[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]Depression was a monster under your bead, lurking inside your head like a long-lost friend. A memory filed into the back of your mind that glued itself to the crevices in and between your molars, and the taste was bitter like dark chocolate. If it had an appearance, one could imagine it to be a shadow, some spindly thing with achingly long appendages that dragged on the ground like a cloak. It's voice was a grainy recording of your own, mimicking your self-loathing back to you and egging you on to an early grave with excitement barely restrained in the recesses of a familiar cry.
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:courier; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]Morning light filtered through the windows of a metallic living space, a dozing older man seen splayed across the couch with a resting cybernetic man strewn across his top. One leg rests on the arm of the sofa while the other balances on its heel on the floor, and the elder tips his cowboy-hat across his face to block out the sunlight as an afterthought, just as the cyborg stirred lightly.
Cyborg Ninja: ... (A stretch of silence follows the movement, and then the cyborg is letting out the tiniest yawn escalating to a hum.)
Cyborg Ninja: Hmm.
Older Man: You always this noisy when ya wake up, or 'm I just special? (It should be noted that this is said with little irritation and thinly veiled amusement, made groggy by just waking up.)
Cyborg Ninja: (The cyborg continues to lay undisturbed. His armor has kept him from showing the typical signs of life, and so no breath causes his chest to rise and fall, and he is, the older man notes, "a bump on a log".)
Older Man: So yer gonna gi'me the silent treatment now. I see. (In a sudden flash of movement, the older man sets on the path of yoking an answer out of the other by force alone, a force that is as rough as the growing stubble on his tanned cheeks. He aims to throw the cybernetic man above him with a buck of his hips, like a bull resisting the woes of his rider in a stubborn burst of strength and adrenaline.)
Cyborg Ninja: McCree. (The attempt fell flat, and the cyborg's reflexes kicked in and allowed him to cling to the cushions of the couch below in order to hold them both down. McCree - the older man - felt his heart speed up as a result, but the rush was out of a pleasant shock than one of fear. The cyborg looked up at him through a mask that hid his face, and McCree itched to take it off, as the slit glared green at him, a poor substitute for the brown eyes he'd seen briefly before.) Yamete.
McCree: (He scoffs, an irritation that was not there before surfacing all of a sudden.) It's Jesse. Y'know that. I know your english is rusty, darlin', but it's just one letter off, it ain't that hard t' speak.
Cyborg Ninja: Jesse. (He still isn't moving much, so very still above McCree, looking down his mask at him before inching his hand forward and tipping his hat up, so it isn't covering Jesse's face any longer.) Then I am Genji. Not ...
Genji: ... "darlin'." (He is so very unused to the word that it comes out in a mock style of McCree's thick southern accent, and McCree looks positively down-right enamored by this, a sly smile stretching his brazen face wide.)
McCree: Ne'er thought a word would sound so sweet comin' from your mouth, but y've proven me wrong, I reckon. Say it again, jus' one more time?
Genji: Iie.
McCree: Eye?
McCree: What do eyes hafta do about you sayin' a word?
Genji: No.
McCree: No?
Genji: Iie.
McCree: (Realization dawned on McCree's face, and he nodded, sitting up and causing Genji to shift considerably until he was upright on his elbows, arms crossed around McCree's waist. McCree took off his hat and scratched his head.) I've just had a cravin' for food. It's gotta be early, right? They might just be servin' some o' those sunny-side up eggs in the kitchen. What time did we nod off?
Genji: Three. (He holds up three fingers.)
McCree: Oh, shit. D'ya got a watch, darlin'?
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]jonsa au idea: The Proposal
Sansa is disliked by everyone in the office. Behind her back they call her Lady Lannister after her former mother-in-law who occasionally visited the office to terrorize the workers (and her daughter-in-law); while being moderately okay before the divorce to Joffery, she's completely gone Bitch Mode after. When she's threatened with deportation back to the North, Jon Targaryen, her assistant, is used as a scapegoat to avoid going back home. With their very fake engagement up in the air and they (suddenly) being taken to meet Jon's family for the holidays, what could go wrong?
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]Reaper76: Dad!AU; Jack Morrison is harboring a deep wound within after the death of his wife a year ago. His young daughter, Hana, is a secluded child, preferring the internet to the world outside - being a single parent, pulling her out of this was scarcely as easy as it may seem. However, it seems like things are starting to look up when he meets Gabriel Reyes, the cop who was in charge of his wife's case, on his doorstep with recent news.
Solvellan: Mich mourning the loss of Solas, envisioning some distant future where Solas and her die in each other's arms. Fast forward to her, in reality, dying in his arms as he looks on, horrified. Alternative to cutting off her arm, or maybe somewhere in DA4?
