#A Horse And His (somewhat brainless) Boy

[neverwalka1one]

Just putting out into the world that while I do want Wicked pt 2 posthaste, I'll also take a movie about Fiyero and Feldspur, please and thank you. Please make sure the snarky Horse is in the second movie, plz plz plz

[alphastoworship]

Sir. Fuck, that title made his cock throb and the length that would put a horse's to shame bobbed from the erotic jolt. It was his dirtiest dreams come true; a genuinely subservient lover who let him have full control and who wished to serve. That what any real man longed for right? Or maybe it was only Blake, if so, he didn't care, he had finally reached a level of maturity where he wasn't ashamed to admit now that one true, dedicated wife was worth more than thousands of meaningless, brainless, emotionless, talentless hookups. And he didn't want some partner who would only use him as a stepping stone and as a means to further their own lives and careers - that was fine for other guys, but for him, he wanted a girl who wanted to further his life, his career and help make his dream come true.

Blake wanted someone who wanted to make him look good at events by making everyone jealous, who was always thinking about how to make him happy and how best to serve him. He wanted a partner that let him make the decisions and take control, and one who wouldn't bitch and whine about it, no, they'd only love him more for it. And somehow, by the grace of God, Blake knew, in his gut, that he'd found the one. He'd picked up hints and signs from things the other had said since they'd started dating and every moment that passed now that they were finally being intimate, told him that he'd found that one-in-a-million kind of love. And as far as Blake was concerned and Caleb had no way of knowing it, but the other was passing a secret test with flying colors and by the end of this, Blake fully intended to lock the other down and never look back.

Caleb began licking and kissing his cock with a passion and care that nobody had before and the jock couldn't help but start softly moaning, moving a hand to thread through the other's hair and rest at the back of his neck, encouraging him to keep going. Caleb was enjoying, no, worshipping his every inch, just like he'd been told. "That's it ... show me what a good little sissy faggot you are ... don't be shy," he teased the other dirtily and that was when Caleb started to take him into his mouth and Blake's own mouth fell open in deeply pleasured surprise, "Oh fuck, baby-" he moaned hotly, "Holy- holy - there's no way ..." he breathed softly as he watched Caleb do what no other lover had ever even attempted. He took more of Blake's cock into his mouth and throat that Blake had thought was possible for anyone to do. "Don't stop- that's it, take all of it ..." he whimpered hotly, his voice deep and graveled and he lightly pushed on the back of Caleb's head to help encourage the other.

When Caleb truly took as much of his cock as he could, Blake held the other's head right there, not allowing him to pull off or move as he revealed in the feeling he'd only ever somewhat gotten from his high-end, luxury fleshlight, though even that didn't compare to being almost balls deep inside someone's warm, wet mouth. "Your holes were fucking made for me, baby," he moaned, running his hand through the other's hair almost let he was patting him for a job well done and the other hand caressed his cheek, "You're so pretty but you've never looked more beautiful than right now with my cock in your mouth and my balls against your chin," he smirked, "You gonna let me fuck that pretty mouth, baby?" he asked rhetorically, already starting to ever-so-gently roll his hips, moaning at the immediate, incredible, mind-altering pleasure it gave him, "This is what your mouth is really good for," he hummed, "Being my fucktoy," he continued, very slowly building up more speed and confidence in his thrusts into the other's mouth and throat.

After about a minute, Blake was steadily fucking the smaller boy's face, using his mouth like it was nothing more than an object for his pleasure, "Don't fucking move- just let me use you, I'll tell you when you can pull off," he growled, the hand in the other's air had tightened into holding a fistful of those beautiful brunette locks. "I could use this faggy little mouth of yours all day," he hummed, "Maybe you should start coming to my classes and my training- stay under my desk and keep my cock wet and warm all day ... let me bust a nut down your throat before a training sesh or a game ..." he mused out loud as he continued to use the other. "I had a feeling you'd be a great cocksucker, baby but holy fuck, baby girl ..." he moaned.

He continued for a few more minutes until he licked his lips and with a slow, drawn out moan he slowed his hips down carefully and then began to pull out of the other's tight, wet, warm cavern. He whimpered a little, thinking that he would definitely be enjoying that mouth as much as he could going forward but then began to rub his cock against the other's face as he had before, when he'd been teasing him, "You know what time it is, baby ..." he smirked, "Get on all fours and spread your fucking legs for the alpha god."

Caleb had developed quite the reputation at HU. Yes, he was the very first sorority boy, but he did not live up to the standards of normal Greek life on Greek row. The red head was intelligent and insightful. He was compassionate, kind and wise beyond his years. He enjoyed a good party, sure, but he wasn’t a party animal. Many would have classified the eighteen year old as a book worm. However, in this present moment, the inquisitive intellectual that HU had come to know was gone. Someone, or something else had taken his place.

The boy looked so pretty on his knees. His youthful and boyish face was covered in his own sweat, plus the musk of his boyfriend. His brown eyes, known for their calm, kind and gentle gaze, had been replaced with a glare that was animalistic and primitive. His face was riddled with want. His adorable brown stare was now a dilated chocolate colored glare. The young man was hungry, he was starving. For almost half a year, he would touch himself at night, comforting his young lust with the idea of what his boyfriend would taste like. This god of football tasted unlike anything the effeminite boy had ever tasted before. He could not describe it in words, but his eyes alone said that he loved it, and little Caleb wanted more. He needed more.

Resting comfortably on his knees, the male cheerleader watched the newly crowned king of college football, his boyfriend, due a little strip tease for him. There have been so many nights where the sorority boy would masturbate to the idea of seeing his Blake’s naked body. There were so many nights he would fantasize about his partner’s taste and smell. There were days when the “ innocent,” little cheerleader would steal his boyfriend’s gym socks and jock straps because he was so desperate for a fix. He would always lie and say that they got lost in the wash. The two came pretty close several times to just letting their carnal urges take control, but Caleb was always the one to put a hault to their primitive needs.

Despite being a boy, Caleb thought like a girl. He wanted their first time to be special. He wanted it to be sensual. He wanted it to be romantic and unforgettable. Blake provided a strong masculine presence to this relationship, while Caleb’s approach was emotional and effeminate. That’s why they worked so well together. They complimented each other, in more ways than one. The wait was long and painful for both of them, but little Caleb was glad that they waited. This was the perfect moment for the two of them to finally become one, and in this present moment, Caleb wanted Blake desperately.

With the athlete’s sports pants, jockstrap and protective cup now on the floor, the boy’s sweet face began to glow the most adorable shade of pink. His dark eyes widened and nearly popped out of their sockets. What the boy saw was nothing short of miraculous. He heard the stories and he heard the rumors about his boyfriend’s size and girth, but he never paid any attention to them. He was too busy falling in love. Now, he can honestly say that the rumors were true, and from the look on his face, he was glad that they were.

The small and lovable male cheerleader could not take his eyes off the sight that was in front of him. It was truly an incredible sight, and when he got to see it up close, the red head thought he was going to loose his mind. Caleb knew Blake well enough to know that he was teasing the cheerleader on purpose. This was his payback for making his wait six long months before they finally got to this point. Caleb let Blake bask in his revenge. He earned it. He listened to what his boyfriend had to say, and as he took in that deep and powerful voice, Caleb could feel his cheerleader shorts starting to get soaking wet. The freshman had never in eighteen years felt so aroused. If he could, he would have devoured that dick right then and there, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had not been given permission. That sense of discipline and control was proof that little Caleb was born to be a subservient bitch, and from the look on his face, he was loving every minute of it.

If the flaunting of that incredible dick wasn’t enough, Blake continued the sensuous torture with glossing his rather large and impressive low hanging testicles all over Caleb’s face. They were plump and looked incredibly decadent. The smell and musk that coated those balls was unlike anything Caleb had ever smelled before. It was pure, concentrated manhood in all it's glory. Both the testicles and the shaft were drenched in this incredible musk. Smelling it and not tasting it was maddening. Caleb couldn't help but give his partner a sad, puppy dog face. He was desperate for a taste. He was craving to enjoy it. Little did he know that salvation was at hand.

That’s when he heard what he needed to hear. That’s when he was given permission to do what he so desperately wanted to do. Looking up at his boyfriend, Caleb gave Blake his appreciation and gratitude. “ Thank you, Sir.” Caleb said in a sweet and sultry voice. That’s when he looked down and stared at the beast that was staring right back at him. The shaft was impressive and monstrous in size. Still, Caleb was not afraid. Looking that adorable bell shaped pink head in the face, the boy gave it a gentle kiss. Then, the young man started to use his tongue to caress and massage that bulbous second head. It was almost as if the two were sharing an erotic french kiss. Closing his eyes, beautifully woman like moans filled the air. Caleb was enjoying this, but he wanted more. Suddenly, his eyes quickly shot open. Staring at the owner of this god like shaft, little Caleb took in an impressive amount of that piece of manhood. The beast slowly began to disappear into the red head’s pretty little mouth. Blake may have started the teasing, but now it was Caleb’s turn. With that warm mouth and his effeminiate moans, the little cheerleader wanted to see just how long it would take before the quarterback finally cracked.

[lukatheselkie]

HMC - Movie Crossover

@hetaliamondaychallenge

I most definitely used a script for this, and that can be found here. I only did the story that’s being told. As much as I love the grandfather, the kid, and his mom, it just didn’t fit for what I had in mind. I also mostly went by the movie for actions, so some things are in different places than the script says.

None of the quotes or locations are mine/my ideas. Movie crossovers are hard when you’re a writer 😂 (Most) emotions and anything to do with Sweden’s glasses are my own interpretation of the moment.

Movie: The Princess Bride

Pairing: Nyo!Sweden/England

Warnings: Implied murder, kidnapping, swords, parental death talked about, mentioned scars, death threat, fencing. Please tell me if I missed any!

The name I’ve given to Nyo!Sweden is Sigrid.

The name I’ve given to Nyo!Belgium is Beau.

I will finish this, I just severely underestimated the amount of time this would take to write 😭 I wrote through my favorite scene, which ends at twenty-five minutes into an hour and thirty-eight minute movie (including end credits, so the content is a bit less than that. I’d say I got... about a third of the way through it? Maybe slightly less.)

    Sigrid brushes her messy hair back from her face, making sure not to release her horse’s reins. She pushes her glasses up her nose and turns to Arthur, who’s standing in the doorway to the stable. “Farm Boy. Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.” He watches her closely, speaking quietly.

    “As you wish.” That was all he ever said to her. It both infuriated her, and made her curious.

~

    Sigrid tosses down two large buckets nearby Arthur, who is chopping wood. “Farm Boy. Fill these with water.” She pauses, thinking briefly. “Please.” His expression stays aggravatingly neutral.

    “As you wish.” She turns and starts to leave. He watches her longingly. Unexpectedly, she stops to look back at him. He manages to look away, but his heart is hammering with adrenaline.

    Sigrid stares at him in surprise. When he says ‘as you wish’, he’s really saying ‘I love you.’ It’s a thought that amazes her.

~

    Arthur comes into the kitchen with an armload of firewood. Sigrid’s heart flutters happily at seeing him. She had figured out she loved him back earlier that day. Oh! He’s leaving! “Farm Boy.” Her voice is smooth. “Fetch me that pitcher.” It almost comes out as a question. She could reach it if she wanted to, but keeping him close for just a moment longer is more important. He carefully reaches up and grabs it, handing it to her. They stare into each other’s eyes, standing very close. She can almost feel her heart in her throat. Does he know? He must know!

    “As you wish.” He leaves without so much as a glance back at her.

~

    Sigrid and Arthur kiss passionately. He has no money for marriage, so he has to leave to seek his fortune across the sea. The kiss turns into an embrace, and both of their hearts break a bit at the thought of him leaving. “I fear I’ll never see you again.” Arthur scoffs quietly.

    “Of course you will.” There’s no doubt in his voice. It helps reassure her, but not much.

    “But what if something happens to you?” It’s a serious concern that has her stomach knotted up a million different ways.

    “Hear this now: I will come for you.” He sounds so confident.

    “But how can you be sure?” Her anxiety is practically bubbling out of her now.

    “This is true love. You think this happens every day?” He smiles at her. This gives her enough courage to smile back, and she throws her arms around him. They kiss once more, then it’s time for him to leave. It’s such a beautiful sunset for such a terrible evening.

~

    Arthur doesn’t reach his destination. Sigrid clutches the letter addressed to her tightly. Its contents tell her about his ship being attacked by Dread Pirate Roberts, who never leaves anyone alive. She locks herself in her room, and doesn’t sleep or eat for days. “I’ll never love again,” she whispers emotionlessly to the empty room.

~

    Five years later, the main square of Florin City is filled to capacity with people waiting to hear the announcement about Prince Mathias’ bride-to-be. Three people stand behind the prince; his parents, and Count Beau. Mathias raises his hands, and starts to speak. “My people… A month from now, our country will have its five-hundredth anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “But perhaps you will not find her common now. Would you like to meet her?” There’s an overwhelming reaction that, yes, they want to meet her. On cue, she starts walking down the giant staircase leading to the crowd. Despite it being nearly impossible, the crowd collectively holds its breath. Sigrid comes into view, pushing her glasses up self consciously. “My people… The Princess Sigrid!” She quietly starts to move toward the people, heart hammering nervously. She’s never been good with people, especially in large crowds. They all suddenly kneel with no instruction, and tears come to her eyes. It’s all too much.

    She doesn’t love the prince. She’s too empty for that. The law of the land gives him the right to choose his bride, but that doesn’t mean she has to care for him. As soon as she is able, she climbs atop her horse and rides into the woods. Despite his reassurance that she would grow to love him, the only joy she has is her daily ride. She rides until just before sundown, when she sees a group of men. “A word, my lady?” She brings her horse to a stop so she can help them. “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”

    “There is nothing nearby; not for miles.”

    “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.” The largest of the men touches a nerve on her neck, and her forming scream is cut off before it can build.

~

    Ivan, the giant, carries her to the sailboat at dusk. He nods at Antonio, who is finishing up getting the boat ready to sail. Lovino skillfully tears pieces of fabric from an army jacket, and tucks it into the princess’ horse’s saddle. “What is that you’re ripping?” Antonio questions. Without reacting, Lovino answers him.

    “It’s fabric from the uniform of an Army officer of Guilder.”

    “Who’s Guilder?” Comes Ivan’s voice, full of curiosity. Antonio points over the water.

    “The country across the sea. The sworn enemy of Florin.” He slaps the horse’s rump. “Go!” As expected, the horse takes off. He ambles toward the boat. “Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make the Prince suspect the Guilderians have abducted his love. When he finds her body dead on the Guilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed.”

    “You never said anything about killing anyone.” Ivan stares at him.

    “I've hired you to help me start a war. That's a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition.” He places a hand on his hip as he speaks.

    “I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent girl.” He shakes his head slightly. Lovino gets in his face, clearly angry.

    “Am I going mad or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips? You were not hired for your brains, you hippopotamic land mass.”

    “I agree with Ivan,” Antonio comments as he hops into the boat, pushing them off. Lovino’s rage grows by the second.

    “Oh! The sot has spoken! What happens to her is not truly your concern—I will kill her—And remember this—never forget this—when I found you, you were so slobbering drunk you couldn't buy brandy! And you!” He turns on Ivan. “Friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless! Do you want me to send you back to where you were? Unemployed in Greenland!” He glares at them for a long moment, then storms off. He doesn’t go far, since they’re on a ship. Antonio, who had gotten closer to Ivan after the insults, tries to relieve some of his stress.

    “That Lovino, he can fuss.” Ivan looks thoughtful for a moment, repeating the word to himself.

    “Fuss… Fuss… I think he likes to scream at us.”

    “Probably he means no harm.”

    “He’s really very short on… charm.” Antonio smiles at him.

    “Oh, you’ve a great gift for rhyme.” Ivan smiles back.

    “Yes, some of the time.”

    “Enough of that!” Lovino cuts in.

    “Ivan, are there rocks ahead?” Antonio’s voice is somewhat excited.

    “If there are, we’ll all be dead.” He’s feeling much better now. Good.

    “No more rhymes now, I mean it!” Lovino snaps at them.

    “Anybody want a peanut?” Lovino half groans, half screams.

~

    “We’ll reach the Cliffs by dawn,” Lovino declares to Antonio. The Spaniard nods, glancing back. “Why are you doing that?”

    “Making sure nobody’s following us.”

    “That would be inconceivable.”

    “Despite what you think, you will be caught. And when you are, the Prince will see you all hanged.” Sigrid’s voice rings out. Lovino turns to give her a stern, cold look.

    “Of all the necks on this boat, Highness, the one you should be worrying about is your own.” Antonio continues staring behind them. “Stop doing that. We can all relax, it's almost over-”

    “You’re sure nobody’s following us?”

    “As I told you, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Guilder knows what we've done. And no one in Florin could have gotten here so fast.” He pauses for a beat. “Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

    “No reason. It's only, I just happened to look behind us, and something is there.”

    “What!?” They whirl around, staring behind them. It’s hard to see; the moon is behind clouds, leaving it nearly pitch black. The wind whistles, and the waves pond. It almost seems ominous. Antonio, Ivan, and Lovino all squint into the darkness. It becomes strangely eerie. Then, the moon comes out, revealing a black sailboat with a billowing black sail, far away. It’s getting closer though. “Probably some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise. At night. Through eel-infested waters.” There’s a splash behind them; it’s Sigrid, who’s dived into the water and is frantically swimming away. “Go in, get after her!”

    “I don’t swim,” from Antonio.

    “I only dog paddle,” Ivan mentions, waving his hands in the air slightly as an example.

    “Veer left. Left. Left!” Sigrid swims as fast and as silently as she can, hoping they don’t catch up to her. The wind stops, and the lack of it’s whistling allows a strange shrieking noise to make its way to her ears. She stops in fear, only moving to keep herself afloat. “Do you know what that sound is, Highness? Those are the Shrieking Eels—if you doubt me, just wait. They always grow louder when they're about to feed on human flesh.” She stays silent as the shrieking gets louder. “If you swim back now, I promise, no harm will come to you. I doubt you will get such an offer from the Eels.”

    The sound gets louder, but she doesn’t make a sound. Something huge slithers behind her. She suppresses a shudder, but refuses to reply. She’s terrified, and blind—she left her glasses on the boat—but she knows going back will lead her to a fate just as bad, if not worse. One of the Eels starts circling her, and she minimalizes her strokes. They swim directly toward her, and she’s certain this is the end, she’s going to be eaten alive. A mouth opens, the Eel shrieking louder yet at her, and she’s about to be bitten, when an arm hits the Eel, easily knocking them out. The arm grabs her, lifting her back onto the boat. “Put her down! Just put her down!” Antonio points behind them again.

    “I think he’s getting closer.” Lovino ties Sigrid’s hands together as he speaks.

    “He’s no concern of ours. Sail on!” He looks back at Sigrid with a sneer. “I suppose you think you’re brave, don’t you?”

    “Only compared to some.” She stares at him, showing no fear. Ivan places her glasses back on her face when Lovino withdraws from her. She thanks him quietly.

~

    At dawn, they’re being closely trailed by the black sailboat. “Look! He's right on top of us. I wonder if he is using the same wind we are using?” Antonio inquires.

    “Whoever he is, he’s too late!” Lovino points ahead of them. “See? The Cliffs of Insanity.” They’re incredibly tall, and they surge straight up from the water. Antonio navigates the boat in closer, but the black boat is coming toward them fast. “Hurry up! Move the thing! Um! That other thing! Move it!” He screams at Antonio, who manages to get them to the cliffs first, and they hurry off as Lovino speaks again. “We're safe—only Ivan is strong enough to go up our way—he'll have to sail around for hours 'til he finds a harbor.” Antonio places a harness on Ivan, and wraps straps around Sigrid and himself expertly. Lovino does his own, and they start up a rope, tied to a rock at the top, Ivan carrying all three of them.

    A man in black hops off his boat, abandoning it without a second though, but Ivan is already a third of the way up. It seems impossible to catch up. Or, perhaps not. He climbs up the rope quickly, getting closer to the four. “He’s climbing the rope. And he’s gaining on us,” Antonio muses.

    “Inconceivable!” Lovino pokes Ivan, who speeds up. The man in black comes closer and closer by the second. “Faster!” He screeches.

                   “You were supposed to be this colossus! You were this great, legendary thing! And yet he gains.”

    “Well, I'm carrying three people. And he's got only himself.”

    “I do not accept excuses!” He shakes his head. “I'm just going to have to find myself a new giant, that's all.”

    “Don’t say that, Lovino. Please.” There’s pain in his voice. His arms slow a bit, as he’s getting tired. The man in black gains still.

    “Did I make it clear that your job is at stake!?” A few tense moments pass, and he pulls them over the cliff edge. Lovino leaps off of him, pulling out a knife. He starts cutting at the rope, tied around a heavy rock. Antonio helps Sigrid to her feet, watching her push her glasses back into place when she’s standing. Ivan stands there, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He glances at the ruins nearby; they remind him of Stonehenge, though he thinks they might have been a fort at one point. The man in black is very close now, but Lovino manages to cut the rope before he can make it to the top. It glides across the ground, toward the cliff edge, being dragged down by its own weight. Antonio, Ivan, and Sigrid stand by the edge, looking down at the man in black, clinging for his life on the jagged rocks. It becomes apparent he’s wearing a mask over his eyes.

    “He has very good arms,” Ivan observes, talking to Antonio. He sounds impressed. Lovino turns toward them, stunned and outraged.

    “He didn’t fall? Inconceivable!” Antonio looks at him.

    “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” He glances back down. “My God! He’s climbing.”

    “Whoever he is, he's obviously seen us with the Princess, and must therefore die.” He points his dagger at Ivan. “You, carry her.” He turns to Antonio. “We'll head straight for the Guilder frontier. Catch up when he's dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword.”

    “I want to duel him left-handed.”

    “You know what a hurry we’re in!”

    “Well, it's the only way I can be satisfied. If I use my right—tch—over too quickly.” Lovino groans, walking briefly away from him.

    “Oh, have it your way!”

    “You be careful,” Ivan tells him, coming closer. “People in masks cannot be trusted.”

    “I’m waiting!” Lovino calls. Ivan nods, and hurries after Lovino, carrying Sigrid. Antonio watches them until they disappear, then looks down at the man in black. He watches for a bit, then starts pacing, shaking his hands. He practices some of his fencing skills, and looks back at the man in black when that’s not enough to distract him. He’s not much closer to the top. He walks away, then comes back, impatient.

    “Hello there.” The man in black glances up, grunting slightly. “Slow going?”

    “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is not as easy as it looks. So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me.”

    “Sorry.”

    “Thank you.” Antonio steps away again, practices a few thrusts, then re-sheaths his sword, looking over the edge fervently. “I do not suppose you could speed things up?”

    “If you're in such a hurry, you could lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something useful to do.” He struggles a bit as he climbs, but there’s no question that he’ll make it to the top.

    “I could do that. In fact, I've got some rope up here. But I do not think that you will accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”

    “That does put a damper on our relationship.” He continues climbing, raising up a bit from a good hold.

    “But I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top.”

    “That’s very comforting. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”

    “I hate waiting,” he grumbles out. “I could give you my word as a Spainard?”

    “No good. I’ve known too many Spainyards.” He grunts as he searches around for another place to grab.

    “You don’t know any way you’ll trust me?”

    “Nothing comes to mind.” Antonio raises his right hand high, eyes glossing over, voice serious.

    “I swear on the soul of my father, Domingo Montoya, you will reach the top alive.” Silence falls between them heavily. Then, barely above a whisper, the man in black speaks.

    “Throw me the rope.” Antonio hurries to the large rock, untying the rope as fast as he can. He hears the man in black slip, but he knows he’s still there. He scrambles back to the edge and throws one end of the rope down to him. The man grabs hold of the rope, and Antonio pulls on it as hard as he can, walking steadily backwards. He watches the man in black come into view, and he pulls him to safety. “Thank you,” he huffs out, pulling his sword. Antonio holds up his hand.

    “We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

    “Again, thank you.” He sits atop the boulder the rope is tied around. He tugs off his long leather boots, tapping them to get the rocks out. There’s more than a few rocks, and most of them are big. He stares at them, amazed. Antonio notices he has gloves on; he stares at them.

    “I do not mean to pry, but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?” The man in black looks up, obviously bewildered by the question.

    “Do you always begin conversations this way?”

    “My father was slaughtered by a six-fingered man. He was a great sword maker, my father. And when the six-fingered man appeared and requested a special sword, my father took the job. He slaved a year before he was done.” His demeanor turns sorrowful. He offers the sword to the man in black, who examines it closely, clearly impressed.

    “I have never seen its equal,” he declares as he hands it back, being cautious of the heartache looming around them.

    “The six-fingered man returned and demanded it, but at one-tenth his promised price. My father refused. Without a word, the six-fingered man slashed him through the heart. I loved my father, so, naturally, challenged his murderer to a duel. ...I failed... The six-fingered man did leave me alive with the six-fingered sword, but he gave me these.” He gingerly touches two scars; one on each cheek. Solemnly, the man in black looks at him.

    “How old were you?”

    “I was eleven years old. When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing. So the next time we meet, I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, ‘Hello, my name is Antonio Carriedo. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’” His voice is soft, almost a whisper. The air is heavy, but not completely oppressive.

    “You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?” He shrugs lightly.

    “More pursuit than study lately. You see, I cannot find him. It's been twenty years now. I am starting to lose confidence. I just work for Lovino to pay the bills. There's not a lot of money in revenge.”

    “Well, I certainly hope you find him, someday.”

    “You are ready, then?”

    “Whether I am or not, you've been more than fair.” They rise, and walk toward the ruins.

    “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

    “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.” The man in black pulls his sword as he replies.

    “Begin!” They fight far away from each other. Every time one goes in for a hit, the other counters perfectly. They begin to circle each other, moving about the ruins. They feint a few more times, then decide that’s enough teasing. Their swords clash, the gap between the noise shortening each time they strike. Antonio manages to run the man in black up a rocky hill. “You're using Bonetti's defense against me, ah?” He’s absolutely elated at that.

    “I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain.”

    “Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro.” His fighting style changes with his words.

    “Naturally.” The man in black struggles with the shift, but only for a moment. “But I find Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don't you?” He jumps down from the hill, Antonio’s eyes following him.

    “Unless the enemy has studied his Agrippa.” He hops off the perch, somersaulting over the man in black’s head, and lands facing him. “Which I have.” They swing and feint and glide gracefully over the rocky terrain, never once stumbling. One gains the upper hand over the other, but it isn’t long before it’s lost. They go back and forth like this, both obviously experts. Finally, the man in black is able to back Antonio toward the Cliffs of Insanity, closer and closer to his death with each step. “You are wonderful!” He’s awfully chipper, for someone so close to death.

    “Thank you—I’ve worked hard to become so.” He forces Antonio closer to the edge by the second.

    “I admit it—you are better than I am.” But he’s grinning.

    “Then why are you smiling?” He’s a step, maybe two, from falling off the cliff.

    “Because I know something you don’t know.”

    “And what is that?”

    “I am not left-handed.” He tosses the six-fingered sword into his right hand, and the battle shifts in his favour. The man in black desperately tries to keep him by the cliff’s edge, but it’s no use. He has to retreat. Antonio’s sword is merely a blur, it’s moving so fast. He backs the man in black up some stairs, and he stumbles backwards onto one. His sword strikes close, but it misses.

    “You are amazing,” he concludes, finishing climbing the stairs.

    “I ought to be after twenty years.” Antonio pins the man against a stone pillar. The top layer is forced off, over the cliff.

    “There’s something I ought to tell you,” he grunts out, struggling against the sword.

    “Tell me.” It comes out confidently.

    “I am not left-handed either.” The man in black shoves him back, and makes a show of switching his sword into the other hand. Within a matter of seconds, the six-fingered sword is knocked out of his hands. Antonio retreats frantically, diving from the stairs to a moss-covered bar between an archway. He swings for a moment, then lands, grabbing his sword. The man in black flings his sword, and it sticks into the ground, exactly next to where Antonio landed. He jumps onto the bar, rotates around it, then lands next to his sword. He plucks it out of the ground effortlessly, striking a little pose.

    “Who are you?”

    “No one of consequence.”

    “I must know.”

    “Get used to disappointment.” Antonio shrugs a bit.

    “Okay.” He starts the fight again, moving fast. They go back and forth, Antonio countering a slash he hadn’t been able to before, feeling proud of himself for remembering the man in black’s body language for that move. The sword is knocked out of his hand, arching through the air. He casually positions himself below it, and catches it flawlessly. He’s going to lose. He knows he is. He becomes desperate, fiercely swinging his sword at his competition. The man in black catches onto his desperation, and takes a moment to tease him. He swipes at Antonio’s hair, startling him enough to give him an opportunity to knock the six-fingered sword out of his hand. He stands helplessly for a second, then falls to his knees. “Kill me quickly.” There’s raw emotion in his voice. Fear, sorrow, regret...

    “I would as soon destroy a stained glass window as an artist like yourself. However, since I can't have you following me either,” he knocks Antonio in the head with his sword handle, and he falls unconscious. “Please understand I hold you in the highest respect.” He runs over to his scabbard, picks it up, and runs after the Princess, Lovino, and Ivan.

[masterofthewarcry]

Chapter 1 (of my original fiction)

The market was a very busy place, as all markets should be. The cobbled streets were crowded with flimsily built booths, sometimes blocking the way into the stores they stood in front of. People darted between stores and stands, trading their hard won coinage for necessary, or sometimes unnecessary but luxurious, items. Shopkeepers tried to make themselves heard above the din, shouting about sales and low prices, only to be caught up in the blend of voices that made the market have its own atmosphere, loud but not overwhelming.

               The market was the perfect place for the seeds of change to be planted, and that was exactly what Lysandra planned to do. She had been frequenting public areas for the past three months now, trying to get people to join the cause. Her efforts had been somewhat successful, requiring a new safe house to be acquired, and more supplies to be procured. Granted, they didn’t have the money for that right now, but they could always make up the difference by cutting the wealthy’s purses.

               Lysandra did a quick scan of the area, looking for the familiar glint of chain mail and royal colors that meant guards were nearby. For a moment, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, but it had just turned out to be a shopkeeper’s awning, proudly displaying the royal colors. She would have to be sure to mess with him later.

               She made her way over to the fountain in the middle of the street, carved in the likeness of Alcibiades, the father of the current king, Onesiphoros. Though the fountain had eroded considerably, Alcibiades strong features were still present, his stone cold eyes not much different than they had been when he was alive.

               She stepped up on the ledge of the fountain, gazing down into the shallow water. There were no coins symbolizing well wishes anymore, having been scooped up by needy hands a while ago. Lysandra remembered tossing her own coins in as a small child, wishing for stupid things, like the boy next door to fall in love with her, or to become a princess overnight.

               What would she think of herself now?

               She was beginning to draw attention, perched on the side of the fountain, looking over the heads of the crowd. Lysandra turned to face the oncoming foot traffic, smiling at the few people who had already gathered at the foot of the fountain, waiting to hear what she had to say. She recognized a few of their faces, people that had either already joined her force or at least attended her little speeches before.

               She cleared her throat, and began to speak.

               “Good afternoon, good people of Provlimata.” She began. “I come to you on this fine day with a message.” Lysandra cringed at herself a little; the starts to her speeches were always rough, no matter how she tried to smooth it out.

               “Our kingdom, our home, is in terrible poverty.” She saw a few people perk up at this statement. That was always the attention grabber, the very thing the crown would not address, but was on everyone’s minds.

               She gestured down to the fountain. “A perfect metaphor, this fountain. I’m sure you all remember, when not two years ago, the pennies from this fountain would feed the homeless and bums who wander the streets. Now, the fountain is empty, and the homeless have either moved on or died.” She paused for effect. “But don’t worry, dear friends, our streets are still full, with new homeless families forced out of their homes by debt to the crown.”

               People were starting to gather now, mothers with small children clinging to their skirts and baskets in their arms. A few artisans wandered away from the shade of their stands to come closer. A few young men, stood near the back, looking up at Lysandra skeptically. She would have to approach them, if they stuck around.

               “The drought has razed our farms and our rivers, severely damaging our farmers and fishermen’s incomes. Without the bountiful harvest, we have nothing to trade, no materials to manufacture, but more importantly, nothing to eat. And what does the crown do? Nothing!” She paused a bit, letting the last word hang in the air, watching a few people nod along to what she has said.

               “Onesiphoros refuses to lower the taxes, does not offer any sort of support, and still drafts our sons in his army without a second thought. He and his court enjoy feasts, while the rest of us ration out our food and go to bed hungry. This cannot be allowed to continue.” Lysandra said. “The crown has abused its power for two years too long!”

               There were a considerable amount of people gathered around now, mostly market goers, but a few shopkeepers mixed into the batch. Lysandra caught sight of the royally colored awning again, this time her gaze drawn to a short man stood underneath, his arms crossed over his chest. She pointed to him, drawing the crowds attention to him and his store.

               “You, sir!” She started. “Do you support the crown?”

               The man scanned over the crowd gathered around the fountain, his eyes narrowing before he responded. “Aye.” He barked. “I’ve made many a sword for the kings army.”

               “So you’re a blacksmith.” Lysandra nodded. “Im sure you make a pretty penny for your work.”

               The man said nothing, still eyeing Lysandra and the crowd.

               Lysandra turned back to her people before her. “Its people like those, favored by the king, whether directly or indirectly, that will survive this recession if we don’t take action.” She quickly looked over her audience again, her gaze settling on a younger looking woman. “You, ma’am!”

               The woman blinked up at Lysandra, her arms folded around a basket full of bread.

               “Would you like to see your family starved while people like this blacksmith go to bed with full stomachs?”

               “No, of course not.” She said.

               “Then what are we going to do about it?” Lysandra asked. “The crown has never let anyone below a knights status into the court, and refuses to be reasoned with. They have locked themselves behind stone walls, isolated from the world outside, with no idea of the effect they have on us citizenry. What I propose, is a new sort of government.”

               As if on cue, glances among the audience were traded, and whispers were shared. Lysandra noticed a few people leave, which was to be expected. But she was pleased to see the majority of her hard-earned crowd stay, to enraptured by the thought of change to walk away now.

               “A government,” Lysandra continued. “Where the people have a say in the laws. Where one family cannot seize control and hold it above their heads. Where court members are chosen based on merit and intelligence rather than the status they were born into.” She paused. “I know it sounds like treason. But isn’t that the risk we have to take to see our children grow up in a world where they are free?”

               An older gentleman near the back of the assembly began to clap, smiling at Lysandra. It quickly caught on, spreading like wildfire, and soon the whole square was clapping. Lysandra took a self-indulgent bow, sweeping the hat off her head and letting her braid tumble out of it. This was the biggest turnout she had had in a while, and she was excited to see how many people were interested in becoming part of her wave of change.

               She was about to step down from the fountain when two horses rode into the square, scattering people. Perched on their backs were two young men, one slightly older than the other, with blond ruffled hair and a cocky smile. The younger man had a sharp jaw and sharper eyes, with neatly trimmed dark hair, nothing like his older counterpart.

               “Hold there, fair lady.” The blond knight pronounced. “Speak thee of treason?”

               Lysandra rolled her eyes. “Hold there, Sir Cleon. Speak thee like an old man?”

               The remaining crowd chuckled, along with Cleon’s squire. Cleon shot the young man a look, who stopped laughing immediately, sitting solemnly on his horse.

               “You should know better, girl.” Cleon said. “The crown does not take lightly to threats of insurgence.”

               “The crown won’t be here much longer anyway.” Lysandra bit back. It was people like Cleon that really rubbed her the wrong way. He was blind to the plight of the world around him, all because he wore that stupid armor with pride. How could he not see?

               “We’ll see how you run this little rebellion of yours from inside a cell.” Cleon said. He spurred his horse forward, forcing people aside as he made his way towards the fountain. His squire followed in his wake, cutting through the crowd with no objection.

               Lysandra knew she couldn’t outrun them on foot, so she took off, getting as much of a head start as she could while they were still working their way through the crowd. She didn’t get much though, as Cleon shouted, his scream causing everyone to scatter, clearing the street for him to ride through.

               Lysandra ducked onto a side street, hoping to maybe lose them. It was unlikely this early in the chase, but there was always a chance. After all, based on past experiences, Cleon had more hair than brains. She didn’t know why Onesiphoros had put him in charge of the hunt for rebels.

               But his stupidity and their encounters did grant her some insight as to what was going on in the palace. He could never keep his mouth shut, always rattling on about something or other. He also had some weird obsession with her, always asking for her name, subtly, or what he thought was subtle, flirting with her. But his schoolboy crush kept her out of jail, so she wasn’t exactly complaining.

               It was his squire she had to watch out for.

               She didn’t know the boy’s name, but he was already more fierce than his mentor. There was no emotional attachment or just brainlessness holding him back, and he truly tried to bring her in to the king for trial. He would be a good knight and she had to grudgingly respect him for that, though she would have much rather had him on her side than searching to capture her.

               She could hear the horses hooves click on the cobblestones behind her. She kept running though, leaping over carts and sliding under booths as often as she could in an attempt to lose them, but they were too close behind to fall for any of her antics. She was cursing at herself in her head, not even getting a chance to tell people about her rebellion, never mind enlist them in the fight.

               Part of her said it was enough to inform the public though, and maybe that part of her was right. They were at least curious now. Hopefully.

               She zipped around another corner, jumping into an alleyway. She recognized the crates stacked near the mouth of the road and knew there was a wall she could easily scale at the end, but that the horses couldn’t leap over. She smiled to herself, knowing she was clean away at this point.

               What she didn’t could on, was the mound of junk in front of the wall, to precarious to climb without risking getting trapped in the rubble. A quick scan of the alley showed that the store which is bordered was cleaning out, and had dumped all of the broken or old goods to be picked up later, as evidenced by the note tied to a pole.

               Lysandra turned around slowly, hearing the hooves come to a halt.

               “Effectively cornered yourself, haven’t you?” Cleon snobbed. “See young Themistocles, sometimes that is all you must do, wait for the wrongdoer to do themselves wrong.” He chuckled at his own play on words, as his squire, Themistocles, Lysandra now knew, rolled his eyes and sighed.

               Cleon dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to his squire. Themistocles stayed on his horse, blocking the mouth of the alleyway.

               “Looks like you’ll be coming with us today, fair lady.” Cleon said.

               “I hate that name.” Lysandra said, stalling as she looked around for any sort of escape route.

               “Well, you have yet to present me with another name.” Cleon continued. “Though I imagine you’re called something quite fierce.”

               “And what do you imagine?” Lysandra baited. There was an open window to her left, leading into what appeared to be the back of a bakery, if the smoke coming out of the chimney was any indication. She couldn’t imagine what other place would have a fire going in the middle of July.

               “Maybe Alexandra.” He said. “Though Demostrate could be quite fitting. But I’ve always fancied the name Eulalia, and if you are in fact the maiden of my dreams, that would be your name. Though, we couldn’t name one of our daughters that if it is your name, could we?”

               Lysandra hurled herself through the window, landing in a heap in the bakery. Before Cleon could react, she shot up, slamming the window shut in his face and locking it.

               “You may call me Ton Olethro Tis Yparxis Sou, and I will never bear your children.” Lysandra dashed away before his squire would appear at the window, finding the backdoor of the bakery easily, and losing herself in the crowd outside.

               It was then she realized she had lost her hat in the mess.