#Where he fights through the dark frost blade to protect her

[bonnieisaway]

BIG BOY spoilers for season 5 but I really wanna talk about how brilliant episode 1 is (I just woke up and I'm not in the fuzzy headspace I was yesterday)

Off the bat also I do wanna mention the art style is changing again a little! It's a bit different from season four so far. I really like the way it's looking though. Seven looks fucking GOOD in so many of these scenes

Anyways it took me an EMBARASSING four fucking minutes to realize that 1) this was not really happening irl and 2) that the dome was supposed to represent Seven's headspace

anyways The place they're standing in at the start is really interesting to me. They're on Chicken Island obviously but it's Chicken Island in Seven's head. And the way it is in his head is it's foggy, cloudy, and absolutely deserted. I mean there's already not many people on Chicken Island, but it's like dead empty. Much like this scene from the s3 outro:

(didn't know this ED had twenty fucking variations of this scene now jesus christ)

It also feels like it's littered with a lot of references from past episodes. The ducky floatie feels like a reference to the episode where we met DaChun in season 1, the coconut Hua's messing with feels like a reference to that as well, this all feels very reminiscent of invading Captain Jack's ship, the episode even starts with the "First mission" title card, which the show doesn't really use anymore. There's a lot of like, old references in here that all seem kind of tainted and dulled by this grayed out, melancholic perception of Chicken Island.

The second I saw this I instantly thought of the scene from season 3:

I just I dunno I really really like this. I like how they chose to represent his mindscape and the references to the past experiences he can remember.

And I also really like how the different levels represented the different poisons in his body. The first being a puzzle about Manjusaka, the second about the Dark Frost blade

(which also: there are random figures hidden in the ice in this scene that made me tweak out.

is that fucking blackbird? who the fuck are you)

I love how the wolf is drawn and reflects the exact effects of the blade. The animalistic, heightened senses, the fact it's not inherently an evil entity, it's capable of being nice, it's just got heightened aggression it can barely control. Anyway and then the fucking final layer.

Literally the exact spot he once stood in.

And the fucking. The thing that fights him. That tries so hard to stop him from opening the door. It's not just himself, it's a fucking amalgamation of every reason why he shouldn't, why he originally did this to himself: the Shadow killers, faces we don't even recognize, the girl in white, faces we'll probably never see again but that will haunt some deep corner of him, and it's himself. and it's not the thousand demon daggers that kills it, it's just the girl in white's blade. Her dinky little run of the mill sword.

I think it's really, really important that the "past him" asks: If you could've done this too, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you have run away? You would've wanted a new life too. Don't do this again. Don't do this to me.

I started this season worried we were gonna hard pivot at "oh, Seven and the past Seven are two different people" but they're not and this, to me, clearly illustrates that they're not. He wanted this. He wanted this life to end. He wanted to run away, he didn't want this life, exactly like I've been saying since fucking season 3. He wasn't a ruthless, cold hearted killer, at his core he was a child who did what he needed to. He only fought on missions, he was told directly to kill Stanians on sight, but he wanted to be empathetic, he wanted to care so badly, and he wanted to protect somebody. The FIRST fucking time he EVER gets to directly, blatantly, and loudly protect somebody he even MILDLY cares about, it's enough to convince him to never want to do this again. And now with the added context that the Thousand Demon Daggers was slowly killing him - he didn't just fight some demon and won but he signed his fucking life over and was bound to this sword that was ripping him apart, he wanted to leave so badly, and the only way he did was in a way that almost killed him anyways. Episode 2 made me afraid too, because of the way the flashback controlled him, but ultimately, he's already had these flashbacks THE ENTIRE SHOW. These have happened to him before, but now they're so much louder, they're overwhelming and powerful, he's conscious but he's not, he doesn't know how to stop, sometimes he doesn't even actually know where he is. He's not being 'possessed' by somebody else or something, he is somebody riddled with PTSD taken over by those memories.

I also really wanna know what it is 'Seven' is saying here. His mouth is obviously moving like he's speaking but there's no audio or captions to it, (Netflix if you love me you'll give me something good god,) but it looks like Seven doesn't know what he's saying here either. and I just really really really wanna know. This is going to become my new "what was in the letter."

Anyways feel free to pile on more thoughts cus thats all I have right now. I ran into this season (foolishly) (once again) praying I'd get end game Seven x Thirteen but it seems I will spend the duration of season 5 in the trenches, fighting for my life, kicking and screaming, shitting my pants and sniffling, begging, "NOOOOO HE'S THE SAME PERSON HE WAS BEFORE!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!! THEY'RE NOT TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!!!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Thirteen save me, save me Thirteen, Thirteen, Thirteen save me.

[crazywritingbug]

Lessons

A/N: Thanks to @thebiggestnaturaldisaster for suggesting this! I love the concept and did my best, though I'm not sure about the ending. Let me know what you think!

Jack Frost x Fem! Reader

If there was anything Y/N had learned in her nineteen years of life it was this; even the best people will make stupid decisions, all the while believing they were right. She’d done it more than once, was it so hard to think that Jack would do the same? But then again, this was extreme.

“Okay North,” Y/N sighed, rubbing at her temples. “Go over this one more time. What happened?”

North shook his head, leaning back in his chair across the table from her. “You don’t believe me, little one?”

“Pitch attacking the pole, getting Jack alone in a sphere of black sand for three minutes then Jack helping Pitch after they came out of it, is kinda hard to believe.” Y/N claimed, waving away the elf that offered her a cookie. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s missing here. What was said or done in those three minutes?”

“I do not know what was said.” North shook his head before pointing to his bandaged feet. “I know I have frostbite.”

What was there to say to that? It just seemed so impossible that Jack Frost, guardian of fun, the cheerful winter spirit and her best friend of three years would turn on the guardians like that. How could three years be undone in three minutes? What could Pitch have possibly said or done to get Jack to join forces with him? Threaten him? No, they’d beat Pitch before, threats would be useless. Bribe him? With what? Jack had his memories and believers. Mind control? That was outlandish and way beyond Pitch’s skill set? So what had happened? Some combination of the three? And what were they going to do about it?

A chill slipped down her spine. Jack had switched sides. He was one of the bad guys now if the worst really had happened. The Guardians would fight against him and she had no control over that. She was just a girl, they wouldn’t listen to her. And how far would they go? How far would Jack go? Or Pitch? How far? Death? No...she needed to stop this before it started.

“What can I do to get Jack back?” Y/N asked, and North cracked half a smile.

“Talk to him, Little One.” He sighed, picking up a snow globe that had been resting on the desk. “Bring back Jack Frost. You might be the only one who can.”

The world she stepped into was one of snow and wind that knocked her off her feet into a snowbank. A blizzard? Jack had created a blizzard? She’d known he could do it, but she’d never thought it would be this powerful, with snow flying so fast it bit into her skin and created a whiteness so thick she couldn’t see her hands as she staggered to her feet. Why would he make it this strong? Why would he create it in the first place? Unless he really had turned to the dark side?

“Jack!” She screamed it into the fury of the storm, getting only a mouthful of icy snow in return. Where was he in this mess? How was she supposed to find him when she couldn’t even see anything but white?

Y/N jumped as a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, capturing her in a familiar embrace. Jack. He was the only one who ever hugged her like this, from behind, arms crossing over her so that one hand rested on her shoulder and the other on her waist. She sighed, leaning back into him as the wind slowed and the snow subsided into a few fluttering flakes, bringing the bare forest into view. Nothing but snow, trees, and sky for miles.

“What are you doing here?” Jack’s voice was soft with worry, his breath a chill on her ear.

“I’m here because you are, Jack.” She tried to look over her shoulder at him, to see more than the frost blue sleeves of his hoodie. Wait...that was wrong, his hood wasn’t blue, it was black, a deep black in a violent contrast to the frost that fringed it. This really wasn’t right, just how far was he going with this? He loved the blue, it was his favorite color. Would he really change it? Why was he changing allies and clothes? What had Pitch said or done?

“What happened at the Pole?” Y/N kept her voice soft, but it was like she’d shouted with how he pulled away. The snow crunched under her sneakers as she turned to look at him. It wasn’t just the hoodie that changed color, there was black sand caught up in his hair, turning it a pale gray, almost the same grey as a corpse’s skin. He wasn’t smiling, and his eyes were...guarded, untrusting, hard. He was so many things at once, standing there in the aftermath of the snow storm; powerful, dark, and...afraid. She could see it in the way he gripped his staff until the tendons in his hands showed, the way he shifted on his feet, and the way his gaze flickered from one spot to another. It almost broke her. How could she help him? How was she supposed to fix this? What had happened to him? This wasn’t the Jack Frost she knew, the one she -secretly- loved. That Jack Frost was open, happy, and brave, and lost somewhere inside of whoever this was standing before her.

“Jack, you’re my best friend,” Y/N tried to keep her words from sounding like the plea they were. “What happened? Why are you working with Pitch Black?”

He wouldn’t look at her, glancing down at his feet instead. “He showed me some things.”

“What things?” She shook her head slightly, trying to clear the disbelief. “What could he possibly show you that would make you turn on everything you believe and stand for?”

He didn’t answer, the silence filling the space between them, the tension almost screaming at them in those moments.

“I showed him you.” Pitch materialized, stepping out of the shadows behind Jack, a smile on his face that had a chill slipping down her back. “I showed him all the terrible things that could happen to you, things he’d be powerless to stop unless the world believes in, and fears him.”

Oh. Wait, Jack was so concerned about her that he turned on the Guardians? Did he really care about her that much? Was it possible he loved her as she loved him? Was there really a chance of that? No, this wasn’t the time to think about that, to face that the love she had for him from the very moment they met could be returned. From the very moment they met...

“Jack,” His eyes met hers, rich with so many emotions it was heartbreaking. “Do you remember how we met?”

A smile flickered on his face. “Yeah, you were watching Jamie and Sophie, you took them to the pond to go ice skating.”

Y/N nodded. “I slipped on the ice, but you caught me. You’ve always caught me, Jack. Nothing can hurt me when you’re around.” For a moment, the really Jack shone through, a flicker of happiness in the storm.

Then Pitch spoke. “But he can’t be everywhere at once can he? Can’t be at your side every moment of every day.” The happiness vanished as more words poured out of Pitch’s mouth. “But if the world feared him, the storms and cold he could bring, nobody would dare to touch you, nobody would ever hurt you. You’d both be untouchable, and I can make that happen. Can the Guardians?”

“I’m…” Jack paused, seeming to search for words even as Pitch laid a hand on his shoulder in a grip that even she could see was tight. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring her vision. That was so incredibly sweet, and so wrapped up in delusion. How was she supposed to counter that? How was she supposed to explain to him that enveloping the world in darkness and ice wouldn’t keep her safe? He’d gone this far to do it, what would it take to make him see this wasn’t going to work?

“This isn’t the way to do that.” She shook her head and swiped at an escaped tear. “You’re going up against the Guardians, and even if you win, you know you’d never forgive yourself.” She wiped away another tear, they were coming faster now. “I don’t know if I would. I would try, but I don’t know if I’d be able to.” She sucked in a shake breath and held his gaze. “Please Jack, I love you, don’t do this.”

Jack didn’t move, didn’t say a word, as if he’d been -ironically- frozen. Not even Pitch moved, just the soft fluttering snowflakes that drifted down from the sky and caught in their hair. The whole world was holding its breath, waiting for Jack to decide. How would he choose? A week ago, she’d thought she’d known, but now, after this, what would his answer be?

Finally, after an infinite moment, he smiled and held out his arms, shaking off Pitch’s hand. Oh thank the moon. It was as if every weight had lifted off her shoulders as she ran the short distance to him, right into his embrace as his staff fell to the wayside. A relieved laugh escaped her lips as she clung to him, burying her face in his hoodie, feeling his heart beating rapidly in time with hers, his arms around her, and his fingers tangling in her hair. He was back, Jack Frost was back.

“I am so sorry Y/N,” His words were a soft murmur in her ear, but he could have yelled it for all she cared. He was back. “I just want to keep you safe.”

“Then you shouldn’t have chosen as you did.” Pitch’s voice answered before she could. Before they could even respond pain exploded in her side. Sharp piercing pain mixing with a deep screaming agony that turned her legs to jelly beneath her. It was only Jack’s arms that kept her from collapsing as the world came into a strange sort of focus, like a camera bringing one thing at a time into a sharp contrast and blurring the rest. The warmth of the blood seeping from around the knife blade. The panic in Jack’s voice as he said her name. The coldness of the snow and his hands pushing her hair back out of her face as he looked down at her. The rolling clouds above.

“Y/N, stay with me.” Jack’s voice again, quick and fear filled. “Please, stay awake, stay with me.” The focus adjusted again, this time on the tears that were filling his gemstone blue eyes and rolling down his cheeks. He was crying, it wasn’t that bad was it? The pain was already numbing...or maybe that was just her body shutting down. Was this what it was like to die? What would come after? Would it be like sleeping? Would she see Heaven? Would her family know what happened? Would they be okay? What about Jamie and Sophie? They were such sweet kids, would their new babysitter know that they loved to go to the pond or that Sophie liked to have her hair braided and shouldn’t be trusted with scissors? Would Jack be okay? He looked so scared, his hands pressing against her side, covered in blood. Would he know just how much she really loved him? How much she wish she had the chance to do more than say it? That she wanted the chance to live it? To show him that she loved him with more than she could even put into words? That all of it, his laugh, his jokes, his voice, bravery, creativity, and even just the way he moved, was her favorite thing about him.

She tried to form the words, to tell him it was okay, to say that she loved him one more time as she reached up and wiped away the tears, but her mouth wouldn’t form the words as her eyes slipped shut.

“Y/N! No! Stay awake! Please!” Jack’s voice echoed in her ears as the darkness swallowed her, so still and quiet. Silent like she’d never imagined, but this wasn’t it, she was moving. Up, she was moving up towards a light. Huh, apparently the cliches were right. But nobody had ever mentioned the voice that whispered out of the darkness.

“You’re not done yet. Somebody would miss you.”

It all came back at once. The cold, the sobs, and the faint light from the sky above. The shock left her breathless for a moment, and then gasping for air. What had just happened? Had she really died only to get sent back? That was not what she expected. But Jack...he was the one sobbing, the most broken and shattered sound she could imagine. It crushed her heart, shattering it into broken, grating pieces.

“Jack?” Her voice came out softer than she expected, as if her body wasn’t used to having her in it again, letting alone speaking. Maybe that was why it was so hard to get her eyes open before Jack was gathering her up into a hug so tight it bordered on painful. It was if that was what it took to wake her limbs up to return the hug, for her to hide her face in his shoulder. Holy cow, she was alive! Pitch Black had stabbed her and she died but she was alive! Wait he’d stabbed her...she wasn’t bleeding! There was no pain! It was like nothing had happened.

“I’m okay Jack!” She wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying, the relief was overwhelming. “I’m okay!” Jack pulled back slightly, his eyes wide, looking her over before he laughed.

“You’re okay!” He exclaimed, the biggest smile she’d ever seen on his face. Then his hands were on her face and his lips on hers. Y/N melted into the kiss, into the sweet moment. It was so gentle, so tender, and so much better than she would have dreamed. She never wanted it to end, never wanted him to pull away, even if he did rest his forehead against hers, noses bumping, as he let out a breathy laugh.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long to do that.” His gaze held hers, so overwhelmingly loving. “I love you, Y/N. I am way too lucky to get a chance to say that.”

“We both are,” Y/N said, “Just please, don’t ever do something like that again.”

“I won’t, I promise. It was stupid of me…” Jack pulled back, shaking his head. “I don’t know why helping Pitch Black would ever work…” He paused and his smile vanished. “Pitch! We need to stop him!” He scrambled to his feet, pulling her up with him. “He’s going to go after the Guardians again, after what I did at the Pole, I don’t know how long they’ll be able to hold out.” He snatched up his staff, looking up at the sky, then back to her. “Did North give you a way to get home?” She nodded, “You go save the world, I’ll be fine.” He grinned at her as he caught her around the waist, pulling her close into another kiss. It was almost better than the first. But this time, as she pulled away, she reached up and ruffled his hair, shaking out the black sand. “There, that’s better.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Jack smiled at her one last time and then he was gone. Y/N lingered though, not touching the snow globe that was in her pocket. How had so much happened in so little time? Talking Jack down, dying and then coming back, and finally knowing that Jack loved her? Had it really all happened in less than a day?

Sighing she looked up to the sky feeling the snowflakes fall on her face and melt. Yeah, a lot had happened, meaning she had a lot to be grateful for, she had a chance to be grateful for. She got to tell Jack she loved him, got to see him make the right choice, and find out that he loved her right back. She might not have gotten the chance to say or do any of that. It could have all been opportunities lost with her life. She should have done and said it sooner. Huh, there was another lesson: don’t hesitate because it could all end in a second and the chance to do or say that thing would be gone.

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[erzsebetrosztoczy]

Captober Day 8- Muspelheim/Fire

ℙ𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕟𝕛𝕠𝕪 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕔 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘 𝕚𝕥!💕 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕜 𝕪𝕠𝕦 :𝟛💕

Warnings: tw:blood mentioned; tw:death of animal mentioned; and it's a smut so read this knowing above these all!!

Today something different lingered in the air —tick and heavy spreader around the settlement. It was no ordinary day to your Clan as this day holds importance to all North souls. The Summer solstice, the beginning of new things and preparation for frost. The God's will come closer this day to Midgard, listening to the prayers and wishes of mortals, now is the right time to find a favoured soul whose faith will they watch over for the rest of the year.

For this, you have to lit fires and chant loud as thunder so they will hear you from above. Rituals will be made to honor and ease them to show gratitude towards them.

For this day the children shall stay with your mother till morning— they are yet to be allowed in participating such rituals.

Before they go back to your mother hut— everyone gathered together at the edge of the settlement, a grand and appropriate place for the altars.

Valka walked past the crowd, seemingly enchanted already, eyes foggy, words flowing together she headed to the altars. Her headpiece was changed to the antlers and bones from the great hunt you did before departing to England. It was the connection to the old and leader of the new paths of your Clan. The children gasped and watched with bright eyes as the men brought the cattle. You stepped closer to Sylvi squeezing her shoulder to encourage her.

"Now, we shall offer this soul for Freyr and Tyr. Frigg and Freya, for Thor and Baldr. And for the All-Father." you translated Valka's blurry chants for the little girl. You knew these words well— listening to them for decades now, you come to remember them word by word.

"Why we need to kill poor cow?" She looked up at you worried. "What did she do for this fait?"

You smiled warmly at Sylvi, cupping her round face, squatting down to her.

" She represents our hard work. She was fed with plenty of grain— our grain what Freyr helped us grow. She didn't die from attacks of intruders, Tyr watched over the Clan." Valka took crimson powder from her belt sack— throwing into the flames they danced with livelihood and courage higher— to the greying sky.

"She didn't die from disease," you continued watching closely the actions in front of you. "nor from neglect and she had offsprings many time— thank to Freya and Frigg. We show respect with her blood, show that we made the God's favors what they wanted us to make. We sacrifice blood for Thor and Baldry as they did for us. And we honor Odinn with this- for he helped making mankind— he's the reason we are all here." As you finished your explanation to the little girl Bjorn and Sunniva brought the cattle to the podium, where Valka stood. It looked calm— with the clans care it grew happy and round, giving you many goods through the years.

Bjorn stepped aside reaching for the ritual axe from Gunnar. Meanwhile Sunniva held a bowl to Valka, as she carefully painted the sigils and runes onto the animal.

For bravery, courage, luck, knowledge, protection. For good crops, plenty of fish and meat for the good wind on voyages, for safe birth and for a steady household. The cattle’s skin drank up the blue paint glowing dark and eternal in the orange flames. She will carry your prayers and oughts to the gods.

Valka turned to the crowd, drums loud, air heavy and hot you all stood there breathless.

"Gods above us! Hear our voice! Goddesses above us watch over us! Give us courage to fight and grow! Give us fertile soil to plant, meat to hunt, water to drink! Hear our songs see our hearts!"

Sylvi stepped back to you as Bjorn held up the blade. She flinched as it swung down— but she did not look away.

"You showed bravery today." You tell her proud. "The gods will favor you, little one."

Blood spilled trough the wood, down to the ground.

Blood that will bring life.

Valka gathered it to a bowl, careful to leave some to the earth too.

Then Valka signed and he stepped forward.

Board shoulders rose from the crowd— tall and proud he made his way to the Seeress. You followed his form seeing his tunic wrinkle and move— sometimes spreading out on his arms as the muscles contract.

Eivor was the leader of the raids and of the expeditions the Clan ever went on— the best and most precious warrior.

He stepped up to the podium slightly bending down, Valka put two fingers into the bowl— crimson with the sacrificed blood, she then drew a line onto Eivor's face— from his forehead to his chin she slide her fingers down. The next were his cheeks, and jaw, ears and finally his neck.

The runes were done, fully drawn— so was the blessing for him.

The Gods will watch over him with keen eyes.

....

Night fall down onto Ravensthorpe, the fires danced bright and red around the place. Drums echoed, songs chanted, people danced dazed with the thick scent of herbs.

Valka made a mix for this day— for widen your minds and open the gates to the gods thoughts.

Your arms flowed as you turned and swayed to the rhythm. World spinning, mind hazy, your sight felt like you're watching it all from behind a layer of water. You closed your eyes, the drums beating in your mind.

Suddenly you eyelids swing open and you stopped moving. You felt a watchful gaze on you, from behind there was someone looking at you. You turned and there was him. His eyes glowing in the dark, the blaze gave him dark and sharp features.

Eivor tilted his head to the side, chin pushed forward— he gazed you under his lashes— dark and attentive.

Suddenly a rush of warmth waved over your body. He watched you, waiting what will you answer.

Your body moved without thinking, you passed him, eyes never leaving his blue stare. You took his hand carefully leading him away from the music and people, away from the fires, the lights. He reached you— chest pressing to your back, he slided his other hand up to your stomach. You wanted to stop, to feel him against you, his warm hand but you still were under watchful presence. Giggling you walked Eivor over the longhouse— there were no fire, no people. The music faided slowly but surely, only the crickets could be heard. The white statues and pillars from Osbert's museum watched over the two of you.

As you reached under the longouse's roof the man suddenly grabbed your waist, turning you to face him.

Lips pressed against yours— warm and needy he parted you lips so delightful.

You hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stepped closer, pressing your back to the wooden wall.

Reaching one hand up, Eivor cupped your jaw- tongue parting your lips further for access. You moaned into his breath as he swirled around his tongue, you took up the challenge. Eivor draw back slightly, so the two of you could catch a breath. Smiling giddy you slided down your hands from his waist to his hips as you took the chance to rub his crotch. Eivor groaned, pushing his hips forward to your hand, but you ghosted there only for a moment.

"Teasing, are we?" Voice hoarse and dark he grabbed your leg under the knee rising it up to his waist.

"I can be much worse." You answered with a lustful look.

Eivor pushed your head back to the wood, lips meeting again, harder, more messy. With a smile you moved to his lower lip nibbling it slightly you earned a grunt. His chest rumbled, resonating into you, to your heart. You pinched his swollen lip carefully together with your teeth slowly pulling away, Eivor slided his hand from your jaw to your hair, grabbing at your roots. It was like a lightning going through you, your skin tingled, hot and sweaty— it screamed for more.

You wondered around his chest, marvelling out the lines of his muscles- moving and flexing beneath his clothes. Your hands moved below to his stomach, then your fingers hooked into his belt.

Eivor started to unbutton your tunic, tugging the fabric, he reached access to your breasts. He grabbed your jaw again, turning it to the side, he lashed onto your neck, then his hand slided back to your chest cupping one breast. He nipped on your skin— kissing, lapping and nibbling while his thumb ran circles on your nipple. Your eyes rolled back, mouth parted you arched into his touch.

"Eivor..." You panted needy.

He laughed mischievous turning his attention to your other nipple for equal care.

But two can play this game, you thought. Your fingers were in his belt tugging it, you detached his buckle placing one palm to his navel. Slowly- brushing through Eivor's happy tail you pushed your hand down.

His manhood landed heavy against his stomach— as you skimmed over the length of it, he twitched.

You kept your palm on him— fingers ghosting above his balls, the edge of your palm smoothing his tip.

Eivor snarled, teeth gritting, his head yanked back- leaving it to your mercy.

You slowly but surely started to rub him up and down, mapping out every vein with your fingertips, stroking the tip with the flat of your palm.

"Now the table turned didn't it?" It was your time to shove ahead your face— tongue hot and ready for his skin.

Nibbling his skin under his jaw you hummed satisfied hearing him pant— short and breathy it set fire to the pits of your belly.

You licked his Adam’s cob feeling the quick rise and fall of it, as Eivor gasped and swallowed.

"Enough of it." He pleaded hoarse.

You chuckled, stilling in your pose, you locked eyes with him. Eivor jerks again as you pull out your hand, brushing him one last time, leaving his cock out of his pants.

"Enough..." he repeated.

Seizing you to the wall again, he was quick to shove your undergarments down, grabbing your thighs— hard enough, some mark will be showing the next day.

He stopped as his cock hit your entrance bracing the weight onto the wall, he pushed his chest tighter to you.

"Come then." You pulled up your legs behind him, heels pressing into his lower back.

With a curse on his lips he surged forward, parting you fully.

You cried with pleasure, throbbing and aching, you felt every move as he filled you. He started with slow, deep trusts, testing how much you can take, and how much he can go. After a few trust he slipped his hands further to your bottom pushing him ahead— and you upwards.

"Eivor..." you whined— neck aching to the wall, chest rising heavy.

You felt everything. His scent blunting your senses, your mouth tastes like his skin, it was all him. In that moment, only the two of you, only him existed. Your heart ached, skin burnt, head spinning.

It was all him.

With a groan he slammed his hip forward— hitting hard that delighting spot. Your eyes rolled back, mouth parting— but words couldn't rose from your throat. He bent down, nuzzling his face into the croock of your neck, planting open mouth kisses onto your skin. As he hit all the right spots, his public hair scratched you— you felt the fire lit in your tummy again— wilder then before.

As he moved over to your ears, nibbling it with a low hum, the coil in your belly burnt so tightly, it snapped, hot and white pleasure spreader through you.

You clenched around him hard, moaning his name over and over as he helped you ride your climax. His thrusts became slow and ragged, pants heavy as he jolted, giving one last stroke, you felt him twitch inside you. Dropping his head to your shoulder Eivor slowly let your legs go.

Your feet hit the ground trembling, still shaky. You clinged on him as he leaned onto you- and the wall, foreheads touching the other, sweat coating both of you.

" I love you." He whispers, stealing a quick kiss from you.

"I love you too Eivor. " you sighed. It was a good start to your new beginning.

[ragingbookdragon]

Of Nights So Hollow, Of Legends So Great

Night Culture AU!Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 1.8K Warnings: Angst, Uh..Scary? I guess?

Author's Note: This is based on the wonderful @bunnvoid Night Culture AU and I felt compelled to write this at midnight because I couldn't stop thinking about it. Bunn, I hope I did your ideas justice! Honestly, I keep going back and forth between the drawings to make sure! I had fun writing it! -Thorne

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

It was said that at the heart of every legend there was a grain of truth. Legends are just pieces of history fabricated beyond wildest belief, built upon by centuries of retelling, each story sewing a new thread into the tapestry from whence it came. But that’s all that legends are. Threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable.

***

The old castle was a legend. Perhaps not the castle itself, but what supposedly resided inside. Supernatural creatures that skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out fresh blood in the night. That was one form of the legend, if you believed it. The other form was that of creatures who skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out evil and destroying it where it plagued innocence.

The chateau lied in the midst of the Devilwood Wilds, just outside the City of Old Gotham. Even during the days when the sun would peek through the gray clouds, it appeared gloomy, blackened stone walls, charred shingles and shutters. The giant Devilwood and Shadow trees prevented sight of the doors of the castle; only the top could be seen, to get the real view, one would’ve had to go into the forest. There was another legend: the horrors of the Wilds.

Whispers on the school-grounds told of a creature, big and terrifying that could be summoned with ritual stones and fresh bat blood; those that summon the beast are never seen again. The adults were less convinced of the idea, though they still forbid their children from reaching even the edges of the forested area. Whilst they believed those that went in were never heard from again, it wasn’t from a creature eating them, but a lack of guidance. Starvation. Wild animals. The freezing fog that made your breath turn to frost.

Timothy remembers hearing those whispers when he passed the old schoolhouse. His mother and father didn’t let him interact with the common children, instead his lessons were taught by private tutors from the wealthiest lands, paid for with the Drake treasure of gold and gemstones.

What more so Timothy remembered was the inhuman being that appeared in his father’s manor, striking down his mother with a slash of black magic, his father following. He remembers the way his father’s eyes rolled back in his skull, fear spreading through his body as he hid in the corner of the room, whimpering and crying. And he most certainly remembered the cold hand of the demon sliding between his shoulder blades before it dug into his skin, piercing his flesh, laughing as he cried out in pain as pricks spread out along his back and down his arms.

Warmth bled down his back as black feathers pushed from his skin and Timothy panted as his fingernails grew in length, sharpening as they darkened. He remembered scrambling to his feet, darting away from the creature as he ran. Forgetting the corpses of his family and staff around him, throwing the door open, bursting into the night, and sprinting down the street, leaving a trail of bloody, black feathers in the direction of the Devilwood Wilds.

***

The first night was the least remembered but the darkest. Violent and corrupting nightmares slithering inside his head as he tossed and turned along the frigid ground in a feverish deathlike state, the wings at his back only growing in size.

The second night was less nightmare-ridden, but much more painful. Timothy had pierced a wing on a stray Devilwood tree, the syrup like poison only infecting the wound. He was hungry and cold. Exhausted and scared. He tried to remember all the books he read as a child of the knights facing the elements for a week in order to ascend knighthood; he couldn’t seem to recall a thing.

The third night seemed to be his last. He lay huddled up against a raised Shadow tree root, the ebony wood providing stability for his wounded wing. Timothy sniffled, dragging his knees to his chest as he lay his chin on his arms, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach as it ate itself in hunger.

A tree branch creaked above him, and he craned his neck up, eyes widening when he saw the glowing eyes of the masked creature. The legends were right. The creature’s head twisted sideways, reminding Timothy of an owl, then the other way, like it was observing him. It made a noise and he scrambled to the floor of the forest, curling his injured wing above his head and over his body to protect himself.

THUNK!

Timothy whimpered, ready to be torn to shreds, but when no vicious claws or snapping teeth came at him, he carefully peered between his open wing. There lie a satchel, as long as his forearm and as wide as his middle was. He looked up towards the tree branch to where the creature had sat, but there was nothing there anymore; he glanced around, it wasn’t in sight.

He blinked and shuffled towards the satchel, untying the drawstrings with fumbling clawed hands. Inside lay a pair of thick wool socks, a small blanket, and another small bag. Timothy pulled it from the satchel and opened it; half a loaf of bread and a chunk of meat the size of his hand were stowed inside.

Timothy forewent the etiquette he was taught as a child, giving into his ravenous desire as he devoured the meat. It was tender and juicy, the glaze a mixture of honey and cinnamon.

A memory flowed to his mind, the dinner after the rising of the first star, his family and staff all surrounding the dining table, a divine feast laid before them. The smiling faces of his mother and father stilled his hunger and he placed the food back in the satchel, uncurling the wool blanket. Timothy lay underneath the raised Shadow tree roots, one wing curled around him, and he fell into a restless sleep with tears frozen on his cheeks.

***

When he awoke the next morning, his wing was no longer torn and infected. A new feather had appeared where the wound had been. Timothy wanted to learn to fly. He’d owned a bird once. A Ruby Firebird, with long, crimson-colored feathers and big ruby eyes. It had been his only real friend and he’d watched it a lot. It couldn’t be that hard.

He stretched his wings out, unable to fight the urge to touch them with a single black claw. It tingled. Timothy blinked and beat them, unsure. He beat them again, this time a little harder, keeping at it until with each beat he was able to blow the long grass flat against the ground. A giddy smile came across his lips when the tips of his toes grazed the ground.

What he had not counted on was how tired he was going to get after only a few brief minutes of trying. His wings felt sore. Timothy would try again tomorrow to rise above the tall grass.

***

The creature would appear at odd times during the night and Timothy had stopped feeling the cold fear in his gut when it did. It never came near him; it just watched with the cocked head, back and forth, then would drop the satchel again and disappear. Sometimes there were scribbles inside. He didn’t know what they meant; but he knew the language. Thaatisgani. An old language his writing teacher had shown him one day. A language long died out amongst the common and even the elite folk.

Timothy wanted to know what it meant. He wanted to know what the creature was. His determination drew him to the front of the castle during the night of the harshest season storm. Lighting crackled across the sky, the thunder rolled along the clouds and the rain came down in torrents. He was freezing and soaked to the bone and the weight of his wings had him crawling up the steps, collapsing at the door.

He weakly raised a clawed hand, one nail scratching the black glazed door and he descended into darkness.

***

His mother liked to wear scented oils. They smelled of Queen’s Briar and Golden Belladonna. Before he was older, she used to let Timothy sit beside her when she would apply them to her wrist and ears. She would smile at him and tell him stories of far away lands.

Warmth spread across his eyes, and he rolled over in what he thought was his dream, only to roll onto the ground, landing awkwardly on his wings. Timothy whined and unfolded himself off the ground, rubbing his eyes, only to see the creature a hair’s breadth away from his face.

Timothy choked on his fear and scrambled away, only for the creature to grab his shoulder.

“Stay.”

He halted, looking back at it. “You speak the common tongue?”

The creature stared at him. “You are Timothy Drake. Son of Earl Drake.”

“I am,” Timothy responded, then looked at his hands. “But my family is…is dead.”

“Killed by a slithering demon from the Farstead realm.”

Tears prickled Timothy’s vision. “It killed my parents and cursed me.” He looked at the creature. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re cursed to believe what you think you are.” The creature waved a glowing hand and Timothy blinked in shock as the wings disappeared and his hands turned to normal. “It’s merely an illusion. You’ve only been tainted with cursed magic.”

It was much too complicated for Timothy to pull apart now. “Can I be healed?”

The creature blinked its glowing obs. “Cursed magic cannot be healed…but it can be trained.” They leaned forward, getting in his face. “I can teach you to control and transform.”

“You’re not going to eat me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Yes.”

“You hesitated just a bit right there.”

A bottle rolled out from the corner of the room and the creature sighed, turning its head to it. “Richard. Jason. Come here.”

Two young boys, not that much older than Timothy appeared from behind a corner, guilty looks on their faces as though they’d been caught eavesdropping.

The creature nodded to Timothy. “Take him upstairs. He is dirty and tired.”

The tallest one, Jason, crossed his arms over his chest. “Just like that, Bruce? You’re going to take the witch boy in?”

“Pot-kettle,” Richard coughed, smiling when Jason elbowed him.

The creature, now known as Bruce, sighed. “Take the boy. He is tired.”

Jason and Richard obeyed, each hauling Timothy up under the armpits, leading him to a dimly lit staircase.

“Are you two going to eat me?”

“Yes,” Jason replied without hesitation.

“Jason!” Richard barked. “Stop.” He looked down at Timothy. “We’re not going to eat you Timothy…we’re going to help you. And that includes having a warm bed to sleep in and hot food to eat.”

Tears once again gathered in Timothy’s eyes, and he lowered his head as he sniffled. For once since that night, he felt safe.

These were the legends that prowled the city streets. They were supposed to be vicious and dark, evil and bloodthirsty, not ribbing and warm.

But then again, what are legends, but threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable?

[obsessivelycapricious]

Got an idea for a reader insert fic for the DC universe. I'm probably not going to write it so I'm putting it out there like this instead. Hell if anyone wants to run with this then brilliant. Just shoot me a message and we can talk. Its female reader insert and can be for many different pairings. Male/female/platonic. Mostly with villains.

Shes an artist and her paintings aren't really very popular as they tend to depict the underbelly of Gotham and usually feature a villain or two. the Elite don't like to dwell on such things so theres a bunch of canvases in her apartment unsold.

Shes also got a dark past and made some dumb romantic choices when she was younger. Sionis almost ran her out of town but Gotham is her home and she has nowhere else to go. Batman had to save her. It was a whole thing. She's still terrified of the black mask.

But then we reach an anniversary of Batman and his fight to protect the poor defenseless citizens of the city and someone picks one of her paintings to be on display at the gala. Its not even her favourite painting because to her it just isn't quite finished yet.

So she attends, rather reluctantly putting on a dress and everything. any interested potential buyers decide not to after hearing her describe the rest of her collection which is predictable but disappointing but at least she can admire the pretty people.

Just as things get interesting and she meets the one and only Bruce Wayne - did he just flirt with her? - disaster strikes as the joker and his goons interrupt the event with some typical scheme. Joker throws one of his blades into the heart of her painting during his dramatic monologue and she stares at the painting. Realising its finally complete.

She gets home safe from the gala after batman swoops in and saves her again. But at least this time its by proxy so she can keep some of her dignity. But when she gets home all of her paintings are gone and her apartment has been turned over. She finds out days later that the painting in the gala has also been taken.

A few weeks later she is walking home from work and is kidnapped and bundled into the back of a van. She's terrified its Sionis catching up to her again but they drag her into the basement of a seemingly random club and when they take the bag off her head she is sat at a table with Gotham's infamy elite. Cobblepot, the riddler, two face, mr. freeze, the list goes on. It could also include ivy and Selena kyle maybe harley too? At the top end of the table in command position sits the joker.

They explain, through no small amount of bickering and insults thrown between each other, that they have a proposition for her. They want to give her the opportunity to deal her paintings exclusively to them. First refusal goes to the villain that features in the painting and after that they'll arrange an auction. If no one wants the painting then it can be sold elsewhere.

Our reader is no meek and mild wallflower and can hold her own in the room negotiating a fee for herself for the paintings already stolen and future installments for exclusivity and convincing them to offer her protection. They laugh at first and wonder why she would need protection when the worse gotham has to offer is in the room with her now but she shudders and suggests that if Sionis is no match for them then they won't mind making sure he doesn't get near her again. Her one caveat to the deal is that if the batman shows an interest he gets first dibs. He did save her life after all.

And so begins an unlikely partnership with Gotham's criminal underbelly. Because they arent house trained and dont seem to understand how to use a door properly, her appartment keeps getting broken into when a new batch of paintings is ready to go. Johnny frost is usually the one who drops off her pay.

Sometimes she comes across her new clients in unexpected places. She meets Edward Nigma while out to buy the paper who spent his morning coaching her through various riddles. Sometimes she finds a car waiting outside to take her to Penguins club or on the very rare occasion she finds an errant joker in her apartment, constantly keeping her on her toes with his bouts of madness. She gets to know a few of them on an almost intimate level though she is vigilant enough to never cross that line. They somehow always keep her out of the mob business they conduct so she always has plausible deniability and so they dont have a good reason to kill her.

Meanwhile, Sionis hears from Victor Zsaz that our reader is flourishing rather than hiding away scared for her life like he left her. Whats more she is painting again and for other people?? This wont do. She belongs to him and only him.

So begins our final act where sionis carries out his diabolical plan and the readers favourite villian swoops in and saves the day. This could be a choose your own ending sort of thing where the reader can pick who she wants. Including batman and a version where the villians all team up and work together. Or yknow. Writers choice if youd rather just write one. Im a fan of it being the joker or batman or nightwing/robin (if you fit some interaction in between the plot so theres enough intent there)

Then the finale to it may be romantic and may end with the reader and their fave releasing the pent up tension between the two. Or if youd rather have a more platonic non relationshipy ending you could have the reader finish off sionis and take that step into villainy herself.

Ta daaaa! The end.

Message me if you wanna use the story! I would love to read it or see stuff about it.

[love-archon]

A Poem For You

Fleeting romances in the court of the Raiden Shogun, whose reign stands eternally still...

Spring - 春

"In Naniwa Bay, now the flowers are blossoming. After lying dormant all winter, now the spring has come..."

-Wani of Baekje

• The old tales warn of kitsune: yokai that take on forms of handsome men and beautiful women to play tricks on the unsuspecting humans. When they are careless, however, their disguises slip, and one can see a tail or two poking out from under their robes.

• Or, in the case of your soldiers' archery instructor, Gorou, a pair of large, fluffy ears emerging from his hair.

• There are whispers of a general in the rebel army far in the mountains, who has the features of a fox spirit and the slyness to match. Thankfully, the army lacks valuable intel to proceed, and cannot move forward without the use of spies.

• You blink and, in a shimmer like dust on sun-baked earth, the ears are gone. The gentle afternoon breeze rustles the leaves, and he nocks his arrow and lets it fly.

• Perhaps you were simply imagining things?

• Gorou, who guides his trainees with a strong, reliable hand, steady as stone,

• Gorou, who splits arrows in half as they fly, vowing to protect you always,

• Gorou, who smiles fondly at you as you walk through the gardens of your estate, holding your parasol to veil you from the sun, would never betray you or the great shogun. Would he?

• One warm spring night, where the dew still drips from the sakura flowers, he sits with you on the rooftops. His round lazuli eyes meet yours, and he tells you, truthfully, that he'll be leaving soon. Won't you join him?

• Your heart stirs to agree, but you respond that you cannot abandon your duties to your family, or to the shogun. He looks disappointed, but gets up from his seat, telling you that he accepts your decision. “If you ever change your mind,” he begins, but stops when the look in your eyes makes it clear you can’t.

• But you didn't know that "soon" meant now.

• Papers stolen from your family's most secret rooms are rolled up in his hands. His plain clothes melt away to reveal the uniform of the rebel army. The foxlike ears you thought were a dream now rest on his head, clear as day. 

• Most striking of all, however, are the nine tails shimmering behind him- the mark of a fox spirit that’s accumulated centuries of magic.

• Your eyes can’t quite catch the way he leaves, and you’re not sure exactly when you became alone in the night with the flowers.

• Or if you’d imagined the saddened way he said goodbye.

Summer - 夏

"The spring has passed, and the summer comes again;

For the white robes are spread to dry on the Mount of Kaguyama."

-Empress Jitoh

• You do not know who keeps sending these letters, despite your best efforts. Only that they must be a refined noble of high status and excellent taste.

• Each cut of paper, beautifully bound, is dyed the right color to match the season. They are appropriately adorned with fresh sprigs of plants from the sender's garden, or tied with a luxurious ribbon of patterned silk. Lavish scents drift off the pages in a perfume that's sweet and light.

• Oh, and the words.

• The appearance of these gifts pale in comparison to the contents. The mysterious admirer has learned the alphabet borrowed from Liyue, and the complex brush strokes are applied with just the right deftness that each kanji character shines.

• Your beauty is eternal, they proclaim, like unmelting snow on summer mountains, and strikes the heart like a bolt of lightning. In your luminous eyes, the ideal of your god has been met- a thousand times over...

• As dizzyingly romantic as it is, one thing gives you pause, as you lift your own brush to write your reply.

• "Your god," it says. Not mine.

• Who would know the secret etiquette of the court so intimately, to the point that other suitors' letters paled in comparison... and not worship the immaculate Raiden Shogun, much less take an interest in you?

• Then you are sent in your clan head's place to deal with the troublesome Fatui that have slipped past your nation's defenses, and you find your answer then. Their leader wears the traditional attire of a traveling nobleman, and wields his weapon with aristocratic grace.

• His underlings fall rather quickly under your hand, but he himself is annoyingly persistent. He darts out of the way of your attacks, but it takes all your power to stop his from striking true.

• You do not get his name, only his face- fair and clean and luminous, with delicate features twisted in cruel amusement. 

• It’s a shame that you must marr it with your blade, but what can be done?

• Then, he glides past you, close enough to whisper in your ear, and completes the poem no one has seen but you. 

Autumn - 秋

"Even in the age of almighty gods unheard of;

The waters of Tatsuta are dyed in crimson red."

-Lord Ariwara-no-Narihira

• It is time for the great procession- an event of fanfare and decadence, where you and your family must travel from your ancestral home to the domain of the immortal shogun to display your wealth.

• Despite the excitement surrounding the occasion, you know quite well it is nothing more than a way to maintain control over the lords of Inazuma.

• But no expense must be spared if it means preserving your reputation. If it means that no other family dares question your wealth. Not in travel, not in housing arrangements, not in entertainment, not in the hired guards to protect you on your long and arduous journey.

• And so, after you pay the Kaedehara clan the exorbitant sum they demand, they give you twenty able-bodied samurai under their command... including Kazuha, their youngest son.

• The servant girls- and some of the boys- traveling with you blush when he passes, observing his lithe form and gentle eyes and striking, pale blond hair. One streak of red is visible there, calling to mind a sole maple leaf in autumn.

• Kazuha does not join in the other samurai's revelry. While they cheerfully indulge in the food and drink provided to them on the journey, and boast of their prowess when the time comes to fight bandits hiding on the path, he remains silent and alone, his eyes only on his collection of handwritten poems.

• (And, when you aren’t looking, they shyly flit to you before looking away.)

• In the end, however, Kazuha is the only one who actually bests a bandit in combat.

• Late at night, when the others are sleeping off the wine, large shadows flit past the trees. The bandit clans in the area thrive during this time, like hunters when beasts migrate in droves. They're confident that this traveling party will be easy prey.

• But one thief approaches too rashly, too quickly, and one crimson eye opens to meet him.

• Kazuha drifts from one opponent to another like a leaf falling from its branch, carried by strong winds. And yet, none of them can touch him. One after another, each man collapses with a sharp cry, only their silhouettes visible in the darkness. 

• In the morning, the traveling party awakens to see fifty-some criminals tied up and piled up in a heap, and bursts into laughter. As the other samurai are still hung over, it’s clear who was responsible for this.

• Yes, Kaedehara-kun is a wonderful samurai. Skillful, composed, brave. And an excellent companion to have by one’s side, if one is lucky enough to have met him.

• It was quite the shock to learn that he would later flee the islands, sailing onward to the Land of Contracts aboard the ship of a pirate lord.

• But if anyone had the strength of mind to defy the gods- wouldn’t it be him?

Winter - 冬

"In winter, the early mornings. It is beautiful indeed when snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is white with frost..."

-Sei Shonagon

• Lady Ayaka is one of your closest friends, with your families being in a partnership for centuries. You have fond memories of playing together in the snow, with cranes flying overhead in the white sky.

• You know her secrets, and she knows yours. Nothing is kept between you- this is how you survive in a court of treachery and lies.

• So when she passes by in a sunlit hallway, you hear a whisper that shocks you to the core. Smooth silver hair floats past your sight, quiet as snow, and just as fleeting. But you must collect yourself quickly, for spies may lurk behind any silken screen.

• You will be betrothed to Kamisato Ayato, your dear friend's older brother, in ten day's time.

• As close as you are to Ayaka, Ayato has always been a shadow flitting in the corner of your sight, being too busy with his duties to see you. So his visage- to you- is as featureless as a field of snow.

• After all the romance novels you've read, it's difficult to accept marrying a man you've never spoken with, but... what can be done? You can only hope that Lord Ayato is kind and treats you well.

• But... what if he isn’t?

• Lady Ayaka would never speak ill of her brother. In fact, no noblewoman would even consider such a notion, even if it were true. Good appearances, on every level, are more important to nobles than gold. 

• But all the same, you’ve seen the ladies of the court who are trapped in loveless homes like birds in cages. How their smiles are painted on, how their laughs ring hollow and empty, how they glance longingly to the world outside, beyond the lavish court that hides them here.

• Your gaze drifts towards the harbor, where the water shimmers with light. You could run away, too. To the eastern mountains, where your former archery teacher hides with his fellow rebels- although to do that would invoke the shogun's wrath. Or, riskier still, follow Kazuha's path to the harbor, and chase him on to Liyue...

• “Young Lord Kamisato is waiting for you,” a servant says, breaking you from your thoughts, and bowing hastily before you can meet her eyes. The servant across from her does the same as the paper doors slide open, and they do not rise as you walk through.

• This room is airy and spacious, of course. Wind from opened windows seems to sigh as it passes over you and beyond, and you can smell flowers from the garden carried in from the breeze. How strange... even a garden that you played in countless times seems completely new and unfamiliar.

• Gracefully, soundlessly, Ayato emerges from behind his ornate screen. Power and elegance flows from his every movement. And at last, you dare to look at what you have never seen before.

• You look at his face, finally revealed before you, like translucent ice giving way to the land beneath the white...

• And gasp.

_______

Author's Notes

Wani of Baekje: Each opening quote is a poem by a famous Japanese author, but Wani was a scholar visiting from Ancient Korea!

Great procession: Known in Japan as sankin kotai. Powerful lords were forced to spend massive amounts of money to travel from their homes to the shogun's castle and back; in this way, the shogun was able to keep them on an efficiently tight leash.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Heyyyy! SO as a local comteologist- okay sorry lmao 😂 I was wondering! Could you maybe write about an mc that is very affectionate? Because I am like that and I would give my ALL and just everything for someone I love. So, maybe the guys are pretending to be asleep and they hear mc admitting her undying love for them? I don't want to burden you! So, I think Will, Jean, Leo and Napoleon would be fine :D

I love you! And please take care of your self cuz corona is a hondje- sorry lmao

Have all of my uwus my lovely, I relate HIGHKEY I’m ungodly affectionate irl~

You take care of yourself too! Tyty 💖💖💖 nothing to apologize for I love a good clowning, esp if Theo gets clowned in the process 😂😂

And never apologize for using my esteemed title I will die on this Comte-thirsting hill (☆｀• ω •´)ｂ

I hope these attempts bring you joy! 

William Shookspeare:

Our v creative playwright boy was just vibin’. He had a long day at the (obnoxious thespian voice) theater and while he loves the art with all of his being, the man is t i r e d. MC was late to bed and while he prefers to wait for her to join him no he is not horny perish the thought he just started dozing off from the exhaustion. He’s not sure when the lights go out, but he feels an immeasurable warmth around him. Faintly, he can make out a voice murmured at his ear, a gentle hand running through his hair. (I s2g if this bih says “Puck?” I’m gonna smack him for MC)

“Had a long day, hm?” He’s only just coming to, and can’t muster the energy to reply or open his eyes. “I’m sure this next performance will be the best one yet! You surprise me every day, Will...”

“Try not to work yourself too hard, sweetheart. Your work may one day be the world’s greatest marvel.”

He wasn’t sure what it was about the words that made his lips tremble. Was it the praise that always seemed to flow forth at a moment’s notice, the real kind he was so unaccustomed to? Or was it that unshakeable calm; her faith in him unmoved by any fear or doubt--the kind that made him wonder briefly if she was dull all those years ago. Now he was just thankful it was still here, no matter how undeserving he may be.

“But you will always be my entire world, my greatest marvel. I love you too much to let the world have you.”

Jeanne D’Arc (REEEEEE MY GOODEST BOY OTL):

It was early one morning, frost blossoming in fractals along the transparent surface of the bedside window. An inevitable, biting chill lingers in the room while the sun is fighting to climb past the horizon, its time so limited in these winter months. She watches as the light casts a gentle gray over the bare walls--something she promised to remedy soon--so reminiscent of how he appeared to her at first. Pure and bright, but still fighting off a darkness she knew so little about.

The thought made her draw him to her protectively, careful not to wake him up as she tucked him close to her heart. He was so warm, even despite the frigid weather. A product of his time as a soldier? She was never sure, but she was always touched by how often he used that warmth in service to her. 

She remembered earlier the other day, when she returned home from some grocery shopping with Sebas. Concern was overflowing from his stoic face--it was there if you knew where to look for it; his eyes a little more narrow, the line of his mouth closer to a frown. All at once his hands were reaching for hers, relieving her of whatever she allowed him to carry while walking into the kitchen alongside her. When Sebas stepped out again he took her hands in his, pressing them along his face. She had cried out, knowing her hands were freezing--it had to be painful to warm them in such a way. But he only smiled that beautiful smile to quell her distress, the one that always took her breath away, and insisted he could do no less.

“The same goes for me too, though, Jeanne.” she looked at the fierce mark on his face, so unworthy of someone so gentle. She resisted every urge to soothe her fingers across it, loathe to wake him up. She didn’t notice the fingers that twitched at her hip, his signs of stirring subtle. “Whenever you need me, whenever you can’t think of a good reason to walk out of this room. All you need to do is find me, okay? I love you so, so much.”

Leonardo Da Binchi (no i will not apologize. he deserves to be clowned, glorious moron):

Once again her lover was gloriously strewn across the library floor, arms crossed and fast asleep. An exasperated smile found her face at the sight. Perhaps it would have been a surprise at first, but nowadays she would just roll her eyes and walk past. Sometimes, if she was feeling forlorn or a little reckless, she would climb into his lap just as he was. He seemed to enjoy being woken up that way though, so of course she couldn’t give him the satisfaction every time; a woman likes to change things up. And sometimes she was too busy to spare the time.

Even so, the slowly dimming shadows under his eyes were a relief to see. While the celebration of his birthday could only be a blessing, she knew what a double-edged blade it could be. It invoked so many wounds that hadn’t yet healed. While she wished he would share that burden with her--however heavy it may be--she slapped her own cheeks lightly at the impatient thought. Give him time...

“I know you think you have to carry everything alone. And in some ways, it’s something I admire so much about you--the way you always seem to know just how to move forward. Like nothing can shake you.”

She leaned down close to him, bracing herself against the bookshelf as she pressed a kiss gently against his temple. “But know that whenever you find yourself wavering, or even if you just need a place to rest, I’m right here. I’ll always be right here. I love you so much more than you think, Leonardo...”

She stopped herself before she could finish the thought, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear: “more than my own life.”

Napoleon Bonaparte (oh my little lion man...):

They were spending a nice afternoon in the courtyard, as a lovey-dovey couple do, and they went under the veranda to find some relief from the midday sun. Surprising literally no one, our sweet emperor started to doze after some yummy tea time snackies--drifting asleep against MC’s shoulder. She adjusted a bit to change the angle of the lean, making sure he wasn’t putting too much pressure on his neck. Little puffs of air made her bangs flutter as he breathed low and even, and she smiled.

He’d had a guard jobs back to back recently, which meant precious little time to spend with him. Restless and quieter than usual, she had suggested a little stroll together around the courtyard; admiring the flowers and telling him about the books she’d been reading to fill the silence of those lonely nights. It wasn’t long before he started to smile more, snickering when she gave ludicrous summaries of the characters and plot. 

Early that morning she had taken the time to make perfect tea time sweets, fully anticipating--and hoping--it would encourage him to rest. So often he would be worried about her missing out on things or trying to plan more elaborate dates, but if she were honest she didn’t care much for extravagance or constant excitement. These tender moments where he could trust her (and the mansion’s perimeter) enough to fall fast asleep, no nightmares in sight, was enough to fill her heart with so much joy.

“I know you can’t help but want to do everything you can for the people around you; protecting and serving others is your life. I never want to be a reason you feel you need to stop doing that.” She murmured in the silence, playing with the buttons on his coat with a faint smile. “But even so, remember you always have a home to return to. More than that, no matter how powerful or skilled; you’re also one man. A man I love more than anything else in this world, a man I always want by my side--if he’ll have me, that is.”

She took the hand that was entwined with her own, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his palm as his lashes trembled. “I love you, Leon. Whether I see you every moment of every day, or only in stolen moments between assignments. That will never change. There will be times where you belong to the whole world, but this” she placed a hand gently over his heart “will always belong to me. Let it lead you home to me, sweetheart.”

And because I can’t help myself, I added Comte, Mozart and Vincent:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (he’s the melody I can’t get out of my head DON’T LOOK AT ME):

Despite all of his promises to quit his bad habits, she opened the door later that evening to find him fast asleep against the covered keys of the piano. His shock of white hair was nestled comfortably against his arms, piled together as a makeshift pillow. The sight made her think of those long, long nights in college; thinking you’d close your eyes for a minute--only to be adrift in seconds. 

Smiling wryly, she reached into a nearby closet to retrieve a blanket before draping it gently across his shoulders. Torn between waking him up and guiding him to bed or leaving him be, she decided on the latter. She got the feeling that waking him up would only mean “a few more minor edits” to the composition he was working on, leaving sleep an afterthought. While she knew he often couldn’t help himself, she didn’t want him neglecting his health all the same. 

She’d be back with some hot chocolate in a few hours, just how he liked it.

As she was about to slip back out of the room, the hand at his elbow clumsily grasped for hers resting on the covered keys. Heat bloomed across her face, ears burning as he clung to her warmth. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She sat down on the piano bench carefully, trying not to jostle him awake. “Your music will never stop being the most beautiful and soulful sound I’ve ever heard. But even a mind as impressive as yours needs plenty of rest--even more so, I’d wager. You work yourself too hard sometimes, Wolfie.” She leaned until her shoulder brushed his, “But I’ll always be here to make sure you don’t overdo it too much. Sweet dreams my only love.”

Vincent van Gogh (he’s babie your honor):

MC was on her laundry rounds, Vincent’s aprons now thoroughly washed and folded for his use once again. She knocked on the door murmuring a greeting--though fully anticipated he might not respond. While he was usually so sweet and attentive, it was almost like he became an entirely different person when painting. Utterly serious, intensely focused; any attempts at speaking to him would require many tries before he came back to himself with a beaming smile. 

She sighed dreamily, easily picturing it. His eyes would always be stunning, a cerulean to rival the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. But in the midst of his greatest passion? They burned bright enough to make her forget the rest of the world existed.

Trying not to embarrass herself on unsteady feet, she opened the door cautiously to find his easel abandoned. Shocked, she scanned the rest of the room until she found him strewn across the couch; a blanket haphazard in its provision of cover. With a gentle smile she stored away the fresh aprons in the dresser before she approached him, kneeling close to the couch so that she could tuck him in properly.

He let out a pleased little huff before shifting slightly in his sleep, body angled in her direction. There was a faint smile on his lips, evidence of what was likely a pleasant dream or peaceful rest. She traced the outline of his ear cuff with insatiable fingers, eyes glistening a little when he nuzzled into the faint touch--trapping her between his cheek and his arm. 

“You’re more precious to me than anything else in this world, Vince,” the murmur was barely audible, he didn’t stir. “I can’t imagine my life without you, and if I’m honest--no part of me really wants to imagine it. This warmth is the greatest gift I’ve ever known; thank you for choosing to share it with me. I love you so much, sweetheart.”

Le Comte de Saint Germain (SAN GERUMAN HAKKSHAKKU):

Every day is a long ass day when you have 10+ children (yes, Leonardo, you are in that child count I hope you’re happy >:| ). For all his half-hearted complaints about the exhaustion and noisiness though, he loves his bubs, and wouldn’t have things any other way.

Even so, it doesn’t stop the delighted giggling that shakes her shoulders when she finds him fast asleep in his favorite armchair. His tie is undone and askew, head lolling to the side--any attempt at his usual poise long forgotten. While she most often found him to be charming and delightful, she loved it even more when he felt comfortable sharing these parts of himself too. 

She set aside the tea she would always have prepared at this hour and reached for the coat he had draped across the opposite chair, settling it carefully over his form. Resisting every urge to join him--Sebas would need her help preparing dinner--she carded a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear so it wouldn’t tickle him while he was asleep.

He was so lovely like this, face unmarred by the weight of several lifetimes that found him when he was awake. No matter how early she rose when they were together, she rarely ever got the privilege of seeing him a little drowsy, lost to rest as he was now. She brushed light kisses to his eyelids, smiling when he half-sighed her name.

“Tuckered yourself out did you? You big worrywart.” She resisted the urge to find his hand and entwine it with hers. “I promise to watch over them, so rest easy, my dearest love.” She played with the collar, tucking him in further. “I know everyone here is precious to you. But remember that you’re the most important person in my life too,” she leaned her forehead gently against his. “While I love to see everyone get along, I love to see you happy and well-rested even more. You’ll always be the only one for me, [insert Comte’s real name].” 

Bonus continuation because I still can’t help myself apparently, somebody please take my laptop away from me:

Arms like steel bands enclosed her in his embrace, a sleepy exhale washing over her ear as she shivered a little at the sudden warmth.

“Mm, ma cherie, surely you didn’t think you’d get away with that kind of teasing...”

“But I wasn’t teasing you! I was completely serious.”

Laughter shook his chest and hers too, making her melt at the undisguised affection in the hands that settled her close to his heart.

“Then you must be punished for such foul play. To think you would ruthlessly attack me while asleep, bien-aime.”

“And how might I atone for this egregious indiscretion?”

She could feel him smile against her shoulder, the rascal. “Stay here a little while longer with me.” As if he had any intention of letting her go. Not that she minded, honestly.

“Threaten me with a good time.” she mumbled, stroking a hand soothingly along his back as they closed their eyes for a while.

A few more minutes couldn’t do any harm, could it?

[the-untamed-obsession]

May I ask a headcanon with Xiao Xingchen and Song lang, where reader is a half demon and when they got hurt reader goes berserk and protects them from dangers. Boys will be only ones able to calm reader down.

So like... I wasn’t sure if you wanted them separate or as a poly ship... so I did both! Cuz any excuse to write for Xingchen tbh. I added my own OC Lilith. I love her and will be using her and another (Toxin) more often! Happy reading💖

Berserk

Your breathing was heavily uneven as you ran down the dirt road. You had just seen her, you were sure of it! She had gone this way! 

You had to find her. She was dangerous and so far she’d killed plenty of people. You had been warned about her, but unlike other cultivators, you weren’t fully human. Your stamina and speed wasn’t of a normal person.

You ran further down the path and turned into the small abandoned village. In the distance you spotted her purple dress and pushed yourself to sprint faster. 

You turned a corner and saw her right there. She glared at you, her rose colored eyes piercing through your soul.

“Pest.” She commented as she swung her long, crystal sword. You dodged and blocked her powerful attacks. Her agility and strength was impressive and she definitely deserved her title of The Dark Tyrant.

Lilith was able to kick your sword out of your hand before kicking you in the chest. You flew back, collapsing onto the ground. You groaned as the pain spread through your body, making it harder to keep moving.

“Aw? Are you done already?” Lilith smirked and raised her sword to finish the job.

Song Lan:

“(Y/N)!” He called as he blocked Lilith’s attack and kicked her away from you. Lilith glared at him as she recovered and stood tall.

“Song Lan… get out of my way.” 

“Stay away from (y/n).” He commanded, protecting you. Lilith scoffed and nodded, pointing her sword as if she was acknowledging his bravery.

“Fine, I’ll kill you too.” Lilith readjusted her grip on the crystal sword before she walked towards Song Lan.

You watched as your boyfriend fended off the powerful woman, her attacks nearly breaking all of his defenses.

“Zichen… r-run…” you murmured, as you watched Lilith ruthlessly attack Song Lan. He was determined to save you or just keep you safe long enough for you to be able to get away.

“DIE!” Lilith screamed as she swiped her weapon. You watched in horror as Song Lan dropped his sword and fell to the ground. The blood dripped from the crystal weapon as she turned to you. Your anger took over, the rage started to seethe and you didn’t even realize that you were getting tired.

Your eyes changed and became pitch black while the veins crawled up your neck. You’d lost control and Lilith knew it. But instead of sloppy attacks, you were even stronger and more accurate.

You threw away your sword, using pure brute force to fight her. She easily lost, unable to keep up.

However, even after, your anger never ceased. Song Lan pushed himself up and tugged on your sleeve.

“(y/n)! I’m ok! Please calm down.” It was true. Although Lilith had hit Song Lan, it was just a minor wound and nothing to worry about. You hadn’t known.

It took a moment before your eyes returned to normal and you looked at your boyfriend.

“Z-Zichen?” He nodded and tugged you close to him. Just for now, he would push past his phobia.

Xiao Xingchen:

“Get away from them!” Xiao Xingchen demanded as he blocked Lilith’s attack. She jumped away and scowled at him, before standing tall.

“Xiao Xingchen, don’t you think your habit of sticking your nose in other people’s business is a little bit annoying?”

“Stay away.” Lilith rolled her eyes at his words and touched the blade of her sword onto her hand, as if she were inspecting it.

“You know… this sword is made so blood doesn’t stay on it. I’ve always hated messy fights.” Her pink eyes flickered up to the man. “As much as I hate messes… I think I can make an exception just this once. For a legend like you.”

Both Lilith and Xiao Xingchen engaged in a fight, one you were barely able to keep an eye on. You were exhausted and in so much pain. You attempted to push yourself to stand to help Xingchen, but found it impossible.

The pain shot through your body like never before and you could only groan out in pain. You felt so weak and useless as you watched your boyfriend fight for you.

“NO!!” You screamed as you watched Lilith abandon her sword and run at Xingchen. She swiftly dodged his sword and jumped on his shoulders, wrapping her legs around him and lurched forward.

You heard the sickening thud of Xingchen’s body slamming into the ground, cringing at the sound. Lilith stood up and held her hand out causing the sword to fly to her. 

You pushed yourself up, needing to stand to save your partner. You cried out as Lilith raised her sword above Xingchen. You felt yourself disappearing into an abyss, unable to control yourself anymore.

Your eyes were pitch black and the black veins had gotten darker, now touching your chin and growing even further. You moved at an intense speed, relentlessly attacking Lilith over and over again. You could feel her faltering, long enough for you to slam her into the ground.

She screamed and fell limp, signaling she was unconscious. You stood up, your anger still raging ready to kill anyone who would dare hurt you Xingchen.

“(Y/n)...” Xingchen murmured as he stood up and grabbed your arm. You immediately supported his weight, making it easier for him to stand. “I’m ok… so please calm down. I’m right here.” He whispered, taking your hand.

It took a few moments but you slowly returned to normal, your eyes falling onto Lilith. Unable to say anything, you only hugged Xingchen, who returned it.

Poly:

Before Lilith’s blade could stab you, it was blocked by two others. Lilith was thrown away but she quickly recovered, smirking at the two men in front of her.

“Ah the legendary Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen. The distant snow and cold frost and bright moon and gentle breeze. I must be lucky to run into both of you.” She taunted, smirking up at the two. It was obvious both of them weren’t entertained in the slightest, but Lilith continued. “I know you call yourselves heroes… or whatever, but that little cultivator is mine. If you don’t mind… I would like to take them away.”

“Don’t even think about touching our (y/n).” Song Lan demanded, raising his sword to point it at Lilith, who sighed.

“Your (y/n), huh? Now, I’m jealous… don’t hurt me like this.”

“Enough. Leave.” Xingchen added, but Lilith shook her head. A little giggle escaped her lips, but she suddenly turned serious, all traces of that laugh were gone.

“Fine. So be it.” She engaged them, fending off against both of their attacks. She was fast, strong, agile, and unrelenting. You watched from your place on the ground as the pain reverberated through your body.

You wanted to get up and help them, but you couldn’t. You had just recently been injured in another fight and those injuries were started to bleed once more.

“Zichen! Xingchen! Run!” You cried, as you watched Lilith’s attacks become faster and faster. She was able to take on both Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan at the same time. It was obvious she was clearly on par with them.

Lilith threw her sword, making Xiao Xingchen dodge, but it also distracted Song Lan. That gave Lilith enough time to run straight into Song Lan and jump on his back. Using her weight, she flipped herself and slammed him into the ground. But as Xiao Xingchen moved to help his friend, she’d quickly got Song Lan back up and kicked him right into the man in white.

“NO!” You cried out, as you watched both of your boyfriends hit the ground, groaning in pain. You felt the anger seethe through you, unable to control your emotions. You didn’t want to lose control, but there was no reason to stop. She’d hurt them… she’d hurt them both.

“(Y/n)...” Song Lan mumbled as he watched your form viciously attack Lilith. She was able to keep up for a minute, but it was clear you were the superior fighter at the moment.

You kicked her leg and brought her to her knees before kicking her head, sending her to the ground. Lilith groaned as the blood spilled from her nose but wasn’t able to stay awake. She fell unconscious and you glared down at her form. You picked up your sword and raised it up, your pitch black eyes marking their target. Her heart.

“No!” Xingchen managed to push himself up and grab your waist. You lost your balance against his heavy form and dropped your sword to catch yourself. “W-we’re ok…” he muttered, taking your face.

Zichen joined him and sat beside you both. You’d lost control a few times, but they’d never seen you like this. Normally, you never had an expression on your face and you’d stop once your enemy was down. But this time, you were glaring and you tried to KILL Lilith.

“It’s ok… we’re ok.” Xingchen assured, trying to get through to you.

“We’re right here… come back.” Zichen added and within a few moments, your face returned to normal. The black veins were gone and your normal (e/c) eyes were back.

[bonnieisaway]

I'm shocked that entire fuckin plaza isn't just a crater in the earth with all the shit that goes down in it

Yeah I forgot about that instance last night (hastag I wrote this at like 5am) but it's like exactly one of the perfect moments for this. Like, Seven adores Thirteen and it's not just that she's pretty - though that's how it started - but she's such a good fighter and to Seven, she's a joy to be around even if she's actively trying to fucking murder him, and hardly ever complains when she IS (aside from either asking for context or in the episode mentioned here where he was exasperated because he didn't realized Thirteen still had her mission to kill him)

I think Seven understands best, even early on in the show, that the point in protecting someone is not guarding their every movement or following them all the time, it's having their back in their worst moments, especially for Seven, because he's the kind of person who would do anything to spare his friends and people he cares about from pain or sorrows. He understands best Thirteen is - at least mostly early on - far stronger than him, but also understands she's not immortal and will have her weak moments and that's why he's there, and this is such a core, integrated belief in him that he hardly ever thinks when he does go to save her. I mean they weren't even really friends yet the first time when it happened, it was just a reflex in him.

And the times where Thirteen does save Seven he has just as much, if not more faith in her capabilities and skill. I mean at the end of season one, Thirteen throws him around a bit like a ragdoll to get him out of the way and such and he doesn't complain or question it (though gets a bit of whiplash sometimes), Seven absolutely knew that Thirteen could've held her own against Captain Jack if it weren't for him accidentally distracting her when he fell. He wasn't worried about it at all until he already saw Captain Jack moving. The only thing Seven will ever say to her is urge her that she does not have to do this. I mean, he's thankful, yes, but several times he insists this is not something she has to do (Seven's not the brightest nor the best at reading the room, but I think he understands well enough that protecting somebody wasn't something that came as easily to Thirteen, and his urges to tell her she doesn't have to are a manifestation in this protection in another way. It's not that he thinks she can't, but that he doesn't want to risk her getting hurt.) He has such absolute faith in her.

And it's so cool to me how the Dark Frost blade evidently does heighten his senses and change some things like with aggression, but it's still undeniably and recognizably Seven. I mean he's known for his good reflexes and fast thinking, it's practically how he's saved Thirteen every time, but it's so jarringly instant here. And he's not one for revenge either, when the fight is over and everything is said and done he is only worried about Thirteen still, and that's what matters. The second Seven woke up he understood Thirteen had been poisoned and that Shimen and Manjusaka were imminent dangers to her. And there's no "What happened," or any mention of who did it or why- it's just where is she. I need to know that she's okay. He has this confidence that she might've made it through, she's incredibly strong, but it eats him alive not knowing for certain.

there is fucking HATRED in that mans eyes. that is PURE MALICE, dawg. this is the face of a man about to violate the fucking geneva convention. this is a man ready to do 25 years to life. never have i seen so much goddamn pure spite in this motherfuckers eyes holy fuck how did blackbird not just instantly shit his fucking pants LOOK AT THE MAN. THAT IS BLIND RAGE. THAT IS SPITE THAT MOTHERFUCKER HAS NOT MUSTERED SINCE THE GIRL IN WHITE. OH MY GOD. THAT FUCKER MUSTERED ENOUGH RAGE TO KILL A SHADOW KILLER

[yeetlinglaozus]

In the years of gloom following the mad rise and spiralling downfall of Wei Wuxian's death, Jiang Cheng can at times feel a pulse through his body starting at the golden core in his center.It feels of familiarity and yet is so foreign where it is chambered within his own skin. It is the same rush to his system he once felt whenever he'd see Wei Wuxian conquer in battle regardless of if it was merely a training mock or an actual fight for his life; it is the feeling of the sun kissing his skin from the inside out and the sticky sweet dew of early morning lotus scavenging clinging to his fingers and mouth.

This blanketing comfort of nostalgia envelops him whenever the void chewing through his heart becomes too heavy, threatening to swallow him whole with the consuming dread he has felt since he lost the last piece if himself he'd long ago tucked into Wei Wuxian's hands for safekeeping. It's an embrace frought with pitiable yearning and tempered grief; the rigid set of shoulders finally relaxes as the guilt of survival is chased out of him, melting away like frost yielding to spring's arrival. It's altogether fleeting yet infinite; enough to dust the cobwebs from his bones but unable to dry tears he's unaware he's shed.

The core stills as it always does, goes silent while Jiang Cheng's ears ring and catch on distant echoes of a smiling voice calling his name. On the back of his eyelids Jiang Cheng thinks he can even see a silhouette framed in ebony and crimson and wishes he could reach for him but knows innately that he has strayed beyond his reach. When his eyes open Jiang Cheng cannot hold back the sweeping search he casts of the room he sits in and takes in the stifled air of stale disuse and scattered pieces of a preserved existence he once believed invincible and everlasting. Finally he settles on looking at the cold wood in his hands, out of place and laden with an ominous aura. Chenqing is undeniably dangerous but beautiful, just as her master and creator had been for all the years Jiang Cheng had spent at his side. Sleek and dark wood embellished with intricate patterns Jiang Cheng has taken care to memorize and commit to his heart, certain they hold some meaning that he can't fathom but takes comfort in all the same.

Jiang Cheng runs his thumb over the porcelain lotus hanging from Chenqing's body, sifting through the myriad of uncertainties stirring in his mind. Chenqing, for all that it is a monstrous spiritual tool, binds to him in a manner which strikes through him as it is eerily reminiscent of Sandu recognizing his hand as her extension or the way Zidian heeds his command as her voice. The golden core in his body reacts to her proximity, quakes and creaks with an untapped surge of power whenever the stroke of his thumb bids wispy ink to flow from her mouth. Improbable but not impossible, Jiang Cheng considers the link between two opposing forces which share a singularly unique trait - the lingering essence of Wei Wuxian.

Errant and idle, a thought comes unbidden in the forefront of all others. Would Suibian be the same as her kin? Would her seal give way to Jiang Cheng's hand and become another relic of Wei Wuxian's which should yield to no other yet submits to him? Jiang Cheng does not know which startles him more; the idea of Suibian remaining dormant and unknowing of blood on her blade, or that she too would come to accept him as master if his hand held her hilt.

With this, Jiang Cheng forces himself to his feet and stands from the bed. Clouds of dust kick up and dance across the room, casting another layer of haze to it's shadows. Chenqing is once more tucked into the folds of his robes where she sleeps against his chest, a cold weighted comfort in resonance with the thrumming power of his core. Jiang Cheng is not a man to be easily swayed by rising emotions or tumultuous thought - those days died out with the vestiges of his family - but he is no fool either. The implications are clear enough to spell out a horrible truth he doesn't wish to know but can no longer turn his eyes from, but it is no simple matter to quell the cacophony of thunderous awe and roaring fury waging an unseen war beneath his skin.

Wei Wuxian, his existence brimming with chaotic genius and only balanced by his sincere heart, has done something unmistakably bold and unconscionable to Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng will never forgive it, but as he slips out of the childhood bedroom he'd painstakingly kept a part of his home, remarkably untouched by the fires of a blood drenched night, he thinks he at least knows now how Wei Wuxian considered him.

Even this far in death, Wei Wuxian's secrets still fall open and sing in disjointed tones of the pervasive lengths of his love which is only equal in measure to the careless regard for himself. Their hollow sounds and whispered distortions match the rhythm of Jiang Cheng's heart, broken only by intermittent pulsing in his - their - core. A melancholic melody swelling into a crescendo filled with triumphant loathing; haunting and unfinished as it peters off once more into dissonant echoing of his name wrung from a mouth spinning lies into the silk Jiang Cheng dresses in each day.

Yes, the Yiling Patriarch is defeated and vanquished but what might have become of the man tarnished by a reputation built on the dessicated framework of desperation? Jiang Cheng knows it all too well, confirmed it slowly over these long and lonely years. He is the victor of misspoken legend, the hand which slain the scourge of the great sects; a lie well received as a subjective truth and a title crowned heavily upon Jiang Cheng's head. He is the tantamount proof of Wei Wuxian's unrivalled benevolence; an unprecedented speculation only for him to know in spite of Wei Wuxian's effort to keeping it hidden.

He wishes for neither and yet bears them both the same. He is Jiang Cheng, sect leader of Yunmeng Jiang and master of Lotus Pier, and there is no part of him which has not been tainted by the misguided hands of the man that has unmade and made him time and again. He is sickened by the enormity of it and the raw irony of a life he must still live newly aware of how incapable he has always been.

If Wei Wuxian were still living Jiang Cheng would kill him a second time.

The core in his body itches, the power contained within curdling under the ferocity of his ire. Jiang Cheng's hand presses against where it dwells in his abdomen, drums his fingers over the incriminating scar nestled under his robes, pondering. He'd survived a war by the merits of his training, but what training could he possibly have to assist him in surviving having to live in a debt he'll never have the means to repay?

Jiang Cheng's steps falter and he stands on numb legs, looking to anyone that might pass him by as a man on fire. Tortured, wan, unable to breathe. Hastily he retreats from the hall and hooks around the corner to step into the sanctuary of the Jiang Ancestral Hall.

It is here that Jiang Cheng allows the weight of Wei Wuxian's love crush him. It is here, before his fallen and beloved sister's plaque, that he acknowledges that he is the sum of someone else's parts. It is here that the thankless gift settled inside of him once again extends to embrace him but this time it burns him to feel so cherished and protected.

Jiang Cheng welcomes it with more ease than the relief it gave before.

[agentrouka-blog]

Why in ADWD Jon dreams of killing Robb and ygritte? He also once beat one NW brother in rage when he remember the memory of Robb saying he won't get lord of WF as he is bastard. Do you think his guilt made him dream of these nightmares and future foreshadowing for kingslaying? Like ygritte represent his violent lover and Robb represent his kin. Or it means something else?

Hi anon!

I think in this dream and how it is echoed in other parts of the books, we see Jon’s inner struggle with his role as Lord Commander immediately before his biggest political act ever: inviting the enemy to cross over into safety.

And it is the enemy. And Jon is struggling. In the violence of the dream, and in how it contrasts with Dany, and in the decision they both make in its aftermath, we see their true selves revealed and get a glimpse of what this means for them as enemies eventually.

Jon’s nightmare opens ADWD Jon XII, right before he wakes up to The Big Day, the most massive breach of protocol by a Lord Commander in living memory. He’s letting thousands of wildlings past the Wall. The very thing he had fought a vicious battle to prevent, because he knew it comes with massive risks.

Lots of quotes ahead:

That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat. Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.

The boom DOOM boom DOOM theme is present in the Red Wedding in Catelyn VII and with Theon in A Ghost in Winterfell, moments of intense transformation. Catelyn turns into a wrathful weirdwood image and murders and innocent in her failed attempt to sway Walder Frey to spare Robb. A dark promise kept, and then she dies in despair, only to rise again as Lady Stoneheart three days later. But that will not be the end of her story.

Theon has become Reek, and longs for the sweet deliverance of death in the face of Stannis’ siege. He “gave the girl away, he played his part”, he may have earned death as a reward now. But he is drawn to the godswood, where Bran’s voice calls his true name. And there he is found by Rowan, who insists on one last service. It it the act that will lead him back to himself. To Theon.

Jon's dream places him back in the battle at the Wall, holding it against Mance’s assault. But unlike then, he is alone, his battle is as lonely as it is intense.

“Stand fast,” Jon Snow called. “Throw them back.” He stood atop the Wall, alone. “Flame,” he cried, “feed them flame,” but there was no one to pay heed.

They are all gone. They have abandoned me.

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared.

This part of the dream mirrors Dany’s nightmare before her own fateful decision to “free” the unsullied with dragonfire.

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Waking the dragon, indeed. Unlike Jon, Dany’s experience of the dream is an experience of satisfaction and empowerment for her. Her enemies are slain by distance weapon, they have no faces, the melt away by the power of dragonfire. It appears these two may be facing off - the tongues of fire attacking the black ice.

Unlike Dany, Jon uses his sword, and he sees every face, names those he knows. He had considered killing Ygritte in battle, and he does it here, in battle between wildlings and Night’s Watch.

The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck.

Same with these men, Qhorin in the Frost Fangs, the other two during the same attack that saw Ygritte die. But these are his brothers in arms now. The fight turns to them. A red mist. Then it is his true brother facing him.

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled …

Just like Jon couldn’t kill Ygritte in life and rejected Stannis’ offer, he is doing the opposite here, his darkest emotions bubbling up in a red wrath - but unlike Dany, it’s clear the experience is not euphoric. He is wrestling alone, with his enemies, his brothers, his entire self.

He has been trying to save lives, but it isolates him, he is battling alone, unable to trust anyone, sending his friends away, hacking away at his own soul by not being able to help Arya. Betraying everyone, the wildlings (Ygritte), the Night’s Watch (his black brothers), his family and the North (Robb), and it is chaotic and endless. A red mist, a carnage.

But he is interrupted.

… and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. “Snow,” the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom.

Snow, the magic word that made the decision for him the last time, does it again. Unlike Dany embracing the dragon, Jon has an exit route: Snow. His true self is not inside the dream. Just like Theon’s true self is not in serving the Boltons, just like the tree calls to Theon, the raven calls to Jon. Snow. During the hour of the wolf, for both. He wakes and the nightmare fades. His path is before him. It is not battle. It is far more complex. Dangerous but life-giving.

The hard decision he has come to make, the transformation, is very different from Dany’s decision. She makes a false trade and burns her enemies, has them slaughtered in the streets, including children age 12 and up. Jon is about to embrace his enemies because they have a common foe. Peace after war.

The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the Wall. Madness. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would be no turning back. It should have been the Old Bear to treat with Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle. It was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion.

This decision is massive and Jon is trembling before it. “Madness.” He is making a trade that is fragile but honest. With the people he had battled. His enemies. But the time for war between them is done. If Jon doesn’t want to see the world end in ice, if he wants to protect the North and all that he loves, he has to break with tradition - and have faith.

“All is in readiness,” Bowen Marsh assured him. “If the wildlings uphold the terms of the bargain, all will go as you’ve commanded.”

And if not, it may turn to blood and carnage. “Remember,” Jon said, “Tormund’s people are hungry, cold, and fearful. Some of them hate us as much as some of you hate them. We are dancing on rotten ice here, them and us. One crack, and we all drown. If blood should be shed today, it had best not be one of us who strikes the first blow, or I swear by the old gods and the new that I will have the head of the man who strikes it.”

*

Jon’s gamble will end up costing his life at the very hands of Bowen Marsh, but it remains the right decision. It will cost him, it will not make him more powerful in the short term. But it will pay off in the long term. It reveals who he is.

Dany emerged from betrayal transformed into a dragon. Jon’s transformation is still coming up. He will be a wolf for a while, but his path is not Dany’s path.

We see their true selves in this. For Jon, the battle is a nightmare he can wake from because he is not ice nor fire nor fully a wolf. He is Snow. His own person. Someone is calling his name. Like Bran calls Theon and helps him return to himself. Like Arya will call Catelyn by her true name: mother.

For Dany, the battle is her true self, and there will be no turning back. Who is calling Dany? Quaithe. Dragon dragon dragon.

When they face off, this will be crucial. It will be carnage. But one of them will emerge, and the other will not.

[intensitystoner]

Scribble for @sifkiweek

Day 2 - AU

~2,000 words (attempt at lil’ humour)

Jotunheim was nothing but ice on the surface, such a vast layer over the original soil of the planet that most forms of life couldn't survive here. The few cold-bearing pines that arched towards the sky heedless of the chilling storms had been here long before the Jotunn arrived and the winter they brought along killed all other creatures and plants; this was one of the few superfluous facts that Sif knew, besides ways to find food on foreign land or to recognise the enemy.

Instead of lore, she excelled at warfare: this is what brought her here with the golden armies of Asgard, to take over control and gift the land with their culture and technology. She saw this as a great opportunity to prove worthy of her title. Many people had doubts about her, some had the most insulting accusations. She deemed it wise to stabilise her reputation at this opportunity by delivering a few Frost Giant heads back into the camp from the solo scouting mission she volunteered for among others.

That said, there had been no Giants in sight for what felt hours of wandering in the bone-bursting chill. The ever-present snow gnawed its way under the protective layers of her neck-high armour and padded cloak. Valiant Sif soon got bored of the monotonous rows of icebergs, ice valleys, ice canyons and ice plains. She started looking for caves, through the derivation that the giant inhabitants must be hiding away in fear of her. She ventured into a cavity under a cliff, with icicles hanging off from it like a coarse beast's fangs. She crept bravely inwards in the deepening dark, stumbling occasionally as she tried keeping a hand against the wall, determined that such a difficult place must be a hideout, and she would bring back the desired slain heads from here if it killed her. But Norns, how deep were those miserable beasts tucked away?

She startled when a small light flashed into her eyes, but she quickly figured out that it was the end of the corridor beyond a bend, and with breaths eased, she stepped outside.

Almost immediately, splashing of water hit her ears. Frowning at the peculiarly misplaced sound, she turned to observe the thick bundle of mist. Then she recoiled and reached for her sword, although she hesitated to believe what she perceived: there, in the middle of the snow field, was a steaming pool, and in it, a Frost Giant crouching, presumably washing something.

There were so many peculiarities about this that she couldn't enumerate them at once. So she settled with carefully drawing her sword and creeping up on the vile being for a long awaited death match for valour.

Her hand was halfway towards the handle when a crude bellow interrupted:

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing, barging in like that? Can't you see I'm defenceless?"

Astonishment made her hover for a moment, but she quickly remedied it by swinging the blade into an attack stance before her. Encouraged by the comforting metal in her grasp, she responded:

"I will never trust your word or your demeanour, monster! Prepare yourself, for this is the last day you see this meagre sunlight!"

"How dare you?" came the low hiss as an answer.

Vengeful assault it is, then. Her eyes narrowed in preparation for the well expectable offence, her muscles tensed as the figure moved.

When he stood, she noticed three things consecutively: the giant, uniquely, had pitch dark hair of shoulder length; he was but the size of an Aesir, the scrawniest Jotunn she had seen; and – she gasped – he was naked, and his nakedness didn't stop below the hips as he rose, eventually presenting himself in his entire unveiled glory.

"You've got some nerve, pointing that measly stick at me, Asgardian," said the not-so-giant one with hands on his hips like he weren't as bare and plain as a newborn.

Well, plain wasn’t entirely accurate, as he wore the intricate carvings of his kin all over the body, smooth curves following the muscles and other significant features – quite elegantly sculpted, at least for a barbaric Jotunn build, she thought with some untoward warmth throbbing in her temple. In this critical moment when life or death could be decided within a single breath, half of her attention got wasted on not to glance where his fingers on those unbelievably narrow hips were pointing.

"Are you perhaps dull?" mused the creature then and gestured with a full arm towards the cave entrance, forming each word clearly: "Make your way back where you came from, and I'll grant you mercy this one time; solely because I'm past an especially tiresome group hunt with imbeciles."

The insulting tone stirred Sif out of her stun.

"Or better," she spat, "I'll be the one to hunt you down, and we'll see who's dull. I'll let you get armed now and face me properly for the slaying. Move out, be quick about it!"

The measly but impudent Giant – or whatever it was, she was less and less sure – laughed at her soundlessly.

"All right," he said when he regained control over his breaths, "I see how we stand. But I know one even better." With eyes wide, he bent closer to share the excitement. "Getting armed to spar with you would be a waste of time. I'll fight you off unclothed like this."

She could have exploded from the perky glint in his eyes and the spread arms. Though she tried to stay untouched, anger – so she named the sensation – heated up her cheeks.

"You will learn your place soon enough," she promised mostly to herself, but she remained where she was for now, unsure of what to do: a victory against someone exposed and weak like this was not what she could have bragged about at home, and especially not if this was the only thing she brought back today.

"Oh, I’m sure it’ll be an easy win for you. If you climbed this high in the palace of gods, you won't even break a sweat killing someone like me, will you?"

So that’s what the game was about. He knew very well that her honour wouldn't let her fight an unarmed being, and he evaded the battle this way. No wonder he was trying to get away; with his size, he must have been a weak link, probably subject to continuous scorn. And his marks-

Dumbfounded, she lowered her sword and took a step closer for a better look, meanwhile noting how the movement didn’t even break his infinitely bored posture.

"A royalty," she breathed staring at the curved lines on his forehead, symbols for a crown or horns according to Aesir scripts. "You're meant for the throne? How is that possible? You're so-"

"Majestic, indeed," he cut in.

"Well, not quite-"

"I get it, knightess, you're wondering: how can such an eloquent being be found among barbarians?" The tiny Jotunn presented himself with both arms while speaking, in a languid stride towards the side of the steaming pool, undisturbed by Sif as she smoothly followed his procession with relentless steps and keen eyes. "Could the land of Frost Giants ever nurture something as refined, as poised, as glamorous as this? Could they hide something that no codices in the golden halls of Asgard tell about? Let me soothe your wonder: they can't. Yes, I am Laufey's son; yes, I will have the throne of Jotunheim, and then woe to all that have wronged me. But no, these brutes have no mind to hold me as the jewel in the swamps of their miserable existence,” he boasted while heading for a bundle of clothes on a cleared rock. “I have nurtured my own self, my own talents: everything you're ogling now has been grown through sheer discipline-"

He was about to bend down for the leathers when she stepped in; but before her blade would have stirred, his arm whipped towards her, and she grew motionless as something sharp dug into her neck. His face was languid, his eyelids low over his crimson look at her.

"I merely wish to dress, milady," he cooed like he was victim to the threat. "Won't you allow me this one boon?"

"It's Warmaiden for you, beast," she snarled as her breath let loose again. "And you better learn your place before you think again that I'm ogling anything."

She hid her relief over the fact that she had a voice, her skin intact, though the sharp thing was still pressed tight against her throat. And where in the Nine had he been hiding it up to now?

"I may grace you with your name on my lips, if you give mine due respect,” he replied while reaching for his clothes once again. “Namely, I am Loki, third son of Laufey, would-be King of-" His lofty words merged into a quiet snarl as his lowering arm got smoothly replaced with hers, the much longer sword keeping his chin up. "You may address me as Your Highness, shield maiden."

He uttered the title with such contempt that for an insulted moment, his insightful knowledge failed to catch her attention. But the epiphany reached her before she'd have retorted, and her sharp breath turned into a threatening hiss.

"How do you know so much?" she demanded.

And he laughed, once again that modest hissing sound under his breath, as if he weren't even doing it to mock her, and then he continued obtaining his clothes despite the blade grazing his skin.

"By reading. I taught myself runes, carving them into the snow," he admitted, though his tone felt a lot like he was but jesting. "I used the sharpened bones of my slain ancestors."

"You're an outcast, aren't you?" she inquired with her deepest scorn, just to retort.

That seemed to hit the mark.

“I'm a rightful heir of Jotunheim, and I'll live up to it," snapped the annoyingly fine-wired creature while winding the girdle and kilt around his hips with irate movements.

The Jotunn soldiers Sif had seen always settled with this amount of clothing, so she eyed him in mild surprise as he went on throwing the skin of a soft-furred beast around his shoulders, with her blade following the movements in loutish idleness.

"You may not live up to anything your people don't accept," she pointed out meanwhile. "I hear that resilience is power in this realm, which you seem to lack miserably. Your nation has yet to adopt some higher values."

"Higher values," the creature repeated with honest amusement. "You could list a hundred of those in one sitting, I bet."

"Tell me then, if you’ve read so much, what do you hold for one?"

"There is no light I could shed in your head, Asgardian," he said bending towards her to emphasize the statement. "Your mind is already set, the Allfather's teachings too deeply rooted within you since your birth."

"I only first saw Asgard after I came of age," she protested, too quickly before she'd have considered whether she owed him this excuse.

He took it in with a surprised arch of eyebrows. His exhale was audible when he turned to leave.

"Then you may have a glimmer of hope. Don't waste it. The nearest horde is wandering east of here, by the way, full of the dullest-"

"Waste what exactly?" she snapped while hurrying to catch up with him before he could elope or have time to catch her off-guard. "Do you really hold yourself so-"

"Fine, I'll be your guide. You could have just asked nicely, you know. You should be well aware of the benefits of courtesy, since you come here with your people to preach about it."

“I have no need of a guide,” she announced as they walked on side by side.

“Don’t you, now? How long exactly have you been circling around in the area again? Not even noting that you passed the most significant landmarks you’ll ever find here twenty-four times altogether? And this before I grew bored of you and retreated believing to be rid of you for good?”

“I don’t need a blabbering guide, like you,” she corrected, her look challenging.

“And yet here we are,” he announced brightly. “If you’re not attentive, you’ll find yourself my spouse after I obtained the throne.”

“You’ll regret that a thousand times, I’m not marriage material.”

“Challenge accepted.”

An abrupt silence followed as their thoughts caught up to the mutual jest, filled with unintended smiles. Not yet giving it much significance, they carelessly trudged on in the snow on their joint path.

[yetremains]

Mortal Kombat Verse?

Under the read more.

(Also includes mk2021 verse) (please forgive the messiness)

Base Mortal Kombat Verse (Mostly game and comic canon, includes Scorpions Revenge movie) tag: Warriors Spirit Never Fades || MK Verse

Set after the fall of the great evil and darkness, time restored and reset for this particular verse. Yang went along with it. While she had wished to be reset as well, fully willing to give up her life for the betterment of all, as so many others were- it didn’t take her soul with it. Instead her body and soul were pulled back along with the world, now that this particular future and timeline ceased too exist. Hearing whispers of memory being a strength, someone must remember, saying to keep a balance, because detached from time she was. It was an ethereal voice that had left Yang with many questions. Her soul remained intact as did her mind, and all the objects on her person. Leaving this woman in a new world and new era, living through the many ages of time and knowing certain things of future events, but nothing was ever accurate as everything changes in small ways.

During the years, Yang acquired a best friend in a Half-Edenian @sonxflight​ , someone who shared the same enemy. They had been ally’s against this horrid darkness and evil threatening the world, with the best friend becoming victorious. Not long after this she had picked up many other talents and skills, always focusing on bettering that inner power of hers of the light and dark. There have been some... Rather humorous out comes.

Some familiar faces of ally’s here and there. Has seen nightmares and horrid actions of others, while failing to entirely stop tragedies that are seemingly set in stone. Of course this means others she has met before are different, and more than likely do not know who she is, might never, while she knows who they are very well. But nothing is ever truly the same and everything is new.

Yang has made friendship and Ally’s with the Shirai Ryu, having already known their fighting style and commitments. She travels around a fair bit but always goes through the territory that is owned by this clan, returning often. A part of her wishing to try and rewrite time. Of course, she fails in this, fails in helping save them.

She has taken part in the Tournament of her own choice before, long ago.

There is still that dislike towards Gods, especially Elder Gods. Yang has had a bad history with gods and past interactions. But if you place one whole bald titan lady anywhere within the vicinity, Yang will not hesitate to go feral off the rails. Raiden and Fujin however are an acception, as they try their very best, even if there is still an odd tension. It takes time for her to get over that long term distaste, but these two boys at least get her friendship and can be grown off from there.

But time magic? Despises it.

This verse can be manipulated as needed. Much of the canon here is crafted from @kathexismania @sonxflight​ and @bastardsunlight​ input. Can be prone to change, while it is all very loose here specifically for this. Now also involves @sxvethelastdance​ because Liu is her son now. This is adopted rules.

One particular verse Yang has taken in, adopted, and has been training a revived Satoshi Hasashi from @kathexismania​ , with the end goal to free his Father from Quan Chi’s grasp and restore him too his true self. One way, or another. She has become very attached and quite fond of Satoshi, so very proud of that heart and how far he has come. She will kill for that boy.

There is one in particular with only @bastardsunlight​ in which Raiden quite literally yoinked Yang from her own timeline to take part in a tournament. This is loosey goosey and for the fun, but I sometimes will make references towards it.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mortal Kombat 2021 Movie (extremely headcanon and loose) tag: -Another Era Of War || MK2021 Verse 

This takes much from the base reference of the first MK verse, but twists it.

Yang was not born with her marking, but acquired it with the searing sensation one day to discover it on her shoulder blade. Fate had spoken through her actions of protecting others, by the end of a long battle.

Once she had taken part in the tournament, since then has had a target on her back. At one point Yang had a run in with Bi-Han some centuries ago, and it left her with a hand shape scar from frost bite, on her back shoulder, just over where her dragon marking is.

Considering the tournaments have been going sideways for a long time now, Yang has been trying to travel the world and help it. At one point had joined Special Forces. But after they had been wiped out and things hit the fan, Yang had yet again become a single force to go on her own way. Try and handle things from behind the scenes, which unfortunately did not work out. Everything had already spiraled out of control.

She has no love for outworld nor for the Lin Kuei, as they currently are. But the select few people that are not terrible have earned their pass from her ire. An entire world does not speak for the hearts of every person in it sometimes.

In one main AU part of this verse, Yang has acquired and used The Blade of Hanzo, thus binding her and Scorpion together. This is specifically plotted with @kathexismania​ and no other.

This is also open to adjusting or plotting as is needed.

[lunaetis]

@scarletooyoroi​ asked :

Another perilous dance led betwixt the finesse of flame and frost. Learning to dance between their rhythms of danger alongside forming a battlefield tango, many of the agents led by the Fatui found themselves decimated and ready got gathering in terms of recon. Nonetheless, Thoma naturally feels alive in entering such a stance with Ms.Lawrence. Taking her hand once their skilled eyes ensured it was clear, he'd meet her knuckles with a tender kiss once he lifts them up, a single eye concentrated upon her as the playful smile forms against her skin.

"No better way of starting the day, Eula. You were looking wonderful out there."

unprompted. || always accepting

─「エウルア」─  the CAPTAIN had been tracking down these fatui agents ever since the dark of the night. they were smart enough not to make any obvious move during the day where the knights were out on patrol, that, however, wouldn’t fool the captain of the reconnaissance company as she frequented herself upon the area of DRAGONSPINE, catching wind of their plans to infiltrate one of the knights’ quarter for a certain document. so she waited, just outside the wall of the CITY, dismissing all the guards to lead them into thinking the security was loose.

                now, in that HEAT of a battle, with her claymore gripped tightly, lifted up to shield any upcoming attack but instead of the HEIR standing alone like she usually would be, the sight of pryo element whirling around her form like a SHIELD spoke of how she had her back covered. a smile, one so RARE to be presented upon the lawrence heir’s lips were prominent as she glanced over her shoulder, and a tall frame of a certain PRYO PROTECTOR could be seen from the corner of her gaze.

                her WEAPON slowly lowered as their enemies scattered about, granting the two with a small private time that he immediately took an advantage of. gloved palm taken into his warmer hold, his heat able to be felt through the fabric of her glove as that tender kiss placed over her knuckles made the organ in her left chest skip a BEAT.

                another hand released the grip on her claymore, allowing the blade to disappear into thin air so that she could reach out to cup his cheek adoringly. the way those dual-colored hues softened as did her whole expression spelled of how deeply enamored she was to the man before her.

                “ i already told you i’ve got this, didn’t i ? you’re so stubborn. ” not wanting to WORRY him, she had told him prior to last night that she was going to be carry out a solo mission. the details weren’t being shared, yet, somehow, he found his way to ASSIST her when the fight was at its peak. she remembered the BURNING FLAME that enveloped around her, a protective shield that burst pryo energy against her opponents, but rendered her with a sense of comfort and warmth. but despite her words sounding like a scolding, how she took a step closer to him, gloved thumb grazing under those mesmerizing jade hues spoke otherwise.

                “ what do i do with you ? ” her voice drifted gently, as her hand that rested over his cheek slowly guided him down, closing the distance between them with a tender kiss. her cooler lips meeting his soft, warmer ones, a kind of kiss that ignited a certain flame within her, towing away that ICE WALL she had over her own heart from day one. and now, the knight found herself marveling at the love he poured, the lingering taste of what he drank this morning, a comforting reminder of her most beloved enveloping her mind.

                away from prying eyes, from unwanted attention. this, right here, was where she wanted to be. where she belonged. her hand that was in his moved to intertwine their fingers together, squeezing softly over the sound of her heart thumping and her body growing warmer both from his flame and memories that flooded her closed gaze.

                breaths warmer upon their kiss ceasing, but the smitten smile on her lips spoke how she didn’t mind any of that. forehead rested to his own, hand in hand, as another gentle kiss was placed to the corner of his lips. it was obvious just how deep in love she was for him, it was almost ridiculous. she wasn’t a giddy teenager any more, however, every time their eyes meet — her heart still skipped a beat. what a dangerous man.

                “ join me for breakfast, then ? let me be selfish and keep you to myself for a bit longer. ”

[highviewsmoved]

⁂ shigaraki tomura x reader. (old god shigaraki & female reader)  ❝ gods cannot love mortals. ❞

Similar to the seasons, death changes.

There are whispers of an ancient deity that descends when it is someone's time to go. Who appears when men fall in war, in sickness or in their own beds rattling their last breath.

The name of his is unspoken, for he has wandered the earth for years, collecting souls, leaving death and destruction in his wake. An omen of some kind, similar to the caw of a crow. He will exist.

He will be there and he will wait.

Death himself comes for her in early autumn, when the trees are bare, the branches similar to skeletal fingers pushing up from the earth; the leaves stuck wet to the ground after a morning of rain.

She is cleaning, yukata rolled to her legs and sleeves tied in tasuki to keep from getting wet from the splash of water. It was simple, an easy mistake. She suddenly missteps when she goes back to refill the bamboo tub, falling in head first into the freezing stream.

The locals, the people in her village warned her the water is vicious for its current. The current had stolen a child not too long ago, the mother’s wailing echoes could still be heard throughout the mountain. Water fills her lungs, suffocating her, as her head knocks against a rock.

She is now at the mercy of the beast, and she hopes the river deity will spare her. When she resurfaces much later she has blacked out, unknowing what or who had saved her.

She remembers the abyss; white and red.

And the face of a man who crumbles.

--

Her mother tells her she lived because he had spared her.

“Who, mother?”

“Death,” she says simply. “He can be merciful.”

She listens carefully while the porridge cooks, the smell delicious. She grips the rag between her fists tightly, and she thinks she has seen the face of death. He is very similar to a human.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “Is he always alone?”

Mother is quiet for sometime, she’s not sure she may have heard her. Until she finally responds. “Yes, always.”

--

She sees death when he takes the soul of an old man in her village, the grieving of the family being heard as others come out of their huts to see the mourning, and she sees him.

Death is there, and he comes with the snow in winter, so unlike when he comes in spring or in summer. The frost creeps into her lungs, as she watches him, holding firewood close to her chest.

The old man by his side as Death looks at her, his spider lily eyes holding hers, as if enchanted; and she feels the tickle of snow on her cheek.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy. How many more people will he leave with?

--

Death stumbles upon her; she is kneeling, gazing up at the old chestnut tree, and when he hears her calling he comes. She has believed in him.

“Do you take away my people?” She asks him, her hands on her thighs, talking to this deity who has been known for so long. The tale whispers about him being the one who appears when death and destruction are at bay. In the middle of battlefields, always by a sea of corpses he steps through. She is not afraid of him, perhaps she should be.

The branches shiver, light splaying through.

He is there and he does not speak.

Her voice shakes, her fists tightening. The feeling of pain gripping her throat. “Where do you take the dead?”

Tomura responds, in a tone crisp like winter. “Home.”

--

His voice is the hiss of a snake, coiled deep around her throat; a warning. “This is a small mercy.” He had been there when the cliff near her almost swept her away, he had come just in time as she thought of him. He had heard her heart.  

She cannot deny him, it is true that all the chances he has given her have been at best, luck. Or maybe it is him saving her. This she does not want to believe. He has saved her many times but has not spared her people. She should despise him.

Her voice is steel and iron, “you have given me many.”

He looks at her, taken aback as if she had slapped him. She exposes him like a wound, she realizes this much too late.

“The last time,” he reminds her, tone poisonous.

--

She has not seen him since the leaves have changed and at dawn he comes to her, underneath the large chestnuts. The wicker basket has fallen, she cannot bear to look.

“Who have you come for?” Her question is lost in the breeze, tears wet against her cheeks.

She is tired of fighting, of trying to fight off death himself (she has not fought him, she has welcomed him) who has come every time the season changes and for the people in her village. For the people she loves.

He has come anyway. Despite no one believing in him, praying to him; except for her and her mother. She hoped he would listen.

“Do not ask such things if you wish to not know the answer,” his tone is cold but his eyes burn against her back; skin prickling at the heat.

She exhales heavily, breath shuddering. She has cried for hours knowing her mother's time is soon. Deep in her heart she has known he will come anyway.

“Please,” she cries gently, then with much more pain, “please don’t take her away.”

Tomura cannot hold her to that. No more. It is time. “You know already.”

Her chin quivers, trying so hard to be strong. “Then answer me this, when will you take her?”

He thought it was obvious enough, but he will give her what she asks. Only this time; always this time.

“At dawn.” Then with much more promise, “I am coming for her at dawn.” If it is this morning or the next or the next. She does not know.

--

She remembers the first time she saw his face, covered in a mess of hair, bright and glowing like starlight. His eyes redder than the spider lilies that bloom across the meadows. They say the meaning behind those flowers is rebirth, to say goodbye. He is clad in all black, the fabric wrapping around him tattered from travel.

“What is your name?” Her knees are touching soft grass beneath her, dewy from the morning. Her heart pounds considerably louder when his footsteps have quieted.

“Tomura,” it is said like a breeze, so gentle that it carries.

She swallows, curious about his name, so she speaks it and the tree branches bend against the power it holds. Leaves fall changing to brown. The wind howls quietly, slipping by through her hair and face.

“Why have you come here, Tomura?” The wind swirls above.

He approaches, shadowed by the shade. “I come to know.”

“Know? Of what?” She turns her head in a peculiar way, eyes full of wonder. How odd for a deity to make themselves known to a human. So many times this god of death and destruction has done this. So many times he has hid in the shadows of mourning.

“Of things I seek and do not understand.”

Her heart trills like a songbird.

“Am I something you seek and do not understand?”

It is brave to ask such things, the temperature has dropped considerably and the birds have stopped singing. Everything has grown quiet, even the god near her.

“Yes,” and he is gone, she turns quickly to see and notices the patch of brown earth where he stood, the lush green that surrounded him, had paid the price.

--

She has prayed to Tomura, the god of death and destruction to protect her people, he has not forsaken them. He has saved them despite the bitter feeling of grief still anew. The loss of her mother, the old man, and so many more. All of it is painful. Living is painful.

Home, he had said. He takes them to a place where they can rest peacefully is what he promised, but she cannot help but wonder if he had created this, or if this was how life always is.

Death is a cycle.

--

She dreams of a large hand, of a wasteland surrounding her; she wanders the terrain filled with nothing, and she sees him. White hair and dark cloak billowing in a wind she cannot feel.

“Tomura?” She calls, and he does not turn, he stands there. When she reaches him he has slowly become dust, withering in the wind, sweeping past her.

She is suffocating from the particles as it wraps around her. She awakens, the fire put out in her home, smoke rising, the fabric of her bedding stuck to her sweaty body. She knows what her dream is about.

He will soon be gone.

--

“Will you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I fade away.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She runs to him, closing the distance, her embrace is tight against him, he can feel her heartbeat. Her time ticking slowly away.

She will die of old age. He will die because he loved.

She breathes close; warm breath near his ear, and he sighs. He has dreamed of this. Tomura’s mind goes elsewhere during nights away. He has always dreamed of her.

Her soul he has spared, slowly collecting the surrounding ones. She knew this, yet here she is, with him.

He is feared and known. She is a human.

Gods cannot love mortals.

“Live for me,” she gasps against him. “Fight and live,” she begs, her body shaking with guilt. She has unknowingly brought his end.

“I cannot.”

“What can I give you in exchange? My soul?” He exhales, sounding close to a laugh, a smile cracking his lips.

“I will not allow that exchange.”

She pulls away, eyes filled with bitter tears, and she has never looked more brilliant than ever. She is alive.

He longs to touch her like he has often wished of doing.

So he does. Fingers, crumbling slowly; he touches her cheek, and she is so surprised to find it warm; soothing like the summer sun.

She leans into it, wishing she could have this moment forever.

“Your name—“ she stops, then touches his face, his hair, his lips. Caressing all of him.

“Tomura means to mourn,” he says, eyes glittering.

“I will mourn you, yes,” she promises, his arms wrap around her waist, hands moving towards her shoulder blades. How long has he lived without this? Centuries. Her lips brush close to his temples, “but I will love you always.”

Tomura leans in close, foreheads pressed together, lips breadths apart.

“And I you.”

--

She awakens in the forest holding nothing but black fabric.

--

When it is her time to go from this earth, she is old and weary. She had grandchildren, marrying a kind farmer who passed before her. In her seat she stares out where the chestnut trees stand tall, woven in branches.

The blossoms from nearby waft in the wind. It is her time to go, she grips the piece of black fabric she has held onto.

She closes her eyes, and she rests peacefully, her heart stuttering to a halt.

The way it is painless, as it wraps around her; darkness is not as the stories say; it is not unforgiving. The tunnel of light she moves through as she is back in the wasteland from a dream she had years ago.

Tomura stands tall, cape billowing in a windless desert. She gasps, tears streaming down her face as he is turned to her. Not like the dream of where he seemed so far, but now he is so close.

She goes to him, embracing him once more.

“Welcome back,” she says against his chest, he holds her tightly, no longer crumbling.

“I have been here and I have waited,” his voice is still rough like wood being scraped.

He wraps her close, his hands still warm like sunlight, hair bright and eyes similar to spider lilies.

“You are human?” She asks, pulling away to look at him, eyes searching his features, he still looks the same since the last time she saw him all those years ago.

“Deities are born from humans,” he states, “we are one and the same.”

Her tears are wiped gently with his thumb, fingers gliding across her neck and collarbone. This closeness he has missed.

She grabs his hand and presses her lips to each finger. Tomura no longer takes, he has given and given until her soul found his. They were born for this moment, she no longer hears the sorrowful noise of cicadas in the summer sun, silence has never felt more welcoming.

It is not harsh or lonesome, they have one another.

“I kept a part of you with me,” she confesses against his cheek, and his hands glide down her back, the feeling of her he has craved for years since he left.

He keeps her so close that they could become one. “And you can continue to do so, as long as you stay with me,” he murmurs.

Her breath fans his hair as she brushes her fingers through the locks. “Always and forever.” She is finally home with him.

The promise between god and human has been made, and they stay like this for eternity.

[mythriteshah]

Valide’s Vow

Several turns of the sun have passed since the first appearance of that strange arctic occurrence in Thavnair’s jungles.  There have been sightings and reports all around the region of similar happenings: glaciated waterways; rime-encrusted shrubs and small spires of ice which glistened like crystals beneath the moonlight, all wrapped up in a beautiful spectacle of snow and frost.

Though these were ephemeral, and would not last longer than a bell’s worth, the Near Eastern natives and tourists alike who came upon these sites beheld them in awe.

Yet as they would remain in the immediate area to bask in this irradiant scenery, their hearts and minds were overwhelmed by feelings of sadness – of longing and loss – so powerful that some knelt to tears at the stark beauty of it all.  These indelible waves of emotions moved even the dancers of Radz-at-Han’s troupes, yet they would find themselves hard-pressed to properly move, attempting to use these areas as backdrops for their performances.

Even the Kreigstanz’s efficacy was suppressed.

What was the cause of this breathtaking yet mystifying sight?  Where next would it arise?  Even the Angels of the Regalia were investigating these events, while others kept the looming threat of the Telophoroi at bay across the realm. For now, however, there was peace within Radz-at-Han, and the sun would begin to set over the land. 

Within the Regalia’s Main Branch Headquarters, Thiji Higuri sat upon his usual sofa, garbed in his exclusive Wamoura robe as he silently watched the Near Eastern sun fall over the horizon.  Nestled across his lap was a claymore made from pure mythrite he had brought over from the Aldenard Branch.  His fingers ran along the cool metal of the blade, staring down at the engraved statement as though he were in a trance.

“As long as you make it out of a battle alive, you are one step closer to fulfilling your dream…”

The words echoed in his mind, along with his memories of the past – some glorious, and some painful. Nyra, who had been perched atop the back of the sofa, was resting her eyes before she heard footsteps approaching behind them.  Her master was too engaged with his mulling to even acknowledge it until he would see another hand resting upon the hilt of the claymore.  Thiji lifted his head upwards to find his mother, Lady Mimizo, grinning with a tall glass of Winter Lassi ready for him.  He could never deny a glass of cool lassi, and eagerly took it, as his mother quietly removed the blade from his lap, resting it against the sofa with the blade down.  She sat next to him, taking another glass from the end table before taking a few sips of her own.

“Your generosity is boundless, my son,” she opened. “How are you faring after the Largesse?”

He was silent.  Not because he did not have an answer for her, but because he did not know how.  But Mimizo knew her son well, and could easily persuade him to speak his mind.  She reassured him with a soft hand upon his, staring directly at the Mythrite Sultan. “Naught but us are here, my beloved son. Do not be afraid.”

“Not afraid, Mother,” he began.  “I am merely… tired.  This realm always has problems arising, and despite all the efforts these ‘adventurers’ keep expending to stave them off, I had not dared to believe that things would soon arrive at our doorstep.  Our non-aggression pact with Garlemald maintained our neutrality between it and the other continents, and we flourished immensely as a result… Now the same sick drama unfolds again, and all the realm faces conflict.”

“And we will see it through together!” Mimizo stated.  “Yes, you may have hung up the mantle of adventurer, but that means naught.  You are still more than capable of defending our home without bearing such a title.  And perhaps this is all a sign!  You may have kept your edge sharp with your secret training, but perhaps it is now time to show Hydaelyn what the new and improved Mythrite Sultan can do.”

Thiji sighed, reclining in his seat as he took another long sip of his lassi.  He wasn’t in the mood to go charging into battle and felling scores and scores of whomever or whatever was unfortunate enough to stand in his path of carnage. Thiji may have enjoyed the life of battle and glory for a time, but that was behind him. He is now the head of one of Eorzea’s most prominent providers of the gemcraft and textile industry, not to mention one of its foremost fashion empires.  And just recently, he has essentially become a beacon of generosity and goodwill thanks to their Fourth Annual Largesse, which had just concluded not even a sennight ago.

“New?  Improved?  Perhaps…” he spoke.  “… But I don’t wish for that life again – stamping out primal incursions and the occasional onslaught of ravenous beasts; delving into parts unknown to pacify the surrounding area… Such stress would only accelerate my aging; my ice blue and silver white tresses would turn grey before I even reach thirty.”

And even if he did return to the forefront, a thought lingered in his head – more painfully irksome than any obstacle he has thus far faced.  He needed to finish the remainder of his lassi in order to get it out, however…

“And what of my dream, Mother…?  What of that?”

Mimizo paused for a moment, looking over her shoulder to inspect the claymore with Nyra.  She then placed her glass on the table and scooched closer to her son.  Thiji’s gaze remained fixed to the setting sun, his eyes welling up with tears, which made Mimizo’s motherly instincts kick in.

“Oh, Thiji… Let it out, my son,” she cooed, comforting him with an embrace only a mother could give. He did not sob, but silent tears did indeed fall from his smooth face, and Mimizo did her best to dry them, not wanting to see her firstborn’s face marred so.  “The dream you so cherished is a beautiful one indeed.  There is nothing nobler and purer than fighting to protect someone you love so dearly.  And when you return from the peril – when you emerge victorious amidst the ashes – your dearest is there, welcoming you back with open arms.  Even when the entire world was against her, you stood your ground – just like the knight did in the play.”

“But I am no knight, Mother,” Thiji replied with his head lowered.  “I don’t even have a sorceress… All my aspirations – all my desires – ‘twas all weighed upon realizing that romantic dream.  I pursued this for so many winters in a desperate bid to uphold the title of Sorceress Knight, only to be shunned again and again by the cursed Lover and Spinner both.  What am I now?”

“A man with nothing to lose,” Mimizo quickly answered, as if she had waited to say that for many moons. “There are many things in this realm to be feared, and one of which is a son of man who has seen much, been dealt enough cruel hands, and endured numerous hardships.  You became a Dark Knight after what transpired in Coerthas, and from there you channeled your emotions into a weapon.  You were younger then, but now those same feelings have been honed – refined into something deadly. You have tamed it, Thiji, and now you can control it into a power far greater than what you’ve wielded thus far.”

The lamenting Sultan looked past her mother to see the object beside the end table - the picture his niece and nephew drew of him holding hands with the Sultana of his dreams. It was a reminder that somewhere, she was out there, waiting for him… somewhere.

“Your heart is enormous and golden, my son.  Those who are the most gracious and kind are the loneliest; those who are the most downtrodden always wear the brightest smiles, and those who are the most damaged and broken… are the wisest.  This is nothing to be ashamed over – it is a universal truth.  Your sorrow… your grief… your loss… your longing... you’ve made it into something beautiful, and it stands before you to this day: the Regalia. Your Angels would agree, as would your father.  Your dream of becoming a Sorceress’s Knight is not dead.”

Nyra flew down and perched herself atop Thiji’s head, reassuring him with a nod.  “Even Nyra is with you, as is Glacius,” Mimizo added.  He still seemed unsure about that statement, given how long he has been without a Sultana.  Some people were even referring to him jokingly as the “Mythrite Bachelor” for arguably being one of the longest-running single nobles in the realm.  Little did Thiji know, however, that his mother would have plans for him in the coming summers.

Moments later, they would receive a ring from his linkpearl.  Thiji had immediately regained his composure as if nothing had ever happened over the past few minutes, answering the call while Mimizo listened in.

“My Sultan!  It’s Sesena!  We just spotted a sizeable army of Voidsent bombs approaching from the south!  We’re holding them off at the beachhead, but they seem to be attracted by all the ambient aether from these weird ice sites!”

“Or it’s probably due to the fact that the Moonfire Faire’s coming early…” Sosona joked.  “We’re not sure who or what’s leading them, but we know they’re close if they appearing in such numbers.”

“Ensure they are contained within the southern beachfront; if any of our native warriors are present, support them as necessary,” Thiji ordered.  “I will join you anon.”

“Yes, My Sultan!” Sesena and Sosona replied before ending the transmission.  Thiji’s countenance became one of tranquil fury as he jumped from his sofa to obtain the claymore, only to be stopped by a soft hand to his forearm.

“No,” his mother said sternly with a shake of her head.  Her son arched a brow, questioning Mimizo’s actions.  Then, she would lift the folds of her outer robe to reveal a pair of bladed fans that were holstered at her waist.  The Mythrite Sultan’s eyes widened upon acknowledging its appearance, meeting his mother’s gaze with a slight head shake.

“They’re not ready for this, Mother,” Thiji said in defense.

“Precisely, Thiji,” Mimizo immediately replied, “which is all the more reason for you to make them get ready.  Victory in battle is important, but so is making a statement. You, my first and greatest son, who has helped bring our slogan and motto into prominence, have all the capabilities to show our enemies why they should never cross the Regalia or the Near East’s finest.  Show them your true power, Thiji.”

He hesitated.  Thiji always tried his hardest not to reveal his well-guarded secret that was his redoubtable skill as a dancer.  However, there was no reason to fear, for the enemy was at his doorstep, and the only ones who would bear witness to his performance were natives of the Near East.  Realizing this, he sighed away his doubts and turned away from his mother, making his way to the dresser where he would begin donning his dancer attire: a shirt-and-sarouel combo, with babouches to match. After checking his nails for any blemishes or marks, he nodded to his reflection before Nyra provided the finishing touch: the blue hydrangea corsage, which was nestled right above his left ear.  Once his transformation was complete, he eagerly took the fans from Mimizo, who was grinning from ear to ear.  Grasping one in each hand, they gave off a soft hum, pulsing an icy blue as it resonated with his aetherial signature.  Thiji then flicked his wrists, unfolding them as they released tiny particles of frost from their bladed tips, beholding the majesty of these weapons for but a brief moment before folding them once more.

Mimizo approached her son and cupped his face with her hands before giving him a loving smile.

“Now you are most rightfully equipped, Thiji,” she spoke.  “Embrace your sorrow.  Accept it, and bring the beauty of winter to your friends and foes.  Steal their hearts; make them weep; leave them breathless. Everyone has their part to play, and you’ve been on an intermission for far too long.  And now the stage is set, my son.  Your finest hour awaits.”

With empowered resolve and vigor, Thiji holstered the fans at his waist and left the chambers.  Nyra flew in close after him as he would then begin to call for Glacius and his mate, Suki, to carry him into battle. And as the Mythrite Sultan would vacate the Main Branch Headquarters and the city-state proper, Mimizo watched silently as he disappeared into the jungle thicket, her brows furrowed in determination.

“Thiji… whether it comes a moon from now, or two summers hence, I swear that, on my title as Valide Sultan, you will have your dream restored; you will have your Sultana…”

“I swear it.”