aye_of_newt



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    “People always talk about how bad the surgery is,” Ed told Hawkeye, “but you never hear people mention how much it sucks to have fifty pounds of metal hanging off your body. Bolts in your bones.”

    “What’s happening?” Mustang asked sharply, turning toward them with his clouded eyes still lingering a few feet over their heads. “Hawkeye? What’s Fullmetal doing? Is there something wrong with his automail?”

    Ed flicked the lighter again, waited a little more patiently this time, and inhaled. Then he gave Hawkeye a nod, giving in to the inevitable. The only reason Mustang hadn’t figured it out already was probably because Ed didn’t do a lot of... this sort of thing. The comfort thing. Mustang liked people to play into his expectations.

    “Edward came out to smoke opium,” Hawkeye said at last. “He says it helps with the pain from his automail.”

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    11 Jan 2024

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Anthony of Padua, the Patron Saint of Lost Things.

    or: Crowley protects children for six thousand years.

    OR: I just wanted him to hold a baby.

    Entirely self-indulgent nonsense.

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    13 Oct 2023

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

    --His clothing was expensive and stylish;
    --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne;
    --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;”
    --He looked angry;
    --He was wearing sunglasses.

    What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

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    11 Sep 2023

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Legolas has a misunderstanding about mortal customs concerning marriage.

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    1/1
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    18 Jan 2023

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    The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.
    Yet there he sits, headteacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.
    The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—
    “They’re monsters,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”
    “They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.
    “You’ll learn.”

    Language:
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    14 Jul 2021

    Bookmarker's Notes

    the serotonin I need