#and that village in its entirety was the first offender

[lumiereandcogsworth]

just pictured adam wearing a “villeneuve’s #1 hater” t-shirt and made myself laugh

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

Trigger Warning: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

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Chapter 5/?: Housewarming

Sasuke spars with Naruto for the better portion of the afternoon into evening, until they are both sufficiently exhausted and slightly sunburned, on the condition that he will eat anywhere but Ichiraku’s and anything but ramen for the dinner his friend is trying to goad him into after. Naruto agrees all too quickly, grinning too much for his liking, and saying a little duplicitously, “That so? Happens that I know a place!”

The blond refuses to tell him where he’s leading him after their fight finally concludes in a draw, weaving tiredly through village streets around six at night with bruised ribs. Sasuke begins to suspect it’s an elaborate ruse to lure him to his house to eat. Sure enough, eventually they turn a corner and marigold, cobalt, and fuchsia invade his line of vision.

“You’re so stupid. I’m not eating anything you’ve put your hands on.”

Naruto laughs, evidently not the slightest bit offended. “Don’t worry, Hinata-chan made me a bunch of food for the next few days! There’s more than enough to share, and I haven’t touched any of it.”

Sasuke grumbles, but his friend assures him that at least some of it’s not ramen, so he acquiesces cautiously and follows him through the threshold of his home.

It is pretty nice, as Sakura said, though he’s sure that’s because of the dobe’s wife and not him, and what he’s comparing it to - Naruto’s old apartment, littered with trash and expired food items in the fridge - doesn’t set a very high bar in the first place. The house has wood floors, and a spacious kitchen with plenty of storage, at least from what he discerns when he first walks in. He assumes he’s going to be forced on the tour shortly to view the rest of it.

There is an absolute mountain of pre-prepared food in clear containers when his friend opens the fridge. Sasuke will admit pretty much everything looks good, though he’s not sure what specifically the dobe plans on them eating. He’s not sure Naruto knows, either; he stares at the contents of the fridge for a long minute, squinting as if making a life-changing decision.

“...Does she think you can’t feed yourself or something?” Sasuke deadpans.

Naruto laughs nervously, in a way that gives Sasuke the impression that Hinata Uzumaki might not be as quiet and reserved as most people assume, at least behind closed doors. His friend almost sounds fearful, as if there may be consequences for him if he doesn’t eat what his wife has prepared for him in her absence in its entirety.

“...Or she just knows you’d eat instant ramen the whole time she was gone, otherwise.” This time it’s not a question.

Naruto has the grace to at least feign embarrassment. “Well, uh, you know what they say… Quickest way to a man’s heart is through his food, or whatever!” Sasuke wonders for a short few seconds what kind of repercussion Hinata could possibly be holding over him, but then remembers Kakashi’s warning earlier in the day, and decides abruptly that he doesn’t care to further pursue that train of thought.

Eventually they decide on vegetable and shrimp tempura with plain onigiri, all premade. Sasuke is hungry, and tempura has a high caloric intake. Naruto dumps the tempura in a mysterious device called an air fryer to warm, and while they wait, the blond shows him around.

It’s commodious, with extra bedrooms as Sakura said. Most of the furniture is rich dark wood, accented with slightly vibrant colors, inclusive of the walls, that are perhaps a little intense for his own preferences. It is obvious that Naruto helped pick the paint colors, but he assumes Hinata must like them, too. The Hyuga are an old clan, deeply rooted in tradition as the Uchiha had been; Sasuke imagines that many of the interiors at the Hyuga residences are varying shades of white, gray, or brown, also with darker wood, as many of the Uchiha households had been; a more colorful interior would have been a change for her. He supposes a proclivity for brightness makes sense, given that she’d married Naruto. Their house overall smells vaguely like jasmine blossom and nectarine, though not overbearingly so. Naruto’s apartment had never smelled like that, so it must be Hinata’s doing. Sasuke spies a candle the color of honey that might be the source, perched on a corner table.

It sits next to a framed copy of their original Team Seven group portrait. Sasuke eyes it as they pass through the living room again to the back door.

It opens up to a sizable backyard situated on the north side of the house, framed with a fence for privacy and a number of lush trees, dangling greenery swaying in the breeze. A small garden sits in the far back left corner, the area with the least tree cover; it’s been recently tilled and sowed, small sprouts beginning to poke through the soil.

“We get lots of fireflies back here in the summer. Hinata-chan loves them, so we sit back here all the time! She’s thinking of getting a birdbath, too,” Naruto mentions fondly, a bit more hushed than his usual timbre; he must have some good memories back here already.

“It’s nice.” Sasuke remarks at the end when they go back inside, because it is, and his friend grins from ear to ear, stupidly proud. Then the timer dings from the other room, and they eat.

Hinata’s cooking is good. Sasuke sorts out all of the sweet potato chunks to shove onto Naruto’s plate, but eats the rest: squash, bell peppers, eggplant, broccoli, and shrimp, coated in spiced breading that tastes slightly of rosemary, along with the onigiri, more simple but also filling.

Naruto prattles throughout as always, but chews his food before launching into each new topic; it really must be a habit by now. Sasuke doesn’t hold the scroll over his head just yet; he figures Saturday night will be enough opportunity for that. Instead, he solidifies plans for another spar, this time late Saturday morning, because through the nearly endless chatter he has learned that Naruto’s schedule includes normal weekend days off, unless assigned a mission.

The dobe asks him to go drinking with him afterwards; he declines, but thanks him for dinner. Eventually, he departs, after his best friend reminds him for the fourth time today to meet up at Ichiraku’s on Saturday night at six.

As he walks home, lone hand in his pocket, Sasuke finds himself pondering once again what Sakura’s living space will be like. She doesn’t strike him as someone who would like darker wood, for some reason. It’s an apartment, so it will be smaller than Naruto’s house for sure. He assumes it’s probably one bedroom, like his own.

The cadence of crickets creeps in again as he leaves the more lively area of town, buoyed into something quieter by the swishing of leaves through the trees. It’s a sound he craved on his travels often. There are similar sounds elsewhere - insects and trees are not uncommon - but something about Konoha’s particular lilt sticks out in his memories. A clement wind from the north carries an aroma tinged with flowers and loam. When he turns the corner, the breeze blows just right to shift his hair away from his left eye, and his neck heats as he thinks of Sakura’s words from this morning, not for the first time today.

Once he gets back to his apartment, he strips, then tosses his clothing directly into the washing machine, before enjoying a long, near-boiling shower; after the workout he’s had, he needs it. He thinks as he scrubs that this way he won’t need another one until after he gets back from seeing Sakura tomorrow. He contemplates whether they will eat somewhere, since he’s meeting her at the hospital at four. He’d liked the tea shop; she probably knows of other places worth trying.

He is so exhausted that he saves washing his dishes for tomorrow and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. His last thoughts are of gentle jade eyes and kind words murmured in an exam room.

Sasuke is thankful that he doesn’t have another nightmare, but his brain decides to fill the time in other demiurgic ways involving soft fingertips, and when morning comes, he does need another shower, after all; this time, a cold one.

He pinches his nose guiltily as frigid water engulfs him, until his teeth are near chattering. Once that’s done, he throws on a black shirt and pants before grabbing a book. He huddles up under his comforter to chase away the chill, drowning his thoughts in icy history ripe with distraction rather than lasciviousness.

He finishes it eventually, convinced towards the end that he needs to acquire a small lamp; he doesn't like overhead lighting in general, but he especially doesn’t like it for reading. His teeth have stopped clacking together, so he gets out of bed and spends the first portion of the day washing dishes, sharpening his chokuto, and then making lunch, seared beef with green tea noodles and miso dressing. It’s simple, but good, and filling. His throat hurts less than yesterday, but he has another cough drop after, because it helps.

He washes and dries the dishes from today, putting them away before he leaves his apartment to pick up a few more groceries to fill the time. The market he visits is sold out of loose leaf sencha tea; the one he’d visited the first day in his apartment hadn’t had any, either. He settles for a small box of single-serve packets for the time being, and has a cup upon his return to his apartment. It’s not bad, but it doesn’t taste quite as fresh. He reads more of his other book for a bit, until it’s time to leave to meet Sakura at the hospital.

He leaves a little early again, because he’s eager to see her.

Sakura greets him cheerily, lovely with a tote bag on her shoulder that is starting to become familiar. She tells him that she dropped off his paperwork earlier today, and that his bloodwork has all come back normal. He thanks her, and they spend a nice late afternoon together, roaming around while she points out areas of interest, most of it new development on the more southern part of the village. Wandering with her is much preferable to solivagant ambling on his own, he is coming to find.

He learns that Sunday and Monday are indeed her days off, unless there is an emergency; she mentions that she has a standing date with Ino every Monday morning for training and lunch, but other than that, she keeps her free time pretty open.

“Would you… like to do something on Sunday, then?” He asks carefully, hand twitching a little in his pocket and stomach churning a little in nervousness, though she has given him no reason to be. He hopes he’s not being avaricious by asking for too much of her time. She might prefer to spend some time alone on her days off.

Glittering green eyes beam up at him in response. “Of course,” she answers, and the storm brewing in his belly settles while the vines reach upwards into his chest cavity, because she says it with an inflection that implies there’s nothing she would rather do.

“I think it’s supposed to rain,” Sakura tells him as they walk further southwest; they’re nearing the edge of the village now. “So we probably don’t want to walk around too much. I usually…” Her eyes flick to him, and then away, as if self-conscious. “I usually curl up inside with a book on rainy days. Or... watch documentaries. Sometimes I play go or chess.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him, because reading on a rainy day is very characteristic of her, but so are the other two things, which he hadn’t known.

Then she’s asking, somewhat shyly, “What do you like to do, on a rainy day?”

It’s a good question; he hasn’t been home for a rainy day in a long time. When he was traveling, he would find shelter - an inn, or the inside of a tree or a cave - and do various tasks that needed doing, like sharpening weapons or writing a letter to her. On those days, he would also often read her old correspondence to him, too, but he’d be embarrassed to admit that to her.

When he was younger, though, he would complete any neglected chores in the morning, and then spend the rest of the day reading, though he did it mainly for productivity to the point of distraction. Sasuke did not like being cooped up in his house for long periods of time, for obvious reasons. Occasionally he would venture to a training ground anyway, if the rain was more light drizzle than downpour, but most of the time he opted not to, because getting sick would delay his progress more than sitting out a day; he could advance in other ways, look into new techniques and practice taijutsu forms inside, if he really focused.

If it rained heavily for more than a day or two consecutively, though, trapping him in the house, he tended to struggle more with it. Sometimes he would stare at a kunai or shuriken left behind in Itachi’s room for too long, and end up sticking his wrist out a back window to watch the water cleanse the wound he’d carved into his skin until it coagulated. It wasn't something he did often, because he knew it was stupid and weak despite the small semblance of control it afforded. It also wasn’t something he only did when it was raining, but being entombed in that house due to inclement weather poured salt into his baser self-destructive tendencies, irritation burning until it was too much and it had to escape his skin to go somewhere. When it rained, it felt like it was an opportunity to rinse it out of him, a tiny increment of relief, rivulets reaching down to turn him over in the grave of dark wood and dull paint colors it felt like he was suffocating in.

Sasuke would go get groceries most of the time, before it got to that point, even if he didn't need them, just to get out of the house for a bit and away from the temptation. He’d come back soaked, tracking water everywhere before curling up in his bed to try to chase away the chill with more distraction, books or scrolls or trying to watch something. Eventually he’d warm up on the outside, but his insides still felt icy for a long time, most days.

He's in an apartment now, though, a long way from what used to be the Uchiha District. He takes a grounding breath that he hopes is subtle, trying to emerge from the glaucous recollection and subsequent smothering feeling lining his lungs. “...I do any chores that need doing, and then I like to read, too,” he finally answers. It's the truth, now. Keen but soft eyes hold his for a moment, and he worries maybe he didn’t fully succeed at the subtlety, but she doesn’t press. He’s thankful for it; he doesn’t want to think about that when he’s with her.

They make plans to have lunch and spend the afternoon reading their respective books at her apartment. He might finish his other book by Sunday’s end; maybe she would go to the library with him again Monday afternoon, if she’s not too busy. He wouldn’t mind playing go or chess, either, if she asks him. It would be a challenge; he hasn’t played either in years. He’ll save it for Sunday, though.

“I can cook,” she offers, looking very pleased, which makes his heart flutter in his chest. “Maybe soup and something to go with it, if it’s chillier? I have a slow cooker I can start it in, the morning of.”

He agrees immediately; he likes soup, and it’s been a while since he’s had a good bowl. Most of the soup he made on the road was limited to whatever ingredients were readily available, with simple water as stock. The result was usually something bland, warming but not hearty by even the barest standards; soup made in a kitchen is much better. He’ll eat any kind, really, especially if it’s cold out. He wonders what Sakura’s cooking is like; she excels at most everything she does, so he imagines it must be good.

By just after five, they’ve ended up at a fairly new and distinctive quadrant of training grounds a little beyond the southwest edge of the village, sharp quartz rock jutting up from uneven ground in several spots and a small creek running down its center. Parts of it sit at a raised elevation, offering a unique vantage point of Konoha. Sasuke realizes as he eyes the surroundings that he would like to train here sometime; the craggy terrain could prove an interesting element to contend with, an exercise of both the mind and body. He’s glad she showed him; he wouldn’t have ventured to this side of town for a long time, on his own.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, thinking he could buy her dinner if she knows any places nearby. It’ll be busier now that it’s dinner time, once they get back into the village, but he doesn’t mind.

Sakura doesn’t answer at first, and instead starts to fiddle inside her bag. His brows knit in confusion, but then she pulls out two bottles of water, two bento boxes, and two pairs of chopsticks.

They’re in reusable containers, not takeout ones, which means she must have made them herself. Sasuke stares at the one she gives him, dumbfounded; it’s filled to the brim with cooked rice topped with black sesame seeds, tonkatsu with sauce, shredded cabbage, green beans goma-ae, and a large number of tomato wedges. Her own has less tomato; a few grapes round it out instead. He also notices the tonkatsu sauce is already poured over hers, but his is in a small sealed container, so he can eat the pork plain if he decides he doesn’t care for the tangy but also slightly sweet dressing.

“I thought we could eat these here... if you want. We could avoid the dinner rush that way. I made the sauce a little less sweet than usual, but I still wasn’t sure, so I thought I’d let you decide,” Sakura offers, soft and kind. He’s too stunned to say anything right away, so she adds somewhat sheepishly, “If... you’d rather get something else, though, that’d be fine, too.”

He thanks her very quietly, then, a little dazed and throat closing up, because he would not rather get something else; he hasn’t had a bento in a long time, let alone one that was prepared specifically for him. The training ground is empty, so they hop up one of the small cliffs and eat it there as she suggests, in view of Hokage Rock framed by trees. It is very good, clearly made with fresh ingredients; the pork is juicy on the inside and texturally crunchy on the outside. The sauce is good, too; not too sweet. He makes sure to eat all of it, as well as to tell her he enjoyed it at the end. She flushes at the compliment; she is very pretty, pink hair and pink cheeks to match.

"How long do you think it'll be before Naruto's up there?" She asks him after they’ve been sitting there for the better part of an hour, food long finished and eerily echoing his thoughts from a few nights ago.

Sasuke regards the mountain, empty space next to Kakashi's likeness. He recalls dinner yesterday at his friend’s home, Naruto sharing food with him made by his wife, and Ichiraku’s the day before that, how he no longer talks with his mouth full, and how he has not pressured him to share about Sakura. Sasuke is sure his rare tact won't last forever, and that he'll be hounded about his relationship with her eventually, but he has appreciated the space gifted to him. For all of their teammate’s fatuousness, he really has grown. If he can get an increment better at deciphering scrolls...

"Not long," he responds eventually. "Five years. Maybe six, with the sculpting."

Sakura nods in agreement, an evocative smile playing at her lips; she must suppose the same.

He speculates, then, tearing his gaze away from her mouth, who else they will see on the mountain in their lifetimes, in the empty space extending to the right. He thinks Naruto is the type to live to be pretty old, especially if Hinata is coercing him into eating balanced nutritional meals now; he might make it to a point where he actually retires from being Hokage, like Tsunade, or Kakashi, eventually.

The next Hokage could be in the village already, maybe in the Academy still, or a Genin. Sasuke remembers a scrawny kid with atrocious camouflage techniques who used to follow Naruto around and challenge him to battles over the position; it may have been the Third's grandson. He hadn’t seemed particularly talented at the time, but then again, neither was Naruto at that age. It’s possible that the kid has progressed since then. It’s also possible, though, that the next Hokage has not even been born yet.

Sasuke walks Sakura home a couple of hours later, dark violet light of dusk cast on her through diamonds on her doorstep. Her expression is the same as the other night, eyes sparking with gold affection, so he kisses her again, hesitantly hoping it’s okay, because he really wants to. Apparently it is, because she rests her hands on his shoulders and kisses him back without an ounce of uncertainty. His hand is free this time, so he rests it on her waist carefully, and enjoys a sweet breath of spring.

XXX

Sasuke arrives at Ichiraku’s at six on the dot to find both of his teammates already there, with an empty seat left between them and three glasses of water on familiar currant red counters. He is unsurprised to see that Kakashi’s not here yet. There’s an empty seat to Naruto’s left that is clearly being saved for their old sensei using one of Naruto’s sandals, off his foot; it’s pretty busy, being a Saturday night. He also notes Sakura’s tote bag situated beneath the counter, underneath the stool she’s sitting on; perhaps her afternoon with Ino went longer than anticipated, and she hasn’t had time to go home yet.

Both of them turn their heads as he approaches, brightening and greeting him in unison beneath fluorescent lighting.

“Teme!”

“Hey, Sasuke-kun.”

It is terribly nostalgic. He takes the place between them, responding, “Sakura. Dobe.” The streets themselves are busy, but within the actual enclosure of Ichiraku’s, it’s not as loud.

“We haven’t ordered yet,” Sakura tells him good-naturedly, smiling and pushing him a menu. His gaze lingers on her for a second before looking down at it. She’s pretty beneath fluorescent lighting, too.

“We’re not fucking waiting for Kakashi-sensei, though. I’m hungry , and who knows when he’ll turn up? He’s probably reading one of his stupid books and lost track of time again,” Naruto grumbles, peckish, from his other side. His friend’s stomach growls, as if on cue.

Sakura laughs, then sighs from his right. “He’s probably lost in a pile of paperwork. At least this time it might be true.”

“...He might be trying to finish breaking the cipher on that scroll you can’t seem to solve,” Sasuke quips smugly towards his left, eyeing the menu, though he doesn’t really need to; he knows his order already.

He is way too satisfied by Naruto’s huff. “Ugh, I’m fucking sick of staring at that thing. It makes me feel like my brain is melting. I wish he’d just give me a mission. I want to fight something.”

“I’m sure you’ll both get one eventually,” Sakura remarks with confidence. “Try to enjoy the peacetime a little. It’s a good thing. Besides, if you really want to, you can just go battle it out at the training grounds...” She eyes them both with a critical and calculating scrutiny now, a single pink brow arched and something in her tone shifting. “...Though by the bruising, I’m sure that’s already happened.”

There is a fist shaped smear of violet he knows is on his forearm, clearly visible from her vantage point. At least his ribs are hidden; there are nasty bruises on three of them from the first spar, and another two developing from this morning. Naruto looks a little scared, when he glances over at him; despite the fact that the blond is laughing nervously, his hand is held awkwardly, obviously trying to shield the bruise he has on his chin, turning purplish-blue by now.

It was another draw. Sasuke expects he’ll be able to beat him, next time. He’s found he’s a bit rusty, not having too many excuses to use his more advanced techniques in a long while.

Sakura rolls her eyes after a tense moment, and the spell is broken. “If either of you break anything, just don’t be stupid; come to the hospital or my place so I can fix it.”

“Sure, sure, anything you say, Sakura-chan!” The dobe responds next to him, hesitant laughter still tinged a little with fear. Sasuke nods, then thinks for about the fifth time today that he’s going to see her apartment tonight.

Once Sasuke slides the menu back, Naruto catches Teuchi’s attention; the blond orders garlic tonkotsu, Sasuke orders hakata tonkotsu, and Sakura orders shoyu ramen. It’s the same as what they used to get when they were kids.

It’s a nice evening for this, he thinks.

“So what’s new at the hospital, Sakura-chan?” Naruto asks conversationally. “Anything exciting?”

Sasuke shifts his gaze to his right, where Sakura looks as if she’s giving it a lot of thought, lips shifted to the side; he forces his eyes upward. “Eh, nothing too exciting, yet. Just appointments and research, for the most part. I’ve got some long-term projects I’m working on, but I’m just kind of waiting to see how the data pans out at this point while I monitor. It’ll be another month or so yet for anything concrete there, I think.” She cocks her head to the side a little. “I’ve got a transplant patient we’re waiting on an organ for, so we’ve been trying to prep her so she’s ready; different medicinal cocktails, testing, and such.” She pauses. “Tsunade-shishou sent over some things that arrived this morning, though, and one of them was a sample of a new poison found in a few Shinobi in Wind. I guess that’s… interesting. She’s going to work on it, too, so hopefully we get an antidote quickly, but I started some tests on it today.”

Sasuke’s lips turn downwards. That doesn’t sound good.

“Ehhh, between you and Granny Tsunade, I’m sure you’ll find an antidote soon!” Naruto chirps positively from his left. Then he quiets, in a manner that suggests he’s cogitative. “How bad?”

“Well, it’s slow enough progression-wise that they’ll live if we find an antidote in time; they’ve got at least a month, we think. Maybe more, if Tsunade-shishou keeps siphoning it out via the Delicate Illness Extraction Technique. It’s not... pleasant for the patient, obviously, but it works. She’s already run most of the preliminary tests; calcium chloride, pyridoxine, sodium bicarbonate, so we at least have some stuff ruled out.,, There might be others eventually, though, so it would be best to nip it in the bud and have an antidote readily available, really.”

“...What do you know about it so far?” Sasuke asks. “In terms of the type of toxin.” Having been dosed numerous times with poisons to build up resistance, he knows he is essentially immune to many of them, but a new one popping up is never something one should disregard in their line of work.

Jade shifts to him. “We suspect it might be a mixture of several venoms, plus a heavy neurotoxin. Epinephrine doesn’t work at all, though; that’s why we’re leaning towards it being a combo. Something has to be continuing the effects while that cycles through the system.”

Neurotoxins are troublesome; a mixture with it is nothing to scoff at. “It causes paralysis?” He questions.

Sakura inclines her head in a nod. “Immediately after Tsunade-shishou uses the Extraction Technique, though, they gain some movement back, so if we can find an antidote, it won’t be permanent.”

There is a contemplative silence.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re gonna kill a lot of rats,” Naruto finally jokes from his left, gauche as ever and clearly trying to lighten the mood.

“They’re mice, not rats,” Sakura responds, rolling her eyes. “But yes. We probably will. Necessary sacrifice, I suppose.”

There is a substantial length of time that feels heavy, even with the distant background noise of people going about their evening.

Sakura is the one to break it. “What about you, Naruto? Anything new? Hinata’s on a mission, I heard. What have you been doing to fill the time?”

Sasuke glances back to his left, where Naruto is grinning suspiciously.

“You mean other than kicking the shit out of teme?”

Sasuke narrows his eyes. “As I recall, both spars were draws, dead last .”

Naruto laughs, unbothered and waving his hand jokingly. “Eh, really I dunno. Mostly just helping Kakashi-sensei at the office. He’s torturing me with homework , since Hinata-chan’s gone.”

Suddenly their food is being placed in front of them. His smells good, charred pork belly swimming in spring onion, nori, mushrooms, noodles, and ginger. Sakura says thank you to Teuchi, and then he hears her break her chopsticks. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Hypothetical mission assemblages again?”

Naruto groans as he snaps his own chopsticks. “Yeah, it’s a nightmare. I know most of the people our age fine enough, but you basically have to memorize everyone’s abilities, strengths, and weaknesses, or you spend hours doing it because you have to refer to The Binder.” The way the dobe articulates The Binder makes it sound ominous.

“Huh. Now that I know it’s a nightmare, I’ll make sure to give you even more of it,” a familiar voice lilts behind them.

The three of them turn, and Kakashi is behind them, clad in simple Jonin dress instead of Hokage robes, for all appearances completely unbothered by the fact that he’s nearly twenty minutes late.

All three of them give him a withering look, slightly tinged with nostalgia, and say nothing.

“Sorry. Got lost in a pile of paperwork.”

Their old sensei removes Naruto’s shoe from his saved seat, and places it directly on the blond’s head. It promptly falls off and nearly lands in the idiot’s bowl of ramen as he splutters to catch it. Kakashi orders hakata tonkotsu without even glancing at the menu, same as Sasuke.

“So. Isn’t this nice,” The Hokage drawls. “How are we all? Enjoying the springtime?”

“It’s good! Hinata-chan planted a garden! We’re gonna have broccoli, and sweet potatoes, and maybe even pumpkin!” Naruto responds as he shoves his shoe unceremoniously back onto his foot before reaching for his chopsticks again.

“The weather has been nice," Sakura pipes up from behind him, though her tone of voice makes it sound as though more than that has been nice. Something in him twists pleasantly.

“...It’s good,” Sasuke comments last, before taking another bite of his food. It’s an understatement.

Kakashi looks content, head nodding in agreement. “Everything’s really greening up. I think it’s going to be a good year. No wars on the horizon, either, at least that I know of; that’s always preferable. Gets one into a reflective headspace.”

“About what, having time to read porn in your office?” Naruto quips sarcastically in between inhaling bites of bean sprouts and noodles, though Kakashi doesn’t seem at all fazed. Sasuke hasn’t seen any orange books in the times he’s visited the Hokage’s office so far, but he’d been sure they were stowed somewhere within easy access.

“Can’t a Hokage take a break to enjoy fine literature once in a while?” Their old sensei asks good-naturedly, but Naruto rolls his eyes as Sasuke, and he assumes Sakura, continue to eat their food at a normal pace.

“Fine literature? As if ! You forget I’ve read all those books. They’re full of good ideas, sure, but they’re still fucking porn ! And anyways, no, you can’t take a break. Not when you’re piling homework on me like I’m in the Academy still. I know , by the way.”

Now Kakashi’s smile turns a little nervous. To most people, the change would be imperceptible, but it’s there for those that know him well. “Know what, exactly?”

The blond’s eyes narrow accusingly. “That you’re actually using my homework to put together squads for real fucking missions! I shouldn’t have to find out from Shikamaru. In the Academy, they expel kids for that shit.”

Judging by the caught expression on Kakashi’s face, there is at least some element of truth to this, which means Naruto must be doing an okay job, at the very least. Interesting .

“So a sensei isn’t allowed to appreciate and value the advice of a cherished student?”

“Whatever. Just keep giving me days off when Hinata-chan’s home and maybe I won’t tattle to the other kages.”

Kakashi smiles. “I can do that.”

There is a beat where everyone besides their sensei is quiet, taking a few bites of their food. Sasuke’s is good; he’s hungry. Going near all out against Naruto has given him a little more of an appetite, the past few days. He’s been trying to eat more, as Sakura suggested.

“Sakura, I received an interesting letter from Tsunade today.” their old sensei drawls after a bit. Sasuke shifts slightly. She’s swallowing a bite, and looking curious.

“About the poison?”

Sasuke glances back to his left in time to see Kakashi nod. “The poison, and also other worthwhile projects. Let me know if you need any funding for such things, and I’ll find a way to take care of it.”

Sasuke wonders what kinds of projects, but assumes it might be rather confidential when Sakura blinks, then nods, answering simply, “Thank you, Kakashi-sensei; it’s greatly appreciated.” Perhaps it has to do with her research.

Naruto finishes off his first bowl, and orders another. Now that he’s not inhaling food, he begins chattering again.

“So anyways, when are you gonna send us all on a mission together again?! I feel like I’ve been trapped in that office with you like an old croney for eighty-four years.”

Suddenly Kakashi appears very tired, eyes narrowing in exhaustion. “If you feel trapped now, I’d hate to see how you feel in five years or so.” He pauses, as Naruto narrows his eyes at him and crosses his arms. “I have a lost cat mission you could complete, I suppose. Or would you rather clean up the river? It’s good weather for it. Water’s warming up.”

Naruto looks at him indignantly. “As if. I want a real mission!! One that suits our strengths.”

The way Kakashi considers Naruto then is fond. Sasuke vaguely recollects a time where Naruto begged the Third for a ‘real’ mission a long time ago; that must be what he’s remembering.

“Well, the problem with that is that Sakura formally outranks you,” he finally retorts. His food shows up a second after he finishes talking.

Naruto groans. “This shit again?” Sasuke assumes this must be a running thing Kakashi likes to hold over his friend’s head. Technically it’s correct; Sakura had told him she’d made Jonin at the exams in Earth Country a while back, in one of her earlier letters. He’s sure she could have made Jonin sooner, but she’d been occupied with things at the hospital, he thinks. Naruto and himself, meanwhile, had never taken the exams, though it hadn’t affected their ability to take A and S-rank missions, given their role in ending the war; they held honorary Jonin positioning in all but the actual title itself, and weren’t held back from missions because of it in any way, but still, Sakura is the only one of their team that has taken them officially and passed. Naruto had told him that Tsunade didn’t want to promote Sakura like that, despite her contribution in ending the war, too; he’d assumed it was because the Fifth didn’t care for Sakura’s promotion to be in any way weighed down by assumptions of nepotism, especially with her taking over the hospital. Kakashi hadn't, either; he'd assumed for the same reason. Naruto and Sasuke getting special treatment regarding what missions they can accept is fine, because currently they hold no official titles, but with Sakura heading the hospital, it’s a different matter.

“How many times are you gonna hold that over my head?! Quit fucking around already. It’s not my fault Granny Tsunade wanted to show Sakura-chan off to all five nations, and besides, I was literally there, so it’s not like I don’t know.”

Sasuke blinks in sudden interest, as Kakashi quips, “If you were there, why didn’t you take the exams yourself? I seem to remember someone getting banned from the Kage’s seating area. That looks great for a future Hokage candidate, by the way, and was fun to try to de-escalate with the elders of Earth Country. Maybe you could have set a better example if you had also been taking the exams… Though I suppose it would have been embarrassing for you when Sakura beat you in three seconds flat.”

Sakura laughs a little to his right as if she is amused as Naruto complains some more, while Sasuke considers that he has never been given a detailed account of her performance at those exams, though he’s sure it was excellent. He’ll have to ask her or Naruto about it.

Naruto’s still whining. “Come ooooon. Just ONE teensy little mission. No bullshit. We’re all back; you basically have to, it’d be illegal NOT to. It can even be a B-rank.”

Kakashi doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a nice C-rank you two could probably handle.” Sasuke twitches a little, because he knows that’s directed at him, too, now. “Simple escort to Sand. Don’t want to take a prestigious Jonin away from her important work at the hospital, though, for such a measly thing.”

Sakura’s laugh twinkles. “Send Shikamaru. I’m sure he’d love to go.”

Kakashi grins, as if he is in on a joke. “Yes, Naruto, Sasuke, and Shikamaru. That would be an interesting team, to say the least, though perhaps a little overpowered. I’ll think it over… If nothing comes up that we desperately need Shikamaru for, that is.”

Naruto grumbles and turns to finish emptying his second bowl of ramen as Sasuke surmises inwardly, finishing off his own, that it would be an interesting team, even if it was just an escort. From what he knows, Nara is a capable leader and excellent strategist. He’s sure Shikamaru doesn’t like him very much, which is more than fair, but watching Naruto annoy someone else for a change would make the heated trek to Sand bearable. He wonders what Sakura’s comment was about, though. Maybe it was sarcasm, regarding most peoples’ general disdain for the sweltering weather there.

Sasuke notices, as he pushes his bowl forward, now empty, that Kakashi still hasn’t touched his food. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on that. When he glances to his right, he sees that Sakura has finished hers, too.

The restaurant is starting to clear out a little, it being closer to seven now. Naruto finally stops mumbling insults towards Kakashi, and instead peers at him as if he’s waiting for something. Maybe he wants to go home; his friend might have plans after this, though he’s not sure what they would be, given his wife is away.

“...Sorry to disappoint you, Sasuke, but we’ve been less than honest about dinner tonight,” Kakashi begins after meeting Naruto’s gaze. Sasuke’s brow furrows in puzzlement, and the dobe starts grinning smugly. When he glances the other way towards Sakura, she smiles, too, and looks a little guilty.

“It is also… a housewarming party.” The Hokage grins. “Though we thought we’d just have it here, and you could take your gifts home with you tonight.”

Sasuke frowns. “You didn’t need to-”

Naruto butts in, indignant and cutting him off accusingly with a pointed finger, “And don’t even TRY to say no, because I got you the best gift.” Sasuke has a brief premonition of his sparse kitchen cabinets suddenly filled with a month’s supply of instant ramen, and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes. The dobe motions to Teuchi, gesturing towards the inner portion of the ramen stand, just below the counter. Sasuke then recalls the bag beneath Sakura’s chair, and frowns deeper, turning to her; though he’s sure the shoe box was free, she’s already given him the drying rack, which he’s sure was not. She didn’t need to get him anything else.

She just grins at him, eyes flashing with mirth as if she finds this amusing. He’s about to say something - he’s not sure what - when Naruto taps him on the shoulder. He turns, and the most poorly wrapped gift he has ever seen in his life comes into focus, a long thin mess of too much tape and intensely colorful paper, scrunched together haphazardly as if put together by a child with little motor control, and shoved directly into his face.

“...Why did you wrap it?”

His best friend rolls his eyes. “Because it’s a PRESENT, jackass. Besides, you guys wrapped yours too, right?!”

When Naruto looks from their old sensei to their teammate, Kakashi wears a jovial smile that tells him he didn’t, and Sakura doesn’t say anything behind him, but Naruto narrows his eyes, and that’s enough to tell him that she didn’t, either. “What the fuck, you guys are the worst! This is supposed to be a party!!”

Naruto sets the gift down on the counter in front of him, and Sasuke frowns at it stubbornly for a short while. The three of them are staring at him expectantly, though, so he sighs and reluctantly starts to peel the shoddy wrapping job away, curious as to where the idiot got instant ramen that comes in a long skinny box. He’s careful as he peels, so the paper doesn’t fly away in little chunks and litter the restaurant or the ground around them.

His brow creases as he peels away the final bit of paper and tape, because it’s not ramen, after all. Naruto’s gift is a paring board of a unique design, new from the store in an unopened box. The picture shows a maple wood finish, but with small skewers jutting vertically from it on the bottom center, on which one can spear vegetables or fruit to help hold it in place while slicing. It also has a corner guard on the upper left with an edge sealer to help keep other things one wants to slice, like bread or sushi, secure. In addition, it says it has silicone feet, so it doesn’t move around when you use it.

He didn’t know anything like this even existed. It is a surprisingly thoughtful and helpful gift, one that he’s sure comes from a deep understanding of the challenges that come with living with one arm, though Naruto has had the prosthetic, now, for a while.

Sasuke studies it for a long moment, genuinely touched. “...It’s nice. Thank you.” Truth be told, it’s more than nice, and will be incredibly useful. He won’t have to summon a clone anymore to cut things.

Naruto laughs and slaps him on the back, prompting Sasuke to glare at him. “Beat that, losers!” Kakashi smiles and casts his eye towards Sakura behind him, so Sasuke turns, brows furrowed again. She’s pulling a white container out of her bag, now in her lap, and then sliding it on the countertop next to Naruto’s gift.

He can see now that it’s a first aid kit. He looks back to her, meeting green eyes and slightly tinged cheeks. “I thought there might be some things you didn’t have, after traveling for so long.”

This is odd, because all ninja travel with a rudimentary first aid kit at the bare minimum, and Sakura of all people knows this; it’s an occupational hazard and frankly foolish not to. He stares at it as if it is a riddle, trying to figure out what could possibly be inside. Perhaps medicine or painkillers? Even those come in standard first aid kits for ninja, though. A hefty stock of food pills? He supposes he could take those on missions with him, if needed.

He’s sure both Kakashi and Naruto are thinking the same thing, but they don’t comment on it.

Finally, he responds, meeting her eyes, “Thank you.” He’ll open it later, when he’s alone, to see what’s actually in it. She really didn’t need to get him anything.

Her smile grows wider, and her eyes catch the light, gilded fervor that he thinks he could drown in. “You’re welcome.” After a beat, she glances at Kakashi, so Sasuke tears his irises away from flashing jade iridescent with metallic lambency and turns, too. When he does, he sees that Kakashi’s bowl is now empty. He tries to resist an annoyed twitch; he doesn’t know how he keeps pulling this off, after so many years.

Then his old sensei reaches into his vest and pulls out what appears to be a frame; it must have been tucked there this whole time, for safekeeping, out of sight.

When he reaches past Naruto to gift it to him, Sasuke realizes it’s their original Team Seven picture, in the frame he saw sitting on Kakashi’s desk the other day.

His eyes sting as it’s pressed into his hand, thoughts of mask hypervigilance forgotten in an instant in favor of an overwhelming sense of plenary peace and belonging. There is a small inner voice emanating from a house lined with dark wood and darker penchants, gnawing and protesting that he is deeply undeserving, but he extinguishes it for now, just for tonight; the world is not going to end because Kakashi gave him a picture rife with memories. Fighting to remain detached is what got him into trouble in the first place.

Sasuke blinks a few times, and a paper-thin layer of sediment peels away, messy and getting everywhere, like the wrapping paper he tried to collect earlier to avoid a similar problem. Then he utters, “Thank you,” quietly, but loud enough for all three of them to hear.

“No problem. I can get another copy developed from the village archives for my desk,” Kakashi replies, smiling. “It’s good to have you back.”

Time passes somehow both quickly and slowly. The four of them sit there for well over another hour, visiting casually about topics that aren’t as heavy as perplexing poisons. Sasuke moreso listens than genuinely communicates, but he comments every now and then.

Naruto chatters about an elaborate date he’s going to take Hinata on when she gets back to the village, involving feeding ducks at her favorite pond. Sakura mentions that he should bring cinnamon rolls, because that is Hinata’s favorite treat, and Naruto exclaims that he knows, but he also asks Teuchi for a pen to write a reminder on his hand, so he doesn’t forget to pick them up the day after tomorrow when she’s supposed to get back.

Kakashi mentions how he’s supposed to be getting some new mission requests in on Monday morning, so he might have something for Sasuke by then; the dobe is indignant when it doesn’t also include him, and launches into another five minute whining session.

Sakura tells a story about Sai and a misunderstanding involving an order of art supplies that she heard from Ino that morning; apparently, Ino works at the hospital on occasion, both to do some part-time medic duties and to help Sakura, which Sasuke was unaware of. Naruto shudders when Sakura brings up Sai, Ino, and art supplies; Sasuke gets the distinct impression that there is a story there, but doesn’t ask.

It is a little after eight when Kakashi mentions quite astutely that everyone is probably tired and should get going. Naruto laughs mischievously, then, meeting Sasuke’s eyes.

“Teme, what do ya say to all of us going out for a drink or two after this? There’s a fun place just down the road from here.”

Sasuke blinks, because that sounds objectively terrible on any night, let alone a Saturday, and it is not the first time since his return to the village that Naruto has mentioned going to drink; he really wants to get him drunk for some reason. Even though Kakashi has just said they should wrap it up, he looks at Sasuke as if waiting for a response anyways, as though he would actually go with them if they all chose to.

“Can’t. I have plans.”

Naruto huffs and grumbles under his breath about the plans probably involving training or reading or watching his laundry air dry. “Alright, alright. But you can’t escape it forever. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to accept.”

Sasuke smirks, then. “If you can beat me in a spar, I’ll go. Dobe.”

A fire has been lit in blue eyes. “You’re ON.”

Kakashi then sets enough money on the counter for all four of them, at which point they all begin to stand. Sasuke and Sakura both say thank you, but Naruto begins protesting that if he knew he was buying, he would have eaten more. Kakashi smiles cryptically. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. The Hokage position pays lucratively, but I know from experience you’ll eat me out of house and home.”

Naruto and Kakashi wave goodbye and set out to the west, in the general direction of their respective residences. Sasuke and Sakura both watch them go with something like amusement; he can hear Naruto complaining until he’s halfway down the street, which is a feat, because this area of town is still quite busy.

He turns to the gifts and stacks them carefully in preparation to leave, finally; they are all flat, so they’ll be easy enough to carry. They really didn’t need to get him anything... but he is appreciative, gaze lingering on them for a little longer than an instant.

Sakura is smiling at him when he turns to her, weight shifted to the side casually. “Do you want to drop those off first, or bring them with you?”

Sasuke thinks of the time; he still doesn’t know when she usually goes to sleep. “...I can bring them with.”

Her lips quirk upwards more, and she nods. They start walking east, him gripping the gifts carefully.

The moon has risen a bit higher in the sky by now; the streets appear much like a desaturated dreamscape, cloaking everything in a layer of alleviation. They pass under street lights casting flaxen ambiance, as well as other smaller hints of glow from various lit-up signage, tinctorial flashes washing over them both occasionally, only to be rinsed clean as they pass into astronomical dusk again. Sakura’s hair is surprisingly reflectant, brief notes of neons catching atop pale pink: electric blue, candy red, apple green.

“Naruto’s going to hold you to that bet, you know,” Sakura pipes up to his right once they’ve made it a block away, tilting her head upwards, expression soaked with mirth.

“Tch. Don’t remind me.” She laughs a little in response. It’s a lovely sound, dulcet in his ears.

They’re coming up on a bar that appears to be pretty crowded, people spilling out onto the street outside. Wordlessly, they both change course to cross to the other side of the street, avoiding the gathering of people, for which he is appreciative; he’s still not much one for crowds. They’re almost to the main stretch of road where they’ll turn south to go to Sakura’s; just two more blocks and the people should disperse a bit.

As they cross, Sakura informs him, “I’m pretty sure that’s the one he was talking about, by the way.”

“...Great,” He murmurs, frowning. He really doesn’t drink often. A place like that wouldn’t do much to encourage him to.

“It’s not so bad, if you go on a weeknight. Less people.”

He considers, then questions, “...Have you gone drinking with him?”

She averts her eyes, as if she’s a little embarrassed. “A few times... Usually it’s for celebrations, though, not just us. Birthdays, that sort of thing. I’ve gone with Ino more.” She ponders for a bit longer, as if shuffling through memories. “I guess I’ve gone with him and Kakashi-sensei a couple of times, though we don’t always go to that one. Once we went with Tsunade-shishou to that casino.”

Sasuke is pretty sure he knows the answer to his next question, but he asks it anyway. “...Is he any good at gambling?”

A short but rich giggle blooms from her throat that makes his lip twitch upwards. “No. His betting history is just as bad as shishou. He’s worse at baccarat than she is, actually, which is quite an accomplishment. She hadn’t won in a long time, before she beat him.”

It stands to reason that Naruto would be bad at table games, but the fact that he’s bad at arguably one of the easiest ones to learn amuses him more than it should. “...Will probably be awhile before I get dragged with him, then.”

“Probably,” Sakura agrees.

They turn south towards her apartment, and sure enough, the people milling about in the streets begin to thin. Being a Saturday night, there are more lights on than usual around this time, but they’ve arrived into an area of town that doesn’t really cater to a night crowd like bars do; the lit windows here are mostly residential.

Plants are continuing to unfurl everywhere in Konoha, though the rain tomorrow will probably be good for them. It stands to reason that it will get even more lush, after; perennials are starting to bud back to life, soon to join the annuals already adorning most buildings’ exteriors and windowsills. There’s a breeze picking up tonight, too, slightly shuffling leaves and the fabric of awnings attached to the buildings they walk past, a quiescent whispering that seemingly drowns out the usual sound of crickets. It might be cold enough for soup tomorrow; he’s looking forward to it.

Sakura notices, too. “Kakashi was right; everything is greening up. The rain will do some good tomorrow; we haven’t had some in a bit.”

“...Probably,” he echoes her words from earlier. Her hair is fluttering a little in the wind, too, eye-catching and gossamery. Sasuke wonders if it’s still soft like silk. He had accidentally felt it several times, on various missions when they were younger.

They reach her building, and she noiselessly opens the glass door for him. Sasuke steps aside so she can pass after she shuts it behind them. Then he’s following her up the stairway, something like anticipation unfurling in him, much like the greenery he noticed on the way here.

Sakura unlocks her door, glancing back at him for a moment with her hand lingering on the doorknob. Then she turns to push it open, and he trails behind her carefully.

He follows her into a small enclosed area - a dedicated entryway - with a threshold straight ahead leading into the rest of the space. It is dim until Sakura flips on the light of a compact but surprisingly luminous lamp to their right, and he sees that the entryway area itself is painted the color of pale cream. The floor beneath them is aged wood, light in color, that appears to extend into the rest of the dwelling. A single wall-mounted shelf floats to the left that holds several multifarious storage containers: one woven, one white, one that looks like an antiquated rice basket. Out of the top of the last one peeks the well-worn handle of a spade; it must be gardening supplies. Beneath the shelf are hooks studded to the wall; Sakura is stepping towards them to shrug off her bag and hang it from one of them, next to a green jacket and a red and pink coat with fur trim.

There is a console table made of aged wood that near matches the shelf - white oak, he thinks, because it’s not as richly colored as normal oak - to the right. It might be an antique; it is close in color and stain to the flooring, though not an exact match. Her fiction book from the other day sits atop it, a bookmark protruding from around halfway through its pages; he assumes she must keep any non-work-related library books there, when she’s not reading them. Beneath the table is a patterned rug in neutral tones, on which rest a small collection of sandals that are not entirely lined up straight, as well as a pair of green rainboots. It is the only part of the entryway that does not appear overly organized.

Sasuke begins to toe off his sandals as Sakura does, too. She crosses over to the table and opens up one of the drawers, placing her lanyard of keys inside. “You can set your gifts here, if you’d like,” she offers helpfully, gesturing to the table and sounding almost shy, so he does. He turns to grab his sandals and sets them neatly on the rug beneath the table.

She reaches beyond the enclosing wall to the other side, flipping what must be a lightswitch; the rest of the overhead lights in the next area of space flood on. She angles her head back towards him, shifting her weight to the side a little. “I’m afraid it won’t be as long of a tour as Naruto’s.”

It’s small, but cozy. They step into an open space with a wall trailing to the right and openness extending to the left, which houses her living room. The ceilings are high for an apartment this size; it makes it feel bigger. Two towering bookshelves line the west and south walls, and a small dining table sits in front of the window on the north end, over which hangs a simple but worn pendant light, sap green in color; it is reminiscent of the kinds one usually sees at indoor markets. Between the two spaces lies a comfortable-looking sage green couch, classic but also well-worn, placed in front of a small entertainment center. He notices that the furniture pieces are all of slightly different construction, not a matching set, though the colors of everything are very similar to the flooring. On top of the surfaces are various decorative knick knacks: little glass jars in varied colors with dried flowers, another lamp, a candle. The entire open area is painted a pale, pale desaturated viridian; Sasuke likes the color. From what he can see of the room past the expanse of wall to their right, it is painted a different color - linen white.

“Sai and Ino helped me with the paint colors when I moved in.” She pauses. “Well, Sai helped. Ino mostly just helped narrow down color selection. It needed painting anyways; my landlady said I could do pretty much anything as long as it wasn’t black or something.” She walks over to the lamp on the end table by the sofa, and switches it on. Then she wanders over to switch the pendant light over the table on, too.

Sasuke nods, still absorbing. There is an expanse of framed photos to his right, on the space leading up to what must be the kitchen. There are many, leading all the way down the wall, arranged in more of a collage fashion than straight across. He scans them quickly, and is surprised to see that their original Team Seven photo isn't among them. He knows it must be elsewhere in her apartment; she is too sentimental to not have it displayed somewhere. It makes him consider where he’s going to put the one Kakashi has given him.

“The layout is kind of unique,” Sakura continues, walking back towards him through the living room area. “There’s not really room for a dining table in the kitchen, so that table over there-” She motions towards where she just was, in front of the north window, “-is used for that. It’s kind of nice, that way; you can look out the window when you eat.” Sasuke notes upon further inspection that there are a few small plants sitting in the window there, similar coloring to the ones on her doorstep. A thriving jasmine plant is hung higher up, against the glass, fronds twisting downwards. He finds he can picture Sakura eating there easily.

Sakura crosses over into what he assumes is the kitchen; he follows, and notes as he does so that there is a faint aroma of tea, though it is a challenge to place the flavor. It’s simple, but with nice floor to ceiling white cabinetry, aside from a single area in the corner where there is open shelving of the same wood finish, as well as a window on the east wall, over the sink. This one appears to be lined with a small herb garden, more mismatched terracotta pots perched in the windowsill. The countertops here are also wood, in a similar colorway as the rest of the wood he’s seen so far. Most of what’s stored on the open shelving appears to be general dry goods, flour and sugar and oatmeal in clear containers. There is also a fern-colored teapot, decorated with a white floral design, sitting on the end of the shelf for easiest access; she must make tea often. There is a knife set on the counter, as well as a few ceramic containers holding various utensils such as whisks and wooden spoons. Nothing appears out of place, and there are no dishes in the sink; she must keep it pretty tidy. In the only empty corner, there is what he assumes is a pantry door, as well as a small wooden stool. He realizes then that she must not be tall enough to reach the top of the cupboards.

“Sai said keeping it a lighter color would make it look bigger. I think it helps. It’s pretty nice, otherwise.” She glances at him, then away, slightly flushed as if she’s nervous. He realizes, reciprocally, that he is kind of nervous, too, being in her space with her alone.

“Not much left but the hallway,” she adds after a moment, leading him out of the kitchen and further, to a hallway leading east. There are three doors towards the end of it; one to the left, one in the middle, and one to the right. Two of the three are sitting open; the small room straight ahead holds a stacked washer and dryer, as well as cabinets that match the ones in the kitchen. Once he follows her a few more steps, he sees a hamper, as well. The walls appear to be painted a lilac color in the laundry room, slightly darker in hue than the rest of her space thus far. The flooring is different, too, in the laundry room; a white tile, inlaid with a touch of black sparingly in a symmetrical pattern. The style of it is very in tune with the age of the building, reminiscent of an older time.

“Left door is the bedroom.” She gestures towards the closed door, then points to the next one. “Middle is the laundry room; that’s also where I keep any cleaning stuff, like the broom or mop.” She nods then towards the bathroom, so he steps closer to peer inside; it is painted a light sand color, with the same white tile accented with black, only here it also goes halfway up the wall. “And that’s the bathroom.” The same white cabinets appear here, too. It has a tub/shower combination, and a plain white shower curtain. It appears spotlessly clean. A window lies above the sink on the east wall, with another hanging plant dangling in front of it, towards the corner so it’s not in full light all of the time; it looks like a satin pothos. There is also a small wicker stool, on which are folded powder-white towels, and a small glass tabletop lamp, an interesting statement in a bathroom.

He remembers that there are three lamps she’s turned on already. She must not like hard lighting. He tries to resist the urge to smile, because neither does he.

“It’s nice,” he compliments as they make their way back to the living room area. It’s more than nice; he really likes it. Everything about it is as her as he expected it to be, more of a home than an apartment, eclectic combinations painting a picture very indicative of the life she lives here. Sasuke muses that it is especially characteristic of her that she would like different colors throughout the rooms, and that the colors fit their respective spaces well. He finds himself wondering what color she selected for her room, what color she deemed the most calming, though obviously he would never ask.

A deep blush inks it way onto her skin, and she smiles, seeming very pleased. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” Her gaze flits away, then back again. “Would you want to maybe watch something? I could make some tea, decaf, if you’d like.”

He nods.

“Okay; I can show you what I have.”

They go back into the kitchen. She opens one of the cabinets, the one nearest the teapot; the entire bottom shelf is filled with packaged tea, labeled jars of loose leaf, sugar, and a container of honey. The shelf above it contains teacups that match the teapot, and more jars of loose leaf, though these ones are labeled caffeine free. There are a few small boxes of packaged tea there, too; she must sort them separately based on caffeine content. The third shelf contains a few miscellaneous mugs and glasses. It’s quite a collection; he understands the mixed aromatics of different tea flavors he noticed earlier. It’s unique, enjoyable without being overwhelming, small hints of sweet spice and citrus drifting into the kitchen space more now that the cabinet door is ajar.

“Most of my packaged teas have more specific flavors, desserts and things like that,” Sakura mentions. “For loose leaf, I’ve got quite a few; caffeine-free ones are oolong, chamomile, lemon ginger, jasmine…” She shifts some of the jars to the side of the middle cabinet to reveal the ones behind it. “Silver needle, white coconut creme, Earl Grey, caramelized pear…”

“...Earl Grey sounds good,” Sasuke murmurs, moving slightly out of the way. She tips her head in acknowledgment before pulling that jar down, then reaching for the teapot.

“I’ll make some; I like Earl Grey at night. Do you want any cream or lemon or anything like that in yours? I have some in the fridge.” She moves to start the water boiling, removing the strainer from the teapot before she fills it. After it’s on the stove, she begins sifting loose leaf from the jar into the strainer so it’s ready.

“...Lemon would be good.” He likes adding lemon to Earl Grey; it makes it more tart. He feels like he should help, so he adds, “I’ll get it. Do you want cream in yours?”

Jade eyes flick to his, and her cheeks color a little. “...Yes. It’s on the top shelf of the door. There’s…” She pauses, as if embarrassed. “There’s normal creamer there too, but I have a coconut milk sweet cream that I like with mine. Just a little bit. It’s… meant for coffee, but…” When he smiles knowingly back, she looks away, back towards the teapot.

He opens the fridge; it’s extremely well-stocked. He doesn’t hover too long before he reaches to grab a lemon and the creamer she mentioned from the door’s upper shelf, but he notes there is a large container of strawberry topping on the top shelf towards the front, as well as a clear container with what may be banana nut muffins. She really does have a sweet tooth, he thinks, amused.

He shuts the door, and she procures a small cutting board from another cupboard and a knife to slice the lemon into wedges. She’s also grabbed two teacups, the ones that match the teapot.

“Thank you.” She’s smiling as he sets down the lemon and the creamer. “I can finish making this, if you want to maybe pick what we watch?”

“...What would you like to watch?”

Sakura blinks. “I’m honestly fine with anything. I’ve got some movies in the cabinet of the entertainment center… Otherwise I have cable to flip through, too.”

She must not go to bed too early, since she mentioned movies. He decides to ask. “...When do you usually go to bed?”

Something in her eyes softens. “Usually ten or eleven. It’s my weekend now, though, so I can stay up late, if you pick something longer.”

He nods, and she turns to slice the lemon halves into quarters, so he pads back to her living room. When he opens the cabinet below the television, he finds it nearly filled to the brim with movies. He settles down to siphon through them, skimming through various synopses. He comes across five or six shoved to the corner of one side haphazardly; those must be the ‘bad’ movies she watches with Ino. The rest of them that he finds sound fairly interesting. He ultimately picks one called A Tale of Archery; the summary makes it sound like a period drama with a twist. As he sits there, he tries to remember the last time he watched a movie; it was probably after he returned to Konoha but before he left for his journey, a rather stupid one with Naruto in his old apartment.

This one should be better. He hopes, brows furrowed, that it’s one she likes; he assumes she must like most of them, given that she owns them.

Sasuke stands with it as Sakura comes out with the tea, cups placed on small plates with dainty teaspoons. “Oh, that’s a good one,” she mentions. His heart flutters, and he feels a little less nervous. He puts it into the player on the next shelf before standing as she sets her plate and cup on her coffee table.

“Thank you,” he says softly when she hands him his, two slices of lemon perched on the side.

She smiles at him, dimple appearing, before grabbing the remote and flicking on the television so it starts setting up. “Do you mind if I shut off the overhead lights? I’m... not much one for hard lighting.”

“Not at all.” The space will be well-lit without it, with the lamps.

He takes a seat on the sofa while she walks over near the entryway. Sasuke realizes now that the couch isn’t terribly big; probably just enough for one person to lie down on, if they wanted to. It’s comfortable, as he’d anticipated. He sets his plate and cup on her coffee table so he can squeeze the lemon wedge into it, grabbing the spoon to stir as the overhead lights go out.

With the lights off, it is very cozy.

Sakura takes a seat next to him, not too close, but not the furthest away she could be, either. She fast forwards through the opening portion of advertisements as he stirs.

By the time he brings the cup to his lips to take a sip, the opening credits are playing. She sets down the remote and stirs her own cup once more, before also taking a sip.

It’s good; flavorful but not too intense, with a hint of bergamot orange rind and maltiness. The lemon gives it a slightly more acidic twist. He’s not much one for creamer, unless he’s in a rare mood on a cold fall or winter day, but he can see how the coconut milk sweet cream would compliment the taste, if one liked sweet things.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, meeting her eyes for a moment.

She glows at the compliment; he can make out a blush in the dim lighting. He feels his own neck heat up.

The movie is pretty good. It tells the story of a bygone feudal era a long time ago, peasants and samurai and daimyos with estates sprawling across countrysides lined with rice paddies. An archer passes away, and his son follows in his footsteps and becomes respected competitively. The twist is that the father actually went into hiding, and returns at the end of the movie.

It’s close to eleven when it’s over. Their teacups sit on her coffee table, long emptied.

Sasuke feels very content, and a little loath to leave, if he’s being honest. She seems slightly tired when she meets his eyes, though, so he slowly stands and reaches for his plate and cup. She does the same, and he trails after her to the kitchen, following her lead; she empties the lemon rinds into the garbage, so he does too. She then rinses her cup clean in the sink, extending her hand for his after.

“...What time should I come over tomorrow?” He asks in a hushed tone, when she turns to him. He’s not sure if the walls are thin or not, and they’re in the kitchen, so it’s not against her neighbors’ unit or anything, but he still somehow feels he should speak quietly; it’s somewhat dark, dimly lit only by cast light from the lamp in the other room.

Her countenance changes to one of consideration. “I was thinking maybe around eleven? I should have lunch ready around then.” Her eyes flicker to his, and her lips curve upwards; he tries not to look at them too long. “If that’s okay.”

He nods. “I’ll be here, then.”

Her lips curve upwards more. “I’ll walk you to the door,” she offers softly. He turns, and she follows.

“Do you like avocado?” She asks him as they shuffle into her entryway, where he stoops to retrieve his shoes. “I was… thinking about making avocado grilled cheese, to go with the soup.”

He glances upwards. “...I do.” He’s never had a grilled cheese sandwich with avocado before, but it sounds like it would taste good. He wonders again what kind of soup she’ll make; she knows his food preferences well, and she hasn’t asked, so it must be something she knows he’ll like. It makes his heart flip behind his ribcage a little.

“Oh, good. I’ll make that, then.” Her eyes drop down to her feet for a second as he rises back to his full height, sandals situated; it’s hard to tell in the lack of light, just the one lamp turned on in here, but he’s pretty sure she’s blushing again.

Her next words are near a whisper. “Thank you for… hanging out.” Multi-faceted jade seeps into him again, seafoam ebbing around dark pupils. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it, after yearning for it for so long. “I had a nice time.”

He takes a quiet step closer to her, heart suddenly twisting in his chest as he tries to swallow his nerves, because she looks so happy, and it’s making his breath get stuck inside his lungs.

“...Me, too,” he whispers, barely audible before his lips brush hers gently.

It feels different, kissing her in the privacy of her apartment rather than on her doorstep. It’s like they can finally take their time, no real chance of interruption. His mind comes up with the word intimate, and his neck warms. Her mouth is all plush affection, bergamot and lemon and a subtle sweetness, stirred, that isn’t too much, accented by berry. It makes him want to try all of the varieties she has in her cabinet, even the sweet ones, just to see what they taste like on her lips in the hours that follow.

Delicate hands brush his shoulders, fingertips skimming the lower part of his neck, subtle beckoning but also gentle, respectful of boundaries, so he decides to corrode, give in and do something that he has wanted to do for a very long time. He cups her cheek with his hand, careful and barely there, gingerly sweeping a thumb over flushed skin, gliding atop a freckle that rests further back on her cheekbone. He’s had it memorized since they were kids.

The strands of pink he inadvertently touches are as soft as he remembers.

Her face is ablaze when they draw back from each other, tender smile and viridescent eyes laced with ardency just for him. Warmth pools in his belly as he studies her, decay long soothed and forgotten as he carefully strokes her cheek once more before he pulls away.

“...Good night, Sakura.”

The dimple makes one last appearance for the evening. “Good night, Sasuke-kun.”

XXX

Sasuke opens the first aid kit upon his return to his apartment, having been curious about what was in it all evening. Vines grasp his heartstrings as he discovers what’s inside.

There are two jars of loose leaf sencha tea that he’s sure came from the tea place they’d visited together a few days ago; one is labeled caffeinated, the other decaffeinated. Along with it is a basic tea infuser, new in its package. There are also three blue packages of cough drops, mentho-lyptus flavor, so they won’t be sweet.

Jade irises, he thinks, are also mollifying, for when the corrosion is done, an aether easily risen into, floating to the top.

Sasuke brews a mug of the jar labeled decaffeinated to enjoy before he goes to bed, a helpful succedaneum with which to conclude an evening well spent. It's not exactly the same shade of green, he thinks, before taking it to his living room so he can look out his window as he savors it, but it's close.

[kingexpl0sionmurder]

Clouds - Shirakumo Oboro

Author: @kingexpl0sionmurder​ Rating: 16+ Words:  5,674 Pairing: Shirakumo Oboro/F!Reader Warnings: Nudity, sexual innuendo, kissing, Oboro has no shame honestly. No spoilers here, I just mention his friends and his quirk a little! AN: Here is my entry for this month’s BNHarem server collab! The theme was Fantasy, so have this Greek Mythology AU where I basically floundered through ancient Greek customs and got to think about EraserCloudMic being best friends and Demigods. I don’t promise that any of this is historically accurate but I did try to get some things right! It’s all in good fun anyway, I just needed some nice fluff and some time to play around with Oboro because I love him a lot. Listen to the song Clouds by Borns pls and thanks. As always, the masterlist to check out everyone else’s stuff is HERE. My masterlist is HERE.

Buy me a Ko-Fi HERE.

--

You’d never experienced a drought this severe before.

The weather had become so unbearably hot. Even your lightest tunic was too much, and you had resorted to wearing as little as possible when you were home, spending as much time as you could in the nearby river to keep cool. 

However, the river seemed to be getting shallower, the lack of rain causing the water source to dry up.

The entirety of the small village that you resided on the outskirts of was in a panic. Crops were drying up, which was affecting people’s livelihood. The agora was nearly barren when you went in to sell the cloth you’d dyed and embroidered, the food stalls empty of the usual grain and barley you would typically find this time of year. 

Most people had taken to making the trek past your house and down to the small temple there, praying to Zeus for rain, hoping that he would smile down upon you and bring good fortune, and maybe a storm cloud or two.

You knew that it was probably fruitless, but you decided that maybe you should leave an offering to appease him. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Wanting to wait until it was cooler so you didn’t die of heatstroke while you leaned over the boiling water, you waited until the sun went down before you dug out your best fabric and dyed it a pretty blue color. You pricked your fingers with a needle more than once while embroidering the edges with clouds and raindrops, using white thread so it stood out against the cerulean fabric. A few days later, you deemed it ready, attaching pins so the person wearing it could fasten it and folding it gently. You slipped on your sandals and headed out with the garment draped over your arm.

It was late, so no one was around, but you weren’t afraid. The breeze was cold now that it was dark out, making you sigh as you listened to the leaves rustling in the olive trees that lined the path. You hoped Zeus would be pleased with what you’d made. Garments that you’d crafted and sold in the agora were always highly sought after and praised. The attention to detail and the small embroidery work you did on the fabric caused you to get lots of commissions from high-class women who lived in the city. It was something you were good at and took a lot of pride in, so you hoped that he would be impressed by your hard work. 

When you arrived, you noticed there were a lot of offerings waiting just inside the door. You bowed your head and dropped to your knees in front of the statue within, closing your eyes as you placed the folded tunic at Zeus’ stone feet. “Please help us and send some rain. I made this tunic by hand. I hope you like the color. I chose it because it reminds me of the sky.” Whispering, you spoke aloud, feeling kind of silly, but willing to try anything to gain some relief from the sweltering heat.

Finishing the rest of your prayers in silence, you stood up and bowed, hurrying out of the small shrine and back up the path toward your home. When you laid down to sleep that night, you sent up one final prayer, hoping that things would get better when the morning came.

--

You woke up hours later to the sound of thunder. Sitting up in your bed, you felt tears well in your eyes, relief flooding through you. The rain was finally coming!

Briefly, you wondered if your gift had been the one that Zeus had deemed worthy enough to grant your village’s prayers. Swinging your feet off the bed, you dashed from the room, wrenching the front door open and running out into the night, bare feet slapping against the dirt as you made your way down the path towards the temple.

You didn’t know what you expected to find when you arrived. Would all the offerings be gone? Or would it be just as you left it hours before?

Dark clouds were rolling in overhead, and you laughed when you felt the first few drops of rain pelting on the bare skin of your arms as the temple came into view. You slowed to a stop, breathing heavily; the smell of petrichor in the air as water finally touched the dry grass and soil around you. 

Stepping forward, you entered the temple, lingering in the doorway. Zeus’s proud statue stood in the center just as before, offerings still sitting untouched at his feet. They all remained, except for one.

The sky blue tunic you had crafted was missing.

--

It rained for three days straight, the constant onslaught of water on the parched ground, causing puddles to appear in every dip of the landscape around your home. You stayed inside, leaving the windows open to let in the fresh air, breathing deeply as your worries melted away. You were excited to visit the river, hoping the water would be rushing and kissing the edges of the riverbank as it always had before. 

When the fourth day came with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze, you gathered up your towel and set off to the river. You skirted around the slowly drying puddles on the path, your sandals sinking into the soft earth as you made your way to your destination.

You arrived to see the river looked as you had expected, the water back up to its normal height, the current gentle, leaves floating along its surface. You looked around, making sure you were alone before you removed your tunic and laid it across a rock on the riverbank, before slipping into the cold, clear water. Most people from the village didn’t bother to come out here, so you weren’t too worried about being seen skinny dipping, but you always kept your ears open, just in case.

Time passed as you relaxed against the river’s edge, head tipping back to bask in the gentle sunlight filtering through the trees surrounding you. The weather was beautiful and was a welcome change compared to the unbearable sweltering days you’d been living the past few weeks.

A gentle splashing caught your attention, and your head snapped up, eyes scanning the water’s surface, assuming it was a fish. What you weren’t expecting to see was a man a little ways up the river, crouching down with his hand in the water, a serene smile on his face. You didn’t know if he saw you, but you suddenly felt self-conscious, dipping lower and crossing your arms across your chest to hide yourself. The plan had been to keep quiet and wait until he left. But then you saw what he was wearing.

The sky blue tunic was unmistakable.

“Where did you find that tunic?” You called accusingly. You had assumed that the tunic was missing because Zeus enjoyed your gift, and had given yourself credit for pleasing him enough to send the rain. To know that you hadn’t done anything at all, and a thief was the reason that your hard work was missing from the temple, was disheartening.

The man stood, his eyes searching for the source of your voice. When they landed on you, huddled against the side of the river, your head barely visible on the water, he smiled at you brightly. “It was an offering from the temple! Honestly, this is the nicest tunic I’ve had the pleasure of wearing.” He pulled on the bottom of it, pointing to the embroidered clouds. “The detail here is exquisite.”

Huffing, you frowned. “I know. I’m the one who made it.” His eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth to reply, but you interrupted him. “I don’t know who you think you are, but that tunic was made for Zeus. It’s extremely disrespectful to steal something from the gods. You must be crazy if you don’t think he’s going to strike you down with a lightning bolt the moment he finds out what you did.”

The man chuckled, raising his arms and folding them behind his head. You tried not to stare at his tan and muscular legs, or his equally muscular biceps. “You think I’m a thief? I’m offended, sweetheart.”

Blushing at the term of endearment, you shook your head. “Well, that’s the only logical explanation-“

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The man walked closer, and you shrunk back, trying to preserve your modesty. “It was a gift from Zeus himself.”

Your jaw dropped open, eyes wide. You weren’t sure how that was possible, but looking at the man before you now, you realized there was no way that he was mortal. He was too perfect.

Not to mention, his hair was like nothing you’d ever seen before.

It was a beautiful light blue, similar to the fabric draped around his body, fluffy and soft looking even from a distance, and it floated back and up, away from his head on its own.

“You’re a…” Trailing off, you got lost in the blue of his eyes as he stepped closer.

“Demigod.” He dropped his arms and shrugged. “My name’s Oboro.”

You were suddenly reminded of how very naked you were. “Could you, uh, turn around? So I can get dressed?”

Wiggling his eyebrows, Oboro smirked. “You sure? I mean, it’s nothing I’ve never seen before.”

“Ugh, please.” Annoyed, you glared at him. Demigod or not, what a perv.

“Kidding! I’m kidding!” Holding up his hands in defeat, he turned around, chuckling.

You took the opportunity to lift yourself out of the river and hurry over to where you’d left your clothes. You dried off quickly with your towel and wrapped your dress back around your frame.

When you were decent, you cleared your throat. “Thank you, Oboro.” You tugged at the fabric that was clinging to your semi-wet skin uncomfortably, watching as he turned back around and shot you a grin.

“So, you made this thing, huh?” Stepping closer, the man was suddenly towering over you, his smile charming. He reached out and plucked the towel you were still holding from your hand, bringing it up and over your head, his fingers rubbing your scalp as he dried your hair for you.

Speechless, you stuttered. What was he doing? 

The towel lifted, and you watched as Oboro gathered your hair and squeezed out the water that was sitting at the ends of it. “That’s better. So, you going to answer me?’

Blinking up at him again in shock, you watched the laughter dancing in his clear blue eyes, the way his nose crinkled when he smiled, the white bandage across the bridge of it making him look boyish and handsome. You were swooning. You needed to get a hold of yourself. “I...yes. I made it myself. I make clothing to sell in the agora all the time.”

Nodding, he handed your towel back to you. “Zeus is a pretty busy guy, you know? He asked for my help, told me to check into some of his temples to see if anyone needed help. He said if it was something we could do, I could take care of it and help myself to anything left for an offering as a reward.” 

“And you picked my tunic?” You felt a weight lift from your chest at his story.

Grinning, he pushed a piece of your hair off of your forehead. “It matches my eyes; how could I not?” He let his arm fall to his side. “I’m an altruistic guy. I like to help people, so I always jump at the chance when my father asks for my assistance. As soon as I saw that blue fabric, I knew I had to do something. I always say that handmade gifts are much better than jewels or gold because they come from the heart. So I called upon the Nephelae to come and bring some rain.”

You hummed, your face turning pink as you blushed. His innocent touching and compliments had your skin feeling warm. “Thank you, Oboro. I’m glad that it was well-received.” Clearing your throat, you glanced up at him through your lashes. “If you like it, I could make you another.”

“You’d do that?” He always seemed to be smiling, and you briefly hoped you’d never have to see him frown, knowing it would look out of place on his face. “I couldn’t ask-“

“I’m offering! I want to, honestly. You did so much for us with just that little bit of rain. I feel like that one tunic isn’t enough to show my gratitude.” 

It was his turn to blush, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Okay. Only if you want to.”

“Great!” You clapped your hands together. “Do you have anything you want specifically? I have lots of different fabric to choose from, and I can dye it any color you’d like.”

“Surprise me.” He winked, lifting his hand to poke the end of your nose playfully. “You know, when I saw that thing, I figured an old lady must have made it. Didn’t think a beautiful woman like you would have done it.”

Scoffing, you folded your arms across your chest. “Do you have no shame? Flirting with me, and you don’t even know my name.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I like you, you’ve got guts. What’s your name then, sweetheart?”

“It’s Y/N.”

—

After Oboro left you at the edge of the river, promising to come back and see you in a few days, you went home and sifted through the piles of fabric you had collected, trying to find something that you thought would be fitting for the handsome Demigod.

The original tunic you’d made was linen, and since it was still early in the summer, you surmised that it would be best to stick with that fabric. Your other choices were wool or silk, and neither would do well in the hot weather. 

You worked on dying the fabric a dark grey, the color of the sky before a storm. This time you embroidered the edges with golden bolts of lightning and white stars. You were very proud of it when it was finished, thinking it looked as lovely, if not better, than the one you’d left in the temple.

A few days later, you were outside tending to your garden when you heard footsteps approaching behind you. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.” 

The timbre of his voice made you shiver as you stood and turned to meet him. “Morning, Oboro! You’re here just in time!”

“Finished already?” His eyebrow raised. “Did you even sleep?”

Rolling your eyes, you smiled at him. “Of course! I slept some.”

Shaking his head, he stepped towards you, ruffling the hair on your head. “Don’t lose sleep on my account, okay? I can wait as long as I have to.”

You wished this man would stop making you blush so much. “Okay, fine. It won’t happen again. Would you like some wine?”

“Why would I say no to that?” He chuckled, following you into your small home, sitting at the table when you pointed to the chair, watching as you flitted around the kitchen preparing his drink.

“What have you been up to? Helping out your father?” You asked conversationally, setting the glass down in front of him.

Humming, he picked up the glass and took a sip. “A little. I spent some time with my friends mostly. I don’t get to see them too often since they’re always so busy.”

“Oh? Are your friends Demigods too?”

He hummed, sipping his wine again. “Shouta is the son of Hypnos, god of sleep. Hizashi is the son of Apollo, god of music.”

“Wow. I’ve never met anyone important like that. Well, besides you.” 

He snorted. “We’re not important, our fathers are. We’re just regular people.”

“Except you’re half god and incredibly handsome.” Huffing, you blushed, realizing what you said.

“You think I’m handsome?” His cheeky grin was too much to look at, so you turned away. 

Changing the subject seemed like the best option for your sanity. “Let me show you what I made for you.” 

He didn’t push it, which surprised you, but also made you feel grateful. You didn’t want to think about the man any more than you already had been. He was funny and kind and gorgeous, but he was also a flirt and a Demigod, and you really didn’t know what to make of all of that. You realized that some people might think the way you acted with him was disrespectful, but he was just a person like he’d pointed out. Mostly.

You walked over to your work table and unfolded the tunic, turning around and holding it out towards him. “I was trying to keep with the sky theme. What do you think?”

Oboro stood up from the table, leaving his wine glass behind. He stared at the fabric, taking it into his hands, his fingers tracing the embroidery. When he looked up at you, his face was filled with wonder. “Are you sure you’re not magic?”

You blinked at him. “What? Why?”

“This is amazing, Y/N. Truly. Thank you.” Grinning, he handed it back to you, his hands moving to the pins keeping his tunic fastened around his body.

“Oboro, what are you doing?”

The pins opening let the fabric around him fall free. “Trying it on.” 

You covered your eyes with your hand as he pulled the garment off his body, resisting the urge to peek through your fingers when you caught a glimpse of his chiseled abs and the swell of his pectorals as you heard his clothing fall to the floor. He took the tunic from your hand, taking his time pinning the fabric at his shoulders and under his arms. 

“How do I look?”

Removing your hand away from your red face, you moved forward, redoing the pin at his shoulder to sit straight. Stepping back, you walked around him. “It’s missing something.” 

He looked at you curiously, his brow furrowed. “What?”

You looked puzzled, finger tapping your chin before your face suddenly brightened in recognition. “I’ve got it!” You scurried away to your work area, coming back with a golden colored braided cord. 

Oboro watched as you reached around him, passing the rope between your hands. He lifted his arms as you tied it around his waist, cinching the fabric a bit and moving back to look over him again. “Perfect.”

His arms dropped, his head tilted down as he looked over the fabric again. Teeth pressed against his bottom lip, he looked up at you. “Another masterpiece, Y/N. I’m going to look better than all the gods in Olympus when I visit my father later.”

You shook your head, laughing. “Oh please, I’m not that great, Oboro.”

He huffed, stepping forward and surprising you when he wrapped his arms around you in a hug. “Just accept the compliment, would you?”

Hesitantly, your arms moved around him to return the gesture, your voice horse as you replied. “Okay.”

—

Oboro became a permanent fixture in your life after that. He appeared nearly every day, treating you to picnics and taking you for walks through the forests and down to the river. You looked forward to seeing him, his face the last thing you thought of before you fell asleep, and the first thing you imagined when you woke up. You were in too deep.

It rained more often, but it was welcome after the hell of drought you’d been through earlier that month. The weather didn’t stop Oboro from visiting, his strong arms dragging you out into the storm so you could watch the dark clouds above roll past. He made you laugh, his bright smile infectious as he carved himself a place in your heart.

You didn’t know what this was. Did he like you more than just a friend? He was a flirt, but you assumed he was like that with everyone. You weren’t sure if you should read into it any deeper, but there was a big part of you that wanted him to want you just as much as you found yourself wanting him. 

He was gentle and kind, going out of his way to help the people in the village when he visited, hefting large bags of grain in the agora. He never hesitated or asked for anything in return, and it made your heart flutter. The old ladies would stop you to tell you how wonderful he was, that he was a keeper, and whenever you tried to open your mouth and correct them, he would grin over at you and wink, and you’d lose the ability to speak. 

When he showed you the power bestowed upon him by his father, you couldn’t help but giggle. He waved his hands around, creating a cloud out of the air’s moisture and pushed it towards you. “They can’t do much but float around, but if I make one big enough, I can sit on it and ride it where I need to go.”

“You aren’t able to make them do anything else?” You poked at the cloud, watching as it broke apart and drifted away. 

“No, but they’re fun to look at.” He made another one shaped like a bird. “What do you think?”

“I think they look like your hair.” You teased, watching it float up above your heads. 

He starting making another one, bigger than the ones before. “Come on.” He brought it down low, sitting on it and crossing his legs underneath him. “Want to go for a ride?”

You shook your head, frightened at the thought. “No way, that’s too scary.”

“Come on!” He held out his hand. “I can show you the world this way.”

His smile was disarming, and you felt yourself stepping forward before you knew it. “You better not let me fall.”

“I won’t, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

--

“What are you doing tomorrow?” He asked, kicking his feet in the water. 

You were sitting side by side on the riverbank, leaning back and basking in the afternoon sun. “Mm, probably this?” You opened one eye and looked over at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “My father wants to meet you.”

You sat up so fast you almost flung yourself into the river, Oboro’s hand grabbing onto your arm the only reason you didn’t fall in. “Excuse me?”

Snorting, he let go of you and rested his palms on the grass beside him again. “He wants to meet the woman who made the outfit I wore to dinner a few weeks ago. Remember, I said I was going to show up everyone in Olympus?”

Nodding, you shut your jaw, which had been hanging open since he’d told you his father, also known as Zeus, the god of the sky and thunder, the king of the gods, wanted to meet /you/.

“Well, Aphrodite commented on it, and then father asked who made it, so I told him about you. Will you come?”

You swallowed thickly, trying to find your voice. How could you say no? Could you refuse to meet Zeus if he asked you to? “I…”

His arm moved around your shoulder, pulling your closer. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous? Are you kidding me? I know he’s your father, but to me, he’s a god.” You sputtered, feeling yourself shake at the thought of being face to face with him. 

“Well, I mean, I’m half-god, and you’re not nervous around me.”

You decided not to point out that he made you incredibly nervous. You were just good at hiding it. You pressed on instead. “What do I even say to him? What do I even wear?”

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back. “What do you wear? Clothes would be a start, Y/N.”

“I hate you, have I mentioned that before?”

--

You barely slept that night, your thoughts racing as you went over scenarios in your head, trying to imagine what it was going to be like when you were face to face with the king of the gods. For some reason, you were worried that he wouldn’t like you. You weren’t sure why it mattered so much to you. You tried to push the little voice in the back of your head away when it started pointing out how you were probably worried because of how you felt about Oboro.

It was ridiculous to fight it anymore. You knew you liked him. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, but there it was. And now you were going to meet his father. 

Oboro came to get you after breakfast, his cheerful smile falling when he saw your face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

You laughed. “I haven’t.” Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you sighed. “I’m just worried I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

Shaking his head, Oboro pulled you into a hug. “You’re not going to make a fool of yourself. You’re going to be fine. He’s not as scary as you seem to think. Plus, I’ll be right there with you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Letting yourself melt into him, you buried your face into his chest. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m probably just making things worse.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine.” You felt his fingers tangle in your hair, his chin leaning on the top of your head before he pulled away. “Come on, let’s go. He’s going to meet us at the temple.”

“Do I look alright?” You stepped back from him and looked down at the dress you’d made; the fabric dyed a deep burgundy. 

Oboro didn’t say anything at first, making you doubt yourself, your head falling forward to gaze at the sandals on your feet. 

“No, you don’t look alright.” He said finally.

Eyebrows furrowed, your head snapped up to look at him. “What?”

He was grinning widely at you, holding out his hand to take yours. “You look beautiful.”

Your entire face felt like it was on fire when you realized what he said, your expression melting into a small smile. He wrapped his hand around yours and tugged you towards the door, his eyes crinkled merrily, trying not to laugh at his trick. He was such a lousy flirt, but his compliment made you feel better, even if you didn’t think he meant it.

--

Zeus was waiting inside the temple when you arrived, gazing up at the statue of himself with his hands folded behind him. “Sometimes, these things don’t look anything like me, but I’d say this is a pretty accurate one, don’t you think?”

When he turned around to face you, you had to agree. The statue looked just like him. “Y-yes, sir.” Bowing your head, you brought your hands in front of you and pressed them together. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zeus laughed, stepping forward. “You don’t have to do that, though I appreciate it.” You looked up at him, meeting blue eyes the same color as his son’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard so many things about you. Oboro talks of you often.” He took one of your hands in his and kissed the back of it, his gaze moving to the man beside you. “You weren’t kidding when you told me she was beautiful, son.”

Your cheeks turned pink as you turned to look at Oboro, his face tinted red with embarrassment. “Father, please.”

“Please what? She’s beautiful and talented as well.” He turned back to you. “Oboro’s tunic was all anyone could talk about at dinner a few weeks ago. Aphrodite was impressed, and that’s not an easy feat to accomplish.”

“Thank you, Zeus. I’m humbled. I never thought what I did was anything extraordinary.”

“Nonsense! Quality work like that should be appreciated.” You heard Oboro telling you to accept a compliment in the back of your head, so you just smiled and nodded. ”Oboro showed me the blue tunic you made as well, and I would like to ask a favor of you.” 

“Anything, sir.” You felt your heartbeat quicken in anticipation, relaxing minutely when you felt Oboro place his hand on your shoulder and squeeze.

“I would like for you to make something for me. I know that the first tunic was originally an offering for me, but I think it better suits Oboro. I can give you whatever materials you desire. Color and pattern don’t matter to me; I just want something like what you’ve done for my son. Do you think you could do that?”

Your mouth worked without a sound coming out, your brain trying to process what was happening. Zeus wanted you to make clothing for him. “Yes, of course! I would be happy to.”

“Wonderful.” Zeus clapped his hands together and smiled kindly at you. “You’ll be paid for your work, of course. Anything you need, you let my son know, and he’ll get it for you.” He turned to the man beside you, a severe look on his face. “Don’t be a fool, Oboro.”

“Father, what do you-”

“You know what I mean. Have some courage.” He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed before turning and nodding back at you. “I hope we meet again soon, Y/N.” 

Before you could say goodbye, a clap of thunder sounded in the temple, causing the ground to shake slightly, and he was gone.

--

You weren’t sure how you made it back to your house, your thoughts elsewhere as you tried to imagine what you could make for Zeus that would impress him.

Oboro was uncharacteristically quiet beside you on the entire walk, his mind obviously elsewhere as well.

“You okay?” You asked him, cocking your head to the side as he stood in the doorway to your home, his shoulder resting on the frame.

He nodded, smiling at you. “Never better.”

Not believing him for a second, you pressed on. “Did your father say something that’s bothering you?” He looked away, his eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to tell me, you know. I’m just worried about you.”

His eyes met yours again. “You’re worried about me?”

“You always have a smile on your face, no matter what, so seeing you without one is a little worrisome.” You stepped towards him, craning your head back to look up into his eyes. “You can talk to me if you want. I won’t judge you too hard, I promise.”

Oboro huffed a laugh through his nose. “You’re funny.” His fingers traced along your jaw as he stood up straight, gazing down at you. “You want to know what he was talking about?”

Nodding, you swallowed thickly, feeling the mood in the room shift, the tension between the two of you was palpable. 

“He was telling me not to be a fool about you.”

Blinking, you tried to focus on the feeling on his fingers on your face, moving down to your neck. “About me?”

Humming, his thumb brushed across your chin, moving up to tug on your bottom lip. “He knows how much I like you. He just doesn’t want me to miss my opportunity.”

Eyes wide, you stared at him, not sure what to say, more content to watch him and see what he would do next.

“Ever since I saw you at the river that day, your face is all I can think about when I’m not with you. Spending time with you is all I want to do. I would be content to sit there and drink wine and watch you sew all day, just because I get to be with you.” He chuckled under his breath. “Shouta and Hizashi are tired of me going on about it. Well, Shouta is always tired, so that’s nothing new.” He pushed your hair behind your ear with his other hand. “They all just wanted me to tell you how I feel.” 

You closed your eyes briefly, breathing in deeply. You let your hands rest on his chest, smoothing the fabric of his clothes beneath your fingers. “I like you too, Oboro. A lot.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping in pitch and volume when he spoke. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

You felt his breath on your face, and you closed your eyes again when his lips met yours. Letting yourself melt against him, your hands slid up and over his shoulders. He kept his warm palm against your neck, his other hand moving to your waist to pull your body flush against him. He smelled like petrichor and sunshine, and though you were used to the smell because of all the time you spent with him, somehow it was different when he was kissing you, making your knees weak and your heart pound against your ribcage like it was trying to break free. You sighed when you felt his tongue press against your lips, your mouth opening to deepen the kiss, inhaling through your nose, not wanting to let the moment end.

When it did, your chest was heaving as you sucked in air, but you were still pressed against him, your fingers toying with the hair by the nape of his neck.

He looked down at you, his eyes bright and his lips twisted into a smile. “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” You were still out of breath, but you returned his bright smile. 

“Good.” He leaned down to kiss you again, but this time the kiss was chaste and left you chasing his mouth for more. He chuckled. “Come on, let’s have some lunch, and then I think you should take a well-deserved nap. I know you’re exhausted.”

Humming in agreement, you took a step back, your hand moving to cup his cheek. “Alright. You’re going to stay, right?”

His smile got impossibly bigger. “Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”

[the-ineffable-demon-crowley]

The Temple

You’re chosen to be an offering to the angel Aziraphale in exchange for a miracle: protecting your village from invaders. As divine intervention (or a rigged coin toss) would have it, Aziraphale ends up travelling to Edinburgh, and asks Crowley to go collect the offering for him. Except Crowley was told it would only be a few baskets of harvest. Not you.

Pairing ↝ Anthony J. Crowley x reader 

Genre ↝ Smut, fluff 

Length ↝ 7.1k words

Warnings ↝ Probably loads of sacrilege (this is not meant to offend any religion/peoples) - temple sex, religious themes, mentions of blood-drinking, oral (m receiving), fingering, praise kink, dirty talk, general demonic sexy times 

“I’m away to Edinburgh tomorrow.” The angel said.

“So very damp.” The demon complained. “I’m meant to be there as well.”

“Well... suppose I’ll see you there, Crowley.”

Crowley turned his head and smiled wickedly at the angel named Aziraphale. Though he tried, the angel did not look as surprised to see that look on the demon’s face as he should have been. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d come to form some sort of an arrangement. 

“I’ll flip you for it.” Crowley offered. 

Aziraphale paused and looked over both shoulders, hesitatingly so as if he expected God herself to come out and discorporate them both. He then looked at the demon, and nodded subtly. Crowley smiled to himself, and reached in to grab a coin from his pocket. He always kept one in his pocket just for such an occasion - there had been many arrangements over the centuries that required flipping. He could probably count on one hand the amount of times Aziraphale won. 

He held it between his fingers, then with a snap, flipped it. The coin hung in mid-air until Aziraphale called it - and he almost always calls ‘heads’. Tails is reserved for you, for obvious reasons, he once explained. The coin fell onto the back of Crowley’s hand with a soft tap, proudly displaying the opposite side. Aziraphale huffed, slightly put off at the typicality of the result as he crossed his arms. He still never questioned the fairness of Crowley’s flips, which he should have, Crowley reasoned, so it was perfectly acceptable that he not broach the subject. 

The coin was slipped back into his pocket. 

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale conceded, arms dropping to his sides. “I’ll go to Edinburgh. And you stay here where it’s lovely and... warm.” He pouted, but Crowley flashed his signature grin, and Aziraphale knew there was no appealing the demon. 

“Bring your wellies, angel.”

“You really are a scoundrel. Now, let me think... Alright, then I shall have to wrap up some things here then, and be out first thing. Oh drat! That reminds me - there’s a small village east of here that pledges some of their harvest to me, be a dear and go pick it up. It’s just a basketful or two of fruits and vegetables. I wouldn’t want to be rude.” 

Crowley blinked behind his spectacles. “I’m sorry, this lot give you a sacrifice like you’re some sort of ancient deity?”

Aziraphale scoffed in his posh way. “Hardly. I did some petty miracles for them a few decades ago, revived some malnourished crops, and this is their way of thanking me. It’s become a proper tradition.” He smiled, chest puffed out a bit, pleased with the idea. Crowley looked less enthused, tossing his head to the side with something nearing a sneer on his face.

“Won’t they notice we look only slightly different? Y’know, general demonic appearance, and all?”

“No, no, you needn’t be seen. Just go to the temple at dusk, there’ll be nobody in there. Oh, Crowley, you simply must go. They have the most divine pears.” 

Crowley barked a laugh at that. “How am I meant to go into a temple? I’ll be tenderized into a pair of boots.”

“It’s less of a temple and more of a ceremonial altar. Really, now you’re just looking for excuses, Crowley. And anyway, you owe me. I’m almost certain you cheated this time.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled himself away after the last word. Crowley noticed how he’d only said ‘this’ coin toss, and he wondered what made Aziraphale suspicious this time. Perhaps he hadn’t put enough oomph into it. Well, it was a small price to pay for not having to ride a horse in Scotland. Picking up a basket of fruits from some temple sounded relatively doable, and he knew Aziraphale would never forgive him if he stood between him and his pears. 

Especially pears that he’d eat with crepes. 

So Crowley waited until dusk fell, then he sought out the village to the east. It didn’t take long, not for a demon anyway. When he came upon it, the sun was beginning to set and from a tall hill on the town’s perimeter, he watched as the villagers doused candles in their homes. A breeze buffeted Crowley’s loose tunic, the ends of hair not tucked into the bun tickling his shoulders. He trained his eyes on each of the simple yet sturdily built structures within the village until he spotted one in particular. Even from a distance, he could see that the wood and stone used to build it were ornately carved, with a looming arch and small pillars. It positively screamed temple- er, ceremonial building to him, anyway.

As the little village tucked away under the hill prepared for slumber, Crowley set down the hill rather leisurely. He’d miracled himself to appear invisible, his presence marked only by an invisible breeze. What the villagers saw was a bit of a leaf swirling in the wind, when in reality, he traipsed through the town quite comfortably, glancing at each of the homes as he passed. 

Though most of the lights had now been doused, Crowley saw that a few people stayed outside, positioned several feet away from each other, at what seemed to be their posts. Weapons glinted menacingly in their hands, axes and knives and bats. They were arming themselves. But against who? 

Crowley continued on, idly wondering what sort of miracles Aziraphale had managed for the villagers, and if they had gone sour. 

Still, he was only here to pick up some fruit; it was no concern of his. Perhaps he’d mention it to Aziraphale later, if he remembered (though the last time he’d had a mind to remind Aziraphale of something, it had been a few thousand years later and that particular civilization had collapsed). Regardless, he continued on with his stroll through the folksy town square, under the awnings of the shops until he reached the front of the temple (in his mind it was still a temple). 

His chin tilted upwards as he surveyed the building, found it rather mediocre as far as temples went, and sighed quietly. Bloody angel. He lifted one hand, and with slender fingers, snapped himself inside. Immediately, he felt the overwhelming solemness settle onto his shoulders, a most unsettling feeling. He shook it off, and looked down to see his feet were still firmly flat on the ground. No burning. The angel was right, it wasn’t concentrated.

“Hm. I would’ve thought he’d be lying if he wasn’t an angel.” Crowley mused to himself. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of red hair back that had fallen out of the bun behind his ear, and stepped deeper into the temple. The building was mostly stone inside, with altars carved into the sides of great boulders worn down and shaped to be suitable to build with. 

He walked along the interior, fingers brushing over the cool stone faces of the pillars, mindlessly loitering around, seeing no fruits or vegetables, until he spotted another door. The inner sanctum. Alright, let’s get this over with. 

Crowley’s light touch against the wood of the door prompted it to open without a single sound. As he walked in, the entirety of the room was shrouded in shadow, aside from a raised stone platform which was bathed in the light of the moonlight from the skylight above. His steps were slow, the heels of his shoes clicking quietly against the stone floors. His eyes fell upon the bounty; a basket of plump fruits, fresh vegetables, what looked like some baked goods wrapped in cheesecloth, and... a woman.

Crowley blinked behind his black spectacles as the woman raised her head from her position laying on a flat stone surface where the foodstuffs had been placed. She did not seem surprised to see him, which did not necessarily comfort him any. 

“Ngk.” Said Crowley. 

The stone was cool against your cheek, and your breath was even as it fanned out against the rock beneath you. Your fingertips traced patterns around the small embedded stones mindlessly, shifting only slightly when the hardness of the surface began to stiffen your bones. The moonlight cast pale blue light upon your skin, and black shadows underneath your raised hand. You studied it with pointless scrutiny, anything to keep your mind off the coming dawn. The one you weren’t likely to see.

Truth be told, you weren’t afraid. There were worse things than being offered to an angelic deity as an attempt to beseech him to protect the village from a looming threat. It had to be done. Even from behind thick stone walls, you could hear the clattering of the weapons the able-bodied brandished to protect themselves and their loved ones through the night. The sounds travelled down through the skylight, and you tried to close your ears to it all, humming a soft song to yourself to fill your mind. 

You thought you might be nervous, pacing, climbing out of your skin, but nothing suited you more than just laying there in the moonlight. Almost as though you could already feel the angelic presence surrounding you through the moonlight pouring in. Reassuring you that things would be alright. But the moon would also act as a signal. It was said he would appear when the moon was at its peak; directly above the opening of the skylight above you. For now, it simply skirted the edge of it, as though peeking in. Wouldn’t be much longer now, you mused. When you volunteered to be the offering, nobody really argued. You had almost no ties to this village, having been left on the doorstep of this very temple when you were just a baby. 

The phrase ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ rang true in your case, and while everybody was kind and generous as you grew up, nobody took the role of family. Everybody already had their own, and you didn’t fit into any of them. Nobody had time to spend on a child that wasn’t blood when survival was on the line. So you wandered around from home to home, perfectly content to spend your days lost in the forests around or holed up in this very temple. How poetic that you were now being offered up in the same place you had been abandoned just two decades ago. 

You’d wanted more from life, and this was your way of getting it, no matter how it all ended. But your intentions weren’t all selfish. You still loved the village you grew up in, and you didn’t want to see it burned to the ground by invaders. You couldn’t afford to lose another home, even if you weren’t around to see it saved.

Suddenly, the stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed. A soft clicking sound reverberated in your ears, the unmistakable noise of a leisurely cant. You lifted your head, and found yourself staring at a man. 

Who was certainly no angel. 

“Ngk.” Was all he said. You blinked as he stepped closer from out of the shadows, clearly very uncertain of your presence. His lithe and lean form was slightly hunched as though in thought, fingers stuck in the pockets of his dark trousers. His black tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, as did the bun on the back of his head, allowing stray locks of fiery hair to come loose. But what was most peculiar was the pair of black spectacles perched atop his nose, hiding his eyes from you. His entire presence was slack, nothing at all like the formality you’d been expecting.

You stared at each another for a silent beat. 

“Is that how most angels talk?” You asked, your voice ringing through the stone walls. You hadn’t meant to sound impertinent, only that you were fairly certain no angel looked like this, clad in black like a warrior. He was beautiful like an angel would be, but a different aura seemed to flow from him than piety. Temptation. 

“Er, yes. Something like that anyway. And um, you are?” His voice was low, smooth, but decidedly confused. You smirked. 

“Y/N.”

“Right, that obviously clears it up.” He responded sardonically. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m here as an offering to the angel Aziraphale. And your name is?” You raised a brow, lifting yourself to a seated position. Your white dress positively glowed under the moonlight, bringing an ethereal aura to you. Crowley blinked at the sight of you behind darkened lenses.

“Aziraphale, of course. Silly girl.” Crowley replied easily, smirking in return.  

You scooted to the edge of the raised platform, letting your feet rest on the stone step below, and adjusted your dress to drape nicely over your legs. Glancing at the man with a scoff, a disbelieving smile encroached on your lips. “I think not.”

“And what makes you think to the contrary?” His words were almost purred, the first attack of charms from... whatever he was. 

You lifted your hand and gestured vaguely at him. “Just. All of you.”

“You have a way with words, don’t you, love?” 

“Well,” You shrugged, absentmindedly touching your hair. It had been done up, but you rolling around on the ground had made it come loose. You touched a few stray strands, unsure what to do with your hands, and dropped your eyes from the man. “I guess I didn’t think being a sacrifice required much articulation. I am, after all, an afterthought to all the pears.”

“Ah yes, those bloody pears.” The bloody pears that had netted him in this situation. And Aziraphale, he’d get an earful. Did he know about this? Was this revenge for the coin toss?

“An angel who curses.” You deadpanned.

“A sacrifice with a lip.” He responded smoothly.

You stood from your place on the stone table, and stepped down from it. He hadn’t moved this entire time, regarding you from a distances with cool indifference. If he was here to eat you, he was taking his sweet time. Perhaps he liked having philosophical, self-scrutinizing discussions about his identity with his prey. Perhaps he just liked being a trickster. You couldn’t read his eyes, and that gave him the advantage. You’d essentially decided that he was here for no good, though for all intents and purposes, you’d obviously never seen an angel before. Who were you to decide what one should look like?

“You’re still keeping up this facade?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m merely here for the food. What you’re doing here remains an utter mystery to me.” Crowley gestured towards the food with his elbow, his fingers still locked in the pockets of his trousers. 

You crossed your arms over your chest petulantly. You hadn’t expected any sort of fanfare, but this was getting a little insulting. Wasn’t this meant to be a little bit more... climactic? 

“Look, are you going to take me or not?”

Crowley choked on nothing. “Pardon?” 

“Take me. As an offering.”

“To what extent exactly?”

You threw your hands up in the air in frustration. “To save my village, you... being! We’re at risk of being raided by another clan, we need nothing short of a miracle!” 

Crowley made a noise of understanding. That explained the brandishing of the weapons outside the temple. Apparently the village was looking to tack on another miracle in exchange for the girl. Though what Aziraphale was meant to do with her, he had no idea. “That lot out there, with the angry faces and sharp things.”

You didn’t know if he was mocking you or not, but the longer you stood in front of him, the more you were starting to get a little distracted from the matter at hand. The way he was standing in the moonlight let you look at him more clearly, and it was becoming unsettling just how beautiful he was to you. The fact that you couldn’t read his gaze made him all the more mysterious, the more unknown. And you wanted to know who this man really was.

“What’s your name?” You repeated. 

“Crowley.” He purred again, suddenly taking a step forward. Despite your initial confidence, you jumped and nearly tripped over the steps as an attempt to jump back. You’d barely noticed he’d given his real name in that moment. “Well skittish, aren’t you, love?” His long fingers calmly reached for an apple that sat atop the pile. It was a bright gleaming red, though it looked like a pallid pink in the light of the night. 

“Not a pear?” You couldn’t help but tease, though your voice shook a bit. Perhaps it wasn’t best to anger him, not until you knew more about him. The closer he was, the more curious you became. His features were sharp up close, but chiseled like a statue. His skin looked smooth, and his hair soft to the touch. You swallowed. 

“Oh, apples have been a favourite of mine for a long time.” He grinned like he knew something you didn’t, and took a bite. Gesturing with the pierced fruit at the baskets, he spoke while chewing, “Go on. It is yours, after all.”

You were still sat on the edge of the step on the side of the table, having somewhat collected yourself after falling back. Still, your heart hammered. He was an unpredictable, strange man, and you were alone with him. But.. you were also hungry. Crowley continued to chew, this time pacing a few steps back and forth as he surveyed the temple, as though he’d only come in for a visit. Though it was surely akin to some sort of sacrilege, you leaned forward and plucked a peach from one of the woven baskets. It was soft and ripe in your hands. You took a bite, but your eyes did not leave the curious man. 

“So you’re not Aziraphale.” You deduced, sucking the juice from the peach. Crowley swivelled on his heel at your words, the apple now missing several bites from it. He continued gesturing with it as he spoke.

“‘M not. But I do know him. He was indisposed, so here I am.” He sighed quietly. “Dealing with his complications.” 

You hooked your arms around your knees, your peach hooked between your thumb and index finger. “You’re also not an angel.”

Crowley shrugged. “Nobody wants a history lesson, love. I fancied a walk, and sauntered vaguely downward one day. It became a whole thing.” 

You quirked a brow at that, chewing another bite of the fruit. “A demon then.” 

Crowley began slowly pacing towards you, but you forced yourself not to flinch. The longer you spoke, the less afraid you were of him, but that didn’t mean you knew what he was capable of either. “Very good, angel.” He praised in that raspy voice. You felt yourself flush, and hoped the temple was too dark to see. “How d’you feel about that, then? Being in the same temple as a demon?”

Your eyes widened slightly at his words. Truthfully, you hadn’t even considered that. 

“Well-”

“And what was Aziraphale meant to do with you, anyways?”

“I-I don’t know. It’s just what’s done, isn’t it? Whatever he saw... fit to do.”

Crowley was silent for a beat, but the smirk on his lips said it all. “And as his stand-in, does that extend to me? Do whatever I see fit?”

You laughed dryly. “Only if you keep up your end of the bargain, demon. And you can’t do miracles.”

“‘Course I can, angel.” He tossed the empty apple core into the air, snapped his fingers, and it disappeared without a trace. Your lips parted in surprise. The peach pit also suddenly disappeared from between your fingers, leaving them empty and sticky from the juices. 

“How...” You murmured to yourself, staring at your hand, then stood up triumphantly from the steps. “Wait, you can? Then you can help us!” You picked up your skirts and ran down the steps towards the demon, stopping just a few feet short. It was hard to keep your wits about you, especially when he turned to look at you with thinly veiled curiosity. Even from behind his glasses, you could tell he was as intrigued as you were. 

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then furrowed his brows. “Why would you want to help a village that’s offered you up so easily?”

“I don’t know, I suppose I still want to do right by them. And anyway, this was my choice.”

“Well, that’s normal.”

You smiled to yourself; he was right. This was not the normal thing a young woman would choose to do, but you were beginning to get the feeling that this was meant to happen. “Will you help us?” Your request was quiet, your voice barely travelling the length of the distance between you. 

Crowley didn’t respond for a moment, and he thought hard. Between you and Aziraphale, he’d get an earful if he didn’t do this one favour. Especially if this town’s pear supply was eradicated. Nobody had to know. 

“I don’t have to, y’know, ceremoniously drink your blood if I say yes, do I?” 

“Well, I’d think you’d know more about the nature of demons than I would, Crowley.” You purred his name back at him, attempting to throw some of his tricks back at him. It seemed to work; he raised his brows playfully.

“Nah. Our lot prefer alcohol, and this being a temple and all, I don’t fancy there being any nearby. Your blood will have to do.” He nodded solemnly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Jokes aside, you paled at his words, which he seemed to find very amusing. “Relax, angel. Not my taste.”

“Will you take the harvest then, in return?”

“I will.” 

“And me?” You felt your heart begin to beat faster. “Are you going to kill me? Do you need my s-soul?” Curses, that was difficult to get out. Perhaps this sacrifice business required a little bit more strength than you’d anticipated. When actually faced with the reckoning, you’d begun to falter. You balled your fingers into fists, digging your nails in to keep yourself present. It wouldn’t do to pass out now. 

“Is that what you want?”

You didn’t respond. You let out a shaky breath, and released your nails from your skin. Crowley began to slowly walk towards you, just five paces or so, absolutely nothing for his long legs. He towered over you, but his presence was not as intimidating as you’d expected. For all intents and purposes, he’d been respectful of you during all of this. So you weren’t afraid when he raised his hand, and using his index finger, slowly traced it down your cheekbone to your jawline, and along the column of your neck. His touch did not travel any farther down. Your breathing grew shallow, skin burning from where he’d touched it. It was an addictive feeling, and you found yourself already craving more. 

“I’m not going to kill you, angel, because that would be a sin at which even hell itself would shudder. I don’t need your soul or your blood.” He spoke lowly, calmly, and all the while you couldn’t think of anything but his hands on you again. To your frustration, his hand fell to his side and did not come near you again. You hung on his every word, entranced in the sound of it, the roughness of it. “Your village will be safe from any attackers. And in payment for this miracle, I just came for the fruit.” His mask fell away, and he grinned again. “Don’t tell anybody, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

He stepped back away from you, and the spell between you was broken. His eyes turned towards the baskets still lining the steps of the ceremonial altar. He stepped around you to assess them, and with three consecutive snaps of his fingers, they disappeared. The stone steps were bare now, except for you, the last of the sacrifices.

“I can’t go back.” You said suddenly. Crowley turned his head to look at you, a confusion etched on his features.

“Are they expecting to find a bloodbath in the morning or something? Blimey.”

“No-” You couldn’t help but laugh a little, though defeat was beginning to seep into your voice. “No, it’s just- I don’t belong there. I never did, and if I go back to the village as the one who escaped the sacrifice, they’ll never accept me. Even if the raiders never attack. They’ll say it was their own doing, warding them off with their men.”

“That’s why you did this whole sacrifice thing then?”

“Yes.” You replied quietly, almost feeling foolish. “I just wanted to experience something new, feel a purpose. Even if it was just for tonight.”

“Right. Of course.” Crowley took his spectacles off, but his eyes were closed and his fingers were rubbing at them. You couldn’t help but peer, trying to see the reason why he wore them even in the darkness. He replaced them before his eyes opened again, but from what you saw, he looked perfectly normal. He let out a short breath, “You’ll have to come with me then, angel.”

“Wh- to hell?”

Crowley snorted. “Not unless you’ve committed some atrocious sins, which I somehow doubt. Anywhere you like. Other side of the world, or across the river. If you can’t stay here, you can choose where you’d like to.” 

Relief burst through your heart, though outwardly, you were still coming to grips with his words, standing perfectly still with your mind racing. It all almost seemed too good to be true, and yet you’d be damned - literally - before you let it all slip away. Crowley was standing on the raised part of the stone platform, and you stepped onto it to meet him. He still towered over you, looking devilishly handsome in black. 

“That’s two miracles, then.” You looked up at him. He was watching you curiously. Your eyes scanned his face. “The addition of a second miracle requires further payment. Can I give you something?” 

Crowley inclined his head in acquiescence. The moonlight drowned both of you in its cold, blue light, yet the demon in front of you still looked warm to the touch. His hair retained its fiery red colour, even tucked back into the loose bun, and his skin was a warm hue. You lifted your hand, fingers mirroring his previously as they traced over his cheek and jawline. It was then that you noticed a small black smudge near his hairline, depicting the symbol of a snake. Your other hand came up to cup his other cheek, at which point you stood on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his. 

You felt him kiss you back, you felt it with every fibre of your being as his lips pressed into yours, deepening the kiss. The feeling immediately spread warmth into your chest, but it didn’t last. He broke the kiss, concern adorning his face.

“You’re not indebted to me.”

You smiled. “Not anymore, I’m not. The kiss was your payment. Anything else is because I want to.” 

“Anything else?” He repeated in that low tone, and you just knew he was doing it on purpose this time. “Don’t you know it’s bad practice to tempt demons, angel? What am I meant to do?”

“Sin, of course. Silly demon.”

He playfully mocked your teasing smile, which made you laugh. The sound quickly died in your throat as his lips crashed against yours again, this time more fervently. It wasn’t until your own hands, gingerly and hesitantly, touched his sides that his hands came up to rest on your waist. For a demon, he was certainly gentlemanly, you thought dryly. 

You became bolder by fisting his tunic in your hands as his kiss deepened, his large hand come up to snake into your hair. Your updo began to fall apart at his touch, though you suspected that was no accident as pins tumbled to the floor. His other hand tightened around your waist, bringing you closer against his lean, hard body. The juxtaposition of his rough tunic and leathery trousers compared to your white, draping gown created a delicious friction, and you wanted nothing more than for him to tear it off. He broke the kiss again, both of his hands slipping along your waist, down to your hips and over your bottom. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, a small gasp from your lips. He brought his mouth to your ear.

“Just remember you asked for it, love.” He growled, then licked a short stripe down the column of your throat, just underneath your ear. You shivered in his arms, nails digging into him. “As long as you want this, you’ll get it.”

“And when will I get it?” You teased, at which point you felt his teeth nip at your neck. You let out a quiet yelp at the feeling of his canines scraping against your skin, and you felt him laugh against the crook of your shoulder. He soothed the sting with a kiss, at which point you heard him murmuring against your neck. 

“Are you a virgin, love?”

“No.” You admitted shyly. 

Crowley chuckled again. “It’s not a requirement.” 

“Now, first things first,” He lifted himself to his full height, and you tipped your chin back to regard him. The moonlight created a soft aura around him, in direct opposition to the wicked way he was looking at you now. You could practically picture him licking his lips. “On your knees. Like a good sacrifice.”

Before taking your position, you reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline, unable to stop yourself from tasting his skin. Your eyes fell to his trousers, and you began undoing the corded leather belt that cinched him in. His waist was impossibly slim, and you couldn’t help but see the snakelike resemblance. You could already see he was hard through his trousers, and you teasingly passed your hand over the bulge. He hissed in pleasure, one of his hands coming down to tangle in your hair, now freed from its pinned-up confines. “Don’t tease me, love, or you’ll have a long night ahead of you.”

You chuckled smugly to yourself, and began to kneel down when you felt your legs hit a soft surface. A cushion had appeared on the stone surface, providing a welcome barrier between your skin and the cold floor where your dress would not have sufficed. 

“A kind demon.” You mused to yourself, and you felt his grip tighten in your hair impatiently. You smiled, knowing he must not have appreciated that. Finally, you pulled his trousers down, allowing his hard cock to spring free. He was long, but mostly he was thick. You let your hand pump against him a few times, then you proceeded to take him into your mouth. 

Crowley groaned above you, fingers scraping deliciously against your hair. You saw that he was trying his best not to thrust into your mouth, and you couldn’t help but internally applaud his self-restraint.. for a demon. You bobbed your mouth up and down, using your hands for the last inch or two you couldn’t fit. He was hard and heavy on your tongue as you swirled it around the head, tasting the salty pre-cum. 

“Oh, so good for me, angel.” He said hoarsely. 

You placed your hands on his hips, eyes flickering up to his as you sucked on his cock. His praise warmed you, but it was the sensation of being on your knees for a demon that was beginning to make you soaked between your legs. When his eyes met yours, you nodded slightly, and he acted upon the permission you gave fervently. His hips gently thrusted forward against your mouth, causing tears to spring to your eyes almost immediately. You dug your nails into his hips after a few more thrusts, and he pulled himself out of you, your saliva connecting to his still hardened cock. 

“There’s a good love,” He praised quietly, and pulled you up from your knees. “But I need you to stop there, if I’m to take you properly.” He spun you around with a flick of his wrist, deft fingers immediately working on the clasps of the dress. You knew he could have just snapped his fingers and it would have disappeared completely, but you weren’t complaining against the feeling of his hands against your skin, caressing as the gown fell to your feet. He slowly turned you back around, hands slipping from your hips to your breasts, which he kneaded gently. 

You took the opportunity to tug on the bottom of his tunic, which disappeared in a moment’s notice at your request. His pants followed, leaving you both naked. 

“I’d love to taste you, angel.” He murmured as he fell to his knees himself in front of you, and you blushed at how obvious your arousal was. It was not lost on him, either. “-But I can see you’re far too excited for that, hm? Do you think you’re ready to take me, angel?” His fingers slowly made his way between your legs, and with practiced swiftness, one of his fingers slid inside of you. You let out  a shuddered gasp, goosebumps breaking out all over your skin. 

“Yes, let me take you, Crowley.” You hissed at the feeling of his thumb barely ghosting over your clit, but giving you no relief in your frustration. He was enjoying the power, you saw it in his grin. “God, please.” 

A second finger slid inside, and your breath quickened at the feeling. You were positively dripping at this point, your arousal slick against his fingers. Again, his thumb just barely touched your clit before his hand was gone completely, and you were in his arms. Desperate for his touch, you wrapped your legs around his slim waist, and felt yourself being lowered onto a soft sed of blankets. Turning your head to the side, you saw that you were surrounded by a lavish display of feather-filled cushions and blankets, turning the raised stone surface into a temple of hedonism. 

Crowley hovered over you, his arms corded with lean muscle on either side of your head. His hair had almost completely come loose from his bun now, so you reached up and tugged the rest of it out, tossing the band aside. His red hair fell to frame his face, creating a hellish aura that seemed far more appropriate for him and his station... and for what he was about to do to you. You reached up, brushing some of his hair away from his face. 

“Can you take them off?” You whispered, seeing a tiny version of your face reflected back at you in a fuzzy, distorted image against the black spectacles. 

“Not sure you know what you got yourself into, love.” He warned, but raised a hand to take them off all the same. You watched his body shift, appreciating the sinewy way he moved. The spectacles were gone, and you gazed up into his uncovered eyes. They were a little startling, perhaps, but you had assumed he’d look something of the sort. You raised a hand to swipe your thumb underneath his eye, smiling as you looked up at him. His gaze was green-yellow, positively reptilian, but you preferred it to the blackness of the spectacles; at least now you could see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. 

You tightened your legs around his hips, and bucked up. The heat boiling in your lower stomach was getting to be too much to handle. Crowley’s face scrunched in a moment of pleasure as you displayed your frustration, and his grin grew.

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you? So eager to be sullied by the likes of a demon. Ready for me?” He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, and you nodded, feeling yourself dripping against both your skin and his. He must’ve felt it too, because he didn’t spare another second before sinking fluidly inside of your folds. You shuddered at the feeling, your breathing immediately becoming uneven as his hips, slowy at first, then steadily, built up a pace. 

He was thick and hard inside of you, hips rolling against your pubic bone in order to hit that one sensitive spot. You positively keened against him, never having been so full before in your life. Bucking your hips against his, you finally started to feel the friction you had been searching for so desperately this entire time. Crowley’s hips pounded mercilessly against you, skin slapping against yours in the silence of the temple. Only your groans and his panting could be heard, though it was steadily growing louder. 

You cried out when you felt his hand snake down between the two of you, and begin to rub against your clit. His thumb pressed down against it harshly, and you squirmed against the overwhelming sensations. All the while, he thrusted in and out of you without breaking his rhythm. 

“Crowley!” You sobbed, your own hips unable to keep up. Instead, he pressed you down with one large hand, the other still rolling around your clit. Unable to move, you had no choice but to take his relentless cock.

“Yes, angel.” He hissed, pleased with the way your sensitive body was reacting to him, back arching as you desperately sought your release. Oh, he’d give it to you, alright. “I’m here, and you are mine. Say it.” His hand released your hips and moved to your breasts. 

“I’m-” You cried out again as his fingers rolled one of your pebbled nipples.

“Say it and I’ll let you cum.” He cursed at the way you clenched around him when he said that.  “Liked that, did we? Knowing your release is in my hands? Be a good girl and say it.”

“I’m yours!” You panted between your words, your breaths now laboured as his fingers returned to your clit. The only way you could tell that he was close too was by the way his hips began to stutter against yours, though each of his thrusts remained hard and perfectly calculated to hit your sweet spot every time. 

It didn’t take much more - a few more swipes, and the sight of his face, a wicked smile that reached his demonic eyes, to set you off. You bucked your hips against his a few times to ride out your release as it sent sparks up and down your spine, and stars behind your eyes. You tightened your legs around him as he thrusted one, two, three more times inside of you, fingers still swiping at your clit. You squirmed at the overstimulation, fingers digging into his back as he pressed his hips against yours, spilling himself inside of you.

“Fuck, angel!”

You gasped, feeling his hot cum fill you up, and you desperately soaking all of it up. He collapsed beside you moments later, and you felt your arousal mixing with his release all over the inside of your thighs. But you were too exhausted, laying spent on the velvety blankets, to care. A thick fur blanket materialized on top of you, and you happily pulled it over your shoulders. The moon had now passed over the skylight and was no longer visible. Instead, the sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade of purple. The thought of morning almost seemed threatening to the little hideaway this had become for the two of you. You smiled as you felt Crowley’s arms wrap around your waist, pressing his chest against your back. His chin rested on top of your head, and you were certain he could feel your heartbeat hammering away underneath his hands. 

“Well, I don’t know what Aziraphale would’ve done with you, but I know it wouldn’t have been that.” 

You couldn’t help but a laugh, fighting sleep as it tried to take hold. You wanted to cherish was little time you had left in this temple, silly as it might have seemed. Though you wanted nothing more than to see the world, and hopefully Crowley again, you knew you’d look back at this village and this temple (and especially what happened inside of it) with happiness in the years to come. 

“I guess it’s a good thing you showed up instead, hm? Can I call it kismet?”

“If you like.” Crowley’s nose nuzzled against your neck. “Though I prefer ‘divine intervention’.”

“Who, Aziraphale?”

“No, love, a rigged coin-toss.” 

You turned your head to face Crowley with a disbelieving smile. “All of this was dependant on a coin toss?”

“A cheated coin toss, you must learn to listen.” Crowley taunted.

“And you didn’t know I’d be here?” You asked, your fingers trailing up and down his arm, the one wrapped around your waist.

“No, I sent him packing to Edinburgh. He asked a favor of me to come here.” 

“Hm. So you won the coin toss, yet you did him a favor by coming here... then you did me a favour by promising to save my village, and to take me away from here.” You looked up at him, sparkly-eyed, high on the pleasure still coursing through your blood. Crowley’s gaze narrowed, and you grinned. “Awful nice of you. Did his angelic tendencies rub off on you?”

“I’m not nice!” Crowley grumbled petulantly. “’M a demon.”

“Of course you are.”

“Right then, let’s have that neck. Time for the ceremonial blood-drinking.” Crowley’s hands slithered against your body, and you shrieked at the feeling, squirming between fits of laughter. When his teeth nipped against your skin again, you screamed in mock fear of the villainous demon. Crowley’s mouth against yours muffled the sound, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

Meanwhile, down in the village, the moon began to fade, and the sun began peeking out over the horizon. The otherwise dewy and tranquil morning was broken by the sound that of blood-curdling scream, followed by an eerie silence that seemed to settle over the town. All of the villagers looked out from their windows, some stepping outside to see if they could witness anything happening. They all sighed and shook their heads, tutting at what a shame it was for the young woman to be taken so. Yet, as the fear began to shake off of them with every passing moment, a sense of relief spread through the inhabitants. The anxiety was gone. They would be safe now. 

And so would you. 

[etn-story-archive]

Enter the Nomicon - Chapter 16: Dream a Little Dream of Me

.

It was almost dreamlike, unreal and light, like he would fly away into the endless abyss of the night. The entirety of the sensation seemed strangely familiar, yet he was unable to place it. The only true sign of the reality he was in came from what he saw and what he felt all around him.

The nightly air was thick and laced with a heaviness that rested at his chest. There were brief intervals of gentle breezes that carefully combed through shaggy, disheveled hair. Sadly, the airy waves did little to truly alleviate the foreboding sense of suffocation. Still, Randy appreciated the small comfort the breeze provided. It helped to calm his shot nerves, allowing him to think about more pressing matters at hand. Especially the ones that pertained to his current situation; Randall Cunningham was dead, or at least that was what he thought. But how else could he explain all of this--where he was, and the lack of remembrance as to how he got there?

Randy took a conscious step forward, before stopping to carefully eye his surroundings for, what he could only guess, was the uptenth time in the past several minutes. He was standing in the heart of what appeared to be a large village that practically screamed ‘ancient Japan’ with its charming and regal architecture. The large community itself appeared to be heavily inspired by Little Norrisville, but even then, Little Norrisville held a stronger sense of modernity compared to here, wherever that may be; it certainly wasn't from his time.

This had left Randy utterly confused, because how could he be somewhere other than his own time, and not remember how he has gotten there? 

Maybe he really was dead.

Regardless, none of this coincided with Randy's memories of the day.

The young ninja continued to march on, having no other idea of what else he should do.

Admittedly, some parts of Randy's memories were choppy, but there was just enough to paint a clear enough picture in his mind.

He remembered Nomi and himself charging headfirst into a sea of monster students and freeing them from the Sorceress's influence, before they had found themselves being confronted by the Sorceress and Mac Antfee. He could still feel the deathly grip of Mac's hand on his throat; the man had come dangerously close to ending Randy's life, and then just like that, he had been torn away from Randy. A nightmarish form of his teacher had seemingly come from thin air, and like some scaly, runaway freight train, bulldozed Mac away. It had not only saved him from dying right then and there, but it had also lead to the brutal end of Nomi's former student.

At that point, Randy was on the verge of passing out, but had forced all of his strength in keeping himself awake long enough to calm Nomi back down to his human form. The redheaded teacher had immediately scooped Randy up, clutching the teen close to his chest as he fell into hysterics, being reduced to a sobbing mess.

Nomi had felt so warm and safe, despite the fact that he had just murdered someone, and Randy could taste the words of a confession on the tip of his tongue.  Yet now, it was tasteless and lost in his mind. He could, however, feel a sense of regret, as if he had failed to let slip what he had wanted to say to Nomi.

Darkness had overcome him, but at some point he had become conscious again for a brief few seconds. Randy had found himself laying on a gurney inside a speeding ambulance, and Howard had been there, right beside him, screaming frantically into Randy's ears. However, the amethyst haired teen had been too dazed and confused to fully comprehend a single thing that Howard had said. Then he blacked out again.

Finally, the last time he had awoken, had been when he found himself in the midst of the ancient Japanese village, basking underneath the light of the starry sky and cradled by moonlight.

Once again the question entered his mind, "Where am I?” 

There was no answer to his question, or at least not yet, he thought, correcting himself. Seeing as he wouldn't find answers on his own, he decided to focus on walking forward. As he studied his surroundings for any clues of his whereabouts, Randy silently hoped that he would be able to find someone with answers.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem possible, as he noted the lack of light coming from any of the buildings. It was safe to assume that the village occupants were sound asleep. Well, apparently except for one.

In the far off distance, Randy's blue eyes spotted a small, humble home atop a lone, grassy field. The little home seemed less luxurious compared to the other buildings and was surrounded by Japanese maples, a trail of lanterns led up to the front steps of the home. It was almost like something out of a videogame to Randy, and it was silently calling to him, begging him to come closer.

Randy could hardly register his feet moving towards the little home, until he was standing at its wooden door. Hesitantly, he raised a fist and, went to knock, but instead of his fist coming to contact with the door, his whole arm phased through it. His eyes began to widen. 

The first thing that came to his mind was the dream Randy had had a few weeks back, back when he had first met Nomi.

“I’m dreaming?”

Randy could barely hide the shock and surprise from his voice; he wasn’t dead, afterall.

Tentatively, he stepped all the way through the door. A soft gasp escaped him, a strange sensation running through his body as he slipped through the door.

What he found inside was something he certainly had not expected to see.

A teen, perhaps around his age, sat at the very center of the room in a meditative position, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The male bore light brown hair that was pulled into a high ponytail. A dirty,  torn shroud rested over his shoulders, and underneath the shroud, the teen wore a traditional Japanese outfit, which mainly consisted of red, white and black. However, what really shocked Randy was what sat right in front of the teen: the Nomicon.

Randy stared wordlessly as the brunette teen opened his eyes, revealing eyes the same color as his hair. 

He spoke in Japanese, yet Randy was able to understand his every word, as if he had spoken in English.

“Dear teacher, I may not know of your origins, nor do I fully understand your motives. I do, however, understand our common goal to rid this world of the Sorcerer. He killed my brothers, of whom helped defend our home to their dying breaths. I will do my part in doing the same, though I cannot do it alone. Will you teach me?”

The Nomicon seemed pleased with the boy’s answer, emitting a low buzzing hum.

The teen smiled and suddenly stood up, stretching his limbs, before picking up Nomi. The brunette left the room in silence.

At that, Randy snapped out of the awestruck stupor he had been in, and hastily followed after the two.

The whole world seemed to shift, and Randy had not noticed it, until he stepped into the room the teen had left to. There was only a single light source in the room, which came from a small lantern that sat idly on a wooden desk. Its owner, an old man, was quietly sitting beside said desk, with the Nomicon laying in front of him. He held a sad, tired expression as he spoke in a soft whisper.

"My time as the Ninja of the Norisu Village has long since been over, and peace has been since then achieved. I have completed my mission, old friend, and I believe it is soon time for you to choose another who must carry on the duty to protect our home. I am weak, ill; my time is quickly coming nearer.”

The Nomicon didn’t respond at first, but then red smoke seeped through his pages, and Nomi Conikos Norisu suddenly appeared. He sat on the edge of the desk, eyes red and puffy with large tears. 

Randy was shocked to see his teacher so torn apart, and he had to refrain from going over to Nomi’s side to try to comfort him. The action would be in vain, of course. He was nothing more than a ghost here.

Nomi spoke, his voice shaky.

”I-I know, but I cannot abandon a friend. You have dedicated your whole life to carry on the duty, a burden, that I could not. You sought no wives. You bore no children. You have given up the chance to live a long, prosperous life. The least that I may do is spare the time for you until you pass.”

The old man chuckled softly.

"I am simply astounded by your sentimentalism. The tough and stern teacher, showing emotions? Shock! Has hell itself frozen over?!”

Randy half expected Nomi to be somewhat offended by the old man’s words, but instead was met by a snorting laugh. 

“Or perhaps, my student has finally given me a reason to show emotion?”

The old man let out a resounding laugh, knowing full well that it was physically impossible to outwit and out sass his teacher.

Randy sensed this, and he found himself grinning. The forlorn mood in the room seemed to lift, and he quietly watched as the old man and Nomi hugged each other tightly. The amethyst haired teen shuddered. An odd sensation danced up his spine, like an icy hand, a gasp leaving his lips. 

The room then seemed to warp, and he found himself standing outside, right before the little house. However, everything seemed different. 

The comfy little home had become somewhat run-down. It was daylight, but deep, dark clouds hid away the sun. The air was chilling to the bone, and the entire atmosphere felt listless and depressing. Randy was standing beside Nomi, whose face was full of grievance. In his hands, Nomi clutched an elegant sword, its blade covered by a dark red sheath. The magical being wordlessly unsheath the katana, displaying a dark blade. Kanji symbols were eloquently inscribed on both handle and blade, which seemed to bear the semblance of the words ‘Goodbye, my friend.’

Nomi paused, before he suddenly plunged the great weapon into the earth. He clutched the handle tightly, hands shaking. Softly, the red haired ninja murmured out the words,

"You were a grand ninja, though you were an even greater friend.”

Nomi sat on his haunches and stared up at the home with a deep fondness, tears were beginning to form in his eyes, when another figure came to join him. A cowboy-hatted man carefully rested a hand on his back.

"Ya know, it is time for us to go.”

His voice held a thick southern accent.

Nomi simply nodded. The two glanced at the house once more, before taking their leave. It was not until the little house was a tiny speck in the distance that Nomi suddenly crumbled to the ground, onto his hands and knees. Loud, body wracking sobs left his lips, and his voice was hoarse as he shouted and screamed, cursing the unfairness of his life, because why him? He didn’t want to keep living in this miserable loop of existence, when all he could feel was pain and endless suffering.

“WHY ME!? I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE! I CAN’T! I DON’T WANT TO BE IMMORTAL ANYMORE!”

Randy rushed immediately at Nomi’s side, and he wrapped his arms around the sobbing teen into a loose hug. Any tighter, and he would simply phase through Nomi.

Even if Nomi could not feel any of this, it still brought Randy some comfort for himself. He buried a part of his face into Nomi’s back, tears beginning to form in his blue eyes.

The cowboy-hatted man noticed Nomi’s state, and instantly made his way towards the sobbing teen. He calmly lowered himself to Nomi’s level, and began to utter words of comfort. 

“It’ll be okay…”

Randy peered over to the man, and furrowed his brows. The man’s words were slowly starting to slur, becoming more and more indecipherable. Suddenly, Nomi and the cowboy seemed far away, and the world was beginning to disappear and fade into a void of emptiness. 

Randy began to panic. He ran, and tried to return back to Nomi, but the more he tried, the more far away they seemed until the dark swallowed them and himself whole.

…..

Nomi was thankful that Gene had given him the t-shirt and basketball shorts; it was unbelievably hot. Up until now, the days had been cool and wet thanks to the previous rains, but now the summer’s simmering heat had come back with a vengeful bite. However, there seemed to be only one down side to Nomi’s current apparel. The clothes did absolutely nothing to protect his arms and legs from the small thorns of the bush he was currently sitting in.

A pair of footsteps caught Nomi’s attention, but then they just as quickly faded off. Poking his head out of the bushes, Nomi was relieved to find that it wasn’t a doctor, just a regular person finishing up a smoke. The scent of the cigarette lingered in the air for a moment, eventually snuffing out.

It had taken Nomi nearly half an hour to get to the hospital, the only delays being caused by himself. He was still unsure if he was truly prepared to see his student, unsure if the teen was even alive. If he was, Randy would more than likely be in a less than good state of being.

It was after having taken another detour, this time through a park, that Nomi finally made his way to the hospital. He made sure to avoid any entrances, and stayed just beyond the hospital camera's line of sight. He also made it a point to stray away from any hospital personnel, such as the nurse who had spotted him earlier, and took to the side of the hospital. Then, Nomi had made a beeline for a nearby bush, the one he was now hiding in.

Nomi looked around to make sure there weren’t any other passerbyers, and after a moment of preparation, began scaling the hospital wall. He soon reached a window that was just a few levels above the ground. It seemed that no one had bothered to lock it, and it was never opened at any times, making the window a bit finicky. It took some fidgeting before Nomi was able to pry it open, and he wasted no time diving inside. 

Nomi landed onto vinyl flooring in silence. Shooting a brief glance in the almost pitch black storage room, it seemed that no one else but Nomi was here. 

Good. That made this all the more easier.

On a metal shelving rack, there was an old janitor’s jacket, a pair of musty looking pants and boots, and a black flipback hat. Nomi graciously took the items and slipped them on. Unsurprisingly, most of the clothes were far too big and baggy. Even the hat seemed to be a size too big, covering a portion of Nomi’s face. But he didn’t mind.

He sipped out of the dark room. Nobody seemed to notice or question him. More than likely, everyone was too busy to take a good look and see a kid wearing some old janitor outfit. Thanking every and any deity in existence that the disguise had worked, Nomi wordlessly made his way to one of the many help centers.

“Excuse me, I seem to have gotten very lost on my way to see a friend. His name is Randy Cunningham, do you know where his room is?”

The receptionist looked up from the computer and was a little startled by Nomi’s somewhat sudden appearance.

 “Oh! Well of course! Just give me one second.”

Turning back to the computer beside him, he instantly began typing with incredible speed and accuracy. He turned back to Nomi with a slight smile.

"Randy Cunningham is two levels above us, room 503.” 

Nomi nodded, muttering a soft,"thank you,” and was about to leave, when the receptionist called out to him.

“Wait, are you an unaccompanied minor?”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Nomi would have laughed at the question; he was no average minor.

“Yes, I am.”

The man hummed, then turned his back to Nomi and began digging around his desk.

"Dahlia on the first floor should’ve given you one, really any of the other receptionists,” he seemed to find what he was looking for and placed it atop the desk as he continued. "Oh well, I guess they must’ve had their hands full. The recent monster attack at school left quite a number of people injured, thankfully no fatalities as far as I heard.”

Nomi thanked the male as he took the item (a sticker that labeled Nomi a minor) off of the receptionist’s desk. His chest swelled with absolute relief that no one else had died, and that Randy was clearly alive.

With that, Nomi bid the receptionist good bye, and ran towards the nearest elevator in sight. He nearly broke the elevator’s button, and was even tempted to ditch the elevator. It was going far too slow for Nomi’s tastes. 

After a mere few seconds passed, he was most seriously considering his alternative plan, when there was a soft ding, signifying that the elevator had reached his floor. He stepped inside quickly.

The doors had barely opened and Nomi shouldered past, ignoring any eyes on him. Nomi simply didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t even noticed that he had zoomed past a disgruntled and exhausted Ms. Cunningham.

It wasn’t until Nomi spotted the room that he slowed down.

The anxiety and guilt from before almost instantaneously resurfaced, and Nomi seemed hesitant to venture further inside. 

Was it too late to turn around? 

“Yes, yes it is.”

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes as he stepped inside the hospital room. As Nomi reopened his eyes, he wasn’t all too surprised by the somewhat ordinary setup of the room. The walls were a sterile white, the air in the room stale, and the soft steady beeping of a heart monitor. The only thing that seem to stand in complete contrast to the room was the teen lying in the hospital bed. Randy.

Nomi’s heart nearly jolted out of his chest as he took in the state of his student. Bandages were dotted all over Randy’s face, some were even wrapped around the amethyst haired teen’s throat. There were wires and tubings all connected to Randy. From an arterial line to an endotracheal tube which went through Randy’s nose, allowing the teen to breath. It seemed that Mac Antfee had done more damage to Randy’s throat than what had been expected.

Edging closer to Randy’s bedside, Nomi was thankful to find that Randy was asleep, just as he had hoped back when he was at Gene’s. Running a hand through Randy’s hair, a sad smile gently graced his lips. 

Without much thought, Nomi leaned down and pressed his lips against Randy’s forehead, and pulled away. As much as he wanted to savor this moment, Nomi was pressed for time. He already wasted a good deal of time working up the nerve to even come here in the first place. 

Now he needed to hunt down the Sorceress, before she did anything with the mask. 

Sighing, the redhead slipped away from his student, only pausing at the nearby window to look over at Randy once more. He hesitated, before finally forcing himself to leave.

What Nomi didn’t see was that his student’s eyes flickering open, wide and full of fear.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 15

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  Claire has a secret.  Two secrets, actually.  And Jamie’s about to discover them both.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

Whatever his pedigree or faults, Jamie could not deny that Captain Frank Randall kept a very fine library.   After tearing through the Highland history offered by Claire in one sleepless night, he sought out further reading on the subject, pretending his interest was merely academic.  Book after book told a story both tragic and disheartening.  Beaten by the English at Culloden, the Scottish clans preceded to dismantle their own culture more assiduously than any Redcoat had done.  In the present day, the Highland way of life was nothing but a faint memory, with no more substance than a nursery tale remembered in adulthood.

Now that he could move about, Jamie spent many hours poring over faded manuscripts, records of birth and death, looking for some trace of his family.  His sister Janet had married Ian Murray in 1740, and he found the baptismal records for James Alexander Gordon Fraser Murray and Margaret Ellen Murray, both registered in the Lallybroch village kirk.  After that, silence.  It was as though the mists of Culloden had settled upon his entire family and obscured them from the eye of history.  Yet he continued to search for some trace of them, in tome after tome.  Each time he came up with nothing, the pain in his heart grew.

Almost equally distressing was the Randall family tree, proudly framed and mounted in the great hall.  Mistress Beauchamp was married to one Frank Wolverton Randall, the fifteen laird of Lallybroch since his ancestor, Jonathan Randall, Captain of His Majesty’s Dragoons, had been granted the forfeited estate in 1746.  Jamie had taken to positioning his chair so that his back was turned to the offending document, but it mocked him all the same.

There was nothing about living at Lallybroch that did not remind him of his strange plight.  His heart yearned for home, even as he was surrounded by its familiar walls.

***

He’d come to the stables to unburden himself to Murtagh, the only person who knew his secret.  He hadn’t counted on finding the Lady of Lallybroch kneeling in the straw bedding of an empty stall, purging her stomach into a feed pail.

“Mistress Beauchamp?” he asked tentatively, when there was a pause in the retching.

A feeble moan and a spitting noise were the only reply.

“Claire?” he tried a second time, pronouncing her name aloud for the first time.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered miserably.

“I’m afraid I canna do that, lass.”

He entered the stall and sank to her side.

“Go away, Mister Fraser,” she said with as much vigour as she could manage.

“Under the circumstances, it’d be best that ye call me Jamie.”

There was no answer, as she was busy being sick again.  He tentatively rubbed her shaking shoulders and took it as a good sign that she didn’t yell at him once more.   When the crisis appeared over, he silently rose and removed the offending pail, returning with a ladle of fresh water from the well in the courtyard.  He settled in the straw next to her again.

“I reckon ye ken ye’ve got a bairn comin’, then?” he asked without preamble.

Owl-like eyes blinked at him in shock.

“Cook says yer ne’er hungry fer breakfast, but peckish at all ‘ours of the night.  Ye’ve been sleeping like tis yer life’s work.  And now I find ye heavin’ yer guts out in the stables.  I might be no’ but a man, but I ken a thing or twa about ‘aving a bairn.”

At her lifted eyebrow he added, softly, “My sister, Jenny.  She was just the same, wi’ ‘er two.  It passes.  Concentrate on how ‘appy yer ‘usband will be, when ye give ‘im the news.”

Instead of taking comfort in the thought she folded like a wilted flower, clutching her stomach as though gutted.   Her hitching sobs tore at his heart.

“There, mistress.  Hush, mo gràidh.  Dinna cry, please,” he soothed uselessly.   Finally, he pulled her to his chest, where her tears dampened his skin through his shirt.

When her initial anguish finally abated, she pulled herself away and dashed at her mottled face with her sleeve, trying to recover her poise and apologizing for her lapse all at once.   He was overwhelmed by a potent mixture of protectiveness at her anguish and pride in her strength that glowed like a brazier behind his ribs.

It was a strange reaction for a healthy young bride of means, he considered as she continued to gather herself.  In his admittedly scant experience, most women in similar circumstances would be thrilled.

A niggling thought intruded.

“Is it yer ‘usband, mistress?  Is he… no’ coming back?”

She shook her head, her loosened curls clinging to her salty cheeks.  He felt he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.  

“No.  He won’t be coming back.”  And she began to cry again.

The whole story spilled out of her then.  The letter back in August that announced Captain Randall’s death behind enemy lines while reconnoitering for the British Army.  The tenuous financial situation of the estate and its occupants in wartime without the support his officer’s salary offered.  The question of succession, when it became known that the last laird died without an heir.  And now this pregnancy, a final gift from her departed husband; another dependent, another icy peak to scale with neither compass nor companion.

“Ye’re no’ alone, Sassenach,” he promised, petting the storm cloud of her curls.  “I promise ye, ye shan’t be alone.”

**

mo gràidh - my love

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 16: The Village

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

When they finally stopped to rest in a small glade, both he and Aelin were practically gulping down air. The twenty miles had gone quickly, the distance melting beneath their feet until Rowan could hear the sea waves crashing in the distance, and the wind began to whisper to him of the bustle of the people in the nearby town.

But before they attempted to question the villagers, Rowan wanted to visit the site of the dead demi-Fae, confirm that there was nothing more to be learned, and ensure that everything was ready for Malakai’s soldiers to ferry the body to the healers’ compound. He couldn’t sense the body, but as they were barely half a mile from the village, it had to be close by. They could rest for a moment before beginning their search.

As they recovered, Aelin just stood there, breathing heavily and staring at him with those piercing golden eyes. It was strange, but not unwelcome. To be looked at.

So Rowan stared right back at her, studying Aelin as if she were something entirely new. The lines of her face were sharp, aristocratic and refined, while her skin was tan and glowing from so much time spent sitting on those sun-warmed rocks. Freckles dotted her nose, while heat bloomed on her cheeks. Her magic was dormant, but still it pulsed around her, filling the air with power and promise and the smell of vibrant, crackling embers.

The princess was a completely different person to when they first met. It was almost disconcerting to see the entirety of the change, and realize how slow he had been in noticing it. Or maybe it was just this new form of hers – a body so much more familiar to Rowan, its lines and curves so much more like to him than her mortal form, a scent so much more similar to his. In her Fae form, Aelin’s scent spoke more of the woods, of the magic and the wildness of the Fae.

Aelin wiped the sweat from her face, still panting, but seeming invigorated, like she could run for miles more. Her eyes hadn’t left his, but her mind had turned inwards, and he knew that Aelin wasn’t really seeing him. But Rowan saw her, and that newfound attraction ripped through him once again, taking him completely by surprise.

Confusion and disgust immediately followed the shock. Her scent bit at him, her fire wrapping around him like a second skin. His magic automatically pushed back, and the contact felt claustrophobic, an uncomfortable pressure. All the while that sharp, scorching scent coated his throat and nostrils.

Rowan shied away from it, feeling his body ice over, his muscles tensing and his fingers clenching into fists. The princess blinked, finally realizing that she had been staring, and then started slightly at his cold expression. Rowan just turned away, avoiding her gaze and rifling through the small backpack. He tossed her shirt at her, barking, “Change,” then stripped off his own shirt and changed into the spare clothes he’d packed for himself.

When he turned back, the girl had disappeared into the nearby brush, apparently wanting some privacy. He used her momentary absence to gather his thoughts and steel himself once more, pulling his icy armor back on, piece by bitter piece.

His face was a dark mask, hiding the confusing mess that swirled beneath. Rowan locked it up within walls of ice, having absolutely no desire to peer within and discover exactly what they held. He just had to get through a few more months with the princess and then he would be free of her, and could go back to his life from before. To serve his queen as lieutenant and diplomat of Doranelle. Not easy, but simple. Familiar.

Rowan took a drink from his water skein and scanned their surroundings, searching both with his eyes and his winds. The princess returned wearing fresh clothes and he tossed her the skein, which she gulped from greedily.

Rowan sent his power out still farther, feelers snaking through the forest, past large stones and great oaks, secluded meadows and hidden hollows, over creeks and farmsteads and the red-tiled roofs and cobblestone streets of the little village. Then, he felt it, a whisper of a dark figure, lying in the dirt beside a medium-sized river half a mile south of them.

He turned and strode through the trees without explanation, leaving the princess behind in the small glade. They reached the site within a minute or so, the girl only a few steps behind him.

As they approached, Rowan thought that the rancid stench somehow seemed stronger, more potent on the body and its surroundings. Although, after a thorough examination, neither Rowan nor the assassin could find anything else out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was just because the kill was fresher, and the smell had not yet had a chance to dissipate.

As a result, the princess seemed to keep her distance from the body, its foul stench apparently affecting her more strongly than it did Rowan. But soon he realized it was more than just distaste; the scent was triggering something deep within her, stirring some hidden memory. He scented grief…and guilt. But she didn’t acknowledge it, so Rowan did not ask her about it.

Despite her revulsion, the assassin attempted to build a pyre for the unknown demi-Fae, seeking to burn him as they had the female. Rowan held out a hand to stop her, forced to give a quick explanation about the healer’s request, and the imminent arrival of Malakai’s sentries.

She frowned, but nodded her acquiescence. Before she stood, the princess pulled the dead demi-Fae into a more comfortable position, straightening his limbs and folding his arms on his chest. She paused for a moment, sorrow filling her, then bent over the male and closed his eyes for him, a whisper of final words passing her lips.

She turned and strode from the small brook without another word, back towards the village bells they could now hear chiming to the northwest, the scent of remorse trailing after the assassin like a coppery cape.

Rowan cast the male one last look before following her into the wilderness.

···

It wasn’t long before Rowan realized that it hadn’t made one bit of difference bringing the princess along. It was almost impossible to get anyone to approach, let alone to talk to the two Fae strangers. Perhaps the reason that the girl hadn’t been much help was her refusal to shift back into her mortal form, but with her ever-worsening mood, Rowan didn’t want to have to ask her to do anything.

Particularly as he now realized that a strange, angry young woman from Adarlan wearing Fae clothes and without any other belongings would probably not be much better received. And there was the small, but deterrent possibility that if she shifted to mortal, she wouldn’t be able to shift back for the journey tomorrow. And that was a risk Rowan was unwilling to take – twenty miles at a mortal pace with the resentful princess might just kill him.

Windows were shuttered as they passed, people crossed to the other side of the street, and stores that were once open, mysteriously closed their doors. Those that they did manage to corner, had nothing to say.

No, they had not heard of a missing demi-Fae, or any other bodies. No, they had not seen any strange people lurking about. No, livestock were not disappearing, though there was a chicken thief a few towns away. No, they were perfectly safe and protected in Wendlyn, and didn’t appreciate Fae and demi-Fae poking into their business, either.

Rowan carefully maintained calm, banishing his anger and frustration until they were barely ripples at the edges of his form, calling up that vast well of patience from within. Not that it made any difference – they were shunned, as usual. Even when he and the princess split up to cover more ground separately.

Afternoon began to creep up on them, the sun falling lower and lower in the sky as Rowan fell into step beside the girl on the cobbled main street, both of them barely maintaining a reign on their tempers. The princess was particularly annoyed, as the innkeeper had just informed them that he had no vacancies, and they would indeed need their bedrolls tonight. Not that Rowan much cared.

“I could believe it was a half-wild creature if at least some of them knew these people had vanished,” she mused. “But consistently selecting someone who wouldn’t be missed or noticed? It must be sentient enough to know who to target. The demi-Fae has to be a message – but what? To stay away? Then why leave bodies in the first place?”

Rowan’s lips tightened as the princess halted, tugging at the end of her braid. Why indeed?

Apparently, no one in the largest village along this stretch of coastline knew anything at all. Namonora hadn’t heard anything, the other fortresses knew no more than he did, Fenrys hadn’t received any reports while in the capital, and unless these villagers were lying through their teeth – they knew nothing either. There were no rumors, no strange attacks, no thefts, no sightings. Nothing to go on.

The assassin was right, the creature had to have some level of intelligence. And intelligent beings usually killed with some kind of agenda. There was almost always some ulterior motive, or revealing trait. Evil males beat their partners, got into fights, hurt animals, started fires, and then began their killing. And once they did, it wasn’t random – they would target specific people, those they held prejudices against, had offended them in some way, or who they just decided deserved to die.

This creature was a killer of the demi-Fae. Why?

His thoughts began to circle uselessly while the princess remained standing in the street, stopped in front of a clothier’s window. The woman behind the glass saw them standing there, and slashed the curtains shut. Rowan snorted.

The girl turned to face him, indignant. “You’re used to this, I assume?”

“A lot of the Fae who venture into mortal lands have earned themselves a reputation for … taking what they want. It went unchecked for too many years, but even though our laws are stricter now, the fear remains.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Who enforces these laws?”

Rowan smiled darkly, “I do. When I’m not off campaigning, my aunt has me hunt down the rogues.” Or, he went off and did so himself, generally with Gavriel at his side. There was no need to tell the princess that his aunt probably would prefer the mortals’ deference towards her to be fueled as much by terror as it was by respect.

“And kill them?” Her eyes were still narrowed, but the question was without judgement, plain and emotionless.

“If the situation calls for it. Or I just haul them back to Doranelle and let Maeve decide what to do with them.”

Her voice turned wry, “I think I’d prefer death at your hands to death at Maeve’s.”

He almost laughed. “That might be the first wise thing you’ve said to me.”

She paused for a moment, then asked, “The demi-Fae said you have five other warrior friends. Do they hunt with you? How often do you see them?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, “I see them whenever the situation calls for it. Maeve has them serve her as she sees fit, as she does with me.” His response was clipped, automatic. Words he had said a thousand times before. “It is an honor to be a warrior serving in her inner circle.”

He watched the girl, waiting for a prodding query or insolent remark, for her to voice the thoughts that he knew went through everyone, mortal and immortal alike, when he spoke of his position in Maeve’s court.

Rumors abounded in Doranelle about Maeve’s blood-sworn, and none of them were kind. They also weren’t all untrue. They couldn’t hide what they did in her service, be it torture or kill or maim, and Maeve couldn’t quiet their screams when she punished them, nor could she keep it secret that she bedded some of them. Not that she particularly cared. But if the girl asked him about that, Rowan wasn’t sure that the leash he held on his anger –

“Did you bring any money?” she interrupted, unexpectedly jerking him from his thoughts.

Rowan raised his brows, “Yes. They won’t take your bribes, though.”

“Good. More for me, then.” She pointed at the ‘Confectionery’ sign swinging in the light breeze a few buildings down from them. “If we can’t win them with charm, we might as well win them with our business.”

“Did you somehow not hear what I just – ”

But she already had reached the shop and was pulling the door open, plastering on a false smile so obvious, Rowan though it could have been stuck there with honey and cement.

The confectioner blanched as the two of them entered, fear drenching his scent like an overflowing gutter. But the princess didn’t let her smile falter one bit, instead charming that shopkeeper into letting her buy two boxes of something she called ‘hazelnut truffles,’ and then went from shop to shop, down the whole street, doing the same with every other merchant and trader.

Rowan didn’t say a word as the princess stalked down the road like she owned it, drawing out the merchants and managing to make them believe it, too. It was almost impressive, the way she used clever lies, a quick wit, and a few coins to completely transform their attitude towards her. She completely won them over, until the street was bustling with people once again, merchants pushing their wares at them, young men clamoring for a word with the pretty female, and the innkeeper suddenly finding a vacancy that was “just perfect for the young couple!”

No matter his irritation, Rowan kept his mouth shut during the whole ordeal, dutifully carrying the many bags and boxes the princess acquired as she sailed down the market street. A book here, a loaf of bread there, a letter for a carrier to deliver, a packet of spice, a handful of dried meat, and suddenly everyone was eager to talk. Not that they had anything more to say.

Apparently, none of the villagers had lied to them, which he supposed was good, though it didn’t much diminish his irritation. The only gossip they actually managed to acquire was from a lone crab-monger, who mentioned that he’d found a few discarded knives in his nets. Apparently, they’d been of good make, but he’d tossed them all back into the sea as offerings to the gods, so Rowan couldn’t examine them. Probably just lost off a merchant ship traveling to or from the western continent.

Sunset soon threatened, and Rowan found himself silently cursing at the approaching darkness. The day had mostly been a waste – even if he had managed to get the princess to shift. Who was to say if that would last.

They were no closer to slaying the dark creature than he had been yesterday. His only hope was that the healers at the compound would be able to divine something useful from the body – but it could be weeks before he heard from them. Weeks more of struggling in the dark, and watching the bodies pile up.

They set up camp in the glade from earlier, laying out their bedrolls and eating cold food for dinner. At least the girl had finally learned her lesson about setting fires in the wilderness.

They didn’t speak, and she soon fell asleep, drifting off well before the moon rose. But Rowan lay awake, the stars twinkling just above him. His thoughts began to twist and coil, while the stars continued to shine tantalizingly, soft flickers of white light, scarcely out of reach. Tiny drops in the pool of black emptiness. They were only a few hands-breadths away – perhaps if he raised his arms high enough, if he could reach far enough, maybe he could just touch them –

···

Rowan awoke abruptly, dawn’s light barely a flicker on the distant horizon.

His dreams had been dark, and full of whispers. The quiet had been so different, so utterly wrong, that it dragged him from sleep, until he was nearly retching in the grass next to his bedroll.

He sat up groggily, and turned to look at the princess, lying on the other side of the small glade. She was tossing and turning in her sleep, murmuring softly. He managed to make out the words, “Aedion,” and “sorry,” and “wish – ” before her words descended into the incomprehensible.

Rowan just sighed and turned to the slowly rising sun. It had not been Lyria in his dreams last night, that much he knew, and the absence of her usual screams had been a terror he was unfamiliar with. He shook his head and stood, forcibly rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Mala stretched her warm fingers over his face, but the gesture did not comfort him. The warmth was far too similar to the feel of the girl’s power, the soft to her harsh, the pale flicker to her writhing inferno.

An inferno that he would now have to direct, to teach how to use and control. Rowan sighed. Well, there was no point in putting it off. The girl would have to begin someday – it might as well be now.

He spent the next few minutes assembling a small fire in the center of the glade, then waiting for the girl to awaken. She didn’t do so gently – gasping and jolting upright, pulled violently from whatever hell her dreams had foisted on her.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asked. She turned to him slowly, frowning slightly through the sleep that still coated her features, then nodded.

“Then start the fire.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He didn’t bother responding. She groaned and sat up straighter, blinking and crossing her legs. She held out her hand to the logs, beginning to reach in to her well of power.

“Pointing is a crutch. Your mind can direct the flames just fine.”

“Perhaps I like the dramatics.”

He just looked at her, sharply. Light the fire. Now.

She rubbed her eyes, but then seemed to rally herself, a small snake of power extending from her and towards the unlit logs.

“Easy,” he said slowly, just as the wood began to smoke, “A knife, remember. You are in control.”

She breathed heavily, and then something began to twist and crackle – a snap, and the magic ruptured almost without warning. It flew out of her in a great cloud, nearly incinerating the entire glade before Rowan could douse it with his own power.

Soon, the clearing was empty of smoke and embers, and they could see each other clearly again. Rowan only sighed, saying, “At least you didn’t panic and shift back into your human form.”

The girl just nodded mutely.

And then they collected their things and made the journey back to the fortress, hurtling dispassionately through the undergrowth, Rowan unable to entirely curb his unruly thoughts.

To others, they were perhaps a prince and a princess, embers and ice. But Rowan knew better – and he thought the girl did too. They were an assassin and an executioner, neither of them royal, neither of them worthy, but both of them the only chance of stopping the creature, and protecting the demi-Fae.

Fate was quite the sly bastard that way.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Short chapter! I forgot to throw it up here. Will probably do another chapter today. Maybe two. The editing is going pretty fast since I had worked on this already months ago.

Beautiful War

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Dame Claira Trevelyan is known to be a stubborn and off-putting woman. She was always told she never amounted to anything, that she was never pretty or graceful enough to marry. She believed that for the longest time. But her strength and her compassion managed to catch the eye of someone beyond her what she imagined possible. A man just as stubborn and oblivious to how his feelings for his leader are more than just respect. 

Chapter Five: The Stuff of Nightmares

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (Ao3)

Read here on Ao3.

"Are you sure you're ready to leave, my Lady?"

"I'm never ready for anything anymore, Harding," Claira shouted through the rain. "But I have to report back to Haven.

"Fair enough," she shouted back.

"Let's begin the debriefing, then," Corporal Vale decreed.

The wind was blowing mercilessly, making it very difficult to hear one another inside the meeting point. It was a small hut within the Crossroads. Many of the other buildings there were damaged but it remained one of the few left still standing strong. It was home to one of the villagers who didn't mind standing by while the Inquisition made use of it. Claira withdrew her papers from a satchel at her side. She didn't need to read from them, as she was aware of what the reports mentioned. After all, she was the one who wrote them. She rolled them up neatly, tying them with a red ribbon before slipping them into a wooden tube.

"The Hinterlands remain an unsafe area for further Inquisition occupation," she began with the agreement of the others surrounding her. "During my time here, I have managed to acquire supplies for refugees as well as fellow agents. A cult in the southeast, posing as no threat, has agreed to take in others and aid the camps nearby. A bandit camp to the southwest was also been eliminated, providing more shelter and supplies to the camps."

"We have made no advancements toward the thieve's fortress or the cult castle," Vale reminded Claira. "It's still a bit unsafe. Our troops have made contact, but are assessing the situation further."

"As they should," Claira proclaimed. "Reach out to Scout Harding if you run into trouble. She should be able to provide support. Furthermore, I've been unable to reach Dennet at this time. The conflict between the mages and templars has prevented any sort of contact to and from the northern Hinterlands. We will have to resolve that issue upon return. I would like to follow Mother Giselle back to Haven to ensure her safety."

"With the rogue templars watching the main routes, I think this is our best option," Cassandra thought aloud.

"We've all read and signed the reports, yes?" Claira looked at her peers.

They all nodded.

"Corporal Vale, if there is anything you need-"

"I know where to find you," he assured her.

"Very good. Then we'll take our leave. Harding, would you mind sending this for me?"

"Of course," Harding took the scroll from the Herald's hands.

"Luck be with you, Lady Herald," Corporal Vale brought his fist to his chest.

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

The entire journey back, Claira thought about how nice it would be to fall into her bed. How warm the bath would feel. How good the food would taste. Unfortunately, Haven had other plans. After bidding farewell to Varric and Solas at the tavern, Claira walked up the stairs toward the Chantry with the intent to deliver research information. She was eager to see the Chantry Sisters chattering with excitement as she arrived. Only it wasn't the usual welcoming party she had expected. Instead, she was greeted by a rather large crowd that had no intention of acknowledging her at all.

"Your kind killed the most holy!" a templar shouted angrily.

"Lies!" a mage retaliated. "Your kind let her die!"

Remaining amid the common people, Claira began to assess the situation. The people around her murmured words across one another in hushed whispers. They would not dare to get involved. She listened closely but could not make out the details of what had gone wrong. Deciding she could assist with a better view, she brushed shoulders with the crowd. If need be, she would intervene.

"Shut your mouth, mage," the templar drew his sword.

With her hand gripping the hilt of her own sword, she stepped forward. But she was not nearly as quick as she needed to be.

"Enough!"

The voice came from absolutely nowhere. He would have been easy to pick out among the others, but she had not spotted him. And he threw himself between them, right in front of both a sharpened sword and glowing staff. His risen arms were a warning that they should remain the distance between his fingertips, although his stare was enough to keep them at bay.

"Knight-Captain," the templar stepped back first, sheathing his sword instantly.

"That is not my title," Cullen said with a glare colder than the ground they were standing on. "We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" an antagonizing voice appeared.

Claira lowered her brow as she felt the irritation growing under her skin the moment he strode in front of the Commander. She wanted to attempt to get closer but did not want to draw attention to herself. There was no doubt she would be harassed and she was his favorite target.

"Back already, Chancellor?" Cullen sneered, and it made her grin. "Haven't you done enough?"

"I'm curious, Commander," he said stepping closer. "As to how your Inquisition and its Herald will restore order as you've promised."

"Of course you are," Cullen growled in response. It almost sounded as if he was being defensive about her. But she would not take it to heart.

"Back to your duties," he said, turning away from the Chancellor. "All of you!"

The crowd began to thin, but she remained, pushing past them to see them clearly. In times like these, Claira was never permitted to speak. She was too blunt and often said the wrong things. Though, the more time she spent with the Inquisition, the more she realized that being straightforward wasn't always a bad thing.

"Mages and templars were already at war. Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death," Cullen went on.

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order."

"Who? You?" she saw Cullen's brow raise. "Random clerics, who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?"

Claria recognized the sharp blade of his tongue. Only this time, it was turned toward the Chancellor. Between the humility of the fool and Cullen's mocking tone, she was taken over by the adrenaline of watching vicariously and decided now was a good time to catch forward. Cullen had caught sight of her and nodded slightly in somewhat of relief of her being there.

"The rebel Inquisition and its so-called 'Herald of Andraste'? I think not."

Either he didn't know Claira was standing nearby or he didn't care.

"Don't be so disagreeable, Roderick," she chimed in, making him roll his eyes at the sound of her voice. "The Inquisition seems as functional as any young family."

"How many families are on the verge of splitting into open warfare with themselves?"

"Yes," Cullen sarcastically snickered. "Because that would never happen to the Chantry."

Claira bit her bottom lip in an attempt to remain serious on the matter. But between the Chancellor's scowled face and Cullen's smirk, it proved to be quite difficult.

"Centuries of tradition will guide us. We are not an upstart eager to turn over every apple cart."

"Yet here you are," Claira grumbled. "Do we know how widespread the violence is between mages and templars?"

"Impossible to say as of yet," the Commander replied.

"...organization floating the Chantry's authority will not help matters," Roderick kept babbling. But they were not interested in what he had to say as they continued to commute with each other.

"With the Conclave destroyed, I imagine the war between mages and templars is renewed... with interest," he went on.

"As we have witnessed today... The mages and templars are fighting... even though we don't really know what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?" she asked her Commander.

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine," Roderick clasped his hands together at his waist. "If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so."

"Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat," Cullen snapped.

"You think nobody cares about the truth? We all grieve Justinia's loss," he spat.

"But you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet."

Claira could not decide if she was more surprised by the fact that she was still being blamed for the Conclave or that Cullen confirmed he was defending her. With the way they had fought before she left, she had assumed things between them would be awkward for a time. Their exchange of apologies must have truly made a difference, as Cullen was proving to be quite passionate about keeping the Herald from Chantry hands

"Remind me why you are allowing the Chancellor to stay, Commander?" her eyes drifted over to Cullen's face, tireless of the Chancellor's rambling as well.

"Clearly, your templar knows where to draw the line," Roderick's words were meant to be bold, but no one took him seriously.

"He's toothless," Cullen stated, unaffected by the man. "There's no point in turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth. The Chancellor's a good indicator of what to expect in Val Reoux, however."

"Well, let's hope we find a solution there and not a cathedral full of Chancellors," she turned to sarcasm as her savior, as always.

"The stuff of nightmares," he grinned in return.

"Mock if you will," Roderick was appeared offended. "I'm sure the Maker is less..."

But she did not catch the entirety of what he said. She was too busy attempting to stifle her laughter as Cullen directed a humoring brow-raising expression followed by a dramatic eye roll. It would be far too obvious to bring a hand to her mouth. So instead, she continued to bite her lip and looked at her feet. The Chancellor's chatter did not cease but continued until it faded to the minimum. Claira turned Cullen.

"I didn't realize I was gone long enough for the Chantry to prepare a protest," she teased. "I will be gone to Orlais much longer."

"The walls should still be standing when you return... I hope," he shrugged with a teasing glance.

"Chancellor Roderick came to speak with me..." Josephine scolded, tapping her pen against her clipboard as Cullen entered the room. "Could you try not to antagonize him?"

It was unfair the attention was drawn directly toward him the moment he entered the room. He paused to look at them but was altogether completely unphased. Claira caught a glimpse of his gaze before he quickly looked away. It must have been much easier for him to hide his grin than it was for her. She resorted to taking a rather large bite from the apple in her hand lest she showed him just how interested she was in his display of sarcasm.

"If I offend the man so easily, perhaps he should try leaving me alone," he suggested as he took his place.

"Cullen..." Josephine sighed.

"In his defense," Claria swallowed what was left, "Roderick came out of nowhere during an altercation. I just happened to arrive at the same time."

"You are not helping," Josephine leaned forward to point her quill at her. "I'm not going to stand here and chide you both like children for making faces behind the Chancellor's back."

"I wasn't the one making faces," Claira grumbled quietly.

Josephine had her fill of mothering for the day. She turned to Cassandra and Leliana for support, but they were doing their best to hide their laughter as well.

"You two should know better," she shook her head at the Hands. "I'm done trying to get any of you to act mature when speaking to this man."

"Perhaps Cullen is right," Leliana stated calmly. "He should likely try his best not to bother us if he does not want to be further upset."

[armsdealing]

FENRIR + GODHOOD / WOLFHOOD.

although it is not explicitly expressed in any particular attestation (that i know of), i do chose to view fenrir as a god of wolves -- on top of being the norse god of destruction. this due to his status as the most significant, infamous wolf in the mythology, as well as the oldest, fiercest and largest of angrboda’s offspring. keeping this in mind, i choose to view him as the ultimate symbolic representative of what wolves are in norse mythology.

DESTRUCTIVENESS AND WOLF SYMBOLISM

wolves, in northern europe, were subject to an complex treatment: 

on one hand: they were a true threat for the average peasant, whose experience with them was that of a beastly predator that threatened their flocks and even the peasants themselves and their children. there’s even the case of the wolfssegner, typically destitute elderly men who made a living in certain germanic tribes selling charms against wolf attacks, or casting malevolent spells that would prompt them. their customers were, naturally, farmers and peasants. throughout the working class and the poor there’s this commonality of viewing wolves as destructive forces, as malevolent. yet, on the other hand, the warrior classes saw the wolf for his might -- his power, his wildness, and fierceness -- as well as social traits, his capability for pack bonds. wolves were also associated with odin, having two wolves as his pets (geri and freki) and of all berserkers it’s the wolf warriors (the úlfhéðnar) who are sometimes seen as odin’s special warriors. when they’re viewed on this angle they’re seen as noble, brave, loyal, and wise. 

as a rule, the pack was seen as a symbol of camaraderie, and it was lone wolves who were the problem. the word for outlaw in northern europe was "wolf's head", referring to the bounty on the severed heads of lone wolves who became a problem to settled villages and needed to be exterminated.

well, fenrir didn’t get to be seen as noble, loyal, or wise. in many ways he is the prototypical lone wolf figure -- kidnapped by the aesir, torn from his clan and family to keep him from becoming the predicted destructive force he was to become. he was denied a pack, and so ironically it only pushed him further toward rebellion and mayhem; he grows progressively but quickly and as he grows he turns even more of a ravenous threat in the gods’ eyes, forcing the gods to bind him. it’s easy to see the similarities, how commonfolk’s fear of wolves -- especially the lone wolf -- would be reflected in their deities. as a jotunn, and more specifically a rokkr, fenrir represents nature’s more destructive qualities, a chaotic primordial force that can be interpreted as downright hostile to mankind. yet, seeing him only in a negative light is limiting, in my opinion, everything that fenrir is, and it’s just plain inaccurate, as it is framing fenrir in the absolutist moral framework of christianity. the jotnar are not evil, they’re not demons, they’re merely oppositional to the aesir because of the inherent way their essences and wants (to be amongst nature and accept it as is, good and bad) clash with the aesir’s wants (to tame nature’s useful side for their benefit and fight against its more harmful aspects to protect themselves and mankind). the struggle against fenrir is one of the most elementary examples of this jotnar/aesir conflict.

fenris is, in many ways, jotun essence taken to its furthest point, its ultimate uncompromised end. this means understanding that when we say that the jotnar are, by nature, part of nature... that means also that they partake of the entirety of nature and not just the euphemized happy bits that we like to pretend are what nature "really is". every part of nature is dangerous and not terribly disposed to privilege humans over any other part. the sea eats people, the fire lays waste to countrysides, the ice storm freezes you, the earth will receive your corpse and fill it with maggots. our planet whirls around a sun that will burn out, in a galaxy that will wind down and disintegrate before it can explode again into life.

to understand these things as not only "not negative" but as awesome, mind‑bending, even beautiful ‑ that's how we understand jotun nature. it's terrifying, yes ‑ and there is also a good and benevolent side, but you don't get only that aimed at you, ever. it's about accepting the whole package without this secret fingers‑crossed idea that if they just like you enough, the forces of nature will make a special exception for you. and that doesn't work.

to see Fenris is to see a magnificent creature who must be chained, or he’ll eat the world. it’s seeing the grandeur of a hurricane, an earthquake, a solar flare, and knowing that this too is the hand of the divine… and at the same time knowing that they will do terrible harm. Fenris is what he is, entirely and fully, and he will not compromise himself to be anything else for anyone else… even if he must be bound. are there things about your nature that you would rather be imprisoned than compromise? If not, then perhaps you might not understand Fenris. he embodies our ambivalence toward the universe, which sees us as expendable flecks of dust. … and the only way to get around that is to see from a higher perspective, one that can appreciate the divinity of ambivalences.- X

fenrir is not just an agent of change. he is change itself, the ultimate threat on the status quo of the gods. and because of that, as he brings about ragnarok, he’s an agent of renewal and transformation. 

fenrir, like the wolf's hook cross, is a representation of unchangeable fate. there is an aura of fatality surrounding him that the gods sense, and none more so than odin, because it is primarily his existence which is subject to fenrir's whim. odin, having heard the prophecies of the volva (fenrir's own mother, angrboda) knew that his son balder would be slain, that his brother hodur would do this act. that the rökkr forces would break free of their bonds, and destroy the gods. and that finally he, odin, would die within the massive jaws of fenrir.

thus, the binding of fenrir with gleipner is nothing but a postponement of the inevitable. it is merely an instance of the gods, and odin in particular, performing, and realizing, their role. for, although the fate incurred by fenrir may be unavoidable and unchangeable, it does not necessarily mean defeat or resignation. one of the great lessons of the rökkr is that this life is nothing, that there is no integral meaning to it, and that it can all so easily be consumed by fenrir. the purpose of living, then, is to realize this truth, and then to build ones own worth and meaning from existence. - X

PATRON OF WOLVES, WARGS, AND WEREWOLVES

fenrir is not a friendly god, and he’s not an easy god to worship. he’s not even a welcoming god. he’s demanding, intense and he can see through the souls of the most hard-hearted individuals, and frighten them. for him, vacuous violence and bloodlust isn’t enough -- he demands your sincerity, your raw emotion, your anger; you need to be true to him or he will not bother with you, and in fact might even offend him and make him hostile. humans, in particular, need a specially strong connection to nature (physical nature, and their inner nature) in order to connect with him. and if you do manage that, he can make an unstoppable force out of you. he is, on top of everything else, a god of last resorts and if you’re ever in dire need of protection you can count on him to intervene.

this all being said, humans are not his only believers. they’re not even his main believers, since people tend to turn to more approachable (and relatable) deities like the aesir first. fenrir focuses mainly on wolves, and in midgard it’s not entirely rare for him to be near them, helping them, or using them as emissaries. he focuses on wargs, the norse wolf-like beings that inhabit ironwood alongside the volvas, considering he’s the oldest of them, and his mother reigns over them as chieftess. and he focuses lastly on werewolves. 

regardless of a werewolf’s origin, fenrir’s nature is such that most wolves will feel a connection to him. they will feel drawn to fenrir, and perceive his paradoxical otherness/familiarity and his power. however, it’s up to them how they will respond to it. a lot of them do worship him (there might be one or two doomsday cults/packs out there waiting for his reckoning), and there might be sacrifices done his name. but a lot of them, when encountered with his presence, chose to ignore his influence, or even respond defensively. regardless, fenrir does not take this personally. werewolves are just as human as they’re wolves and so they carry an egocentrism that is, in his opinion, wholly theirs. still, it’s not rare for him to occasionally encounter mortally wound werewolves (particularly lone werewolves!) and offer them a chance at survival, or keep them company while they feel alone and heal.

[dinfeanoriel]

The Hand

A little fic that has absolutely no point to it. Enjoy!

~~~~

“Don’t tell me this place is seriously called the Crack Pot Inn…” The Knight of the rag-tag group of Heroes, Warrior, muttered aloud when his gaze landed on the most-welcome, if somewhat run-down, inn. The Links had warped into another world and were now working to uncover whose Hyrule they had entered. 

So far, no luck. 

But seeing as it was late into the night, Time had decided it was time to retire. It was by a meager stroke of luck Wolfie had sniffed out a village. 

“Clearly not the only thing on crack,” Came Legend’s quick-witted reply. 

Wild smothered a snort. The snarky Hero was filled to the brim with sarcastic retorts and barbed jabs. He never failed to use them, either. They were quick to fly from his tongue, taking, perhaps, .1 seconds to fire. 

They came faster than Wild could unleash a flurry of attacks, and that, he found impressive. 

“Boys, behave,” The leader of the nine murmured, his low voice carrying into the night. 

“Sure thing, Pops,” 

Wolfie huffed. Wind figured it was a laugh in disguise. They followed after Time as he began the descent into the village located at the bottom of the hill. Their eyes took in everything of the quiet and slumbering place...

The worn buildings, cobblestone roads, dark alleyways, and bright colors. 

Incredibly bright colors. Curtains were a shade of pinks, purples, blues, and oranges Hyrule had never before seen and wondered how anyone could find attractive. The paint job was something that made even Wild cringe. 

Some houses had polka dots, others multi-colored stripes, and some littered with swirls and optical illusions. The patterns were horrendous. He looked long and hard for any potion shops and places to restock. It was a difficult feat, since the abhorrent color combinations were making his eyes hurt. 

“The Batty Emporium?” Wind’s soft, incredulous, voice pierced the silence that had fallen. 

Legend looked vaguely impressed. 

“This place just keeps getting better.” 

Time quirked an eyebrow at the...questionable village and its peculiar taste in style. The sheer lavishness and overabundance of decoration… 

“In all my long life and journeys, I have never stumbled across such a remarkably horrendous sight…” He remarked mostly to himself. All of the Links heard him and couldn’t agree more. 

You’re telling me… Twilight groused in wolf form. And he’d thought Fyer and Falbi were...unique individuals…

That was putting it lightly. 

There were streamers tied pole-to-pole. Straight across, zig-zag, diagonal or in some other unusual unrecognizable design. Elaborate and exaggerated posters decorated windows, market stalls, and doors. The stalls themselves were bright and sparkly. A never-ending stream of cringeworthy sights for the Links to abhor. 

Then came the game, commenced by Wild and continued by the rest. Find the most outrageous, individualistic, and… unique… business. 

“The Nutty Almond,” The Hero of the Wilds pointed at the sign hanging from above the door of the nearest building. 

Sky hid a grin. Of course Wild spotted The Nutty Almond first. 

“The Berserker,” Wind piped in next, gesturing to an armory they passed. The weapons on display glinted in the moonlight, drawing everyone’s attention for a brief moment. 

“Clever,” Warrior deadpanned, though he made note of its location. 

“Daffy’s Wud?” Hyrule’s brow creased at the strange name. The place itself was tall and lean, as if someone had taken the building and crammed it between two others. It was a pale purple with fluorescent pink and blotches of orange, green, and yellow mingled in. 

All and all, a discomfiting sight to see. Legend couldn’t help but release a short bark of laughter.

Sky looked around with a pained and disturbed expression. This place was far too happy-go-lucky for his tastes. He preferred the wilderness over this! 

“This whole place is mad!” The words slipped from him before Sky could stop himself and the Links turned to him in surprise. Sky’s cheeks burned a brilliant shade of red and he hid his face behind his hands, “Sorry, sorry, it just came out!” He apologized, flustered and mortified. 

Four chuckled with a shake of his head, patting Sky’s back sympathetically. The older teen peeked down at him between fingers. 

“We were all thinking it anyway, Sky,” He assured the kindhearted Hero, “No need to be embarrassed for stating the truth.” 

Hyrule shuddered, loosely hugging himself. 

“Well, I don’t like it,” He admitted in a soft whisper, “It weirds me out.” 

“It weirds us all out,” Warrior muttered, lips curling back in disgust when he saw another intricately designed and flamboyant painting hanging in a display window, “Hylia’s sake...I never imagined such a place even existed.” 

“These bright, flashy, colors make my eyes hurt,” Wind complained, rubbing at his aching eyes. 

“Oh, good!” Wild breathed a sigh of relief, “I’m not the only one!” Although it was night, Wild still found himself squinting against the onslaught of flashy, neon, colors. The moonlight reflecting off the bright colors and sparkling stalls did nothing but blind them. 

Did they have to use glow-in-the-dark paint? Not to mention the optical illusions were a little over the top and giving him a pounding headache. 

“Can you imagine how it must look when its sunny?” Hyrule questioned, wincing at the thought. 

Legend’s face screwed up, 

“You’re going to make me sick.”

“I already am…” 

“Yeah, you definitely aren’t looking too good there, Sky,” Warrior gently gripped Sky’s arm when the teen started turning green, “Let’s hurry on up to that inn there.” 

“We’re staying there?” Legend didn’t possibly think this night could get any worse. 

Time turned to the incredulous Hero with a raised eyebrow, “Do you have any better ideas?” 

Wind timidly raised a hand, “We camp in the woods?” 

None could deny the hopefulness in his tone. It was preferable. None of the Links would object, all more than willing to choose the cold, ominous, woods over this...fascinating place. 

Four flicked his wrist, pointing to Wind and helpfully supplied, “It’s free of charge.” 

“Even Warrior has better taste than this,” Legend declared with certainty. Said offended Knight snapped his head in Legend’s direction, indignantly crying, 

“Hey!” 

Time rolled his good eye, the corner of his lips twitching upwards minutely. Already, he could sense the coming storm, 

“What?” Legend bent his arms at the elbow, palms up, “You have to admit, the scarf-” 

“Oh, and a skirt’s so much better than my scarf?” Warrior snarked back, “At least it covers up more than yours does.” He tugged at his scarf meaningfully. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” 

Four turned to disguise his mirth as a cough. His shoulders shook as he vainly attempted to recompose himself. Hyrule laughed to himself, Wild snickered, and Wind tried his hardest not to giggle.

“Boys,” Time warned, but the laughter in his voice ruined the effect. Truly, never a dull moment. Not one day passed them by without some sort of entertainment. “Lower your voices,” At the least. 

Legend obeyed the leader, lowering his voice threateningly, 

“I will kill you, Warrior,” He promised, eyes glinting sharply. 

Warrior smirked, nonchalantly tossing an arm over Legend’s shoulder, “Sure you will.”  Legend bared his teeth, fists clenched, “You’d better sleep with one eye open tonight, Pretty Boy,” 

Time shook his head in fond exasperation, mentally noting not to assign the two Heroes to the same room. He paused before the door to the inn, extending a hand to rest it atop the illustrious handle. He turned to fix the Heroes with a stern, pointed, look before carefully pushing the door open. 

The Links could only hope the inside was better looking than the outside...

The tallest of the group had barely taken a step when a shrill screech squealed from above. Time’s head snapped up and his vision went black as a weight slammed atop his head and water soaked him to the bone. 

Behind him, he heard Sky yelp followed by a thump. 

Wolfie was immediately on guard, crouching low to the ground with a fearsome snarl that ricocheted through the air, enveloping the entirety of the room. 

Warrior’s hand instinctively snatched his sword, slipping it halfway out of its sheath ready to jump to Time’s protection. His fierce and focused expression slowly faded, morphing into one of pure bafflement as he and the others took the time to process what exactly had taken place. 

Time stood in the middle of the doorway, a metal bucket covering his head, and fingers loosely curled round the handle. Water saturated his hair, dripping from the ends and onto the wooden planks below. Rivulets raced through the patterns of his golden armor, creating a multitude of puddles on the floor. 

Legend blinked owlishly. 

He slowly raised a finger, 

“Did you- did we…” He shook his head, “Did we just get pranked?” 

Time serenely shut his good eye, expelling a steady breath before reaching up to lift the bucket off his head. He looked to find a string attached to it and at the end of it, a rubber cucco with bulging eyes and a gaping yellow beak. 

He tugged it off with an unappreciative frown. His good eye slid down to where Wolfie was still baring his teeth and rumbling deep in his chest. He tossed the rubber cucco, letting it bounce off Wolfie’s snout then onto the floor. Wolfie’s snarl shuddered and broke off in surprise and he raised cobalt blues swimming with betrayal up to meet Time’s faintly amused one. 

With a disgruntled rumble, Wolfie lifted a paw and rubbed at his snout indignantly. 

“Ooooh hoo hoo!” A sudden burst of overly amused, entirely-too-enthusiastic laughter exploded somewhere ahead of them and the Heroes jumped slightly at the unexpected sound. A short, stocky, man dressed in the most bizarre outfit possible stepped into the lamplight, clapping his hands loudly together. His green eyes were wide, brimming with unshed tears, and his face lit up with delight, “I have been waiting for this moment! I had that set up since evening!” 

Time leveled the obnoxiously red-haired man with a cool stare- one Warrior, Legend, and Wild recognized and still shirked from. For once, however, it wasn’t directed towards them. 

The man was hardly affected, “You must admit-” He swiped at a tear, beaming brilliantly, “That was plenty good!”  “Indeed,” A tight-lipped smile curved Time’s lips and his single eye became a pool of promises for retribution he would be unable to attain. The Older Hero was only becoming increasingly unsettled the longer they lingered in this abominable place. 

The man slapped his knee, still guffawing at Time’s misfortune, and Wolfie growled in warning. This caused the innkeeper to pause, appraise the proud, displeased, beast and frown. 

“Ah, I must apologize,” He jovially began with an air of faux-politeness, gesturing to Wolfie airily, he said, “Dogs are not allowed in the inn.” 

DOG?!

A scandalized yip escaped Wolfie and Sky lunged when the wolf made to show the innkeeper exactly what this ‘dog’ was capable of.  “Hey there, now, Wolfie,” Sky strained, arms wrapped around Wolfie’s strong neck and anchoring him into place. Time merely watched the scene unfold, heaving a tired sigh. It had most certainly been a long week. Not the longest, but a long one for certain. 

Everyone was at their wit’s end and exhausted. 

“That dog is a wolf, good sir,” Warrior calmly but firmly inserted, stepping up to Time’s side. The innkeeper looked to him and Warrior fought to steel himself from cringing. The man’s outfit was utterly outrageous. His incredibly yellow pants ballooned near the ankles and his sleeves billowed atrociously around the wrists. There were colorful polka dots littering his...suit? Warrior was unsure whether or not this peculiar outfit had a name. The buttons on the shirt were much too large and oddly shaped to be normal. And the high collar? 

He’d thought Agitha and Ravio were eccentric, but this was by far the worst Warrior had ever seen. 

“He is well-trained and my good friend’s loyal companion,” The Knight indicated to a strained Wild. 

The innkeeper raised a bushy eyebrow at the grumbling canine still held by Sky. The wolf reluctantly settled back on his haunches, but he still looked ready to tear everything to pieces. 

“Well-trained, hm?” There was a hint of a challenge in his tone. It was evident he didn’t believe them. 

Wild nodded vigorously from where he stood beside Warrior, 

“He is! Watch-” To which the mischievous Hero spun on his heel and proceeded to order, “Down boy!” 

If looks could kill, the one Wolfie seared Wild with would most definitely have incinerated him on the spot. 

Twilight would make him pay for it later, but Wild figured it would be worth it. 

With much grousing and griping, Wolfie made a show of reluctantly lowering himself onto the ground. He shifted until he was comfortable then cracked an eye open to pierce Wild unhappily, 

“Roll over!” 

Wolfie’s eye grew wide and he barked sharply in refusal. 

Wild sternly placed his hands on his hips and tapped his foot once,  “Roll over, Wolfie.” 

Wolfie did. 

“Yay, Wolfie!” Wind lunged and tackled the great beast with a hug, “You’re amazing!” Peals of pure, jubilant, laughter filled the air as Wind turned sparkling eyes at the innkeeper, “Isn’t he?” 

The tone the youthful boy used was carefully constructed, almost daring the innkeeper to say otherwise. All in all, rather frightening to hear. Legend was, to say the least, impressed. 

Wolfie’s previously irate demeanor deflated almost instantaneously at the Sailor’s bubbly self and he nudged Wind’s cheek with his nose. 

Children would always be his weakness, he supposed. 

The flamboyant innkeeper only shrugged, voice chipper and gratingly cheerful,  “So long as he doesn’t cause any trouble, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to allow him to accompany you.” 

“We thank you for your trouble,” Warrior graciously intervened before anyone else could, “After all, it is the least you could do to compensate for the stunt you previously pulled.” 

The short man floundered for a second, waving his hands wildly in the air that it blatantly reminded Warrior and Legend of Ravio, 

“Stunt?! That, my boy, was a masterpiece! An ingenious idea executed by yours truly! A brilliant mastermind!” 

Wild eyed the deranged man uneasily. While accustomed to meeting outlandish, whimsical, and freakish people, the Hero was not at all fond of the village or the innkeeper. If everyone in the village were this...quirky, he wasn’t sure how he would survive.

He turned, not wanting to risk staying and discovering just how odd this village and its villagers could be, and made for the door. “I’m leaving. There are plenty of good trees outside to choose from-” But he didn’t get far when Warrior grasped the collar of his tunic and tugged him back, 

“If we have to suffer, then you have to suffer,” The Knight groused goodnaturedly. Wild shot him a disturbed look,  “You’re going to make us stay here?” He whispered, almost pleading with Warrior to say no. 

In the background, Hyrule was bartering with the innkeeper, slowly but surely lowering the equally preposterous prices for their rooms.

“There’s a storm coming,” Warrior returned, lowering his voice in the same manner as Wild, “And from what you observed earlier, it’s going to be a bad one, so yes,” He nodded solemnly and with a slight grimace, “We’re stuck here for the night.” 

Wild could only sigh and stare longingly at the door splattered with paint and other haphazard decorations. 

~~~~

“A dog,” Twilight growled under his breath as he followed Time to their rooms, “Of all things, a dog?” 

Time smothered a smile. Truly, nothing dug under Twilight’s skin more than being mistaken for a dog. 

“Come now, Twi,” Wild interjected, lips twitching and laughter lacing his word, “It could be worse-” He attempted to appease the older teen when Twilight rounded on him with an intense stare that promised recompense,  “And you-”  Wild chuckled, a full-blown smile still visible for all to see. 

“Before you say anything, I was saving your hide!” 

“Down boy?” 

Wild could only shrug, a hand cupping the back of his neck. 

“Roll over?!” 

“I had to play it off!” Wild defended himself with a laugh that would melt anyone’s heart. 

“And you did so wonderfully,” Time assured him, much to Twilight’s dismay. His descendant’s jaw dropped before he collected himself with a stubborn shake, 

“What? Old Man-” 

Time planted a hand on Twilight’s head, disheveling his hair teasingly, “The innkeeper allowed you in, didn’t he?” 

“Even if he hadn’t, I would have found a way in,” Twilight muttered unhappily, glowering at the far end of the hallway. The rest of the Heroes ambled after them, a safe distance away so neither of them would uncover the truth of Wolfie, “If there is one thing we Links are known for, it’s for entering without invitation.” 

“Then people should lock their doors,” Wild suggested without an ounce of remorse. The amount of times he’d simply walked into people’s homes was innumerable. 

“Perhaps,” Time murmured, shutting his eye against the atrocity of the paintings and decor of the corridor and listening to the whispering of Warrior, Legend, and Sky. 

The draperies were a variety of blinding colors- some Time wondered how they succeeded in making. 

“My headache is getting worse from this ghastly place,” Legend groaned, cradling his aching head. Sky was rubbing at his eyes, opening them into slits. He couldn’t physically bring himself to open them any wider. 

“Stupid storm,” Wind grumped, crossing his arms with a pout, “Why did it have to come now?” 

“With any luck, it’ll breeze right on by within a couple of hours,” Warrior hummed, glancing out the nearest window. Already, lightning was webbing across the dark expanse of the sky, illuminating the village below. 

Wind perked up, “Does that mean we can leave afterwards?” 

“Unfortunately, no,” 

“Aw...” 

“Don’t worry, bud, it’ll be morning before we know it,” Warrior said reassuringly, and Time could not deny the hopefulness in his tone. 

“I hope so,” Came Hyrule’s quiet voice. Their group slowed when the three Heroes ahead of them came to a stop. 

“Here we are,” Time announced, stopping in front of their given rooms, “We booked three for the night. Split accordingly.” 

The Links did as they were told almost instinctively. Time, Twi, and Wild were in one, with Warrior, Sky, and Legend in another, then Hyrule, Four, and Wind. 

Time nodded approvingly, tossing a set of keys to Warrior and Hyrule. Warrior caught it with ease, but unfortunately for Hyrule, they sprung off his hands and began their descent to the ground. He scrambled frantically to keep them from clattering on the wood, fearing he’d disturb any sleeping guests and snatched at air in a desperate attempt to catch them. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when the key ring miraculously slipped onto his finger, sweat beading his forehead. Immediately afterwards, Hyrule shoved them into Four’s hand, unwilling to keep the keys longer than necessary. 

Time sent him an apologetic look, to which Hyrule responded with a timid smile and wave of his hand. His poor face burned, red dusting his cheeks from the embarrassing display. 

“We leave at seven and no later,” The leader informed the group. He received varying affirmative responses before they broke apart and disappeared into their selected rooms. 

Wild’s eyes immediately lit up once his gaze landed on the most welcome sight in the entirety of the world- a bed. 

Ugly comforter and equally hideous pillowcases aside, it was the greatest gift Wild could ask for. 

Behind him, Twilight made a noise of frustration. 

“Polka dots...Can’t escape them,” 

Time snorted softly. 

“I’m afraid not.” 

Of the three beds, the only agreeable one was the green in the center. It was a deep, earthy, tone with dark blue polka dots and white sheets. Not too horrible. Time and Wild silently elected to give Twilight that bed. 

The first was an extraordinarily faded red- bordering on pink- with bright orange polka dots and the third was a sunny yellow with orange, red, green, blue, and purple polka dots littered about the fluffy comforter. 

What was with this place? 

“I’ll take the one of the far end,” Wild piped up, breaking the contemplative silence that had fallen o’er their Leader as he attempted to choose between the lesser of two evils. 

Time turned to fix Wild with a raised eyebrow, “Are you sure?” 

Wild nodded with a small grin, “I’ve seen worse than an ugly, yellow, polka-dotted bed, Time. This will be nothing compared to what I’ve faced.” This earned him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. 

“Then that leaves me with the first,” 

Twilight looked between them, “Leaves you with..? I haven’t chosen..?” 

Time walked past the confused Ordonian, knocking him lightly on the head with his fist, 

“We chose for you, Pup,” He said by way of explaining. Well, Twilight wouldn’t complain. He wandered to his bed, reaching down to grasp the edge of the comforter tucked underneath the overstuffed pillow. He tugged, but the comforter refused to budge. 

Twilight heaved a silent sigh of exasperation and annoyance. 

“I hate this place...” He muttered darkly, yanking with all his might and ripping the comforter free. Time and Wild had already rid themselves of their weapons and packs, setting them aside with care. Twilight threw his own pack on the ground without a thought but couldn’t bring himself to change out of his tunic. He could care less if he slept in it. 

He was about to crawl in and curl up when a muffled, startled shout filtered through the thick walls followed by a painful thump! 

Time, Wild, and Twilight leaped to their feet, instinctively reaching for their weapons when an aggravated and alarmed voice hollered,  “Why is there a CUCCO in my bed?!” 

A short, huff of laughter escaped Wild before the teen attempted to stifle it. 

“Where did it even come from?! Warrior, get rid of it!” 

There was an indignant squawk that followed Legend’s exclamation. 

“I am not going anywhere NEAR that thing, Legend! You’re on your own with this one!” 

Time lifted a hand to his mouth to smother his laughter. Warrior’s voice had come from farther away, telling them the Captain had scrambled a safe distance away from their unwelcome guest. 

“Sky!” Two identical calls were issued soon afterwards, “You love these things! Why don’t you get it?” 

There was a softer, drowsier sound the Heroes knew to be Sky calmly talking to the paranoid Heroes rooming with him. Time imagined him gently coaxing the Cucco from Legend’s bed and offering his own. 

After a few moments had passed, the excitement died down and Time figured it was safe to try and get some sleep before they left in a few hours. Thankfully, they didn’t have a surprise Cucco in their room...

At least, Time thought as he settled into his bed and drew the covers past his shoulders, he hoped there wasn’t. 

~~~~

Hyrule expelled a forlorn sigh from where he sat against the headboard of his bed, knees drawn to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs, dark eyes flitting from a slumbering Wind to a sleeping Four. 

He could tell from their constant shifting and moving that neither of his companions were resting well. 

It was impossible to in this awful place. 

Hyrule himself couldn’t bring himself to try and sleep. The reason? Because of the huge, wide-open, eye painted on the ceiling that looked capable of peering through one’s very soul and ensnaring it. 

Just thinking about it made him shudder. 

He tried his hardest not to look at it, but it was difficult not to! His eyes would instinctively snap up to peek at it then flit away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the eye was looking right at him. 

Not to mention that he needed to use the restroom badly. He jostled his foot, the mattress vibrating from the motion. Was it worth the risk of leaving the safety of this room to endure the ghastly and horrific sight he knew lingered in the hallways? 

He sighed again, raking a hand through his hair and frowned. He might as well. He really did have to go. 

Without giving himself a chance for second thoughts, Hyrule swiftly slipped from his bed and crossed the room to the door in record time. He turned the knob as silently as he could, cracking the door open slowly to ensure it didn’t creak and the wood didn’t croak beneath his feet. 

He shut it behind him and turned to head down the corridor to where he knew the bathroom for this floor was located. He refrained from looking anywhere but the planks in front of him, counting his steps out of sheer boredom and a feeble attempt to distract himself from the atrocities surrounding him. 

Before he knew it, he was standing before the bathroom door that had the largest possible handle he’d ever seen. 

This was sure to become one of the most memorable time of his life- and not for any good or sentimental reasons. 

The handle, Hyrule unnervingly found, resembled a tormented face with features contorted in pain, the handle for the nose, and mouth gaping open in a silent scream. 

Not at all ominous... 

Hyrule shut his eyes against it and extended a hand blindly to grasp at the knob and turn it. He heard an eerie groan as he pushed against the wood and slipped inside. 

Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Hyrule tiredly clicked the door shut and dragged a sleeve across his forehead. 

He wished they could leave this dreaded place. How anyone could sleep here was beyond him! 

He supposed it could be worse and made to turn around when he heard the sound of nails clawing against wood, racing upwards and when he turned, heart leaping into his throat, he watched with disbelieving eyes as a ghostly white apparition came shooting out from the toilet. 

“Paaaaaaaaper....paaaaaapeeeerrrr....” 

Hyrule had never shrieked so shrilly in his entire life. 

~~~~ 

A rumbling boom reverberated throughout the inn. 

“Hyrule!” 

The Heroes burst from their assigned rooms and into the hallway, weapons drawn and expressions fierce. They were ready to storm to Hyrule’s aid, worry clawing its way to their hearts and sudden protectiveness taking root. 

Whoever had threatened or frightened Hyrule would pay severely for their heinous crime. 

An earthy green and brown blur dashed past Warrior and at Time, slamming into the leader and revealing itself to be a breathless and traumatized Hyrule. 

Time instinctively caught him, demanding at once, 

“What is it, Hyrule?” 

Hyrule never once loosened his grip on Time, turning slightly to point down the corridor to say, 

“Hand!” He breathlessly managed, all too relieved to be with his companions, “Ghost hand in the toilet!” 

Sky perked up curiously, “Peoni?” 

At the same time, Legend and Time also uttered names the Heroes didn’t recognize, 

“Hand?” 

“???” 

“Ghost hand?” Warrior quirked an eyebrow, turning to peer down towards the bathroom. He blinked and whistled lowly, “What’s with the smoke?” 

The area the bathroom was in was in shambles. Splintered wood, scorched planks, and ruptured flooring covered with water told Warrior the restroom was no longer usable. 

Hyrule chuckled a bit nervously, standing behind Time and peeking around him, “It popped out from the toilet and scared me so badly I might’ve...instinctively lashed out with a magic attack?” 

“Was that what the explosion was?” Wind piped up from beside Warrior, resting on his sword and relaxing since he knew there was no imminent danger. 

“Magic attack?” Four curiously repeated. 

Hyrule didn’t hear their questions and instead looked up at Time timidly, “Can we please leave this awful place, Time?” 

He’d had enough. Monsters he could do. Mobs of them? No problem. Ghosts- especially a ghost hand that apparently lives in a toilet? That was pushing it. 

Time glanced down at him. Unable to withstand the pitiful look the younger Hero was pulling, Time sighed and ruffled his hair.

“We might as well, or we’ll end up paying for repairs.” 

The others cheered. 

“Oh thank goodness!” Legend breathed a sigh of relief, immediately disappearing into his room and tossing out his, Warrior, and Sky’s belongings, “Let’s hurry up and go then!” 

Wind and Wild dashed into their own to do the same, shoving packs into Twilight, Time, and Four’s hands. 

“We’ve got everything!” Wild cheerfully declared, tossing his bag over his shoulder, “Let’s get outta here!” 

“What in tarnation..!” A voice cried out from behind them. 

Time’s eye marginally widened as the Heroes started and whipped their heads ‘round to find a shocked and fuming innkeeper standing behind them. 

Warrior was the first to recover, barking out an order the Links didn’t hesitate to execute, 

“Run!” 

[a-very-fond-farewell]

The forbidden crack! Untamed prompts: 16/?

FMA AU meets “The Wind Rises” AU : “I still remember every day”

[crazy idea #1: if you are familiar with FMA: Brotherhood (superior in every way) you probably are too young or too smart to remember the original 2003 FMA clusterfuck series but i’m neither young nor smart so here is my take on one of my favorite animated movies of all times “The Conqueror of Shamballa” BUT the story doesn’t start in 1923 Germany but somewhere around 1923 Japan. If you are familiar with this movie and the 2003 series you will know Ed Elric has moved from London to Munich and started living there frequently interacting with a family of rocket scientists (sounds crazy if you are only knowledgeable with FMA: B, but… trust me). So i thought, “what if our protagonist (in this case WWX) travels from China to Japan to work on some airplanes instead?”]

[crazy idea #2: “The Wind Rises” from Ghibli is set in that historical period right? so what if we make transmigrated WWX work his engineering magic on some aircrafts before any conflict can actually take place? precisely between the end of the Taisho period (1912-1926) and the beginning of the Showa period (1926-1989), when the desire for innovation and the new technological advancements could be implemented while at peace.]

[obviously, this is just a prompt, and I don’t feel particularly comfortable with creating fantasy storylines so intertwined with actual historical events, especially if these events caused the suffering of many and belong to a culture that is not mine to describe with the potential risk of offending its values and legacy. also, fandom should be fun and if you love angst maybe this is not the prompt for you. on the other hand I thought of how much i love movies like “Porco Rosso”, set somewhat really fucking close to where I live while describing a fun and lighthearted narrative even if it’s dealing with historical and political events that are still fresh and painful in our collective memory nowadays. Maybe it is possible to write something easy and fun while, at the same time, setting it in a time of great difficulties without hurting anyone. Maybe I’m not the person for that (after all, this is just a prompt), but if you want to explore a similar plot you are encouraged to tag me bc I would really like to know your take on the matter. and if I happen to offend anyone I will properly apologize and take responsibility.]

[the title is from L’Arc-en-Ciel’s song “Lost Heaven”, which still makes me cry to this day]

*

When Wei WuXian wakes up after the core transplant surgery, the first thing he realizes is that he should be awake. Wen Qing insisted on the fact that he had to keep himself awake and conscious for the entirety of the procedure, otherwise he would have suffered from extreme backlash and so would have Jiang Cheng. But here he is, waking up from slumber after who know how many days. In front of a figure in white he doesn’t recognize. Everything is blurry in his periphery, as if he’s inhabiting two bodies at the same time. His every move heavy and his speech sluggish.

The person in white turns the moment Wei WuXian realizes he’s standing in the middle of nowhere, in the space between realities.

“Where am I?”, he asks, trying to make out the features of the person in front of him, their long white hair, the silver lining of their robes.

“You’re here to pay a price.”, the other answers, their voice a mere whisper. Barely louder than the crisp little noises the pins and jewelry adorning their hair and neck are making as the person approaches him slowly.

“A price for what?”

“Before losing consciousness, you wished for your brother to be saved no matter what.”

“Is… is Jiang Cheng safe?”

“He’s dying because you fell asleep.”, the other announces, sending shivers down Wei WuXian’s spine, dread sitting in the middle of his chest, “You cannot wake up, the damage is done. But if you enter this door you will be able to save him. Your body in this world will die, the core will not share two owners at once and your brother will be the only one able to use it from now on.”

Wei WuXian doesn’t have time to feel pain, determination painting him in vibrant colors in that white realm of silence and void. He turns as the person in white gestures him to do so and he finds a door so big it could rival with one of the gates of Koi Tower. Engraved on its surface are myriads of characters reminding him of something ancient and forbidden. Something so dark and dangerous not even cultivators as knowledgeable as Lan QiRen would be able to understand, let alone encourage learning about.

“What will i find on the other side?”, he wonders, watching as the gates slowly open in front of him, a warm wind spiraling upwards and messing his hair.

A kiss from the underworld.

Is this the day I die, he doesn’t ask.

“Another world.”, the woman in white and silver answers honestly.

Wei WuXian doesn’t have time to recognize her that he is dragged inside by a thousands of spirits with eyes for mouths and teeth for hands.

*

Mere months have passed since he woke up in a body similar to his original one, but completely different from his own at the same time. He’s still seventeen, but cannot rely on cultivation anymore. The brand scar he received in the cave of the Tortoise of Slaughter is nowhere to be seen. His mother and father welcomed him back in their arms, crying over his bedridden body thanking the heavens for saving their only son from typhoid fever. He knew deep down those were not his true parents, that Cange Sanren had a different name on top of that and that their actual son’s soul was probably the sacrificial lamb paid on the altar of Wei WuXian’s greed to save his only brother. He knew this since day one, yet he was too tired to say anything at the time. He woke up in a small village in the Hubei Province under the Republic of China, established twelve years prior. A reality almost identical to his own, but stripped of any power of the cultivation world.

However, now things have changed and his parents have died a second time, the fever and starvation taking them in their sleep one at a time. But not before his mother could send a desperate letter to an old acquaintance of hers asking them to take their son “Wei Ying” out of the country and save him from harm. After accepting her proposition, the Chinese diplomat Jiang Fenmiang has invited Wei Ying to live with him and their family in Tokyo, where he’s working in order to strengthen and acquiesce the relations between the two countries after a period of tension and grievances.

As he travels on what he understands to be called a “train”, Wei WuXian takes notes over the many technological advancements this new era has brought to humanity. Such as the ferry he has taken to travel overseas and now the locomotive taking him to Tokyo. The pain of losing his parents for the second time is still fresh, as is the memory of the past few months living alone on the streets chased by rabid dogs. His body is still weak after surviving the fever and his lungs and digestive system are forever compromised, but he wants to meet Jiang Chen and YanLi a second time in this new world. Feeling guilty for leaving them in a world ruled by the Qishan Wen clan, the only thing he can do is to atone in this new life and protect them in this reality. He takes a brief moment to himself as he looks up from his notes and sees a man approaching from the first class carriage of the train.

Initially Wei WuXian doesn’t regard the stranger with anything but a polite nod, some of his notes flying away from his journal as he adjusts himself on the platform at the end of his car. He sprints up to try to catch them... before the stranger could grab them for him and give them back.

It’s then that Wei WuXian recognizes the man, an older version of Lan Zhan from the one he remembers, dressed in modern clothing and shorter hair. He’s just another double, a copy of the original he used to know. Just like his mother and father, just like the Jiang family he’s going to meet soon. No recognition comes from the other-Lan Zhan, yet Wei WuXian lets himself stare for longer than necessary as he thanks the man.

A single tear rolls down his cheek as an earthquake shakes the train and destroys everything around them in that day of September 1923.

[details down below]

1923:

(WWX is 17)

the train stops and all the passengers survive, but they are scared and don’t know how to reach Tokyo safely by foot. Some officers guide them to the nearest road and help them walk for a while before they have to leave for the capital in an attempt to contain the flames of the many fires caused by the earthquake.

Lan Zhan’s double has the same name and features, but is now twenty-five and was supposed to arrive in Tokyo to meet with his brother, Lan Huan’s double. He’s a little more cheerful than what WWX remembers and he also decides to stick with the younger man all the way to Tokyo. After glancing at WWX’s notes earlier, in fact, double!LanZhan recognizes him as someone from his same country and reasons they should feel safer traveling together for a little while more.

given that trying to explain his situation to double!LanZhan would be useless, WWX simply agrees and shoves down any temptation to tell him all about Gusu and the cave and how much he wishes he could go back to his original world. They walk all the way to Tokyo talking quietly: they are surrounded by strangers, WWX doesn’t know much Japanese to begin with and he doesn’t want to be recognized as a foreigner.

uncle Jiang, along with some clothes to travel more comfortably, has sent him enough money to travel and direction to reach his home. The only thing WWX hopes is that nobody was injured in the earthquake and that no more waves can reach them before he can join them. What an unfortunate time to arrive. Aunt Yu would probably hate him in this reality too just because of that.

but as he trails behind double!LanZhan and enters Tokyo, WWX feels as if hell has found its way into the world, flames everywhere and nowhere to go. In the midst of chaos, however, double!LanZhan tries to keep him from fainting or shaking, talking about all the things he and his brother wish to work on as architects working for the government. Yet, WWX senses how worried he is for his twin brother and pities him as he tries to calm down, marveling at how much this version of Lan Zhan can talk. They walk towards the Jiang household as double!LanZhan chats about the university he’s supposed to work for the following month, wondering if it’s still intact after the catastrophe.

they reach the elegant house without any more troubles, relief spreading through their hearts as they notice it has endured little to no damage. Uncle Jiang scurries over them and immediately recognizes WWX bc of how much he resembles his mother and the man dotes on him from then on. He thanks double!LanZhan profusely, ignoring the resentful glances coming from his wife and the curious ones from his daughter. A kid roughly the same age as WWX approaches and takes the other’s only suitcase: a scowl on his face and hurry in his steps, telling WWX to keep up because “the world is crashing down if he hadn’t noticed”.

WWX doesn’t have time to properly thank double!LanZhan that he is urged inside by his new family.

1927:

(WWX is 21)

given the connections the Jiang family has in both countries, WWX and his step siblings are able to enjoy benefits others may only dream of, but the government is wary of foreigners and they need to act as good guests. This angers and stresses Jiang Cheng, his temper even worse than what WWX remembers, and he is even more rebellious than his new stepbrother. It’s WWX who needs to tone down the other’s snark at times, reminding him they cannot do as they please and that, even if others are jealous of their grades in university and overall position, they are still living in difficult times.

WWX knows this Jiang Cheng is a double ant that everything feels like a dream and nothing matters anymore, but if he pretends hard energy maybe he can stop feeling guilty for leaving his dear ones behind. But acknowledging this Jiang Cheng as the real one feels wrong and sometimes WWX distances himself from him, keeping his secrets for himself.

however, double!JiangCheng has seen his brother scream in his dreams, even waking him up in the middle of the night just to shake him from his horrible nightmares. Sometimes Wei Ying watches him in his sleep, when he hasn’t yet realized double!JiangCheng is awake, as checks for his breath. Other times he pressed a hand to his abdomen, as if checking for scars or injuries. He doesn’t know what it means, but he is willing to wait for the other to come around and they’ll him himself.

their sister YanLi has figured a way to be useful in a country wary of foreigners by studying to become a doctor and save lives. Their father is currently struggling at work because of the increasing tensions between the two countries and their mother keeps to herself in spite of everything.

WWX’s health deteriorates after he starts working, their supervisor suggesting him and his brother to keep a low profile just not to attract any unwanted attention on their family. Their work as engineers can convince the higher-ups to keep them close in case war were to strike again. But Jiang Cheng feels bad for working for a country constantly threatening his parent’s home country over mining rights and land ownership. He may love working on new aircrafts and test his limits, but he’s against using his energy and drive for appease someone else’s greed.

WWX, for the first time in his life, feels second to his brother, admiring his ability to distinguish from right and wrong while he himself cannot even tell dreams and reality apart. With a weakened body and a mind filled with memories of a world that doesn’t even exists, WWX convinces himself he’s in hell and this life is the punishment for being too greedy himself.

1929:

(WWX is 23, double!LWJ is 30)

tension is too strong for them to live in Tokyo, with Uncle Jiang forced to work for the government and scramble for solutions in order to keep his family safe in a secluded location in the mountains, in a hotel in the middle of nowhere. There, the elites enjoys the last days of peaceful times they will not see again for years to come.

WWX feels drained, dreaming of people he will either never see again or see every single day in the faces of strangers. Jiang Cheng convinces him to talk, even if only to ease his pain, but WWX cannot bring himself to reveal the whole truth. The only thing he feels like to share is that he has visions of another world and that maybe reincarnation is not as far fetched as it seems.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t really believe him, but he supports him and together with YanLi they try to make Wei Ying relax during their vacation on the mountains.

there, out of nowhere, WWX meets double!LanZhan and his brother: they meet on top of a hill as the wind rises and some of the two brothers’ musical scores fly away. WWX and his stepbrother catch them and bring them back as YanLi approaches the two musicians.

this time, WWX notice immediately something is wrong. Double!LanZhan is far less cheerful than what he remembers from their first encounter, while his brother seems to have lost his vision, music being his only comfort. The group exchanges pleasantries with the twins on top of the hill, until rain forces them all to seek refuge under some trees. WWX watches double!LanZhan closely and realizes these years apart must have been tough on him. He asks if double!LanHuan has lost his sight after the earthquake and the only thing double!LanZhan is able to do is nod, his eyes filled with tears.

Would it be so bad to befriend this other-LanZhan? Is it right for WWX to start a new life in hell with someone so compassionate and kind? Maybe that would be okay in the end, maybe they can be good friends and survive this world that is wary of them simply because of the greed of human kind. Then why does it feel wrong to let himself be loved by these people? Why does it feel like he’s betraying the ones he has left behind?

during their vacation, the two families get closer and they enjoy each other’s company. They talk in Japanese to not be stared by the other patrons and WWX wonders what happened in his world. If the Wens have crumbled down. If their name is synonymous with hatred and greed. If this is how any refugee would feel, isolated from the rest of the country while desperately trying to hold onto any familiar face and memory at hand.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like to talk in another language and fear others might look down on him and seldom attracts attention by causing mayhem. But YanLi and even double!LanHuan help him come down from his stubborn antics and take him to long walks to calm down. This way, WWX and double!LanZhan are frequently left alone, because Wei Ying cannot walk for too long without feeling exhausted and so the other keeps him company.

since double!LanZhan is so under the weather and quiet, WWX takes it upon himself to entertain him and he spends their days chatting about the things he misses from home, what he would like to do if he were to live somewhere else, they airplanes he would like to make. He doesn’t talk about how much me misses flying on a sword, or how the wind fills under his clothes up in the air, or how much he would have loved to hold onto Lan Zhan among the stars at night.

WWX cries in front of double!LanZhan without noticing one day, missing the days at the Cloud Recesses when they were classmates and he used to pester the other boy. And only now, only now he understands what it was, what he wanted to convey with his antics. How much he wanted the other to notice him and pay attention to him. But the one rubbing a comforting hand up and down his spine now is not his Lan Zhan. Even if he’s just as kind and compassionate, just as quiet and brilliant, just as hurt and lonely.

they share a kiss under the trees of a meadow one afternoon and WWX feels like he’s either betraying the real Lan Zhan or this gentle young man who’s never done anything bad in his entire life. And he doesn’t know why double!LanZhan is crying as well as they kiss, but he’s too afraid to ask.

the following day Uncle Jiang calls the rest of his family back home and the Jiang siblings say their goodbyes to the twins hiding alone with their uncle on the mountain. Promising to meet each other again soon, even if WWX knows that’s most likely nothing but a well intentioned lie given the hardships they’re bound to face.

1930:

Lan Zhan:

(WWX is 24, double!LWJ is 31)

after meeting with the Jiang family, the twins try to retrieve their life as usual the moment they return in Tokyo for the winter. Their uncle notices double!LanZhan’s distress over departing from the young men he had met there, but his inquiry is fruitless since his nephew refuses to speak. The old man has noticed some changes in the younger twin over the course of a couple of years or so: his frequent migraines and tiredness, his laborious efforts to speak as if feverish and confused, his nights interrupted by nightmares more often than not.

even his brother has noticed the difference despite losing his vision in the fire at the imperial university seven years prior. His cheerful spirit is gone, his steps alternate different rhythms at times, and even his accent often doesn’t sound familiar to him. In his younger brother’s words “it’s almost as if two of me are residing in a single body”. But Lan Huan doesn’t know what to make of it, wishing he could look his brother in the eyes and see the truth for himself.

double!LanZhan, on the other hand, feels split in half ever since he has kissed Wei Ying. He remembers that day because his body has moved on its own, half of his mind lost in Wei Ying’s grey eyes while the other half (his own half) was trying to understand why the sudden urge to hold the boy tighter in his arms. He felt like someone had possessed him for those brief, stolen moments in time before leaving his body altogether the second Wei Ying has run away from him in the meadow.

unable to find an answer, feverish and tired with a migraine splitting his brain in half, double!LanZhan wanders around Tokyo trying to remember where the Jiang residence was. His feet walking him towards Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng’s room in the evening one day. Wei Ying is alone, sitting down by a table covered in drawings. Mesmerized, double!LanZhan watches from the window as Wei Ying traces the lines of faces and places, over an over again, as if he doesn’t want to forget what his imagination has shown him that night.

seeing what is depicted on the table, double!LanZhan’s migraine worsens and he collapses in the back garden, snow piling up on him. Wei Ying immediately notices and brings him inside, covering him in quilts to keep him warm. But Wei Ying is the warmest of all, his embrace like a balsam over double!LanZhan’s pulsing head as the younger tries to keep him warm by rubbing his arms over and over.

suddenly his head doesn’t hurt anymore and he can finally, finally let go. Let the other half take his place for now, just for a little while, as he takes a small nap in Wei Ying’s arms.

when he wakes up, Lan Zhan cries all of his tears.

he was finally able to reach Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, who was trapped in another world. The one Lan Zhan has been looking for ever since the end of the Sunshot Campaign, ever since Jiang Cheng himself told him of his demise. The one Lan Zhan was able to reach only after sacrificing his golden core to the immortal turned goddes BaoShan Sanren in front of a gate born from the efforts of some past demonic cultivator.

for two years he had tried to make his way through the veil between realities, his consciousness exhausted as if he had been swimming for far too long. The other-him, the man who shared his name and face, hosting his soul at the expenses of his own body for over two years. All because of Lan Zhan’s grief and greed, all because a goddess had promised him he could be reunited with the love of his life. But at what cost... at what cost indeed.

since two souls cannot reside in a single body, one of them had to die in order for Lan Zhan to meet his Wei Ying again. The moment WWX sees the other cry, he immediately recognizes him and tries to console him for the loss of his “other”. But LWJ cannot seem to feel any relief as he falls asleep once more in his arms.

Jiang Cheng:

Jiang Cheng enters the room and is baffled to find one of the twins in there, but seeing his brother crying over the man he decides to help them instead of calling the servants. Things are turning ugly in town for people like them and he doesn’t trust anyone anymore since YanLi got married and started working for the hospital, leaving the brothers alone.

in tears, Wei Ying tells him everything: of his dreams of another world, of the one he was destined to meet, of Lan Zhan finally remembering who he really was. He’s still fixated on this “past life” thing, uh? Jiang Cheng doesn’t really understand, but he knows the two man has grown fond of each other the previous summer and doesn’t really envy their fate.

he watches over them as they fall asleep in each other’s arms, having promised them to keep the servants from knowing about Lan Zhan’s presence in their house. That’s when he comes up with a plan and calls Lan Huan on the phone, briefly telling him that “his brother Lan Zhan has made a choice and that he cannot stay in Tokyo anymore”.

Lan Huan asks Jiang Cheng if his brother is there, to which the other only says “yes”. Is he with Wei Ying? Yes. Are they in love? Yes. Do they need to hide? “I can manage that for them.”

They meet the following morning at dawn, outside of Lan XiChen’s house to not attract the attention of the Jiang servants. Jiang Cheng will escort the two lovebirds to a cottage somewhere in the countryside, far away from society. When Lan Huan will succeed in convincing Lan QiRen to follow him there, they will receive them and arrange something.

Jiang Cheng May not believe his brother, but he knows things are getting dangerous in the country, especially for foreigners like them. Let alone someone like Wei Ying and his lover.

Wei WuXian:

While Lan Zhan is still feverish, Jiang Cheng and WWX take the train with the older man to the countryside. WWX feels bad for leaving, but Lan Zhan needs to rest away from the modern world for a while and he himself doesn’t feel well at all. Not with his lungs giving up on him any time he has to stiffen a cough and swallow his own blood with every breath. His weakened body may have caught something in the last few months, but he will not give up on Lan Zhan now.

They reach the cottage and Jiang Cheng immediately sends a letter to his sister, apologizing for what he’s about to do. They only have to wait a week for Lan Huan and Lan QiRen to arrive, but in the meantime Lan Zhan has regained enough energy to eat and stand up on his own. WWX asks him what is going on, and LWJ tells him that he’s currently trying to hold onto this body while simultaneously ruling over his original body in Gusu. He doesn’t want to fade away, but he fears slipping out of reach and leave WWX behind a second time.

when Lan QiRen sees them, he cannot deny what is in front of him: someone who is merely pretending to be his nephew greets him with a stoic face as he announces his intention to marry a man. Despite the initial shock, when Lan Huan has asked him to take him in the middle of nowhere in the countryside in winter, Lan QiRen has accepted to indulge him knowing Lan Zhan must have had something to do with it. But this in front of him is definitely not his nephew and this realization hurts more then knowing he is in love with a man.

Lan Huan, on the other hand, knows from his voice this is not his brother but cannot explain why. He’s filled with grief at the thought and not even his uncle can comfort him, the older man himself in pain for a loss he cannot comprehend.

WWX asks them to indulge them just this time, feeling like his life is getting closer and closer to its end, not knowing what else to do. Jiang Cheng comforts the two men as he tries to explain his reasons, that nobody will let them have even an ounce of joy in the world they’re forced to live in and that, if things will end up getting worse in the end, at least they’ll have this memory to look back to. He feels like a war is approaching, and no one can know what kind of world will greet them at the end of it.

Lan Zhan:

the day of his wedding he’s very nervous, having asked their hosts to simplify the traditional ceremony given the fact that Wei Ying and he are both men and there are no actual guest attending. They bow to the heavens and the earth, to their families, and then to each other. Their clothes are far less expensive or appropriate from the nuptial red they would have worn under different circumstances, yet Lan Zhan has never felt more adorned and rich, basking in Wei Ying’s love.

they spend their first night together whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, tired and happy as they have never been before.

Wei WuXian:

they stay at the cottage for months, receiving news from the outside world every now and then from Jiang Cheng and Lan Huan. He suspects his brother is keeping something to himself, ignoring his questions over the political situation altogether, but he doesn’t insist.

LWJ tells him stories of the Sunshot Campaign, of how he tried to save the weak, the women, the children and the innocent of the Wen Clan against the rest of the cultivation world. Of how he found a way to summon BaoShan Sanren through some scrolls he had found in Burial Mounds, where he thought WWX’s soul might have disappeared to. Of how he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to his brother and the people he had saved in Yiling before signing a contract with the immortal.

WWX’s lungs are giving up on him but he tries to keep LWJ from noticing. YanLi comes to meet them one day and makes sure to cry for her brother only when they are finally alone, sensing his intention to keep his husband from knowing the truth. He knows LWJ cannot possibly keep holding onto two bodies at the same time: waking up in Yiling the moment he falls asleep in the cottage; then waking up with Wei Ying every morning the moment he falls asleep in Burial Mounds where he has decided to hide. Without a golden core, for as strong as someone like LWJ can be, he would die if he keeps crossing the veil, the gate between the two worlds.

the day after YanLi has left them alone, WWX spends his last day with his husband, making sure everything is perfect. he also sends letters to his family and thanks them for loving him. he extends his best wishes to the people who worked alongside him, helping him bring to fruition his dream to fly in the sky once more... even if he has never flown in this lifetime.

he’s very happy with his husband and wants to commit every second they spend together to heart. They make love for the last time before they both fall asleep together and dream of home.

he whispers “I wish you good luck” before falling asleep.

Lan Zhan:

he wakes up the next day and Wei Ying is gone. His body cold in his arms.

mad with grief, unable to believe a life without WWX can or should exist, he cries over his husband’s body and wishes he could die.

Lan Huan and Lan QiRen happen to visit that day and find him crestfallen and asking to be left alone to die. But they help him bury the body instead and take care of him. Lan QiRen suddenly feels terrible at the thought of leaving this boy all alone, whether he’s actually his nephew or not. Lan Huan convinces his brother to eat and rest, holding him for as long as it takes for him to calm down.

the following day, as the younger twin wakes up, he asks Lan Huan why they’re in a cottage in the countryside and what happened while he was asleep.

the actual LWJ, by falling asleep, not willing to wake up in a world where WWX doesn’t exists anymore, has allowed double!LanZhan to regain complete control over the body in the cottage. The twin wasn’t dead, just dormant, waiting for LWJ to let go of his body on his own.

waking up in the Burial Mounds, however, with no golden core and no Wei Ying is worse than anything LWJ has ever experienced. Having to survive WWX’s death not one, but two times is too much to handle... but a small kid has found his place in his arms while LWJ was sleeping. His beloved A-Yuan, one of the few Wen children he was able to save from the Lanling Jin’s clutches after the Sunshot Campaign.

as he takes in the sight of the child he considers his own, peacefully sleeping in his bed, LWJ finds the strength to say “just another day”. And then another and another and another again.

13 years later:

Mo XuanYu sacrifices his body for WWX and the first thing Wei Ying does in his new body is to ask the Lan juniors to bring him to Hanguan Jun.

but Lan Zhan is already there, following the juniors around after managing to reforming a golden core in just a little over ten years all on his own. The first thing he says to Wei Ying is “I still remember every day.”

and they begin to travel together for the rest of their life.

*

Now I need a fucking tissue.

[as you can see very little “conquering another world” type of quest because I didn’t like to think too hard. This is more like “what if before transmigrating WWX and LWJ lived somewhere else and got married?” But then I had to make it sad, uh? Fuck.]

[also, demonic-cultivator!LWJ anyone?]

[creative-type]

wake from death (and return to life)

Summary: Zoro had always been told Kuina died falling down a flight of stairs. But she didn’t fall, and she wasn’t dead.  Rating: T for some violence/swearing Word Count: 9300 AO3

Written for @codedredalert​ as thanks for putting on an amazing secret Santa event and for being an awesome person in general. 

Kuina returned from her duel with Zoro hot, sweaty, and elated. She felt...settled. Sure of herself in a way she hadn’t been in months. With one hand wrapped firmly around Wado’s white sheath and the other clutching at the front of her shirt, Kuina felt the beat of her heart, slow and steady, for once able to ignore the small, obnoxious lumps that were her developing breasts. 

Her dream wasn’t gone. It wasn’t out of reach or stupid. It didn’t matter if she was a girl; she could still be the best swordsman in the world. 

Kuina repeated that thought like it were a prayer, hardening the fragile, tenuous thing that was her resolve until she mostly believed it. In the heat of the moment it was easy for Zoro’s words to drive out everything her father ever told her, but without his brash, almost senseless tenacity shouting in her ear the doubts came creeping back. Hovering in the recesses of her mind like a persistent fly, ready to poison her budding hope before it ever had a chance to take root.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, Kuina didn’t notice the intruder until it was too late. A shadow of a hand clasped itself around her mouth just as she was about to descend the stairs that led to Wado’s proper resting place, muffling her scream while another batted her sword out of her grasp. The sound of it clattering across the ground was amplified by the shattering of peace surrounding her father’s estate. 

Kuina writhed against the hold, for a moment forgetting everything she’d been taught in favor of animalistic struggle. The attacker cursed as she managed to bite the hand that held her. It was enough of a distraction for Kuina to smash her heel against the instep of his foot. His hold loosened enough for Kuina to wiggle free, immediately darting or her sword. 

Her attacker was quicker. Impossibly quick. Kuina barely saw him move as he snatched Wado off the ground, unsheathing its blade in a single, smooth motion. A beam of moonlight framed a tall, lanky frame, cords of hard muscle straining against tight-fitting black clothes.

“Who are you?” Kuina demanded. She’d thought at first it was one of her father’s students foolishly trying to steal Wado Ichimonji, but she had never seen this man before in her life. Not in the countless duels she’d fought, not when walking around the village, not even at the harbor during those rare days she watched ships come in and out of port. 

“You don’t need to know that, little girl,” the man said. He held Wado up to the light, and when he spoke, Kuina could hear his smile. “What a magnificent blade. It’s a shame it’s wasted in this country backwater.”

“It’s mine,” Kuina hissed. “Give it back.”

The man chuckled. “Don’t you worry, girl. I’ll make sure to return it to its proper place.”

Kuina moved on instinct, reacting to his subtle change in posture, the shift of his feet and the movement in his hips before her conscious mind realized he was about to attack. But he was so damn fast. Faster than any of the adults she’d ever fought before, faster than Kuina ever thought possible, and she wasn’t able to dodge in time. 

Instead of her neck, Wado Ichimonji bit into the flesh above Kuina’s clavicle. Time seemed to stop, forever freezing in her mind the man’s breathy laugh as her own sword traced a path of bloody violence from collarbone to hip. Dark blood bloomed from the cut, almost black under the bleached light of the moon. 

Kuina fell. Her head cracked against the stairwell, sending a blinding pain through the back of her skull that was somehow worse than the deep gouge across her chest. She didn’t remember tumbling down the stairs, but when she looked up again she was laying flat on her back, the familiar ceiling of the dojo above her. From the corner of her flickering vision she could see Wado’s display stand, mocking her by its closeness. 

Blood bubbled in Kuina’s throat as she gasped for air. She felt very little as her vision swam and pitched, and the small part of her mind that was still functioning couldn't decide whether or not that was a bad thing. Every heartbeat forced more of her lifeblood through her wound, which by sheer, dumb luck hadn’t gone deep enough to kill her. 

The man took his time sauntering down the staircase. Kuina flinched as his shadow hovered over her vision, flinched again as he tossed Wado to the ground next to her. 

“I saw your duel with the little green-haired boy. You’re quite good,” he said, almost conversationally. “It’s a shame you’ll never have a chance to hone that talent, I would have liked to see it fully bloomed. But,” he shrugged a little, as if he were discussing a vague annoyance rather than the fact he was trying to kill her, “you only have your father to blame. Tell him, if you live long enough, that this is what happens when you do business with the Revolution. And if you don’t…” He laughed again, a cruel, cold laugh that pierced deeper than any blade. 

“Well, I think he’ll get the picture.”

                                                            ***

Her father found her there, lying in a pool of her own blood and a death grip around Wado’s hilt. Kuina remembered very little of what happened after that, and woke an indeterminate time later in a haze of pain and confusion. She heard people talking, but they sounded distant, like her ears had been stuffed full of cotton. Any attempts to move were unsuccessful. Kuina couldn’t even open her eyes. 

Her pulse hammered against the back of her skull while the entirety of her torso felt like it was on fire. More distantly, her stomach had decided now was the best time to revolt against the rest of her body. Dull, persistent nausea came in waves, growing in intensity like the tide pulled by a full moon. Kuina felt her insides fold in on themselves, a belly full of blood and chyme forcibly purged from her system. 

“Someone turn her head! Don’t let her choke on it!”

Sudden motion caused pain to explode in her head. It was too much for Kuina to bear, and she let the blackness overtake her once more. 

                                                      ***

Awareness came slowly. For a long time Kuina felt herself hanging on a precipice, and knew somewhere deep inside that if she allowed herself to fall down it she would never come out again. Even so, it took every ounce of her will to inch away from the void, away from the oblivion that called her like a siren’s song. 

There would be no more pain. No more agony of being born a girl in a world that catered itself to men. There would only be rest, and at that moment Kuina was so desperately tired. 

I’m going to be the world’s greatest swordsman!

Wado Ichimonji weighed heavily in her hands, anchoring Kuina to the promise she made. To Zoro, to herself. 

To the world. 

Kuina woke. Every breath was agony, the simple action of expanding her ribs enough to draw in air almost too much for her to stand. The ache in her head was far more manageable in comparison, so she focused on that instead. 

It took considerable effort for Kuina to open her eyes. The lashes were crusted over and heavy, but after several attempts she was able to pry them open to assess her surroundings. The room was dark, with its only curtain drawn and a single candle flickering in the corner. As far as Kuina could tell, she was alone. 

But how had she gotten here? And why was she in so much pain? She scrambled for memories, but it was like trying to grab sand; the harder she tried to hold on the more slipped through her fingers. Kuina remembered agreeing to duel Zoro, thought she remembered the clash of live steel. 

Had Zoro finally surpassed her? Had Kuina lost? The very idea offended her, despite how many times her father insisted that he was destined to become the better swordsman. 

No, Kuina hadn’t lost. She was as sure of that as she was of her own name. An accident, then? She remembered standing at the top of the stairs after winning...and making her promise, Kuina’s mind unhelpfully supplied her...but she hadn’t been holding Wado when her head cracked against the hard, unforgiving ground. 

Kuina jerked upright. Or attempted to, at least. She only managed to sit up forty-five degrees before a sharp, blinding pain across her abdomen forced her flat once more. Sparks danced across Kuina’s vision, but she hardly noticed as her breath hitched in her throat. She’d been attacked. A man had come at her with a sword. Not just any sword, Wado…

“Be still,” a voice said soothingly. “You’ll open your wounds.”

Kuina tried to say something, perhaps warn the voice that there was an intruder, but all that came out was a garbled moan. 

Strong arms reached behind Kuina’s head, bracing her shoulders and helping her sit up. Kuina sobbed with pain as a glass was pressed against her lips. 

“Drink,” he commanded. 

Kuina managed only a few small swallows before she began to sputter and choke. With a resigned sigh, the man allowed her to lay back down. Kuina’s abdominal muscles thanked him for the kindness, but her mouth cursed him in every language she knew. 

“Language, Kuina.”

“Dad…?”

Blinking bleary eyes, Kuina looked up at her father’s face. He was weary and wan, the creases around his mouth deeper than she remembered. He found a washcloth and wetted it, wiping the excess water from her mouth and the crusts from her eyes. 

“I’m here,” he said thickly. “Kuina, I’m here.”

And then, for the first time in her life, he buried his head in his hands and wept.

Kuina was stunned speechless. She had never seen her father cry, let alone collapse with emotion like he was now. She didn’t understand, and couldn’t even move to comfort him. She was as weak as a newborn kitten, more powerless than she’d ever been before in her life. 

Fear crept through the fog of pain and confusion, an icy finger tracing down her spine and making her shudder. Kuina laid her head back on her pillow, staring at the rafters so she didn’t have to look at her father. The cruel laugh of her attacker echoed in her mind. 

“Dad, you have to hurry,” Kuina rasped. “Someone came to the dojo, they might still be here! You have to find them!”

Her father lifted his head from his hands, a broken man. “It’s too late. By the time I found you...it was too late.”

“But he knows who I am,” Kuina insisted. “He knows who Zoro is.”

Gods above, he’d seen her fight with Zoro. Kuina’s stomach shriveled with horror. If she wasn’t able to defend herself, what chance did Zoro have? Her attacker watched their entire fight without being noticed by either of them, had apparently been able to sneak into the dojo and out again without being seen. 

“He said this is what happens when you deal with the Revolution. What did he mean?” Kuina asked. “You wouldn’t help out a bunch of criminals, would you?”

Her father’s face went ghost-white. Kuina saw his hands shake. Suddenly he stood, pacing a tight circle at the side of her bed.

“I need to get you out of here. Somewhere safe and far away.”

And just like that, Kuina’s world began to crumble around her.

“What are you saying?” Kuina asked. “Dad, you can’t mean that. You can’t just...force me away. I’ll get stronger, I promise. I-I won’t let anyone hurt me ever again.”

“This isn’t about strength,” her father said. His resolve hardened with every word, his decree set in stone. Kuina had never been able to change his mind once it was made up. She had hoped to one day by becoming the strongest swordsman in the world, but at that moment her dream was very far away. She was afraid of losing her father, her home. 

Everything. 

“Will you come with me?” Kuina asked, her voice tiny. 

His expression crumpled into a picture of abject misery. “Kuina, love...I can’t.”

“Then I don’t want to go. I won’t, and you can’t make me,” Kuina said, hysteria threatening to take over her entirely. Ignoring every one of her body’s warnings to stay supine, she forced herself to sit up. “Dad, please, I don’t understand.”

Her vision went wet and misty as tears filled her eyes, spilling silently down her cheeks as she began to cry. She hated crying, hated the weakness it implied. Each halting breath shot a bolt of agony through her torso, her wound threatening to split against the strain of holding herself together. 

Let it, Kuina thought wrathfully. It couldn’t hurt any more than having her heart torn in two. 

Slowly, as if burdened by a great weight, her father sat down next to her. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the dark circles underneath contrasting sharply with his pallid complexion.

“I can’t, because I have received a letter from the World Government requesting I train their young soldiers in the way of the sword,” he said quietly. 

“Just tell them no like you always have,” Kuina said. 

“And have them come after you again?” he said. “After Zoro, or one of my other students? No. This is...this is my price for giving food and supplies to the Revolution. A life hung in the balance then, as it does now. You’ve seen too much, little bird. If the Government realizes you’re alive…” He hung his head.

The use of her childhood nickname, spoken for the first time since she was a girl, cut through Kuina’s remaining defenses like they were wet paper. The tears came faster, each breath more ragged.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Kuina repeated. 

There was a deep sigh from her father. Then silence, save for the sound of Kuina’s sniveling. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he said, “I wish I could have saved this from you a little longer. It’s time for you to understand the way things are.”

And then he told her everything. 

                                                      ***

Kuina didn’t have a chance to pack her own bags. She wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. No one could know what they were doing for fear of it reaching the World Government, and so, as soon as she was fit for travel, Kuina died. 

She didn’t know the story that her father told. Infection, maybe. Perhaps he let everyone believe her wounds hadn’t healed right, and she bled out. Kuina didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was leaving everything she knew and loved behind. 

Father wouldn’t even let her take Wado with her. It was too conspicuous, he said. The World Government had seen her wield it before, and if word got out about a young girl with a white-sheathed sword, then…

The sentence was left unfinished, the implication clear. There was a small, angry part of Kuina that wondered if this wasn’t her father’s last, desperate attempt to dissuade her for her dream once and for all. She focused on that anger, nursed it to a burning vengeance. If she didn’t the loss would overtake her completely, and Kuina had no intention of letting a few Government officials or her father dictate her future. 

The only keepsake she took was an oni mask that had hung on the wall of the dojo for as long as she could remember. Her Father said it had been a gift from a dear friend, a memory of his time spent in a faraway land. Its fearsome visage made Kuina feel a little braver and a little less like the scared little girl she was. 

Before stowing her away on the ship that would take her far away from the danger of Shimotsuki village, her father gifted her with a katana. Its scabbard was chipped and worn, but the blade felt perfectly balanced in her hands. 

“The path that you walk will not be easy,” her father said. “You will need to be able to protect yourself.”

Kuina swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry again. She wouldn’t. 

But she did wrap her father in the strongest hug she could manage, ignoring the burning ache such simple exertion caused. “Promise me you’ll tell Zoro.”

“Kuina…”

“Promise me,” she repeated. “Maybe not today, or tomorrow...but when it’s safe. I’m not going to let that dunderhead make it to the top unchallenged.”

Her father sighed, carding his fingers through her hair before bending down to press his lips against the crown her her head. “I promise.”

                                                       ***

The ship stopped at Loguetown. 

Kuina wandered the city, hand clutching the scabbard of her katana. She’d never seen so many people congregated in one place before in her life. It was impossible to take it all in at once: the sights of buildings stretching up toward the heavens, the sound of a market that sold everything from food to jewelry to gunpowder, the smell of ocean brine that hung over the city like a pall. 

And the pirates. Pirates everywhere. 

Like Kuina, many wore weapons. Some stitched jolly rogers to their clothes, or had obnoxious tattoos that marked what crew they belonged to. Loguetown’s position at the foot of the Grand Line made the influx of piracy an inevitable reality, but Kuina was quietly amazed they were allowed to walk around the city, bold as brass. The townsfolk naturally shied away from them with practiced air of a population that had long-since learned how to mind their own business, but like a backed-up sewer their stench permeated everything. 

The Government should be hunting them. Kuina wondered how many of these pirates her attacker could have struck down in the time it took him to gather information on her father’s one interaction with the Revolutionary Army. 

Kuina shook that thought from her head. It wasn’t that simple. The Government had been trying to get her father to teach their marines for years. He had just been foolish enough to give them a reason to press the issue. Her father said that one way or another the Government always got what it wanted. It had just been a matter of time.

At least all the pirates kept her from sticking out too badly. Kuina only had a vague idea of where she was going and wanted to avoid seeming too conspicuous. Shifting her pack higher on her shoulder, she headed off for the town square. The backpack contained all her worldly possessions other than the clothes on her back and the sword in her hand. For the first time in her life, Kuina was well and truly alone. 

Keeping her head down and doing her best not to be jostled by the crowd, she didn’t notice the execution tower at first. It wasn’t the tallest or most important building in the city, but once her eyes did catch notice of it she couldn’t look away. For something so monumental it was efficiently and practically made, metal scaffolding holding up the simple wooden platform where the Pirate King finally met his end.

This was where it all started. If not for Roger and his stupid treasure, maybe the Government would be less interested in the services of a local swordsman trying to mind his own damn business. Roger’s death led to the great pirate age, and the marines’ subsequent arms race. 

Kuina wasn’t sure who she hated more, or if it even mattered. 

Her wound pulsed with her anger, and Kuina forced herself to take a deep, cleansing breath. She’d seen how strong the Government was first hand. She had a long way to go before she could think of fighting back. 

She tore her gaze away from that damned execution platform and wandered west. Her father occasionally did business with a weapons shop in the area, and that was her ultimate destination. He sent a letter calling in every favor he owed asking the shopkeep and his wife to watch over her until a more permanent solution could be found. The connection was obscure enough to hopefully throw the Government off the trail, and far enough away to prevent anyone from recognizing her. 

It was a risk. Loguetown was home to a marine base, ineffective as that marine base was at keeping pirates out of the Grand Line. But it was the best her father could manage on short notice, and so Kuina went, hoping beyond hope that he knew what he was doing. 

She found the shop easily enough. A crowd of five pirates were clustered around the entrance, and Kuina stayed well back of them. At first glance they didn’t seem to be causing any trouble, and she watched with a fighter’s eye as they showed off their new blades. At least one of them looked like he actually knew how to use a sword, while the rest had the lean, hungry look of predators looking for their next meal. 

They laughed with one another, calling each other crude names and doing whatever it was pirates did when they were with their friends. Kuina allowed herself to relax marginally. All she had to do was walk past them and she’d be in the clear…

She made it about three steps before she was noticed. A scrawny pirate perked his head, sheathing his new dagger at his waist before leering down at her. “Are you lost, little girl?”

Kuina was beginning to resent being called little. Without bothering to answer, she moved to go around them. A second pirate grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her around. He was slow. Sloppy. But so soon after being nearly cut in half, so was Kuina. 

“My friend asked you a question,” the pirate said, leaning down close enough for Kuina to smell his rancid breath. “In my day children were taught to respect their elders.”

His eyes slid to Kuina’s sword, still hidden away in its sheath. He snorted derisively. “You carrying that around for your daddy? Or do you think you actually know how--” 

Kuina acted without thinking. Drawing her sword halfway, she smashed its hilt into the pirate’s nose. Blood spurted as he howled in pain, but Kuina was already moving. Pivoting sharply, she slashed at the first pirate. He tried to dodge, but Kuina still managed to clip his bicep with the tip of her blade. 

Kuina had never been in a real fight with real steel. The surge of adrenaline was greater than anything she’d ever felt before, outstripping even her midnight duel with Zoro. Each movement was frozen in sublime clarity, like she was looking at the world through clear, perfect glass. She shifted to avoid a wild slash, ducked beneath an errant punch. 

But she was still outnumbered five to one, and still very much recovering from her wounds. A second pivot brought her directly in the path of a pirate’s foot, and she took the brunt of the attack where stitches still kept her intestines from spilling out of her belly. Kuina crumpled like a ragdoll, and another pirate -- she wasn’t sure which one -- kicked her sword out of her hand. 

“Stupid bitch,” one huffed while clutching his bloodied nose. “Stupid, crazy bitch.”

He kicked Kuina in the side. She was able to roll just enough, absorbing the worst of the blow with the large muscles of her back instead of her vulnerable ribs. It still hurt like hell, and the two kicks that followed weren’t any better. 

“God’s above, she’s just a kid,” another one of the pirates said, pulling him back before he could do any more. “Do you want to be known as the kind of guy who murders helpless girls in broad daylight?”

“Doesn’t look all that helpless to me,” the first said darkly. 

“We’re out in the open,” a third murmured. 

The first, who appeared to be their leader, growled in frustration. “Fine. Grab her stuff and get back to the ship. Captain doesn’t want any trouble if he can help it.”

Kuina moaned as her backpack was ripped from her shoulders. The pirate whose nose she bloodied scooped up her sword, whistling softly as he held it up to the light. 

“Nice blade, kid. Deserves a better master than some brat who doesn’t know how to pick her battles.”

They laughed as they walked away and were quickly swallowed by the crowd. Kuina tried to call them back, but all that came out was a strangled wheeze. The people of Loguetown stepped around her like she was a piece of garbage, going out of their way not to look at her, let alone help her stand.

Kuina’s hands clenched into fists and she gathered every scrap of her flagging strength. She wouldn’t let them get away with this. Wouldn’t lose again to a few upstart pirates. Slowly, painfully, she forced herself to her knees.

They’d taken everything. Her sword, her money, her clothes...it was all gone. All that was left behind was the blue and red oni mask. It must have fallen out of her bag while they were stealing it from her. 

Kuina cradled it close to her chest. She couldn’t keep losing if she wanted to be the strongest swordsman in the world. What would her father say if he saw her now? What would Zoro say? 

He’d tell her to get her ass off the ground and stop feeling sorry for herself. Gritting her teeth, Kuina forced herself to her feet and limped into the weapon shop. 

The owner hadn’t moved from behind the register, though it would have been impossible for him not to have heard the commotion right outside his door. At the sight of her he frowned, taking in her disheveled appearance, her labored breathing, before finally settling on the determined gleam in her eyes. 

“I need...a sword,” Kuina panted. 

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I need a sword,” Kuina forced herself to stand up straight, though it sent bolts of lightning from her chest through her back. “I’ll pay you back later, I promise.”

She grabbed a sword at random from the discount barrel and limped back to the door. When the shopkeeper finally realized what she was doing he hurdled over his register, but it was too late. 

Kuina was gone.

                                                       ***

It was nearing dark when she found the right ship. It had taken ages of asking and searching through local bounties to figure out who had stolen her sword. From then it had been a matter of taking what precautions she could: stealing linens to bind her seeping wounds as best she could, scouting where the pirate’s ship was docked, experimenting with her borrowed sword until it felt comfortable in her hand. 

It seemed like she had chosen well in that regard. Kuina was startled by the edge it held, cutting through whatever it touched with ridiculous ease. It gave off a sinister energy that suited her purposes just fine. It was a sword that thirsted for blood, blood she was more than happy to deliver. 

If all went well Kuina would only need it for a moment. If things didn’t go well, then...Kuina supposed it wouldn’t matter, because she’d be dead. 

The sun cast a golden glow across the water, the sky a painting of pink, blue, and orange. Kuina’s shadow stretched out behind her like a giant, and she fixed the oni mask firmly on her face. 

She didn’t bother trying to hide herself after that. Walking with more confidence than she felt, Kuina stepped out in front of the docked ship. The pirates on deck stopped to stare at her. She supposed she made a strange figure with her mask, naked blade in her hand. 

“Tobias Thornhill, I challenge you to a duel!” Kuina called out. “You’ve brought shame on swordsmen everywhere, and if you have an honorable bone left in your body you’ll come down here and fight me.”

Sweat trickled down her neck and she heard the men on the ship laugh. One raised his gun to shoot her where she stood, and Kuina yelled, “Thornhill, get your ass down here right now! Or are you too much of a coward to finish the fight you started?”

The laughter died, and a hush fell over the dock. For a moment the only sound was the ocean waves splashing against the wooden hull of their ship. Even the gulls had gone quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath waiting for an answer. 

Kuina saw a few of the men scurry below deck, emerging a moment later with Thornhill. Rage bubbled within her when she saw her sword hanging at his hip, and it took a small measure of will not to storm the ship right then and there. 

Thornhill leaned over the railing, squinting down at her. “I don’t know you, boy. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Kuina’s gaze flickered down at her torso. She’d bound her chest in the hopes of keeping herself from bleeding to death, but it seemed like it had the double effect of hiding her gender as well. 

Contrarily, Kuina was annoyed that he didn’t recognize her, but she quickly realized this was another advantage. Before leaving home her father had done his best to hammer in her head the terrible power of the World Government. There weren’t many girls her age who were competent swordsmen; it was better to take whatever steps she could to protect her identity against the faint possibility of the Government finding her all the way in Loguetown. 

“You know what you’ve done,” Kuina said. She raised her sword in clear challenge. “Now come down and fight me, swordsman to swordsman. Or are you too much of a coward?”

Kuina smirked with satisfaction as Thornhill’s mouth twisted in fury. If there was anything she had learned from her father’s dojo, it was that calling a man a coward was one of the worst insults he could receive and the easiest way to stir up a fight. But before Thronhill could respond, he was stopped by another pirate. 

The newcomer was the biggest and ugliest of them all, so of course he was their captain. Kuina recognized his picture from the bounties and knew he was worth twelve million berries. She wasn’t sure she could fight someone that strong in her current state, but there was no backing down now. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Tobe?” the captain said. 

“Dunno, Captain, I swear. This bastard says I’ve done ‘em wrong, but I have no idea who he is. Never seen him before in my life.”

The captain scowled, squinting down at Kuina. “Who’re you calling a coward? Why don't you show your face, and we’ll see who’s done who wrong.”

Kuina’s gaze never left Thornhill. “Are you scared of a little duel? The Grand Line is no place for scaredy cats or weaklings. I can’t say I’m surprised, but I thought a wanted man would have a little more pride than that.”

She turned away and pretended to leave. She heard the captain say, his voice loud and clear, “Tobe? I want you to kill ‘em. Make sure it hurts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kuina smiled behind her mask. It was time to get her sword back.

                                                       ***

It was well after dark before Kuina limped back to the weapons shop. Blood leaked down her leg from a cut in her thigh, soaking her boot and leaving a bloody print with every step she took. The front of her shirt was stained red from where several of her stitches had popped. She felt like she was floating through a haze, half-delirious with only a single goal driving her forward. 

Of course the store was closed. Kuina pressed her forehead against the doorframe, fighting back tears. Since her duel with Zoro nothing had gone the way it was supposed to, as if the universe itself was rebelling against her preposterous dream.

The universe could go to hell for all she cared. With the last of her strength, Kuina banged on the door, making as much noise as she was able. It was a two-story shop, but from what little Kuina had seen, only the ground floor sold merchandise. Either the shopkeep slept on the second floor, or he rented the place to someone who did. Either way, she was getting inside tonight. 

It was impossible to say how long Kuina stood there pounding on that door before she heard someone on the other side. She kept pounding until it opened, her momentum making her fall into the arms of the man inside. 

“Mr. Ipponmatsu?” Kuina said, suddenly weary. “Hi. I’ve come to give back your sword.”

“Oh my god, you’re covered in blood,” Ipponmatsu said. There was a beat of silence as he took in her appearance. “Oh my god, my sword’s covered in blood! What happened? Who are you?!”

Belatedly, Kuina remembered she was still wearing her mask. She slipped it off and let it clatter to the floor. “Sorry to meet this way. Did you get my dad’s letter?”

It was only after she said it that Kuina remembered she wasn’t supposed to be her father’s daughter anymore. Too late. As the floor tilted and pitched under her feet, Kuina could only hope that the little shop owner knew how to keep a secret, because she didn’t think she could fight her way out of any more trouble tonight. 

“Sorry, Dad,” Kuina mumbled as the darkness swallowed her completely. 

                                                                ***

“You should be dead. You know that, right?”

From her cot, Kuina groaned. Taking that as an affirmation, Ipponmatsu’s wife continued changing the dressing on her leg. 

“Of all the foolish, ill-considered, selfish stunts I’ve seen, yours takes the cake. You’re lucky we don’t throw you out on your head.”

For all her scolding, her hands were gentle as she worked. Kuina hissed as iodine was painted over the wound to keep it from festering. Ipponume clucked her disapproval. 

“If you’re old enough to go out swinging swords, you’re old enough to deal with the consequences. I suppose that’s how you hurt your chest?”

“No,” Kuina said through gritted teeth. 

“Well, I suppose it’s none of my business.” She taped down the last of the bandage and rose to her feet. “You stay right where you are. My husband wants a word.”

Kuina watched her leave, a pit of dread forming in her stomach. She strained her ears as husband and wife exchanged heated whispers, but she wasn’t able to hear anything distinct before Ipponmatsu entered the small room and closed the door behind him.

They kept her in what amounted to be a storage closet, which probably should have offended Kuina but didn’t. She felt perfectly at home surrounded by polish, scabbards, whetstones, and whatever random crap Ipponmatsu sold in addition to weapons.

Ipponmatsu stepped around a stack of supplies and sat cross legged at the foot of Kuina’s cot. “Explain.”

“My father said--”

“I know what your father said, and it’s a load of crock,” Ipponmatsu interrupted sharply. “What’s he doing sending me his daughter? What are you doing hunting pirates? Do you realize you could have been killed?”

Kuina opened her mouth to argue, then saw the worry in his eyes. Her defensiveness left her in a rush, and she clutched the blanket around her waist. “I know.”

“You could have led those pirates back to me,” Ipponmatsu said. “Half my clientele has a bounty these days. You don’t mess with pirates in this town, girl. That’s suicide.”

“I’m not a girl!” Kuina shouted. She struggled to sit up properly. “Look, if it’s a problem I’ll take my sword and leave. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble, but I couldn’t let them win. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“Calm down, gir--er, what did you say your name was?”

“Kuina.”

“Okay then, Kuina, calm down. I’m not letting you go out there in the shape you’re in. Even if my wife would let me, my pride wouldn’t.” Ipponmatsu puffed his chest with self-importance. “But if you’re going to stay then I’ve got to know what in the hell is going on. Why did Koshiro send you here? I know it’s not just because you’re an annoying brat, though he’d have all my sympathies if it was.”

Kuina looked down at the floor, hot shame flooding her cheeks. “I can’t say.”

“Sure you can. You just open your mouth and tell me.”

“No, that’s not it,” Kuina said. “I don’t want to cause any trouble for you.”

Ipponmatsu’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve caused me plenty of trouble already.”

“Worse trouble, then. I’m truly grateful for all you’ve done, but I’m sorry. I can’t...I can’t say any more than that.”

A brittle silence fell over the room, tense and brooding. Ipponmatsu’s eyes bored a hole through Kuina, as if he could find the answers he wanted by staring at her. She could only meet his gaze for a moment before looking away. She found where her sword was propped against the wall next to the deep red scabbard of the katana she’d borrowed, both freshly cleaned and gleaming.

“You’re serious,” Ipponmatsu said. “You think whatever it is your father’s done will put me at risk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ipponmatsu said. “It makes me feel old.”

He rose to his feet and walked to where the two swords lay. He picked up the borrowed katana, the cross-shaped guard gleaming in the light. Drawing the blade part way, Kuina could see the reflection of his eyes amidst the distinctive flames of the hamon. 

“You should have been killed,” he repeated quietly. With a sharp clack he sheathed the sword once more. 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Kuina said. “The bastard stole my sword.”

“That I understand. Your father sent you out with some quality steel. It doesn’t have any name that I’m aware of, but the blade appears new. Perhaps it hasn’t earned one yet.”

He sighed and set the blade back in its place. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to do with you, but you can stay here until you heal. I don’t want any dead children on my conscience.”

He tossed a stack of bills at Kuina’s feet. “That’s for taking care of Thornhill. The Government takes a cut when they’re not brought in alive for execution -- highway robbery if you ask me -- but there’s the rest. It’ll be enough to get you started if you need to.”

Kuina picked up the money with shaking hands. “Thank you, sir--I mean, Mr. Ipponmatsu.”

He made a gesture like he was flicking away an annoying fly. “I need to get back to the shop. Try not to bleed to death while I’m gone.”

                                                           ***

Kuina planned to stay only as long as it took for her to stand up without feeling like she was going to pass out. What started as a week’s recovery turned to two, then three, and before she knew what was happening months and years had passed, and she still hadn’t left. 

Ipponmatsu put her to work, and Kuina was grateful for the distraction. The wound across her chest healed to an angry red scar that crossed diagonally from collarbone to hip. If she moved wrong she could feel it pull taunt, and when the weather changed it ached terribly.

She learned her lesson, and for the most part left Ipponmatsu’s clientele alone. It was funny, she always felt more nervous talking with marines. While the immediate fear of being found out faded over time, like her scar it never went away entirely. Pirates were easier to manage by far. 

Besides, Kuina still had her mask. When trouble came for Ipponmatsu that the marines couldn’t handle, she knew what to do. Kuina didn’t resort to such drastic measures often; Ipponmatsu did have a reputation to uphold and she an identity to protect, but it was good practice.  

Kuina waited for a swordsman as skilled as the man who attacked her all those years ago, but none ever came. She wasn’t sure one existed in the East Blue. As time passed, she felt herself growing restless, her dreams calling her to the Grand Line. 

Still, she waited. There was someone else she knew who would be heading to Paradise, and it wouldn’t do to get a head start. 

                                                         ***

The day started simply enough. Kuina had the morning off work and spent her time wandering the city while her scars itched ahead of a building storm. Later on she might stop by the local dojo and knock a few overly smug upstarts down a peg or two, but going up against the local talent had long-since lost its charm. What she wanted more than anything was a real, honest-to-gods challenge, and she wasn’t likely to find that here. 

Not that anyone ever knew they were fighting her. Kuina kept her identity as a swordsman secret from everyone except Ipponmatsu. She hunted bounties with a bound chest and her oni mask obscuring her face. There were all sorts of rumors that circulated about the demon that hunted the streets of Loguetown that she did nothing to discourage. It was better if no one knew who she was.

That was especially true now that Loguetown was under the protection of newly-installed Captain Smoker and his subordinates. There’d been a great deal of confusion the first time Master Chief Petty Officer Tashigi stepped into Ipponmatsu’s shop several months previous, both Kuina and Tashigi baffled by having a doppelganger with such similar interests to their own. It would be troublesome if the marines found out she did more than just sell swords. 

And really, these days there were few bounties to hunt as Tashigi and her captain were the first marines in living memory to do their damn jobs. As much as Ipponmatsu raved about lost business, the city was safer under the White Hunter’s watch. It was rare for pirates to walk out in the open, and the few who did were always put down quickly.

Which, in a way, made the excitement around the execution stand all the more interesting. 

Kuina was drawn by the growing crowd. Rain began to fall in fat, stinging drops as a boy in a scraggly straw hat desecrated Loguetown’s greatest monument, an act Kuina heartily approved of. She laughed while policemen shouted at him to get off the platform, only to be completely ignored by the boy as he surveyed the city. 

Perching herself at the edge of the fountain Kuina watched the exchange play out, yelling encouragement the straw-hatted boy probably couldn’t hear while garnering scathing looks from passersby. She ignored them. Straw Hat was the most interesting thing to happen all week, she might as well enjoy the spectacle while it lasted.

Suddenly there was a scream. Gunshots fired, followed by the clash of steel against steel.  The crowd panicked, people running in droves away from the execution platform. Kuina was too far away to see what was going on and climbed onto the rain-slicked fountain for a better view. 

Pirates. A whole gang of them, many most wearing cheap grease paint and jester’s hats. They were headed by a woman in a billowing cloak and a pirate with a great red nose. The woman was new to Kuina, but she recognized the face of Buggy the Clown from the bounties posted near the marine base. 

Before she could move, another one of the Buggy Pirates attacked from above, trapping the boy in stocks while the clown himself raved about a public execution. Kuina didn’t have a sword on her. She never did unless she was wearing her mask. Cursing her own bad luck and unpreparedness she ran against the fleeing crowd, ducking under the first pirate she saw and clocking him square in the nose, stealing his blade before he ever hit the ground. 

“Sorry not sorry,” Kuina shouted as she cut her way through swarths of pirates. The cutlass felt awkward in her hands, the balance all wrong compared to her katana. But apparently Buggy didn’t choose his crew based on competence, and she was able to cut through opponents like hot butter. 

There were too many. She heard someone behind her shout for Luffy, looked up in time to see the straw-hatted boy yell, 

“I’M GONNA BE KING OF THE PIRATES!”

Kuina stopped dead in her tracks. Pirate? Him? He didn’t look old enough to shave. 

The boy, Luffy, seemed to see someone out in the crowd. “Sanji, Zoro, save me!”

All at once Kuina’s heart stopped beating. On base instinct she dodged the slash of a pirate, not paying enough attention to counterattack. She was searching through the people, trying to look past the dizzying array of color for that familiar shade of green. 

She heard the voice behind her shout once more. Kuina tracked the sound, ignoring the sting as a blade grazed her arm. He was close, so close after all these years. 

The boy in the straw hat laughed, clear and pure. “Sorry guys, I’m dead.”

Kuina shot a questioning glance, and gasped as she saw Buggy’s sword descend toward his neck. At that moment there was a clap of thunder louder than any she had heard in her life, electric white light flashing down on the execution platform. 

The thunder boomed, rolling down the streets of Loguetown long after the flash of lightning struck. The heavens opened in a deluge that instantly put out the fire of the bolt, but there wasn’t a force in the world that could have kept that execution platform from falling. Metal groaned as rivets were forced loose, the wood that wasn’t blasted into oblivion cracking and splintering, the entire structure leaning sideways as if pushed by a divine hand. For the briefest moment Kuina thought it might steady itself, but it swayed an inch too far, reaching its tipping point before collapsing into a mess of rubble and smoke.

Kuina was stunned. The pirates were stunned. Everyone in the world save for Straw Hat Luffy was stunned. The boy...no, the pirate...was somehow able to jump to his feet unscathed, dust off his pants, and laugh, pausing just long enough to return his hat to its rightful place on his head.

He was crazy. He had to be. But he was also somehow connected to Roronoa Zoro, a fact that was painfully obvious when Luffy grabbed him and a blond man by the shoulder and ran into the rainy streets, still laughing like a madman.

It was the first time Kuina had seen Zoro in years, but it was impossible to mistake him for anyone else, for all that he’d grown up to be square-jawed and muscular in a way that would have been attractive if she didn’t remember him best as a scrawny green shrimp. She recognized his surly expression, as well as the white sword he wore at his hip. 

Wado Ichimonji.

They were gone before Kuina could regather her senses, disappearing in the throngs of people still trying to escape the chaos, but she’d seen the direction they went. There weren’t many safe places for a pirate to dock, and Kuina thought she knew where they were headed.  

The familiar hum of adrenaline filled her veins, and she ran through the pouring rain to Ipponmatsu’s shop. It was only a few minutes from the square at a dead sprint, and she forced everything from her mind except catching up to Zoro in time. The questions -- why was he traveling with pirates? Who was that straw-hatted kid? -- could wait. 

Kuina burst through the door of Ipponmatsu’s shop with her lungs burning and heart pounding. She ran to the converted storeroom where she still slept, grabbing her sword and -- after a moment’s hesitation -- her blue oni mask. 

“Kuina?” Ipponmatsu called. “Kuina, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later!” Kuina shouted, before sprinting back out into the rain.

Straw Hat Luffy had run west, so that’s the direction Kuina went, cutting through backstreets and alleyways until she made it back on the main street where they had initially fled. Straw Hat and Zoro didn’t know the city like a local would and weren’t likely to stray from the bigger streets for fear of getting lost. That was the hope, anyway. Kuina had lost valuable minutes retrieving her sword and didn’t have time to second-guess her instincts. 

Her guesswork paid off moments later as a group of marines clustered around a pair of dueling figures emerged from the storm. Master Chief Petty Officer Tashigi had been disarmed and pinned to a wall by Zoro, who was wielding only one of his three (three?) swords. Straw Hat and the blond man were nowhere to be seen, nor was Captain Smoker or the pirates who attacked the square. 

“I can’t stand you!” Zoro shouted. “You have the same face as a friend who died years ago! You even say the same things as her, and I can’t stand it!”

Neither of them noticed when Kuina came up behind them, taking out the marine grunts with the back of her blade. “I’m not dead you moron!”

Zoro whirled. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but stay out of my business!”

“For god’s sake, Zoro, I always knew you were an idiot. I told you, I’m not dead!” Kuina tore the mask off her face, grinning wildly as all the color left his cheeks. “What, did you not believe Dad when he said I was alive? Did you think he just saw my ghost or something?”

Zoro looked from Kuina to Tashigi and back again. For a fraction of a second his blade wavered, and that was all Tashigi needed to break his hold. She dove for her sword, but Kuina was faster. A moment later Kuina had her pinned to the ground with her katana at her throat, blade so close Tashigi nearly cut herself breathing. 

“I’ve got no quarrel with you, Petty Officer,” Kuina said, her voice deathly calm, “but if you raise your blade at my friend again you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

“You’re a swordsman?” Tashigi said. “You’re the Demon of Loguetown?”

“Wait, no, you don’t get to ask questions,” Zoro snapped. “Why are you not dead? Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t dead?!”

Kuina blinked rain out of her eyes. “Dad didn’t tell you?”

“No, your dad didn’t tell me!” Zoro exclaimed, throwing his arms to the heavens in exasperation.

“When I saw you with that kid I figured that’s why you were here,” Kuina said. “To see me.”

It felt so stupid to say it out loud like that, but why else would he be here? With pirates, no less? Kuina studied Zoro’s face, so familiar and yet not after all these years, not sure what else she was supposed to say. For whatever reason, her father hadn’t passed on her last request. 

He had spent the last nine years thinking she was dead.

“Roronoa has been sailing as a bounty hunter for more than a year,” Tashigi said. “Everyone who reads a newspaper knows that.”

“And what makes you think I read the fucking paper?” Kuina snapped. “All that’s in there are lies and garbage promoting the World Government.” She pushed herself off of Tashigi and stood up straight, careful to kick Tashigi’s sword far out of reach. 

“I’m sorry,” she said to Zoro, more softly. “I thought you knew.”

“Well I didn’t,” Zoro said. He his arms dangled from his sides numbly, his blade barely hanging from limp fingers. “But I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too.”

Without thinking, Kuina wrapped him in a tight embrace. She felt Zoro stiffen under the contact, then slowly relax before patting her awkwardly on the back. 

“I, uh, really need to go. My captain needs me,” Zoro said. 

“So it’s true. You’re a pirate?” Kuina said, looking up at him properly. 

He shrugged. “Yeah. It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you about it next time.” He swallowed hard. “I mean, you are still aiming for the top? Right?”

“Of course, you big green goober.”

She felt him smile. “Then we’ll see each other again. You owe me a rematch.”

“Anytime,” Kuina said. She released him, glad that it was raining so he couldn’t see her cry. As he turned to run off toward that strange, straw-hatted kid, she said, “Um, Zoro, why are there bite marks on the hilt of my sword?”

Zoro reddened from his scalp down to his neck, his blush clashing horribly with his hair. “Gotta go, bye! See ya around! Come find us on the Grand Line!”

Kuina watched him run until he was swallowed by the dark grey of the storm. Despite the wet and the cold, she smiled. Zoro was okay. He might not have known she was alive, but he was okay, and he was still aiming for the top. 

When Kuina turned around Tashigi was struggling to sit up, holding a baby den-den mushi to her ear. Through the static and wind she heard Captain Smoker barking orders. Kuina only sighed and found her mask, fitting it back over her face before turning back towards Ipponmatsu’s shop. She supposed helping Zoro escape made her a criminal. She’d have to hurry before they raided the store to arrest her. 

“Where are you going?” Tashigi demanded. 

To get money and some clothes. Maybe pack a bit of food if she thought she had the time. But the Petty Officer didn’t need to know any of that, so Kuina shrugged. “To the top.”

Kuina felt the tiniest bit guilty leaving her like that. She gathered Tashigi’s katana, freshly sharpened just that morning, and handed it to her. “A word of advice, Petty Officer, since you seem like a nice enough person. The World Government isn’t what you think it is, and if there’s any justice at all in the world, the whole thing would burn to the ground.”

A strong westren wind gusted through the streets, swallowing any answer Tashigi might have given, and Kuina didn’t care enough to ask her to repeat herself. Hand firmly around her sword, Kuina began walking home for the final time.

And as she walked, something dormant within her began to stir. Her dream, after being stifled and pushed back for so long, roared to life. Storm or no storm, marines or no marines, Kuina couldn’t imagine herself staying in Loguetown another day longer. Not when she knew who was waiting for her on the Grand Line. 

Kuina had weathered her father’s disparaging opinions of her ambition, tempering the pain that should have stopped her until it was her greatest weapon. She had survived the crime of being at the wrong place at the wrong time and rebuilt her life from the smoldering ashes left behind by a cruel and unjust regime. It didn’t matter if she was a girl, or that the World Government wanted her dead. She didn’t care what anyone else thought she should be, because she had chosen her own path. 

Kuina was going to be the strongest swordsman in the world.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[chaoticookie-autonomous]

Chapter 31 Posted

Chapter: 31/?

Word Count: 8383

Warnings: Mild Violence

Genre: Action/Romance/Sci-Fi -- AU where Maul has the Shadow Collective with him after the events of Order 66, including Gar and Rook. Also, recreated Dryden Vos’ story.

Pairing: OC (female) x Maul

Rating: T

Summary: Móni and Maul take a step forward in their relationship.

_________________________________________

Poor, poor, Durmónia. Cannot escape her fate.

Knelt by the cot with her hand grasping Maul’s, Móni raised her head when early light hit her eyes. She hoped for any sign of his awakening, but he was the same he has always been in the past few rotations. Generous and kind the gigorans were, she needed to leave and never look back at the village again. There was still a connection tethered between her and the Elder, and the old female felt it too. But she won’t take it. She won’t follow. Móni knew where she was meant to be and that was where she would remain.

Pi’ala scrutinized the smaller human before her when they were finishing their break fast. She certainly found it odd how slow she was eating when she usually ate faster than a full grown gigoran male. And always the one to start conversation, that day she was reserved with her head hung the entirety of the meal.

She gathered their plates, “Some of the children in the village have a question for you.”

Móni blinked away her distress and tilted her head, “Children? For me?”

“Mhm,” Pi’ala shirked at the thought of asking. It was rather embarrassing given she knew little about human culture and what remarks did or did not offend them. “You see…”

Orange glinted with delight and a rather obtuse smirk leisurely made its way across Móni’s features, which only deepened the shame.

“Yes, Miss Pi’ala? What would the children like to know?” Her tone mocked.

Pi’ala sputtered, “It is the children! They’ve been pestering me since they first laid eyes on you.”

Móni raised her eyebrows, not believing her, but let it go all the same, “Then tell me.”

“They are curious about your,” she paused, unsure what the right terminology was, “fur?”

“Fur?” she smoothed the loose coils that sprung every which way. “You mean my hair?”

“That’s what you humans call it! Yes, your hair.”

“What about it?”

“Well, they’ve never seen anything like it. They want to decorate it the same way we decorate our young. If it’s not any offense to you or your culture.”

Her lips hung a bit in surprise but then immediately stretched into a grin that lit the room, “Let’s do it!”

Keep Reading

[a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan]

Linked Universe Fanfiction ch. 9: Can We Get Back to Adventuring, Please?

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name--Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story--I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 11: Can We Get Back to Adventuring, Please?

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

The Links continue their journey to the next village and now face a dense, dark forest. By the way, have you ever wondered what the Links think of the Timeline? Thus continues my fan narrative of the @linkeduniverse AU. Word count: 1275

“Just a few more minutes, boys!” Wind exclaimed. “We’ll be out of these hills and into the… oh, shoot.”

Legend smirked. “You forgot about the possible swarms of monsters?”

“… Yeah.”

The Links had been walking a shade above three hours since returning to reality. The fire was far from gone from their minds, but they were glad to be rid of this place. They had to admit it was beautiful, though. The noontime sun shone on rolling hills, wind blowing the tall, swaying grass. A few clouds had crept up on the edges of the horizon but showed no sign of raining on their proverbial parade.

As far as Time was concerned, things were back to normal. His companions hadn’t brought up the masks, and they acted no differently towards him than before today. Time suspected they may still have questions but didn’t want to dampen their good mood by asking them. That was fine. They could discuss it more tonight when they were comfortable and safe in an inn.

Wild chuckled. “Relax, Wind. We don’t know for sure if there are any monsters. The woods are just so thick that I can’t get a good reading of it.”

“After yesterday,” Legend began, “I’m not shocked there are limitations to that Slate of yours.”

Wild was about to shoot back a retort when Sky butted in, “Drop it. We got out of there safely.”

“Thanks to you, Sky.” Hyrule said.

“You can thank Fi,” he replied, patting the Master Sword’s hilt above his right shoulder. “She was the one that guided us.”

“She is quite the sword,” Time added. Secretly, he hated the Master Sword. He saw it as a curse, one of the many factors that led to his childhood suffering. However, it was a blessing to the other six of them that wielded it. He felt it best not to sully their opinion of it.

“Fi helped me too, once,” Wild said.

Sky looked at the back of Wild’s head; the latter had the map and was leading the group. He thought Fi had only ever spoken to him. He wasn’t offended, per se, more shocked than anything. “Really?”

“I was mortally wounded when Calamity Ganon struck my Hyrule a century ago. Zelda thought I was doomed, but the Master Sword glowed and sort of sang to her. That let her know I could still be saved. I suppose I owe Fi my life.”

“Huh,” Sky replied. He drew the sword. Its silver blade reflected the sun brighter than the others’ swords, save for the Four Sword. He smiled. “Heh, I wouldn’t expect any less of her.”

Given he himself had forged the Master Sword, Sky gathered that his adventure somehow took place before any of the others’. It still confused him how they all could coexist. By reciting the legends and history they knew, they figured out a somewhat cohesive, yet confounding, chain of events.

Sky forged the Master Sword and Hyrule had yet to be established. He was clearly first. Time witnessed the split of the Triforce, so he must be next. Based on the historical texts in Hyrule Castle, Twilight seemed to live centuries after Time. Over their time together, Twilight began to see eerie similarities between Time and the ghostly Hero’s Shade who mentored him. He preferred to ignore them for his own sanity’s sake.

It all got muddier after that. Time had suspected Zelda sending him back in time had somehow disrupted the flow of time. Lo and behold, Wind seemed to also live centuries after Time, but Hyrule had been flooded. His legends told of a Hero of Time that disappeared when he was needed. Time wondered whether Wind lived in the world that Zelda sent him away from.

Even more disturbing was Legend’s story. In his world, Ganon was sealed away by the seven sages, but not a hero. In this alternate reality, could Time have perished in his fight against Ganon? Hyrule had heard vague legends of a legendary sword, but never figured it was the Master Sword until he met his other selves. Strangely, Warrior and Wild somehow seemed to hail from a melding of everyone else’s worlds.

Four was the most peculiar case. Neither the Triforce nor the Master Sword seemed to exist in his world. Instead, there were the Picori bestowing the Light Force upon the Hylians. The concept of it all utterly confused the Links. After trying to piece it together, they never mentioned it again.

Sky was snapped out of his thoughts of multiple timelines and realities when Warrior said suddenly, “Well, it’s about time.”

They had reached the top of a hill and were faced with a tall, dense forest. The heroes couldn’t see the village beyond, but figured the treetops were obscuring it. Wild frowned. He thought they would be able to see it based on map’s elevation readings. He hooked the Sheikah Slate back on his belt.

He withdrew his paraglider from his pouch, gripped one handle with his left hand, and knelt on the ground. In a flash, ghostly flames appeared around Wild. He jumped. An updraft carried him a hundred feet in the air, a hazy image of a Rito soaring up with him. His paraglider holding him aloft, he got a better view of their surroundings.

Satisfied, Wild returned to the ground. Despite seeing him use this ability several times before, the others were still awed by the sight. The concept of fallen warriors imparting this and three other powers upon him was foreign. Time’s experience with his masks was similar, but Wild’s seemed much more wholesome in nature.

“Don’t worry, I can see the tops of buildings way down there,” Wild confirmed. “Five or so hours in there and we’ll be through.”

“Wait, wait,” Warrior said. “Let’s think this through. We do not want another ambush on our hands.”

Wind groaned. He found Warrior’s obsessions with plans and tactics annoying. Time shot him a look. Wind saw it and stood at attention.

Warrior continued, “Legend, arrow count.”

Thinking back to last night, he remembered that he had counted the arrows before going to bed. That seemed so long ago. “Uh… oh, right. Forty-two.”

“Hm… four each. Wild, you’re our best archer, you need more. Volunteers?”

Sky shrugged. “Aye. I’m better with a sword anyway.”

“Seconded,” Time said.

“Third…ed?” Wind flubbed.

A chuckle spread across the group. Fighting back more laughter, Warrior composed himself. “Okay, Wild, take sixteen. Make them count.”

Wild nodded.

“Legend, Twilight, Four, Hyrule. Take four each. I’ll take five.”

Legend pulled their stash of arrows out of his pouch and divvied them up. Warrior came up last and took the remaining five. They fit their ammunition in their quivers. “Right, next order of business,” Warrior continued. “Twi, transform and take point. We need your senses. Wild, I want you behind him with two arrows nocked. Fire at Twi’s mark. Sky, cover them. Everyone else, fall in behind them. I’ll take up the rear. Keep your eyes on the shadows. It looks pretty dark in there, so everyone grab a lantern. We’re low on oil, so let’s try to get out of there ASAP.”

The others nodded. This seemed easy enough. At least, if they didn’t encounter anything nefarious. They knew they probably would, but they could handle it. Warrior turned to Twilight and nodded. The latter took on his beastly form and took the lead. Wild drew his bow and nocked two arrows. The others unsheathed their swords and raised their newly lit lanterns. With a last look at the clear blue sky, the heroes entered the dark forest.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Do you know me? (Loki or Hela, dealer's choice)

In All My Reverie || Accepting

{Both? Both is Good. And as this is very long because I can’t help myself, I’m breaking it into two parts. I’m sorry. Also...these little vignettes aren’t meant for a specific timeline or reflective of current events. I just took the meme and ran with it.}

What’s their full name?:

For a moment, she feels her heart still within her chest. If there were a million days in which this moment played out or just this one, she would feel the same. For the first time, it is as though this is exactly where she ought to be, that she belongs to this family of three. For now. Beth has plans to seek out every single one of the other realms, between the shadows of stars, the cosmos in its entirety if need be to find the rest of them. Hela's siblings. Then she would compose an oli for them. Words and names hold power, and are private things.

She almost wants to begin with Frigga herself, but she doesn't know if that would offend. Best she begins with Loki. Hvedrungr ~roarer~ then Heiðloa ~a beautiful, intelligent bird, the herald of spring~ Friggjarson-Friggjardottir. Hela Lokadottir. She will have to ask if the girl has other names, and try to be clever about why. And she will add the others to this chant as they find them.

She sets the cup of cocoa on their little coffee table for Hela before fetching two more; a cup of chamomile with a touch of clover honey for Loki, a glass of wine for herself. She sits on Hela's other side, not wishing to interrupt their conversation.

When’s their birthday?:

Beth sits on the floor, lotus-legged behind Hela, the length of the girl's hair in one hand, and very carefully she runs a koa-wood comb ~one that once belonged to her mother, her mother's mother~ through the silky strands. Their voices are low, neither of them are loud people by any means, and they are utterly engaged with one another. Loki's presence behind them does not cause ripples.

"Your papa? Born between extremes. At dyin' of da old year, da bir'd of da new one by Midgard standard. I t'ink dat says a lot about Loki as far as fateful t'reads go," she answers thoughtfully. "I don' know how Asgard stars dance, but here? Born under contradiction. Earth that belongs to sea. An island of a person  who feels buffeted by every wave, but still stand firm. A beacon for some, madness for others, the terror of their own mind and self. But a little secret, my keiki. If my mathematics are right... your papa is about a t'ousand an' sixty some years. Young for your kind, unfathomable for humans. But if we take dem years an' twist dem an' turn dem... comparin' life-spans averages... Loki is about give or take...a midgardian's 28-30. Makes Auntie about t'ree years older."

Beth giggles and begins to braid Hela's hair.

"And for you, flower of my heart... you said you were born firs' day da wind blows leaves off a big tree near ya Mama's hale. Before da snow, but aftah hay is reaped. Late October, mebbe. Early November my best guess. I suppose we should aks ya papa for sure. But eiddah way, I bet your stars are as beautiful as you are."

Where were they born?

Hela's question is the same one every child has, about their parent and about themselves. Beth looks up from the scarf she is midway through knitting, curious to know the answer, too. She assumes that Loki had been born in Asgard, all things considered, but she can not make the same assumption for Hela. She feels her ears flatten back, as if doing so might catch the answer however softly it's given.

What’s their favourite colour?

Beth wanders through the village market, carrying her basket at her hip. There's fruit, honey, and bread still warm from the oven. Fresh eggs and new drawn cream, herbs and hen-of-the-wood mushrooms. A treasure trove to break their fast when she gets back. And nestled in at the top, simple little gifts. Silky green ribbons for Loki's long tresses, the same hue as her favourite dress, the one that has always stolen Beth's breath. Xir favourite colour, as far as she knows. For Hela, her ribbons are varying in shade; a twilight sort of purple, a rich sunrise yellow, matching green. Beth doesn't know if the little girl has a particular favourite one, but Beth is willing to bet she likes things that are bright and soft at once. It isn't much as far as gifts go, but anything can be a surprise when it's given with thought and affection.

What’s their favourite perfume/cologne?:  

Beth has always had a preternaturally keen sense of smell. Whether it's due to her difficulty with hearing or a genetic left over from her grandfather she's never known for sure. But one thing she's noticed is that when he is himself, Loki has a scent to his skin that she can only describe as faintly mint mixed with snow. When she is herself, it shifts in subtle ways. Faintly woodsy, herbal. Green and thriving with that same soft coolness to it. Both those scents draw her and she knows it's a little weird that she tries to be as close as she can to breathe them in. Those scents also mingle with Hela's, which to her registers as blood orange and a hint of sandalwood.

Do they like baths or showers best?:

Quietly Beth runs a bath for Loki. His muscles ache today and when she'd offers her arts, she is gently brushed away. It isn't the first time and likely won't be the last. She knows better than to push at the borders of Loki's patience. As she runs the water, she tests it against her inner wrist to ensure the temperature is tepid, cooler than she prefers. A handful of sea salt goes straight in to dissolve. Verbena ~her tradition's namesake~, arnica, peppermint leaves crushed into a muslin bag to create a sachet. Not a single drop of mana because Loki knows her magick however cleverly she thinks she's disguised it. But she's still an herbwife and knows the soothing ones just the same.

Beth has always liked baths too, though she has to admit she misses the shower in her apartment, with its endless supply of scalding heat. She thinks Hela enjoyed it but the girl seems content with whatever is at hand.

How do they sleep?:

The herbs cling to his skin when he finally comes to bed. She's awake but doesn't make a sound; sleep is not a friend to either one of them, especially under the circumstances and Beth sees no reason to point this out. The bed dips and the sheets whisper as he settles himself, and even in the dark she can make out his faint features. The lines are less across his brow. From her side, she cuddles closer to Hela, shaping herself around the girl's back and soon, her brow presses into her father's chest. Beth reaches across Hela and brushes tender fingertips against Loki's wrist. She is almost surprised when his coil around her elbow, each other's arms resting lightly on the girl.

Do they snore?:

"Like Sally's growl," she says as serious as she can. "Da pair of you. It's impossible to get a wink." Of course she can't maintain that look and flashes a smile before reaching out and tapping the end of Hela's nose. "Nevah hear eiddah of you do it."

What’s their favourite flower?

If they have one which one?: Beth tucks a few chrysanthemums ~red tipped and bright yellow~strategically into Hela's hair. Beth tells her that in Hawai'i, girls sometimes express their romantic potential with hibiscus blossoms. Women who are betrothed wear them at their right ears, while single maidens wear them tucked in the left. She lowers her voice and confides the drama of wearing one between both ears, which mean that a woman is seeking new love though she is already promised.

Much later as Hela is preparing for bed, Beth shyly approaches Loki, hands behind her back. At the brow raise she smiles and draws them forth. The bouquet is small. There's clover and honeysuckle, dandelions, but the centre piece of them all, a single Casa Blanca lily.

Do they drive? If so how’s their drivers license picture?:

Beth has never forgotten the look on either of their faces while riding in Sally. The moment Loki closed his eyes and let the wind tease his hair. She does hope that some day when she's a little taller that she can teach Hela how to drive the Mustang. With the right enchantments laid over the car, she'll be a beautiful gift to hand down. Neither of them have an actual license.

Do they like reading? If so guess how many books they have:

Reading is a joy. After all, one of Xir titles and domains is the God of Stories. And the foundation of their friendship came over the months and years in which books were lent and shared. It is how Beth picked up a few new arcane secrets, learned histories humans could not guess at, and how to read Asgardian languages. Her pronunciation is probably atrocious, but she tries.

If she had to estimate, Loki likely has at least three hundred or more. Hela maybe a dozen in her own little collection.

Public or state school? Did they attend university? If so what was their degree?

Hela has never spoken of school when she lived in her Auntie's realm {Helheim? Niffleheim?}, nor has Loki. What little she knows of their collective upbringing seems to fall more on parental-figure involvement with education. She knows Frigga taught Loki magic, and having spoken with Thor, Beth also feels like Loki learned other skills from her too. Thor spoke with pride of his mother's sword work, describing it in detail. She has seen it in living flesh through Loki's knives.

She wonders that when Hela is grown how much like Loki and Frigga she will be, if anything of herself will be present in the girl.

Who’s the chef and who’s the taster?

In the entire course of human history, never has there been a look of condescension so devastating, so utterly soul-stripping as the one Loki can wear like a crown. And yet, xe is still willing to at least try a mouthful of whatever Beth puts forth. Thankfully, neither of them seem to really eat much.   Now, Beth watches every inch of his face. She'd put the little plate in front of him, though she'd originally wanted to offer the morsel on the tips of her fingers.

"Honey, walnuts, spices." She'd spent days working the recipe over, trying to get the lamination just right, and currently considers phyllo dough to be to be the epitome of evil in all of the nine realms. Her saving grace was Hela's small hands and her incredible patience. "S'called baklava."

Do they like wine? If so Róse, red or white? Beer? Whiskey?

The wine does nothing for their biology. There's no gladness of spirit to find in a cup, no slow burn of whiskey down the throat. Beer is something watered down and comparatively comes across as already consumed and indelicately excreted. But the snow falls and there's drafts coming in from the windows and door ledges. Traditional means of warmth are employed, a burning Jól log, matching sweaters though she's absolutely certain Loki was going to be "grumpy face not participating" no matter how soft and comfortable the knit.

The air is filled with the scent of cinnamon, cardamom, clove-studded orange slices and the simmering sweet red wine. When it's warm enough to simmer but cool enough to drink she pours glühwein into earthen mugs. This is the closest she can come to matching a more traditional Asgardian glögg. To Loki's cup and her own she adds a splash of aquavit.

"Cup of kindness?"

[ixaili]

Jotâni

/joʊta’nɪ/

n. literally translating to “One of (the) corrupt” or “One of corruption”

Origin: jotân (corrupt) + i (modifier for demonyms, lit. designating “one of __”)

Jotâni is a condition isolated seemingly to those of the Ixlailicahn species. Its way of transmission is largely unknown, but there are a few believed ways to transmit the condition. In The Ixaili Tribe, those infected are exiled and refered to Nɤtlwán. The condition has been likened to lycanthropy by some, though only for lack of frame of reference, as Jotâni does involve shapeshifting/transformation, supernatural hunger, and is considered a dangerous condition.

Transmission & Vectors

Jotâni is not transmittable by typical mundane means from what is known. The main ways it's believed to transmit is:

Via ritual

Via magic

Via divine intervention

Although, some groups, skeptical of magic or the Ixaili's god believe the condition is a congenital condition. Some believe this is why it's isolated to the Ixlalicahn and why it appears to affect people around the same age. This theory has not been proven or investigated thoroughly, and due to the Ixlalicahn being endangered, likely won’t be investigated in the near future. 

To read about Causes, Symptoms, Treatment, Prognosis, History and more, keep reading.

Cause

Divine Theory

Ritual Transmisson

In The Kiahqn there are references to a ritual used to punish cruel and blasphemous Ixaili after a trial of the Council. This ritual is only used when decided fit by the Council as punishment after the offending Ixaili goes through a fair trial. There are apocryphal tales of the ritual being misused and used for one's personal vendetta, thus the ritual texts are protected and not publically accessible.

Magic Transmission

Jotâni being spread by magic transmission is not common, but there have been cases where one who is infected can infect another by casting some form of spell on the healthy. Infection in this way is not guaranteed, but those who are affected by an infected's magic are at higher risk of developing Jotâni. This is believed to be due to the infected's magic no longer being from Nguozo.

Divine Transmission

The most common and widely believed transmission is that upon an Ixaili failing a belief trial or directly going against Nguozo's teachings, the Ixaili would be infected with Jotâni. Due to their actions, their connection to Nguozo is weakened or severed, thus bringing on the condition. While failing a belief trial is not common, going against Nguozo's teachings is more common, and thus a more likely cause. Going against Nguozo's teachings can be many things, including but not limited to: unfairly taking the life of another, poisoning Ngiachpaun, interfering with the natural cycle of life, advocating for violence, abusing another (physically, emotionally, sexually).

Congenital

Nɤtlwán can have offspring. In the offspring of 2 Nɤtlwán, the first generation will usually contract Jotâni by age 16. The second generation tends to be affected before age 10. By the third generation, offspring might not present with Jotâni symptom wise but will carry the altered physical traits of their affected parents. In the case of one Nɤtlwán parent and one non-affected parent, the first generation (F1) may or may not contract Jotâni at a young age. In the case of not contracting it, they will be born with some of the altered physical features of the Nɤtlwán parent. The likeliness of Jotâni being congenitally contracted decreases exponentially with generations.

In either case, a rule of thumb is if the offspring are born with more traditional Ixaili traits, they will contract Jotâni at some point. If the offspring are not born with traditional Ixaili traits, they will not contract Jotâni, due to not needing the change.

As a Side Effect

One ritual which attempts to bring partial-blooded Ixaili or non-Ixaili into the tribe and its magics can possibly cause Jotâni. Those who successfully undergo the ritual are at greater risk for developing the condition, normally soon after the ritual. This is not technically considered a true cause as of now, as data is insufficient, and ritual only appears to increase risk as oppose to directly transmit the condition.

Genetic Theory

Skeptics of magics or the Ixaili's god have proposed the theory that the condition is in actuality a congenital condition that all Ixlalicahn were born with. This would explain why it is isolated to the Ixailicahn and affects the same age groups generally, and is less prevalent in those with only partial Ixaili blood. This theory has not been looked into due to the isolated nature of the tribe, as well as the dwindling numbers of their population.

Symptoms

Stage 1 Symptoms

Chills

Vision changes

Hypersensitivity

Fatigue

Malaise

Muscle weakness

Increased sleeping

Photophobia

This stage is referred to as the sleeping stage, as the symptoms during this part of the condition exhausts the affected. Those infected typically are partially bedridden, or stay at home due to the symptoms. The first stage sets in within a few days of whatever ritual, magic, or divine cause. This stage normally lasts 4-7 days. The symptoms then seemingly clear up, and the patient might think they had a minor illness.

Stage 2 Symptoms

Muscle spasms

Confusion

High fever

Sweating

Crack-like black rash originating near temple or eyes

Restlessness

Muscluloskeletal pain

Bleeding of eyes, ears, nose

Increased thirst

Increased appetite

Paranoia

This stage is referred to as the active stage, or colloquially, the running stage. The mix of paranoia, restlessness, and confusion tends to cause the patient to run or flee from their home. This stage sets in a week or two after the first stage ends, and lasts 2-6 days. Some of these symptoms can carry over into the third stage.

Stage 3 Symptoms

Halluciantions

Peeling of skin

Muscle atrophy

Loss of one or more eyes

Overheatting

Worsening of crack-like black rash

Disfiguration of face

Panic attacks

The final stage normally sets in around 3-4 weeks after initial onset, with no down-time between stage 2 and the final stage. Symptoms can vary depending on the patient's response to the final stage onset. If lucid enough and familiar with Jotâni, it is not uncommon for the patient to attempt to make a pact with another god to spare them. This can bring on another painful stage called the transmutative stage, for more information on that, see Nɤtlwán. Though, for those unfamilar, unwilling, or not lucid enough, the final stage comes to an end after 24-48 hours, and leaves them innert and quasi-mortal.

Treatment

No known treatment. Creating a bond with another god can preserve one's magic or immortality, though has mixed results and can exponentially worsen the condition.

Prognosis

Jotâni typically has a 3-stage course, which either ends in death, quasi-mortality, or a final painful stage. While the condition is chronic, by definition, the active stage is where the symptoms and changes occur. The entirety of the active stage and it's 3 stages takes a little over 3-4 weeks, and the after-effects of the active stage last for the rest of the affected's life. Mortality occurs in roughly 35% of cases, normally in frail or sickly Ixaili who's body cannot handle the transformative stages. Healthy Ixaili can also fall to Jotâni, as well, as sometimes the shock of the bond with Nguozo and the loss of magic can be too stressful on the body. Death occurs in the second stage in 22% of fatal cases, 45% in stage 3, 33% in stage 4. No deaths have been recorded pre-symptoms or in stage 1.

Sequela

Those who survive the active phase of Jotâni- and did not progress to stage 4- suffer from numerous after-effects:

Total blindness

Loss of eyes (leaving scars or empty sockets, unlike Adult Ixaili mutations)

Permanent disfigurement

Loss of magical abilities

Quasi-mortality or loss of immortality

Loss or gain of limbs

Weakened immune system

Vulnerability to magic and psychic attacks

Affected Groups

Typically affects Ixaili between ages 25-35, during or before their belief trial. There have been no record cases of Jotâni outside the Ixaili Tribe or Ixlalicahn Species. 

Prevention

Rituals to strengthen one's connection to Nguozo is the most widely accepted prevention method. Because Jotâni is caused by the break of one's bond or connection with Nguozo, most prevention is ways of preserving that bond.

Epidemiology

Normally does not spread much in a population, with only isolated cases. However, in cases of outbreaks, it generally ravages the younger population and those with weaker faiths in Nguozo or any god(s).

History

The first and only major outbreak recorded occurred in late 1542, within the Southern Ixaili Monks. The group of the cycle's initiates was ravaged, killing 73 and a total of 130 infected. No initiates were spared. This outbreak caused the passing of a law in the South Ngechyoh region banning Ixaili not raised to be monks from being monks and further banning non-adult Ixaili from living on temple or monastery grounds. Small villages distanced from the temple and monasteries themselves were built to house young initiates. Since the implementation of these new housings, there has not been a large outbreak of Jotâni. Minor outbreaks have been recorded, normally isolated to 1-8 people infected. Following the Ixaili Genocide, surviving Elder's fear another outbreak might ravage their dwindling population and that the tribe would not be able to survive another outbreak.

There is believed to have been another large outbreak, though lack of records leave this theory purely speculation. Many of the Ixaili Tribe believe many of the Lost Souls have become Jotâni, and therefore will not return to Ngechyoh or the Holy Land.

Cultural Reception

Those affected with Jotâni are exiled from the Ixaili tribe and denounced, due to the implication that the infected are cruel and/or blasphemous. Due to the drastic changes of the infected and the exile they face, as well as cultural differences with the groups, those infected are considered their own ethnic group.