#» character study — ⌜secrets are sharper than blades.⌟

[serpentembraced]

cass would absolutely have a toxic fanbase she subtly throws against anyone she dislikes while playing the victim if people try to blame her and this is very tied with my kat's modern verse but i just want to say the moment garen broke up with her sister cassiopeia made sure to direct her fans to make his online life hell

[serpentembraced]

cassiopeia, on the other hand, definitely took advantage of people trying to court her. on top of coming from an important noble house, her beauty, intelligence and lack of empathy are noted on her bio. her short story goes as far as to say 'assassins killed at her slightest whim, soldiers spilled their darkest secrets, and generals willingly followed her counsel in the hopes of patronage' and i simply believe she had numerous suitors who she entertained and spurned as it suited whatever game she was up to.

were it not for her transformation, i fully believe eventually an arranged marriage too good to be refused would have happened, and she would have married whoever she had to, because it'd be about the politics of it (she'd find katarina really foolish to be so emotional about it). which doesn't mean she'd stay married for long. she was a master of poisons even before being a snake, and any husband of hers was likely bound to tragically die ingesting untraceable poison. a shame, really. the tears certainly aren't feigned. of course not.

but also being a lesbian i don't think she'd be thrilled about what having to go through with marrying some dude would entail. and i think, however practical her outlook on it may be, deep down that would have left her unsettled, to say the least, about the prospect eventually she'd have to marry someone. currently she's quite content only turning men into statues and crushing the life out of them

noxus, especially as of now, doesn't seem like it would have gender roles or too complicated rituals where courtship is concerned; and many of those might be a mishmash influenced by other cultures absorbed into the empire. we know for a fact same-sex unions between noxian soldiers happen, so there seems to be no restriction of gender or associated with being part of the military (and honestly, i think it makes sense that the empire would leave its citizens free to pursue relationships in any form they want, committed or not, considering the standard is to judge one by their usefulness to noxus)

the exception would be nobility, where bloodlines and names very much matter. arranged marriages are probably common between noble families, and courtship would likely take longer and be less about the individuals and more about proving why a marriage between those two families would be beneficial.

as the du couteau heir, katarina would have been expected to marry and have children who, in turn, would continue their house's legacy after herself. of course, she never cared for that at all (and i remember a really old interaction i had with ada's sore where her mom intended to arrange a marriage for her and katarina flat out refused to comply and was simply livid). but hey, being disowned freed her from that — and even after swain reinstates her as head of the du couteau guild, she's pretty openly anti nobility. she'd absolutely not entertain their way of doing things in any scenario.

she's very i want it, i'm going to get it in general and that's also true when it comes to relationships. if she's interested she'll act on it. honestly i feel a lot of times it'd just be impulsive; but she's not concerned at all with waiting for the other person to take the lead. she's very spontaneous when it comes to feelings; the thing is sometimes she jumps in and then backs down because she's so afraid of being betrayed and abandoned and hurt again.

when it comes to marriage specifically, it's not something she thinks about at all. she's often traveling because of work, and any partner would have to understand she won't stop coming and going like that, and that there are things she simply wouldn't share with them if it's important for noxus that she doesn't. ultimately, if she's really in love with someone and getting married is important for them and they understand the terms and conditions i think she'd accept. it's just something that doesn't matter to her, and that she wouldn't do unless she really loves her partner.

[gusu-emilu]

Whumptober 2021 Day 1: “You have to let go”

Fandom: MDZS/CQL Ship: Mo Xuanyu / Nie Huaisang Rating: T, Major Character Death Wordcount: 1166 Tags: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Canonical Character Death

He and Mo Xuanyu have always been meant to part ways in the end.

"You have to let go," Huaisang tells the trembling figure in front of him.

The young man hangs his head, disheveled hair draping over his face. He leans forward as if to bury himself in Huaisang's chest, but not close enough for his face to touch Huaisang’s robes.

A lacquered wooden makeup case rattles in the young man’s hands as his fingers abuse its lid. The makeup case is empty, save for a trace of crimson dust. Several other empty cases litter the ground like bodies cut open after an ambush. They surround the name Mo Xuanyu and a collection of obscene words written in stark red and white on the ground. The sneering voices of Jin cultivators, long since gone, still slither through the air around them, as if crawling out of the crude letters they smeared into the ground.

So this is Jin Guangyao’s newly-discovered brother.

Huaisang feels a sharp pang of sympathy for Mo Xuanyu. To have his passions strewn to the floor, to be looked down upon and mocked, to feel alone in his own sect...

"It's alright," Huaisang says gently, not for the first time. "They're gone now."

But despite his coaxing, Mo Xuanyu still refuses to uncurl his fingers from the case in his hands, still refuses to speak or look him in the eye. Maybe Huaisang should leave.

"How about I give you some of my cosmetics?" he tries.

Mo Xuanyu grips the case harder. "Why...why would you do that?"

Well, that's progress.

Huaisang rests the edge of his fan on the makeup case. Mo Xuanyu flinches and looks up. Rage flashes through his eyes before mellowing to puppy-like sadness and confusion.

Even in this state of disarray, the white powder on his face wet, red streaks smearing down over his cheekbones, Mo Xuanyu is beautiful.

But Huaisang doesn't miss the startling forcefulness of that flash of anger, steely and concentrated like the tension of a wrought bow. He wouldn't have expected such rage from someone who seems to want to make himself as small as possible.

Mo Xuanyu is miserable.

Luckily for both of them, misery loves company.

"Consider it a gift of initiation," Huaisang finally answers.

"Initiation of...what?"

Huaisang slips a jade powder case from his sleeve and holds it out. Opening his fan with a spirited snap, he smiles and cocks an eyebrow. "Initiation of our friendship, of course."

Mo Xuanyu stares wide-eyed at the powder case and its intricate design of swirling patterns and twin magpies. He blinks, and the faintest smile appears on his lips.

He reaches for the case.

* * *

"A-Yu!" Huaisang says through laughter. "You have to let go!"

Giggling, Mo Xuanyu hugs the bundle of Huaisang's robes against his bare body and dodges out of Huaisang's reach. His grin becomes sharper when he's mischievous like this, his movements more resolute than his usual delicacy. He is something totally other when he is smiling and cheerful, transforming like a tattered sheet of paper folded into the shape of a crane.

Huaisang can't hold back his grin. "Give me my robes back!"

"Not unless we stay here a little longer."

"You do realize that it must be for something important if it's me, of all people, who wants to get out of bed."

"It's that important?" Mo Xuanyu asks, caught off guard.

Huaisang shrugs. "Maybe not. I don't know." He relents and lies back down, letting Mo Xuanyu happily join him once more.

Breathes in the giddiness that masks the truth of their relationship, lets the comfort drown out his thoughts.

Huaisang knows their joyful moments together are fleeting. Mo Xuanyu will return to his place of scorn in Jinlintai and resume his secret studies of demonic cultivation. Huaisang will return to Qinghe and do his best to keep Da-ge’s mind from splitting along the lines that Baxia has carved into him.

Even without their separateness of their lives, Huaisang’s relationship with Mo Xuanyu will never be appropriate to make public. And, Huaisang tells himself, it is not that significant of a relationship anyway. Just a fling. Just some fun.

He tries not to let himself feel too much, tries not to become too attached. He knows it’s selfish to toy with someone whose life is so precarious, someone so fundamentally alone.

But he and Mo Xuanyu have always been meant to part ways in the end.

* * *

"You have to let it go," Jin Guangyao says, hand on Huaisang's shoulder.

Huaisang wants to cut off that hand. Cut off the fingers that plucked deceit on guqin strings. Cut off his whole arm.

For that, Huaisang would pick up a saber. Would touch one of those cursed blades that poisoned Da-ge.

But he won't.

Not like that.

Huaisang clenches his teeth and swallows the bile, lets Jin Guangyao's palm sink into his shoulder, smiles and nods and plays nice and plays dumb for "San-ge."

For now, he lets it go.

* * *

Huaisang is in bed with Mo Xuanyu, drowning out his grief, when he has the idea to let his lover go.

His mind makes the connections in a flash as his heart sinks, the last piece of his plan fitting into place like a missing bone from a skeleton, like the final word of a curse.

Mo Xuanyu’s kiss seems to burn his lips that night.

Huaisang would call himself a selfish man, but he and Mo Xuanyu have always been meant to part ways in the end.

* * *

You have to let go, he tells himself when he finds Mo Xuanyu slumped over in a shack, clothes in tatters, blood weeping from his wrists.

This time, Mo Xuanyu hangs his head, but not against Huaisang's chest. This time, hideous crimson writing is scrawled on the ground around him, written not in Mo Xuanyu's cosmetic powder, but in his own blood, by his own hand.

This time, Mo Xuanyu offered the gift.

Why did you do it? Huaisang wants to ask, but knows the answer like it's written into his skin with the blood of the soul he helped kill.

* * *

As Huaisang sits alone in his room, he holds Mo Xuanyu’s jade powder case—the same powder case he had gifted to him when they first met—and thinks.

Mo Xuanyu had been consumed by revenge. Had let it take his body like a fire devours through a forest, stripping it dry, leaving only black, brittle remains of what had once been.

Had burned out in a flash and left the ashes for Huaisang to hold onto.

Huaisang can easily take things for granted, can easily throw away a vessel for happiness—he had always been selfish and only grown more callous each time something had slipped through his fingers and left cuts behind—

But they are invisible cuts, of course.

It is with smooth, unblemished skin that Huaisang caresses the carvings of Mo Xuanyu's powder case. Cradles the relic with clean hands.

Yet those hands are shaking.

Shaking, they refuse to let go...

[musical-shit-show]

Two Sides: Chapter 3

Previous Chapter: (1) (2)

Characters: Musical!Beetlejuice, Female!OC, Lydia Deetz, Barbara Maitland, Adam Maitland

Warnings: anxiety, supernatural elements, sexual references

Word Count: 1208

Author’s Note: Woohoo! Chapter 3! If you’re reading this, thanks so much for putting up with the delay. Work is crazy right now and I haven’t had the time to sit down and edit on my own computer. But now that spooky szn is over, I’m gonna take some more time to write and plot out chapters so they can be posted more frequently. Anyways, its bug man time (kinda). Hope you enjoy!

As always, please like/comment/reblog if you enjoy. I need to get serious about building my blog a little more to include requests/an about page, so be on the lookout for that if you enjoy this story so far! Oh, and here is a link to my masterlist  :) Thanks!

Chapter 3

Cassandra exhaled deeply as she reached her room for the weekend. The guest room was simple, painted light gray with a clean white and pale blue comforter adorning a queen-sized mattress. Cassandra’s eyes sparkled at the bed; living in the city meant countless nights of tossing and turning on an uncomfortable twin.

She flopped onto the soft comforter, her back sinking into the firm mattress. Cassandra closed her eyes, attempting to process the previous 10 minutes. There was always a part of her that knew entities like ghosts actually did exist in this world, she just didn’t realize she’d get up close and personal with them, let alone discover that her best friend used to live with two dead people.

In a way though, the situation excited her. It was like she was in on a massive secret, privy to an entire world beyond the corporeal. The very thought of all the questions she could ask Adam and Barbara about the afterlife made her skin tingle.

Goosebumps suddenly rose on her skin, and another chill wracked her spine. Cassandra looked around the room; she was still alone. A fluttering piece of fabric caught her eye, and she noticed the window was open, another sudden gust of cold air entering the already frigid room. 

‘Oh,’ the young woman thought, ‘Now you’re being paranoid. It was just the wind.’ Still, a sense of unease filled her chest as she crossed the room to close the window.

Beetlejuice snickered, knowing this new breather wouldn’t be able to hear him. Most couldn’t, after all. It was a lonely existence, but the demon always thoroughly enjoyed tormenting those who were unable to see him.

He watched as Cassandra made her way to the window, raising an eyebrow as he examined her. She was short, with cropped brown hair that fell just above her shoulders. Her frame was much fuller than her roommate’s, her thighs jiggling as she walked.

“Nice tits,” he thought out loud, a streak of magenta shooting through his hair as she unwittingly passed him, “Not much of an ass though.” Cassandra whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. She could’ve sworn she heard a faint whisper in the air. She slammed the window shut, shaking her head in disbelief.

Beetlejuice quirked an eyebrow, studying her. Though Cassandra couldn’t see him as Lydia had all those years ago, she could certainly sense his presence. ‘Maybe you’re more interesting than I thought, new girl’, he thought to himself as he floated, lounging on air as she moved across the room. He snapped his fingers quickly, producing a very important piece of paper that was integral to his return to the world of the living.

“I must really be losing it,” she muttered to herself, flopping backwards onto the bed. She felt a soft crinkling underneath her thigh, a texture that was completely different than the down bedding that lie underneath the rest of her. Beetlejuice was practically radiating with energy as she pulled his business card out from under her. He knew that if Lydia wasn’t willing to tell her about the sickeningly sweet Maitlands, there’s no way she knew about him.

Cassandra studied the card, the lettering a faded black, the material weathered from age. She wondered how such an old business card had practically landed in her lap, but given the circumstances of the day so far, she was learning to expect the unexpected. The demon eyed her carefully, praying that she would be gullible and confused enough to follow the instructions on his card.

The card sported bold lettering and what appeared to be a winged bug with a man’s head attached. He was holding a large mallet next to the obnoxious lettering that read:

Betelgeuse the Bio-Exorcist! Call Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse.

“Like the star...?” Cassandra said quietly to herself, getting a flashback to her freshman year astronomy class. She sat cross-legged on the bed, utterly perplexed. Her head was still spinning from her encounter with Barbara and Adam.

“Damn, babes, pretty and smart?” Beetlejuice crooned, “Looks like you’re the whole package.”

The faint whispering attacked Cassandra’s ears once more, causing her to tense up. She looked down at the card again, its form bent and folded beyond repair. There was one more notation besides the aforementioned celestial body.

Just speak my name three times.

Cassandra quirked an eyebrow, wondering if Lydia was pulling a trick on her. Lydia knew she was gullible, and given the shock she had just endured moments earlier, it wouldn’t be out of the strange girl’s wheelhouse to pull a prank like this.

“Okay, ha ha, very funny Lyds,” Cassandra called out to her seemingly empty room, “I’ll play along with your shit this time.” She held out the card in front of her, waiting for Lydia to come through the door at any moment and scare the daylights out of her. Beetlejuice was practically salivating as Cassandra parted her lips, his hair suddenly turned neon green as his amber eyes dilated rapidly. 

“Oh, come on, come on, come on,” he pleaded, inching closer to Cassandra’s ear, “We can have so much fun together, new girl.”

“Betelgeuse,” she said playfully, almost in a whisper.

Beetlejuice felt his body tingle in anticipation; the sound of his name being spoken aloud revitalized him. “Oh, yeah,” he moaned, rolling his shoulder blades back as energy surged through his undead form, “I forgot how good this felt.”

“Betelgeuse,” Cassandra said again, this time more confidently. Suddenly the room crackled with electricity, the wind whipping around the room even more fiercely. She smirked, assuming that Lydia had just employed Adam and Barbara in her scheme to frighten her.

Beetlejuice’s eyes ignited with power, a devilish smile on his face. “Come on, babes,” he said, practically glowing, “Just one more time.”

“Betelgeuse!” she said a third and final time, waiting for Lydia to jump out and scare her. But she didn’t see her dark-haired friend or the two ghosts that inhabited this house. Instead, there was a burst of green smoke that permeated throughout the room. The room’s temperature suddenly felt as though it had dropped twenty degrees, and Cassandra shivered as a cold bead of sweat slowly trickled down her back. Cassandra didn’t know what—or rather, who—would appear out of the shroud of smoke, but she soon found herself face to face with the oddest-looking man she had ever seen in her life.

His skin had a sickly pallor, contrasted with deep purple circles under his eyes. The roots of his hair were black, but that’s where the normalcy ended; the rest was a vibrant green, protruding upwards. He smiled like the Devil himself, his canines noticeably sharper than the average person’s. And Jesus Christ, his clothes. He wore a tattered black and white striped suit that was an assault on the eyes. He dusted himself off, the smell of dirt and rot wafting through the air. It was enough to make Cassandra gag, though she held it back as best she could as the man slowly approached her, energy still radiating off of his stocky form.

“Hiya, babes,” the man said, his voice gravely and low, “Thanks for setting me free. I owe ya one.”

---------

One thing you’ll learn about my writing style is that I love a good cliffhanger. Hope you enjoyed!

[ladyofmaidensandwine]

Blood and Blade

Part Two of the All’s Not Fair in Love and War Series

For the Pick Two Challenge by @justagirlinafandomworld​

This is part two of an ongoing series I am writing. If you would like to be tagged, let me know.

Prompts:  Enemies to Lovers AU, and the dialogue “If you touch him/her/them, I’ll kill you.”

Characters: Dean Winchester, Fem! Irish! Reader, John Winchester, Crowley, Lucifer (mentioned), Charlie Bradbury, Sam Winchester

Wordcount: 2,602

Summary: Confronted by an unexpected face from your past, Dean demands the truth. An unlikely alliance is formed in the face of certain death, and unexpected secrets will be revealed.

Series Masterlist

            “Tell me everything, Y/N. Tell me the truth. Who are you really?” Dean demanded. You studied his emerald green eyes, measured their intensity, and gave a slow nod. “Fergus McLeod killed my parents when I was but a babe, and then slammed me into Hell as a punishment for inciting rebellion.” Dean frowned as you skirted past his question, but didn’t let his hard expression falter. “Why are you here?” Dean asked. “Not because of the King, not because of the labor camp, nor due to the contract. Why are you really here?” He added. You paled slightly. You had thought your carefully crafted exterior hid your ulterior motives, but somehow, this sharp-eyed, stubborn, and charming Prince had seen right through you. He knew. He knew the truth, he wanted to hear you say it. You set your shoulders back and raised your chin a notch, face a mask of unfeeling coldness, eyes as hard as diamonds. “I’m here to-”

                  You stopped, brows furrowed, a hand instinctively moving to your hip, grazing the thick grey cloth of your skirts. Dean’s head snapped to the door, neither of you daring to so much as breathe. You made eye contact, and a look of understanding passed between the two of you. Silence fell thickly outside the door to Dean’s private chambers, the shadow of someone’s boots pooling in the polished marble floors.

          The door slammed open, the force sending the finely crafted wood flying in splinters, and you had no time to think, only to act. Weapon, you needed a weapon- your hands lunged blindly and you felt the solid and heavy weight of an ornate candelabra in your hand. Two men, both stocky, rushed into the room where Dean had already drawn his sword, but one look at the abysmally dark pits that were their eyes, you knew a single blade would not help you. The closest to you moved fast, but you were faster. Even after the time you’d been imprisoned, your honed reflexes were still as reliable as they’d always been, and you moved in a blur of gleaming metal and dove grey lace. You swept his feet from under him, and before he had the chance to react, used his momentum to send him soaring over your shoulder, slamming him into the ground, and bashing the candlestick into his skull. 

            Dean turned to you, eyes wide in shock and surprise. You panted slightly, and he unsheathed a pair of daggers from his belt. He was silent, face impassive as he offered them to you, but you understood his bargain. The olive branch had been extended in the form of deadly blades and an agreement to have one another’s backs. “Demons. We must act quickly. There are hidden tunnels beneath us, are there not?” You asked hurriedly, though your tone was calm, voice unwavering. “Yes. I won’t ask how you know that.” He frowned. “Gather as many people as you can, and get them out.” You said firmly. “And leave you? To do what, exactly?” Dean scoffed. “Now is not the time to quarrel. I can hold my own, Your Majesty.” You said, curtsying mockingly as Dean rolled his eyes. “As you wish.” He sneered. You twirled the daggers deftly between your fingers, and as you looked at Dean, he saw a sort of bloodthirsty fire there, and simply nodded his head. You let a smirk spread over your lips, and allowed the predator within to show. A wolf stalked the palace, a wolf in a woman’s body, fangs of iron, heart of stone.

             Somewhere in the chaos, Dean connected with his younger brother, the two Princes fending off demons as they hurried people into the hidden entrance of the tunnels. Charlie, Captain of the Royal Guard, had ordered her forces to only attack you as self-defense, understanding that a shaky alliance had been forged against a mutual enemy. You, however, were nowhere to be seen, no sign of your existence save for the trail of bodies left in your wake.

            Silent. You were so silent, it was eerie, appearing from the shadows with a determined swiftness, so efficient that by the time anyone knew you were there, there was a knife buried to the hilt in their chest. You moved methodically, choosing corridors and halls with plenty of places to hide and a good vantage point, sometimes stalking your quarry with the unnerving, preternatural stillness and patience of a predator, hunting them down, and offering no mercy except that of a quick death. Morrigan, Queen of Thieves, Lady of Death, all names well-earned. You made killing an art, but not out of enjoyment. There was more there, a glimpse of sympathy hiding behind an eternally angry fire and cold eyes, more than vengeance in that dangerous smirk. So carefully hidden, this vulnerable human side of you, the part that could vomit at the sight of the carnage you caused, the part that wept and sobbed upon waking from a nightmare in which you were haunted by the faces of those you’ve loved and lost, and those you’d looked in the eye as they died at your hands. Steady, those hands, so firm and certain as they held a silvery blade. The demons within you were not the kind that could be exorcised.

                    You disappeared into the gloom of the tunnels, nothing but the weak and quickly dying light of the occasional torch to guide you, but you knew where you were going. You had never needed sight to find your way, as sure of your directions as anyone with a map could ever be. You were nearly stabbed as a member of the guard struck out at you, unable to discern your figure from a possible threat, leaning away and deflecting the blow with the dagger Dean lent you.

           “If you would refrain from decapitating me, I would be most gracious.” You said dryly, thoroughly unimpressed by the guards. “At ease.” Dean called, shouldering his way past the soldiers towards you. He was silent for a moment, surveying you with a critical gaze, searching for obvious injuries, of which you sported few. “How many?” He questioned. You shrugged. “Too many to count. The rest of your men can handle it now. The surprise of the attack caught them off-guard, but the numbers can be managed.” You reported, scanning the crowd of faces behind Dean. He nodded with a sigh, jaw set. Crown Prince he may be, but he was a warrior too, one that would rather die alongside his fellow soldiers than run with the civilians. You understood how he felt. Once, you had made a similar decision. The bandolier of knives slung over chest gleamed faintly in the firelight, one hand resting almost casually on the hilt of his sword. “We should keep moving. The palace is not safe, and your father was already escorted away.” You suggested, slipping behind Dean and to the front of the group. “I understand you do not trust me, but as of now, I am your ally. I hate Crowley and all he stands for, as well as those with him, far more than I hate the good King of Lawrence.” You said clearly. Dean’s lips curled into a small smirk, nodding. “You must truly hate Crowley, then.” Charlie spoke up. You snorted a laugh. “You haven’t the slightest.”

                      Dean watched you carefully. He was slightly behind you, placing himself between you and the others as an instinct. His emerald eyes were calculating, studying you. Blood smeared on your cheek, just slightly darker than the red of your lipstick. You’d cut through your skirts, leaving them above the knee for mobility, and your hair was mussed, small scratches and cuts scattered over your arms and legs. You looked a mess, and yet your eyes were clear, sharper and with more focus than he’d seen them before, body relaxed, but ready for action in an instant. You were in your element, adrenaline coursing through your veins, fingers still spinning those perfectly balanced daggers skillfully, the color of blood that was, he realized, not yours enhancing your eyes. His fathers words rang through his head. “Murder, son. Many, many counts of murder...”

               Dawn had arrived, the deeper indigos and rich blue-black of the night sky slowly replaced by subtle grey and soft rosy pink. A few lone stars hung glittering above the horizon, the full moon illuminating the rolling hills enough for them to see the bulky and stocky shape of the stronghold they were headed towards. Neither you, nor Dean, had let go of your weapons, waiting for the next attack as the civilians wearily trudged onwards. “How much farther?” You asked quietly. “Perhaps half a kilometre.” Dean answered, noting your frown. “What is it?” He queried. “Is it not strange that they would willingly allow both Princes to so easily escape? Something about this does not bode well.” You said seriously, exchanging an uneasy look with Dean. “I know. The best I can hope for is that the guards can get the people to safety.” Dean sighed, expression taut. So much responsibility, such a heavy weight. The gold of his crown reflected in the moonlight, and you wondered if he felt the burden of his entire kingdom resting upon his brow each time he wore it. “Then let us make haste, Your Majesty.” You gestured, flashing him a crooked grin. “I hate when you call me that.” Dean muttered blankly, but you caught the twitch of his lips as he fought a smile. “Crown Prince Dean, loathing his title. Next I’ll discover you don’t bathe in gold coins and rubies as large as a bird’s egg.” You snickered. That one got you a laugh, your eyes smug and smile triumphant.

              Close enough to see the flag flying atop the turrets of the stronghold, the urgency kicked in as the civilians were rushed towards the prospect of safety. You counted the steps left to take in your head. 1,000 steps away, an arrow pierced through the gap in a soldier’s metal armor. The people screamed, and Prince Sam quickly tried to regain control whilst you and Dean readied yourselves for battle. Charlie called out orders to hold the defensive line and to keep moving, but more arrows fell from the sky like rain, most bouncing off shields, but some wounding or killing both soldier and civilian. Dean’s expression shifted in an instant, and gone was the cocky grin, the cool amusement, replaced by cold steel and green eyes lit from within by an angry, righteous flame.

               The pair of you were efficient, Dean’s sword and your knives doing serious damage as the archers abandoned their bows and charged your group. He shielded you when he could, and you made quick work of would-be assailants attempting to take the Crown Prince by surprise. Something in the dynamic between you shifted, there on the battlefield, both spattered with blood and streaked with dirt, that former uneasy and hesitant trust replaced as you became strong defenders and fearsome allies. The Prince and the Assassin, Defenders of the Crown. You could laugh at the thought, and for a moment, the long-dormant place inside you that had once been alive in vivid colours created a mental image, two figures side-by-side, one in gleaming golden tones, the other a silhouette in silver, a brief flicker of something you’d paint if it had been long ago.

            Cresting the hilltop against the bronze of the rising sun, the King’s vast army rode on sure-footed steeds, armor a bright and shining wave of silver and gold to change the tide of the battle. Dean met your eyes, sharing in the sense of impending victory, before he cleaved a demon in half with one stroke of his sword, your own daggers finding their way into the throat and gut of two more. Sam had been flanked by the King’s soldiers, the common people and nobility rescued and ushered towards the stronghold. You and Dean remained, a lethal pair, carving a path through the attackers with both blood and blade, never ceasing even as you took a heavy mace to the shoulder, and Dean was stabbed in the thigh. There would be no retreat, from either side, but a few more cowardly individuals recognized the impending loss and fled, the numbers dwindling into something more manageable. By the time the sky burned red and blazing orange, clouds tinged pink and gold, the fields were littered with corpses both human and Other, the survivors being taken forcibly into custody. Again, the Crown Prince met your eyes, and nodded a solemn thanks, to which you gave a crooked smile and mocking bow. It would seem the unlikely alliance would survive another day.

               Dean refused to leave to be treated until you were also seen to, a handmaiden sighing exasperatedly and finally escorting you towards a private room which connected to Dean’s own chambers. The bustle of people distracted you from the pain of your various injuries, eyes taking in all the exits and cataloguing every twist and turn, memorizing faces. Another skill you could never forget, ingrained deeply in your instincts.

          “I can take care of these myself.” You insisted to a nurse as she tried to inspect a cut over your shoulder. “Let her assist you, Y/N.” Dean said sternly. meeting your eyes with furrowed brows. You sighed and rolled your eyes, but ceased you protests. Dean was made to leave and you were scrubbed and then dressed in night attire which smelled suspiciously of Dean’s earthy cologne, but was in any case a better alternative to another ridiculous dress. 

             “Your cover is blown, you realize.” Dean said. He stepped into your room, looking less like the future King, and more like a man. An exceedingly handsome man, you admitted. “I suppose now your father will kill me.” You replied, lifting your chin slightly. “He will wish to, but he can’t. You’re under my jurisdiction, Y/N.” Dean smirked, leaning against the door frame with his hands tucked into his pockets as you stilled on the bed. “Am I to take this as you saying you don’t wish to kill me, Your Majesty?” You blinked slowly, expression betraying your confusion. “I- I may have judged you too harshly. In any case, you fought by my side, risked your life, cover, and safety to protect my people. You deserve to be hailed as a hero, not a criminal.” Dean said seriously, inspecting you closely to gauge your reactions. He frowned when you let out a loud laugh. “You’re not jesting? This is serious?” You asked incredulously. “Your Majesty, I will always be a killer, no matter what you now wish to call me. You will be making many people very angry if you stand for me against your father.” You pointed out. Dean smirked again, shrugging. “Old bastard has it coming. I am not the same man as my father, Y/N, and you are not your reputation. I don’t need to know the details of your past, nor your identity. You could have killed me at least a dozen different times this night, and many others. I trust you.” Dean stared you down, not allowing you to escape the sincere intensity of his deep pine eyes. “You’re mad.” You stated. “Perhaps.” He grinned back. “Well, then. To the death of all reason, Your Majesty.” You toasted, raising a crystal glass of wine in his direction. “I’ll drink to that. It’s Dean. Just Dean.” He said firmly. “As you wish, Crown Prince Just Dean.” This time, you both laughed.

TAGS-

Message me to be added to my Tags List!

Forever Tags-

@justagirlinafandomworld​

SPN Pond Tags-

@spnfanficpond​

[keishid]

17. the one where your soulmate’s name is on one wrist and your enemy’s name is on the other and you have no clue which is which. (Yasukat, because I am a BASTARD and I wanna see Kat have a minor crisis about there being even the vaguest possibility that her soulmate is Jericho fucking Swain)

(AO3 mirror)

extensive headcanons used sry

feel free to interrogate about them XD

Katarina can’t read the markings on her left wrist. They’re sharp and angular, squared off in places, so much more complicated than the simple Common script on her off-hand; she used to think, when she was still figuring letters out in the first place, that it was just particularly complex or maybe a specialized alphabet and she’d get it later but—

But it’s just not in Common in the first place.

It’s easy to assume which is which, then. There’s a name in Common—not noticeably Noxian or Demacian or anything in particular, but there’s no reason it shouldn’t be Noxian. It seems a little short for a Noxian name—an actual family name, not the Nox indicative of a guttersnipe, but only one middle name attached. There’s no reason for her not to have her share of enemies in her homeland as well as outside it, but when she knows for a fact that one of the souls linked to hers is from somewhere else… the odds feel pretty decent that the foreigner is probably her enemy.

死蓮.

Apart from that single section, Hiroto can’t read either one of his linked names. They aren’t any alphabet that he learns, isn’t from any one of the isles; he’s never personally met a mainlander before, so he can’t exactly ask them what his wrists say. (They probably wouldn’t even bother learning Ionian, even if it is the island closest to the mainland.)

Yone says he’s heard that most of the mainland speaks one language most of the time, which frankly feels like bullshit considering the size of the place, but it’s not like Yone can read it either. He can speak some Common—they both can, just in case, especially since it looks like the isles can’t just avoid contact with the mainland for much longer—but reading it isn’t a priority. And just running around showing everybody the names in the hope that someday, someone will be able to tell him what they say—

It would be pretty weird. It’s private, anyway.

He’d at least like to know why this person, whoever they are, has a single Ionian name in amongst this… frankly ridiculous mix of other ones. Or why it’s so godsdamned… pretentiously grim. It sounds like one of the Kindred’s priests, but they only have the one name in the first place. Not six , assuming he’s understanding the spacing right. And it can’t be that all mainlanders have names that unwieldy; his other wrist only has four sets of characters, and all of them are much shorter.

(What the hell kind of mainlander names their child death lotus? Or, worse still, what the hell kind of mainlander gets weirdly obsessed enough with Ionia to name themselves like that?)

Half the reason Katarina leaps into her Ionian studies as hard as she does, when her father finally tells her about the overseas part of her curriculum, is in the hopes that she’ll finally at least have a name to put to the lines on her skin. She has a person to put to the other name now, at least: a soldier who shouldn’t reasonably be alive, put in a minor command just by dint of outliving everyone else who could have qualified. A cripple (although Katarina knows better than to assume that means much of anything, or he would have died before making it into the army at all), a strategist, with a six-eyed raven as a familiar. Some sort of witch, and almost as old as her father.

(No one ever said that a soulmate had to be romantic. Many of them aren’t. It’s childish of Katarina to be disappointed, but she is.)

Reading the language is far more difficult than speaking it, and even if keeping one’s full name a secret is a habit that only Noxians needed to cultivate, it feels wrong to unwrap her wrist and show her teacher the marks. Or even to copy them down somewhere else and ask that way. (Her handwriting is terrible, anyway, even with the simplest characters.) She learns it in bits and pieces, months apart; and she doesn’t get the full context until she’s already on Ionian soil, living with the Kinkou.

Yasuo. No middle name, she’s expecting at this point (Ionia, as it turns out, does have its own problems with local spirits and elementals; they just don’t seem overly bothered with using a name for power—not so much less malicious as just following a different set of rules). No surname… is odd, but enough of the Kinkou forego them that it’s not out of place here. It gets under her skin, rubs her the wrong way. It can’t be safe, your entire identity stripped down to three syllables that anyone can know. Katarina— Shiren, she still has to remind herself; she’s Shiren as long as she’s here—still doesn’t like the idea that her full name is seared into a birthmark on someone else’s body. (Possibly even more than one, depending on how many enemies she makes in her life, how much reason she gives them to hate her.) She can’t imagine…

She can’t imagine having no such protection at all.

He goes to the sword school at ten; he gets renamed at twelve, the moment that his skills start to surpass where the masters think his ego ought to be. (He can deal with their censure; the fact that Yone agrees, the fact that his very identity gets rewritten, that he has to relearn how to respond to something that isn’t even his real name—)

It’s fine. It will be fine, eventually.

He meets her at seventeen.

If Shiren comes with a warning, it’s not one that he hears. The masters don’t seem surprised to see her, but Yasuo isn’t convinced they’d even show it if they were, so for all he knows she just… shows up to be taught. More, because can’t be that much younger than him, and he’s never seen a brand new student show up that old.

They don’t actually meet for the first couple of days; the masters are keeping them both busy, and if she shares the same curiosity about him that he has about her (she’s a mainlander and she’s here, so maybe—), she doesn’t seem interested in going out of her way to pursue it. She does show up for dinner, but getting near her without being obvious about it is… a challenge.

She doesn’t look like much when he finally manages to get close enough to look. She’s smaller than him both in height and in build—a swimmer’s build, or a dancer’s (or a ninja’s, but he hopes not). Her accent is off, but she’s still understandable, and she’s at least doing a hell of a lot better than he was expecting from a mainlander. She has an angular face, like a fox given human form. Her eyes are shockingly green; her hair is black, but her eyebrows are a deep red, her eyelashes amber. It’s not a color that feels like it should exist on a human being, but…

“If you dyed your hair to trick people into thinking you’re Ionian,” Yasuo says, food halfway to his mouth, “I have some bad news for you.”

Shiren looks up at him, startled. For a (tense) second, she doesn’t react; but whatever she was waiting on or looking for, she must find it, because then she just looks back down and snickers. “I don’t want to stand out from a distance,” she says. “That’s all.” She pauses. It’s not clear whether she almost says more and then thinks better of it, or whether she’s just having difficulty figuring out what else to say in the first place. “I’m Shiren,” she offers finally.

He knows. He knows, but his heart still twitches in something that might be terror when she says it. His skin itches under the hem of his sleeve. “Yasuo,” he says.

She looks up again, sharper this time. Her eyes—her eyes are so green, but also narrowed just slightly, as if…

As if she’s asking herself the same questions he is. Gods, he wishes he could see the insides of her wrists, but they’re wrapped in interlaced fabric from the heels of her hands to somewhere inside her sleeves. (Maybe it’s a mainland thing. Yasuo’s never met anyone who particularly put the names on display, but maybe they’re stricter about it where she’s from.)

“Yeah?” she says, in a voice that’s trying just a little too hard to sound neutral. His heart strongly reconsiders having a predictable beat. “Just Yasuo?”

He swallows. “Just Yasuo,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to his hands. “I might have to ask you about that,” she says, so quietly he barely hears her over the general conversation. “Later.”

Later. Right.

Later is harder to figure out than she expects. The swordsmen push her… well, about as much as the Kinkou did when she first came to them. This school is smaller than the Temple, but she somehow still manages not to be alone with Yasuo for a couple of solid days, despite her best efforts.

She eventually at least gets the opportunity to spar with him—which is frankly terrifying, since she still doesn’t know what he is to her. The sun is high, the wind smells slightly of flowers (she’s still not used to those; the wild plants that can survive in Noxian soil don’t tend to produce flowers worth looking at, let alone safe to put to one’s face), and Yasuo—

He’s beautiful. That’s safe to admit, no matter how this ends up going, what he ends up being. There’s a tension that leaves his shoulders the moment he steps outside, as if there’s something inside him that unfurls and blooms only when he can see the sky. He turns to her, mouth pulling into a challenging smile even as he bows from the other side of the makeshift arena. If she’d spent any less time here than she had, she might have forgotten to return the gesture.

He draws his practice blade and strikes in a single movement, dashing forward faster than seems possible for a normal human—but there’s no magic in the air, only excitement, the leap in her chest as she just barely ducks out of the way. He deflects her return blow, twists back out of reach; faces her again, now that they’ve tested each other a little.

“You’re quick,” he says. His voice feels like a caress, settling between her lungs and warming her blood.

Focus. “I hope so,” she answers, circling, mirroring him. “I’ve been staying with the Kinkou for the last few years.”

Yasuo pulls a face. “Should have known,” he says, but he’s smiling before he finishes speaking. “I’m surprised you haven’t started throwing things yet.”

Throwing things, shunpo-ing behind him, is almost impossible to resist—it’s what she’s been doing, it’s what the ninjas taught her. But that’s also exactly why she’s ended up here.

“I have to learn how to fight fair eventually,” Shiren says. She grins, lashing out at his sword arm. “Besides, I’ll probably be disqualified if I try, right?”

She expects him to leap back or just block her strike, but he dashes forward instead, closing the distance before she can react. His hand closes around the wrist of her off-hand, pulls her in too close for their weapons to be of any use.

“I have a few things I’m not allowed to do either,” Yasuo says. He’s not so close that she can feel his breath on her neck, but her skin prickles anyway. “I might show you later so we can have a real fight.”

Shiren stays tensed, fully prepared for them to get right back to sparring, but she does lean ever so slightly into him. Her eyes flick down to his wrist, the curves of letters she can’t quite see at this angle. Yasuo’s fingers dip underneath her sleeve, catching on the cover over her wrist.

Oh. Right.

“If you’re looking for your name, you’re holding the wrong one,” Shiren says quietly.

She can just barely hear Yasuo take a breath. Behind them, a teacher clears his throat, and they jerk back apart as if burned.

Her footsteps on the tatami don’t make a sound. Yasuo doesn’t even realize someone else has come into the room until she wakes him up with a hand on his shoulder.

He blinks up at her, bleary and confused, but she puts a finger to his mouth before he can say anything. She points to the cracked-open door leading outside, gets up to her feet, and offers him a hand up.

He’s at least half certain he’s dreaming, or that she’s an apparition, but her hand feels solid when he takes it. She’s still silent as a cat as she makes her way to the door and through it, but she takes a slow and audible breath when they’re safely out in the open air. She looks real enough, stretching briefly in the pre-dawn light.

“So,” Yasuo says, biting back a yawn. Either Shiren’s been up for a while or she just wakes up more quickly than any reasonable human would. He’s trying not to resent her for it.

(Maybe she is his nemesis after all.)

Shiren shakes herself, glancing back at him. “So,” she agrees. For a moment, she looks like she’s going to actually say something, but then she closes her mouth and starts fidgeting with her sleeve.

Or not her sleeve. She undoes some sort of knot he can’t see and starts unwinding her not-quite-glove from her wrist.

Yasuo takes a step closer, remembering to breathe. “You keep those on when you sleep?” he asks.

Shiren glances up at him, twisting the strip of fabric around her fingers. “It's—” She scrunches her nose in thought. “It’s for safety,” she settles on, finally. “We have—I don’t know your word for it. They’re not human.”

“Vastaya?” Yasuo guesses.

“No,” Shiren says, shaking her head. “Some vastaya don’t want to kill you. These are just…” She shrugs helplessly. “And even outside of the fae—” and that’s definitely not an Ionian word but he’s not sure how to ask— “names have power where I’m from, more than they do here. We can’t risk people knowing the whole thing like this.”

Yasuo thinks, abruptly, of how much space her name takes up on his skin. “That why yours is so long?”

Shiren bites back a smile. “No one knows the whole thing but my father and I,” she says. “And you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, looking out towards the woods just to diffuse the inevitable awkwardness of the next few seconds. “I can’t read most of it.” Yasuo clears his throat. “But I can’t read any of the other one, so if you wouldn’t mind helping me with it…”

She snorts a laugh. “Maybe,” she says, balling up the last of the wrist-wrap in her hand. “Come here.”

It’s… maybe it’s akin to anxiety, the tension buzzing underneath her skin. Maybe Yasuo can understand some of it, because he’s meeting her in the same way she’s meeting him, but there’s no way he can grasp exactly how—how intimate this is for her. For any Noxian.

(He can’t read her name. She doesn’t have to tell it to him.

But she wants to.)

Yasuo takes a few steps closer, just brushing the edge of her personal space. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands at first, whether she should look at her name or show him his, but he finally just reaches out himself. She can feel every callus on his fingers catching on the skin of her forearm as he raises it.

They both know what he’ll see when she turns her uncovered wrist over. She can hear his breath catch anyway, just slightly. Shiren can tell just from the length of the script that her name isn’t on his left wrist, but when she pulls his right closer—

She’s never actually seen her name written down, not in its entirety. It feels wrong, inherently alien; she almost wants to hide it since he doesn’t seem to have any interest in it, but—

“Katarina,” she says, brushing her fingertip over the first segment; and then she continues, each name in turn, while he watches her trace the letters on his skin.

“I’m never going to remember all of that,” he says. She doesn’t have to look up to tell that he’s smiling.

Shiren—Katarina—laughs under her breath. “I’m not leaving for a while,” she says, meeting his eyes. “We have time.”

Yasuo’s mouth twitches up a little. “Katarina,” he says, like even her given name is a secret. His fingers trail down to hers. It’s impossible to tell if he tangles them or if she does. “I don’t… think we’re enemies.”

She doesn’t want to be. He’s—he’s too godsdamned nice to look at for him to be her nemesis. “I don’t think so either,” she says.

She can feel her heartbeat in her throat when he kisses her.

[hoverbun]

impassive

fandom: league of legends character(s): zed, shen ship(s): shen/zed synopsis: Inside you is where daylight ends and darkness begins - chaos fostered inside one man. Shen is always so cold, and you want to be the one to break him. (note: this was written before jhin and kayn were released.) warnings: mild sexual content, mild violence. word count: 1566

i.

There is a clean cut across his cheek, from beneath his left eye to the curve of his jaw. You look at it with the awe you would a pyre. The flesh is torn, slit clean from the blade you clutch in your hand, and the air bites at the raw skin – but Shen is impassive.

The fury, distaste, and shock lit in his eyes are but blinking candles in a calming (foreboding) wind. You are both young and it was a sparring match you took too far.

“Control yourself, Zed.” His tone is dangerous, but calculated. You will think about how the blood rolled down his throat later.

ii.

He told no one the cause of his injury, but he wears a mask over his face now. You think of it as your own violent secret with him. That excites you.

The elders call you reckless when you spar with the others. That you are skilled, but must restrain your brutal strength. That you must find the balance of force and grace. The word balance feels wrong inside you. You don’t know why.

One of the elders tells Shen to stand. You will follow his movements, you were told. You were told (permitted) to watch him. You watch. The mask is taunt over his face, and you can still hear him breathe.

You watch him. You watch him, and you wish you could that forever.

( You want him to look at you, too. )

iii.

“Take off your mask,” you tell him. His eyes are cold, like ice, like the room. He is steady and as impassive as bone. When he exhales, it is muffled, yet you still hear every beat of breath.

“What you did is still there,” he replies, as if telling you is meant to placate you. “I believe it will scar.”

You and him are alone. The sun is low in the sky, light pouring in through windows framed by wood illuminating the closed, empty room. You can hear talking in the distance, the others ( strangers to you – you don’t bond well with the other students, and you only memorized a few elders by name ) unclear, unimportant.

“Show me.” You never request – you order, even without authority.

He sees your hand move, but it is to rest it upon your knees – you know this, because his eyes twitch, carefully watching downward for fractions of seconds. You watch him all the time – to study, to observe, to witness. You know his tells. You bet he knows yours, too.

Shen removes it. His skin has healed over the wound, uneven and paling in comparison to his dark, warming complexion. Your eyes remain fixated, and move between it, and him. He watches you, now. You expected shame, discomfort.

But he is not so easily shamed. He watches you like he would await a storm.

It is then you bring a hand to the scar. Your mark. Apprehensive, his head turns in your hand, ever so slightly.

You remind yourself this is your secret.

You’d do anything to gouge it open again.

iv.

They try to teach you about the equilibrium of Valoran, the balance you will be expected to uphold in days to come. You feel disgusted by the notion you might lend yourself to a state of weakness, if your most pure form of absolute strength could not be worth their cause.

Your hands are like claws upon Shen’s shoulder. You can never make him flinch – he was born with eyes of twilight. You allow yourself to think on when you might terrify him, pleasure from power.

( You will never be good enough for the elders. You’ll pull apart their golden boy until you find what they love so much, then bleed him dry. )

He acknowledges you briefly. Still with the mask, but it’s not as tightly wound over his face – you don’t see the curve of his bone structure this time, even so close.

( And you know he knows. Such a smart, careful, handsome, clever man he’s becoming. )

He says he will be accompanying his father to another village for a Kinkou ceremony. He makes no point to inform you that you will be not coming. You reason it’s a private thing, reserved for the leader, and his star.

All you want to do is look at him.

v.

( You kiss him first. )

“Control yourself, Zed,” is all he passes between you, and you swallow his warnings with the rest of his breaths.

( He is so cold. )

vi.

When he comes back, he is in steel and cloth – armour gifted to him (by whom, you do not know.) that rests upon him in beautiful silver and fine silk, gifts for the promised Eye of Twilight. You aren’t sure if the mask is meant to be permanent, but it is befitting. He is as steady as he has always been – watchful, unbreakable. You watch him so carefully, and you cannot see his eyes flick towards you any longer.

It’s rather disappointing.

You meet for the first time since his return in one of the many hallways of the school, isolated by others, with shadows draping themselves over every corner cut from the sun’s rays. The shadows curl around your ankles, like a welcome gesture. You don’t think about it.

He watches you. His eyes are hidden but he watches you, he looks through you, like he is meant to – like he is finding what guides your volatile volition, your greedy manipulation, what pushes you to behave so brashly and so cruelly to earn favour and witnesses. You want to laugh, because you’ve already pulled him apart, already found what keeps him together the moment he unwound himself for you in the cover of darkness above you – but you don’t.

You don’t, because though you know him, you cannot predict him. Instead, you move your hand over the steel helmet, thumb overlapping where metal and cloth protect the violent secret you two hide.

You briefly hear him breathe in, the first beat of words on the edge of his breath, but he doesn’t offer you anything. Perhaps it is for the best.

vii.

You find out the helmet was intentional. Coincidental, the purpose it serves.

( He is nothing more but ice, always cold and brittle and with little meaning in touch – you push your mouths together and it’s vile, finding ways to turn obsession in affection with clawing grasps and threats on shared breaths. Shen is cold and you are angry, pulling him against you until there’s enough faltering in his breathing that you feel like you’ve won. 

He fucks with such disinterest. Your hands keep him steady when he's over you, and you keep your stare. You've tried to scare him, and you don't think you ever will. The sex is uncomfortable with your eye contact and you always wait to see who will look away first. It makes you want to grimace. )

He looks good in it. Respectable, clean. You yourself have taken to darker steels, where the shadows push inside your armour and you can hear the calling of something better. Stronger. What you yourself deserve. The shadows that curl around where the light of twilight ends, the tension (balance) between what he knows and what you are learning. You've opened yourself to things you should not have met, in the cover of night and shadow to learn their secrets. 

( You kiss him with open mouths and open teeth and tear him apart. )

He breathes your name, "Zed," and it's for a few seconds he can't control himself.

viii.

You trace the sigils you've learnt on his back, between his shoulder blades. Your nails are blunt, but your tilt your extended finger just so that you graze the nail over his skin. If they were any sharper, you'd look to mark, but you don't.

Several times, you feel his body stir, inhaling with the certain tone that tells you he wants to speak. But he dares not to interrupt the silence that holds you two together, colder than his body and sharper than the blade you used to cut his face open. It humours you that you cannot predict what he might actually say, but dark parts of you want him to condemn you. Darker parts want to be challenged.

( Tomorrow you will ask him to spar. Tomorrow you will prove yourself. )

The darkest says his name, and laughs.

ix.

There is silence, but then there is not - when you stand over Shen, broken and bruising and staring up at the grains of the wood in the ceiling above you, you are called a traitor. Not that you have beaten the prodigal, but that you have opened your heart to forbidden arts, forbidden acts. He lies there like he is dead and you feel the beauty of horror and relief at the same time. It opens visions for what you wish to come, when his last breath is robbed and the impassive light in his eyes is nothing but cold, cold, cold.

You are driven from the temple. Shen does not watch you leave, and he does not argue your exile.

x.

( You trace your fingers over your own face, from cheek to jaw. You think of what you have inflicted. You think of him. You wonder if Shen would have done the same to you, if he had lacked control. )

[sarenthestalwart]

Libertalia, Characters

The Kings of the Coast: “Scumbags. Sea Slugs. Devils. We've been called a great many things, and we respond with the same answer. What haven't you called us, matey? We Kings o' the Coast may not wear crowns embroidered with jewels on arr 'eds or capes lines with fur and fine silk on arr shoulders, but we got summin' even bett-er. We got brethren amongst arr brothers and sisters, and freedom from madmen who cull themselves monarchs. And if we do have any madmen among us, they sooner get themselves acquainted with a rope and a iron ball tied to their feet, and they is food for sea monsters.” ~ Robert “the Baneful” Thatch

Nathaniel “Jack Greyhawk” Avery, a sword-nut, a tall-tale junkie, a glut for languages, and the “son” of a Sugar Merchant.  He was living a relatively blissful life until a fleet of pirates attacked his father's ship, killing his father and leaving him marooned on an island at the age of ten. He was found 7 years later by a band of pirates who'd just raided a vessel, lead by a pirate named Robert Thatch. Jack, who wants revenge against the pirate who'd killed his family all those years ago and left him to fend for himself on people-less island of monsters, joined Thatch's company of scoundrels in the Koona-Tierra (the Caribbean in the West Indies) to hopefully find that murderous pirate. He's not prepared for the kind of treacherous and do-or-die world that pirates inhabit. This happened shortly after his father secured a strange cutlass that seems to have this bizarre female spirit inside the blade.

Re-Re: An Aura Wind spirit that seems to reside inside the blade that Jack now carries with him, who seems to be connected to William Drakken and his crew when the age of Libertalia came to a close.

“Jamie” Scarlet, Robert Thatch's quartermaster and the “boy” who makes friends with Jack the instant he steps onto Port Regina in Koona-Tierra. “He's” the “son” of a Kinfolk sharecropper and an Yrbu slave who'd been born on the Koona-Tierra. “He's” usually the quiet sort who doesn't partake in many of the usual non-pludering shenanigans, but don't try to challenge fer to a drinking contest. You will be dancing with God himself before she even starts to feel a buzz. “He” is actually a girl named Marianne.

Riley O'Marbhar, a diligent and level-headed (compared to the rest of this crew) Gunner. A young woman from Sylkland (Scotland) on Plinium (England), she's quick with a smile and sharp with wit. The only thing sharper is her eyes and her aim. What's odd, among pirates, is how honest she is. Most pirates are notorious cheats but Riley has yet to throw a dishonest bone in her life, and this comes through whenever a gambler thinks he can beat her in a game... they're either kicked sorely for such an assumption or they have a fresh new bullet hole between their eyes if they tried to bitterly and violently call her out for “cheating.”

Balmoral Cavendish, a Plinian man born in Hestalian territory. He's the son of a Lord Viscount who was Plinium's most nigh-infallible tactician in his time, Balmoral had a lot to live up to. He chose to study the art of medicine and cutting people open to make them feel better rather than command them to draw a blade at an enemy. However, he's also got a problem with saying the wrong thing with honest intention of not offending, and it's made his practice fall out of favor and into the service of pirates.

Eustace Jones “the Twice Damned,” the once trusted quartermaster of Drakken's and the 1st mate, Jones has been doomed to a life of undeath where he's nothing more than a talking skull. He now wants to find the treasure Drakken left behind but he can't remember why he feels like that's a bad idea. He's dubbed the Twice Damned because it's said that God damned him to never know the fruits of his paradise and Drowning Jack (the Devil) spat him back out from “the Deep” as he wouldn't have him either.

Robert “the Baneful” Thatch and his Baneful Queen: Known as the King of Pirates, Thatch is perhaps the most infamous pirate of the sea who got his start as a privateer for Plinium, and he is a terror even among pirates and a serious threat to the Empire. However, his reputation betrays how well-spoken and rugged this brutish-looking “ape” actually is. He's discovered the secret to having a big intimidation factor and having a reputation so steeped in blood and cruelty that he's not since his privateer days had to spill one or engage in the other. This is who Jack joins when he becomes a Pirate.

Bartolo “El Langonsta” Dedaleras and his Garra's Revenge: A Hestalian pirate in a white carnival mask, who was perhaps the first of his ilk of this age to implement a “Pirate Code.” His entrance into pirating is unknown but he often boasts that he was on the run from an army of jealous Hestalian women, noble and low-born that he'd wooed. “It is la maldición of all enchanting men like myself,” he says, “the señoras del destino had destined I be too beautiful to allow solely one woman to notice. Why do you think I wear this mask.” He fights with a rapier and a pure-metal gauntlet on his right hand and dresses in dark purple. Will be a major mentor to Jack pre- and post-Thatch's demise.

Joanna Goodie and her Bloody Goddess: Once the lover to somewhat pitiable but effective pillager “Cat-Like” John Whitlock and a “rookie” by definition, she's cut quite the swath in her short time, managing to make her black mark as the “Bloody Goddess” for her tiger's ferocity and her beauty.

Black Francis and his Liberation of Francis: An Yrbu pirate captain that dominates the westward sea of Mu. A former slave of the Imperial Govt. who fought his way to freedom. He considers himself a “Robin Hood figure” (or an equivalent) as he often shares his riches with non-pirates and recruits former slaves. He worked with Thatch before taking to his own plundering.

[serpentembraced]

also she's a lesbian. she was really good at charming and flirting with and fooling nobles to do whatever the hell she wanted, without never having any sincere interest in any of her suitors. had she not, you know, become a snake, she'd have kept playing high ranking noxian guys until there was a marriage that'd be too beneficial to refuse (10/10 would've slowly poisoned her husband if that came to be anyway). but yeah men were always only looked at as useful pawns she never had any interest on them beyond that

[civrilla]

we are one :

spectracy’s ( sense8 ) inspired squad // diverse playbys // diverse ages // diverse membergroups // all open! //

eight strangers from different walks of life and situations, suffering through their own struggles and secrets until they suddenly develop a sensory link. and everything changes as quickly as one can blink: they feel joy for no reason, pain when they have none, sorrow with no explanation but the tears still fall. they’re speaking languages they haven't even heard, throwing fists when they never learned how to punch, and they find themselves in unrecognizable places but they don't feel lost. skills, emotions, sensations, they're bleeding, mixing, washing themselves into one another’s veins, marking the very beginning -- their rebirth as a piece of a suddenly combined brain.

-- the ability of the sensory link is that of a bewitching character, and i’m thinking that it probably recently awoke for these characters after they started coming into contact with one another. so there’s bound to be quite a few of them that have always thought they were bereft until they found this fun surprise, and/or some witches who got stuck with one kind of crappy gift only to find out they also have this, or somebody who’s been dealing with a really shitty curse only to find out they now have this to deal with as well. 

-- keep in mind: all the roles can completely be adjusted! it’s more or less me spitting out different ideas, rather than anything set in stone. stuff can be genderbent and changed to fit your concepts -- no worries! however, it’s important to me that the characters are all of varying personality types and, hopefully, backgrounds. that’s what i’ve tried to achieve with the roles you see here. you’ve got some good guys, and some sort-of-not-so-good guys.

THE CHARMING, taken by eos → pretty boy who was born in a cage that looks like a castle. prince, why are you so afraid of the destiny that awaits you? your name will inscribe itself onto the earth, onto the seas, and your bloodline will shake the very ground. so how come you're so scared to take the crown? your parents are giving you their kingdom, so long as you be a good boy and never frown. → your voice is husky honeyed sweeter than sugar, a symphony played by a single instrument, a raga with no notes. people are hypnotized and enamored, they never want you to stop talking. almost. herein lies your greatest strength: being the enchanter. open your mouth, and you can attract an entire room's attention, capture an innocent's heart, sway enemies to change their alliance mid-battle. you are the prince charming, able to weave straw words into gold. → herein lies your weakness: you're just a guy with a lot of stuff. learn to patch up that hole inside you, sweet prince, before it finally swallows you up.

❖  nice table manners, basically ur real stereotypical prince charming

❖  #1 smooth-talker; his other biggest skill is telling you which fancy fork to eat your salad with

❖  has been catered to his whole life (wants to be independent but poor boy doesn’t even know how to work a microwave or washing machine, 911 send h e l p)

THE PROTECTING, taken by piper → little guardian, you were always brandishing a shield for the weak and the fallen. but you must always remember: you’re just flesh and a beating heart and bright eyes, you are not indestructible. you can not save everyone. bones break under heavy weight. even atlas couldn't carry the world forever. put the weight down, sweet girl. you are not a titan. you are human. you are so human it hurts.

→ maybe in another universe there is no darkness, no bad guys, no all-encompassing doom. maybe in another universe, you don't have the weight of the world on your shoulders. but, unfortunately, in this world, you do. herein lies your strength: you're the mother hen, the shield, the one who keeps others stable. you may not be able to brandish a sword, but you can still cradle cheeks with gentle hands and whisper encouragements to those with sad smiles. to win a war, there must always be someone like you: a bright soul in the backdrop, who watches over the soldiers and nudges them back in line when they get off course.

→ herein lies your greatest weakness: you're so busy protecting others that you forget to shield yourself. little guardian, this world is nasty and cruel and will eat you up; why do you always forget that if you don't protect yourself, you're going to burn up?

❖  mother hen

❖  occupation maybe tied to protecting others? like a cop?

❖  forgets to protect herself? this could lead to something? idk

THE FIGHTING, open → there are two versions of you that people notice. the first is the one where you are all sharp angles, making yourself even sharper. you smile with razor blade teeth whenever someone gets cut, a danger and warning all in one. but if others stick around long enough, there are times where you will touch pretty faces with careful fingers, eyes like stars and a heart as big as the solar system, wiping the red off their cheekbones. you never minded getting a little blood on your hands, after all. → brave warrior, how come each syllable that falls from your lips has a sharp edge? barbs that scathe and bite with angry, mottled bruises left in their wake. a stain and poison, your own skin covered in battle wounds. who are you fighting, if not yourself? herein lies your greatest strength: you know how to throw a killer punch. little warrior, you've always done more talking through bloody knuckles than your mouth. hello morphs not into good-bye but an undecipherable look with a bitten-back tongue and hands in fists and knuckles embedded in the skin of a clenched jaw. → herein lies your greatest weakness: no one taught you how to stop. anger has always been your greatest enemy, hanging in your life like a backdrop. don't you see what's wrong here, little warrior? once you start fighting, you don't stop. not until someone's stopped breathing, and you're the champion at the top.

❖  one hell of a fighter

❖  but doesn’t know when to stop throwing the punches

❖  boy’s got some serious anger issues

THE HEALING, open → you heal wounds and skinned knees. you help others, but you, yourself, are not something to be mended. after all, you always tell yourself that the only person who can decide whether or not you need fixing is you. those who keep trying to find places to repair, who twist with screwdriver questions and hammer with sharp words, are not trying to help you, girl of gold. they are trying to help themselves, and you have turned from project to person. let them go. make them let go of you. → golden girl, herein lies your greatest strength: you've always been notorious for mending the broken. your childhood was spent playing doctor, operating on your extensive collection of stuffed animals. → repairing others is some sort of sickly-sweet remedy, because when you heal others, you like to think that it's slowly healing these fractures lying beneath your skin too. herein lies your greatest weakness: you think that healing others will heal yourself. it won't, little golden girl. it never will.

❖  has medical skills (doesn’t strictly have to work within medical field tho)

❖  thinks healing others will heal her broken soul, so sad :’(

THE THINKING, open → one must wonder what kind of past could have given birth to this: a heart restrained by wrought iron, with love scrutinized as though it can be explained in a formula and living beings studied underneath a microscope. darling girl, why do you detach yourself from the world like so? the thing about you is that you come off cold, too blunt, insensitive -- sometimes people wonder if you're really even human at all. → you have a beautiful brain, bursting with curiosity, and theories, and numbers, and knowledge, and you're logical to a fault. herein lies your strength: you're so damn smart. you've devoted yourself to the pursuit of knowing, to understanding, to learning. you may be distant, but you have taught yourself so much -- you know, at the very least, how to sharpen words into a point to drive through a heart. → lonely little girl, herein lies your weakness: this thirst for knowledge has tainted your blood. you have such a big heart but you're afraid that your studies are all that you will ever love.

❖  kinda sacrificed a social life in the pursuit for knowledge

❖  hence she has p much zero social skills

❖   big heart but unable to find love

THE RUNNING, taken by emri → this blood, this fear, this constant running, running, running. dear boy, what did you ever do but hide with shaky legs and then run with them? shaking still, feet always flying over the ground, looking over your shoulder and expecting to see a shadow chasing after you. what made you this way? why are you so afraid? → you're a retreating form disappearing into the inevitable darkness, your back broken from the weight of all the burdens you try to carry. but herein lies your greatest strength: you're the quickest -- perhaps, not the bravest -- and you can get so far on those two shaking legs, if you only try. hiding from shadows has taught you something too, darling boy: you know how to keep your head low so as to be unnoticed in a crowd, how to find the best scraps in a cold dumpster in an alley, how to scout out the best safe place in the stark coldness of night. → herein lies your greatest weakness: you can't run too far before you need your fix. fingers cracked and bleeding from the way you try to scratch away the concrete walls that cement you into darkness. little runner, don't you know? the drugs are not your savior. they'll ruin you, you know. stop shrouding yourself in fear and anguish, you're so much brighter when you smile. why can't you just stop running away, even for a little while?

❖  an addict maybe?

❖  the #1 hands-down at navigating the streets and making yourself invisible

THE DECEIVING, taken by cirilla → darling, you've been kissed with a large dark stain upon your heart. it crushes you into tiny glittering pieces, and you twirl through the air. what did this to you? why do you think this darkness inside you is actually okay? → so, you've faced darkness. you've swallowed the nights that ripped you to pieces, and swam laps in the broken glass of peoples' words. herein lies your greatest strength: you've learned how not to flinch when facing the pain, and are the best at elaborate facades. deceit sears through your very veins. you've hidden your wounds behind such a pretty mask, twirling and spinning, finely-dressed smiles spilling from your mouth. they might call you a princess -- a blinding beauty -- and, oh, how easily white knights mistake girls dressed like a daydream as soft and sensitive and needing saving. → remember this: you may be able to disguise your sharp smile behind colorful lips and pretty dresses, but one day, someone's going to come along, and they'll see past it all. but herein lies your greatest weakness: you've built your throne on your show and darling, it’s gone on for so long. how do you stop this performance? when will you finish singing the song?

❖  damn good at lying and acting

❖   but how do you find true friends or love when no one knows who is actually you underneath?

THE CHEATING, open → dark eyes and a dark heart, nature has molded you into a target; strike like an arrow. in this world, you get beaten up or you learn to fight tough, because life does not go easy on you. there is a fire fueling your veins, and you let it run wild, but you must learn to contain it, wild girl, before it consumes you up. → you have a lot in common with the others: you've faced darkness and come out on top, you've lied your way through things, and you've fought hard enough. but herein lies your greatest strength: you've actually not done it at all all. you're quite the filthy cheater; when you've had your nails freshly painted, you're not eager to enter a brawl. scheming is your strong-suit, it's all about the details, picking apart the puzzles until you find the opponent's critical weakness. everything is a game, but when no one's looking, you're the wild girl who likes to change the rules. → the problem with cheating is, once you find success, you refuse to play fair. herein lies your greatest weakness: you're falling deeper and deeper into this ring of fire, so before long, you're going to hit rock-bottom. fiery heart, what made you this way? why did you start changing the rules to games, dancing on the lines of danger, tempting the hand of fate?

❖  probably addicted to gambling and her luck’s bound to run out

❖  has one hell of a poker face

❖ master of drawn-out schemes and switching opponents’ cards when they aren’t looking -- sneaky, sneaky.

[serpentembraced]

something something cassiopeia's arc ultimately being one of going from conforming to beauty standards and relying on using the limited power it gave her to becoming powerful in her own right. the transformation, initially seen as a curse, embraced as a blessing instead. she no longer needs to rely on manipulation and bending others to her will, she can exert it on her own. it's not perfect (she still suffers with it, with the things she lost, with the physical toll it takes and the pain she feels), but it's freeing.

[serpentembraced]

@windchaser: OO I AM CURIOUS WHY CASS WOULD PICK TALON ?

i'm answering here bc i'm using the opportunity to pretend i'm productive in this blog but! like i said in the post about katarina's fave sibling, i think cassiopeia ended up a little distant from the other two, both due to personality and because she was raised to follow in her mother's footsteps instead of her father's, but i do think she wasn't completely isolated from them.

kat and cass aren't that far apart in age, so from the moment they were aware and can remember, they had each other around, unlike talon, who was adopted at some point during their childhood. but funnily enough, i think it's really a matter of personality that would make talon cass' favorite. katarina is reckless, abrasive, too intense in good or bad; talon, albeit closed-off to the point of possible coldness, would be a better fit for cass than that, i think.

cassiopeia is too controlling, which even at a young age would've manifested in wanting things a certain way and being upset when they're not (and trying to ensure they'd be, whether that's crying about it or some other sort of childish manipulation). i just think when it comes to conflict situations, talon's dispassionate temperament, even if not conciliatory, would end up working better with her because. katarina would likely fight and argue and refuse to comply

and when they're older there's the fact tal remains family, and with how he's brought to shurima by the end of kat's comic, i assume he maintained contact with cass and sore to a level, even if distant. on her part, i think cassiopeia would've reached out to stay in touch with him (she has very few people who sincerely like her, even at the height of her popularity in the higher social circles; plus she genuinely misses her family).

that doesn't happen with katarina because katarina was disowned; unlike talon, cass cares for the public image of their family and her own (and she was like, 12 when that originally happened, so very prone to following her parents' guidance on such matters; if they say her sister disgraced their family to the point she's family no longer, she would believe they have reasons to do that - which in itself is also tied to the fact cass didn't have the same negative relationship with their parents katarina had, so she values their judgment, especially their mother's, much more). but basically, talon stayed in her life while katarina didn't, and katarina never bothered to reach out either — so even beyond personality, talon just ends up being a more significant presence in her life, no matter how limited that presence is.

and that's without entering the political situation of noxus and how the sisters are both fiercely aligned to opposite sides. on top of the disownment shenanigans, katarina aligned with swain. it's open knowledge she works with the grand general. and cassiopeia was being prepared to join the black rose since she was a teenager — the whole mission where she was turned into a half-snake was rushed because swain took over power and it made soreana desperate. cassiopeia sees him as an enemy; if katarina is allied with him, she's also an enemy. this impacts less kat's side of things because i feel even when she learns about cassiopeia and the black rose, she sees it as her sister being influenced by their mother and a change of heart still being possible.

but cassiopeia knows katarina's decisions are her own, she knows her own commitment to the rose (which, as of her most recent lore update like 5 years ago when she got her color story i think, has her come to terms with what she became and decide she's going to continue acting for them). she knows they're enemies, and i don't think she feels for that as much as her older sister does, because to her katarina turned her back on them (on her) a long time ago.

[serpentembraced]

even before her transformation, cassiopeia aways had an interest in poisons — but while katarina stole hers herself to test and learn and build her resistance, cass studied theory and practice with equal dedication (and just had someone get the things she was interested in for her instead of what her sister did)

she knows very well to recognize effects and even develop antidotes, and not only can but likely has poisoned people in ways no one ever even suspected poisoning as the cause of death. her interests also go well beyond killing — it can be very useful to frighten people without ending them, or to make them more susceptible to doing what she wants or telling her what she wants to know.

the irony of her transformation in light of that isn't lost on her. it's one more reason cass is resentful about it (because, yes, it does seem to be a punishment to her at first, and she doesn't see herself as deserving of punishment). but there are things she enjoys about her new form, such as the inhuman strength and powers. the venom, extra ironically, isn't one of them, considering she can feel it hurting her too despite not causing the same damage it does to other people.

[serpentembraced]

out of all the du couteaus, cassiopeia is certainly the one more obviously influenced by shuriman culture, well before her transformation. her family moved to urzeris when she was a child (she's said to be 'little more than a child' when soreana is poisoned), and she grew up there — under her mother's influence, of course, so i don't think she ever saw herself as anything other than noxian, nor do i think she was entirely distanced of noxian culture, specially with the influence she's said to have had, but in formerly shuriman territory, that she herself notes to have changed little in the years of noxian occupation.

shuriman is as natural to her as va-nox. when it comes to her attire, it was likely much more shuriman than it'd be noxian (and i don't think she'd have much enjoyed the empire's practicality and muted colors much, either way). jewelry, likely even the way she wore her hair, all of it would have some shuriman influence, as would her tastes when it comes to literally everything, from food to arts.

in spite of that, cassiopeia would've been baffled to be called anything other than noxian. urzeris is noxus, not shurima; the empire is many things, not just the capital.