#whatsaysthefool

@whatsaysthefool has been tempting me with concepts for a Bleach x HP crossover, so I had to draw some 1990s fashion.

It takes place in 1995, which is pre-canon for Bleach but just after Voldemort’s resurrection, which is what starts the story. Soul Society sends Hinamori Momo to investigate the undead wizard, and partners her with a Quincy because humans. (And fucking wizards. Soul Society hates wizards, because magic makes things weird. They have ghosts that don’t hollowfy!) Ishida Soken sees his chance to get his son to Act Like A Quincy again, and makes Ryuuken go instead of him.

iirc, canon doesn't mention much about Hisana beyond "she abandoned Rukia as a baby" and "she married Byakuya, later died after asking him for find Rukia" so I think you could prolly run with it however suited the story best

That might be incredibly amusing. Young!Byakuya being a rebellious teenager and sneaking into the Rukongai and Uryuu coming across him and just going “?????!!!?? YOU ARE SMOL AND INNOCENT. OMG WHO LET YOU OUT HERE. COME HERE, MINE NOW.”

And Byakuya is like “???!!!! HATE!! *hisses like an angry cat* I’M A NOBLE I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!”

Two Characters Meme || vs, or, +

WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THESE BOYS FIGHT. NO. YOU CRUEL PERSON. Let Renarin watch curiously over Percy’s shoulder and ask questions as he tinkers! Let him indulge in his engineering interest! Let them visit the library and Percy be quietly horrified that men aren’t allowed to read and surreptitiously trying to teach him (”you don’t have to tell anyone and you’d have an upper hand and-” “no, that’s all right. really. I’m fine the way I am.” “[DISGRUNTLED SIGH]”)

“You need to stop.”

He keeps his voice gentle. Quiet. Calm. Like soothing a wild beast, which isn’t far from the truth. A part of him hates himself for it, wants to pick Alanais up by the scruff of the neck and shake some sense into him, but he’s intelligent enough to know that wouldn’t help. Even if it would make him feel better.

The Garlean is curled up in bed, facing the wall away from him. He’s been Evrard’s guest for nearly two weeks, reeling from the injuries to his body and spirit. It had been heartwrenching at first, but now it’s just irritating. He doesn’t respond to Evrard’s words at first.

Undeterred, he puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re alive. Are you going to waste what the gods have given you?”

Alanais snorts bitterly. “The gods? They didn’t give me shite. And don’t say my life, because you know damn well I shouldn’t be alive. I don’t deserve it.”

He sucks in a breath, fingers twitching. The urge to slap the man upside the head is briefly overwhelming. “It is not for any of us to say whether we deserve the gods’ gifts or not. Only they can decide that. And you--while you’re alive, ser, you can make amends for what you’ve done under the Imperial yoke. No such chance exists beyond the grave.”

“I--”

(CW: torture, burns)

The leader of the Frumentarii that have captured him (false gods, a moment’s hesitation and they’d been on him, dragging him away from the supply convoy he’d been supposed to be guarding–he can only hope against hope that Vesper yet lives, for he could never face Miss Bayaqud if he did not–) identifies herself as Temira eir Harenata. She is a middle-aged miqo’te, a Seeker with skin the color of the desert sand and eyes like embers, and he has a moment of lucidity after coming round to think that she looks familiar. He has a moment after that to recognize that he has been stripped to his smalls and bound to a metal chair in a rickety shack–by the grit on the floor, he’s sure they’re still in Gyr Abania. He can’t have been taken far, then. Thank the Emperor. (A figure of speech. There is nothing to thank the Emperor for.)

And then she is lifting his chin delicately on sharp-tipped gauntlets, and she speaks. “Tiber pyr Gallius. Son of Cicer pyr Gallius, brother of Portia oen Gallius.”

They know his name. They know his family’s names. They were looking for him. Hope sinks in his chest like a stone as her steel claws dig into his jaw, drawing tiny drops of blood.

Too late, he realizes that her other hand holds an engraved bone wand–the sort of thing issued to signifers who need to travel light. With terrifying gentleness, she rests it between his collarbones. “I will have the locations of Vivian oen Capsari and Q’yala Terret.”

Fear slithers down his spine, cold and shameful, before it abruptly drains away. “No.”

She shrugs, ears flicking. He sees the flame before he registers the heat, a shock of pain that brings tears to his eyes and rips a cry from his throat. Agonizingly slowly, she drags it across his chest in an almost delicate swirl; as he instinctively throws himself backwards in his chair (yes, it’s been bolted to the floor, good to know), the pain follows and grows to an agony. Dimly, he hears something–his own skin–sizzle.

And then she lifts the wand, studying the pencil-thin path of seared flesh. “I will have them.”

I will die first. He is lost. He knows it as surely as he knows his own name. If he is not somehow rescued (miraculously, he thinks, and begins to understand how the Eorzeans can put their faith in eikons instead of their own hands), eir Harenata will kill him–that is, if he doesn’t bite through his own tongue and deny her the satisfaction. But he is one man, and if by his silence he can save two…

(Vivian will never know his feelings. He’ll never get to kiss them, never hold them in his arms. A small regret, measured against the certainty that at least they will be alive to avenge him. Still–still, his treacherous heart cries in pain. I should have told him.)

He grits his teeth, and says nothing.

(followup to this)

Alanais pyr Venditor was an Imperial decurion.

Evrard had known this. Had known this since about half a bell after pulling the man out of the snow, after getting him somewhere warm and dry so he could examine his wounds, after knives had been put away and proper introductions made. Alanais pyr Venditor was an Imperial. A Garlean. And most importantly, a deserter who had dropped his gunblade for good.

Alan Vesper had taken it up again. And Alan Vesper was…

My friend. A good man. A man who loves the Fury and his dog and freedom. A man who hates war. It was hard to remember that now, staring at Alan over the pieces of their opponents. There was blood on his gunblade. There was blood in his hair. “By the blessed Fury.” Oh, he’d said that out loud.

Alan jerked upright to stare back at him, eyes wide. The decurion vanished, replaced by Evrard’s short, awkwardly shy friend all over again. “I’m sorry, I–lost my temper. I didn’t mean to…gods.” He’d noticed the states of the corpses. For a moment he looked as though he might be sick, and his distress woke Evrard up.

Hastily, he cleared his throat and took a cautious step forward. “‘Tis quite alright. You’re–” A better fighter than I thought. A good man to have at my side. A…

“A monster, I know.” If Alan had proper ears, they’d be drooping.

And Evrard abruptly decided he’d had enough. Two more strides got him within range, and a swift motion sent his hand thwacking into the side of Alan’s head. “Never say that again. I have met monsters, Alan, and they never see their misshapen forms when they look in the mirror. You strive every day I’ve known you to be better, and I say you’ve bloody well succeeded.”

He blinked up at him, stunned. “I…um. If you…say so?”