so that his human hands could arrange them better in the morning before she woke.

But to Emma they're beautiful. The worst of it was last night - she knows this now, that as the moon waxes he grows amorous and hungry, and after the change, while the moon wanes, he becomes tender and shy. Which do you like more? He'd asked her once, but she couldn't chose. She loves all of him, especially the wolf who tries to bring her flowers.

[thequeenofthewinter]

On Repeat

I feel SO very called out because almost every single one of these songs but two are Emmris playlist. ...and you know what the other two may as well be on the playlist anyway.

Rules: shuffle your on repeat playlist and add the first ten songs, then tag ten people.

I think I was tagged by @draco-illius-noctis @caughtnyact and @holdingontojupiter.

Please, Please, Please Let me Get What I Want- The Smiths

Dream Girl Evil- Florence + the Machine

Crave- Paramore

Untitled- Interpol

Brothers on a Hotel Bed- Death Cab for Cutie

Kiss Me- Six Pence None the Richer

God Gave Me Feet for Dancing- Ezra Collective

Knowledge- Kamasi Washington

Chase This Light- Jimmy Eat World

How Deep is Your Love- Bee Gees

Tagging: @starfleetteddybear @razildor @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @silshinobii and @redheadsramblings if you haven't done it yet or haven't been tagged 800 million times by other people. <3

[apothe-cary]

DEAR CARY,

this is for Grey, or any of your Rooks, really 🤣 please send Xiqaa Laidir a letter! She's living in the Lighthouse having sex enjoying some down time with Emmri and Lucanis. She will definitely write back to you once she takes the dicks out

Sincerely,

Spite Dellamorte

I can fucking not with you LOL

Absolutely, as the Rookery Manager, your message has been received. As per the letter agreements I must ask some questions.

Should this be an intro letter or would you like them to have already know each other and looking to reconnect?

Is there a preferred rook of Mine you’d like a letter from?

Any fun facts you’d like me to know about your rook to take into consideration? (Not like I haven’t stalked your page >.>)

SINCERELY, Your Favorite,

Cary 😎

[felikatze]

epic nicknames reveal

the only people allowed to call corvirus that are emmerich and corvi's grandpa

corvirus is the only person who calls emmerich that. it's not that emmerich doesnt like nicknames, it's just that nobody does, yknow.

ferron picks up the nickname later and corvirus gets stupid defensive about it because he did it FIRST

[magnifigal]

My Bonespook OCs work REALLY well in Cyberpunk Aesthetically. Here we have Emmri as a Netrunner!