#[[ i missed the tenuous alliance they had ]]

[supraxstcllas]

it had taken some time for him to reach this point; lots of reassuring and swearing to keep his teeth to himself, but he'd gained the trust of the league enough to permit him to leave quarantine. he still needed a chaperone, but he understood that. as ridiculous as it was. most of the time, this world's Superman would accompany him from place to place, keeping the other leaguers comfortable with his presence.

on rare occasions, this world's Batman would visit, but it never lasted very long past some testing or questions. overall, he liked Superman more. he'd been kind enough to supply him with animal blood to keep his hunger under control, which he appreciated immensely, despite his notable lack of expression.

Kirk had just finished a bag of cow blood as he continued his tinkering with his fake plasma recipe, when the man of steel appeared, the doors to Kirk's room sliding open with a soft hiss. the vampire turns, expression as blank as ever,

" Another tour? " he asks, setting down his beakers and test tubes to give Superman his full attention, " Or are we doing something new today? "

@yieldingdreams liked for a starter!

[inaris-mage-of-storms]

(Content warning for smoking/tobacco use)

Scott was roused from his already tenuous sleep by the sound of the door to the room next to his clicking shut and the stairs creaking as someone descended. He doubted the sounds were loud enough to disturb anyone else in the tavern's guest rooms, exhausted as they all were after the rowdy night of merriment hosted by Sausage, but he recognized Jimmy's tread even in its uncharacteristic softness and so was acutely aware of every footstep.

He should really roll over and go back to sleep. It wasn't his business if Jimmy was awake in the middle of the night, no matter what the reason. Even if it did strike him as unusual, he'd forfeited the right to worry about it a long time ago. And for all he knew, the man's habits had changed from the ones he'd learned before. Gods knew his own had. The king of Chromia was not the same man as Scott the wanderer, and the sheriff of Tumble Town was not the same man as Jimmy the farmboy.

Even if they had the same beautiful smile. Even if that smile had seemed a little strained throughout the raucous evening. Even if Scott couldn't help but think about how his Jimmy never got up and stood outside in the middle of the night unless something was weighing on his mind.

With a quiet huff of annoyance at his inability to ignore the worry prickling in the back of his mind, Scott slid out of bed and pulled on his boots. Sanctuary was warm even at night, so he opted to wear only the loose pants and white shirt he had been sleeping in, leaving his coat and hat where they were. His descent down the stairs was even quieter than Jimmy's had been, and the man in question didn't seem to notice when Scott opened the front door.

Jimmy was leaning against the massive wooden beam that supported the overhang above the door, staring up at the moon with a melancholy expression. A lit cigarette dangled from his fingers, and Scott frowned. "I didn't take you for the smoking type."

He bit back a laugh as Jimmy jumped and swore. "Well that's at least ten years off my life," Jimmy wheezed out, putting a hand to his chest. "I didn't hear the door."

"You looked pretty deep in thought," said Scott, braving the last couple of steps to stand by Jimmy's side. "What's on your mind? Must be pretty serious if you're awake at this hour, with a cigarette to boot."

"Oh." Jimmy looked at the cigarette as if only just realizing he had it. "I don't, um - It's not often. Don't even like them that much, really." He took a slow drag from it despite his words. "But sometimes it helps me clear my head, and I like the smell of tobacco. It reminds me of - " He cut himself off, looking up at the sky again. "Funny, isn't it, how certain smells can be nostalgic."

"I get what you mean," said Scott. "It's honeysuckle for me." Jimmy's eyes flicked to Scott's, but his expression was unreadable. "What does tobacco remind you of?" asked Scott, suddenly afraid of knowing whether or not Jimmy knew more than he seemed to. Asking a question he knew the answer to seemed like the best way to hold on to the facade of I don't know you, and you don't know me he had so carefully cultivated since the day king and sheriff introduced themselves and formed an alliance.

"My grandfather," answered Jimmy after a moment. "He used to sit on the porch and smoke a pipe every night after dinner. Sometimes I smoke when I really miss him and wish I could ask his advice on something."

"Does it help?"

Jimmy smiled sadly and rotated the cigarette in his fingers, but didn't put it back to his lips. "What about you?" he asked instead. "What does honeysuckle remind you of?"

The best summer of my life, Scott wanted to say. The first time I kissed the only man I've ever loved. You. Feeling like nothing else mattered whenever you smiled at me or took my hand.

And oh, how he wanted to kiss Jimmy now. He wanted to pull him close and kiss him until he stopped looking so sad and lost, to feel Jimmy's skin against his and feel like they were inseparable again. But instead the inches between them felt like miles. Scott knew a kiss would only taste like ashes for both of them, and not because of Jimmy's cigarette.

"Traveling," he said instead. "I used to be a wanderer, and I would record the different plants I saw in a sketchbook. Honeysuckle reminds me of those days." He wondered if he imagined the look of disappointment that crossed Jimmy's face before it settled into a neutral expression. "Do you like the taste of honeysuckle?"

"It's alright," said Jimmy. "I haven't bothered with it in a long time."

"It can be a lot of effort," said Scott, shifting a little closer. It wouldn't take much movement at all for his knuckles to brush the back of Jimmy's hand. "But the reward is sweet."

"It is," agreed Jimmy. "But sometimes you just wind up disappointed. Sometimes you have to wonder if all that effort was worth it for such a brief moment."

"Isn't it?" asked Scott, hoping the way his chest constricted wasn't evident in his voice. "Even when you're disappointed, isn't it worth trying again?"

"Is it?" asked Jimmy softly. "Is it worth it, to want something so badly it hurts, only to find out it wasn't what you thought?"

He turned to look at Scott directly. For a long time now Scott had wanted that, for Jimmy to meet his eyes without looking away a second later, without all the pretense between them. But now he wished he hadn't. Scott couldn't stand the sorrow he saw there, knowing he was the source. Jimmy's soft brown eyes were meant to sparkle with laughter and mischief and sunlight.

"It could be," said Scott, somehow managing to find his voice. "It could be worth it to try again."

"Maybe," said Jimmy. "It could be. I want it to be."

The spark of hope Scott found in those words gave him the courage to reach for Jimmy's hand, but Jimmy knelt down and put out his cigarette in the dirt, and Scott's hand only brushed empty air.

"Good night, Scott," said Jimmy and went back inside the tavern, leaving Scott to stand by himself in the moonlight.

Prev | series masterpost | Next

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb: From New York Times and Indie bestselling author Joan He, comes Sound the Gong, the dazzling and sweeping conclusion to The Kingdom of Three duology.

All her life, Zephyr has tried to rise above her humble origins as a no-name orphan. Now she is a god in a warrior’s body, and never has she felt more powerless.

The warlordess Xin Ren holds the Westlands, but her position is tenuous. In the north, the empress remains a puppet under Miasma’s thumb. In the south, the alliance with Cicada is in pieces.

Fate has a winner in mind for the three kingdoms, but Zephyr has no intentions of respecting it. She will pay any price to see Ren succeed—and she will make her enemies pay, especially the enigmatic Crow. What she’ll do when she finds out the truth. . . Only the heavens know.

Featuring gorgeous map art by Anna Frohmann and black-and-white portraits by Tida Kietsungden, Sound the Gong is the second book in Joan He's riveting Kindgom of Three duology.

Review:

How much would you sacrifice to win? How far would you go to achieve success? Strategist/God Zephyr has now found herself jumping between bodies, trying to manipulate the war and her lordess for the outcome that she wants... but it all comes at a price and if she achieves it, it means her own demise. Can Zephyr win? Zephry will do anything to change fate, she will pay any price for Ren, her lordess, to win... even if it means sacrificing the one person she might have feelings for, even if it means dying and losing her body and soul.... but the war and humans are ever changing, and as a god with limited powers, she'll have to find a way to navigate every single decision to her benefit before it's too late. This was definitely an interesting ending to the duology, I loved the first book and enjoyed the back to back from the two strategist, but what this book was kind of missing was that magic, that kind of compelling back to back. However, this book was very heavy on the ever changing war environment and the decisions and political moves, which isn't a bad thing, it just felt like it was a shift from the fun of the first book. I did enjoy how determined Zephyr was to get what she wanted, she was determined to adjust to every decision and to manipulate every turn to her advantage. She was relentless in her quest to achieve her goals, and she still cared and loved those around her, sacrificing herself over and over for their happiness. The ending, especially with the way the Crow x Zephry relationship was going, had me begging for an extra epilogue, just to see them face each other, and to finally FINALLY admit their feelings for each other after they had both sacrificed each other for their own kingdoms. I think this series overall, is a really fun and unique read that is such a unique take on the Three Kingdoms story! Definitely check it out if you love strategy/war stories!

*Thanks Netgalley and Macmillan Children's Publishing Group | Roaring Brook Press for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[quiveringdeer]

Hi nat 🥺🥺 I’m choked atm w thoughts of Bertie being dead so may I pls request some hesdcanons of him like. Coming back to life at the end of aot and reuniting w a Paradisian reader who has forgiven him. And missed him dearly? Maybe Reiner is also there and they have a big group hug or something? 😭😭💪

Awwww Tado sweetie. 🥺💗💗💗

I'm sorry this has been sitting in my inbox so long without response. My brain has such a tough time with these cause it refuses to suspend further disbelief with canon but imma do it for you. 🧡

Somehow Bertholdt comes back. Maybe Ymir decides to completely bring back some of the shifters who were killed during the transfers, like him Ymir, Porco, Marcel even. Gosh that's heartbreaking considering how many folks don't get that chance but damn it we're focusing on reunion Bertie things ok!! 😤😤😤

He comes back in the area where he died. Completely whole and with knowledge of what all's happened because of being in The Paths. Everything around him is completely destroyed due to the Rumbling. There are folks rummaging through the wreckage, looking for survivors, trying to salvage anything they can, and he immediately moves to start helping. Knowing all that he knows now--hell knowing what he knew before he died--there's no difference between him and anyone here. And without Marley knowing he's alive, he has no reason to keep allegiance. And there's no way for him to easily get across the ocean to make his presence known to his father or Reiner or anyone--he's not even certain he wants to. Not after everything. Not when so many aren't getting this second chance at life. A second chance he's doesn't feel deserving of. So he just decides to join the small populace of other survivors trying to make way in a world that doesn't make much sense anymore.

The idea that you would've somehow forgiven him after everything doesn't cross his mind. It's not something he would've dared hoped for. He certainly doesn't expect you to be thinking of him when there are so many other important things to be prioritizing.

Luckily, as massive as the colossals were, they didn't begin to spread out in formation until reaching the ocean. So, while there is irreparable damage done to the land, there's still unmarred land left on Paradis for folks to inhabit. If nothing else, there's the area of the island on the side of the walls opposite the rest of the world.

I feel like, due to Bertholdt thinking there's no way you'd forgive him, he wouldn't seek you out. It'd have to happen by happen stance. Maybe you're part of the Alliance along with Reiner? And in the aftermath of so much death and destruction, humans are going to probably cling to things that feel familiar. Especially pomp and circumstance. So whenever the Alliance is set to visit the palace, there's a big to do. It becomes common knowledge that the main members of the Alliance are those who had key roles to play in The Rumbling.

As much as Bertholdt knows he needs to keep his head down. And that he shouldn't test the tenuous thread of normalcy he's been able to rebuild for himself, he can't help but join the throngs of folks lining the streets as the convoy of officials make their way to the palace.

And as fate would have it--cause we love cliche moments of fate in this house!--You end up catching sight of him in the crowd.

Sure you dream of him often, but you've never actually hallucinated him while awake. Immediately you grab Reiner's hand and tell him to pinch you. Of course Reiner is asking why would he do that, but your eyes haven't left their lock on Bertholdt and as much as he knows he should probably leave, he's frozen in place.

You're talking to Reiner and fiddling with his hands while you sit on the back of the open top car, but he notices your eyes locked on something so he follows your line of sight to see the ghost that haunts both of you.

"Bertholdt?"

"You see him too? I'm not dreaming this?"

"I...think so."

No matter how much neck craning you both do, eventually it's impossible to keep sight of him as the vehicles trudge on. You're damn near about to jump out of the moving car except that Reiner keeps you in place. Jumping out now would cause a scene, and this isn't the time nor the place.

As soon as you're released from the duties of being an Alliance official, you're headed out of the palace grounds to where you'd caught sight of him in the crowd. Reiner's on your heels and has somehow convinced himself that you both must have been seeing some shared hallucination. What other explanation could there be?? But he's not able to keep you from going to check and he wouldn't let you go alone so he's by your side.

You've trudged up and down the streets and alleyways multiple times and haven't caught sight of him again. It's getting late and most people are either home, headed there, or headed toward different taverns for food and drink. Two things that'll always keep you in business. Reiner has kept his mouth shut for the most part as you stalk up and through the streets. But now that it's getting dark he feels the need to cut this search off.

"We should head back. Things are tenuous as is and they'll be wondering where we've gone."

"I'm not going back until I find him."

Reiner grabs your arm, unintentionally jerking you back as your forward momentum is abruptly halted.

"We're not going to find him. Bertholdt. Is. Gone." He still struggled using the word, dead. But he was under no allusion that he was somehow alive.

"We saw hi-"

"Nothing. We saw nothing except someone that looked a lot like him. He can't be alive. Armin took on the Colossal and...and that's that."

"Fine," you shake your arm from Reiner's grasp, tucking it back by your side. "Then I'm going to find the man that looks like him."

"How? Do you plan to knock on every door and ask to meet every resident?"

"If that's what it takes."

A pained groan leaves Reiner's throat as his palms drag over his face. "Do you hear yourself? This is insane!" It's not his intention to shout the last part but frustration and a messy concoction of other emotions are quickly taking hold.

"Bertholdt is dead, YN! Dead! He's not coming back and we're not going to see him again!" He's shaking at this point. And he's not sure if he's yelling at you or just trying to beat down the silly hope that'd sparked to life in his own heart earlier. "You're being unreasonable! What we saw was wishful thinking and we need to return to the palace before they realize we're gone. Now let's go!"

After it's all out the regret and guilt descend like vultures. Swooping in, pecking at his flesh, making him wince with every detail he takes in of your horrified expression.

"YN...I'm sorry I--"

Before he can finish you're stepping forward and grabbing his hand. Fingers lacing his own and squeezing tight. But your not looking up at him. You're looking past him.

"Bertholdt?"

Reiner clenches his jaw and sighs, squeezing you hand back. After all that he doesn't understand how you're still caught up on--

"Hi...I heard my name..."

The familiar voice has Reiner immediately whipping around. "No. No this is impossible."

As Reiner mumbles beneath his breath your other hand is reaching out and Bertholdt isn't sure if he should take it or not. Obviously he's already made trouble for you both. This was stupid of him. He should've kept walking but when he'd heard his name and seen you both standing here, he couldnt. Then you'd caught sight of him and any ability to leave had become impossible.

When he doesn't reach out for your hand you're moving forward, dragging Reiner along until you're holding Bertholdt's hand as well. It's warm. So warm. Your thumb runs beneath the underside of his wrist and you can his pulse.

Your grip is bruising but Bertholdt hasn't felt such a comforting sensation since he's been returned.

There are so many things racing through your head. Elation at being right. Thankful that your mind wasn't simply cracking beneath all the pressure and expectations. Incomprehension about how any of this was possible. So, so many things. And yet with all the tumultuous feelings swirling around, the next words you speak are clear and steady. "We've missed you so much."

Your hands release their hold on both men so you can wrap your arms around Bertholdt's lean frame. You're not aware of any exchange between the two men. Even if words were spoken you're too focused on recommiting the sound of Bertholdt's heartbeat to memory. Before too long you feel Reiner's body crowd in close as his arms wrap around you and Bertholdt.

[saviolum-sanguineus]

encore

A woman meets another for lunch; the latter's hair is the same color as the coat of the first. Something crystallises between them.

(1930s/pre-war AU)

Taran never sorted out his own mail, but whoever had been working at it was good enough at it to read the invisible currents of the city. They slid the envelope between a postcard from a friend somewhere in Spain and the riveting gossip hiding between the lines of this month’s issue from his Club.

—Something for you.

The vaguely bemused interest in his voice—I was still his little secret, traced out in the shape of winks and coy allusions to whatever domesticated animal he was feeling most metaphorically allured by that day, and not at all in the position of being written to by anyone with casual access to the expense clothing this missive—faded at the more immediately tantalizing letterhead from his Club. He handed the letter over without looking up, his other hand moving to slit open the Club envelope with the silver opener at his side.

It was addressed to Miss Esme Odile. Starting at ‘O’, the slant of the letters became slightly more capital, as if to highlight the awkwardness of it against the easy richness of twenty-dollar paper. I could have taken it as the slight it was meant to be, but this city made certain things cheap, like closing my eyes to the generosity of Taran’s mouth, and other things free, like rearranging your name until it fit like a second skin under bright lights.

Taran took a sip of his martini and I opened the letter.

The mother of Taran’s son took me out to lunch at Veselka. It had occurred to me on the walk over that she could derive no small amount of pleasure from watching me flounder at ordering—Taran’s habits and dictation were painfully obvious to the both of us, even in his absence—but two platters of varenyky were already on the table when I arrived, neat piles of golden-brown onions nestled beside dollops of sour cream along the cerulean pattern edging the plates.

Her son was noticeably absent, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if it was relief or dread that panged through me at the realization. Dahlia and I shared a vital commonality: our individual relationships to a very specific man were very well-defined, but to each other? I thought suddenly of Andrey, as if a tenuous alliance might bolster my spirits, but just as suddenly I remembered our first meeting. The uptick in morale was therefore short-lived.

—So good to see you again! Esther, isn’t it? Charming name, it suits you.

—You wrote it correctly. Lovely handwriting. Just like the primers.

Dahlia smiled thinly. In the restaurant’s clear light, the coldness of it turned her hazel eyes into something like the Hudson. It made sense why she’d be wearing a fur coat in October then: the thing lay over the back of a third chair at the table in a quiet, glorious rustle of tawny fox fur and soft ostentation.

She watched me sit, still smiling, and offered: Cassius is off with his father today—and isn’t it nice that we could chat?

Of course, she waited until I had taken a sip of water (brunch’s mimosas were too generous a mercy for Dahlia, apparently) to speak, so I kept her waiting with another, crossing my legs beneath the table and relishing the tiny flicker of annoyance in her eyes.

—Lovely of Taran to take him out to a show. It must be a treat for Cassius to spend time with him, I said with a smile.

Those came cheap in the city too.

—Mm. I heard he keeps you entertained the same way.

The barbed irritation in Dahlia’s voice went well with my forkful of varenyky; almost too rich. She watched me eat in silence for another breath, the corners of her mouth taut. Just as I began to swallow, Dahlia took a minuscule, impossibly dainty bite of her own, swallowed like a smug cat, and dabbed feathers of sour cream off her lower lip.

—You must feel like you’ve accustomed yourself to the city very well.

I looked at her and felt my fingers start to curl hard into the swell of my palms, leftover defenses that didn’t care about French tips or keeping up appearances. Dahlia smiled at me, hazel eyes sparkling. My patience shriveled, all dry husk and jagged edge against the soft rustle of her fur coat.

—Well, once you start receiving mail at a place, it really does become home, I said. I find the city suits me well.

—Is that what he told you? Very sweet.

Neither of us were smiling anymore, but somehow I preferred it that way. This felt realer than all the performances Taran and his circle demanded of me: more tangible and genuinely enticing. As much as I embraced the ease of leaning into the image of a willowy enigma ricocheting as desired between ingenue and seductress, there was meat here to sink my teeth into, an itch that could stand to be scratched instead of aching.

Dahlia took another bite, then laced her bare fingers together in front of her. She paused, ostensibly to give me the chance to pluck low-hanging fruit off the bough she’d offered.

My smirk pulled unexpectedly dry. The weight of it grated my tongue against teeth like cogs in a machine finally realizing how far the rust had crept. All the bright crystalline light surrounding us suddenly smelt of a circus. For the first time in my life, the thought of dancing under a spotlight was not an exciting one.

—You ought to know better than me that he doesn’t say anything for other people’s sake. What do you think I’m here for, Dahlia?

Her lips twitched and for a very serious second I thought she might slap me. Part of me wished she would. That would be familiar. That would be known.

—You don’t belong here, Esme.

And there it was, the elephant slain and skinned on the table between us and our naked hands.

Dahlia took a deep breath and pressed one slim palm flat against her temple. It was the sort of pose Mary took in the windows of St. Patrick’s, immaculate sufferance on display for the world to see.

—It’s not just you, Dahlia said in a voice that suggested she was angling for the patience of a saint. There are plenty of girls like you—you know, they come here from some plains town in Iowa or Georgia or wherever, and they think the dream is coming true. You wanted to be a star, didn’t you? Make it big, land the albatross.

She studied my face for a while. Whatever Dahlia found, it introduced a soft, squirming streak of dismay to her expression.

—I’m trying to save you some heartbreak. Yours, whatever family you’ve got hoping to hear from you back home, whoever you care about enough to lie to yourself about. Certainly not his, don’t mistake me. This isn’t the life for you.

—And what makes us so different?

I had played into her hands without realizing it, but Dahlia didn’t take the easy, immediate kill. She lifted her hand from her head and set it over mine.

—I think you know.

I could not move her. I could not move myself. For all the things seething under my skin, the only thing I could do was unclench my jaw and release my bite to bark.

—I wish he’d mentioned you. I’d have known to ask for advice. That coat brings out your eyes so well.

Dahlia matched my desperate spite, which made my own less desperate. An accidental kindness on her part, no doubt, but one all the same.

—Nothing stopping you in the future! He always did like my eyes, loved the lashes especially. And Portia has such beautiful hair. She keeps it long, you know, like the milkmaid girls in those God-awful European pictures. But it suits her.

Dahlia’s eyes flicked over me: up, down, and back up again. We smiled at the same time and in the same way, and she released my hand.

—Seems like he’s trying out a new flavor. On a diet, maybe.

She laughed: high, clear, glassy. I tasted it in the back of my own throat, the same phantom ache. The waiter came over from the wings of the circus tent and refilled our glasses without a word.

Another one of the city’s whimsies: watering the animals became a thankless task.

[vr2]

wtf is going on in this church, my little guys brother just got turned into a dragon that we had to mercy kill as a class and he still has school tomorow!? we are not doing school today we are going to get a happy meal and watch the breakfast club in class!!!

rambling thoughts below

im having a lot of fun liastening to the supports, i rly enjoy the character writing. my main chars are claude, hilda and sylvain and recently ingrid. i am trying to recruit as many as i can but lifes hard i am a bad teacher :(

i picked the golden deer in the end just because it felt right but edelgard and dimitri are extremely charging. i really wish i could recruit them too. i am hoping for a true end with all three house leaders alive. edelgard and claude are easily the most interesting characters outright in the school roster but jeritza, jeralt, rhea and seteth seem to hold the most interest of the non-school chars. my current thoguhts: claude is possibly an usurper of house riegan. his father either exiled or killed on purpose rather than an accident. i think he's keenly aware the grand duke (his grapa) will soon be out of the picture. there's a hierarchy in the alliance and the weaker houses have already defected such as daphnel becoming galatea with ingrid's support. claude intends to exploit that, he knows a lot abt crests but for what purpose? i think he was atempting to use his crest along with the sword of the creator to fully exert his control over the alliance. house riegan is the defacto largest stakeholder but the fact that house daphnel would even defect to faerghus for the sake of money says a lot abt how tenuous the ties between alliance nobles are. ive just got to flayn being saved and learning more abt crests. crests are the most powerful object in this world as it demarks you as able to use the relic weapons. you are born with crests via rng and crests automatically make you of noble blood. it is another object of status/power in the world. but due to the rng, this means that older noble children without crests are thrown by the wayside. naturally this isn't the greatest situation for the non-crest noble kids as we can see with miklan and sylvain. the crest nobles like ingrid and marianne are used like bargaining tools to cement their families power in the world. its especially grim for the ladies bc bloodlines, ingrids story was particularly emo for me.

there's also the politics of the world. as far as i can tell, there's in-universe racism against people of duscur and there was an incident to do with the faerghus king (dimitris dad) being killed IN duscur? ill be honest this wasnt super clear to me but the npc chatter denotes that people think ill of dedue bc of duscur discriminiation.

idk or care about why felix's dad is at the monastery hes annoying. but it seems the church has the most authority within the land. which is. concerning, given rheas bloodlust. the whole church of serios is bamboozling. rhea is definitely 100% either the actual main goddess OR she is her direct descendant. i think seteth and flayn are also her descendants bc of how they look. there's also that one line where rhea for some reason trails off before calling flayn seteths sister making me think that seteth and flayn are HER descendants actually and she is their like x15 great grandmother or something. flayn is also born on the same day as one of the saints which hints at it more and more.

thinking on the opening movie (which i wish was in better quality) - i think that's miss seiros/rhea and she stole nemesis' sword and put it in a fake tomb and declared herself dead to live as a human forevermore.

i have no fucking clue who we are or who sothis is but i love this little kusogaki. shes so moe. i really truiy cant wait to see what happens. i am about to slap jeritza around i hope i can kiss him.

[thecreaturecodex]

Slaad Lord, Chourst

Image © @tredlocity​

[And we’re back! With a bit of a bang, as I am going to be posting the four slaad lords from 2e over the next couple of weeks. Ssendam and Ygorl are as old as the slaadi are, having first appeared in the 1e Fiend Folio, but Chourst and Rennbuu were introduced in Dragon Magazine in 1995. Between them, Chourst has only one canonical illustration and Rennbuu two, so there was a lot of room to work with. One thing that I hope to accomplish with these slaad lords is to make them feel appropriately chaotic, but not evil. Slaadi have always had that issue.

The biggest mechanical change between the 2e Chourst and my version has to do with the shift in cosmology. In Planescape, the plane of Limbo is filled with random assortment of all four elements and can be shaped by a strong will. Chourst causes that to all fall apart into chaos with their mere presence. Since the Maelstrom of Pathfinder doesn’t work that way, I changed it to a thematically similar aura of wild magic.]

Slaad Lord, Chourst CR 22 CN Aberration This gangly giant is a humanoid frog more than three times as tall as a man. Its skin is a yellowish white, shot through with mottled silver veins. It has blank staring eyes, long fingers and toes, and a triangular head. Strangely, it is dressed in a dapper traveler’s fashion, with cane, hat and cape.

Chourst, the Whimsical, Lord of Randomness CN agender slaad lord of randomness, exploration and antisocial behavior Domains Chaos, Destruction, Liberation, Travel Subdomains Freedom, Exploration, Slaad, Whimsy Worshipers anarchists, free-thinkers, wanderers Minions chaos beasts, grey slaadi, shoggoths Holy Symbol a triangular face looking down, with circular staring eyes Favored Weapon greatclub Obedience For one hour, do as thou will. Gain a +4 sacred bonus to saves against compulsion effects Boons: 1: hideous laughter 2/day; 2: freedom of movement 2/day; 3: wind walk 2/day

Chourst the Whimsical is a force of nature, moving like a hurricane and creating devastation in their wake. Not all of this destruction is intentional, as Chourst is as likely to pick flowers as fights. But magic warps and twists in their presence, and spells can fire out of control easily wherever they go. Chourst spends most of their existence navigating the cerulean seas of the Maelstrom, but can and does transverse the planes to go a-wandering as the whim suits them. The Lord of Randomness has many admirers among free-thinkers and the more philosophical hedonists, but they tend to admire the slaad lord at a distance.

It can be difficult to keep Chourst’s attentions long enough to engage them in prolonged combat. When traveling long distances, Chourst can and does appear in a great explosion, as much to announce their presence and gain attention as to cause damage. Their signature weapon is a cane tipped with a likeness of his own face, but their claws and fangs are deadly weapons as well. Creatures bitten by Chourst lose their ability to maintain a constant shape, and eventually collapse into chaos beasts. Chourst tends to save their bite attack for those that truly offend or annoy them.

Among the slaad lords, Chourst and Ygorl have a tenuous alliance. Ygorl approves of Chourst’s more destructive moods, and encourages them to create more chaos beasts and transport slaadi across planar boundaries. But Chourst’s attention frequently wanders from any kind of mission. Chourst is not stupid despite their lack of focus, and has impressed some protean choirs with their defense of random action as a manifestation of philosophical chaos. The only things Chourst seems to genuinely dislike are inevitables and other lawful outsiders, which they often polymorph into humiliating forms or simply kill.

Chourst is among the largest of the slaad lords, standing 22 feet tall.

Gigglestick Aura strong enchantment and evocation; CL 17th Slot none; Price 181,250 gp; Weight 40 lbs Gigglestick is Chourst’s signature weapon, a wooden cane tipped with a representation of the slaad lord’s own head. In combat, Gigglestick functions as a Huge+3 anarchic greatclub that changes size with its wielder. It also functions as a rod of wonder, except that the save DCs to avoid particular effects are DC 25, and a wielder can use its function as a rod of wonder as a swift action three times per day. Construction Craft Magic Arms and Armor, Craft Rod, Quicken Spell, creator must be chaotic, chaos hammer, confusion; Cost 90,625 gp.

Chourst                CR 22 XP 615,000 CN Huge aberration (chaos, extraplanar, slaad, slaad lord) Init +5; Senses darkvision 120 ft., detect law, detect magic, Perception +24 Aura cloak of chaos (Will DC 27), wild magic (300 ft.) Defense AC 38, touch 18, flat-footed 32 (-2 size, +5 Dex, +1 dodge, +4 deflection, +20 natural) hp 434 (28d8+308); fast healing 20 Fort +24, Ref +18, Will +26 DR 20/epic and lawful; Immune charm and compulsion effects, sonic; Resist acid 20, cold 20, electricity 20, fire 20; SR 33 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%), freedom of movement Offense Speed 40 ft., air walk Melee Gigglestick +35/+30/+25/+20 (3d8+22 plus 2d6 against non-chaotic opponents), bite +30 (2d12+6 plus corporeal instability) or 2 claws +32 (3d8+13), bite +32 (2d12+13 plus corporeal instability) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks explosive entrance Spell-like Abilities CL 20th, concentration +29 Constant—air walk, cloak of chaos (self only, DC 27), detect law, detect magic, freedom of movement At will—astral projection, cloudkill (DC 24), confusion (DC 23), greater dispel magic, solid fog, wind walk 3/day—quickened displacement, earthquake, fire storm (DC 27), empowered greater shout (DC 27), polymorph any object (DC 27), symbol of insanity (DC 26) 1/day—gate (DC 28), implosion (DC 28), summon slaad (CR 20 or less, 100%, 9th level), symbol of strife (DC 28) Statistics Str 36, Dex 21, Con 33, Int 19, Wis 22, Cha 28 Base Atk +21; CMB +36 (+40 disarm or trip); CMD 55 (57 vs. disarm, trip) Feats Combat Expertise, Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Empower SLA (greater shout), Greater Disarm, Greater Trip, Improved Disarm, Improved Trip, Mobility, Multiattack, Power Attack, Quicken SLA (displacement), Spring Attack, Whirlwind Attack Skills Acrobatics +26 (+30 jumping), Bluff +19, Diplomacy +19, Disguise +19, Intimidate +22, Knowledge (arcana, geography, nature, religion) +22, Knowledge (planes) +25, Perception +24, Spellcraft +25, Stealth +18, Survival +24 Languages Aklo, Common, Protean, Slaad, telepathy 100 ft. SQ change shape (animal, dragon, giant, humanoid, magical beast, shapechange), no breath, slaad lord traits Ecology Environment any land or underground (Maelstrom) Organization unique Treasure double standard (Gigglestick, other treasure) Special Abilities Corporeal Instability (Su) Claw—contact (curse); save Fort DC 35; effect amorphous body and 1d4 Wisdom drain per round (see below); cure 3 consecutive saves. The save DC is Con-based. A creature cursed with an amorphous body becomes a spongy, shapeless mass. Unless the victim manages to control the effect (see below), its shape constantly melts, flows, writhes, and boils. An affected creature is unable to hold or use any item. Clothing, armor, helmets, and rings become useless. Large items worn or carried—armor, backpacks, even shirts—hamper more than help, reducing the victim's Dexterity score by 4. Speed is reduced to 10 feet or one-quarter normal, whichever is less. The victim gains the amorphous quality, but cannot cast spells or use magic items, and it attacks blindly, unable to distinguish friend from foe (–4 penalty on attack rolls and a 50% miss chance, regardless of the attack roll). A victim can temporarily regain its own shape by taking a standard action to attempt a DC 20 Will save. A success reestablishes the creature's normal form for 1 minute. Spells that change the victim's shape (such as alter self, beast shape, elemental body, and polymorph) do not remove the curse, but hold the creature in a stable form (which might not be its own form, depending on the spell) and prevent additional Wisdom drain for the duration of the spell; shapechange and stoneskin have a similar effect. The victim takes 1d4 point of Wisdom drain from mental shock every round that it ends its turn in an amorphous shape—upon being drained to 1 Wisdom, further Wisdom drain ceases and the creature is transformed permanently into a chaos beast (no further number of saving throws can cure the condition at this time). A creature transformed into a chaos beast can only be recovered using a miracle or wish spell. Explosive Entrance (Su) Chourst can dismiss wind walk on themselves as a standard action. When they do so, they appear in an explosion, dealing 10d6 each of fire, force and sonic damage in a 40 foot radius (Reflex DC 33 half). The save DC is Charisma based. Slaad Lord Traits (Ex/Su/Sp) Chourst is a slaad lord, a powerful slaad that has assumed quasi-divine traits. A slaad lord has the following abilities:

DR 20/lawful and epic

Resist acid 20, cold 20, electricity 20, fire 20

Immune to two of the following: charm effects, compulsion effects, death effects, energy drain, fear effects, poison, petrifaction

Summon Slaadi (Sp) As a standard action once per day, a slaad lord can summon one or more slaadi constituting a CR 20 encounter. This is     the equivalent of a 9th level spell

Immortal (Ex) A slaad lord does not need to eat or drink, and cannot age.

Capable of granting followers spells, as per their cult entry above

Wild Magic Aura (Su) Any creature attempting to cast a spell or use a spell-like ability within 300 feet of Chourst must succeed a DC 33 Will save or the spell is effected by a wild magic surge. Creatures with the chaos subtype are immune to this effect. The save DC is Charisma based.

[ellstersmash]

Not to Keep

Fandom: Mass Effect (Original Trilogy) Pairing: Kaidan x f!Shepard Rating: T for Teen (cw for alcohol use) Words: 2.7k [Read on Ao3]

shep and kaidan go undercover, set early in me1. this was originally a prompt for "fake relationship" from Leather & Lace Romance Week, but then I waited 3.5 years to finish it 🥀

-

It all seemed so simple. Infiltrate a wedding, extract intel on Benezia, use that to find Saren.

Easy-peasy.

Until Shepard shows up in the shuttle bay looking like that. They've only been working together for a couple of months, and Kaidan has seen her covered in blood spatter, dripping sweat post-PT—hell, even bare naked in a hotel room. But it’s safe to say he never thought he'd see her like this. Full makeup, soft curls, a long red dress that shouldn't fit anyone that perfectly, and, dangling from two fingers, a pair of classy black heels.

Kaidan swallows hard and gives her a curt nod. “Ma’am.”

“Alenko.” He shifts on his feet as her eyes travel the length of his body and back up, her cool stare giving nothing away. “You clean up nice.”

“Ah, thanks. And you look—”

“Oh, I'm dressed to kill.” Lips the same shade as her dress curve into a grin. “Figuratively, for once.”

Kaidan chokes and laughs, caught off guard in a mixture of nerves and surprise. “Was that a joke, Commander?”

Her expression narrows into a pinched, self-deprecating smirk. “If you have to ask, then no. And I definitely haven't been thinking about it since Williams zipped this damn thing up.”

The thought of his CO, this formidable woman, giggling to herself over a stupid joke for an hour is... well, it’s uncharacteristically cute. Kaidan rolls it around in his head for an indulgent minute, trying on the fit before letting the image go.

Just one more thing to jam into that Never Gonna Happen file.

“Right,” she says, back to business. “Let’s get this over with.”

They board the shuttle for the short trip to the venue, and go over the mission brief one final time: intel extraction remains their highest priority—one of their hosts, Polona T’Shan, was rumored to have a close business connection with the matriarch; protecting their cover is important, but heavy security is not expected; their false identity profiles should be enough to get them in the door, and from there the two of them will be responsible for avoiding unwanted attention by appearing as a couple.

Kaidan knows his own limits. He’s a soldier, not an actor. This pretending to be someone else, this lie, it isn't part of his training and it sure as hell isn't part of who he is. But if Shepard’s as nervous as he is, she isn't showing it.

She’s looking at him again, in that intense all-in way she sometimes does. Before her, he had never met someone who was aware of—and pursued—what they wanted with such confidence, such dogged determination, and to have that kind of focus set on him even for just a moment is… terrifying. In a good way, he thinks. It makes him feel warm and cold at the same time. It also makes him want to stare right back, but that way lies only trouble, and none of them need another helping. Not right now.

Kaidan leans back and rests his head on the cool, if slightly unsteady, inner shuttle wall as Shepard drums a rhythmless pattern into the space between their seats.

---

Kyra drains her glass.

As it turns out, Asari weddings aren't all that different from the few human ones she’s attended. Though this reception is a far more extravagant affair than she’s used to: four days of mingling and games and dancing and drinking and food. Really not her cup of tea.

And apparently not Alenko’s, either.

He’d made a beeline for the bar as soon as they’d entered, and returned with an easier stride and a glass full of some bubbling neon sugary shit for her. She’d have preferred something stronger, of course, but they do have a mission to complete. If they can manage to get Polona alone for a moment.

She slips her hand into the crook of his elbow and feels him stiffen, then relax. Quick and conscious. He’s nervous, out of place, on edge, and then completely calm and collected.

No doubt in her mind he was the right pick for this one.

The thought settles her stomach, and just in time. Two asari approach, their hands extended in enthusiastic welcome.

“Greetings!” one of them says, with a voice smooth and sweet as wildflower honey. “Oh, what a lovely pair you two make. Right out of the vids, could be. This one’s even better looking up close, don’t you think so, Liria?” The asari takes Alenko’s hand, sensual and deliberate, then turns her attention to Kyra. “And goddess, that dress is stunning; really, sweetie, it fits you like a glove. You”—she drags one finger down Alenko’s lapel—“are a lucky man, I hope you know.”

Eyes wide, he clears his throat and coughs, then regains his composure with a brief glance in Kyra’s direction.

The second asari offers an apologetic look to each of them in turn. “Rialla, darling, slow down or you’ll scare them off.”

“They certainly look sturdy enough.”

“I am so sorry. She’s had quite a bit to drink, I’m afraid. Never could pace herself at a wedding.” She laughs. “My name is Liria, and my companion’s name is Rialla, and ever since we saw you walk in, we have just been itching to get to know you.”

Kyra plasters what she hopes is a warm smile on her face, mentally pulling up her cover identity as reference. “Emily, and I’m delighted to meet you both. This is John, my um—”

“Her very lucky partner.”

The two matriarchs titter and tease him, both in turn, and once again he’s in control. Kyra can’t help but be impressed by how effortlessly he charms them. And she’s far from immune. It’s her mission, yet she is all too prepared to be led around the room by that firm hand at the small of her back.

Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko: respected Alliance Marine, powerful L2 biotic, all-around stand-up guy, and—apparently—a smooth son-of-a-bitch. It’s an unexpected feature for someone so soft-spoken and unpretentious. Like he has a hidden switch somewhere.

Or a button.

Press For Instant Charisma.

She briefly entertains the idea of hunting for it, then aborts the thought with a twist of her lips and tunes back in to the conversation.

---

The lie is getting easier. Shepard is tucked under Kaidan’s arm, and he’s almost comfortable.

Their new friends are exactly the right sort. Nosy, talkative, well into their cups, and connected. Old friends of their mark, both of them, and Liria has history with Benezia herself. Shepard spins her tale about a chance meeting with the missing matriarch at a charity benefit and their tapering correspondence, followed by a rumor igniting hope for reconnection. And they eat it right up.

All he has to do is act natural and help Shepard keep them talking.

“Well, you know Polona wasn’t only Benezia’s lawyer.” Liria leans in close, her voice not quite as hushed as she probably intended. “They were involved, some centuries back. Quite the scandal at the time, but then Benezia always had... selfish tendencies. Now, I’m not sure why they parted ways, or how serious it was, but—”

Not to be outdone, Rialla’s hands flutter for attention as she pipes in. “It must be more than a passing fling from two hundred years ago, though, because I heard that her Turian lover—or, well, husband now—almost called off this very wedding!”

“Really?” Shepard asks. What’s supposed to be idle curiosity is bordering on serious interest, her voice taking on a firm, interrogative quality to match her narrowed gaze, but a brush of his thumb on her shoulder and she reigns it in. Loosens up with a tilt of her head and a hand to his thigh that has him tensing up instead.

“Oh, yes,” Rialla says. “It was all very tenuous there for a while. And to think, then the four of us would never have met!”

Kaidan raises his glass with a smile as genuine as he can muster. “A tragic loss for us, to be sure.”

With a deep, warm smile, Rialla fans her face and leans in close to Shepard, but speaks for the whole table to hear. “Do let me know when you're finished with him, would you, dear? I think I may be quite in love.”

He's fine until Shepard smirks, then he's far too warm. Suffocating.

He tugs at his collar. “You think their, uh, conflict had something to do with Polona and Benezia’s involvement?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Liria says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That was ages ago, not yesterday. Beni’s still pining after Aeth—”

Rialla laughs. “Oh, it’s Beni, now? I had no idea you were such intimate friends!”

“I’m 800 years old, my dear.” Liria scoffs. “I have quite a few friends you don’t know about.”

“Is that supposed to make me jealous?”

“Of course not, don’t be silly!”

“Silly? Goddess, must you always be so patronizing?”

“Must you always twist my words?”

“Oh, here we go!”

The situation spirals into chaos before either he or Shepard can recover it, and she stands up from the table, pulling at his elbow.

“I love this song,” she mutters pointedly, and leads him to the dance floor. It’s a slow number, thank god. He’s not nearly drunk enough to dance to something with a beat.

They sway slowly, and she presses close, his neck prickling underneath her palm. His own hands settle on her waist, then more naturally to her hips.

“Damn,” she whispers. “Damn.”

“I know. But hey, we’ve got the rest of the night. And tomorrow night. And the next night. And—”

“The next night, I know.” She groans and drops her head to his shoulder.

Kaidan smiles into her hair.

---

The night is officially over. The band is still playing, but most of the guests are gone, and despite making a number of connections, they’ve learned nothing more about Benezia's whereabouts.

They have, however, made decent use of the open bar.

Kyra downs the last of her champagne and orders a cocktail, dealer's choice. It arrives glowing and smoking and she takes the skyward trajectory of Alenko’s brows as a personal challenge not to hesitate.

A potent combination of peppermint and blueberries and battery acid hits the back of her throat and makes her head swim on contact.

Next to her, Alenko is nursing his third.

“How’s your drink?” he asks.

“Surprising.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“Um… Yes.” She clinks her fingernail against his glass. “How’s your whiskey?”

He frowns and takes a sip. “This is not whiskey.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a connoisseur.”

“No, I mean it is literally not whiskey. Didn’t have it, I guess.” He drinks again. “It’s weird, right? Walk into any bar on Earth and they’ll have a dozen to pick from, but soon as you take off…”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “No burgers. No guac. No ice cream.”

The low chuckle he gives is a sound she’d like to hear again. And again, and again, and—

“When you put it like that, this spacer life is a real sorry existence.”

Kyra nods and wonders what he misses most from home. Or who. But that is none of her business, so she empties her glass and tips the bartender in preparation to leave.

“Sorry tonight was a bust, Shepard.”

“It wasn’t a total loss. Decent food, free booze.” She rests her chin on one closed fist. “Good company.”

“By that, I assume you mean our new asari friends.”

“Sure.”

Holding his gaze is harder than it should be. He cradles his nearly-empty glass and taps his fingers in sequence. Up and down, like a zipper.

At last, he looks away. “I was going to say ‘beautiful,’ by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“Earlier, before we left. I was going to tell you how incredible you looked, but then you interrupted me, and I never really got the chance to say it so I figured I might as well say it now.”

Warmth rises in her belly and she rides it like a wave, unscathed and unchanged on the other side. She turns to face him, wriggling in the seat in preparation like he’s about to try and upend her. “All right, Alenko. Hit me. I’m ready.”

He gives a huff of nervous laughter, one hand going straight to the back of his neck. “Well, uh... that was pretty much it.”

“That’s it? You waited all night to tell me that you were going to tell me I looked beautiful, but didn’t?”

His lips roll together, and he cedes the point with a tilt of his head, then meets her eyes again before his take a slow, uncertain wander around the rest of her features.

“Shepard,” he says when he makes it back, and it’s a name so overused it may as well be a title—but not spoken like that. Low and drawn out and a little bit reverent, it becomes almost intimate for the first time in years and she can't help but wonder how her first might sound.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

Oh. Oh no. Kyra knows she should say thank you, and tell him to finish his drink so they can get out of here, but this next wave won’t subside and the air won’t reach her lungs and all she can do is stare at him.

“I mean, not just tonight, but especially—” he continues, visibly flustered by her silence. “You know, the dress and the lips—ah, make-up! And, and the hair and everything, it’s just very, um, tasteful, and… Um.” He clears his throat and pushes his drink away by inches, folding his hands tight together. "Feel free to stop me anytime.”

Ah. There. That’s the Alenko she knows and can handle.

“Now why would I do a thing like that?” she says, sending a silent prayer of thanks to whichever god kept her voice from breaking.

The smile they exchange is soft and charged and it smooths him over. His eyes are brown. Kyra knew that already, but clinically. On paper. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Year of birth: 2151.

She didn’t know it like this, tangibly, all wrapped up and swept away in a simple fact.

This time she’s the one to give in. “You know, you should really keep that button pressed, Alenko.”

“What?”

“The charisma button.” She jerks her head toward the door, grabs his hand for the sake of anyone who might still be awake and sober enough to notice, and leads him out. “Push it. More.”

“I— what?”

Kyra chuckles to herself and steps into the elevator. “Forget it.”

The doors close once she chooses a floor and she regrets taking his hand because now she has to let go.

Kiss me. Come on, Alenko. Quick, before we go back. She can’t think it any louder, can’t make it any clearer without crossing a line. Be better if he does it, but he won’t. She knows he wants to just like she knows he never will, because he’s a good soldier and a good soldier doesn’t fuck with the chain of command. Not without a compelling reason, at least, and she can’t give him one.

Their floor lights up and reality pours in. He follows her across the dock, at a distance now that no one who would care might be watching.

Kyra takes a sharp, deep breath. Three more nights of this—unless they can get their intel sooner. Three more nights of flirting and dancing and soft touches all for show and not to keep. Maybe she should have brought Williams after all. Or Garrus. Or anyone else.

Distracted, she nearly trips getting into the shuttle, and somehow he’s right there, a broad hand on her waist to steady her.

A nod and he detaches. Steps back. “Ma’am.”

Ma’am. But he is a terrible liar, and she’s never been good at a long con.

[thevioletcaptain]

Isosceles | Chapter Five | Ao3

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the mini fridge and the distant rumble of traffic on Route 281, and Castiel feels at peace for the first time in a long time.

On the bed beside him, turned inward with his hand splayed over Castiel’s bare stomach, Dean has been floating in a state of sated oblivion for a little over an hour. Though his lips still betray a hint of the smile he’d had before he drifted off, his features are relaxed. He looks calm. Serene. Beautiful.

Castiel wishes desperately that he could join him in sleep, but he lost the ability when his grace was restored. As a compromise with himself, he meditates.

It takes more effort than he thinks it should, but once he does manage to reach a state of relative tranquility, it’s easy to let himself believe that things will work out for them. That every one of their problems—Sam’s hurtful and unexpected disapproval, their tenuous alliance with the British Men of Letters, Kelly Kline’s whereabouts and the Nephilim she carries—has an easy solution, and that he’ll be able to find the answers somehow in his meditative state. That everything will seem simple and unthreatening by the time the sun rises.

Of course, one of the problems doesn’t wait long enough for that to happen.

Castiel is drifting as close to unconsciousness as he’s able when he’s pulled abruptly back to full awareness by Dean’s cellphone. It buzzes loud, the bright light of the screen flaring outward and casting a hazy blue-white tinge over everything in the room. Dean startles at the sound, lurching upright and blinking dazedly as he stretches to pick it up from the floor.

Castiel misses their close physical contact almost immediately, and Dean must feel the same, because his hand shifts back to briefly squeeze Castiel’s wrist before letting go to thumb at the screen.

He braces himself before he speaks. Any doubt Castiel had about who’s calling falls away.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?”

Sam’s voice is muffled and tinny through the cell phone speaker, but Castiel can still make out every word. He doesn’t sound worried, which is a relief, but the note of tense anger in his tone is a warning signal that has every last one of his senses on high alert.

“Donnie’s bar,” Dean lies easily. Castiel gets the distinct impression that he’d planned for this eventuality and had the location picked out ahead of time. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come shoot some pool.”

There’s a long pause before Sam speaks again. When he does, Castiel experiences the strange phantom sensation of his throat closing up.

“I know you’re with Cas.”

[keep reading on ao3]

[robininthelabyrinth]

All this trans!Nie Mingjue really makes me want some trans!Jiang Cheng, and if you want too, maybe him ending out pregnant instead of his core being melted, because if I remember correctly Wen Zhuli was honorable, so if Jiāng Cheng did get raped by one of his subordinates, I feel he’d try too limit Jiang Cheng’s suffering.

“It’s not that I’m especially opposed to an alliance by marriage, but who were you planning on having marry in?” Nie Mingjue asked Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu politely.

They blinked at him.

“I think,” Madame Yu said dryly, after a few minutes, “that we were planning on A-Cheng marrying in. Women usually do.”

“But your son isn’t a woman,” Nie Mingjue said, which he thought was quite reasonable.

“I don’t have a son,” Jiang Fengmian said. “Only two daughters.”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “You have an older daughter and a younger son. Hasn’t he told you?”

“Ah, you mean – by Qinghe standards,” Jiang Fengmian said. He sounded uncomfortable with the idea, which made Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrow and Jiang Fengmian immediately drop the notion of saying something more along those lines. After all, Nie Mingjue himself was a man ‘by Qinghe standards’, as the other sect leader put it, and starting trouble with Qinghe wasn’t on the agenda for today. “Sect Leader Nie, I appreciate your concern, but my daughter –”

“Son.”

“My daughter is a woman. We don’t practice Qinghe ways here.”

“It doesn’t really matter what you practice in the Lotus Pier,” Nie Mingjue said. He was wearing his best pleasant smile, which most people said looked like he was about to start chopping people into pieces. It was, at the moment, a fair description. “From my perspective, with my Qinghe ways, you have a son, who is a man. However you wish to treat him or raise him is up to you, of course, and I’m still willing to arrange a marriage between him and Huaisang, to be maintained or cancelled at their will when they’re older, including a marriage in which Jiang Cheng marries into the Unclean Realm. But what I will not tolerate is Huaisang getting confused by being told on one hand that he has a wife and the other a husband. He’s very fragile after our father’s death; I’m sure you understand.”

Jiang Fengmian, who’d been about to protest, shut his mouth, his desire for Nie Mingjue not to bring up, yet again, the fact of his father’s murder at the hands of Wen Ruohan – a murder that would need to be answered for, one day – outweighing his desire to argue back.

It was a petty move, but Nie Mingjue was aware that he had very few cards to play against the older and more influential man, and that meant he had to use them all no matter how petty to get what he wanted.

Mostly, in this case, for Jiang Cheng to be treated the way he so obviously identified. The damage that could be done by people who didn’t understand this sort of thing was incalculable – it was worth sticking his nose into another family’s business, no matter how rude, to try to make a difference if he could.

There were long few minutes of silence, in which Nie Mingjue stood his (tenuous) ground and Jiang Fengmian considered possible responses that would result in even more awkwardness.

Just at the point that it was getting intolerable, Madame Yu snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound for such a refined woman.

“Let him be a son and a husband, then,” she said, her voice a little waspish. “If he changes his mind later, he can resume being a daughter, and there will be no loss.”

It wasn’t exactly how Nie Mingjue had intended on settling Nie Huaisang’s marriage, but it seemed a worthwhile conclusion, even if Jiang Fengmian was clearly not entirely on board.

“Very well,” he said. “Are we agreed?”

The marriage was unofficially dissolved when the boys were twelve, if by ‘dissolved’ one meant that the entire Jiang sect had entirely forgotten that their young master had ever been a young mistress, even Jiang Fengmian. A casual comment to Madame Yu that she ought to consider finding someone to marry in to their sect so that the heir could be officially confirmed, rather than wasting him on a cutsleeve marriage out, was more than enough for the entire concept to be permanently misplaced.  

(Not that he thought they would make a bad pair, but if that was the case they could always figure it out for themselves later on.)

As far as Nie Mingjue was concerned, that was the end of it.

And yet, years later, it was at Nie Mingjue’s tent in Heijan that Jiang Cheng came, a twisted expression on his face.

“I have a problem,” he said, and touched his stomach lightly in a place a little too far down to suggest a stomachache. “I don’t know what to do about it, and – when I was younger, Huaisang said – well. I thought you might have some insight.”

Nie Mingjue let Jiang Cheng into the tent and put up a silencing array behind him, the sort used to protect news delivered by the most important spies.

“I’m not sure what you want me to tell you,” he said honestly. “It’s not a problem I’ve encountered on a personal basis, if you understand my meaning. Do you want to keep it or not?”

Jiang Cheng settled down where Nie Mingjue led him, still grimacing. “I don’t know,” he said. “The idea of bearing a child for any one of them disgusts me beyond telling. But on the other hand, what did the child have to do with it? It seems unfair not to give it a chance to live.”

“It’s not a child yet,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. He could do math, and the fall of the Lotus Pier wasn’t that long ago. “There’s no way that it’s quickened this soon after. Right now, it’s a problem that can be eliminated with a bowl of medicine, if that’s what you want.”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng said. “I’m considering it. It’s only…on one hand, even if it’s not a child yet, it could be a child, if I let it. A Jiang child, with me as its father, and obviously my Jiang sect could use as many new members as possible, no matter what the other half of their biological origin. But on the other hand – wouldn’t it be irresponsible to carry a child now? I’m leading the Jiang sect’s efforts against the Wens, trying to avenge what they did to me, to my parents, to my sect, and a child would be a distraction from that…and Wei Wuxian, who might have helped me out, is still missing.”

Nie Mingjue didn’t comment on Wei Wuxian, even though he itched, as he often did, to remind Jiang Cheng that no matter how atrociously Jiang Fengmian had behaved – and no matter what the condition of his birth had been, legitimate and incorrectly categorized – he was the son and heir of the Jiang clan.

Not the child Jiang Fengmian had brought in and treated as if he’d been the son he’d never had.

(Really, Nie Mingjue didn’t understand places like Yunmeng. What was the point of not recognizing misaligned reincarnations like theirs? It wouldn’t make it any less true.)

“Depending on the way it affects you, you could be out in the fields for months still,” he said reasonably. “Certainly plenty of mothers in Qinghe don’t go into isolation until there’s only a few weeks left. And even if you aren’t, I can take charge on the battlefield while you consult on strategy from the backend, the same way you would if you’d been taken out of the field because of an injury – Lan Xichen is doing much the same thing, when he’s not acting as courier, and he’s doing it because he’s a terrible general rather than any logistical reason.”

“But it’s not an injury.”

Nie Mingjue frowned at him. “You’re making it very difficult to resist making some sort of pun about the Wen sect’s swords, Sect Leader Jiang, and I don’t even like that sort of crude humor.”

Jiang Cheng took a second to get it, then snorted. “I supposed you could say I got ‘stabbed’ a few times, yes.”

“Only a few times? They really are worthless dogs.”

And now Jiang Cheng was laughing, even though he was trying to stop himself. “That’s terrible, stop it…you know, I suppose, if you look at it from a certain perspective, I really am just suffering from – from post-stabbing complications.”

“Seems reasonable enough to me.” Nie Mingjue poured Jiang Cheng a cup of the tea that had already been cooling on his desk – a little rude, but better than wasting time making a new pot. “If you do decide to keep it, you can leave the child with Nie Huaisang once it’s born, if you like. He’s always liked children, and it’s not as if I’m going to let him get anywhere near a battlefield, now or ever.”

“Are you sure he’s not a woman?” Jiang Cheng asked. He sounded almost wistful, which suggested that the arranged marriage they’d set up so many years ago might even have a chance of resurrecting; Nie Mingjue would have to slip Nie Huaisang a hint. “With the fans and the birds and the pretty things –”

“He says he isn’t, and so he isn’t,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. “I admit it’d make it easier if he was. No one outside of Qinghe would question his below-average talent or his love of frivolities if he was a woman, however unfair that might be, and it’d make things easier for him.”

“You’d still yell at him to practice his saber.”

“Of course. What does saber have to do with gender?”

Jiang Cheng smiled and shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I still haven’t decided one way or another, but…it’s good to know there’s a way to do it, if I want, that doesn’t mean that – I’m not as brave as you. I don’t want people to know.”

“It’s not a matter of bravery,” Nie Mingjue said. “It’s common etiquette. Anyone who spends time thinking about another person’s genitals that isn’t planning on courting them is wasting their time.”

Jiang Cheng snickered. “No, I mean – people know about you, that you’re misaligned. You’ve never been shy about it.”

Nie Mingjue was pretty sure Jiang Cheng was thinking about the incident during a discussion conference some years back when he’d been shouting at Jin Guangshan over something or another – loud enough to be audible across half the city, it seemed, based on the number of people who talked about it afterwards – and ended the rant by telling the other sect leader to suck his non-existent dick.

“I’m not really a shy person,” he said dryly, and Jiang Cheng pressed his lips together in an evident attempt to avoid descending into giggles – he’s definitely thinking about the suck-my-dick comment. “Also, Qinghe is a bit more open about these things; it makes it easier, not having to explain exactly what it means or doesn’t mean. Don’t be too hard yourself.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t seem convinced, but nodded anyway.

“It’s not just that,” he said, though obviously it was, in some large part, that. Jiang Cheng’s complicated relationship with Wei Wuxian was proof of it, if nothing else. “It’s also – people can do math. I don’t want people thinking I’m weak, or a pushover.”

“No one who has seen you wield Zidian is likely to make that mistake,” Nie Mingjue said, but he could tell from the set of Jiang Cheng’s shoulders that that wasn’t enough. “It isn’t weakness, you know. Anyone can be captured, anyone can be tortured – some people will have to live without a leg or an arm, after what they suffered, and that’s the lucky ones that didn’t die. That’s all it ever is in war – just luck, good or bad. If I walked into a Wen ambush next week, I’d be as liable to complications from a Wen ‘stab’ as you, but it wouldn’t be because my strength wasn’t enough.”

“I guess,” Jiang Cheng said. “It’s just – if I kept the child, people would have to know, wouldn’t they?”

“Says who? If you retire from the battlefield due to complications from an injury for a few months, then the assumption will be that you found out that you got some poor girl pregnant and took on the child once you knew. If you do want people to know that you carried it, well, children come and go at their own speed.” Nie Mingjue shrugged. “Let some gossip overhear you talking about how you were already carrying the Lotus Pier’s next heir before any Wen set a foot on Yunmeng soil, and everyone will put together the rest. You know how it goes.”

“I suppose I do, at that.”

“Huaisang could probably put together a convincing story,” Nie Mingjue said. “He’s really very good at identifying every possible point in time and place where someone could be having sex, even if the actual personalities involved make it highly unlikely. And then he illustrates it, usually.”

Jiang Cheng was smiling, and his shoulders were straight again – his burdens lifted, however temporarily.

Good.

“Let me know what you decide,” Nie Mingjue said. “I know just enough about medicine to be able to mix you up what you need using just the medicine I already keep in my general collection, so no one would need to know, if that’s what you choose. And if you choose the other way, well, I have the medicines to help support that, too.”

“You keep that much medicine?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the tendency of the Qinghe Nie towards qi deviations –” Of course he had. Everyone had. “– but we have a habit of keeping an awful lot of medicine on hand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jiang Cheng said, and he was frowning a little, thoughtful, but not as stressed as he’d been earlier. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Nie Mingjue said. “Really, don’t. If I let it get out that I give advice, every misaligned sonofabitch that wants to get a promotion will start showing up at my door with problems that are really just an excuse to get a chat in with the sect leader, and then where will my troubles end?”

Jiang Cheng, who was dealing with similar problems, smirked. “That doesn’t seem like my problem. At least people know better than to ask anything of me.”

“That can change,” Nie Mingjue said threateningly. “I’ll get Huaisang on it; see what happens to your reputation then.”

Jiang Cheng held up his hands in surrender as he retreated.

Nie Mingjue wondered for a moment which way he’d pick, but then remembered that it wasn’t his business and also that there was a war on that needed his attention a bit more.

Personal problems could wait.

[somethingwritey]

commission: “kids in love” - a zukka fic

hi all! i was commissioned to write a zuko/sokka fic by @kurisu-80. it features a 5+1 style, some hurt/comfort, and lots of zuko pining. we brainstormed the premise of the fic before i began, and it’s here just in time for valentine’s day! 

💖 commission me! visit this post for more commission details!

---

Zuko didn’t know how to feel.

The hardest part was over, presumably, and yet the brand new emotion coursing through his body - no doubt unlocked by the Avatar’s reluctant trust - unsettled him. He wanted a name for it.

After thinking it over, he settled on relief.  

For so long, he’d been consumed by nothing but white-hot anger - and beneath that, searing pain - that relief was hard to recognize. It wasn’t hot. Instead, it ran down his back and legs and arms like water. But… he had to admit, he rather liked it.

“Unpack,” came a voice behind him. Zuko jumped a little; he’d almost forgotten that Sokka was still there in the doorway. “Lunch soon. Uh… welcome aboard?”

Welcome.

Zuko hadn’t felt welcome in a long time.

He looked up at Sokka to thank him, but paused - suddenly struck by his eyes.

Blue. Water. Cool. Healing. Wonderful.

Zuko suddenly felt the need to study Sokka’s eyes forever, to never tear his gaze away. Sokka let him for a moment, like he understood Zuko’s need. And then the moment passed, with Sokka shaking off whatever had come over him and exiting the room.

Zuko didn’t move, though, staring after him for a while longer. A new heat had begun somewhere in his body, but it wasn’t anger. It was… contained. Almost hungry. He wished he knew what it meant.

Two new emotions in one day had to be some kind of record.

///

Sokka looked… younger when he slept, somehow. Like one of the tired kids they all were instead of a general orchestrating a covert rescue mission into the depths of the Fire Nation’s most heavily guarded prison.  

Zuko watched him for a few moments before training his eyes back on the landscape around them.

Don’t be creepy, he scolded himself. Sokka wasn’t his to look at like that.

Instead, he thought back to what Sokka had said before they left.

“I have to regain my honor.”

Zuko shivered a little at the memory, so similar to his own favored mantra and yet, somehow so different. Zuko’s had been selfish. He’d wanted to save himself; Sokka just wanted to save his father. And Zuko was fairly certain Sokka wouldn’t mind staying behind in the prison forever if it meant ensuring his father’s freedom.

The Water Tribe boy didn’t need to regain any honor; he had more in every bone of his body than Zuko ever would.

Maybe that’s why Zuko was so drawn to him.

///

Oddly enough, the version of Sokka dominating Zuko’s mind that night wasn’t the one splayed out with a rose in his mouth.

Although he was thinking about it. Maybe a little too much.

But the Sokka that he’d been shown after had wrapped a hand around his heart and squeezed until Zuko thought it might burst.

Vulnerability. Sokka had shown him vulnerability.

He thought about the way Sokka’s voice changed when he talked about his mother’s murder. Beneath the jokes and the sarcasm, Sokka was quietly patching over the part of himself that he’d lost - same as Zuko.

Zuko wished suddenly that he’d told him about losing his mother, too. Maybe the other boy would’ve confided in him further. Maybe it would’ve been Zuko that Sokka would set up candles for by moonlight and looked forward to -

Stop!

That feeling was back. Zuko shook his head and limbs, trying to scare it away. He had to stop this obsession. It was eating away at him, leaving him exposed.

After the war is over, this will end, he told himself. You’re just bored. Nervous. It won’t be like this forever.

By the end of the night, watching Suki sneak away from Sokka’s tent in the early morning light, he’d almost convinced himself that was true.

///

Fire Lord Zuko.

The title still sounded so foreign and unwieldy. Like it didn’t quite belong to him.

“Congratulations, Your Zukoness,” came a voice.

Zuko turned around, raising an eyebrow. “Sokka, how did you get in here? I thought -”

“Eh, Toph is distracting the guards.” Sokka shook his head. “You really should get some better security, I mean. A couple of rocks and -”

“Sokka!”

Sokka smiled, resting his weight on the crutch he was using. Zuko was instinctively aware of the bandages wrapped around his own torso beneath the heavy new robes.

They all bore scars of the recent battle; peace had come at a cost.

“I came to wish you luck in person,” Sokka continued, less joking and more genuine now. “You’ve come a long way.”

“Aren’t you coming to have some tea with Uncle tonight?” Zuko furrowed his brow. Was Sokka leaving? Was this goodbye?

“Yeah, yeah.” Sokka waved his hand. “But everyone is gonna be there. I wanted to tell you in private, I guess.”

In private.

Zuko hoped his cheeks didn’t look as hot as they felt. Even after Sokka left to join his father and Katara outside at the reception, he found himself smiling… just a little.

Sokka had that effect on people.

///

Time was a finicky thing, Zuko was realizing.

One moment, they were children, and the next, they… weren’t. Or maybe they’d never been children at all, too burdened with adult worries and fears their whole lives. Most of them had lost people at a young age, forced to grow up far too quickly.

Aang had lost his entire culture.

Zuko had lost his mother.

Katara and Sokka had lost their mother, too. And now their father.

Chief Hakoda had passed peacefully in his sleep, Zuko had been told. Even after the tenuous usurpation attempt by Gilak, Hakoda’s time at the helm of the Southern Water Tribe could hardly be called blemished. His strength and rationality had brought them to new levels of international recognition and power.

He had been one of the most influential chiefs in Water Tribe history.

Zuko hadn’t been able to make it to Hakoda’s memorial - unable to get out of several Fire Nation industrialization meetings - but he had managed to make it to the South to see Sokka become the next Chief.

“You made it,” Sokka said after the short ceremony. “I wasn’t sure you would.” His voice was heavy - lacking its usual bravado.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Zuko laid a hand on Sokka’s shoulder, walking with him across the frozen landscape - away from everyone else. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

Sokka’s eyes turned glassy, and he looked away - unable to speak.

“He was a good man,” Zuko continued. “And he would be proud of you. I know it.”

Without warning, Sokka threw his arms around Zuko, burying his head in his shoulder. Surprised, Zuko stayed frozen, wishing he could do more to comfort the strongest man he knew.

“You’re going to make a great chief,” he said quietly.

When Sokka lifted his head, his face was inches away from Zuko’s - closer than the two of them had been in a long time. Zuko almost leaned forward, almost cut through the last bit of space between them, but before he could, Sokka was moving away.

“Thanks, Zuko.” He straightened his furs. “I should get back to Katara and our people now. You’re welcome to stay the night.”

And then he was gone.

////

Zuko hadn’t stopped pacing all morning.

He’d sent the letter after an agonizing few days of rewriting, second-guessing and re-thinking.

But he’d finally done it. Finally watched the messenger hawk lift into the sky. And now, all that was left to do was wait.

“Fire Lord Zuko?” a guard said, at last, bowing low as he entered the room. “The Chief of the Southern Water Tribe is here to see you.”

Zuko took a deep breath, straightening his topknot. “Send him in.”

Sokka burst through the doors, trailed by a couple Water Tribesmen. “I got your message,” he called before he’d even reached Zuko’s side of the room. “What’s the big emergency? Where’s the threat?”

Sokka looked strong - a powerful and more confident version of himself. Being the leader of the Southern Water Tribe had been good for him.

Zuko glanced at the entourage Sokka had brought and winced. He needed to speak with him privately.

“Give me a moment alone with your Chief,” he said to the others. Glancing at his own attendants, he waved for them to be dismissed, too. He wanted the throne room to be perfectly and totally empty.

“What’s this about?” Sokka looked around, seemingly unnerved. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted…” Zuko cleared his throat. “I want to talk to you. About a partnership between the Southern Water Tribe and the Fire Nation.”

Sokka raised an eyebrow. “What kind of a partnership?”  

Zuko swallowed hard. “The kind where their Chief and Fire Lord are… together.”

“Okay, okay.” The true meaning of Zuko’s words clearly hadn’t registered with Sokka, who began to tap his chin. “We team up, you’re saying? Form a political alliance? Hold on, hold on - don’t we already kind of have one? Isn’t that what my Dad was trying to -” And then he broke off, eyes narrowing. “Wait, together? Like… as a couple?”

Zuko rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, when you say it like that -”

“I didn’t say it! You did!”

Sensing Sokka’s imminent rejection, Zuko tried to save the situation. “I didn’t - look, it’s not like that, I just meant -”

“You made this whole emergency up, didn’t you?” Sokka shook his head. “Just to get me here! That’s -”

Zuko cringed, waiting.  

“Kinda genius,” Sokka finished, nodding. “Somewhat evil. But genius.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” Zuko sighed. “I think. It’s confusing. But I just couldn’t wait any longer to tell you. I had -” His eyes widened for a moment as Sokka’s lips landed on his before they fluttered shut.

When they broke apart, Sokka seemed surprised at his own actions. “Is randomly kissing the Fire Lord grounds for arrest here?”

The idea made Zuko laugh. “Not if the Fire Lord wanted it to happen.”

Sokka grinned, and then paused. “You - you did want it to happen, right?”

“Yeah.” Zuko leaned forward to kiss him again. “For longer than you could possibly imagine.”

Finally, Zuko thought, letting himself get caught up in the moment. He understood what that feeling was now, the one he’d been so confused about that day at the temple and every day after that.

Love.

He loved Sokka, so full of honor and eyes bluer than water.

And he probably always would.

----

💖 keep an eye out for more commission pieces coming soon!

💖 message me about writing for you! send a private message or find me on twitter @/catrameows!

[ecclectricity]

@svnsworn​ asked: Marianne is afraid of the worst. Namely, surviving long enough to lose whatever scrap of hope she's managed to cling to if the war rages on to no end. The last couple of weeks have brought no end of pain, of loss, of the crushing heartache in knowing that the tenuous peace that's lasted nearly one thousand years has come to a violent halt. If Marianne had known fear of her crest before, now she has added fear of losing everyone around her.       Tears sting her eyes as she shoulders her bags and readies Dorte for the journey home, and she is lucky that others probably see them as normal, given the circumstances. Marianne knows that they will dry before long, as she begins to set her own plans in motion. She won't see the end of the war, or even the middle, because she hopefully won't see the end of the year.       As she nears the stables, she sees Claude, and, setting her bags down, makes her way to him. "You'll be alright, won't you?" She wants to rest her hand on his arm but finds that the simple touch might shatter her. "I'll pray for your safe return home, and that you see a swift end to the war."

                        ��                                               --------

   Damn it, he had a plan. He had had a plan, at least. Now it was nearly up in as much smoke as much of his recent alma mater, he supposed. Not like it'll stay open after this. . .

   Claude had long since pit his hopes and dreams on unification, had come to Fòdlan, become heir to a house in a country he had scraped and studied and toiled to learn every detail of, ingratiated himself to any he could and rubbed shoulders with those who had the power to assist him when the time came. He'd given up kind and kith alike toward the realization of one dream.

   And then little Edie had stomped in here with all the intent of a child kicking over a particularly despised anthill, heedless of the ecosystem and delicate balance it held and fostered.

   He'd call her selfish, but who was he to call anyone anything of that sort? He had mirrors. And besides. . .

                   He had other options.

   Busying himself in the dorms had been difficult to focus on, but a necessary duty for the future Duke of the Alliance. He needed to see his people safe, packed, and on the journey home before he would set on his own. That meant all of the Golden Deer, noble or commoner alike, would be getting a stop in and pep talk from good ole Claude ( some more personal than others ). He had to headcount, make sure no one was unaccounted for.

   Of course he'd never be ready for Marianne. He knew he'd find her in the stables, but had certainly expected to be the one to approach her, not the other way around. He finished with a fellow classmate before turning to her.

"You'll be alright, won't you?"

   Oh, would the world be filled with such giving hearts as hers. Some day she'd see it. Someone could make her see the light. Probably not Claude, lamentable as that was, but his gift for glib would not always be mistaken for sincerity, he feared. But with her, earnesty at least came as naturally as the draw of a bowstring.

   He put his hands on his hips, rocking onto one heel and quirking a brow. "And just who do you think you're talking too, Miss Marianne? Unlike the bandage may imply, I'm tougher than I look." True, he'd taken a pretty rough knock to the head in the previous battle, but he'd healed just fine since then. Her worry was better placed elsewhere.

   And while there was some part of Claude that appreciated her prayers, a bitter part of him wished there was something more tangible to be done. By either of them- any of them- the precious Goddess even. ( And what a time to be proven wrong, huh. . . ? )

   "You do the same." he concurred, offering her a small, sympathetic smile. "No doubt the Margrave and I will be in contact some time in the future, so I'm sure our paths will cross. I'll 'pray' that we'll end up in proper company again by then, or by better means. Maybe over some lavish celebratory feast at war's end. Sound good?"

   He'd enrolled in an officer's academy. He knew there could be war.

   Looking at Marianne, he wished again for a world where war was far, far away from those he. . . looked after. Right. After all, the next time he saw any of them, he was sure it would be campaigning for troops or the like. He'd barely slept the night before, ruminating on the thousands upon thousands of different futures that could lay from this very spot. He had to prepare for them, for their contingencies and twists- rest could wait until those in his charge, those who trusted him ( for their own reasons, of course- like everyone- ) were free to do as they pleased.

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb: This dark epic fantasy follows the heirs of four noble houses—each gifted with a divine power—as they form a tenuous alliance to keep their kingdom from descending into a realm-shattering war. The Four Realms—Life, Death, Light, and Darkness—all converge on the city of dusk. For each realm there is a god, and for each god there is an heir. But the gods have withdrawn their favor from the once vibrant and thriving city. And without it, all the realms are dying. Unwilling to stand by and watch the destruction, the four heirs—Risha, a necromancer struggling to keep the peace; Angelica, an elementalist with her eyes set on the throne; Taesia, a shadow-wielding rogue with rebellion in her heart; and Nik, a soldier who struggles to see the light—will sacrifice everything to save the city.

Review:

Four houses, heirs steeped in power, politics, romance, magic, and gods...In  a world in which there are four realms- the realms of life, death, light and darkness, which all converge on the city of dusk, that each have a god and with each god comes a heir and house of their own. The story follows Risha a necromancer trying to maintain peace, Angelica an elementalist wanting to find acceptance and validation from her family with her eyes on the throne, Taesia a shadow-wielding rogue who wants nothing more than to protect her kingdom and family...except there’s a darkness lurking to break free in her, and Nik a soldier who is dealing with the grief of killing his brother and being shunned by his own god and dealing with the family tension. Each of the heirs is dealing with their own family issues, with their own power complications, and the threat of turning on one another. Complicated relationships and betrayals come to a head as the realms are dying and the gods withdraw their favor. There is more at play than the heirs could ever imagine and with the lives of their loved ones at stake and the entire realm on the line they’ll each have to figure out how if they can trust one another and what they are willing to do and sacrifice in order to save their realms. Risha is struggling to come to terms with her powers, particularly with how her mother would rather her marry herself off to build an alliance rather than focus on using her powers, it also doesn’t help that dead bodies have been going missing and showing up a few days later mysteriously. Angelica is struggling with finding her place, proving she deserves to be recognized when  her powers require her to use methods that bring shame to her family and the fact that the only way she’ll ever be worthy in her mothers eyes is if she seats herself on the throne. Taesia just wants to be free of the politics, of the duties, of the leash that keeps her trapped in her family, yet when she finds herself going along with her brother’s plan to stop the king and commit treason and possibly unleash demons things go from bad to worse and the lies and secrets she keeps grow to the point where she has pushed everyone out of her life except for the hunter who she can’t help but come back to. Julian is a hunter who just wants to save his mother from her sickness and provide medical care for her, but he is struggling with keeping his powers in check, particularly keeping the beasts locked inside from coming out. Nik is the son that shouldn’t have lived and is struggling to live with the guilt that he feels after his brother has died, it doesn’t help that his god has shunned him and that his family wishes his brother had lived instead. This was a great start to a trilogy, despite the slow buildup at certain parts and decisions of some characters it was a great read, I am intrigued to see where the story goes next and how it all plays out. While it’s a lot to keep track of since there are a lot of POVs and so much world-building and plot happening, its a fun fantasy read and I would definitely recommend it. I would have to say my favorites would be as follows: Risha, Julian, Angelica, Taesia and Nik. 

*Thanks Netgalley and Orbit Books, Orbit for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Five

Chapter Five: All My Memories Gather 'Round Her

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

He ruffled her hair.

Again.

It was a mistake letting her hair grow back out, now clocking back in at impressive two inches Jane was growing used to the platinum blonde locks. Sure, there were some off-handed comments, but a stern attitude dissuaded most of the direct jokes. Well, for most, it did. Roy was always an exception when it came to her.

Annoying geezer.

But was it a sense of direction or trust that guided her to follow through his every command? It was true Jane had been wary at first- she had seen first hand what the power of being made a defacto leader could do to someone. Abuse, rape, and murder. Here, at least for the time being, Roy kept his head. Even begrudged the position. Not that he shared it pubically, only mentioning it in passing to her, but she understood the burden all the same. Jane had lived it: rejected it. It was a strange sense of comfort to follow, better that the man leading was becoming a dear...

She couldn't; she had to reject that notion.

"I know you're there."

The whir of the door a dead giveaway when it came to being followed. Jane's hypervigilance had only increased with her time spent outside active combat. Sure, she still found herself battling at least on a biweekly routine, but it was nothing compared to her time on the Normandy. That person spent more time in cover than under covers.

The mousy-haired girl stared up at her, brown eyes hard and unyielding. Hell, this kid was scary.

"Do you need something, Evelyn?"

The girl harrumphed, "what are you doing?"

Leave it to the lady carrying a dying plant around to be the most suspicious thing going on in the compound, "Spectre business."

Evelyn's, not Eva's, glare worsened. Her cheeks and nostrils flaring.

"What are you doing?" Jane replied in the same smarmy tone.

"My job," she returned matter-of-factly, "even if I don't like it, and even if Papa says you are sick."

"What, are you like, three? You don't have a job."

"Seven. And yes I do! Pater gave me one," the kid smirked, sticking out her tongue.

"And what's that? Being precocious?"

"Pre- what?" Evelyn stammered.

"Being a shit," the swear already escaped before it could be altered. Thus, reinstating the belief that children did not belong around her in any capacity.

Her furrowed brow gave way to a secretive smile, "Pater said someone needed to watch you. Seems stupid, but Papa said we all have to do things we don't want to right now."

Of course, Roy would.

"You're weird," the girl stated plainly, "your face is kinda glowy, and you spend a lot of time with those aliens."

Back on Earth, it wasn't hard to forget that First Contact was a meer thirty years ago. Not that it was blame for their attitudes, but most of the humans had a hard time trusting the aliens. It was only made worse when the squadron of Turians joined them, piling them on top of the loud and aggressive Krogan; most of the natives were uncomfortable. Already the Turians and Krogan had old beefs to settle, and the dash of human fear for the Turian species quickly started a lopsided triangle. At least the Krogan adage of 'seek the enemy of your enemy, and you will find a friend' came to the humans and krogan developing a tenuous alliance.

"Those aliens are nothing to be afraid of," Jane chided gently.

The kid neither gave up nor responded, instead following the woman through the hall and into the open atrium. The place had boomed in population, the mall teeming with signs of life that would have echoed its days before the war. Voices, distant music, and the general clatter of movement greeting them from outside the confines of the sealed hallways. Once Jane could walk through here without watching a step, now she dodged other people, weaving through the crowd with ease and speed intended to dislodge her charge.

Evelyn was spry, knocking into the lady as she unexpectedly stopped. She peeked around her, watching as the red Krogan started to cheer loudly. Another alien, smaller and with a grey carapace charged at his elder, the two rather than colliding ended the charge with a weird arm hold. For a moment, the two crests rested against each other, sharing a few soft and private words.

Even weirder was The Recruit, looking over the scene sadly, a hand held over her heart. Her jaw flexed, another sharp and illuminated line flaring vertically up her cheek—another note to add to the log.

"They look so mean," Evelyn complained, unsure why Jane would be watching this sadly. It was frightening, to her they were great brutes that usually ended up destroying something.

"They really aren't," Jane countered softly, a slight crack in her voice, "if one gives you an attitude, a head butt will set them straight."

She did like that this grown-up did not treat her like a child, unlike the rest.

Both of them tensed at the appearance of a green-shelled krogan; the arrival of the male ended the short embrace between the red and grey one. Then, as usual, the aliens returned to their fierce and violent natures, turning the greeting into a shoving contest.

"Don't fu-," the adult caught herself this time, "leave him alone. He's trouble."

Jane strode forwards, picking up her pace. It was no longer weaving through the crowd, as so much a straight charge across the atrium and to the access corridor that leads to the western parking lot- deciding they wanted to stay out of the way for practicality and ease. The Turians chose to take up the ramp as their headquarters. And this is where Jane headed for her errand.

Yeah, make me, make friendly with the Turians. Screw that they respect the chain of command more than a friendly face, all arguments Jane had tried in vain against the LT to get out of this assignment,  watch me fuck this up over a plant. Jeez, why not let them grow their own garden? Fuck if I know what I am doing.

But he did have one counterargument that made complete sense and was entirely of her own fault. She was the known member of the humans in residence to have any formal diplomatic training. She was still kicking herself for that slip of knowledge.

"You should head back home," she murmured to her back, "boring adult stuff. You won't miss much."

The baggy military rags were not enough protection from the spring chill, but she would press on. Clipping up the three-story climb to reach the perched Turians. The 'outpost' could overlook the entire mall with well-placed postings, which the military-minded turians had already accomplished within hours of selecting this area as a base of operations. The forward guard used to seeing the Recruit hardly blinked, only balking in their subtle way at the package tucked into her arms.

"Recruit," the LT wasn't the only one called by their moniker, the pinkish hued Turian gave something equivalent to a grin eyes wandering down to the plant the human carried, "another issue?"

Jane pushed the plant on the turian, "pretty much. I don't know shit about these plants."

"I grew herbs in my kitchen, I'd guess too much sunlight?"

"Makes as much sense as anything else. We've learned they can't be next to potatoes, now they hate the sun," Jane glanced down at her arms, "and I forgot to wear gloves. That's disappointing- I had plans for those hands tonight."

Silva's mandible vibrated, "there are other ways to relieve tension."

So begun the dance. It always started clean, water running over her arms, a quick quip about the luxury of running water, and the application of ointment. The all too gentle rub of talons across the top of her knuckles, a lingering glance Jane couldn't quite bring herself to notice, and finally a cocky declaration of future victory.

The Commander enjoyed the relaxed regulations of the Turian military, not that Alliance would have ever forbidden forbidden a friendly sparring match it felt much better to let off some steam without fear of repercussion. One didn't have to play nice. Fringe pulling, blows below the belt, untamed aggression was all too welcome in the turian fighting cage. While today wasn't a dirty fight day, Jane was all too eager to move.

Silva made the first jab, and the Recruit absorbed it with a smile.

"The LT is going to have my head one of these days," the Turian went in for the next blow, this time the human dodged, "I'm even going soft on you."

"Come on, Shepard," Garrus mocked, weaving below her fist, "stop dancing around."

Roy didn't appreciate the fighting, even after learning they were all in good sport. The punishment of latrine duty was now part of her chores, for how much she heeded his grumbling. He blamed the bruises for too many things- headaches, sideways glances, the lack of respect she commanded for herself. Why did he care? She never asked, never expected it. But he never told her to stop, so she wouldn't.

"I can't always make it take easy on you, Vakarian," Mary retorted, sweeping out her leg to purchase at a braced turian.

The female turian's claws grasped into her arm, but she was ready, twirling around and planting her elbow into a painfully rigid chin sending the offender reeling back a couple of steps, "that's one advantage of an exoskeleton."

"Or are we afraid to bruise our pretty face in case the Major struts on by," Garrus teased, barely inching past the biotically charged fist going for his scarred mandible, "unless he doesn't know about our little fight club?"

"At least I can roll."

"I wouldn't worry, Shepard," if the Turian were human, his eyebrow would be cocked and a flashy grin across his face, "it's so much better when they are angry."

The turian cackled; today the hits were much easier to connect. Or was the human not trying? She could be like that, destructive. Silva kept the hits low and softened the severity in which she delivered them. Jane struggled to keep her hands where they belonged, one threading and rubbing through her hair each time they disconnected to reset their stances.

"Like I care what the M-" her friend's stern glare shut her down, "don't jealous Gar-Gar."

Jane tumbled to the ground, nose trickling the strange red color. It was time for this fight to be over, the human shook underneath her grasp. But the too expressive species wore a brave face, "Jane."

"Two hundred years later, and still nobody talks about fight club," Mary after close inspection, did notice that the Major strutted, "I'm disappointed I wasn't invited." The handsome human specimen winked at the Commander, his sideways grin all-knowing.

"It's fine, probably enough for the day."

The female moved out of her grasp, turning around to wipe at her face. Silva pretended not to notice Jane went for her eyes first.

"Well, that was quick," the turian was a little disappointed, "you're different for a human."

Jane deaned to turn her head back for that comment, cocking an eyebrow at her, "you must not have left Palaven, or whatever your colony was, much."

"No, ma'am," the turian hesitated, "at least, the rest of your group doesn't seem interested in us."

"How would you feel if this was Palaven?"

Her mandibles vibrated.

"Now add your species being attacked thirty years ago by this species you suddenly have to get along with," Jane smiled softly, she was too harsh, "plus we're a bunch of cranky jerks."

Silva laughed deeply, "and add a war that has crippled an entire galaxy, it is a wonder we aren't all fighting."

"It's the krogan," Jane mused.

"Spirits bless, the krogans being the most level-headed."

"After Tuchanka, they probably feel at home," damn her words, "it was the Salarians all along."

"I mean, that's some deep level conspiracy, but it checks out," her companion tried to keep up the fading mood.

"Just give us some time; we're people of action only that really means something," to which race the words were meant for was moot.

[pan-fangirl-345]

Royal AU Teaser

Summary: A small snippet of a royal AU that’s been running through my brain. You’re a Crown Princess for a small time kingdom, though that might be about to change when you are summoned to a neighboring kingdom to meet the youngest prince. He’s not what you’re expecting.

A/N: This has been swimming around my head for months, now I just need to know if anyone would be interested in reading about it. Might be a series, probably will be, and will be somewhat long.

I should also explain in advance how the reader’s Quirk works. She had wings, and I mean like, big dove wings, and she can fly. She can heal people, though it drains her energy, and she sometimes get prophetic dreams about the future, though she doesn’t know that yet. I promise this is relevant to the story.

TW: There are mentions of death, but nobody dies in this! If I missed anything, please, feel free to let me know!

“Your Highness, the Queen has summoned you to the throne room at once.”

The handmaiden that had spoke was one of your mother’s favorites, meaning this was either going to be very very good, or exceedingly terrible.

“Alright, I’ll be right there,” you told her, laying your papers down on your desk as you fought with the gauzy skirts of the dress you had been stuffed into that morning.

Your shoes clacked as you bustled down the marble corridors of the castle, the sound resonating off the white stone.

Your kingdom wasn’t terribly wealthy, but it was rich enough to keep everyone happy.

The giant oak doors of the throne room were thrown open, and your mother was giggling with some of the courtiers on her silver throne.

“Your Majesty, you summoned me?” you inquired, kneeling in front of her.

“Ah, my darling daughter,” the Queen said, clapping her hands together, sending the courtiers scurrying from the throne room. “The King of Parindon would like to request your presence at their summer estate. His youngest son as just turned sixteen, and they’re starting to look into suitors.”

“Forgive me, but why me? Why our kingdom?”

“Because they have long standing alliances and relations with many of the kingdoms around them.”

“Except for us,” you finished.

“Precisely. Oh, get up off the floor, you’re the Crown Princess after all,” your mother huffed.

“I apologize, Majesty, but you hadn’t given me permission,” you said, curtsying to her.

“Regardless,” your mother waved her hand dismissively, “you are to be on the road by the end of the week, I have already sent ahead a letter informing them that your presence will indeed be there.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fumikage was training in the courtyard with the members of the Royal Guard when his father strode in, a letter in hand.

“Fumikage, this is for you,” his father said, ignoring as everyone in courtyard kneeled in the presence of their current King.

“What is it?” he inquired, opening it slowly.

It was clearly royal business, there was another royal seal on the front of the letter, and there was a faint scent, roses possibly, coming from the paper itself.

“A response from the Kingdom of Lomad,” his father informed him, then eyes his citizens. “You may all rise.”

“Father, is this what I think it is?” Fumikage asked as he scanned through the response.

“She’ll be here by the end of the week, so be prepared.” His father’s steely gaze landed on him as he hobbled back inside the castle. “There is a reason their sigil is a fox, my son.”

Fumikage frowned.

While it was true that he had just turned sixteen, he wasn’t sure he was ready to have a wife. He had quite a lot to learn about running a kingdom, about negotiations and wording. Most of the time, he only wanted to mull around with Dark Shadow, or be swinging a sword with the Royal Guard. And while his kingdom loved him, he wasn’t Crown Prince. He had two brothers ahead of him for the position. He wasn’t sure why he needed one now.

Most people, upon first impression, found him odd and reclusive. How would the Crown Princess of a kingdom take to him at first? Not that it matter much, if he father had anything to say about it, they would be married before she left to return to her own kingdom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You gave a small grunt as you hit another bump on the uneven cobblestone road that led to the heart of the Parindon kingdom.

You had been here a few times as a child with your father. He had been good friends with the previous King before his son had taken over. Since then, ties had become tenuous at best, and you were one wrong move away from war.

You didn’t remember much about it, you had been five at the time, and a decade later, things had changed.

You hated carriages, there were so many weak spots, and it made you feel confined. You were used to ride bareback on a warhorse or soaring through clear skies, not sitting daintily on a velvet bench in a frilly lump of dress.

“I hate this,” you muttered, trying -in vain- to un-fluff the dress you were stuck in.

“Your Highness, I apologize for the delays,” a servant said, sticking his head in the window, head bowed.

He had clearly been riding up front with the man at the reins, his face was tinted pink as he looked at you.

“It’s alright, sometimes these things happen,” you assured him, giving him a small smile.

“We’ll be there in an hour or so, Highness,” he told you.

“Alright, thank you for the update.”

Another hour stuck in this might just kill you, you decided, your wings ruffling behind your back as you tried to get comfortable again.

You reached for a book, trying to resist the urge to climb out of the carriage and fly yourself to the castle, though you had a feeling you would be shot down like a dragon from the old fairytales you had adored as a child.

“Your Highness, if you don’t mind my asking,” a courtier said, “why are you always so forgiving of such things?”

“Because it’s not their fault the weather is rather terrible. They’re simply following my mother’s orders. Besides, it’s not their fault who they were born to. None of us get a say in that. They are looked down on simply because of how they were born. It doesn’t seem fair to me,” you admitted, flipping the page lazily as you skimmed the pages of the book.

“And,” you added, “it makes me think of how I would be treated should the kingdom ever be overthrown or attacked. If I were to rule the way my grandmother and grandfather did, well, I can goodbye to my head.” You gave a small chuckle. “Kindness isn’t weakness, and neither is mercy. A kind word and some understanding can go a long way with people.”

“You truly are just, Your Highness,” the courtier said, bowed at the waist.

“Some may see it that way,” you admitted, “but others see it as a radical way of thinking. It simply depends on the person and how they were raised.”

“Are you looking forward to meeting the prince?” the courtier asked, changing subjects.

“Right now I’m focused on getting through this carriage ride with my patience intact,” you muttered. “Blasted things, I could get there on my own in half the time it took to get there by carriage.”

“But this was the safest way, Highness, to get you here without you being injured. Being uncomfortable for a few hours is much more favorable than being dead, wouldn’t you say?” the courtier asked, their fan hiding the bottom half of their face as they spoke.

“Depends,” you confessed. “There are certain times when being permanently uncomfortable seems less favorable than death.”

The courtier gave a small tinkling bell of a laugh, one that was clearly fake as you bounced along.

“Hopefully we get there soon,” you muttered to yourself, turning the page again as you glanced out the window.

[hearmeouteliza]

Hey, kids, guess what?  I’m back on my bullshit...

To those who are new to this self-indulgent little saga, following the link above will connect you to other posts in this little series, in which Phantom Blot and Beakley form an unlikely alliance while he tries to discover Pepper’s origins.  I’ve been posting little scenes here and there, because I need to sit down and write the full fic soon, but real life has not afforded me the time to do so. @ai-higurashi (and if anyone else would like to be tagged in these installments, let me know!  I’d be happy to.)

----

In the decades he’d spent alone, Blot had a fair bit of time on his hands to ponder philosophical questions.  Not things like “the meaning of life” - personally, he didn’t think there was supposed to be any one answer to that question.  The things he thought about were more complex, like if one’s inborn metaphysical abilities could be considered a form of magic - and if so, was using them hypocritical if one’s goal in life was to rid the world of magic?  Technically, he supposed Magica and her ilk had been born with their abilities, too...but it was hardly ingrained into their DNA, the way his peoples’ were.  (The shadow child might have been an exception; he frankly hadn’t figured her out yet.)

Either way, it wasn’t as if Blot had used his abilities in some time.  Consent was key for touch empaths, and he hadn’t been close enough to anyone to want to ask permission.  He sighed, debating with himself whether offering would be appropriate in this situation.  Even if he didn’t find the answers he was looking for, it might unlock something else, something important.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?  Seven months of your life missing, and you’ve been all right with that?”

Beakley mirrored his pose, glaring at him.  “I wouldn’t say ‘all right’ is the proper term to use.  It is what it is.”

Traumatic amnesia, the records had said, but Blot didn’t buy that, and he suspected Beakley didn’t either.  He’d found that, like him, she remembered the key traumas in her life all too clearly.  “I suspect you may have been drugged.”  She said nothing, waiting him out, but her expression suggested she thought so as well.  “If that’s the case, you may still have some of those memories; they’re just inaccessible...without help.”

“What kind of ‘help’ are you offering?” she asked archly.  

Blot would have been surprised if she hadn’t been suspicious, and he was willing to work with that.  Their truce was a tenuous one, after all.  “All of my people were touch empaths.  Some of us were found to be especially skilled and trained with the high priests, in order to be able to see memories.  We only ever used the ability with permission and only for good - such as in your case, to unlock something the conscious mind couldn’t remember.  I realize you don’t trust me, but I can promise that if you let me try, I won’t harm you.”

“Making a deal with the devil, hmm?” she murmured, echoing his earlier words.

Blot shrugged.  “In a sense, I suppose it is.  Whatever you need to tell yourself.”  He didn’t need to warn her that the memories probably wouldn’t be pleasant, but he trusted she was strong enough to handle it.  Besides, imagination could often be worse than reality when it came to filling in traumatic blanks.  

“Fine.”  Beakley nodded.  Her voice was curt, but her expression had softened slightly.  “I doubt that mission has any connection to this quest of yours...but do what you need to do.”  

Blot nodded for her to sit as he removed the glove of his right hand; physical contact would be necessary.  He put his hand to her temple, closing his eyes as he sought out what he was looking for.  And there it was, hidden away in the recesses, buried under layers of neural misdirection.  He was assaulted by a series of images, but he pushed them aside with practiced ease and withdrew.

Beakley gasped, her hands going to her head.  As she did, her granddaughter launched herself at Blot.  “Leave my granny alone!”

Blot caught her with his gloved hand, holding her up by the back of her vest.  The girl’s limbs flailed at him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at her.  So spirited, much like his Brigita.  “I haven’t hurt her.  It can take the mind a moment to adjust once the memories are released.”

Beakley was already sitting up again, smiling shakily as she reached for her granddaughter.  “It’s fine, Webby.  He’s right; it’s just a lot to process all at once.”

“Yes,” Blot said, standing as he pulled his glove back on.  “You should take tonight to work on that.”  Despite his skills, he hadn’t exactly been a therapist and he’d never claimed to be.  “I’ll meet you this time tomorrow to see if you’ve recalled anything helpful.”

“Helpful to which of us?” she asked dryly.

Blot shrugged as he turned for the door.  “That remains to be seen.”