#Hand Forged Kitchen Knife Set

[hawkeenknife]

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[gaytrapinch]

literally the first thing im doing when im rich is buying myself the fanciest fucking knife set i can afford like look at this shit i dont even cook that much but i would if my knives were this beautiful

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One: The Last Day] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: Years ago, you were the captive of a serial killer named Strade. And you weren't the only one he kept. After Strade was killed by one of his victims, you ran away--and now your past is finally catching up with you. Chapter one is set during Boyfriend to Death.

Word count: 6352

Chapter notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, past noncon, graphic violence, descriptions of blood, violence and gore, descriptions of death (not reader)

AO3 LINK

She was crying again. Well, no wonder. There were holes in her feet, dotting the top of her thighs. Blood had dribbled down from the gored holes in her flesh like little streams, then dried out. 

The thin, wavy dried out trickles made you think, abruptly, of unfettered period blood, then of Carrie by Stephen King. The scene in the shower, where she gets her period and freaks out. The other girls threw tampons and sticky pads at her and shrieked, chanting, bonded by a morbid commiseration of the entrance to so-called womanhood: Plug it up! Plug it up! Plug it up!

Plug it up, you thought.

But she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her hands were bound behind her. Did he tie them back like that so that she couldn’t try to hurt him, or because it gave him easier access to her flesh? Maybe a bit of both.

She looked uglier when she cried. Snot bubbled out of her nose and joined a dried streak of blood that went from her nose down to her chin. Her nose was probably broken, hence the blood; the flesh of it was black and blue and an awful shade of green.

One part of you longed to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer and hold it to the bruised, swollen flesh. Hush her cries. Give her an ounce of humanity that might carry her for another few hours, the way Ren once did to you. 

Another part of you, the new you forged under Strade’s knife (and boots and hammers and power drill) wished she’d just die already, so you wouldn’t have to hear her cry or be standing here obediently, waiting for Strade to come back down. You were probably going to have to participate in this next stream–why else would he call you down in the middle of one of his “projects”? 

Unless he was lonely. But even so, he could always kill two birds with one stone. You, here to give him company; and you, here to entertain his horrid audience. And himself, above all. Himself, always.

 The basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open and you heard his heavy bootsteps–thump, thump, thump–before he called out jovially.

“Are you still there, Liebling? You didn’t run off, did you?” 

As if you were stupid enough to do that. You were many things now. Stressed. Afraid. Desperate. Tired. More selfish. Maybe a little bit masochistic, a trick of your brain to keep you from totally losing your mind as you were tortured. All these things and more besides, but stupid was not one of them. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” You called back, lightening your tone. It was important not to sound too scared. Strade wanted you scared, yes, but he didn’t want you to be some obedient, squeaky little mouse. That was too boring. It was best to act as normally as you could, considering the circumstances. That seemed to please him more, at least on most days. Some days nothing you did was right and you went to bed with a swollen eye and broken fingers, eased by frozen peas that Ren snuck you from the kitchen before he went to sleep. 

You’re not the only one who noticed him coming down. The woman in front of you began to tremble and sob more violently, pulling at her bound wrists. It wouldn’t do any good. It never did. How long did she have to live? How long did any of you in this house have to live? 

By the time Strade made it down the stairs, her cries were practically at a fever-pitch. You didn’t want to look to see what he’d run off to fetch, but he didn’t give you a choice.

He called your name. “Come here, darling, I need your help with this.” And oh, you kept your eyes downcast until all you could see was his boots. But then it was time to look up, and you did, and no matter how many times you witnessed him preparing to torture another person, it still made your stomach roil.

He’d brought down a p[ot of boiling water, which he carefully held by the handle with both hands. Tucked underneath his armpit was the bag of frozen peas. The bag, you thought, because for as long as you’d been here, no one ever cooked them. They got passed around between you and Ren under cover of night.

Here they were, in the light of day. You suspect you wouldn’t want to re-use them after this. 

“Be my Lamm and take the peas, won’t you?” The sensible part of you eyed him warily; it wouldn’t be below him to toss the pot of boiling water at you while you reached for them, just to fuck with you. But you didn’t disobey him, either. You carefully leaned over and slid the bag from underneath his armpit, and held it in your hand.

He smiled. Grinned, really, which was a bad sign for the sobbing woman tied to the pole. His good moods and bad moods were both equally shitty, but in your unfortunately well-experienced opinion, it was his good moods that produced the most painful scenarios.

“Now!” He crouched down in front of the crying woman and grabbed her chin. She shrieked and tried to jerk her face away, but he held her tight. “I’m sure your wounds are sore, aren’t they?” She sobbed out something–meaningless pleading that you’d long since lost the ability to discern–and he tsked.

“Oh, poor thing. I know just what might help!” He snapped his fingers and looked back at you. “My lovely friend here will give you some ice to help you feel better. Won’t you?” He grinned wider and you nodded, feeling both scared and numb in a confusingly equal measure, as you crouched down next to him.

She yelped when you placed the frozen bag on a group of puncture wounds on her thigh, but you held it fast. It probably hurt more than it soothed. An icy bag right up against wounded skin didn’t sound pleasant. But maybe it would numb it a little. That might be better than nothing. 

“Perfect! Now…” He reached over and picked up the steaming pot of water, still bubbling from its boil on the stove. “Hold still, my Lamm… wouldn’t want to splash you.” 

It was so strange, the way that your time with Strade had made it possible for you to actually keep your hand there, despite the fact that you knew he was about to pour boiling water on the skin of this poor woman. Pour it right where it would surely splash on you a little, if not a lot. Probably a lot. Two birds, one stone, and all that.

It didn’t matter if it was strange. Your fingers flexed and your muscles tensed as you saw him turn the pot over slowly, and steaming water came flying down, pouring over the woman’s wounds.

She screamed. It was loud. It hurt your ears. The irritation of it distracted you from seeing Strade move the pot around so that the water trailed over the frozen peas–and your hand keeping it pressed against her–as he covered her thigh in the water.

“Fuck!” You said, biting your cheek hard. Your fingers danced on the bag but you didn’t dare pull away. You could see your own skin turning a shade of red. Her thighs had taken the brunt of it, though. There were even blisters forming on her skin already as she sobbed and cried and begged for someone, anyone, to help her.

You were someone.  You were anyone.

You couldn’t help her.

“Language, liebchen,” Strade said, teasingly. You mumbled out an apology, although you doubt he actually cared. 

He sighed when the pot was emptied, and tossed it on the floor.

“I don’t know… I just don’t think it’s enough. Do you?” He grasped your burned hand and you couldn’t stifle the sound of yelping pain as he gripped it hard. Your skin would blister too–it was already peeling a little. 

“What…whatever you think is best,” you stammered. 

“That’s right,” he said, grinning. He gave your hand a squeeze and you groaned. “I think I’ll work a little more on this project myself before dinner.” He let your fingers go, and you cradled your hand against your chest. “Have Ren take care of that. Come back down when it’s wrapped up.” his free hand grabbed the chin of the sobbing, bleeding, blistered woman again. “I think we’ll make a movie, and I need my prettiest co-star to help me out.”

“Of course.” You gave her one half-pitiful glance–the way her frightened, bloodshot eyes darted to you with a mixture of anger and pity made you want to hurl–and went up the stairs.

By the time you’d made it to the top, you already heard Strade pulling out his video equipment.

—

“It… doesn’t look too bad,” Ren said quietly. He held your hand underneath the sink, letting the cold water soothe your burn. But every time your hand trembled and the stream went just out of reach, it burned again, and you winced.

“Most of it hit her thigh,” you whispered. Though you didn’t need to, since both of you were well aware that Strade was busy in the basement. Old habits die hard, however. “She got it worse.”

Ren hummed. “They usually do.” He told you to keep your hand in place while he fumbled in the cabinet under the sink, looking for supplies. “I don’t know if he has–oh!” His ears twitched and perked up as he found what he’d been looking for.

It was a tube of burn relief ointment. He flipped it over and read the back, mumbling all the while. “It’s expired but…”

You smiled, just a little, and finished his sentence for him.

“Better than nothing, right?”

Ren smiled, and you caught sight of his tail curling behind him as he turned off the sink and told you to sit down on the toilet so she could wrap you up.

Was it wrong that some of the most pleasant moments in this house, if you could call them pleasant, were with Ren? Especially quiet moments like this, where he took care of you, or you took care of him. You were both well acquainted with fixing up the results of your time with Strade by now. 

He’d cleaned out deep cuts on your back, and you’d iced and splinted his broken toes. He let you curl up in his nest of a bed after a particularly awful night of torture, and you let him slide under your covers when he’d had an nightmare about the last time Strade made him kill someone.

It was transactional in some ways, you supposed. But when you saw his ears perk up or his tail swoosh or the way his eyes seemed to light with something genuine behind them while you talked with him, you realized it wasn’t all practical. It couldn’t be. Not when you were in this together.

Ren made quick work of bandaging your hand. The cream was smoothed over the reddened, flaking parts of your skin and he wrapped your hand up with a bandage. It hurt, still, but nothing to write home about. Hah! As if you’d ever be allowed to write home.

Hell, if by some miracle  you could write home, how would you even word the letter? 

“Dear mom and dad, last night my captor-who-also-fucks me made me keep my hand on a table while he hammered nails underneath my fingernails and asked me which one hurt the most. P.S. The milk in the fridge is expired and he’s threatening to make me or Ren drink it because of the waste.”

The thought made you snort. Ren looked up from his spot on the floor, where he’d taken to impromptu digging through the cabinet to look for some undisclosed item. 

“What’s funny?”

You mulled it over. Sometimes, you didn’t like to tell Ren what you were thinking. You trusted him, to an extent. You liked him, to an extent. You were friends, to an extent. How far did that extent go? It depended. 

He was here first, and sometimes, the tension between the two of you was too taut and fraught to ignore. There was always that underlying worry, an electric buzz you couldn’t turn off all the way: what if Strade decided he didn’t want two captives? Or what if he felt two was his limit, and he wanted to bring someone new in?

Which one of you would get the ax–literally?

But this was maybe not the type of thing that Ren might murmur to Strade in a moment of weakness. It was harmless, wasn’t it, to make a joke about writing home?

“I was just imagining what I might write home in a letter to my parents.” You flexed your bandaged hand. “I mean, if we were allowed to write home.”

“Like from a summer camp?” Ren asked. He pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them. 

“I guess,” you replied, smiling a little. “Although this would be one…” Fucked up, disgusting, hellish– “Specialty summer camp.”

Ren snorted a little. “Definitely not like the ones in movies.”

“Maybe horror movies,” you added with a grin. One of your front teeth–not from the center two, thank hell–was missing now, so you rarely grinned. But it felt different when it was just you and Ren alone. It was okay to let him see those imperfections, because he had them too. Maybe not missing teeth, but…

“Sleepaway Camp!” He blurted. “Or Friday the 13th…” 

You started to open your mouth, ready to tell him that you once saw a screening of the first Friday the 13th at a summer camp, when an all-too-familiar sound came wafting up from the cracked open basement door.

“Liebling! It doesn’t take that long to bandage a little burn! I hope I don't have to come get you.”

Ren’s tail went straight up at the sound of Strade’s voice. The sing-song nature of his words did not hide the danger in them. If you had a tail, yours would be standing stock straight too. But your body had to make do with your muscles tensing and your bowels clenching hard.

“I have to go,” you murmured, hopping off the toilet seat. 

You paused in the doorway. Ren had his knees hugged to his chest, his ears flat against his head. No doubt he was wondering if Strade would call him down, too. Or if he’d be pissed off about something and take it out on Ren later.

“Thanks for patching me up, Ren.” His ears twitched, and he glanced up at you. “Really, I mean it.” You smiled–grinned, showing off one of your missing teeth. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His tail relaxed a little and he smiled back, an almost puppy-like grin crossing his expression for a moment, and it was enough to give you some vague emotional relief as you left the bathroom before Strade was forced to come up the stairs and retrieve you. 

–

She wouldn’t last another day. That much was clear. Her blood was everywhere now. On the floor. Smeared on her skin. On Strade’s hands–on yours.

Of course he’d made you participate. You were his lovely assistant, after all. Although he always said Ren was better at the work, when it came down to it. You were too prone to trembling and hesitation. To say nothing of your occasional habit of vomiting at the sight of anything more than blood–guts, in particular, were your weakness. 

Hers, too, by the way she quivered at the sight of the large hunting knife Strade twirled in his hands.

“I think this has gone on long enough. Don’t you, Schatz?” He looked back at you with a thoughtful smile. “Shall we end it?”

Without thinking much, you nodded. Yes, it had gone on long enough. Yes, you wanted her to just die already. Yes, you wanted to go over to the sink and scrub your hands until they were pruney and wrinkled and there was no trace of her visceral fluids on your skin.

“Go on,” he told you, gesturing at the trembling woman. Covered in cuts and gouges and burns. Where there had been dried blood earlier today, there were now smears of fresh gore. From Strade’s boots and the knife. Strade had even taken a blow torch to the burns caused by the boiling water, making them go from peeling and red to a series of gouged, pus-like craters in her flesh.

Cold seeped into your socks from the floor as you walked over to her. She regarded you with dull, dying eyes. She opened her mouth, maybe to say something, but whatever word she might have come up with wouldn’t come. Her swollen, bruised lip trembled as blood dribbled out of it. 

One of the handcuff keys was taped to the back of the poll. Strade always liked to keep extras around, in case he lost the original but still wanted to uncuff someone. He usually didn’t uncuff people unless they were being bound in some other way (usually not a good sign) or he was just about finished with them (definitely a bad sign); and in this case, you knew she was being released only to make killing her a little more fun.

Her hands flopped forward as soon as the cuffs were undone. There was a brief moment where you saw her regard her wrists, all reddened and cut from where the metal handcuffs dug into them. 

But the moment was over as soon as Strade stepped forward and pulled her close with a decisive yank of her hair. She yelped–you were surprised she had the yelp in her, her voice should have been shot from all the screaming–and he twisted her hair tight to keep her still.

“It’s been fun, but it’s time to go now. Don’t take this personally, hm? Or do, actually, it might make you feel better.”

She didn’t have time to respond. He rarely wanted them to say anything, you thought. It was just part of his internal script, a set of syllables that gave him extra pleasure as he snuffed out someone’s internal light. 

He stuck the hunting knife into her gut and twisted. She didn’t scream. She barely shouted. The sound, instead, was one of strangled horror. Like she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. He twisted again, and she grunted and gasped, a sound that was almost like a deep, gaping hiccup.

“Shh,” he murmured, a sick grin splitting his face. His eyes darted over her face, and you got a front-row view of how his expression was gleefully illuminated by the sight of her own life fading away. He enjoyed it so much, he even let go of the knife handle so that he could grasp her face with both hands and keep her dying gaze in his sights.

Who was she? What had she been, before the basement? Was she thinking about her friends, her family? Did she have children that were going to be left behind? Maybe she was in college, maybe she’d been studying for exams that would never happen. There would be uneaten prepared lunches in her fridge, a bookmark that would never move past a certain page. 

Her hands went tremblingly to the handle of the knife sticking out of her. She held the handle tenderly with bruised, bloody hands. Didn’t Strade see it? No, he was too focused on her face. But he didn’t even see the way her expression shifted. 

No, he saw it. But maybe he didn’t know what it meant, because he’d never been on the other end. The way she went from looking confused and horrified to determined. 

She didn’t act right away. 

You could have said something. You could have called out a warning. 

But instead you watched as the dying woman yanked the knife out of her gut, viscera and blood coming out with it, and stabbed it right into Strade’s neck.

He gasped now. A gaping, strangled sound. His hands went instinctively to his neck and it took him a few slow, trembling tries to pull it out. You saw the blood arch and spurt–an artery–and he fell to his knees.

The woman stepped away with what must have been her last ounce of energy. She had only enough life left in her to turn to you and smile–she was missing teeth, too–before she collapsed on the ground. She was still alive, but her shock would come soon after.

It wasn’t her you were watching, anyway. It was Strade.

His eyes darted to and fro until they landed on you. He had his hand pressed against the wound now, but it wasn’t doing much good. He would need a proper compress… an ambulance… surgery of some kind. 

You don’t know why you called him. To help Strade? To help you? 

“Ren.”

Not loud enough.

“Ren.”

Still not loud enough.

“Ren!” 

Before you knew it,  you were simply screaming his name, filling the basement with a different pitch of scream than it was used to. Your own voice was barely recognizable.

The basement door slammed open and you heard frantic footsteps pounding down the stairs. You saw Ren, only a blur of orange in your shock, take in the scene. His own mouth slowly gaped open, but unlike Strade and the unfortunate woman on the floor and your own panting lips, no sound came out.

Ren said your name. You think it was Ren, because Strade was surely in no position to talk. It shook you out of your stupor and you ran to him, clinging to his arm, crying fitfully. He wrapped one arm around you and the two of you stood, together, watching Strade bleed.

“What do we do?” The inside of your elbow pressed hard against Ren’s back as you held him. You wanted to snuggle, like the way you did on good nights. You wanted him to make it all go away. 

Maybe he sensed this. Because while the two of you had clung together in so many occasions, this time, he stood up taller. He held you tighter. And then he assessed the situation.

Ren watched Strade quietly for a long moment. Strade gazed up at him–at you, too, but mostly Ren–with wide-eyed helplessness. The look didn’t suit him at all. He seemed to know it. 

“Help me,” Strade managed. It almost didn’t feel like speech. Maybe the knife had grazed his vocal chords. 

Neither of you moved at first. There was a long moment in which either of you could have sprung into action; could have ran to the supply cabinet and grabbed thick gauze to press against the wound, while the other could have bounded up the stairs to call an ambulance.

But you didn’t. And Ren didn’t. 

And then Ren looked at you, and took a step backward. He pulled you with him, and you went willingly, taking another step, and another, until the two of you were standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“You…” Strade gurgled out the word, and blood came bubbling out in between the fingers pressed against his neck with it. “You…”

He didn’t get to finish. His eyes widened and you saw the light leave them before he collapsed on the floor. 

For the first time since you’d been brought here, the basement was truly silent. 

Strade was dead.

Neither of you moved for a while. And then you felt a hoarse sob coming on. Relief, terror, and shock coursed through you, fighting for the surface in a way that could only result in tears. 

Ren regarded you with an unreadable expression and slowly removed his arm from your shoulder. You whimpered–don’t leave me, you wanted to say–and he smiled, a soft, little thing. 

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to make sure he’s dead.”

Oh. That was a good idea. But what if he wasn’t? What if Strade got to his feet and oh, the two of you would be in for it. He’d probably kill both of you–or at least you–and it would be slow and awful and you’d beg, beg, for death.

“Ren,” you said, almost stammering, swallowing a thick lump in your throat.

He turned back towards you, curious.

You pointed to the table of tools at Strade’s disposal. “Take something. Just in case.”

Ren stared at the weapons that had been used to kill countless people. At the blades and torches and nails that had been used to hurt him, and you. Then he grabbed a heavy hammer and slowly approached the bleeding corpse (please let it be a corpse) of Strade.

Strade didn’t move as Ren approached him. Or when Ren knelt down, hammer at the ready. Or when Ren’s fingers slowly reached out and pressed against his neck, his wrist. 

“No pulse,” said Ren.

Ren set the hammer down and used both hands to shove Strade’s body until it was fully on his back. His eyes, dull and dead, stared up at the ceiling without seeing anything.

He was dead. Truly dead. 

Really most sincerely dead, your thoughts echoed in a half-mimic of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz.

You barely registered Ren digging around in Strade’s pocket before he returned to you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he began to lead you upstairs.

“Let’s not stay down here,” he said. He gave Strade’s corpse one last look before staring ahead at the basement door. How many times had the two of you gone up and down these stairs at Strade’s whim? It always meant you would get hurt, or you would help Strade hurt others. It was never willing, going up these stairs. Never a choice.

And now the two of you were going up them together, Ren leading you, of your own free will.

Free will! What a concept. One you thought you’d lost forever. And yet here it is, given by the hands of a woman whose last days were filled with unnecessary, unfair agony. You wish you knew her name, so you could thank her properly.

Ren shut the basement door. It sounded louder than it ever had before. Or was it because the house was so quiet now? 

“Come here,” Ren said. And you didn’t know why he said it–shock, confusion, uncertainty still reigned–until you saw what was in his hand. 

His collar. It was… off. But how and–

Ren held up the key he’d taken from Strade’s pocket and shook it back and forth, like a well-earned prize. That’s what it was, in some ways. 

You stepped towards Ren and turned around, breathing heavily at the thought of being truly free from the collar. Strade only took them off the pair of you when you were showering and, once you had learned to behave well enough, when you slept. But they always went back on first thing in the morning, and their threat was an ever-constant presence in your mind, just like the metal was ever-constant around your neck.

Ren’s fingers brushed the back of your shoulder. You heard him breathing just as heavily. For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Wasn’t he going to…?

“Ren?” You asked, voice quivering. The air felt suddenly too heavy, your collar weighing you down more than normal. There was an awful thought, then: What if he doesn’t take your collar off? What if Ren is… what if, what if…

But then you felt the pressure from him sticking the key into the back of the metal contraption, heard it twist, and felt cool relief on your neck as Ren lifted the collar away from your neck and set it down on the coffee table. 

Both hands went to your neck. The skin was sensitive, bruised. A few days ago, Strade had come into your room at night for a session of “fun,” which ended with you being choked into unconsciousness. You’d woken up to Ren splashing cold water on your face. “Thought I’d lost you,” he’d said. 

The bruises Strade gave you would fade away in time. At least the ones on the outside.

And Ren…

You turned around and gave him a fractured smile. You leaned in, and Ren leaned in, and you hugged each other tenderly. Not just because it was the nicest way to hug, but because Ren’s rib fracture was still healing, and your back hurt, and both of you were littered with scars and cuts and bumps and bruises.

After a while, Ren pulled away. “Let’s… sit down.” 

He sat down on the sofa, which was dotted with sprinkles of Ren’s orange fur; no matter how much you lint-rolled the furniture, you could never quite get all of it out. 

Well, that didn’t matter now. You’d never have to clean up this living room, or the kitchen, or the brain matter and blood stains in the basement, again. You could go home.

And Ren could go home. 

And the nightmare would be over.

For now, you sat, side by side, on a sofa that had never seemed more ordinary. The house had never seemed more ordinary. Its secrets were primarily down in the basement. The rest of the house was bland and boring by comparison. Unless you counted upstairs, as it was not unheard of for Strade to take his particular brand of “fun” into your respective rooms. 

And now? It was quiet. Still. There was no chance that Strade would come walking up the stairs. No chance that you’d be called down them to torture someone.

Certainly no chance that he’d call both of you down, which never ended well. He liked to see Ren hurt you, because it seemed to hurt Ren. But sometimes, sometimes, you thought… there was a glimmer of something in Ren’s eyes in those moments. 

Something that reminded you too much of pleasure to ignore. Just a spark of it, but that was enough, when you were bound to a table and he was clawing open your thighs at Strade’s behest.

“Ren?” You forced yourself to stop thinking like that. That was the past. This was now. No, more than that: this was the future. A future without Strade, without this house, without pain. 

Ren looked over at you, slowly. The realization of what had just happened, and what it meant, seemed to be catching up to him, too. “... Yeah?”

Your fingers scratched at some of Ren’s stray fur on the couch. Some of the orange fur had already started clinging to your bandage. 

“What do we do now?” A simple question for you to ask. Several plans rushed through your head but it was hard to make sense of them. What was the best course to take; which authorities did you appeal to, when there was a dead serial killer and one of his victims in the basement, but your hands were on the torture tools, yet the same tools had been used to hurt you? 

You swallowed hard, shaking your head, willing the dizzying thoughts to quiet down.  “Do we call the police first? Or… an ambulance? Or–or–” 

Ren gripped the hand that idly scratched the couch. He intertwined his fingers in yours, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were wide. And just a bit wild.

“We could stay here.”

Your heart thudded. Once, twice. A third time.

“What?” You shifted on the couch, facing Ren more clearly. “We… we can’t, it’s–”

Ren squeezed your hand, a little too hard–the burn–and you winced. He didn’t let up, but he didn’t know you were hurting, did he? It was all just a rush right now, confusing, scary.

“We can,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. His mouth broke into an almost childish grin as he continued. “Strade’s got a lot of money, we can use that to keep up the bills. Buy whatever we want. We won’t have to worry about anything!” His tail swished behind him, thumping into your side. 

When you didn’t respond–words weren’t coming–his grin deflated a little. “I’m… I’m a good roommate,” he said, ears flattening. “I’ll take care of you.” He squeezed even tighter now. “We’ll do everything together, and we don’t have to worry about Strade getting mad about it. We’ll watch movies or-or play games or whatever you want.” He swallowed and you watched his throat bob. “And I promise I won’t leave fur everywhere.”

“Ren–” It was your turn to give his hand a squeeze, and you took his other in your free hand and clasped them both. “I’m not worried about your fur.”

His ears perked up and his smile came back.

“It’s… we can’t stay here,” you said, voice wobbling but gaining more firmness as you went on. “We need to leave. We need to call the police.”

Ren’s ears twitched. He looked thoughtful, opening his mouth, and shutting it. He was just confused, that’s all. Like you were. He needed to be reminded that if Strade was gone, the both of you were free. You’d go home, and he’d go home, and you could call or text or email or something but…

“Don’t be stupid.” 

The firmness in Ren’s voice shook you a little. More than that, it made you worry. He frowned at the sight of your tense shoulders, the quirk in your mouth. “Think about it,” he said, gently saying your name. “Remember all the people who watch his videos? Don’t you know who’s in those chats?”

The reminder of the chatrooms came hurtling straight into your guts. The chat… the people there paid money to watch people suffer. Watch them die. How many times had they encouraged Strade to indulge in some fucked up torture? Hell, they’d asked him countless times to string you up, cut you open, pull out your guts while you were still alive. Strade had danced away the requests with a teasing lilt, but the threat was never gone.

Ren let go of your bandaged hand and gently cupped your cheek. He spoke slowly, almost sweetly. “They’re rich. Important. Mayors. Politicians. Doctors. Police.” 

The anguish your stomach began to stretch. Ren didn’t stop talking.

“They know both our faces. Do you know what they’ll do to us, if they find us?” 

Tears pricked, unwanted and unbidden, at your eyes. He was right. You couldn’t go to the police. You couldn’t go to the media. This could never get out. But that didn’t mean you had to stay here. More than that: you couldn’t stay here. 

It would be another type of collar, to find yourself stuck here with Ren. And the collar might not be electric, but it would be just as dangerous. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “No police.”

Ren grinned hopefully.

“But,” you continued. “We can’t stay here. I want to go home. And you–you get to go home now, too.” Ren had never talked much about his life before Strade, but surely he had friends. A family. An apartment or a house. A life. Just like you. 

“You want to leave–” His voice was thin and there was a fissure in it, ready to crack.

The hand on your cheek pressed harder, and you felt the thin press of his claws against your skin. Your eyes must have widened or perhaps you flinched, you don’t know, but Ren saw–and yanked away.

“S-Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He was upset, he was scared, hell, you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry or start belting out show tunes right now. 

Freedom was confusing as hell. 

“I know,” you said, slowly. “It’s okay.”

Ren stared down at the ground. Then he stood up and fished Strade’s keyring out of his pocket and set it down on the coffee table with a jingling rattle. 

“I’m going to get us some water. And maybe a snack. We’ll… we’ll talk about this more. We can talk about it, and not make a decision right away. Okay?” He fumbled with both his hands in front of him, looking like the meek young man you’d met that first night, when he cleaned your wounds and gave you water to drink. 

You stared at him, perhaps for too long.

“Okay, Ren, we’ll talk about it,” you lied. 

You watched him walk into the kitchen, where Strade would never saunter in for a case of beer again. You heard him open the cabinet for an empty glass, none of which would ever again find themselves dashed into tiny shards that could be ground into your skin for fun. 

And then you leaned forward, grabbed the keyring off the countertop, pulled out the key to the front door, and softly padded your way to the threshold that neither of you had been able to cross in ages.

Your heart thudded. Your stomach heaved. But you unlocked the door and bolted, socked feet aching on the concrete sidewalk.

Ren said your name after the third step you took beyond the door of Strade’s house of horrors.

You could have kept running. Maybe you should have.

But instead, you turned around, to look at Ren standing in the doorway. There were no glasses of water in his hand–you don’t remember registering the sound of the sink at all, in fact. It was just Ren, with his hands at his sides, looking at you with an expression that was equally pitiful, agonizing, and worrying.

He said your name again.

You felt hot tears squeeze out of your eyes as you shook your head, turned around, and ran for your life.

[weaselle]

Let's talk chef knives

somebody in the comments on a cooking post is talking to me about knives and i figure, why not make a whole post about it

I worked in restaurants for two decades, and that means i was mostly too poor to buy expensive knives.. but i did learn EXACTLY what i was looking for in a knife, and eventually i did spend about $150 on one.

Now, you can easily spend $500 or more on a chef knife if you are the kind of person who cares about having the chef knife equivilent of a porche or lamborghini and i don't think many of you are looking for that, so I'm going to tell you what i looked for in my really-good-but-not-too-expensive chef knife

First of all, you don't need that block set of knives you see in like every kitchen ever. You know, this thing

You don't need that. Listen, theoretically each of those knives has a specific thing it is used for, but in all the restaurants i worked at, 99.9% of the stuff i did was done with one of these

We didn't go looking for a specific kind of knife, we just used one of these -- often a bunch of those were all that was provided. I uh, i didn't work at a lot of high end restaurants. But even in the nicer ones, most of what we used was a chef's knife.

So. In my opinion, instead of spending $100-$200 on a bunch of kind of shitty knives, spend the same money on one really nice chef knife, and a wetstone or some other sharpener you feel you can use. But really, like, just look at a wetstone tutorial on youtube, it's not hard, and it will make your life better.

NOW let me tell you what i looked for in my knife

This is the knife i use. It's a six inch Zwilling Pro

if you shop around, you can probably find it for close to 100 bucks. It's not Fancy™, it's just Quite Good. You can, if you want, find a chef knife for a couple grand, and that plastic-handled one in the first pic will run you less than ten dollars, so, this is a pretty good price point, on the low side of middle, with a knife quality on the high side of middle. If you take care of this knife, it could last you your whole life

Now let's talk about specific features I was looking for. First, inb4, metal quality. Zwilling is a good company, so the quality of their actual metal is pretty decent, and that's all you really need to know -- if you're getting your knife from a known decent knife company it's probably good enough quality. In this case Zwilling uses forged high-carbon German steel, which are some good key words to look for. That's all i have to say about that.

Now there are four specific things i was looking for that led me to choose this specific knife

1

Depth. This refers to how far the heel of the blade juts out from the handle (the heel of the blade is the part of the blade closest to your hand). When you have the blade resting with the edge flush against the cutting board, you want there to be plenty of room for the hand gripping the handle without knocking your knuckles against the board. A classic pinch grip doesn't need much room, but that's not the only grip you'll ever use, so give yourself some decent knuckle clearance. But not TOO much. Too much and your blade will kind of feel like it wants to flop over on its side when the edge hits the board.

2

Length. As an edgy 20 year old in restaurant kitchens, i always went for the biggest knife i could find, but because you're going to be using your chef's knife for everything, you actually want it short enough to use as a paring knife or whatever. The shorter the blade, the more control over the tip you have. Me, i never really need anything longer than six inches. I was a little bit worried when i first got it, but i've never wound up wishing it was longer.

3

Weight. Even though it's just about as short as a chef's knife can be, my knife has a good amount of weight to it. A somewhat heavy blade helps with chopping, and provides a good balance for other knife skills. When you are chopping and slicing, a decent amount of weight helps a lot. It doesn't have to be heavy heavy, but when you pick it up, it should definitely feel like a chunk of steel, not like a pressed aluminum toy. Plus, some of the weight will come from thickness, and a thicker blade will stand up to more sharpening and last you longer too.

4

Bolster Shape

If you look at the Zwilling Pro's bolster, it has a bolster that is sort of beveled into the heel of the blade with a nice curve. Right right, what's a bolster, hold on, here's the anatomy of a knife

on this knife, you can see that where the bolster meets the blade it makes basically a right angle where it goes from thick to thin. This is distressingly common in chef knives

now look at the bolster on the Zwilling Pro

and here's a similar bolster shape from a different angle

First of all, the bolster is diagonal, which is the right shape for me to hold in a classic grip. Every chef has their own grip, but it's always a variation on pinching the blade just above the bolster, and a diagonal bevel works better for my grip.

And just as important to me, it might be hard to tell, but the metal curves from the thickness of the handle to the thinness of the blade instead of using a right angled edge to go from thick to thin. This curve sort of follows the movement your knife makes against the knuckle you use to guide the blade when you do this

I tend to use the deepest part of the heel a lot, and, depending on what i'm doing with the knife, my grip can often be nearly off the blade it's so far back, so i have a tendency to knock a straight bolster directly against my index knuckle. Just a little, but after a few dozen times in half a minute it starts to irritate my finger. A curved bolster like on the Zwilling Pro sort of glides to a stop against my guiding knuckle instead of banging into it, provides a comfortable pinch, and makes my life in the kitchen better.

That might not be true for everyone, it's just important to pay attention to how you use a knife, especially if you find yourself thinking something like "it would be better for me if this part of the knife was different in this way" or "this knife would be easier to grip if it was shaped like this instead" or "i wish the shape of this knife didn't mean this was always happening" or whatever. Could even be how your knife fits in your dishwasher, just pay attention to what works and doesn't work for you personally so you know What you're looking for. But you for sure want to look at the Depth, Weight, Length, and Shape.

So. There you have it. Some things to pay attention to when selecting a knife that may allow you to get a good knife for yourself without spending tooooo much money.

[mytheoristavenue]

Day 11-

BES Mizu x Reader - Winter Proposal

Summary: Mizu has to ask you something before leaving for London.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, sad, rushed/short, spoilers, takes place days after the last episode, grammar

Yesterday's events still played fresh in your mind. The sounds of gunfire, screaming, and metal clanging rang in your ears like a broken record. You'd sustained some injuries, thankfully not from any man-made weapon. You'd been trapped in a collapsing building and pinned under a burning beam. Luckily, Ringo found you and dragged you to safety, before hauling you back to where Master Eiji lived.

The night was spent with Ringo tending to your wounds and delivering news of Mizu's death to her father, who pretended not to be phased. You were unprofessionally diagnosed with a shattered ankle and varying degrees of burning on your legs and waist. Nothing fatal, thank God.

In your short time with Ringo and Eiji, you'd taken to being placed out in the nearby forest. Close enough to yell for help, but far enough to get away from the noise and heat of the forge. Of course, you still had to contribute in some way, so every morning, Ringo would set you outside with a task, usually washing clothes or dishes in a rudimentary tub, and let you watch the woods for anyone looking for trouble. In the evenings, he'd come back and hang the clothes on the line if needed, as you were in no shape to walk.

-----

On the third day, you sat in your chair on the edge of the forest, humming and mending clothes when you finally did spot trouble. A slender figure came hobbling through the woods, peaking out from behind trees when it heard a twig snap. You eyed the shadow cautiously, ready to scream out for the men to protect you at a moment's notice.

"Leave us be, stranger," you warned, brandishing a kitchen knife you kept to cut stray scraps of fabric for patches. "I may be vulnerable, but I'm deadly with a blade even still."

"I know you are," a tired, hoarse voice croaked. "I taught you that."

Your heart skipped a beat at the possibility before you shook the hope away. "You haven't taught me anything, stranger," you rebuked. "The one who trained me is dead."

Just then, the knife plummetted to the snow, let go of by your trembling hands. The stranger finally had inched close enough for their face to be unobscured by the light shining through the trees. Glacier eyes peered down at you from under shaggy chocolate fringe as she leaned against the nearest tree, waiting for you to react.

Without another thought, you left out of your chair, forgetting entirely about the searing pain in your brutalized body, but crumbled at her feet, clinging to her pants.

"My darling," she gasped softly, falling to her knees with you to hold you in her arms. "You're hurt, I'm so sorry, I didn't even know-"

"Where were you?!" you sobbed into her shoulder, making her fall silent. "I thought you were dead- we all thought you were dead!"

"I am," she corrected, bringing your hands from her shoulders to cradle them in hers. "For now, at least. You can't tell anyone I came to you."

"I-I don't understand..." you sniffled, (e/c) gems boring into her very soul. "You only came to see me?"

Her face softened and she smiled. "Yes, my love, I did. I couldn't leave without telling you where I was going."

"You..." you froze in her grasp. "You're leaving again? B-But-"

"But nothing," she corrected, sternly but with love. "I'm going to London to continue my mission." she confessed.

"London..." you repeated. "W-What's that? Where is that? Why can't we go with you?" Your head was spinning, you were so hurt and overjoyed and confused all at the same time.

"It's very far away, in another country. But I promise I'll be back." Mizu swore, pressing a kiss to your forehead with her palms on either temple. "I'm gonna finish my mission and I'll be back before you know it, and we're gonna live a normal life."

"We can't, you know that!" you argued but melted at her soothing touch. "Women can't be wed with one another, women can't buy property, women can't have kids together..." you trailed. "Besides, I know you'll never be done with this endless path of vengence..."

"I hate when you say things like that, my love," Mizu cooed. "Lips as lovely as yours have no place uttering words so violent. You leave all that talk to me." A moment of silence passed between the two of you before she mushed you away enough to hold you at arm's length. "I promise you that I'll be back, and when I am, I'm going to marry you, (Y/N)."

"But how..." you sighed, immense sadness for the death of a dream making your chest hurt.

"I'm a man in the eyes of the law." she smirked. "I can travel unaccompanied, own land and property, and marry who I damn well choose. And...I choose to marry you. If you'll have me?"

You'd never seen Mizu so enthusiastically sure of anything, short of destroying her bloodline. It made you feel incredibly special, the amount of passion she seemed to carry for this. "I'll have you, but I have a few conditions."

"Which are?" she cocked a brow.

You reached up and cupped her cheeks with both hands. "Come back to me in one piece, promise me you will."

Mizu smiled, studying your face lovingly. "I promise I will."

"And I want a farm near Osaka so I can see my family, and I want children to chase around the yard." you dreamed.

"A farm in Osaka, got it," she snickered. "Though knocking you up may be a different story."

"We'll adopt some!" you chirped.

"I think I can do that," Mizu sighed happily, nuzzling into your throat. "I promise a thousand times, my love."

Almost as quickly as she appeared, she was leaving again, begrudgingly tearing herself away from you. "Promise to write me," you sniffled, getting ready to cry again as she helped you back into your chair.

"I will, but it'll be under an alias." she agreed, brushing the hair out of your face and gathering your things to put within your reach. "But you gotta promise me something too."

"Anything."

"Darling, wait for me."

[mjsharpcraft]

10 Pcs Chef Set

[aramis-dagaz]

Writober Day 3: Blade, Dwarf

((Jacky is from Faded Scars and used with permission))

The shop’s bell rang clearly over the din of rushing water, creaking wood, and the grinding of metal on stone.  There was no counter, cash register, or any other trappings of a store, just countless knives hanging from the walls and resting upon the tables.  Kitchen knives, hunting knives, skinning knives, but mostly mundane cutlery.  All, however, gleamed in the sunlight as Jacky stepped inside.

“Be there in a moment,” a roughly feminine voice said from the open doorway across the room.  She didn’t shout, but the deep strength in her voice helped it carry over the noise.  The grinding ceased after a few minutes, and a dwarven woman emerged from the other room, one thick arm holding up a sleepy mastiff child while her other hand adjusted a strip of brightly-patterned cloth over her eyes.  She walked over to the lone chair by a wall and gently set the child down on it.  She pulled a thick cord of rawhide from a pocket and gave it to him, tiny hands sleepily grabbing it and pulling it into his heavily jowled mouth to chew.  A faint smile passed over the dwarf’s face as she gently patted his head, then she stood up and turned towards Jacky, her expression as unreadable as stone.

“Now,” she said, her voice flat, “what kind of knife are you looking for?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could fix one for me,” Jacky replied.  The knifemaker held out a hand, and Jacky pulled out the broken knife from her satchel, gently placing both pieces in her calloused palm.

The knifemaker’s brow furrowed as she turned over the broken blade in her hands, her head never moving.  “A Greenfield blade,” she said.  “Imported.  Very common, decent enough steel.  Will serve you well for many years if you take care of it.  Most don’t.”  She ran her rough fingers over the ragged edges where the blade fractured, her face pensive.  Finally, she turned towards a wall of brightly shining blades, her hands gently brushing each one.

“I have several Inventory Bladesmith hunting knives here,” she said, then chuckled dryly.  “They don’t do much of that anymore, it’s all factory-produced and ground knives these days, but they use good steel.  Keeps an edge well, especially after I’m done with them.”

“W-Wait a minute,” Jacky interjected.  “I’m not looking for a new knife, I want to get my old one repaired.”

The knifemaker paused, her fingers rubbing against the broken blade.  “I cannot.”

“Wait, what?  I was told you could fix any blade.  Why not?”

The knifemaker sighed.  “Many try to cling to the past, to the way things were.  The way we once were.  We are forged, shaped, tempered, and honed.”  She took a knife off of the wall, the light glittering off of it as she gently ran a finger along its length.  “New.  Perfect.  Or so we like to think.”  A worn and scarred hand held up the broken knife.  “No one is perfect.  No one escapes the knicks, stress, and damage in this life.  It weakens the steel in us, our resolve.  And one day, be it pride, a mistake, or misfortune–”  She made a tch sound, her fingers imitating the shattering of metal.  “–we break.  Physically, mentally, spiritually, morally.  Each according to their own circumstances, but always in one of a handful of similar ways.”

She put the shining blade back on the wall.  “So we try to go back.  But steel, once broken, will never be the same, never as strong.  You are better off accepting that and just buying a new blade.  It can be the same as your old one, but you will have to start again.  If you try to cling to the past, then you will never be as strong as you once were or could be.”

Her hand brushed past more knives, then picked up a hunting knife.  “Here, this one,” she said, handing it to Jacky.  “Take it, see how it fits you.”

Jacky stood mutely for a few moments, then took the knife.  The blade was a couple inches longer than her old one, but despite that it felt light and evenly balanced in her hand.  She examined it closely, moved it around, got a feel for it.  It wasn’t the same, but something told her that she could get used to it.  It certainly seemed well-suited for her lifestyle, probably even more so, she had to admit.

The knifemaker nodded as she took the knife back.  “I will replace the handle with your old one’s.  Come back in a couple hours.”  She turned to walk to the back room, then stopped.

“Was this your father’s knife?” she said over her shoulder.

“Y…yes, it was.  It’s all I have left of him.”

The knifemaker nodded.  “Then I will make sure to honor him properly.  Come back in a couple hours.”

She turned her head the other way and gently whistled.  The mastiff child, rawhide hanging loosely in his mouth and almost ready to topple over, snapped his eyes open and clumsily climbed down from the chair, waddling over to the knifemaker and grabbing her hand.

A faint smile grew on the knifemaker’s face.  “Come child, we have work to do.”

[ragingbookdragon]

Beauty and The Beast Walker

Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word Count: 4.5K Warnings: None

Author's Note: Yeah...I'm gonna make a new story :)

**********************************************************************

Up above the great hills of Evendim, Emyn Uial as the elves called it in Sindarin, farther northeast of the Blue Mountains, was a decent sized city filled with humans. Given its name from the harsh winter and the considerable number of tombstones, Wintergrave had made a mark on the map after surviving through the centuries on pure spite and resilience of the men and women forged by the frigid cold that came down from the mountains above. The people of Wintergrave were tough, hardy, driven to survive in a land set out to kill all life below. Yet, they managed, and from the first settlement, a city had built itself.

It wasn’t exactly a holiday destination, only those wishing to test their strength in hunting or trade with the elves of Grey Haven or the humans of Bree, as their trade routes had extended that far north, but it was a location filled with timber, ore, and quarries. Elves, men, and hobbits alike sent word to Wintergrave when it came to wanting supplies. The marble quarries surrounding the city were desired by elves to make floors, walls, and statues with. The timber and ore built houses and hobbit holes for the men and halflings. Wintergrave had become a wellspring of richness. And visitors, especially those who had particular talents that helped the citizens of Wintergrave, were paid handsomely.

Which is why when word of the arrival of a blacksmith into Wintergrave had spread, a dwarven blacksmith at that, the entire town was readying every blade, every axe, every kitchen knife they had to be sharpened, others readying orders to be made. Word spread like wildfire about the onyx haired dwarf who struck a hammer with the fury of a dragon and took all the orders given, charging a rather expensive price, but given the results from the blades and armor he’d shown, it was worth it.

He'd taken up residence in one of the cabins farthest from the town, away from prying eyes, and only came into town to deliver orders or buy food. Hardly ever did he step foot where many of the city were, even to the bar. He never came to the tavern, and that’s what most people who weren’t coming for building materials came for. Only The Snow Veiled Barrow had a wine made from Bleakberries, a fruit only grown in the harsh ground of the frozen wasteland. Though dwarves were fonder of ale, alcohol was alcohol, and it bothered her quite a lot that the blacksmith had not once set foot in her tavern whether it to be eat a hot meal or enjoy a drink in solace.

She had, of course, taken it upon herself to at least make it known to the dwarf that he was welcome to come inside whenever he wished. That being said, going outside the city gates into the wilderness where the wolves and much worse beasts ran wild wasn’t exactly her favorite pastime—not that she couldn’t handle herself, she just preferred to have others hunt for the meat she used for meals.

It was well past sundown when she finally made it to the cabin he resided in, a small place, quaint even for a human but perfect for a man his size. The windows and door frame had been replaced as well as the glass panes, no doubt he’d secured his place of residence before getting to work.

Careful not to drop the bundle of fresh bread and cured meats in her hands, she kicked the door a couple times, calling out, “Blacksmith! If you are home, I wish to speak. I mean no ill will.” to ease him of grabbing a sword or axe.

Heavy footfalls echoed from inside and the locks flicked from behind before the door swung open to reveal the less than pleased dwarf; he merely glared at her, evidently not wishing to be bothered. “I do not take requests at this hour. Come back tomorrow.”

As he started to close the door, she stuck the toe of her boot in between the frame and halted it. “I’m not here for a request. Believe me, if I wanted a weapon, you’d have made it by now.”

“What do you want?”

“Well for starters, it’s freezing out here. Perhaps invite a lady inside for a moment?”

“You? A human woman enter a dwarf’s home? I can hear the hysteria and accusations rolling in now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve an awfully cynical mindset, Blacksmith. I’m only here to deliver something to eat.”

At that, he opened the door and cocked a brow. “Why?” it was suspicious, and then his voice turned almost accusatory. “Do you not think I’m capable of feeding myself?”

“Distrustful as well,” she muttered, and held out the bundle. “You’ve not once stepped foot into the tavern in town. While I find it understandable that you do not wish to engage with Men, I do find it rather odd you’ve never come in for a drink.”

“So, you think dwarves are drunks?”

“Have you ever perhaps tried not reading so deeply into things that aren’t there? We live in the ass of Middle Earth. The nights are long and freezing. Liquor warms.” She waited until he took the bundle. “All I’ve come to do is deliver this and offer a seat whenever you wish. If you decide not to, I won’t be upset. But know I am someone you can trust.”

As she parted from the door, he called out, “Why should I trust you?”

“I own the tavern, Blacksmith,” she replied, putting up her hood. “I know everyone and everything that happens in this city. My knowledge, and friendship, is unassailable.”

He watched with narrowed eyes as she disappeared into the whipping snow back along the road.

***

He felt eyes on his back, knew someone was waiting to talk to him, but they were going to wait an awful long time. Steel had to be tempered in order to be forged into something great. It was only after the hair had risen along the back of his neck that he finally put the hammer down and looked behind him. A scowl came over his face as he saw her sitting in the chair beside the door.

“Blacksmith,” she greeted. “So glad you finally decided to notice me.”

“Apologies for the wait,” he practically sneered, and she merely waved him off.

“Oh, I’m not upset. Patience is a flower that grows in few gardens and believe me, the garden I have sowed is quite prosperous.” She crossed a leg over the other. “You’ve still yet to come into the tavern. Are you avoiding me, Blacksmith? That hurts. Most men wouldn’t dare avoid someone as beautiful as me.”

Her tone dripped with flirtation, but he was in no mood to play, even if what she said was true—she was absolutely beautiful, a goddess in flesh. “I’ve work to do. Unless it’s to request an order, I suggest you leave.” He pushed a lock of hair back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and looked at her, taking in the smirk, narrowed gaze, and— “You’re joking?”

She rose from her seat, tutting, “Blacksmith, please, I would never joke about money.” Pulling a hefty sack of gold from behind, she held it up. “I want you to make me a dagger. A very pretty, and useful dagger.” Pulling another, much smaller bag from behind, she handed it to him. “With these inlaid in the hilt.”

He opened the sack, wide-eying the sapphires, rubies, and emeralds in the velvet bag. “How…?”

“As I said, it pays to be my friend.”

“So, you’re buying me off?”

“In easier ways. Dwarves are honor bound, are they not? Also, it’s a rather heavy bag of gold. Enough to give leave of a few jobs if you wished.”

He glared at her, obviously weighing it on his mind before he sighed through his nose. “Fine. I’ll make your dagger.”

Her smile irritated him to no end, and she handed over the sack. “Wonderful. When can I expect my weapon?”

“Depends on the intricates of the hilt. A week. Two weeks. The month’s end.”

“Ah, so expect the unexpected?” she nodded knowingly. “Such a game I despise playing. As much as I’d love to stand around and chat, I’m afraid I must return to work.” As she walked off, she paused and turned, pointing around. “And do open a window. It’s stuffy in here. Like I’m underground.”

***

It was actually a month and a half before the dagger was finally done, and it was too much of a surprise when he stepped inside the crowded tavern. She didn’t even realize until she’d turned, put a tankard down, and jumped a foot in the air at seeing him at the bar.

She put a hand to her chest. “Give a woman a heart attack why don’t you, Blacksmith?”

He ignored her, putting the cloth on the bar. “It is done.” Undoing the ties, he flipped open the cloth and there lay a shining steel dagger, golden hilt with gemstones arranged in a delicate pattern.

Picking it up, she smoothed her hand along the blade, flipping it over as she felt the weight in her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, eyes glimmering with something more than desire.

“Sharp too,” he bit out, already tired of the stares.

“Enough to kill a man?” she asked, eyes dropping to his gaze, and he stared back at her.

“As many as you wished.”

Her smile was bewitching, and she tipped her head to the end of the bar. “Sit. I have something in return.”

“You’ve alrea—”

“I said sit,” she commanded in a tone that had indignation rising on his face, yet he huffed and took a seat.

She disappeared behind the wall and came back minutes later with a bottle. A very aged bottle. “This,” she said, placing a goblet before him. “Is something I think you will enjoy quite a lot. I picked it up from a trader a few years ago.”

He watched as she uncorked the bottle and poured a dark, amber liquid into the goblet. “What is it?” he asked, picking it up to smell it. Notes of buttery caramel, oak, and pepper wafted up his nose and he closed his eyes, enjoying it.

“Whiskey. From the halls of the ancient dwarven kingdom Erebor.” His eyes opened and he stared at her, disbelief in them as he looked down at it. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Seeing his reflection in the goblet staring back at him, he lifted it to his mouth, taking a small sip. Something flickered in his gaze as he pulled the cup away and muttered, “It’s not of Erebor.”

She scowled. “It better be, I paid quite a sum for that.”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t get stiffed on deals. It’s real.”

“No, it is not. I am telling you it is not.” His tone had grown from calm to anger.

“I doubt you would know of what liquor comes from Erebor.”

The scratching of a chair on hardwood garnered the attention of all the tavern folk as they watched the scene unravel before them, the dwarf, standing, hands on the bar as he growled darkly at her, “I know what comes from the halls of Erebor, human. Do not speak of things you know nothing about. You have no right.”

She was silent as he disappeared from the tavern, slamming the door shut behind him. Humming, she picked up the split goblet and began cleaning it, turning to the others still staring with, “What are you lot staring at? Mind your own.” They went back to their drinks and food whilst she silently made note to visit the old historian.

***

“Master Bjolling?” she called out as she stepped inside the old man’s home. “Master Bjolling where are you?” she walked around the counter, down the steps and into the grand library the bookkeeper had. “Master Bjolling,” she sighed fondly, catching sight of the old man huddled over a desk.

He popped up, turning around to see her, blinking behind the large lenses he wore. “My word, is that you, my lady?”

She smiled. “Good evening, Master Bjolling. How well you fare?”

His smile was covered by his bushy mustache, but he greeted her with kindness and joy. “Wonderful! It’s quite a joy to see you! Shall I put on some tea this evening? Maybe some sweets and pudding?”

“As much as I would love to, I need you to look up something for me. Would you mind?”

“For my lady? I would charge into the flames of Utumno for her.”

“You flatter me,” she smiled.

“Now,” he said, cracking his fingers, pulling at the long tunic he wore. “What knowledge do you seek?”

She took a seat in the cushioned armchair, crossing a leg over the other as she laced her fingers on her stomach. “Knowledge on the dwarves.”

“There are many clans across the land. Which do you wish knowledge of?”

“The dwarves residing in the Blue Mountains southwest of us, what kingdom do they originally hail from?”

Bjolling frowned as he fiddled around a shelf pulling out a leather-bound booklet. “If I do recall,” he started, reading through the journal. “My predecessors wrote their arrival down. Ah, here we are. Erebor,” he said.

“Tell me of Erebor.”

Bjolling hummed curiously as he started walking around, going from section to section, staring up and down at the numbers. “This doesn’t have to do with that dwarven blacksmith fellow shouting at you in the bar last weekend, does it not?”

“It might,” she answered. The old man deserved at least half the truth. “I’m simply curious about the land is all.”

He seemed satisfied with her answer as he stopped in front of a particular shelf and looked up. “What information on Erebor do you seek?”

“Do you have anything on the royal family of Erebor?”

“Hmmm…perhaps? Dwarves aren’t exactly notorious for being open on history.” He dragged a large, ceiling length ladder down the line and climbed it, pulling books from the shelves, flipping through them before he found one that seemed to call to him. A large book, bound with blue leather. Bjolling pulled it out and climbed down, setting it on the table.

As she rounded the end, he flipped it open and started reading to her. She listened to him tell of the tale of how Erebor came to be, blessed by the Sons of Durin, a prosperous city under a mountain rich and powerful.

“—all changed, of course, with the arrival of Smaug, a fire drake from the North. He ransa—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, and he looked up over the rim of his glasses.

“My lady?”

“Who was the king during this time?”

Bjolling eyed her curiously before flipping back quite a few pages. “Let us see, I do believe it was Thrór.”

“Did he have any children?”

“His only son was Thráin.”

She frowned. “No, too old.”

“My lady, what are you looking for?”

She sat down on the seat beside him. “I’ve reason to believe our resident blacksmith is from Erebor.” Propping her hand against the side of her head, she asked, “Who were his children?”

“Thráin’s?” he flipped another few pages. “Records state he had three, Thorin, Frerin, Dís.” Bjolling looked at her. “My lady, might I ask what you intend to do with this information?” his expression turned solemn. “Please don’t tell me your idea is to extort this man? If he is of Erebor, he has nothing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, the hills of the Blue Mountains are filled with riches.” To ease his mind, she added, “But to give you peace, my intentions are not to extort him for a thing.” She rose from the seat. “Thank you, Master Bjolling. Your help is always appreciated.”

He smiled as she bent down and kissed his head. “For my lady, I happily assist.”

***

By the time he made it back to his cabin, he was practically dead on his feet, only wishing to fall into his bed and sleep until the sun rose the next day. As he unlocked the door, he took note of the fire blazing in the hearth, filling him with caution and warning as he pulled out his blade and entered carefully. He saw nothing at first, looking all around the room for any signs of thievery or attack, yet none showed. He began to put his blade away when—

“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. The rightful King Under the Mountain.”

He jumped, spinning around to point the blade at the woman in the corner of the room, watching him with a hidden gaze; he glowered at her. “How did you get in here?”

“I have many skills, your majesty. Picking a lock is just one of many,” she replied. “I have questions for you.”

“I’m in no mood to answer a single one. Get out.” When she didn’t move, he leveled the sword on her and threatened again, “Get. Out.”

She merely looked at the point of the blade then to him. “Put your sword away dwarf before you start a fight you will never walk away from. No matter your age and experience, I will finish what you start.”

He twirled the sword in his grip and retorted, “I would like to see you try, woman.”

She stood up before him and for once in his life besides the terror of Erebor’s fall, Thorin Oakenshield was terrified as she bared her teeth, canines growing into inch-long fangs, and the walls shook with force equal to a hurricane as a guttural growl escaped her throat. He took a step back, sword faltering, and she closed her mouth, head tipping up.

“My family has long protected this land, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Do not assume that my strength is limited to that of my body. Challenge me again and it will be your last.”

He stared at her. “What…are you?”

“The correct term far east would be skin-changers. Here we are called beast-walkers.” She sat back down. “My family line was infected with a disease that turned us into great beasts, giant two-legged wolves. Over the centuries, my family’s blood has changed and instead of our turnings being random, we can control it.” Her eyes turned to the moon outside. “There is, of course, still a desire to run wild under the moonlight.”

“Why reveal this to me?” he asked.

“Well, before you intended to get your throat ripped out, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. I came to apologize to you.”

He cocked a brow. “You can stop calling me that. Thorin, is acceptable.”

“Thorin,” she corrected.

Dropping the sword on the table, he looked at her. “Why do you wish to apologize to me?”

“I insulted you the other week. Of course, part of the blame arises from you refusing to disclose who you are, but I let arrogance get the better of me.” She met his gaze. “I apologize. You, in fact, know better than any what comes of Erebor.”

Thorin made a noise in his throat, and he sat down on a chair across from her. “The less who know of my name, the safer it is to work and travel.”

“Understandable,” she agreed. “There’d be quite a ransom note sent to Ered Luin for the return of the rightful King Under the Mountain.” Her eyes found the snow again outside. “I don’t envy you, Thorin. It must be a heavy mantle to wear.”

“I wear it with pride,” he retorted, and she snorted.

“Spoken like a true dwarf.” They fell silent, watching the snow fall in peacefulness.

Uncharacteristically, Thorin admitted quietly, “I’m leaving here soon. At the end of the month.” He bother to look over at her, even when he felt the weight of her surprised gaze on him. “I’m starting a company. To retake Erebor from that damned serpent. To restore my home.”

Her lips pursed in a look of hidden surprise. “Truly? Even the dwarven kingdom at its height couldn’t even stop him. What makes you think you can?”

He looked over at her. “I feel it.”

“You feel it?” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Gods help your company, feeling isn’t reliable.”

“You wouldn’t understand, human.”

“Perhaps not. I’ve never left Wintergrave to fight a dragon that could eat me in one bite.” She hummed. “I have done crazier things though.” Her eyes found his. “This company, I assume it will be comprised of warriors?”

“Indeed.”

“Would you like help?” she offered, and he cocked a suspicious brow.

“What are you after?”

“I assume unless I tell you, I’ll never be able to join?” his silence was her answer and she sighed. “Wintergrave is ancient. Its people are old. The young ones venture out east to the warmer lands for a better life. This city will never die, but at some point, you have to know when to let go and move on. It is time for me to move on.”

“I thought your family has protected this land? Are you going to ignore your duty?” he practically accused her of derelict duty.

“You assume I am the only beast-walker here. Others will keep the fire going. I wish to move on. If I’m to die, it won’t be pouring drinks to drunkards. I’ll die for something.” She held out her hand, waiting until he cautiously held his out the same; she took it, and he was surprised how warm she was, almost burning like fire. “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, if you would will it, I will join you on this quest for Erebor. My strength and expertise are yours.”

He gazed at her. “You would do this for someone you don’t know? Without wanting reward?”

“Well, if we do manage to retake Erebor, I’d certainly enjoy being able to run a tavern somewhere in there. I am quite good at it, if you recall.”

Thorin chuckled, shaking her hand. “I will see what I can do once we reestablish Erebor.”

She smiled at him, pulling her hand away to rise from her seat. “I shall make preparations for my leave. I doubt I will ever make a journey back to Wintergrave in the future. It will be imperative to find a suitable family to take over my tavern. And to gather my belongings needed to take.”

“Have a lot?”

She shrugged. “Not so much material that is important. I have quite a mass of gold built up over the generations. I’ll have to prepare it for travel to the Blue Mountains.”

“Why?”

“What good is a mountain of gold if it’s not used for the better of something? You live in a cabin with little. It’s not difficult to understand that you send the majority of your sums back to your people.”

“You would give my people your gold?”

“Not all of it. A woman has to have something to live off of.”

Thorin rose. “You honor me and my people in the Blue Mountains.”

She tipped her head. “I will take my leave for the evening.” As she walked off, she turned, meeting his eyes. “Thorin…”

As she trailed off, he cocked a brow. “Yes?”

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Good eve.”

The door closed behind her and Thorin listened as an otherworldly sound echoed from behind the door, then a blood-chilling howl shook the walls; he turned to the desk, pulling a piece of parchment out to begin writing out the call for his company.

***

The city had practically sent the two off with more food, supplies, and gold than the two could do with. Still though, Thorin couldn’t say he was displeased with it. His companion hadn’t said much since they’d left, and he couldn’t help but watch her when he had the chance to. She looked ready, willing, for anything. What was so different was her garb. No longer dressed in the floor length dresses she typically wore, but a set of darkened leather armor, silver designs sewn into the side as well as silver buckles. Her back was held set with a wooden bow and at her side, the dagger that Thorin had forged for her along with a silver long sword—that, he recognized as elvish, and he fought the urge to sneer and scowl at it. Her face was covered with a mask, cut off just above her mouth, silver faceplate in the make of a wolf—he found she had quite a fondness for silver.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable as they travelled, and he felt comfort growing in him at having her at his side. Which was odd because Thorin didn’t trust anyone he’d never fought with. If he couldn’t trust them to cover his back in battle, how would he know they wouldn’t stab him in the back.

“You’re thinking awfully loud, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór.”

He rolled his eyes, griping, “I thought I’d said to stop that.”

“You did, but I find it annoys you and amuses me, so I shall continue.” She looked down at him. “What are you thinking about?” he opened his mouth and she added quickly, “And no need to hide it. We’re going to be together for a while. If we can’t be honest, we won’t work together.”

He ignored the urge to roll his eyes again but conceded. “I find it difficult to trust you since we’ve not seen battle together.”

“We will,” she replied, staring straight out to the road. “Your worst trust should be that I won’t eat you.” She accentuated her point by flashing her teeth with a grin. “I already gave you my word, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Find it in yourself to trust me already.”

“Why should I take your word seriously?”

She pulled the reins and halted her steed, Thorin following in suit; she stared him down and said, “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, at the end of the day, all a man has is his word. His word is his hope, his truth, his livelihood, his honor. I do not have a title to hold my honor to, but I have generations of protecting my home and doing what is right no matter how difficult to hold it.” She took the reins again. “My word is my honor, just as your word is yours. If you keep your word that you will protect me, then I shall keep mine and protect you. Nothing less.”

Thorin grunted, falling back in to suit beside her. “Apologies.”

“Save those for something serious,” she replied. “We’ve a long road ahead of us.” Looking at him, she asked, “Where is our first stop?”

“The Blue Mountains.” He gazed into the distance. “To collect some old friends.”

[umbry-fic]

dear

Summary: It would all be easier if he could learn how to stop loving her.

He could only hope that she had learned how to stop loving him.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Original Character Relationships: Lloyd Irving & Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving & Original Character Rating: G Word Count: 2694 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 14/02/2024

Notes: This is a sorta sequel to Swaying from Season to Season - it's a possible future that I can see happening after that fic. This was written to Calc., From Y to Y and Dear.

Happy Valentine's lmao

~~~

Letting out an exhausted sigh, Lloyd wiped the sweat from his brow, stretching to get rid of the dull ache that had built up in his back over his hours of labouring in the smithy. Scrutinizing the newly forged dagger that lay on the anvil, the metal still glowing red from the heat of the forge, he nodded in satisfaction. The runes he had painstakingly carved into its blade until his fingers had hurt from how tightly he’d been gripping the carving knife snaked gracefully across the metal, gently glowing as it absorbed the ambient mana from the air.

It looked perfect, ready for -

A set of steady knocks echoed from the direction of the door, a soft voice calling out. "Uncle Lloyd?"

Speak of the devil.

A girl with a small smile on her face greeted him on the other side of the door, her hands clasped before her. The tight knot of worry in his chest that had been tied the moment he'd seen her off at the Iselian gate finally dissolved, leaving him to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Marianne without a scratch on her.

"Back from Palmacosta already, Mari?" he asked, ushering her in and shutting the door behind her. "I'd almost forgotten what you looked like!"

"I've only been away for a month, Uncle," she mumbled, taking careful steps across the wooden floor, her gaze wandering across the interior that she hadn’t laid eyes on in quite a while, but could probably still navigate with her eyes closed. Spotting the fresh dagger, the green eyes she'd inherited from her father widened, and she rushed over with stars practically twinkling in her eyes.

"It's for you," he confirmed, though it had likely been obvious from the beginning. Barrelling into him with enough force to knock some of the air out of his lungs, she thanked him profusely, her tiny smile melting into a real grin.

She was no longer the young child that had been light enough for him to pick up and swing in the air until she was shrieking with giggles. The years had gone by, his back had begun protesting, and she’d shot upwards in height, becoming more and more like her mother - packing away her emotions and sewing up the gap that contained them as she showed others only what they wished to see. Still, he was glad to be able to pull a real smile out of her.

Leading her to the kitchen table, he went to the pantry to get some sandwiches - slathered with fruit jam, just the way she liked it. He'd been making them every day for the past week, anticipating her return to Iselia; feeding them to Noishe when no one came calling. If Noishe saw another of these sandwiches, Lloyd suspected that he would get a faceful of angry dog.

"How's your father?" Marianne asked as she delicately nibbled on the corner of a sandwich. "Your last letter mentioned he’d caught something…?”

"Oh, it was just a cold that was running through the village. Dad's sleeping off the last of it upstairs," he answered, taking a seat himself. "What about your grandparents?"

"They'll be fine. It was nothing too serious, in the end, just seemed that way.” Face brightening, she placed her sandwich back in the centre of her plate. “You know, I ran into Uncle Genis at Palmacosta last week? He’s helping with classes at the Academy again!"

"Let me guess, he tried to get you to study?"

The scene was easy to imagine. Genis, bearing a serious expression as he stacked book after book in front of her for her “required reading”, ensuring she absorbed all of it until the light of dusk painted the classroom in warm orange strokes.

And when she had finished it all, he'd let her dictate what they did after, doing his very best to put a wide smile on her face.

Lloyd chuckled at the scowl that stretched across Mari’s face. "It was so boring. It's not my fault I'm no good at anything to do with magic! I'm better with my dagger anyway. All thanks to you, Uncle!"

"Well, glad I could help." A smile played on his lips as he watched her pout, her posture no longer the ramrod straightness it had been when she'd walked in. Still, she held herself with a grace that she couldn't shake after years of enforced practice. She was the very picture of her mother, down to the golden hair spilling down her back, even if she had inherited none of her clumsiness.

As he had with her mother, he refused to let her feel like she was alone. No child deserved that, regardless of the role they were supposed to play and what the Church felt about the matter. Even if they felt as if they dictated her every action - what she wore, what she said, the company she kept - they did not dictate his.

"And you know, my offer still -"

"No, Uncle," she shot down firmly, expression smoothing into neutral emptiness as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but my choice hasn't changed. I don't want you to accompany me on the Journey of Regeneration."

Falling silent, he wondered if he was imagining the shadows lurking in her gaze, too dark for someone so incredibly young.

"The village needs you, you know! You're the best swordsman here. You'll have to protect this place when… After I’ve left for the Journey." She picked up her sandwich once more with stiff motions, gaze trained on the wooden surface of the table like it was the most interesting thing in the world. "Can we talk about something else now?"

Steering the conversation away from their current topic was an easy enough task. There was much to discuss - all that she had done in her month in Palmacosta, and every event that had disrupted the sleepy routine of Iselia.

It was natural that she wouldn't want a reminder of the pressure that sat square on her shoulders, forcing her to be the symbol of hope for every person in this slowly dying world. It was enough that most people would only ever see her as her title - he wouldn't add to that weight. Here, she could excitedly talk about any topic under the sun while kicking her feet under the table. That was how it had always been, and how it always would be. Here, she could just be a child without a care in the world.

Swallowing the thought that he was missing something, he let the conversation wash over him - ranging from the many dogs she had accompanied her mother around Palmacosta to name, to some of the more out-there blacksmithing requests he’d gotten from the people of Iselia.

"Thanks for the sandwiches!" Marianne beamed.

Blinking, he glanced out the window and realised the sun was beginning to set, the sky composed of messy dashes of red and pink. Had it really been that long? Pushing himself to his feet, he began to clean up the table, sweeping up the plates with breadcrumbs scattered across them.

"Could you accompany me back to the village, Uncle?"

He froze on his way to the sink, slowly turning to face her. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

Her green eyes were fixed on him, subjecting him to the same searching stare her mother had used to give him. She could not possibly have known anything, for neither he nor Colette had ever breathed a word after her wedding, and yet...

"Father stayed behind in Palmacosta to be with grandmother and grandfather for a while longer, so it's just me and mother. Besides, I've missed you! It's been a month. Come over, and we can have dinner together."

"I... Alright," he agreed, swallowing to clear his suddenly incredibly dry throat. Gingerly placing the plates into the sink, he cursed the shaking of his hands, letting them curl around the amateur medallion that still sat over his heart.

He had not taken it off in the close to two decades that had passed.

"Come on then," he sighed.

~~~

The guards nodded politely when they entered, the villagers they passed waving hello to them. The villagers, as a whole, had gotten a lot friendlier once he'd taken over from Dad as Iselia's blacksmith, and even more so once he'd started training the town's guard. Somewhere along the way, he'd become just another familiar face, despite being shunned as a child for his origins.

Marianne's expression had shuttered along the path through the forest, her steps growing stiffer until she was walking in the graceful manner that befitted a Chosen.

The sight made sorrow flood his heart, remembering the days when she would grab his hand and swing his arm with wild abandon as she ran through the village, a toothy smile lighting up her face. Her head had barely reached his thigh back then. He said nothing, however, knowing he couldn’t change her mind.

"Mari! Just who I wanted to see!" One of the other girls from the village called out, beaming as she slowly divided her red hair into bunches, painstakingly threading them into braids. "Won't you come over and help?"

"Oh, it's Amber! Uh, see you, Uncle!" Marianne hurriedly whispered, a touch of red colouring her cheeks as she broke away, life flowing back into her steps.

He couldn’t help the amused chuckle that slipped from him as he continued alone, steps faltering as he spotted the familiar porch he had spent many an afternoon pacing back and forth on, waiting for Colette’s cheerful voice to reach his ears.

"Lloyd?"

And then he was meeting those familiar blue eyes, still capable of taking his breath away. Sometimes, he still felt like that naive teenager, watching her under the starry night sky and realising for the first time just how beautiful she was.

He greeted her with a nod, words still escaping him as he carefully began to construct walls around his fragile heart.

Every time he met her, he could see every version of her he had known. The cheerful child who had approached him with no fear, the girl wrapped in melancholy who had kissed him with tears on her face, and the woman who had faced her preordained fate with her head held high.

And now, the mother, seated on the porch and enjoying the wind on her skin. Happy, he hoped, for that was all he had ever wished for her.

Colette levelled him with the same piercing stare her daughter had subjected him to less than an hour ago. "It’s no use lingering out here. Come in," she said, slipping into the house like a silent ghost.

He'd seen her, plenty of times over the years. They were still friends, after all, and they met up with Genis to catch up all the time. Not as much now, given that both Genis and Raine had left Iselia. Raine to perform archaeological research all around the world, and Genis to wander from place to place, occasionally returning to the Palmacosta Academy to help out. Perhaps time had inevitably caused them all to drift apart somewhat, but they still found opportunities to steal little moments together.

But he could count the number of times he’d been truly alone with her on his fingers alone. He’d avoided such occurrences, trying to forget the pain of a heart that had never healed, and not wanting to make things any harder than they already were. He had never wanted to hurt her at all, but he had inevitably done so - simply because he had committed the sin of having held her hand, dreaming of a life that they could spend together.

Yet still he wished to see her, with all of his heart - wanting to hear the sound of her laughter, see her bright smile, feel the brush of her hair against his arm.

He was still chasing it, that summer day when he fell in love with her, even if it had long drifted out of his reach - a shimmering facade that continued to taunt him.

Following Colette into the kitchen, he automatically began to help her out with dinner, the two of them settling into the same easy rhythm they had always shared, without a need for words. It was a wonder it hadn’t been lost over the years, but it lived on, ingrained deep in both their hearts.

“How was Palmacosta?” he asked, breaking the silence for the first time as he collected a few dishes to take to the dining table.

“Loud,” she replied mirthfully. “Lots of dogs, though.”

“Same old, then,” he mumbled. It had been a few years since he’d needed to travel so far to deliver the finished product for a custom request, but it seemed the bustling town hadn’t changed much.

“I’m sure Mari already told you, but we ran into Genis. It was nice seeing him again,” she said, helping to carry out the rest of the dishes as they both got seated, waiting for Marianne to return from whatever corner of the village she’d wandered off to. “It really has been a long time since we’ve heard from him.”

“Close to a year and a half. I do hope he visits Iselia soon or sends a letter, or the next time we all get together, I’m letting Raine do the cooking.”

The bright laugh that left her at his words made him smile, even as he refused to let the flimsy walls surrounding his heart drop. It was so easy to forget, sometimes, that anything had changed, but he would not let himself fall into an illusion that could not last, that would only shatter into shards with wickedly sharp edges that could easily slice his heart into ribbons once again. It would not be fair to her.

Her blue eyes, alight with amusement, met his gaze for a moment, before sliding away when the sound of muffled voices filtered through the open doorway.

He could see Marianne, lightly blushing as she conversed with the same girl from before on the porch, their fingers threaded together. Saying goodbye, if he had to guess. He was also witness to the moment a wave of sadness swept over her as she reluctantly pulled her hand away, her expression downcast.

Colette’s bottom lip wobbled, and he reached out on instinct. Curling his fingers to dig his nails into his palms, he set his clenched hands back into his lap.

She always did that when she was upset. She would take a deep breath and push it all down, refusing to let any of it out. And once, he would have held her close as she let her face crumple into tears, hidden in his chest as he rubbed circles into her back.

His heart twisted now, watching her, but he had lost the privilege to comfort her long ago.

Perhaps it would have been easier if he could simply lock away this beating heart of his, if he could learn how to stop loving her. If laying eyes on her and hearing her voice did not leave him aching to reach out to her, a knife slowly twisting its way deeper into his vulnerable flesh. But he did not wish to forget, all that they had shared - every moment in the past, and every future that might have been.

He could only hope that she had learned how to stop loving him.

When Marianne sat down at the dining table, every trace of sadness had been wiped from Colette’s face, only a tranquil smile remaining as she greeted her daughter. Mari’s face, too, was devoid of the sadness that had plagued her just moments ago, and Lloyd could not help but wonder.

If he'd been brave enough to take Colette’s hand and run all those years ago, regardless of her protests, would anything have turned out differently?

"Let's eat, shall we?" Marianne said, shattering his train of thought.

Contemplating all the different futures that could have been was no use to anyone.

They were all lost to him now.

[demonslayedher]

Things that went through my head while watching this episode: --I'm going to give Tanjiro a pass on breaking this sword, it was less for misuse and more for Rui just having have powerful strings. This is as surprising as Akaza breaking Giyuu's sword and a testament to the demon's strength. That said, Tanjiro aptly recognizes his own immaturity as a swordsman to have not judged the situation better. (Will that stop him from pushing a sword roughly against obi, or totally yeeting a sword away forever? Nope. Go ahead, Haganezuka, sharpen that kitchen knife.)

--Inosuke displays such practical math skills. If Giyuu defeated one of the Twelve Moons, and Inosuke defeats Giyuu, then Inosuke is the strongest! I love how fast he backtracks on this as soon as he's told that wasn't one of the Twelve Moons, though. That was Tanjiro being stupid, not Inosuke! And, despite Inosuke using Tanjiro's name correctly here, it evokes zero reaction out of Giyuu. The guy really does have a one-track mind, he is indeed here to save as many of these (surprising stupid??) Corp members as possible.

--Giyuu displays such practical rope skills, and even woodworking skills for how he fashioned a muzzle for Nezuko. I like to think that he and Sabito experienced their training as something more akin to being Boy Scouts.

--Inosuke makes THE BEST noise in this episode.

--This exchange: "Moshi moshi, daijoubu desu ka?" "Ojiichan?" "Who's Ojiichan?" -> more actually translated as "who you callin' 'Ojiichan' you little punk???" That said, this exchange is great because for as much as Zenitsu may be an annoying member of the household later for various reason, Shinobu knows how skilled he is, and she also provides set-up for how Tanjiro is going to have to look inside his memories to desperately search for some way to save himself.

--Also, it's really nice that they gave Zenitsu a glance down at all those people getting saved, and the assurance from the Kakushi that those people are alive (a scene which I cannot find in the manga). If memory serves me correctly, they have the Kakushi talk more about this in a following episode to really drive home the fact they were saved by Zenitsu, and that his dream of saving lots of people has already come true. Does Zenitsu know it? Well, depends on how much he's listening in his dreams and accepting that as reality. What with adding the scene with Kamuro in Yuukaku-hen, someone at Ufotable must really, really care about Zenitsu.

--Ok, so, the meat of the episode is, of course, Tanjiro .vs. Rui. It really is a battle of ideals at its core, with Rui using others for what role he feels they are supposed to play in bonds forged by fear, and Tanjiro feeling committed to the truth he spouted in the previous episode (blood bonds do not matter as much as positive emotional bonds), and as well expanding on that here (not only does he have an unbreakable bond with Nezuko, but this is because it's a two-way relationship, Nezuko has her own will in the relationship).

--That the playground "take it back" "no" "take it back" "no" battle between Tanjiro and Rui has graduated to a desolate situation. The music and darkness and Rui setting aside his strings to make a point of their difference in strength by very simply punching and kicking Tanjiro. In human life, Rui never ever would have had the chance to be a playground bully like this.

--For as small as Rui is in statue, he treats Tanjiro like an annoying little kid, especially in calling him things like "bouya." That's fair, though, being a demon he likely is many years older than Tanjiro or Nezuko, though going by Muzan's attire in Rui's flashback, I feel like he's maybe 30 at most. Way, way younger than, say, the Hand Demon or Hairou. I wouldn't be surprised if he's only be a demon 10 years or less, making him around the same age as Tanjiro. Another example of favoritism? Very likely.

--That brazen "take a shot, bro" pose and smile? Wow. Rui takes his already threatening presence to such a higher level with that. And were any of us at all surprised when he revealed he's a Twelve Moon Demon? Ha. Nope. We already knew you were scary, kiddo.

--So with all that setup, we feel the heightened danger Tanjiro is in. There's a sense that all the momentum has been leading to this, as opposed to feeling like there's still going to be pay-off with more goings-on after the battle like in the Kyogai and Susamaru & Yahaba cases. It was an appropriately desperate situation in which to change up the tone completely and pull out a reveal as big as Hinokami Kagura.

--And apparently it made the internet go wild, though at the time I was not involved in any circles in which to see the internet collectively lose its mind over this episode. (Also, I perhaps had not yet started watching, or I was still in the first arc.)

--And for good reason everyone (supposedly) went wild! That dramatic build-up, with moments that startle you like Nezuko's blood dropping all over Tanjiro's sword, had lots going on to support it.

--THE ANIMATION. Holy hell, Ufotable, you mad people. That Water Breath against the spider threads once Tanjiro calms himself down and uses proper technique again? Moves in such a satisfyingly lucid way, with a weight and flow totally different from the grounded flow of Rui making a punching back of Tanjiro and Tanjiro stuffly forces all his power and desperation into a useless strike at Rui's neck. The way they change all the colors at the Blood Technique closes in on him and Tanjiro makes a desperate retreat into his bright and happy memories. And then the effects on Hinokami Kagura itself? Do I have the words to describe this and all it's glory? Yet another dramatic shift in movement, color, lighting--AND THEN THEY ADD NEZUKO'S BLOOD AND HOLY FUUUUUUDGE

--And the animators, not even knowing yet how the manga was going to end, had to pour a lot of thought into capturing both the air of Kagura spiritual dance and swordplay into that scene in the snow, and also, wow, Tanjuro's words to Tanjiro really do put so much of the broader story and its use of Breath into perspective.

--But what really makes this episode for me? THE MUSIC.

--Yeah, you all know exactly what I'm talking about. "The Song of Kamado Tanjiro" comes in like a bucket of water poured over flaming stove, giving us that first loud sizzle like a sense of relief. Even if it invites us to relax, we can't, so the sparks crackle back to life, and by the end of the episode, the flames have whooshed back stronger, until we're sucked against against our wills to do a very different, very firmly peaceful place as the ending credits roll. (Did we die in a house fire, as that's already on our minds anyway with how the Kamado family prays to avoid such terrible incidents??) --This song is like a chicken and egg question for me. Which came first, the animation, or the song? Whichever way it way, the editing and timing with the movements of the music and how they fit what's happening on screen in the shifts of battle, and "plink" of that one high key on the piano is never wasted.

--The lyrics, they are so closely tied with everything we know of Tanjiro so far in this series, even binding him to others like the sound Zenitsu hears from him and the threads Urokodaki has taught him to see (side note, for Tanjiro to have read the kanji in Rui's eye at that distance, our boy's got pretty powerful eyesight too). It's ironic how the lyrics show Tanjiro in a web of bonds that Rui can only dream of in vain.

--The use of instruments too--we associate the piano with Nezuko's theme, and then the flutes have a very Kagura style effect to them.

--For as soft and gentle as this song his, it moves like Tanjiro does in battle, at his lowest moments he finds his calm and his conviction and comes back to finish strong.

--So yes, the animation and use of music in this episode stunned audiences, but the story itself is also a statement. Tanjiro--together with Nezuko's active will in this battle, assistance from their mother's bond from beyond the grave, and reliance on the value of passing traditions down from generation to generation--proves his claims about bonds and their importance, taking this from a playground spat to a statement that will resonate throughout the entire series, right up to Tanjiro's final escape from Muzan forcing a blood-based bond upon him.

--So anyway, yes, very, very, very, very, very, very good episode.

To wrap this up, Episode 19, as experienced by Nezuko: --zzz --ow, bumped head --Oniichan is breathing heavy --NO DO NOT CUT ONIICHAN TO BITS --ONIICHAN IS NOT FOOD, NOT STEAK --Ow --I am having so much trouble understanding what that demon is saying, I am Oniichan's sister --Oniichan is going to fight aAAAGGGAAAAAAI------ --Dude, you are crazy, shut up --ow--- --OOOOWWWWWWWWWWW --Don't hurt Oniichan --Oniichan, no---OOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW --I sleep --zzzzz --Mommy? --Oniichan's gonna what? --Kekkijutsu, BOOM!!!!!!!!! --zzzzzzzzzz

[paytato435]

Chapter 3: You His Pet or Somethin'?

The Knife Set

Leo was in a pickle. He hadn’t realized how big of a pickle yet though. Like, he thought it was maybe one of those cocktail sized ones you’d skewer onto a sandwich. As it turned out, he’d discovered pickles could get pretty big. Like, he was pretty sure Raph could fit in this one- this metaphorical pickle anyway. Not a literal pickle… are there any pickles in the fridge now? He was getting a little hungry now that he thought about it…

“So it was you?!” Mikey’s voice broke in surprise as he had just watched his older brother turn one of his kitchen knives into a mystic katana.

Leo froze. He had not seen the box turtle behind him. Turning his head just slightly, he could see his little brother in the doorway, his finger pointing accusingly right at him.

“You’re the one who keeps stealing my kitchen knives!”

“Stealing?” Leo asked, touching his finger to his lip. “I was just borrowing the one…”

“LIAR!” Mikey stormed into the kitchen and gestured to his knife block, where, of the dozen knives that had been there less than two weeks ago, there now remained only two.

“You keep using my knives to make more swords!”

Leo bit his lip.

“Look, it’s not my fault they keep breaking under the pressure-”

“You’ve broken them?! HOW?”

“I don’t know, I guess they just aren’t as strong as you’d think they’d be,” Leo shrugged, twirling the new katana into his scabbard.

“Kitchen knives are meant for chopping food, not hacking apart bad guys!” Mikey sobbed.

“Well what am I supposed to do then? I need my katanas!”

“Go ask Todd to make you another garden trowel, I don’t know! And get me a new set of knives!”

Leo sighed loudly. Asking for a new set of knives was fair, but it would be a huge pain. He was also having trouble getting a hold of Todd. Turns out his puppy park was going through some legal trouble about zoning requirements or something, his forge likely included. Maybe Leo could just buy himself a knife set too, but he was really tired of his swords cracking under the pressure.

“A garden trowel as a sword?” Leo and Mikey snapped their heads around to see Casey sitting at the breakfast bar, not even four feet away from them.

“How long have you been there?” Leo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Long enough,” Casey shrugged. “But really, tell me how a garden trowel makes for a good sword.” His tone pitched up in questioning.

“I thought you knew everything about us,” Leo tipped his head. “We can make our weapons out of pretty much anything, as long as we have our ninpo.”

“Well yeah, I knew that, but wouldn’t an actual sword work better?” Casey asked, shoveling around his cereal with a spoon.

“I don’t suppose you have one lying around here somewhere?” Leo asked, lowering his head and jutting his chin out.

“Jus’ get Synth to make you one. Thas’ what you did in the fujure,” Casey said through a mouthful of cereal.

“Synth? Who’s that?”

Casey’s eyes widened as he took a bite of Frosted Flakes. (He’d been getting more adventurous with his food choices lately.) “You don’t know Synth? The greatest swordsman of all time?!”

“Ok I’m going to pretend you didn’t just rank me below anyone else in terms of swordsmanship and skip to the part where I say; nooooo?” 

“Well you should, if my memory serves, he works for the Battle Nexus.”

“For Big Mama?” Mikey piped up. “Sounds like he’s probably up to no good.”

“He made… makes weapons for her champions,” Casey explained, fidgeting with his hands nervously. “As for Big Mama, I can’t say whether or not he’s a fan of hers. He’s not big on talking about himself. He did get along well enough with you though, Leo.”

“I can’t imagine he’s cheap,” Leo scoffed. “After that last Jupiter Jim premiere I’m broke!”

“You really should get a job, Leo,” Mikey gave him a side-eye, but Leo waved him off.

“I’m sure you can work something out with him,” Casey encouraged, smiling. “Sensei always had a way of brokering a deal.”

Leo was not at all surprised to hear he was still very much the face-man in the future. But at the same time, he still wasn't used to hearing someone talk about himself like he knew more about him than his own self. It felt tangential to the whole Hamato destiny stuff, like he just had to be what they told him to.

And while a part of him wanted to resist the idea based solely on contrarianism, Casey’s bowling ball eyes were just so damn reflective. Like, Leo thought his face might explode or something if he didn’t go along with it. So he took a step back and thought it over. What was the worst that could happen?

“All right, sure. I’m sure we can check out this Synth guy on our way back from like… wherever Mikey gets his kitchen utensils from,” Leo conceded, straightening up.

Casey froze.

“We?” He sputtered, only to frantically grasp at the bits of cereal he accidentally sputtered onto his chin.

“Yes, we, this is your idea isn’t it? You, me, and Mikey,”

“Why do I have to go? You’re doing this for me!” Mikey cut in.

“You know I’m not going to get the right set if you don’t come with us,” Leo pointed out.

Mikey made a 'I wish I could say otherwise but we all know better' face.

“Leo, I… you know why I can’t go up there…” Casey stumbled, shrinking into his chair. “It’s, it’s all so open…”

In a completely necessary gesture, Leo whipped out Mikey’s ex-kitchen knife and pointed it right down Casey’s nose.

“You can’t hide down here forever kid. If this means anything to you then you’re coming with me.”

“It doesn’t,” Casey shrugged. “It’s your sword.”

“Oh come on!” Leo collapsed over on himself. “You aren’t even a little bit invested in my path to becoming the greatest ninja of all time?”

Mikey popped up next to Casey and made him jump.

“What Leo is trying to say, is that he wants you to come with him because we’re family and we should spend more time outside together. And it’ll be fun!” Mikey starting doing a little dance up at that last bit, shaking invisible maracas.

Casey looked like he was starting to regret his own idea, but eventually nodded.

“Yeah! Team Baja Blast is headed out, baby!” Mikey jumped onto the bar table and pointed at the ceiling.

“Wait a minute, you’re broke!” Mikey pointed back down at Leo. Leo looked away.

“You were gonna make ME pay for the knives that YOU ruined!”

“I didn’t say anything of that nature,” Leo scoffed. “Casey, how much money do you have?”

Casey started to pull out his wallet but Mikey stopped him.

“Oh no no no NO!” Mikey scolded the slider. “You are not putting this on him!”

“Well how am I supposed to get you your knife set huh?”

Mikey squinted one eye and jabbed it into Leo’s plastron.

“Get. A. JOB!”

-

“You his pet or somethin’?”

“I don’t get it Casey, how am I supposed to be a ninja, a student, and have a job all at the same time?” Leo whined as they walked to the Grand Nexus Hotel. Without the money to pay for his lost knives, Mikey refused to join them. Leo would have to pay him back another time.

“How should I know? I have just as much experience as you here,” Casey raised his arms helplessly. But when Leo looked over to him he was smiling wickedly.

“What with that face?” Casey knew that look all too well.

“Do you think I could make money being a ninja?” Leo asked, tipping his head to one side.

“Like a mercenary???” Casey asked, concerned.

“I was thinking more like a bounty hunter,” Leo shrugged, crossing his hands behind his head.

“And who’s paying you? I can’t see you working with the police.”

“Oooooo now there’s an idea,” Leo spun around walking backwards. “Take money from bad guys for taking out bad guys.”

Casey tried to process what Leo was saying, but Leo kept going.

“Pops and Raph would hate that though,” he shrugged, dodging between people. “Honor and all that. Man, it blows that Pops is being more stingy with money lately.”

“Sorry,” Casey lowered his head. He knew that their allowances had spread out thinner now that Casey was living with them.

“Aw shit, no man, I didn’t mean it like that,” Leo corrected himself. He sighed. “Maybe Hueso will let me work for him. Surely he’s gotten over the unicorn incident by now…” Leo started mumbling to himself, so Casey turned his attention to the city around him.

It was still intimidating, for sure, but he was starting to think the walks with Mikey had helped some. The worst part by far were the cars. He couldn’t believe that there were machines that could fly past him at the speed of Krang hounds and that was safe and normal. He had been in the Turtle Tank, sure, but it was a whole other thing to be surrounded by hundreds of them.

They came out of nowhere, stopped suddenly, and everytime he heard a horn… he was over it, man. The only thing keeping him grounded was Leo. The way he moved through the crowds so easily, the ease at which he navigated town, Casey had a hard time believing this was the same world his sensei grew up in. Surely he’d fallen into some stranger alternate universe.

“We’re here!” Leo announced, waving his hand in front of Casey’s face. He blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d spaced out.

“It’s huge!” Casey gasped. It dwarfed every other building on the block, and that was saying something.

“Duh, Big Mama doesn’t do anything that isn’t big,” Leo rolled his eyes. “Speaking of, you do have some idea of how to get to this Synth guy, right? I’m not itching to be making a deal with her.”

Casey folded his hands in front of his chin and gave an empty smile.

“You have no idea what we’re doing, do you?” Leo guessed.

“No…?” Casey lied to nobody.

Leo nodded.

“I’m starting to see some resemblances between each other,” Leo winked. “Let’s go!”

-

Casey had never been in a hotel before, but he was pretty sure they weren't usually bigger on the inside than on the out, nor did he think every bellhop could possibly look exactly the same as one another.

Thankfully, Leo walked in like he owned the place, so all Casey had to do was follow.

Leo made his way up to the front desk, where a fox yokai as desk manager stood at attention.

“Do you have a reservation, gentlemen?” he asked, barely glancing at them.

“We’re here to see Master Synth, my fuzzy friend. Does he have a minute to spare?” Leo announced, his hands on his hips as he gave a confident smile.

The fox sighed and pulled out his radio.

“Synth that turtle from the Kraken fight is back again,” he groaned. “And he’s brought a friend. Says he wants a minute.”

A voice like tin cans dragging on cement answered with a concise “Nah.”

“Nah?” Leo raised his voice.

“Nah,” said the voice again.

The desk manager put his radio away.

“Sorry about that gentlemen, he’s busy.”

“That wasn’t very professional of him! He didn’t even hear what we came here for!”

“I could redirect you to someone else if you let me know what you need,” the desk manager offered, but he was clearly hoping Leo wouldn’t take him up on the offer.

“Do you have anyone else who makes swords? Preferably ones that don’t break under mystic influence?” Leo stuck his hip out to one side.

“All of our weapons manufacturers are contractually obligated to only make weapons for the Nexus,” the fox explained. “You’ll need to take your business elsewhere.”

“A contract? Is there any way we can get him out of it?” Casey asked.

The fox laughed.

“Nobody wants out of a weapons deal with Big Mama,” he sneered. “It’s the most lucrative business in the Hidden City; and Synth’s the best there is. You can’t afford him.”

Leo pouted, and turned away from the counter.

“Fine, we’ll go look elsewhere.”

Casey turned to follow him, but with hesitation. He’d never seen Leo give up this easily. Unless…

When they’d put some distance between themselves and the front desk, Leo gave him his classic mischievous grin.

“You have an idea,” Casey smirked.

“Come on, it’s about time we do some ninja sneakin’ about.” 

-

With a little assistance from a briefly unattended laundry bin and a service elevator, the boys quickly found their way to one of the lowest basement levels of the Grand Nexus Hotel.

“You wouldn’t happen to know your way around down here, would you?” Casey asked Leo as he shifted in the bin to pull out his phone.

“I haven’t been this far down before, but I’ve never seen Synth either so I figured he had to be somewhere I haven’t been,” Leo grunted, pulling on a pair of bellhop trousers in the cramped space. As he brought them up, he elbowed Casey in the face.

“Hey, watch it! You know you could just step out of the bin and put that on.”

Leo hopped out and adjusted the bellop's hat atop his head.

“I got a map.”

“A map?” Leo said to the suspicious laundry hamper as the elevator dinged. “How’d you-?”

But the doors were opening and staff were waiting to get on.

Leo quickly pushed the bin out into the hallway, apologizing as the confused staff members scooched around him as best they could. Once the door closed, Casey poked his arm up from under the towels and pointed down the hall.

“That way, and to the left at the end of the hall.”

“Casey, did you hack your way into the Nexus servers?”

“I have my ways,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

Leo could see the faint purple glow of Casey’s phone jostling around as he pushed the cart in the way he was directed. This kid was good.

When he turned the corner, Leo saw that the hall widened out significantly, and that the usual wallpaper and decor gave way to solid stone. The lights overhead became cold white fluorescents. The bin’s wheels bumped over the rubber stop of the end of the carpet and onto worn asbestos floor tiles.

“What are we looking for?” Leo whispered.

“Third door on your right,” Casey whispered back, readjusting himself.

The doors were metal painted in chipped orange paint, and were padlocked shut. Leo guessed 8008, but the lock buzzed red.

“What are you doing?” Casey asked, hearing the noise.

“Do you have a way to unlock the door? I left my purple at home.”

Casey popped his head out and looked at the lock.

“Did you try boob?”

“Of course I did!”

Casey glanced back at his phone. “Huh, that usually works. Give me a minute…”

“WHO’S OUT THERE??”

The boys jumped, and Casey nearly fell out of the laundry bin. It was that awful grating voice from before.

“Uh… room service?” Casey answered, his voice cracking.

“I didn’ order any-” but Synth made the mistake of opening up the door for them, and Leo pushed right on by him to get inside. “-hey!”

Leo looked around the room and whistled in awe.

“Hey hey, this is a pretty sweet shop you got here Synthia, you might make my brother jealous.”

Casey hopped out of the cart and looked around too, and looked just as impressed. There were swords, spears, and all kinds of blades hanging around everywhere. From the ceiling, mounted to the walls, in barrels and crates around the edges of the room, anywhere there was room, there were sharp edges to fill the space. There were a couple workbenches in the back, an anvil, and a massive forge blazing brightly in the otherwise rather dark room.

“You’re that turtle from the front desk!” Synth growled, keeping the door open. “You need to get outta here. You're not welcome!”

He was a short, bobcat-like Yokai, with red fur and cloven feet like a goat. He was shorter than Casey, but Leo guessed he was probably a few years older than himself

At first glance he was afraid this Synth would lack experience, and Casey seemed to be appraising him too; but he appeared excited enough to see the yokai, so it seemed he was exactly the man (or teenager) Master Leonardo had praised to heaven and back for.

Leo rolled his eyes.

“Chill man, we just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, sure,” he rolled his eyes in turn. “An idiot with a kitchen knife in one of his scabbards and nothing in the other only wants to talk.”

“You can tell it’s a kitchen knife?” Leo asked, drawing the sword out.

Synth closed one eye and made a face.

“I’m not takin' commissions,” he asserted.

“Would you please reconsider?” Casey asked, folding his hands.

“Why would I?”

“Because I’m the greatest ninja the world has ever seen,” Leo smirked.

“Yeah,” Casey crossed his arms and stood next to him. “Leonardo’s the greatest swordsman alive.”

Synth’s ear twitched and looked Casey up and down.

“You his pet or somethin’?”

“Pet?!” They both repeated at the same time.

“The kid’s followin' you like a puppy.”

Leo made a face and glanced down at Casey who was standing a little close to him.

Casey inched away.

“He’s my sidekick,” Leo recovered.

“Right… well, I’m sorry, dudes, but I can’t help you with your little situation.”

“Yeah yeah, we heard it all upstairs,” Leo puppeted his free hand. “You got a contract blah blah blah. But I need swords or I can’t ninja!”

“You don’t even have anything to offer!”

“What if you taught him how to make swords?” Casey suggested.

“That’s even worse!” Synth roared. “Do you see my output? I don' have the time nor the energy to waste on teaching some idiot swinging a steak knife around!”

“Hey, this idiot has feelings,” Leo pointed out.

“Wait a minute,” Casey moved over to a stack of crates on one wall.

“Get out!” Synth growled.

Casey pulled out a sword.

“Get your hands off that! I’m calling security!”

Casey gave him a “try me” face.

“No you’re not,” he blew on the surface of the blade and a poof of dust kicked up into the air.

“You’re overstocked. You’re bored as shit.”

Synth’s ear twitched again. Leo wondered if the tic meant anything.

“You…” Synth glared but shut the door. He moved to the back of the workshop, gesturing for them to follow.

Now we were getting somewhere.

Behind his workbench and nearly out of view sat a grindstone. As he approached it whirred to life on its own, as if by magic. Well, it probably was magic. Synth grabbed the nearest blade to him, some wicked looking machete, and started grinding away at its edge.

“They’re always listenin',” he growled quietly, in a voice that was barely audible over the racket he was now making.

“Big Mama?” Casey asked, curious.

Synth nodded. “And others. I’ll be brief. Run of the Mill, 10pm.”

That was brief.

Synth watched Leo, and realized he was waiting for a response.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he shrugged.

Synth immediately stopped the grindstone and moved to the radio on his workbench.

“Security, I have two idiots lost in the basement. Please extract.”

“Two, devishly handsome idiots,” Leo corrected.

“Devilish,” Casey corrected Leo.

“What he said.”

-

They had almost made it out of the hotel without incident, when it just so happened the crime boss herself was just stepping in through her own front door, a leather lavender clutch in one hand, and her hair tied up in a messy silver bun atop her head. By the dozens of assistants behind her, it appeared she had just returned from some kind of shopping trip.

“Oh! Look who we have here!” Big Mama strutted right up to Leo.

“It’s been a minute, turtley-boo, how was saving the world?” she peered over at him expectantly over her glasses.

“It was… great…” Leo smiled uncomfortably. “I have a son now.”

Big Mama giggled and stole a glance at Casey.

“Ah yes, I saw you on the news. A new friend of the turtles.”

“Casey, this Big Mama. Mama, this is Casey,” Leo really looked like he wanted to take a step back.

“Why so teedly tense?” Mama asked, raising her eyebrows. “I think we’re good friends now, don’t you think? I helped you save the world, you saved the world, which in turn keeps business as usual. You’re always welcome here,” she winked.

Leo didn’t appear convinced.

“So, what brings you here, turtley-boos?”

Casey flinched.

“Oh, Casey’s not a turtle,” Leo corrected her. “He’s a human.”

Mama rolled her eyes.

“Of course, dear, I only meant to be inclusive,” she gave Casey a wicked grin.

“If I had more time, I would love to get to know you, little one. We’re all family here.”

Casey swallowed nervously.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Mama, we were just escorting these two off the premises,” the fox yokai had appeared at her side.

“Ah, that would explain the security,” Big Mama nodded to the musclemen behind Leo and Casey.

“Sneaking around?”

“I- we…” Casey tried to find an explanation, but Big Mama just started giggling good-naturedly.

“Don’t worry your devishily handsome faces, boys,” she assured them. “Mama has a way of finding things out. Enjoy your evening!”

And then she moved past them as if none of that had even happened.

-

“That was beyond weird!” Leo pointed out once they were safely back underground.

“What do we do now?” Casey asked. “It’s clear she knows we’re meeting with Synth this evening.”

“Wait really? How’d you figure that?”

Casey smacked himself in the forehead.

“She mispronounced devilishly just like you did and then told us to have a good time this evening! We’re supposed to meet Synth in the evening!”

"It was evening when we left, Case, I think you're being a little paranoid."

“So should we still go?” Casey asked, crossing his arms as they entered the lair.

“Why not? Are you afraid of Big Mama or something?” Leo threw himself over the back of the couch, his carapace hitting the seat cushion and his legs flopping over onto one side.

“Shouldn’t I be? She’s like, a crime boss isn’t she?”

“Nah…” Leo smirked as he flipped the tv on. “Well yeah, she is. But we can take her.”

“You sound really full of yourself, you know that right?” Casey told the slider, crashing beside him. “Didn’t you say she once trapped the entire city of New York? And she manipulated the Shredder? And she imprisoned Master Splinter for a decade?”

Leo rolled his eyes.

“Ok, you might have a point. I’ll see if Raph and Donnie wanna go with us.”

Casey jumped a bit, but thankfully Leo didn't seem to notice.

“Wait, why not Mikey?”

“He’s going to Draxum’s tonight, and… the whole knife situation.”

“BROKE-ASS NINJA!” the two of them heard Mikey shout from his room.

“Is there something wrong with inviting the others?” Leo asked, lowering his brow.

“No, it’s fine,” Casey settled back into his seat and looked at the tv. “I was just curious.”

"You've been spending a lot of time with Mikey by the way, why is that?"

"You jealous?" Casey smirked.

"What? No! I'm just observing."

"And what have you observed?" Casey kicked his legs up over Leo's. 

Leo squinted. Casey gave him a shit eating grin.

"Isn't it rude to have shoes on the couch?"

"You're right, I should take them off."

Casey promptly kicked his shoes off onto the floor and put his feet right back where they had been.

Leo's face scrunched up in horror by the pungent smell.

"That was not what I meant!" he said as he scrambled to sit up right and get away from the offending appendages. Casey couldn't help but crack up laughing as the slider made a series of dramatic and unnecessary gagging noises.

"Jeez dude, do you ever shower?"

"It's not that bad," Casey defended, crossing his legs under him. "You just don't have humans around here enough."

"April's over here all the time!"

"April doesn't count! She doesn't live here!" Casey pointed out.

"Are you saying we need more people living here?"

"No?" Casey pouted, stumped. "Whatever."

Previous Masterpost Next

Notes: Teenage boys are gross.

[maglorslostsilmaril]

5 Times the House of Finwe Fought and 1 Time They Didn’t

read on ao3 here

Looking back, Nolofinwe wasn’t surprised at how quickly their nice family dinner had gone downhill. It was one of those rare nights his elder brother would leave his room or the forge to dine with the rest of the family, and, as always, he’d tried to remain stubbornly hopeful that maybe, just this once, they could get through one meal without conflict.

Alas.

It had started out alright, at least. Feanaro had stalked into the room just as the salad plates were set upon the table, looking slightly less thunderous than normal as he took his usual spot to the right of their father. The candles along the table flickered happily, and the fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow about the room. Not one scathing word was shared as the soups and salads were served and then taken back to the kitchen, only quiet conversation between his father and older brother, and Nolofinwe had felt his mood begin to rise.

Feanaro had been kind to him and his siblings when he was younger; it was only once Nolofinwe had begun to mature that he’d begun to find himself on the receiving end of his bitter words. Despite the mistreatment from Feanaro the past few years though, Nolofinwe was still eager to rebuild the relationship he’d once had with his brother. He wasn’t even sure what had changed between them, to be honest.

At that time, the main meal was brought out. Roasted pheasant, potatoes and greens, Arafinwe’s favorite. Across the table, his little brother clapped happily when he saw the food placed in front of him, already portioned by the chef so that his small, clumsy hands would not have to handle a knife. Out of the corner of his eye, Nolofinwe thought he saw Feanaro smile fondly at their little brother’s excitement, but the expression was gone so fast he wasn’t sure whether it was just wishful thinking.

“So, Curufinwe, I’ve heard that you plan to travel to Mahtan’s halls when you come of age in the next years?” Indis said politely a few moments later. Nolofinwe paused momentarily, and he felt his sisters do the same. It always came down to something small, whether or not their dinners would end in disaster. Finwe gave his eldest a warning look, but to Nolofinwe’s surprise, Feanaro did not seem inclined at all to send a scathing remark back at his stepmother. In fact, it almost seemed like the constant dark look on his face brightened slightly.

“I do.” He replied. There was a hint of pride in his voice, and the beginnings of a smile on his face, a rare occurrence in the presence of his stepmother. Findis visibly relaxed from where she sat between Nolofinwe and Feanaro, blonde curls bouncing merrily. “I’ve become, ah, acquainted with his daughter Nerdanel; she assures me that I would feel most welcome there.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful.” Indis smiled. Nolofinwe was shocked to see Feanaro nearly smile back at her. Maybe this family dinner would end alright after all.

“I agree!” Finwe said, beaming with pride. Whether it was for his eldest’s accomplishments or his lack of biting words towards his wife, Nolofinwe couldn’t tell. “In fact, Feanaro, I truly think-”

There was a sharp hiss of pain when Finwe reached out to lay a hand on his eldest son’s forearm, and their father frowned and recoiled immediately. “Naro, are you alright?”

“Fine,” his brother gritted out, face darkening once more. “Merely a burn from the forge.”

“Are you sure?” Nolofinwe’s mother asked worriedly, making to stand from her seat at Finwe’s left. “A burn is not an injury to take lightly. Surely we could find someone to rebandage-”

“I said it’s fine!” Feanaro snapped, pushing away from his seat. The chair toppled to the floor behind him with a loud crash. His sisters stiffened, and little Arafinwe’s lower lip wobbled dangerously.

“Naro, please,” Finwe pleaded, an anxious look on his face. Feanaro’s face only grew stormier as he clutched his injured forearm to his chest. “She was just trying to-”

“I don’t care what she wants!” his older brother exclaimed. “I said it’s fine, do you not trust me? I don’t need her trying to mother me! I already have one, in case you’ve forgotten!” Findis winced beside him, and Nolofinwe felt himself to do the same. It always came down to that, didn’t it? No matter what his mother tried, his half-brother would never see her as anything but a mal-intended replacement for Miriel.

“That’s not very nice!” Irime piped up from across the table. She was growing bolder every day, and Nolofinwe was proud of her for that, but it appeared self-preservation was not accompanying it. No, Feanaro would never hurt one of his siblings. He just feared that Lalwen would lose her love for him should she never see any side of him but his fierce, unrelenting anger. Miriel had named her son well.

Thankfully, Feanaro said nothing, only stalking out of the hall. His footsteps echoed through the hallways as the rest of the family sat in uncomfortable silence.

Later, Nolofinwe walked past his brother’s room on the way to his own, only to find Feanaro’s door cracked and his father’s voice coming from inside. Curiosity overtook him. He paused on the other side of the door and stood as still as he could, trying not to breathe.

“You know that it’s cruel to treat your stepmother in such a way, do you not, Naro?” His father said. Nolofinwe could almost picture him seated next to Feanaro on his brother’s bed, arm wrapped across his shoulders.

“Yes, Atar,” Feanaro mumbled back. His voice sounded strangely wet, like he’d been crying. “You won’t believe me if I say I’ve been trying. I just get so angry and not even at her. It’s just that every time I see her I’m reminded of what I don’t have. Her and the rest of them are just reminders that Amme isn’t coming back. I can’t get close to them. Not when they’re only here because Amme isn’t.”

Nolofinwe huffed, stepping away from the door and continuing down the hallway. If that was how Feanaro felt, then fine. He’d stop trying to win the love and approval of one who refused to even think about giving it to him. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he scrubbed them away. His older brother wasn’t worth this sorrow.

[delicioustriumphsweets]

The Damascus Kitchen Knife Revolution: Transform Your Cooking Experience in 2024 

In the world of culinary artistry, the tools you use can make all the difference. One such tool that has taken kitchens by storm is the Damascus kitchen knife. Renowned for its incredible sharpness, durability, and striking appearance, these knives have become the go-to for both home cooks and professional chefs.  

The Damascus Kitchen Knife: A Revolution in Cooking 

The Damascus kitchen knife is much more than a typical blade. It combines ancient techniques with modern innovation, creating a tool that offers both functionality and aesthetics. In 2024, more home chefs will turn to these knives to enhance their cooking experience and efficiency in the kitchen. 

What Sets Damascus Kitchen Knives Apart? 

Damascus knives are unique because of their signature wavy patterns, a result of layering and folding different types of steel. But their appeal goes far beyond looks: 

Unmatched Sharpness – The intricate layering of steel allows for an incredibly sharp edge that stays sharper for longer compared to conventional knives. 

Superior Durability – The combination of metals creates a strong, resilient blade that can withstand heavy use without losing its edge. 

Perfect Balance – The ergonomic design of Damascus knives ensures a well-balanced blade that feels comfortable in the hand, reducing strain during long cooking sessions. 

The Art and Craftsmanship of Damascus Blades 

One of the reasons Damascus kitchen knives stand out is due to their intricate manufacturing process. Skilled artisans layer and fold different types of steel to create distinctive wavy patterns. This technique, passed down through generations, results in blades that are not only functional but also works of art. The attention to detail in forging these knives means every blade is unique, offering a personalized experience for every cook. 

How Damascus Kitchen Knives Can Transform Your Cooking in 2024 

As more home cooks and professionals invest in quality tools, Damascus kitchen knives are becoming an essential part of the modern kitchen arsenal. Here’s how they can enhance your cooking experience: 

Precision Cutting – Whether slicing vegetables, carving meat, or filleting fish, the razor-sharp edge of a Damascus knife provides unparalleled precision. You'll notice the difference in the consistency of your cuts, which translates to more evenly cooked meals. 

Enhanced Safety – With a sharper blade, you’ll apply less pressure when cutting, reducing the chances of slipping and accidental injuries. 

Long-Lasting Performance – Unlike cheaper alternatives, a well-maintained Damascus knife can serve you for years, making it a worthwhile investment for serious cooks. 

Caring for Your Damascus Knife: Tips for Longevity 

To ensure your Damascus kitchen knife stays in top condition, proper care is essential. Here are a few tips to extend its lifespan: 

Handwash Only: Avoid putting your knife in the dishwasher, as harsh detergents and heat can damage the blade. 

Regular Sharpening: Use a whetstone or professional sharpening service to maintain the blade’s sharpness. 

Proper Storage: Store your knife in a protective sheath or knife block to prevent damage to the blade. 

Conclusion 

The Damascus kitchen knife revolution is well underway, and 2024 is the perfect time to join in. With its unbeatable combination of sharpness, durability, and beauty, a Damascus knife can truly transform your cooking experience. Whether you're a seasoned chef or a passionate home cook, investing in one of these knives will not only enhance your kitchen’s functionality but also bring a touch of elegance to your culinary creations. 

[mjsharpcraft]

Chef Knives set 10Pcs, Hand Forged Custom Chef knives , Forged Full Tang Cutlery Knives , Complete Kitchen Knives Set , Thanksgiving Gifts

Look what I found on Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1765933994/chef-knives-set-10pcs-hand-forged-custom?ref=share_v4_lx

[kdhome]

Elevate Your Culinary Space: The Allure of Luxury Kitchenware and Supplies

In the world of modern homes, the kitchen is more than just a place to prepare meals. It has become a hub for socializing, creativity, and personal expression. And just as interior design plays a role in shaping a home’s overall aesthetic, the quality and design of the kitchenware you use can significantly impact both function and style. Enter luxury kitchenware and luxury kitchen supplies — where craftsmanship, innovation, and design converge to transform your kitchen into a high-end culinary haven.

Why Choose Luxury Kitchenware?

When it comes to selecting items for your kitchen, luxury kitchenware offers unparalleled advantages. From precision-engineered tools to artisanal tableware, these products go beyond basic functionality to enhance the entire cooking experience. Here’s why you should consider investing in high-end kitchen supplies:

Superior Craftsmanship and Quality Materials

Luxury kitchenware is made with premium materials like high-grade stainless steel, copper, or even hand-forged ceramics. These materials ensure durability and often come with extended warranties or lifetime guarantees. With luxury kitchen supplies, you don’t just buy an item, you invest in quality that will last for years, if not decades.

Enhanced Performance

Whether it's a chef’s knife that cuts through produce like butter or a set of pots and pans with unparalleled heat distribution, luxury kitchenware is designed for optimal performance. These tools are crafted with precision, ensuring that your cooking process is smoother, faster, and more enjoyable.

Aesthetically Pleasing Design

One of the biggest draws of luxury kitchen supplies is the attention to design. These items are not just functional; they also act as statement pieces in your kitchen. Imagine sleek, polished cookware hanging from a suspended rack, or artisan-made serving bowls as a centerpiece on your dining table. Luxury kitchenware is designed to enhance the beauty of your home while being incredibly practical.

Key Pieces of Luxury Kitchenware to Elevate Your Space

Now that we understand the benefits of luxury kitchenware, let’s explore the must-have items that every high-end kitchen should have. Whether you're an aspiring home chef or just someone who enjoys hosting, these luxury kitchen supplies will take your culinary space to the next level.

High-Quality Chef’s Knife

No kitchen is complete without a high-quality chef’s knife. A staple in any professional or home kitchen, this tool is an absolute necessity for prepping meats, vegetables, and more. Luxury knives, such as those made from Damascus steel or carbon steel, are renowned for their sharpness, balance, and longevity. Brands like Shun or Wüsthof create chef’s knives that not only cut flawlessly but also offer an ergonomic design to prevent strain during long cooking sessions.

Copper Cookware

When it comes to luxury kitchenware, copper cookware is often the first thing that comes to mind. Known for its superior heat conductivity, copper pots and pans are a favorite among professional chefs. They heat up quickly and evenly, providing better control over the cooking process. Brands like Mauviel offer hand-crafted copper cookware that is not only functional but also exudes timeless elegance.

Custom-Designed Cutting Boards

A cutting board may seem like a basic kitchen item, but luxury kitchenware brands have redefined it. Handcrafted from exotic woods like teak or walnut, these cutting boards are durable and can double as a beautiful serving platter. Brands like Boos Block provide custom-designed cutting boards that are not only functional but also stylish.

Designer Dinnerware

When entertaining guests, your dinnerware can set the tone for the entire evening. Luxury kitchen supplies include designer dinnerware sets made from bone china, porcelain, or hand-painted ceramics. High-end brands like Hermès and Wedgwood offer timeless designs that elevate the dining experience. With delicate patterns and premium materials, these pieces are both practical and decorative.

Professional Stand Mixer

For baking enthusiasts, a professional-grade stand mixer is a game-changer. KitchenAid’s Artisan series, for instance, offers a range of colors and finishes to suit your kitchen’s design while providing powerful mixing capabilities for dough, batter, and more. Investing in a stand mixer from a luxury brand ensures longevity and top-notch performance.

The Importance of Luxury Kitchen Supplies for Entertaining

If you love to entertain, luxury kitchen supplies can help elevate your hosting experience. From chic barware for cocktail hours to elegant serving trays for canapés, these items turn an ordinary gathering into a sophisticated affair.

Elegant Serveware

Luxury kitchenware brands often offer unique, hand-crafted serveware that adds a touch of elegance to your meals. From silver-plated trays to hand-thrown ceramic platters, these pieces are designed to impress. Whether you’re serving hors d’oeuvres or a multi-course dinner, luxury serveware will enhance your presentation.

Artisan Barware

For the cocktail connoisseur, artisan barware is a must. Luxury bar sets come with everything you need to craft the perfect drink, from gold-plated shakers to hand-cut crystal glasses. Renowned brands like Waterford create glassware that reflects light beautifully, ensuring that every sip feels like an indulgence.

Premium Coffee and Tea Accessories

No kitchen is complete without the tools to make the perfect cup of coffee or tea. Luxury kitchen supplies include high-end espresso machines, tea sets made from fine bone china, and artisanal coffee grinders. Brands like Smeg and La Pavoni offer retro-inspired designs that combine function with style, making your morning coffee ritual an elegant experience.

Sustainability in Luxury Kitchenware

Luxury kitchen supplies aren’t just about aesthetics and performance; many high-end brands also focus on sustainability. From eco-friendly packaging to the use of responsibly sourced materials, luxury kitchenware often comes with an emphasis on environmental impact.

Reusable Storage Solutions

Gone are the days of single-use plastic wrap and bags. Many luxury kitchenware brands now offer reusable silicone or beeswax wraps, as well as glass containers with bamboo lids. Not only do these products reduce waste, but they also add a touch of class to your kitchen organization.

Ethically Sourced Materials

Sustainability is increasingly becoming a priority in the luxury kitchenware market. Many companies, such as Le Creuset, focus on ethical sourcing and responsible manufacturing processes. When you invest in luxury kitchen supplies, you’re often supporting brands that care about the environment.

Conclusion

Investing in luxury kitchenware and luxury kitchen supplies is not just about owning aesthetically pleasing items — it’s about enhancing your entire culinary experience. With superior craftsmanship, exceptional performance, and beautiful design, luxury kitchenware transforms your kitchen into a space where creativity and efficiency thrive.

From artisan cutting boards to copper cookware, these high-end products are designed to last and elevate both your cooking and entertaining experiences. By focusing on quality and functionality, luxury kitchen supplies offer more than just everyday use; they become a part of your kitchen's identity and your lifestyle. Whether you are a seasoned chef or a casual home cook, luxury kitchenware brings both joy and refinement to the heart of your home.

[hawkeenknife]

Durable, Reliable, and Razor Sharp – Meet Hawkeen Knives

Handmade Damascus Chef Knife Set 8

Piece Professional Kitchen Knives, Custom Handmade Chef Set, Damascus Kitchen Steak knives, Hand Forged Kitchen Knives

Order Now:

https://hawkeenknife.com/product/handmade-damascus-chef-knife-set-8-piece-professional-kitchen-knives-custom-handmade-chef-set-damascus-kitchen-steak-knives-hand-forged-kitchen-knives/