#sacrifice!verse

[cimmerianbaby]

Sacrifice!Verse

Diamond Apple (Dream + Berry)

Miss (Reaper + Error/Geno)

X-Ink (Cross + Ink)

Carnation (Floral + Lavander)

Rigel and Layla (Dusk + Dawn + Yux + Cloud)

Astrid (Astral + Lucid)

???? (Lux + Stärke)

If you have any ask, The ask are open ^^

[pantalonemiuraer309]

So guess who watched The Gentlemen...

Yes, I know he's a bit wonky and the composition is way off and his hands are just....

Anyway, ahem, if you can't tell, the chibi is our Mickey's man; Ray Smith. Why is he on Coach's phone? When had they even exchanged numbers?

My guess is they made up after the Russian thing was sorted. If we ever do get a sequel, maybe Guy Ritchie'll bring him back.

But oh, oh no of course, he's not it. It's not just Coach because, you see, of course I to do these-

-along with him. They come in a set, because of course I do, because I can't go five minutes without envisioning my au that I never seem to get written down or drawn correctly up until now.

The animals behind them are their Animagus forms and the wings are, well, I imagined the Grindelwald House being the house of moths and butterflies. Blame Pinterest, istg.

By the way, the girl is not Vinda, not that they'd bear any resemblance, but an oc of mine. Yeah. She's everywhere. You might know her from this post.

@grimalkinmessor she's a gift to you, again.

Here's the full thing with too much negative space:

Honestly, not too bad. I'm not actually that mad at them. Some of the best I've done in the last 5 months and that's counting Inktober.

And Penguins Fans, yeah, sorry for the side track. I got a few more thing to get done, and then I'm gonna do something a bit more light-hearted than the last thing I posted for you guys.

Stay tuned and have a great night folks!

Oh and please do click on the pictures. Tumblr vs. quality and all that jazz.

[evening-rose-309]

"I think....that the constitution has veered quite a ways away from what it should have been- what it should be."

"So you agree, it's a broken system?"

A sound came limping out of Graves' lips. Gellert had only a moment to register that it as laughter. "Whether I agree or not, Herr Königswald, is quite frankly no longer a matter. I'm a pawn, a soldier. I hold as much power as a dog on a sheep farm."

The man took another swig of his beer. Gellert watched his throat bob, suddenly very interested in that particular part of his anatomy. The tie that had at one point been a vice upon the man's jugular now hung low beneath his debuttoned collar. He watched as the drink went down in fervor and it not so subtly occured to him that he was in a prime position. If Graves was a hound on a sheep farm, then that meagre scrap of silk was his chain. His leash, and was it not Gellert's duty, as the wolf awaiting by the pasture's fringe, to snap upon said leash and free away the hound of his sordid ordeal?

sheep dogs don't have leashes Gellert you're drunk I'm drunk the hell is this thing-

[ Instagram, apparently, has its uses. Came across that quote and found it was too good to pass up. A wonder though, if Graves really had been a mole, where he went just before the subway catastrophe. The concept arts had him in Paris, but we know he didn't make it into the film. Alas, our age old question remains unanswered. ]

[pantalonemiuraer309]

'Mother-of-pearl in her velvet hair, satin wrapped about her supple waist, the gleam of her eyes and quirk of her lips that could only be of mischief and of biting pride. This woman, oh bless her dear lord, bless them both, this woman was to be his wife.'

@grimalkinmessor Bill keeps an album where all the pictures are printed snippets from his and Ava's memories.

[evening-rose-309]

What Now?

Because angst. Is what I do. Nothing else though a maybe some fluffy soulmate snippets are on the way, who knows.

This is set in the Sacrifice!verse, some time, maybe a year after the duel. Oh, and the duel is moved up ten years by the way. Because.... World War ll? Anyways, enjoy!

If you were to ask him now how he felt about the whole thing, he wouldn't give you an answer. Not a real one, the protocol for questions was to lie through your teeth, present an unbiased front, unmoved, blithe, indifferent. Even if he had wanted to scream, even if he broke down before your feet, his soul rotting right out of his body before your very eyes, it was still not his place to give you an answer. And in the hindsight, the true question that remained was if he really had one. Percival had never pretended, pretended to be anything but himself bar those odd eight years he saw himself spying for the cause, spying for the castle. He certainly wasn't pretending now, now that he had a station high enough that very few challenged him, came for him, tried to broker with him. It was not his place to proffer anything, especially answers, if he'd had any to give.

Still, they asked, they always did, looking to him for signs, for unlawful commands. If he gave, if he caved, the rest of them would. The result would be mutiny, the worst sort of coup, with the wrong sort of people to be crushed in the rubble and choked by the debris. The wrong person, and he for one wasn't willing to take that chance. Call him a coward, but he hadn't the stomach for it, much less the heart.

Though some might say it was a reflect on his own that he stood so proud.

"Percival." He turned, stalling abruptly his path to the hall.

"General Rosier," he bowed his head in greeting. The woman in question gave him an odd look and motioned for him to continue as she caught up.

"I just heard," his throat was suddenly dry, "when was it, last Thursday?"

"Friday," he corrected. "Evening."

"Why didn't you tell us?" He avoided meeting her eyes. "Now Graves, don't be like that, this is cause for celebration!"

"I don't see why," he mumbled, to which she replied with a clap to his back.

"Because now," she whispered into his ear, "now you stand a chance."

The was conspiracy in her voice. Genial, jovial conspiracy. Percival did not reflect this. His heart had sunken down to his stomach and his feet were paying a dear price for it. This is why I didn't tell you, his mind bit when his mouth refused. This why I don't say things.

The grin on her face was terrifying. Well meaning- in concept -but terrifying. This is why I don't tell you things. Because Vinda was hopeful. She was cynical, but she was hopeful. She had stakes in things, she put stakes in things, that had or merrited none. Dangerous things, treacherous things. That could- and he used the word sparingly, because in all honesty it was a stretch -get her booted from her position. She was the right hand, and if the right hand of the King were caught in conspiracy, it would spell and onslaught of chaos for the rest of them.

That never stopped her trying. Another reason he kept this one under the table. His one. He couldn't risk losing more friends.

Since when was the Rosette Cleaver your friend?

"You know, I heard," she started again. "I heard he might abdicate, willingly, if the cards were right. Don't give me that look, I'm serious! A Lord's son- no, listen to me! -if a Lord's son, a lord by birth, were to claim the seat of his opposition, he would forfeit. Now you, Percival, you are a son no longer but the Lord. You are a Lord of the Founders Council of America! You hold one of the most powerful seats in the room! That hall has lords by birth and prestige, sure, but you! You were his first choice, you have the chance!"

Chance. Was that what they were gambling on, chance?

Percival shook his head. "No."

"No?" The diamond set keys weighed heavy in his pockets. "No!? Why!"

Why. Why, that was what it always came to. Why had he let it happen. Why had he stood behind. Why hadn't he followed Ava, followed him, to the bluffs beyond that castle's grounds. Why hadn't he cuffed Scamander and Travers and Goldstein when he'd had the chance. Why had he stood so silent at the wake, why hadn't he screamed when they gave him the medal and told him he could ask for a higher station in two years time for collateral.

Why hadn't he fought the clause when he knew it was substantially void?

"Why?" he repeated, still not meeting her gaze as they trudged on to the doors. A few more steps. "Because it doesn't matter," couple of feet, come on, "it won't matter, because the boards would never allow it."

Rosier seethed "The boards have no idea what they're talking about!" He kept walking, shrugging out of her grip, marching to the door- "Graves! Percival!"

Almost. Almost there. He wouldn't have to talk about it once he was through. He wouldn't have to think. Wouldn't even have to look Gellert in the eye once he's reading his reports-

"Percy!" She caught him. She caught him by the shoulder and spun him around. Her eyes for desperate, pleading for something, something he couldn't give her, could never. Anger and spite and anguish chanted and danced along her eyes. Chanted his name, chanted-

"Do you think this is what she would have wanted?"

He broke. His resolve broke, her voice broke, nothing above a whisper, yet the words still struck a cord in his chest. The last remaining one- to hold up-

"What?" The word felt small. So, so small, in comparison to hers. Perhaps that was what made her so effective a general, what made her still his hand, even after, after-

"Do you think she would want this," and suddenly the hall felt too large, too long, "do you think that she gave her life just so his would be miserable? Just so ours would be in ruin? Look around you Graves, look at that door! Behind it is the man who stole her last wish, our last wish, do you remember?"

Remember. Remember he did, that night- that night in the house. Their last night in the house, as a group, as a family-

He remembered a dance, a song, a cake. He remembered the lights of bleeding gold and eyes of shimmering silver. He remembered the boys, two boys, small and sweet, rolling around the carpet with the dog, the fire, so warm, he-

He remembered laughter, he remembered joy. He remembered silence, the moment thrum of stilling hearts. He remembered the grace of folding knees, eyes beaming up, nervous but bright, so so bright and kind. At him. Beaming up at him, in awe, in- in something, something else. And words, words to draw a sheen to his eyes, and choking, words to capsize his knees, arms that held him close, held him tight and alive. He remembered the gleam, the subtle shine of emerald, of silver, sliding onto his- his hand-

But before that, he remembered her.

"I wish," there was a smile, candle light over pearls and silk, "that, after all this is done, when the war is said and over with. We stay. Like this.

Too long. Too long we've spent fighting. Fighting each other, fighting- What good is a family torn? What good is a crest with nothing to hold?

The hate, the- the goading. The spite and the jealousy. It stops tonight. No more. We can't stand like this. If nothing changes, they'll ruin us. Tear us apart and I, for one, would like to see a home I can come back to, a home that isn't divided by one word or another, by one view skewed and another mis- misguided.

Tomorrow, when this is done, all of us, and I mean all of us, will stay. As family. We are one, and it's time we start acting like it. No more running. This is where we stand and this is how we're going to do it."

The snuffing of candles, the raising of a glass.

"Together. To- Family."

"To Family."

Family.

Family-

He was alone in the hall. Under the grand arch, the shadowed hall leading to court, slivers of light streaming from seams between the velvet smothering the windows. In the dark, in the gloom, under chandeliers that had never been lit, lights that glew dim, and portraits that never spoke, never saw, never heard. The clock over the door said a quarter to twelve. He eyed it despondently, the ache in his bones weighing him down down down-

Alone. They'd failed. They'd failed so so thoroughly. They'd won, but they'd lost.

They'd lost. And now, there was nothing, they were nothing, but shells, empty casings-

If he could laugh, he would.

The ring weighed heavy in his hand. The keys in his breast pocket, the one over his heart, he-

He'd never had a ball chained to his leg before, but he reckoned- he reckoned this would be it.

They'd failed. He was alone. They'd failed. He had no answers.

We put him on the throne, but- what now?

He glanced over to the arch on the other side of the hall.

What now, Kid?

I remember pitching mulling over the concept of the clause with @hotforcaptaincold on discord? At some point? But anyway, angst. Angst on a Sunday (it's one here, yay timezones!). Because I did not know that Graves was a Lord before, I had to go looking at Google and lo and behold. I wanted to play with the concept anyway, maybe I'll do something lighter with it later.

[pantalonemiuraer309]

Ya might wanna turn up the brightness...

@grimalkinmessor can you see our girl?

[evening-rose-309]

There were some days when time just stopped for Percival. Not in a bad sense, no- though sometimes time really did stop for them, as though the seconds on the ground had turned into separate eternities in the fiery pits of hell and limbo -just in a way that made him forget outside existed. That work was waiting for him at the office or that he had a meeting scheduled at the Capitol for 10:30 next Monday with the Danes. Days like that were few and far in between, though when they happened, he'd find himself missing them when they ended.

Today was like that. Today was...something. He couldn't really find a word for it, nor did he really want to, not with those fingers in his hair, carding and kneading and turning his head into mushy, doughy pudding at their touch.

"Enjoying yourself, Graves?" a snicker of a voice giggled from somewhere beside them.

Percival smirked. "Jealous Kid?" he answered, not bothering to open his eyes.

He could hear the mischief in Ava's voice as she lamented, "Only that you've got your head on his lap and mine's up here in the cold."

Percival laughed. It'd been a while since he'd let himself do that. These days laughter was limited to forced grins and chuckles at summit meetings, mostly to keep the no-maj's at ease and the general's on their toes. He'd never let himself laugh at work, not in the past, certainly not now.

But here? Now? In the middle of nowhere with the sun on their backs and a basket of cakes in the grass? He could cackle. He could snort and make all sorts of obscene noises if he wanted. The worst that could happen was him spooking a few horses, but they were used to them by now, and so were the rabbits, the sheep, the cows. If they'd brought the dogs, they'd be whooping alongside him, howling into sky, laughing in the face of every single shit delegate in court and wherever from the comforts of far-far-away-land.

For now though he settled with a simple, albeit honest little thing that had the woman at his side swatting a breadstick at his leg and the man above him chuckling along to their antics.

"You are aware I have two hands right Pretty?" Gellert added. Percival could hear the smile in his words almost as well as he could see it, even through the dark, a bright and disarming curve in his lips that no doubt bore the tobacco stained teeth that tasted like sugar when they kissed. He could almost taste them now, running his tongue over his lips, the leftovers from when they were setting up the picnic blanket, sneaking one over like some lovesick schoolboy.

He felt it when Ava moved and butted her head between Gellert's shoulder blades, snorting; "Yes Papa, but I'm sure Percy here rather likes you all to himself."

"Right you are, Kiddo," he answered, the smirk on his face bleeding into a blissful smile.

This. This was his heaven. His haven. Right here with Ava sneaking arms around Gellert like a jealous cat despite her words and his lover sitting back and letting them have his way with him. This was bliss. This was the thing they'd went without for months on end, his reward for running himself ragged through four cities trying to keep the peace, Ava's for the months spent on the front lines half buried in sand, dir, and snow, and Gellert's for the meetings, the hearings, the rallies over gunfire and the countless descents into the fields where their worlds collided, the muggles still untrusting and the wizards unruly. This was their reward for the hells they'd faced, the very war itself, and the new one boiling over France and Germany's borders, miles and miles and miles away. This was their haven, for however long that would be, until the phones rang and the owls swooped down on them, dragging them back to the pits where the only remnant of their time together was a picture on the wall or folded in the shirt pocket of a grimy uniform.

For now though, they sat in bliss. In quiet. In plain sight and plain clothes on a plain, manless field all to themselves.

Time however, time was cruel. When it stopped, it stopped for only a moment, and you knew those seconds were numbered, like a clogged pipe or cannon on the deck of an impending warship. And like those things, when it bursts, it pummeled you, merciless, taking with it all that it gave as you were left breathless against the mast.

Percival knew their time was done the second Gellert's fingers tensed in his hair and his thighs shifted as he sat straighter.

"Gell?" he sat up, opening his eyes and facing the dark lord whose shining eyes were now shadowed as they stared into the sky.

"The sky's gone dark," was all Gellert said, distant, face blank, but- damn him, damn all of it -his words were the ticket.

In a flash, Ava was gone, and that meant the bliss was officially, damnably over. Percival stared into Gellert's face, trying to find something, say something. Something to say he was wrong, that they sky was fine, that they were fine, and that everything was as it should be. In the end he found nothing, and hated himself for it, because Gellert's eyes going empty like that could only mean it was a vision and his visions always, always meant something. Even if the sky was bright. Even if the sun were still shining and the horses were still there and the foals were frolicking and the rabbits, the cows, the-

"Kid!" he shouted. Shouted over the pretty picture, because the pretty picture was gone, and Ava's shoulders had now made it twenty marching foot falls away. Ava's bare, scarred shoulders, slung with the straps of that pretty yellow sundress Bill had gotten her for Christmas. The sundress she always wore, not for lack of having others, but because that Christmas had been the first they'd spent as a real, honest family, standing by the fire, laughing along like real people and not pawns in the war games they played outside.

"I'm calling home!" she answered back, not stopping, because stopping would mean hesitation and want and those were not things a soldier should have. A general. A killer.

He knew what her words meant though. Calling home, she was calling Vinda. First Vinda, to check if there really was something- who were they kidding? -then her husband to say she wouldn't be coming home for dinner and to tell the boys that she loved them. She would call Bill for that and to get her suitcase ready, the one Percival knew was packed to the brim with knives and guns and bullets, which she didn't take on this trip because Gellert hated seeing them on her.

Percival watched her leave, with his hands in Gellert's and squeezing as tightly as he could. A goodbye of their own, because Ava's shoulders would soon be covered with a vest and a uniform, and soon after, his would too.

[evening-rose-309]

For @grimalkinmessor :

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

She was beautiful, he supposed. Women like her were meant to be beautiful.

So. More Ava. Plus. The doll is coming along nicely.