#and there's even a shoulder harness for his sword

[ebitenpura]

anyways. I really like his Commander outfit even though it's not a huge departure from his usual stealth suit, especially the cape design: to me, it looks like a spiderweb representing the game he used to play as an agent, spinning a web of deceit-- a quote from Valkorion comes to mind where the agent can answer that they're spinning a large enough web to entrap something, and Valkorion will eerily ask but for who? and I think part of the symbolism here is Eight spinning that web for the Emperor himself, and it's just. very fitting.

[yeagersss]

Sukuna who has defeated every sorcerer and rules at the top.

Sukuna who is utterly bored out of his mind now. His monotonous days pass with him sitting on his throne, listening to the pleas of humans to spare him, curses updating how far and wide his kingdom has stretched.

But none of that matters to him anymore.

He wants a challenge. He craves a challenge.

In comes you, a precious, little thing with a unique technique. A precious, little thing hidden away by your clan.

A clan who would rather let the technique die than let it be carried on in a woman's blood.

But your grandfather was a good man. He taught you the way of the sword. All the basics that helped you carry your own.

After all, you were the sole sorcerer left on this land. It was your duty to defeat the King of Curses.

But then your grandfather died and you were confined in your clan's estate.

But that didn't stop you. You were determined. You had a destiny that was calling to you.

And so, with your family's sword in hand, you ran away. You, a precious little thing, you had barely learned to control your technique and was new to handling a sword.

But you were determined and even Sukuna could see that when you stood before his throne.

His four eyes wandered across you. You were a pretty little thing. Looking at him defiantly with doe eyes while holding your sword firmly in your hands.

"Ryomen Sukuna, I-I have come to defeated you!"

And the King of Curses couldn't stop the maddening grin spreading across his face. A challenge. Even if it was from an utterly, weak thing like you... It was challenge.

His mind was reeling with what he could do with you.

He could toy with you. Play with you until he gets bored and finally silences you with a simple flick of his finger. He could make you think you were close to winning. See the joy on your face until he rips your heart out.

But when you charged towards him. Sukuna saw the potential in you. The potential to be strong.

The potential to be more than just a temporary plaything for him.

And that's when a thought popped up in his mind. He had all the time in the world. But the main thing was that he was bored enough to try something new.

So with each swing of your sword and each burst of curse energy, he huffed out brash comments your way.

"You call that an attack?"

"What is that? Even a child could do better."

"You're wasting my time, woman."

"Tsk. Slow. Sloppy. Useless."

It wasn't until after a desperate swing of your sword, did you find your chest pinned to the wall with one of his powerful hands with ease.

The curse had taken your sword and inspected the blade curiously. "Your form is pathetic. Who taught you to wield a blade?"

You gritted your teeth, refusing to answer until he pressed you further against the concrete.

"M-My grandfather... taught me...!" You cried out. Your bones would break if he pressed you further.

He snorted. "It seems that your grandfather is a useless man."

Anger boiled within you. You wanted to scream at him for insulting the only family who had ever loved you but you were tossed to the ground as if you were nothing.

Your tired body hit the polished marble. You were a mess. Your long hair had came undone in the middle of the fight. Your kimono had slipped off your shoulders.

And Sukuna wouldn't lie when he let his eyes wander across your form. You were a pretty, little thing after all. Even better now that you were on his knees in front of him, looking absolutely defeated.

You had accepted your death. You were about to die. This cruel, selfish being will never spare you.

But then you felt the cold tip your blade against your chin as the King tilted your head up to make you look at him.

"Don't think that I'm done with you yet, little one."

"W-What do you want from me?" You choked out.

And a cruel grin stretched across his face. "I will take you under my wing. I will teach you how to harness your curse technique and how to use a blade."

It wasn't a request or a choice. It was a straight out order.

Your eyes widened at his words. "W-Why...?"

Why indeed? Because Ryomen Sukuna was a selfish and bored man. He wanted a challenge? Then he will mold you into his perfect sorceress. His perfect little killing machine. And when the time finally comes, you will give him a challenge of a lifetime.

[petermorwood]

@nimblermortal sent me this last week:

A second blade weapon became increasingly common in the later Viking Age. It does not have a formal name, being often referred to as a fighting-knife or battle-knife, and it was essentially a development of the one-handed, long seax knife of the Migration Period. A single-edged blade with a thick back that added weight to a short, stabbing blow, it seems to have been intended as a back-up weapon. By the tenth century, battle-knives had elaborate scabbards that were worn horizontally along the belt, allowing them to be drawn across the body from behind a shield if the sword was gone; a variant hung down at an angle from an elaborate harness. It seems they may also have been worn on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw. Children of Ash and Elm by Neil Price @petermorwood (Mr Morwood! Mr Morwood!) I found an archaeologist claiming people were doing over-the-shoulder draws! Would you care to weigh in?

*****

Would I ever! That's a button well pushed. But things got odd when I tried, because as soon as I'd written even the smallest reply and saved to Draft, this happened:

Letting it stand would have seemed like I was trying to avoid comments, corrections or criticism, but despite poking around in Settings there was no way to turn things on. It was only by cut-and-pasting @nimblermortal's entire original as a Quote starting a new post that the problem was resolved.

Anyone else encountered this?

Anyway, on with the lecture response. :->

*****

As regards Back-Carry / Back-Draw of "battle-knives", I'm not convinced.

("Battle-knife" is a term I've never seen in connection with any Viking Age weapon. What's the Old Norse for it? German "Kriegsmesser" (war-knife) refers to something much bigger from 500 years later, also not back-carried or back-drawn - which from here on will be BD / BC.)

To get where he is now, a full professor, Neil Price will have defended his PhD, and should know such a statement as "It seems they may..." will need evidence to support it.

That phrase is easy to write, as is "According to legend..." and "It is said..." However these are IMO default History Channel phrases, with all the authenticity that implies. None of them actually PROVE what they're speculating.

"Experiments conducted by museum staff wearing authentic armour reveal that IT SEEMS medieval knights could use smartphones."

But does it prove medieval knights USED smartphones? See what I mean?

*****

I first asked if anyone had actual proof of BC / BD on Netsword almost 30 years ago, and to date there's been nothing. I've also posted about it quite a lot on Tumblr, so being poked with this particular stick is no surprise. :->

The quotation from "Children of Ash and Elm" is the first time I've heard of a trained archaeologist making a claim for BC / BD, and the odd part is that Prof. Price also states the weapon was intended for "...a short, stabbing blow" - which means wearing it horizontally in front makes far more sense. From that position it can be drawn far faster and with less telegraphed intent than "...on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw."

Reaching up for any weapon carried across the back, whether long or short, is a bigger movement - and thus less "swift" - than snatching out the same weapon worn at the hip or across the front at waist level, especially if - as he suggests - that move is masked behind a shield (or for that matter a cloak, a door, or a half-turned torso...)

Try both moves in front of a mirror with a ruler or even a length of dowel, and you'll understand.

With a weapon-hilt visible behind one shoulder or just a cross-belt suggesting something slung out of sight, what's a Norse warrior going to think when his potential opponent reaches up there? At a moment of hot words and high tension, will he wait while an itchy back gets scratched or until an attack happens?

The explosive violence described in sagas suggests not.

If Prof. Price has solid proof for his BC / BD notion in the form of artefacts or art - and it'll need more than a one-off example - I'll be very pleased to finally see some "show me" evidence.

(It won't do anything for longswords of 500 years later, of course, though I bet the uncritical back-carry brigade would leap on it regardless.)

But without that evidence, I'm taking "it seems" with a wary pinch of salt.

*****

There's a weird internet fixation about BC / BD (which are NOT the same thing) and an equally weird need to show that back-draw "works", whether with hooks under the guard and a leather condom at the point...

... or by being open most of the way down one side.

Neither are real-world historical, so let's see how they work in fantasy.

IMO they're not appropriate there either, because the designers are so eager to provide working BC / BD that they ignore the main function of a scabbard, which is to carry the weapon in something which protects people from the weapon's edges, and the weapon from the elements.

Real scabbards for real swords went to some trouble over that. They protected people, including the wearer, with a completely enclosed wooden, leather and / or metal case, and protected the blades by having them fit into their case well enough that inclement weather stayed out.

This fitting could involve metal collars (Japanese habaki), or tight-gripping lanolin-rich fleece linings, or leather flaps, caps and rain-guards mounted on hilt or scabbard-throat. Real scabbards didn't have exposed metal and weren't open-sided rainfall buckets, because the priorities of actual sword users were very different to those of back-carry fans.

Given the number of posts I've seen about the technical side of fantasy world-building - history, geography, even geology and meteorology - I think this difference is worth noting.

*****

The first time I recall seeing back-carry mentioned in a historical-not-fantasy context was in "Growing Up in the Thirteenth Century", © Alfred Duggan 1962. Here's the extract in question:

Unfortunately Duggan - though according to his Wikipedia entry "His novels are known for meticulous historical research" - doesn't give any cited source for this; his introduction to the book says:

I know the feeling! :->

I'd still trust him more than some modern historical writers who seem over-willing to add a touch of fantasy speculation / interpretation if it rounds out something inconclusive, makes the history more interesting or chimes with a personal agenda.

"Accurate" is better than "interesting", and "I don't know" is better than making stuff up.

*****

To repeat: I've yet to see any museum-exhibit or manuscript-illumination examples of BC / BD ever done For Historically Real with Western European swords, especially the hand-and-a-half longswords on which modern back-draw fans seem fixated.

A seax, scramasax or just plan sax is shorter, but yet again, this is the first time I've read anything even remotely scholarly about them or their later Viking-age version (saxes were associated more with Saxons than Vikings, guess why?) being BC / BD.

By contrast, there are at least three art instances of saxes worn horizontally, on 10th century crosses at Middleton Church, Yorkshire:

The art is backed up by surviving examples with scabbard-fittings still in place, indicating how they were worn. Here's one example, from the Metropolitan Museum, New York which makes that very obvious.

The little decorative masks (originally part of the top of the scabbard, now corroded onto the blade) are clearly meant to be This Side Up, and also show that this scabbard was This Side Out for a right-handed draw, since there's no detail on the back.

There's a similar fancy-front / plain-back / right-hand-use leather sax scabbard at the Jorvik Centre in York.

There's only a single photograph of this bigger one - 54cm (21.5 in) overall - from the Cleveland Museum of Art, with no way to see if the L-shaped scabbard mount is decorated on just one or both sides. However it does indicate the weapon was meant for horizontal wear.

I've also flipped the website photo to show right-hand use, because "It seems..." (hah!) more probable. Here's why I did it:

For most of history being left-handed was unusual, a disapproved-of aberration and the origin of the word sinister.

Left-handers were useless in any formation from Ancient Greece through Ancient Rome to the Saxon and Viking period where the shields of a phalanx, testudo or shield-wall had to overlap for mutual support.

In the Middle Ages, both the specialised armour and the layout of jousting courses were almost 100% right-hand only.

Most surviving swords with asymmetrical hilts, such as swept-hilt rapiers, are made to for right hands not left.

Even nowadays many weapons - including the current British Army rifle (SA-80 / L85/A2) - are set for right-handers only.

*****

The longest saxes are called Langseax (surprise) though this may be a modern-ish term. Here's one from the British Museum, the so-called "Seax of Beagnoth"...

...which is 72 cm (28.5 in) total / 55cm (22 in) blade.

That's about the same as a Roman gladius (another sword never back-worn despite its convenient size) and is a good 25-30cm (10-12 in) shorter than the average "proper" sword of the same period, which means it could be drawn over-shoulder...

However the layout of its runic engraving shows it was almost certainly meant to be worn horizontally As Per Usual.

*****

And now we've come all the way back around to Prof. Price's claim that Vikings did BC / BD with their battle-knives.

Such a claim needs proof.

Please, show me some.

[trensu]

have another snippet of stasis in darkness! just 'cuz i'm bored tbh, and kinda stuck on all my wips i'm currently working on.

The seventh night:

“Has he spoken to you yet?”

“How could he when you’re here yammering my ear off every night?”

“He’s a god, I’m sure it wouldn’t be that hard for him to shut me up.”

“Even gods have their limits.”

“Oh, har har. The warrior’s got jokes. You didn’t answer my question.”

“...not yet,” Steve said stiffly. 

“It’s been how long now? A week?” The man hummed in a falsely thoughtful manner. “Maybe he’s just not that into you, man. Maybe he’s letting you down easy.”

At his words, Steve involuntarily curled his shoulders inward, slightly, ever so slightly, in defense. He'd been wondering that same thing earlier that day. Steve had toiled hours in the sun to fix up the shrine; to make it welcoming; to encourage a divine visit. 

He had stopped wearing his armor to free up more time to work. Putting it on and taking it off took too long, and he didn't have to maintain it as much if he wasn't wearing it regularly. He stuck to only his chainmail. He'd kept his shield stored away, too, so it wouldn't get in the way while he worked. Though, he made sure to keep his sword nearby.

He’d taken his knife and traced over the etchings of stars in the alcove that served as a backdrop to the statue. His knife had been ruined but it didn't matter. The Lord of Night would probably want the stars of his dark sky with him, he reasoned, and these had worn so thin. Sadly, it was the only detail he could bring out of all the stone. The statue’s face was so crumbled that Steve couldn’t even begin to guess what it had originally looked like.

He had discovered that the vines he chose to keep were moonflowers. They had blossomed every night since he’d removed the other more invasive plants. He'd draped them carefully so they lay across the statue's shoulders, wrapped lovingly around its torso and clung to its waist before the ends of the vines trailed off at the knees. 

The strange man might have made himself a nuisance during his visits but he never stayed the whole night. Steve had been able to get a few hours of makeshift prayers at the shrine every night. He’d done all this, yet dawn broke every day without a single sign that the Lord of Night had been listening.

“Warrior?”

Steve broke out of his reverie. He refused to look at the man. He had to clear his throat roughly before he could speak.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been rejected by someone I love." Steve tried not to dwell on his father's perpetual scowl and his mother's infinite disinterest. "I’m pretty used to my devotion being one sided by now.”

“That’s a bummer,” the man said. His sympathy was meant to be teasing, Steve could tell, but it came out surprisingly sincere. “Good thing you have a whole pantheon! Strong guy like you? Any god would take you to be their warrior in a heartbeat.”

“What are you talking about? No, I’m nowhere near done with his shrine,” Steve said determinedly. “I know a silversmith and a stone mason who’d give me a hand, and Dustin and Robin have been dying to come up here to bring him offerings. The only reason they didn’t come with me is because I had to do the pilgrimage on my own if I wanted a shot at earning his blessing.”

The man spluttered.

“Are you insane? A god rejects you and you’d come back? What kind of stupid–were you dropped on your head as a child?

“A couple times, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Are you sure? Have you checked? You should go to one of the gods of medicine. Owens, maybe. Have him take a look at your head,” the man huffed in frustration. "For stars' sake, why would you want to come back?"

He ignored the insult to his intelligence. For stars' sake. Steve murmured the words to himself, letting them settle in his mouth to get a feel for them. He'd never heard of that one before. He liked how it rolled off the tongue, natural as anything. 

The man waited for his response. Steve took a moment to try to sort out his words. He kept his head bowed towards the shrine as he ruminated.

“People barely remember my god,” Steve finally said. “And when they do, they remember him as something he’s not. Even if he doesn’t believe I’m worthy of carrying his crest, he shouldn't be forgotten.” 

The man said nothing. Steve took a shuddering breath before the quiet could take over. 

“Having someone forget you is…it’s very lonely. Which is the worst feeling. I…I guess I don’t want him to be lonely anymore.”

The silence that followed his statement stretched long enough that Steve started falling into that meditative state he’d learned during his many nights at the shrine. It helped dull the twisted up, unsteady sensation that lingered from the man’s prodding at his every self-doubt and fear.

“He hasn’t rejected you yet, though,” the man broke Steve's musings awkwardly.

“He hasn’t reached out to me either. It’s fine. I’ll keep coming either way.”

Another silence. It was around the time the man usually left Steve to his worship. He didn't hear retreating footsteps. Instead, the man cleared his throat, and when Steve looked up at him, the man turned his face away, shrouding it in gloom.

“Maybe he’s nervous. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t contacted you yet.”

“Nervous? No way.”

“He sounds like a godly weirdo,” the man said. “Maybe he’s never had a holy warrior before and doesn’t know what to do.”

“He’s the good kind of weirdo! And there’s no way he’s not had a warrior carry his symbol. He must’ve had loads back in the day. I probably don’t meet his standards,” Steve smiled lopsidedly, playing off his insecurity.

“I’m serious!” the man exclaimed. “It’s possible! Some gods never get warriors. Some never want them at all!

“Look, even if I was the first to offer to be his, he’d know he didn’t have to be nervous,” Steve insisted. "I’ve never served a god before either! I wasn’t sure I could have faith at all until I learned about him. So like, if he’s new to it then so am I, and we’d figure it out together.”

“...you really mean that, don’t you? You’d let him make it up on the fly if he took you on.”

“Well, yeah,” Steve shrugged.

“You’d keep coming back even if he rejected you?”

“Yep.”

“But why? That’s so stupid. Nobody would do that!” The man sounded frustrated.

“I’m not really known for my smarts,” Steve said matter-of-factly. “Robin and Dustin had to translate the only book we found about the Lord of Night because I definitely wouldn't have been able to. It was a tiny book but it still took them ages to do because the language doesn’t really exist anymore. So they told me it’s possible it’s not accurate. It felt true, though, to me. 

“There was this quote, I can’t recite it word for word, but…it was something about how monsters don’t always look monstrous, and the monstrous aren’t always things to be feared.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” the man protested. Steve shook his head.

“No, it’s true! Like, I know I’ve got a pretty face and really great hair,” he smirked when he heard the man scoff, “but I was such a fucking asshole when I was younger. I went around hurting people on purpose, tearing them down for no reason other than I was hurting too, and that’s the shittiest reason to hurt anyone. I had to get some sense knocked into me by the people I call friends now. 

“My friends are the greatest people I know, and I’m really lucky to have them, but to everyone else? My friends are losers. They’re rejects because they don’t act right or they don’t look right; they talk too much or too loudly. People treat them like shit because they're different. 

“And after I noticed that, I started seeing it more even if I don’t always pick up on it. And I still mess up sometimes. I'm not a god, I can't change the world but…in the stories Robin and Dustin translated, the Lord of Night helped people like my friends because it was always the weak and rejected that try to hide themselves in the dark. I want to help those people find him again so they know they’ve got someone holy in their corner. They should know someone loves them enough to protect them.”

Steve didn’t really know where all those words came from; he wasn’t a wordsmith like Robin and Dustin. He always had a hard time verbalizing his thoughts, and he usually messed up the words. Nonetheless, these words had almost burned to be said. 

When the speech that flowed from him finally reached a natural end, he felt…lighter, cleaner. He felt like his shield and sword when they were polished to a shine. But when he turned to see his audience’s reaction, the man had gone. Steve felt strangely dejected instead.

–

The eighth night:

“Hey, it’s me again. My supplies are low and I don’t know what your thoughts about hunting on your land are so I’d rather not…I don’t want you to think I’m disrespecting you. I might have to leave soon to get more supplies,” Steve swallowed nervously. “Which isn’t an ult..ultimate…? No, damn, what is it called? I’m not trying to force you to talk to me before then, is what I mean. Not–not that I could! With you being a god.” 

Steve scoffed at his own blundering. He should’ve had Robin help him make speech notes. Cards with conversation starters. Something! He took a deep breath and tried again.

"But I'm coming back, I promise. I meant what I said about fixing up your shrine. I’ll commission a new plaque and I’ll talk to the stonemason about replacing your plinth. I don’t know a lot about sculpture, but I’ll get you the strongest type of stone and get something nice carved on it. Your flowers? Or cats? Cats are cute. Maybe your bats would be better…?” Steve trailed off.

It was quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. The full moon illuminated the area more than ever before. The shrine must have really been a beautiful sight back in its heyday. The thought of it sent a pang of longing through his soul.

The hour came that the strange man usually showed up. Steve steeled himself for another round of questions, another jab at his faith. The hour went by with Steve alone in the clearing. Steve frowned.

“Do you think he’s okay?” 

Steve’s question went unanswered.

After another hour without seeing his stranger, Steve had finally convinced himself to round the perimeter for a quick check in case the man was nearby or in need of assistance. When he found nothing, he checked again in case he missed something. 

Still nothing. Uneasily, Steve gave up his search and returned to the shrine. He knelt before it again, head bowed. He cleared his throat.

“Lord of Night, I don’t know his name, and I know he’s been rude–annoying–but could you please watch over the man? Please keep him safe from harm for as long as the stars shine tonight. Thank you.”

He received no response, but Steve had faith. He knew he was heard. He knew his god wouldn’t let an innocent come to harm if he could prevent it.

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you’d like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

[debbiecolon]

My Tarnished oc, Yhmir. I finally took the time to write some lore up for him!

An astrologer came to The Lands Between, a tarnished of no renown with an unknown past. He was a kindly soul whose destiny writ in the stars foretold of a meeting with a Lunar princess. Through his journeys in a stagnant world he experiences many trials, his path to lordship paved by the lives he tried so hard to save. Though he specialized in lunar and frost magic, both types having blanched his hair and sapped the color from his eyes, he could never master the icy facade needed to weather the emotional and mental toll his adventure asked of him. So he died.

Swallowing a larval tear, he is reborn from the amber egg of Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon, leaving his dreams to his new self: Yhmir. Yhmir takes up seal and sword in place of sorceries, to be the blade that punishes those harming the Lands, and to be the shield for those who yet live. He carries the will and hopes of those lost, often to a detriment as he is always at risk of losing sight of himself.

Yhmir is a very earnest tarnished, having never lost the kindly soul he used to be despite his much harder and more determined exterior. He can be likened to a storybook knight with his desire to carry the burdens and dreams of others, but he is far from naive. He knows that sometimes difficult decisions must be made on the road to achieving his goals. Yhmir is as quick to laugh and smile as much as he is quick to put on his stern facade, but more often than not he is an ear for his fellow tarnished, a shoulder to lean on and a fierce comrade whose convictions are unyielding and whose passion is relentless. He looks like snow and ice, but burns with all the intensity of the Flame of Ruin.

Yhmir is incredibly proficient in Incantations of all sorts, striking foes from all manner of distances, often picking them off before they can even reach him. He is also skilled with a blade, but prefers to bludgeon his enemies with a massive golden longhorn. He often finds the humor in slaying his foes with a shower of bubbles. He favors incantations of flame and lightning, and he carries with him the technique of the Goddess of Rot herself, harnessing it in hopes of understanding how to be rid of it for good.

Though consort to Lady Ranni, theirs is a partnership of convenience and a willingness to work together towards similar goals. His heart, however, belongs to Millicent; a doomed friendship and romance from the start. The ache of loss hurts more than the encroaching rot, but still he stands tall, for if he crumbles so too does the hopes and dreams of many others.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 10 || PRESTONPANS ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The air in the cottage was warm and noisy with breathing; not the healthy racket of snoring men, but the shallow gasps of men for whom breathing hurts, and the moans of those who have found a temporary oblivion that frees them from the manly obligation of suffering in silence. The men in this cottage were those badly wounded, but in no immediate danger. I knew, though, that death walks at night in the aisles of a sick ward, searching for those whose defenses are lowered, who may stray unwittingly into its path through loneliness and fear. Some of the wounded had wives who slept next to them, to comfort them in the dark, but none in this cottage. They had me. If I could do little to heal them or stop their pain, I could at least let them know that they didn’t lie alone; that someone stood here, between them and the shadow. Beyond anything I could do, it was my job only to be there. I rose and made my way slowly once again through the pallets on the floor, stooping at each one, murmuring and touching, straightening a blanket, smoothing tangled hair, rubbing the knots that form in cramped limbs. A sip of water here, a change of dressing there, the reading of an attitude of tense embarrassment that meant a urinal was needed, and the matter-of-fact presentation that allowed the man to ease himself, the stone bottle growing warm and heavy in my hand. I stepped outdoors to empty one of these, and paused for a moment, gathering the cool, rainy night to myself, letting the soft moisture wipe away the touch of coarse, hairy skin and the smell of sweating men. “Ye dinna sleep much, Sassenach.” The soft Scottish voice came from the direction of the road. The other hospital cottages lay in that direction; the officers’ quarters, the other way, in the village manse. “You dinna sleep much, either,” I responded dryly. How long had he gone without sleep? I wondered. “I slept in the field last night, with the men.” “Oh, yes? Very restful,” I said, with an edge that made him laugh. Six hours’ sleep in a wet field, followed by a battle in which he’d been stepped on by a horse, wounded by a sword, and done God knows what else. Then he had gathered his men, collected the wounded, tended the hurt, mourned his dead, and served his Prince. And through none of it had I seen him pause for food, drink, or rest.

I didn’t bother scolding. It wasn’t even worth mentioning that he ought to have been among the patients on the floor. It was his job to be here, as well.

“There are other women, Sassenach,” he said gently. “Shall I have Archie Cameron send someone down?” It was a temptation, but one I pushed away before I could think about it too long, for fear that if I acknowledged my fatigue, I would never move again. I stretched, hands against the small of my back.

“No,” I said. “I’ll manage ’til the dawn. Then someone else can take over for a time.” Somehow I felt that I must get them through the night; at dawn they would be safe.

He didn’t scold, either; just laid a hand on my shoulder and drew me to lean against him for a moment. We shared what strength we had, unspeaking. “I’ll stay with ye, then,” he said, drawing away at last. “I canna sleep before light, myself.” “The other men from Lallybroch?” He moved his head toward the fields near the town where the army was camped. “Murtagh’s in charge.” “Oh, well, then. Nothing to worry about,” I said, and saw him smile in the light from the window. There was a bench outside the cottage, where the goodwife would sit on sunny days to clean fish or mend clothes. I drew him down to sit beside me, and he sagged back against the wall of the house with a sigh. His patent exhaustion reminded me of Fergus, and the boy’s expression of confused bewilderment after the battle. I reached to caress the back of Jamie’s neck, and he turned his head blindly toward me, resting his brow against my own. “How was it, Jamie?” I asked softly, fingers rubbing hard and slow over the tight-ridged muscles of his neck and shoulders. “What was it like? Tell me.” There was a short silence, then he sighed, and began to talk, haltingly at first, and then faster, as if wanting to get it out. “We had no fire, for Lord George thought we must move off the ridge before daylight, and wanted no hint of movement to be seen below. We sat in the dark for a time. Couldna even talk, for the sound would carry to the plain. So we sat. “Then I felt something grab my thigh in the dark, and near jumped out of my skin.” He inserted a finger in his mouth and rubbed gingerly. “Nearly bit my tongue off.” I felt the shift of his muscles as he smiled, though his face was hidden. “Fergus?” The ghost of a laugh floated through the dark.

“Aye, Fergus. Crawled through the grass on his belly, the little bastard, and I thought he was a snake, at that. He whispered to me about Anderson, and I crawled off after him and took Anderson to see Lord George.” His voice was slow and dreamy, talking under the spell of my touch. “And then the order came that we’d move, following Anderson’s trail. And the whole of the army got to its feet, and set off in the dark.” The night was clear black and moonless, without the usual cover of cloud that trapped starlight and diffused it toward the earth. As the Highland army made its way in silence down the narrow path behind Richard Anderson, each man could see no farther than the shuffling heels of the man before him, each step widening the trodden path through wet grass. The army moved almost without noise. Orders were relayed in murmurs from man to man, not shouted. Broadswords and axes were muffled in the folds of their plaids, powder flasks tucked inside shirts against fast-beating hearts. Once on sound footing, still in total silence, the Highlanders sat down, made themselves as comfortable as was possible without fire, ate what cold rations there were, and composed themselves to rest, wrapped in their plaids, in sight of the enemy’s campfires. “We could hear them talking,” Jamie said. His eyes were closed, hands clasped behind his head, as he leaned against the cottage wall. “Odd, to hear men laughing over a jest, or asking for a pinch of salt or a turn at the wineskin—and know that in a few hours, ye may kill them—or them you. Ye can’t help wondering, ye ken; what does the face behind that voice look like? Will you know the fellow if ye meet him in the morning?” Still, the tremors of anticipated battle were no match for sheer fatigue, and the “Black Frasers”—so called for the traces of charcoal that still adorned their features—and their chief had been awake for more than thirty-six hours by then. He had picked a sheaf of marrow-grass for a pillow, tucked the plaid around his shoulders, and lain down in the waving grass beside his men. During his time with the French army, years before, one of the sergeants had explained to the younger mercenaries the trick of falling asleep the night before a battle. “Make yourself comfortable, examine your conscience, and make a good Act of Contrition. Father Hugo says that in time of war, even if there is no priest to shrive you, your sins can be forgiven this way. Since you cannot commit sins while asleep—not even you, Simenon!—you will awake in a state of grace, ready to fall on the bastards. And with nothing to look forward to but victory or heaven—how can you be afraid?”

While privately noting a few flaws in this argument, Jamie had found it still good advice; freeing the conscience eased the soul, and the comforting repetition of prayer distracted the mind from fearful imaginings and lulled it toward sleep. He gazed upward into the black vault of the sky, and willed the tightness of neck and shoulders to relax into the ground’s hard embrace. The stars were faint and hazy tonight, no match for the nearby glow of the English fires. His mind reached out to the men around him, resting briefly on each, one by one. The stain of sin was small weight on his conscience, compared with these. Ross, McMurdo, Kincaid, Kent, McClure … he paused to give brief thanks that his wife and the boy Fergus at least were safe. His mind lingered on his wife, wanting to bask in the memory of her reassuring smile, the solid, wonderful warmth of her in his arms, pressed tight against him as he had kissed her goodbye that afternoon. Despite his own weariness and the waiting presence of Lord George outside, he had wanted to tumble her onto the waiting mattress right then and take her quickly, at once, without undressing. Strange how the imminence of fighting made him so ready, always. Even now … But he hadn’t yet finished his mental roster, and he felt his eyelids closing already, as tiredness sought to pull him under. He dismissed the faint tightening of his testicles that came at thought of her, and resumed his roll call, a shepherd treacherously lulled to sleep by counting the sheep he was leading to slaughter. But it wouldn’t be a slaughter, he tried to reassure himself. Light casualties for the Jacobite side. Thirty men killed. Out of two thousand, only a slim chance that some of the Lallybroch men would be among that number, surely? If she was right. He shuddered faintly under the plaid, and fought down the momentary doubt that wrenched his bowels. If. God, if. Still he had trouble believing it, though he had seen her by that cursed rock, face dissolving in terror around the panic-wide gold eyes, the very outlines of her body blurring as he, panicked also, had clutched at her, pulling her back, feeling little more than the frail double bone of her forearm under his hand. Perhaps he should have let her go, back to her own place. No, no perhaps. He knew that he should. But he had pulled her back. Given her the choice, but kept her with him by the sheer force of his wanting her. And so she had stayed. And given him the choice—to believe her, or not. To act, or to run. And the choice was made now, and no power on earth could stop the dawn from coming. His heart beat heavily, pulse echoing in wrists and groin and the pit of his stomach. He sought to calm it, resuming his count, one name to each heartbeat. Willie McNab, Bobby McNab, Geordie McNab … thank God, young Rabbie McNab was safe, left at home … Will Fraser, EwanFraser, Geoffrey McClure … McClure … had he touched on both George and Sorley? Shifted slightly, smiling faintly, feeling for the soreness left along his ribs. Murtagh. Aye, Murtagh, tough old boot … my mind is no troubled on your account, at least. William Murray, Rufus Murray, Geordie, Wallace, Simon … And at last, had closed his eyes, commended all of them to the care of the black sky above, and lost himself in the murmured words that came to him still most naturally in French—“Mon Dieu, je regrette …”[...]

Outside once more, I thought Jamie had fallen asleep. His face rested on his folded forearms, crossed on his knees. But he looked up at the sound of my step, and took my hand as I sat beside him. “I heard the cannon at dawn,” I said, thinking of the man inside, leg broken by a cannonball. “I was afraid for you.” He laughed softly. “So was I, Sassenach. So were we all.” Quiet as wisps of mist, the Highlanders advanced through the sea grass, one foot at a time. There was no sense of darkness lessening, but the feel of the night had changed. The wind had changed, that was it; it blew from the sea over the cold dawning land, and the faint thunder of waves on distant sand could be heard.

Despite his impression of continued dark, the light was coming.

36 PRESTONPANS~DRAGONFLY IN AMBER

[luimagines]

He Tries to Impress You Part 2

Masterlist

Part 1

Part two will include Hyrule, Sky and Time.

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

“Soooo....” You poked his shoulder with an innocent look to you face. “Mr. Legend says that you can do magic.”

Hyrule flushes slightly. “I swear he makes it to be cooler than it really is. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do. The other guys can all harness magic in one way or another. I don’t know what the big deal is.”

You grin wider. “You say that, and I get that’s where you’re coming from, but you’re the only one that doesn’t need something to do it.”

“Something?” Hyrule raises an eyebrow, amused. “What’s a something?”

You huff jokingly. “You know! A something! An item! A tool, a weapons a weird pine cone looking thing or something shiny! But you don’t need that stuff... Right?”

Hyrule can feel a little bit of pride in the way you’re getting excited over this. He’ll never understand why the group seems to place importance on this skill of his but he supposed his Hyrule is wrapped as it is. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand and he doubts he ever will.

“Right.” He agree, smiling brightly. He can almost see stars in your eyes by how excited you get at the concept.

“Show me?” You wiggle in place. “Please?”

Hyrule snorts. “It’s not that impressive unless it’s on a grand scale. But that’s reserved for battle.”

He snaps, getting bits of electricity to web between his fingers. It’s a small party trick that he likes to show new people before he shows off something much larger and grand. He remembers that moment with the Captain before they both took down a swarm of remaining monsters together.

You gasp excitedly, grabbing his hand without notice. “No way! How did you do that!?”

Hyrule pauses, his brain screeches to a halt. Your hands are very soft from what he can feel on his fingertips. He knew that he was sweet on you but he can feel his heart get caught in his throat at they you seem to stare at him wonder.

“Do it again!”

Hyrule does it again without thinking, completely entranced by your expressions. If you would smile like that at him every time, you could tell him to jump and he’d ask how high.

He was worse off than he thought.

He clears his throat again and moves so he can hold your hands instead. It catches your attention enough where you stop looking solely on where the magic came from but onto his face at last. Hyrule smiles, trying to fight his blush at how well this was going for him. “I swear I can do other things.”

You get more excited. “Like what?”

Hyrule thinks for a moment. A lot of the spells he knows are offensive instead of defensive and will hurt you if he tries them. There’s his Life spell but he doesn’t really have any injuries and it’s just the two of you right now. He hums and tilts his head this way and that.

He smirks.

He pulls away from you slightly and chants the familiar words. His vision shifts and he shrinks.

He can hear you scream in delight and clap. When he opens his eyes again, you’re much bigger than he is and look positively enamored by this very small concept. 

“Hello!” He calls out. But he knows you won’t understand him. No one ever has. “You’re very pretty.”

“Oh...you’re so cute. I think I love you.” You coo at him, catching yourself a moment to late. “Oh-! Um! I mean-”

Hyrule can only laugh. “It’s ok. I think I love you too.”

But you won’t know that part.

Sky

Sky tried to stay on his feet as monster were coming in the left and from the right. There was very little that the Master Sword couldn’t take down.

Sky smiles fondly at the memory. Fi would have loved each and everyone of the boys in the group. He’s sure of it. Which is why it hurts when some of the talk of their distain for the blade or perhaps- it was merely a bad time of their life like the Rancher mentioned.

Even so, none of them had the connect he did to holy blade. Sky isn’t entirely sure what to think about that.

He cuts down the bokoblins from an area he’s already forgotten. He knew it was mentioned but who knows at this point if they’re not going to have monsters coming in from the in between time periods and be a mix of either.

Sky takes a breath and readies a spin attack.

He sees you in his peripheral and there’s more monsters coming up on the far end of the field.

Sky frowns, not wanting to see you get overwhelmed by the threats. He raises his sword skyward- lighting collects by the blade in a move that he’s all terra familiar with.

He strikes down and sends the beam your way.

It misses you by a hair- taking out the monster you were fighting in the process and scaring away the monsters that were already aproaching.

You stand there, slack jawed and slowly turn your head to look at Sky.

He pauses. Should he... have not done that? Did you not know that was an option? It’s not something he likes to do all the time. It always managed to make his arm feel weird and the lighting scars from Demise left an ugly scar.

Sky waves.

You wave back robotically before you turn your head again to see the carnage left over. You give Sky a thumbs up.

A laugh barks out of the young hero before he can stop it and he jogs to where you stand frozen on the battle field. “Enjoy the show?”

You shut your jaw with a small click and point to the sword in his hand. “...Could that thing always do that?”

Sky looks down to where he holds the blade. “To my knowledge, yes. I‘ve always been able to do that move with the Fi.”

“Fi?” You ask.

Oops. Sky bite in the inside of his cheek. He didn’t mean to let that slip. That was on accident.

You don’t seem to take notice of it. Before Sky can blurt out one of his most trusted companions on his journey of herodom, you point at the next group of monsters that approach. “How long can you do that for?”

Sky shrugs. “A few more times before my scars act up.”

Your mouth opens but you shut it again. “Ok- nevermind. Don’t do that.”

Sky smirks and does it to next group

You yelp, now actually seeing it in action and jump behind him, keeping your hands on his shoulders. “Warning!”

He snorts, putting his free hand on yours. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“...Yeah...” You say breathlessly. “No kidding... No wonder all you guys talk about it....Can it do anything else?”

“Of course.” Sky acts offended on behalf on the blade. He lets the moment take a breath before he smirks and bumps his elbow with yours, hoping to earn cool points. “Do you want to see?”

“Yes!”

Time

Time had realized very quickly that he had a slight problem.

He wanted your attention on him and only him. Time never considered himself a jealous man nor would have thought that would have feelings of insecurity this late into his life- and yet here we are.

Time watches you interact with the boys with a small smile on his face. At least he can see that you enjoy their company and they make you happy with their youthful antics. It’s something he knows can’t fully keep up with even if he tried.

But- that doesn’t change the fact that you hardly give him the attention he desires. Something ought to change that.

Time also never considered himself a show off- something that the boys occasionally tried to get him to indulge him. However, he’s never felt a need to do so. Admittedly, even now he’s still not sure if those are the means to get your to notice him. It would seem ingenuine to his person.

Until it begins to rain cats and dogs at least.

The storm is unprecedented and causes the dirt underneath their feet to be unsteady and slippery. Many of them try to run only to land on their butts or faces.

His armor would be his downfall in moments like this. If there would be any lightning his very life could be at stake. But then he sees you helping Hyrule get back to his feet, ushering Legend under the cover of the jacket you’ve lent.

Lightning strikes in the distance. He needs to get everyone under cover and get out of his armor. 

“There’s a cave this way!” Wild calls out, holding his hand over his eyes to keep the water out in vain. 

Twilight is quick to follow suit, picking up Wind and Four and holding either one in each arm. Time follows them as quickly as the terrain would allow him to go. The cave is colder and stone from the entrance to the pitch black back- but it’s dry.

Time sheds the metal from his body as fast as he can. As the others file in, Time finds himself doing a mental head count. Wild, Twilight, Four and Wind entered before him. Hyrule and Legend follow soon after, both covered in mud and sopping wet but unharmed as well.

More lighting strike and for some odd reason, Time feels compelled to head back out there- sans his armor.

Warrior and Sky head in last- the scarf and sailcloth held them both back from entering with the others. 

Time undo's the last of the claps and looks around once more. The clouds have it difficult to see out into the open despite it being only three in the afternoon.

Sky coughs and begins to rid himself of his layers like everyone else. “We’re missing one...”

Time runs back out.

Frantically, he begins calling out your name, just barely being able to hear himself over the thunder. Lightning strikes closer- hitting one of the trees and exploding it on contact. The pieces rain in a fiery array of painful reds and blacks.

You scream.

Time turns on his heel to head toward the sound.

When he gets to you- he sees that you’re trapped between one of the larger pieces of the tree- flame holding on strong despite the torrential rain- and another tree you seemed to have attempted to take shelter under once you were separated.

Time doesn’t hesitate to rush forward and grab the flaming piece of wood, hauling it away from you. “Come on. I’m getting you out of here. You’re going to be ok.”

You nod numbly, taking his hand. Effortlessly, he hauls you up into his arms and takes off the way he came. Lightning continues to strike around you and tree continue to be caught on fire and explode but Time makes it back to the cave without a hitch- even if he feels marginally winded. And he’s definitely going to feel his back and hands tomorrow- but for now, everyone is safe.

“Old Man your hands!” Legend cries out in horror.

It’s only after he’s set you down at you notice them as well and gasp.

“Believe it or not, I barely feel it.” Time responds, going so far as to wipe them on his pants.

“Don’t! Don’t do that!” Wild flinches.

You stare at him in shock and awe. “You saved me.”

He reaches out and pats your head, trailing his hand down the side of your head with more tender than he realizes. “Of course. Didn’t think twice.”

You gulp and take his hands, avoiding eye contact. “Come on. This will hurt later. We have to take care of it.”

Worth it. Time sighs and lets you pull him along. At least you’re safe.

Part 3

[vennilavee]

vi. sword & shield

blood&pearls mlist

wc: 4.1k

summary: you are a curious creature, trying to explore the depths below and the lands above. your curiosity may get you in trouble with a world that you do not understand.

warnings: monsterfucking, blood play, demon sex, mermaid sex, mentions of violence and drowning

a/n: omg it has been almost 2 months since i updated...please accept 4.1k of word during this sukuna-less time...pls rb/comment if you enjoyed!

Despite Sukuna’s protections and charms over this domain, it does not stop others from visiting your lake. Word has spread to the tiny villages on the outskirts of the forest that there was a magical pond where the water was always sparkling and the sun always shone on it.

It’s become something of legend, like the elusive fountain of youth. All you have to do is offer a curl of your lips and a coy look over your shoulder for curious townspeople to come visit you bearing gifts.

You’ve received foreign fruits flowing out of gold encrusted plates- cherries, persimmon, and sweet peaches. Enough for you and enough for the fairies several times over. They come with shining jewels and glittering gems just for one look at you. 

It means nothing to you but nevertheless, you smile sweetly with your fangs bared.

You toss the jewels in the sea, only for them to sink to the bottom where only dead sailors would ever cross paths with the hidden treasures.

The white-haired man comes in the summertime. His hands are empty but bright blue eyes burn into you even as you hide under the surface of the lake. Something about him has you hesitant in your own home, but you’re no coward.

You know he can see you with those striking eyes. Sukuna has told you very little about the jujutsu world, but you know enough now to know what those awful eyes mean for you.

Perhaps you should have taken him up on his offer to stay in the shrine. Instead of being “stubborn” and “bull-headed”, as he had so kindly said to you several evenings ago-

“If you spent more than a second doing anything other than laying bare in the sun, you would understand the dangers of-”

“I do not simply fill my time by laying bare in the sun! I am a thing of many distinct interests.”

“I do not care, girl. You will stay in the shrine until I sort these fools out.”

“I will stay in the water for as long as I wish.”

Trying to busy yourself with lining the shoreline of the sea with your shiny shells, you ignore the gaze of the man you do not know. He watches with several others near the trees, far enough away from you. You hear their whispers, their desire to understand and harness the powers of the sea in their own self-made crusade. The fairies stay hidden as well but you can hear them buzzing softly in the trees, shielding themselves from the sudden influx of strange energy over the course of many moons.

Hues of bright, celestial blue haunt you even as you lurk in the comfort of the murky depths.

Your heartbeat is jarring in your ears as his tongue parts your wanting lips while the air in between you and Sukuna ignites. There is no space between you, not where his chest meets yours or his hand cradles your cheek to face him. There is no space between you, and the rhythm of your breaths nearly makes you combust.

You claw at him with razor sharp nails that manifest from nothing, rivulets of blood running down his back. 

All you listen to is the fervent racing of your heart, the way it sings and roars with each pass of Sukuna’s touch on your glistening skin. You chase the roaring in your ears with more, more, more- arms twisting to reach for him, lips panting for him, body bending to him…

Until he squeezes your throat and murmurs for you to stop.

Smaller hands push against his solid, marked chest to no avail. You try to intertwine your tongue with his and coil yourself around him, desperate for Sukuna to just look your way, give you an inkling of attention.

But he holds you still with a firm hand squeezing your cheeks tightly.

“Stop,” Sukuna says quietly but roughly.

“Why?” you mumble petulantly into his mouth. Your eyes flash red for just a second, the same shade of red as his own eyes.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow and holds you at arm’s length as if he is committing you to memory. Something trickles from his shoulder down his back and to his surprise, he finds blood dotted on his fingers when he reaches behind.

You gasp, lurching forward to reach for him, just to gasp again when you glance at your hands.

“What,” you mutter, “What is this?”

Your nails are long, the same length as Sukuna’s. Painted the same color as Sukuna’s nails as well.

“What magic is this?” you ask again with wide, frantic eyes, “There is this inferno inside me-I need-”

The erratic beating of your heart pierces your ears, leveling your head with a rough buzzing noise. You wonder if Sukuna can hear it. Hear how desperately your heart beats just for a wayward glance, a stray touch of his. Your sharpened nails claw at his skin, bright red blooms emerging with your touch. He barely flinches as rivulets of blood stream down his chest.

His lips are rough against yours as he harshly tries to quell your rising restlessness. Sukuna brings you to his bed, laying you upon it with an unceremonious thump. You reach for him when he pulls away for half a second.

“What have you done to me?” you whisper. It is not an accusation, but merely a curiosity. No man has ever made you feel as if you were the embodiment of a hurricane, raging and unleashing anger and impatience at the rest of the world. He is the eye of the storm, the only burning balm that can simmer you down at this moment.

But Ryomen Sukuna is no common man, as you have come to learn.

Many nights have been spent in this very bed, where he’s bent you over with the strength of ten seas in one hand. You have felt this burning before, the yearning before it takes over your soul completely. When his cocks are slick with your wetness, when all of his eyes are trained on you. 

You had never felt as bare as you did when Sukuna watched cocks sink into your warmth, or when he watched his own cum drip out of you and onto his silk sheets.

Sometimes your magic leaks out and converges with his, twisting and tangling together. Scarlet and midnight meld together as his name escapes your lips in soft, breathy whines.

This time, it’s his back against the cool sheets and your nails digging into Sukuna’s chest as you throw your head back and moan freely into the air. Sukuna holds your hips loosely with his bottom pair of hands. The top pair rises to twist your hardened peaks. It’s as if you feel nothing and everything- his touch is blazing, small flecks of fire lighting up your shimmering skin.

You breathe him in and out. Sukuna is decadent in a way that is comparable to sin, something spicy and delicious sitting right under the artery that slithers up his neck. 

You give Sukuna no opportunity to take control from you- placing his hands exactly where you want them and lacing your fingers through his as you rock your hips against his hardened cocks. You tease yourself, uncaring that you are teasing him as well. 

Sukuna does not miss how your eyes flash red when he attempts to ease his cocks into you. You wish to take your time. To indulge, as he’s taught you to many times in this very bed.

Your teeth bite into his neck with a sigh as you sink onto him as you take a moment to adjust. It is only a moment, just to relish the feeling of being completely, utterly full. A shiver rushes down your spine, your chest heaving as you keep him nestled with your warmth.

The moon shines on your face, making your eyes look iridescent. As if you’ve been possessed by an angel. Or a demon, the one lying beneath you, in surrender to your touch.

You sink your teeth into his chest and sharp fangs pierce skin unforgivingly. You can feel his gaze on you as blood drips down your lips and onto your neck. Tilting your head, you press a hand to his left side, where his heart should be. You apply pressure as your nails, an extension of him, shred the skin there as well.

But you stop and lick your fingers, Sukuna’s blood fresh and ripe on your tongue. 

“Take it,” he rasps, holding onto your wrist tightly. The King of Curses never begs, but for you, it’s nearly on his tongue.

You consider it, allowing your fingers to ghost over the silence of his heart before squeezing down once more. Sukuna groans loudly before repeating the command to you again.

“No,” you reply easily, “Maybe next time.”

Instead, you sink your teeth into his neck once more and the fruit of death is ripe on your tongue. You pull one of his thick digits into your mouth, coating specks of his own blood on his finger with your lips. The vibrations of your hum resonate through him and his hot, sticky cum shoots inside of you.

A moonlit halo covers your head, as if you are a goddess looking down upon him and he is at your altar on his knees.

Sukuna comes to you hours past midnight, when he knows you will be awake and moonbathing on your precious rock. He knows you will be waiting for him with open arms and glistening eyes that contain the depths of the ocean that you come from.

But this time, you’re nowhere to be seen. He can sense your energy, but he just can’t see it.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. How juvenile, playing games and hiding from him when you know that it is futile.

 A gentle laugh and buzzing breaks the silence of the night. It must be those pesky fairies flying around and planting silly ideas in your head.

“Something must be disrupting your thoughts,” comes your voice from far away, but he hears it echo, “It has been some time since the king graced me with his presence, after all.”

“Not long enough, I suppose,” he replies, wading into the water to meet your outstretched arms. 

Sukuna barely takes several strides before you part the water for him to join your embrace. It must be a whirlpool, the way the water spins and suctions you both down deep into the dark abyss.

He blinks to adjust to the sudden darkness but you illuminate the seafloor with your glowing, honeyed eyes and bright green-blue scales. Sukuna has never seen you in your true domain but when you smile at him with sharp fangs and wrap your tail around him, he wonders why you willingly gave up this power.

Only a simple flick of your fingers pulls him closer to you with an unseen force. He understands now. Your heartbeat is one with the heartbeat of the sea.

Not only have you made a home out of the meadow surrounding the water, but you’ve made a home out of the water itself. It is silent here, as if every hidden creature waits for your command. In spite of the darkness, tiny shining corals and flowers live and thrive near the cave at the bottom of the ocean floor that you frequent.

You smile at him with warm cheeks and eager hands before swimming away and letting your tail nearly whip him in the face.

“Don’t get lost, darling. You’re in my domain now.”

Your sweet voice is loud in his head. Sukuna rolls his eyes but follows you towards the cave, nevertheless.

Inside your cave, the air is warm and completely dry. The water does not touch this patch of underwater land, somehow. Perhaps Sukuna does not know as much of your powers as he presumed.

You beckon him forward and gesture for him to sit on the ground, where shells and rocks line the entrance of the cave.

“I am a god,” Sukuna hisses, his eyes flashing, “You demand a god to kneel before you?”

“You have kneeled before me many times before,” you reply easily, “Don’t hesitate just because you exist in my domain. I do not demand you to do anything that you do not already want to do, dear.”

It suffices and he sits beside you as your magic flows and presses against Sukuna’s cursed energy. Dark blue swirls poke and Sukuna’s feet, surging around his broad shoulders and caressing the lines on his face.

You laugh when his own energy wraps and curls around you far more roughly than your magic.

“Come. I wish to show you around my home.”

*****

Time does not pass normally underwater as it passes on land. There must be something cosmic about the tinkering of time here, because Sukuna has certainly made a home in between your legs for the better part of the night. Surely, the sun must be rising in the east by now. But it does not matter, because the only radiance he needs is right here.

His tongue is shiny with your desire, pearls dotted on your lips as a gift to him. The seam of the mouth on his stomach splits open in a menacing smirk to lick your heated skin.

Quiet whines echo off of the walls of the cave, reverberating into the water in waves. Sukuna braces his lower arms against your impatient hips as a furrow forms over your eyebrows.

The image of the dark, thick lines on his face reflects in your opaque, half-lidded eyes. His thumb is warm against your cheek as he drinks you in. Your eyes are different than they are above water- still dark and deep, but sheer. And your pupils have shrunk, barely visible to his gaze. All he can see is a sea of darkness illuminating your eyes.

Sukuna is once again reminded that you are not a fragile human. His fingers are firm on your throat and you tilt your head to the side for him to press down harder.

“You may take me,” you murmur serenely, your smile a song, “I wish to show you something.”

In the caves, your lips and your words are coy and fleeting, much like how you behave when you remain perched up on jagged rocks in the ocean without a care in the world. Waiting for an untoward sailor claiming innocence to come your way.

But you have brought him into the sea, where you glow like the seashells and coral delicately placed at the bottom of the seafloor. With bright eyes and shimmering skin, you do a dance with him. Your tail wraps around, closing around him as golden warmth spreads-

Air does not escape his chest and water does not enter it. Something breathes for him, though he is not sure what.

“Come, follow me,” you say. Except your voice is not spoken, it is in his head. It is… jarring,  as if you have access to the fabric of his brain matter.

Your tail whips around him, parting the water with a force equivalent to a domain expansion. The only thing he can see in the murky waters is the light of your sharp fangs as you beckon him to follow you.

Moonlight glistens on your tail as rays from above pierce through the water. The darkness is illuminated with the blessing of the moon. And in the middle of it all, there you are. Floating, with your eyes fixated on him. Nothing moves here and yet everything moves. In the place where life bloomed at the bottom of the ocean floor all those millenia ago.

Even as you both float downward towards the blue ocean floor, the light shines on you. Making you a beacon in the abyss.

The water wraps around him warmly like a cocoon when you press yourself closer to him. You cup his face with your hands and he is curious when he sees that the skin connecting your fingers is webbed.

Is this the true version of you, with your endless tail? Or is it the version of you on land, with your endless legs? Perhaps it does not matter.

Sukuna hears you in his head. Closer… just a little bit closer…

His lips are on yours in half a breath that he does not need to take, hands dipping down to feel the shape of your tail in his palms. His upper pair of arms wraps around your waist as a hand circles your neck to hold you closer. As you wish.

The breath from his lungs is stolen by you as your fingers brush against his neck, where his skin pulses suddenly. 

“What have you done to me?” Sukuna asks, though no words come out of his lips.

You only smile at him and reply in his mind, “You are able to breathe in the water now.”

The slits on his neck are foreign, but Sukuna pays it no mind. Instead, he chooses to focus on you and presses his tongue to your neck. 

You shiver, a whine escaping your lips. But he hears it.

“This is sensitive for you,” he states, his lip curling into a sneer.

“If you need to ask, then perhaps you should continue.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes and runs his fingers over the slits on your neck. You let out a little moan and he smirks, clearly satisfied. Replacing his lithe fingers with his lips, he grins wolfishly when you press yourself against him immediately.

It’s a rare smile from him, one more animalistic than anything else.

Your tail wraps around him, the tender parts of your fins tickling his thighs and his abdomen. Sukuna does not know where to look- at the slits on your neck, or the larger slits on your torso that are glistening with your wetness, or the way your scales shimmer and move. As if wanting to part for something hidden in the crevices of your body.

Instead, he allows for you to wrap your fins around his cocks and lazily move up and down, up and down, until he is fully erect. You don’t break eye contact but if he was a lesser god, he may shirk at the sheer lust blown in your eyes.

“Does this feel nice for you, Sukuna?”

Sukuna does not have to answer for you to already know the answer, and you both know it. He feels weightless, stood still by the power of time as you stroke his cocks languidly. You pull him in closer to press kisses to the slits on his neck and his hips abruptly buck into yours.

“I do not like surprises,” Sukuna mutters.

He surrenders control to you, surrendering to the foreign feeling that bursts in his chest. He groans in your ear, cocks moving of their own accord. 

“You were made for me,” you murmur, “Are you going to cum for me, darling?” 

He shakes his head, wanting to savor the moment and eyeing the slits on your torso. You seem to understand and shoot him a smug grin. Unraveling your tail from around him, you press yourself closer so that his cocks rub against the silvery slits molded into your skin. You’re unable to stop a sharp moan from leaving your throat as he ruts against you.

The watery friction is nothing that he has ever felt before, and yet it reminds him of the warmth of you when you are laid on his bed and he enters your cunt mercilessly. You are everywhere all at once.

Sukuna impatiently swallows your moans with his tongue and feels his fangs pierce your lips. The drops of your blood are honeyed and savory while his fingers toy with the slits on your neck.

Your eyes are hooded and you pulse with the heartbeat found at the bottom of the sea.

“More, Sukuna,” you mumble, “Faster, want you to cum for me like this, want to see you cum all over me-”

With a sharp gasp, you cum harshly and Sukuna greedily licks your wetness before his own cum lands at the slits of your torso. You look at him curiously, offering him a disarming smile and infinite eyes.

“As I said. You may take me.”

The hidden moon is in the company of a thundering downpour on the night that they come. You are quietly arranging your rocks and your seashells when your ears perk up. Multiple voices and sets of footsteps echo as the sounds carry through the trees. It is jarring in the stillness of the night, and something dark washes over you. 

The fairies look at you urgently, then at each other before immediately skittering away. They tell you to leave, that they have weapons and great powers, greater than you’ve ever seen. But they do not know the ruler of the sea.

And where will you go? This is your home now.

You stay hidden below the lake with your teeth bared, waiting for piercing blue eyes to find you just below the surface where your world splits open.

When you were a child, your mother told you that your magic was divine, given to you by Ryuujin himself. Perhaps her intent was for this knowledge to humble you. Instead, it made you wish for more than just a life in the sea. You wonder if she regrets instilling the belief that you are touched by Ryuujin.

The legends say that every millenia, there is a chosen creature of the sea. One who can unite the warring land and sea, or one who can destroy both.

If Ryuujin chose you for something greater than yourself, something meant to end the maelstrom that contains humans and curses, you cannot bring yourself to care. All you care about is protecting the lands in which you live so that you may continue to live there.

But your protective wards cannot stay up forever, even with Sukuna’s cursed energy to enhance yours.

Perhaps if you were less stubborn, less foolish, you may have seeked refuge in Sukuna’s shrine. Nonetheless, when they come, they come in a blinding blaze of glory in hues of reds and blues and purples. Trying and failing to break down your protective wards.

The power of the white haired clan’s energy nearly surpasses Sukuna’s own energy. You shiver.

Perhaps you will simply drown them instead.

“You should have listened to me, but instead you choose to remain insolent,” the great demon king of these lands says. You expect that anyone else would be fearful to be in his throne room while he speaks to you with death on his tongue and vexation in his eyes. But not you.

“I will not live in fear-”

“You are tempting fate each time a Gojo sorcerer comes your way,” Sukuna seethes, his face only inches from yours, “Do you think that drowning them will be the last of it?”  But you do not back down, sending him a poisonous glare of your own.

“Are you not the king of curses? Won’t you do anything about them?” you taunt him with a smirk.

“They will not rest until they have you,” he hisses, “Them and every other clan-”

“Human matters are of no concern to me! Why should I hide when I have every right to be here as much as them? As much as you?”

“You will get yourself killed for your arrogance.”

You scoff. “You lecture me about arrogance?”

Sukuna forces you to look at him, taking your chin in his large hand.

“You are not safe here. Why do you continue to disobey and stay here?”

“If you have not figured it out by now, then you are just as foolish as the humans you claim to reign over.”

His eyes flash and he drops his hand as if you’ve burned him. His energy angrily rises, swirling around you and prodding your skin.

“If you refuse to accept my protection here, I cannot help you. You are a girl in a world of gods and monsters. Go home, girl. Go back to the sea. ”

There is none of the wordless affection in his eyes that you are accustomed to, only cold distaste and fury. His words are poisonous and you have only heard this level of vitriol pointed at others. Never at you. You pull away from him immediately, feeling your hardening heart sinking to the ground.

You are certain your heartbreak is written all over your face. After all, it is not the first time that you have been devastated by a man.

“You are afraid,” you say softly, “You are afraid that you are not the god you think yourself to be. And you are afraid of me.”

You turn your back on him before Sukuna has the chance to drive the bloody knife further into your spine.

tags: @kentobean @misslovingpearl @aeanya @threadbaresweater @aboveasphodel

[chaewberry]

complete guide; how to move on from your ex (failure guaranteed!).

pairing; uchiha shisui x reader word count; 4.1k tags; breaking up and getting back together, explicit sexual content, from lovers to exs back to lovers again, humor, civilian reader. chapters; 2/5 read chapter 1

read on ao3!

Kenji was a menace both to society and to you, respectively.

You usually spend the Sundays where you didn’t have to work in a lackadaisical manner; you’d wake up early enough, your biological clock fried to shit, and put a vinyl record on while foraging whatever food you could find inside your cupboards and fridge in order to eat something resembling a nutritious meal. Like Rin would often insist on drilling into your head amidst meetings and consultations and poor attempts at cornering you in the storage room while you were busy side stepping through the chain of command just so that you could get what you needed for your patients through morally corrupt means, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

After that, with music playing the background, the arduous chore of half-assedly cleaning the apartment took priority before you crashed from the lack of caffeine you were so used to having at work, all day, every day, watery and lukewarm and with the probability of someone having used a sock as a filter to make it in the breakroom. When that time came, you’d abscond into the bathtub, steeping inside the boiling water like an overpriced fucking tea-bag — you’d lay within the confines of your watery, heavy grave for an hour and then you’d get out, smelling of honey and wheat, and then you’d have the rest of the day to plan out.

 Of course, most Sundays ended up with you laying on your couch reading anything you could get your hands on; magazines, old books you had bought but never cracked open, medical essays Rin or Tsunade had left on your desk, personal essays from the multifaceted writers in the capital, poems so pretentious that they ruined your mood to read, manga you had borrowed from the library, the pages yellowed and stained with what you hoped was coffee or tea or milk. If the pages stuck a bit too much together you left the manga alone — you were around teenagers all year round in the hospital, you knew what lack of shame tasted like in the air you breathed.

Speaking of shame, or lack thereof.

“Put that back where you found it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

Kenji, you found, was an intricate presence in your life; you were proud to say that you had managed, in those meager six weeks of companionship, to master the whims and wills of the face behind the man. The naked truth thinly veiled behind his childish antics had you doubting his status as a formidable shinobi of the village some days, for no one should be that open about intentions and purposes.

But here Kenji was, on a Sunday morning at the crack ass of dawn, sitting on your tatami floors with nothing but a pair of black sweats on, smelling of your shampoo and soap and smiling like a little fucking kid as he played with a tanto sword harness you had forgotten at the bottom of your closet. Should you admonish him for digging around your closet? You thought of it, but then you had to keep up the ruse of pretending to care about stuff like that.

You knew you lost the privilege to indulge in self-deception when you walked in on him trying on one of your creamy, frilly bras. You had only blurted out, “you’re too busty.” before moving on from the more harrowing events of the day and onto better ones.

Even so, he kept being a meddlesome old man — you told him so.

“I’m not that old,” he refuted, not sounding insulted in the least, flinging the harness to the side. It thumped against the next to the couch you were lying on and fell down on the floor. You blinked down at it, eyes following the familiar patterns, the latch that Shisui used to fasten on his shoulder and behind his back, the marks, nicks and burns. It wasn’t unsalvageable, and the same went for his spare kunai ripping a hole in the box that you had all but shoved underneath the bed.

That bastard still hadn’t come to clean up his shit from your house — you were left with momento’s and reminders everywhere your eyes strayed.

It wasn’t until Kenji bend down to pick up the harness, a stifled sigh escaping past his lips, that you had been sitting on the couch staring at the piece of clothing like a fucking widow. Immediately, you sat back down on the pillow and resumed your reading. You could still see Kenji, feel him as he moved around the house, towards your bed. He grabbed the box without much fanfare and threw the harness inside, his posture lax as he took in the other items that you had stored in there the past few weeks you’ve been cleaning the house.

Obviously, Kenji had known all along that this was underneath your bed. He had never spoken if it; items that irrefutably belonged to someone else, the shirts that hanged too loose on your frame, the supernumerary amount of medical supplied underneath the sink in the bathroom, the scattered shinobi grade shirts and vests you had fastidiously washed the blood off and placed them in your closet, buried underneath your own clothes, one plate too many, one cup too many, extra cutlery you wouldn’t possibly used all on your own.

You had tried, meticulously so, to scrub down the traces left behind but ignored the first rule of breaking up with someone — undoubtedly, Shisui himself should have come to pick up his stuff, but, then again, he wasn’t the only one suffering through such ill-advised behaviour.

You could barely remember what it was that you had left abandoned at your ex’s house inside the Uchiha compound. Some questionable reading material you had left behind on purpose. A few plates, maybe, some vinyl records you brought with you whenever the mood hit and the two of you orchestrated a little get together amongst friends and in which afterwards Shisui would succeed fucking your brains out on his tatami floors, whatever music playing in the background mingling in with hiccuping sobs and the sound of Shisui laughing down at your face as you took and took. He’d lean down to lap at the drool at the corner of your mouth, lick away the tears clamping your eyelashes.

( “Fine; let’s break up. You’ll have to tell me why though. What am I supposed to tell our friends when they ask?”

You waited as a second passed by, two, three seconds, to feel that familiar pull in the air, the wrapping of space, for Shisui to pop up carelessly close to you and laugh at the false bravado you were putting up.

Just kidding, he’d say — but you could never predict him, even if you expected him.

Shisui was silent for a moment, black curls sticking to his forehead and nape. He smiled, “I’ve decided I don’t want to love you anymore.”)

Kenji didn’t stop there. He turned to you, casting an insolent, analytical glance from head to toe before walking back to stand over you like some sort of half dressed deity of premature ejaculations (“that was one time!)  and an outrageous amount of superior wrist game.

 “Stand up,” he said, smiling like a lunatic while looming over you.

You gulped. “Why?”

“Just stand up.”

Slowly, you did as he asked. Kenji hauled your arms up in the air. Before you could think of a response, quicker than you could blink or formulate a thought regarding his shenanigans, he grabbed the bottom of the shirt you were wearing, black, too big for you, and yanked it up and over your head, leaving you consequently naked except from the black panties you were wearing.

He left you, gaping like a fish out of water, and stalked right back towards the box, dropping in the now rumpled shirt you’ve been wearing for the past three days, before promptly kicking the box underneath the bed once again.

You crossed your arms over your bare chest. “What the hell?”

“Mn,” Kenji said, bending down to deliver a nasty, slobbering kiss on your lips. “How about we take breakfast out today?”

Taking breakfast out in Kenji’s book meant shoving you through the half rotten doors of an establishment whose mere existence should be put down on the village’s records as the source of plagues and public virus outbreaks for the last three years at the least. Once inside, you dared not open your mouth to breathe for fear of catching a fatal illness passing by with the wind. The vapors Kenji characterized as ‘old unfiltered oxygen’ were anything but.

“Can we leave?” you asked, wretched, fixing the surgical mask so it didn’t cut uncomfortably at the sensitive skin underneath your eyes.

Whoever owned this shitty backwater so called breakfast joint should cease to exist effective immediately and his existence marked down in history books for being a danger to societal hygiene and a menace in the overall health of the village.

“No.” 

Kenji shoved you into a booth, the broken, tattered leather creaking underneath your weight and his bulking form as he took a seat opposite of you. The table itself was clean, but marred with a myriad of marks and small dents you knew came from kunai being thrown. Two identical marks marred your kotatsu and even the small table in your kitchen wasn’t spared.

Fucking Uchihas.

You all but ripped the unfolded menu out of Kenji’s offering hands, skimming through the items listed with inked, smudged letters. On one side it listed a variety of breakfasts, followed by beverages. In the middle it contained foods, actual, honest to god foods one would order at a restaurant. Here, you gazed back at Kenji from the top of the menu. Already, you knew that his itching proclivities combined with his shit survival instincts would prove fatal for his future bowel movements.

As a nurse, it fell to you to suggest abstention from ordering something like food from a place such as this — as a bystander however, there would be nothing more amusing than watching Kenji form a sense of self-preservation.

Picking up a second menu off the side, Kenji seemed content in letting it lie uselessly in front of him while he swiveled his body to the side. “I thought you’d at least know about this place, you know,” the man suddenly spoke up, turning his head to address you, though his eyes seemed preoccupied with something else at the bar, the sound of glasses clinking together unmistakable.

“You thought wrong,” you drawled out. You sighed, let the worn out menu fall on the table pitifully. “I miss my kitchen.”

“You never cook,” Kenji hummed, smiling off to the side before turning back to you. He grabbed one of the two glasses left on the table and flipped it over, running a thumb over the rim. “I’ve never even seen you use the kettle - you drink everything cold because you’re a barbarian and too bored for the finer things in life.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

The bastard smiled, ever so amicable. “I’ve never seen you use any of the pots and pans either.”

“You don’t know that,” you fired back, though the lack of heat behind your words was certainly a give away. “You’re not a near constant presence in my apartment, are you?”

“Perhaps not - the frozen meals inside your fridge speak volumes, however.”

Okay. 

“Okay,” you said. A headache was beginning to throb behind your left eye. You pinched the bridge of your nose to stem it. “I take it back; I don’t miss my kitchen. There, satisfied?”

“I will never be satisfied,” Kenji shot back, unperturbed.

Kenji never reacted poorly to anything. He took everything in strides and with a less than a healthy dosage of impeccable acceptance.

“Be miserable, then,” you snapped, not knowing what else to say. 

Kenji, true to his nature, simply smiled; a crooked thing, almost full enough to be false. Kenji never smiled like he was telling a lie. It could be a show of mockery, of genuine pleasure, of trepidation, but never out of a need to plant and sow a lie. He was, in a way, surprisingly honest. It made your own lips curl upwards and your heart cry out with relief; you weren’t a heavy laying weight on his consciousness, and although he always took care of you before and after the intimate act, he took no burdens in lessening your own crisis of self.

You indulged in this depraved act together, and cast yourselves further down the path of no return, a sweet escape no more.

Your honesty never sprouted from words or even actions but only from the empty spaces in between. Kenji was a smart man; he could make up his own truths to fill in those spaces, his own lies. Your deliberate silence was your honesty.

“That’s the idea.”

He shoved a cigarette in your hands and offered you a light. You took it with grace - whatever the fuck Kenji deiced to unravel in this hole in a pile of shit diner that was sidelining as a bar had admittedly shook your own crisis to the surface. It was your last day off before you had to go back mucking up puke and blood from the floor and having to watch grateful parents wheel healthy kids past despairing ones. 

Your fingers shook. You found the urge, abruptly, to bludgeon the man to death. “What the fuck is your problem. You asked me out.”

Kenji hummed. He grabbed the jag and poured water in his glass, sliding it over to you — urging you, perhaps, to drench him with it, and staying silent.

You wanted to press him, drive him into a corner and maybe put the cigarette out in his eye in a fit of bestial rage. You only barely managed to swallow around the knot in your throat before a server came up to the table —  a boy a few years younger than you with short hair caressing the back of his neck and glasses sitting high upon his nose. He ran his slanted eyes over at Kenji, promptly ignored him, and turned to you with a thin assemblance of a smile that screamed bare minimum customer service.

“What can I get for you?”

With fire shimmering underneath your skin, you just barely managed to utter; “waffles, just put whatever on top.” before going back to stewing, opting now to bite the end of your cigarette instead of sucking out the smoke from it like a starved animal sucking out bone marrow from its most recent kill.

The boy only blinked at you, scribbled down your order and turned to Kenji, finally.

Kenji, for his part, immediately seemed to forget all about living in the thralls of misery. With a too wide smile he ordered the medium spice curry and a hot coffee to the side. He didn’t take his eyes off the waiter until he disappeared behind the kitchen door before turning back to you, blinking down at the chewed cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ve decided to apologise. I was in the wrong, please forgive me.”

“You have a personality problem, you know that?”

“Alright, alright,” he murmured in an attempt to placate you. “I’ll buy you strawberries on the way home, okay? Drink some water.”

You drank some fucking water.

“Honestly,” Kenji spoke up. “You should look to invest in some calming herbal teas.”

“You’re part of the reason I’m halfway through popping a blood vessel,” you snapped, slamming the glass on the table. “Are you my fuck buddy or a leech?”

“Is there a quota on how many times you can see your rebound in a week? Can’t I hang out with my part time lover, part time friend outside of office hours?”

Without waiting for your reply Kenji leaned forward and took the cigarette from between your fingers, stabbing it out on the ashtray just before a plate filled with spicy curry was all but unceremoniously thrown at the table. The server with the slanted eyes was looking less than pleased, pointing at the ‘No Smoking’ sticker that had seen better days glued to the glass window next to Kenji’s head.

“Ah, Satoru,” Kenji’s voice came out almost as a purr. “Please forgive me - my eyesight is not what it used to be in my old age.”

But Satoru didn’t seem to be in a particularly forgiving mood. He set down your own plate with pancakes with more grace than you probably deserved for indulging Kenji’s bullshit and took out a different notepad from the pocket of his apron, sprawling out something on a piece of paper. For a brief moment you expected Satoru the Server to slap Kenji with said paper, but the young man simply set it next to the plate of curry before placing a cup of hot coffee on top of it.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, shoving the notepad and pen back into his pocket, “be better.”

The contents of the paper had you swallowing down a fresh wave of laughter.

“Quick question,” you said, turning back to observe Kenji after Satoru stalked back into the kitchen. “You wouldn’t happen to harbor explicit thoughts about wanting to fuck our server, would you?”

He gasped. “You make me sound like the lecherous husband who prays on young boys while he leaves his wife home to rot. You wound me, beloved.”

“I hope Satoru spat in your food.”

“You think so?” Kenji asked wistfully.

Nevermind.

After that you two ate in silence. To your begrudgement, the pancakes tasted heavenly, nearly melting on your tongue. Kenji seemed to enjoy his breakfast curry for his part as well, looking all too pleased at the hastily scrawled fine he had grasped in between his fingers, eyes going over the messy spots the pen had left from the overleaking ink. You remembered what he said; in love with someone thirteen years younger than him, not knowing what to do, where to stand and when to stop, starving enough to risk snapping a bone or two to suck the marrow out.

You said nothing, scooping up a forkful of his curry, tasting it, then taking a second bite because it was fucking delicious. Kenji reached over with his spoon and took half a pancake with him, leaving behind smudges of the thick brown sauce on the corner of your plate. Surprisingly, curry with pancakes blended well inside your mouth, and perhaps your taste buds were proving to be as unrefined as you had grown to be the last few weeks.

Afterwards, a struggle ensued; both you and Kenji were drastically knocking each other down in a feud for the bill. It was no less embryonic than it was cathartic when you managed to shove the end of your spoon in a stray nostril and walked off with the bill, specks of Kenji’s blood on the outside of your palm and a litany of swears coming from behind you as you trekked towards the counter with the hard worn and torn in half bill in hand.

Satoru, for his part behind the counter, didn’t seem the least alarmed at the scuffle, nor did he spare a second glance at the bloodied bill you handed him along with the money -- he had reserved, instead, all the ensemble of life he could master behind his beautifully slanted dark eyes to scrutinize your person from head to toe. 

You did the same, though not unkindly.

Satoru appeared to be just a few years younger than you, probably just starting out his twenties, with a stubborn, childish bit of fat still hanging on to his cheeks. The antithesis of his appearance with the look he harbored inside his eyes as he scoped you out nearly made you laugh  you would have, were you any less kind.

Patiently, you waited for your change, and you waited, impassively, for a question.

Satoru handed you your change. “Tell Kenji he’ll need to go to the police station to pay off the smoking fine.”

You grinned. “I’ll tell him - sorry about that, by the way, I didn’t see the sign.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, watching you as you made to grab your wallet out of your bag, dropping it, picking it up and then dropping it again in quick succession. “Are you a family member?” he almost looked ready to hurl as he asked.

You wondered, briefly, if this was the reason Kenji brought you out to eat here today.

“No, I’m a pediatrician” you supplied helpfully, slipping the money inside your wallet along with the receipt. 

“Oh,” Satoru blinked, “right.”

“How long have you and Kenji known each other?”

“...not long; a few years, give or take.”

“Hm. What were your first impressions of him?”

This time the younger man didn’t hesitate to answer you, “a no good shinobi with too much time at his hands. He basically kidnapped me.”

“That’s just not true, my dear Satomi.” You turned to Kenji, standing behind you and smiling ludicrously wide. “I bribed you.”

Satoru’s expression soured. “Die, please.”

Kenji cooed at Satoru and the boy all but kicked you out of the establishment.

“Is romance lost on you,” you mocked now, walking side by side with Kenji on the way to your house.

“You suck.”

“You wish.”

“No wonder your last beau left if that is how you treated them,” he said, positively dismal. 

You readily agree. “Yeah, I must’ve been a pretty shitty significant other.”

Kenji insisted on walking you home after breakfast, just as he insisted on buying you ice-cream and making you wait ten steps behind him as he ruffled through the magazine stand outside the konbini near your house, cramming issues upon issues underneath his arm with a look of somber severity. He paid for them, shoved them in a plastic bag, and then jabbed the aforementioned bag in between your fingers.

He made a point by saying, “read those.” but firmly stopped you from actually doing so when you went to see what kind of perverted shit he had bought. The amount of questionable and morally bankrupt reading material you found underneath the pillows of teenagers in the hospital far surpassed whatever quota you had set for yourself in this life, and the stickiness in between some of the pages were almost enough to make you reconsider giving them some of those little shits less of their described pain medicine - but you were, above all else, a slave to your job and the oath Tsunade had made you spit out in between clacking teeth and a heavier than lead tongue that soaked in the cheap sake she kept underneath her desk for emergency celebration. Or so she said when had unceremoniously thrown you down on the couch like you were yesterday’s corner whore and shoved the bottle down your throat, shouting shrill congratulations.

Shisui had to carry you home after finding you wandering the streets like a widowed ghost. At the time, nothing more than a passing acquaintance you met through Rin and, consequently, Obito, the man had graciously ignored your comments about your taste in men in uniforms and completed his duty as an officer and safely deposited you back into the safe confines of your apartment where you spent the next day detoxing, making a blood pact with the reflection in the bathroom’s mirror to never let another drop of that toxic waste Tsunade called alcohol touch your lips, and also avoid Rin’s reasonably handsome family friend like the fucking plague and hate him on principle.

Evidently, your own self had proven to be your most wretched adversary.

“You suck,” you told Kenji, voice scratchy and eyes moist.

How very not nonchalant of you.

He planted a wet one on your cheek. “ And swallow.” 

.*.

You dumped the magazines directly on top of your bed, your hair still dripping wet after your shower, dressed in nothing but a pink fluffy towel and the slippers on your feet. You eyed the various covers with mounting interstate as you ran a towel through your hair. You nudged them away from each other to better see them with your foot and paused when one in particular caught your eyes. Dropping the towel from your head you sat down on the bed, face unconsciously pulling up into a grimace. You flipped the magazine, settling on a random page, and felt one of your bottom eyelids starting to tick.

“Trying Being FWB Before Fully Breaking-Up!”

Surely not.

You threw the offending magazine somewhere over your shoulder. You heard it hit the wall, fall down —  you didn’t concern yourself with it, only focusing on latching onto another one. There was a beautiful model splayed artistically over the cover, blonde hair curled to shit, thick and glistening against the glare of the camera and the lights. Only her mouth was visible underneath the main; small, pouty lips pushed apart for the tongue to make an appearance. You opened it right into the middle.

“It’s Time to Stop Asking for Space, and Start Ending Your Relationship.”

Next magazine, on a random page, ‘ Date Them, Even If You Know It Won’t Last Long.” , and the page after that, “The Best Sex Toys of The Year.”

You were going to fucking murder Kenji.

[violettduchess]

A/N: A break from all the angst! Here are the winners of the Valentine's Day Kiss Headcanon poll. And a special guest from Obsidian who slipped his way in 😘

Princes x f! reader

I wanted these to be shorter but that was not it's destiny so here we are at 2.5k words.

Happy Valentine's Day whoever reads this! Sending you all lots of love 💜

 Morning: Chevalier

The morning sun has dared to reach tentative fingers through the windows of Chevalier’s bedroom. You feel the warmth caress your face and a sigh, soft as silk, escapes you. The day is calling and you know at some point you’ll have to answer. But there is a strong arm holding you tightly against a warm body, one that is curled around you, heavy with sleep. Carefully you turn under the weight of his embrace, pulling your leg out from under his. A small grunt of annoyance is all your movement elicits. Without opening his eyes, he adjusts his hold on you, pulling you close again.

This close, in the pale light of morning, with him still swimming on the edge of sleep, you have a moment to study the face you hold so dear. The almost boyish fall of his pale hair. The sharp line of his cheekbones. The perfect curve of his lips. His lashes are long, framing eyes that to you have come to be the very definition of the word “blue.” They hold the sky at its brightest and the ocean at its most fierce and flawless sapphires and glacial ice all within their beautiful depths. Your hand rises to gently cup that face, to feel the soft skin of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Your palm cradles him and your heart grows warm with love and affection and pride that you can call this man yours. “Chevalier,” you murmur. “We should get up.”

His eyes open slowly. In them you can see denial. He does not want to get up yet. He would attack the dawn with his sword if he could. He breathes out, stretching his long legs and buries the face you had been so admiring into your bare shoulder. His mouth is warm against your skin when he finally speaks. “Not yet.”

With a smile you reach down, your fingers finding his chin and tilting his face back up. He allows it because it is you. “We really should.” Not able to help yourself, you lean down, capturing his lips in a kiss. Again, only you would ever be allowed to take him prisoner. His response is slow, each movement languid, savoring the feel of your mouths together, of the way your lips lock and unlock. You are the one who deepens the kiss, shifting yet again in his arms, pushing yourself up. Now you are not laying parallel but rise above him, your hair falling to curtain his face.

He reaches up, gathering your loose hair, winding its softness around his hand, all the while kissing you back with an intensity that screams high noon and not mid-morning. You feel the hold he has on you and gasp, your lips leaving his to curl into a smile. He growls, catching your lower lip between his teeth, not wanting you gone even a moment, holding you in place for a heartbeat before releasing you. “Not. yet.” His repeated words are rough with need, sliding over your skin, mirroring the feel of his palms on your body.

This was not quite how you expected to wish him a happy Valentine’s Day. You had plans for the day…. and yet you give yourself over to the trembling ache of wanting him without a moment's hesitation. Everything else can wait.

Afternoon: Leon

You can only feel when the carriage finally rolls to a stop because your eyes are bound by a strip of dark red silk. It’s been hours, rocking back and forth in darkness. You hear Leon open the door and then feel as he takes your hands in his, his hands calloused and strong. Your fingers curl around them tightly as he carefully leads you down and out of the carriage, your boots touching solid ground. He exchanges a few words with the driver and you hear the rattle of the horses’ harnesses, the departing clip-clop of their hooves, muted as they travel over dirt and not cobblestone.

Holding your hands in his, he pulls you along, laughter threaded through his voice like golden strands. Just a bit further he says as the ground under your feet begins to incline and you find yourself clearly walking uphill. He does not allow you to stumble. You are safe in his guidance. You trust him implicitly.

“Leon….I don’t know if I can go much further.” You’re only half jesting when you say the words, your legs starting to shake from the climb. He stops walking and lets go of your hands. A split second passes and then your feet leave the ground. He’s scooped you up into his arms, carrying you as he continues on. Warmth for him blooms in your heart as you wrap your arms around his neck, trusting him to the ends of the earth and back.

The air around you grows cooler, delivering misty kisses upon your skin. Although you are still going uphill, his pace doesn’t slow until you feel the way his hold on you changes, the ground leveling out. Carefully he sets you down and then moves behind you, his touch never leaving you so that you remain steady on your feet.

“Alright, my love. On three. One. Two. Three.” The silk slides off of your eyes and when you finally open them, your breath catches in your throat. You’re standing at the top of a hill, one stretching itself as tall as possible. From your vantage point, you can see down across the lush green fields that blanket the rolling hillside. They are laid out like a green carpet, all the way down to the town. From this height, the buildings you are so familiar with look like miniatures. Even the palace, gleaming white in the midday sun, looks like a child’s magical toy. As you take it all in, you remember a day almost half a year ago, when you had been visiting Leon in his office, admiring a weathered map that hangs on the wall.

“What’s beyond here?” you had asked, pointing to where the map’s green lines ended, blurring into the faded brown parchment. Leon had looked up and smiled slowly. “Shall I show you someday?” You nodded, smiling that smile that sent his heart spinning. And now, when the snow had melted enough, here you were.

“You remembered.” You turn your gaze away from the view to another stunning sight: Leon beaming, your joy lighting him up from within. He reaches for you and you move into his arms, natural as breathing, like falling into a dream. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you close against him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” His voice is soft with affection, the sweet, low tone one he only ever uses when speaking to you. You wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against the soft material of his cloak, feeling safe and warm and above everything, loved. 

Evening: Clavis

You’re sitting in the salon, a warm fire blazing in the hearth, throwing soft orange and yellow light across the rich, dark wood and luxurious red velvet of the room. Clavis has disappeared, promising you one last treat. You wonder if your stomach will be able to handle “one last treat”. He’s spent the entire day showering you with little gifts, all of them food. A pancake breakfast with deep green and purple pancakes with some kind of blueish syrup. Lunch was a soup that actually glowed. (He swore it was supposed to do that.) And dinner? You’re not too sure. He claimed it was stew but the meat felt very chewy and the sauce was a bright orange you are certain does not exist in nature. But you ate it. Each meal, every bite. And you thanked him for his effort because you know he did it to make you happy.

But now as you wait for him, hands resting on your abdomen, you find yourself hoping he didn’t make something like the purple “bunny” he had created for your birthday. The one made out of some kind of jelly-like substance that left you smiling through a roiling, queasy stomach for several hours. And had tasted oddly like grass.

The wooden doors open and Clavis enters, holding a silver serving platter, covered by a silver dome. You push yourself upright even as your mind sends silent prayers to whoever may be listening that whatever is under there, it isn’t gelatinous. He kneels in front of where you are sitting on the couch, his eyes two golden pools sparkling with excitement. “Ready, my dear?” You draw a breath, trying to keep your smile steady and positive. “As ever.” He reaches around and removes the silver dome to reveal…

“Clavis….” The word is drawn from your lungs on a gasp. Laying on the silver platter is a small clay heart. It’s a pale lavender but it has a shimmer to it, as if it had been dipped in gold dust. A small hole has been made at the top, run through with a thin strip of soft, black leather. You reach out, taking the necklace in your hand, your heartbeat quickening. When you turn it over, you notice the initials etched into the back. Yours and his, in his signature loopy handwriting. When you look up at him, you see something for the first time today: nervousness shades his smile, uncertainty sparking in the gold of his eyes. “I thought of going to the royal jeweler, but then I remembered you talking about the craftswoman in town who makes these kinds of things and how much you loved her work. With the right persuasion, she helped me make this.” He licks his lips, forcing a smile. “If you’d rather have a gemstone,  we can–”

He is cut off as you throw your arms around him, pressing your lips to his lips. And then his cheek. And then his chin. And other cheek. And forehead. And lips again. Again and again and again you kiss him anywhere you can until the both of you topple over onto the plush carpeting and he breaks out into laughter. “So my darling likes her present.” 

You hug him to you tightly, your eyes closed so they miss the way his cheeks are tinged pink. Your reaction has both thrilled him to no end and surprised him. Sometimes....he can hardly believe that you are his. He returns your embrace, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. His heart beats a rhythm in his chest. I love you, it says. I love you. And yours answers in return: I love you too. I love you too.

Midnight: Gilbert

Valentine’s Day is not a holiday they celebrate in Obsidian. And so you have not mentioned it at all. You went about the day, business as usual. Together you and Gilbert inspected the latest garrison and spoke to its leaders. You met with a group of merchants promising seeds which have been bred to thrive in harsh conditions. You made the rounds of the palace while Gilbert tended to his correspondence. Now, as night falls, you stop by his study to check on him, your hand running over the nape of his neck, comforting and tender. He sends you to bed with a tired kiss to the back of that hand. He has work to do and you, Häschen, cannot help him. He would be happier to know you have gotten rest.

The study door closes behind you and you pause, leaning back against it. You could go to bed as he asked….but you don’t. Because you have an idea. So Gilbert writes, his black feathered quill scratching quietly on parchment, making notes in the margins of letters, and you make your way through the dark stone halls of the palace toward the room at its very heart: the kitchen. Gilbert writes. You work some magic.

It is hours later when Gilbert’s quill finally rests. He stands, stretching out his stiff limbs, one hand rubbing at the corner of his dark red eye. A country teetering on the brink of war requires constant vigilance. A role he understands he must play. But sometimes, wrapped in the secrecy of night’s darkest hour, he wishes he could set it down. The quill, the sword, the weight of Obsidian. And simply be with you.

He is bathed in shadow as he walks toward his bedroom, pushing open the dark, carved double doors. He moves silently, not wanting to wake you, but then he sees the candles still burning and you sitting on the edge of the bed, draped in a dressing gown of pearlescent white satin, holding a plate with something small and dark on it in your hands. He tilts his head, curiosity overcoming exhaustion as he walks over. “What’s this?”

The bed dips as he sits down next to you, his gaze traveling from the plate to your face. You clear your throat. “This….is a small tradition in Rhodolite. It’s Valentine’s Day.” You glance at the small clock on his nightstand, an ornate thing made of silver. “At least for another few minutes. And traditionally, it’s a day to celebrate love with cards and flowers and chocolate.” You shrug your shoulders, feeling suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. “I didn’t have time to make a nice card and flowers are hard to find here but I knew there was just enough chocolate left from what I brought with me to bake you a cookie.” You had only enough chocolate to make one cookie, a heart-shaped chocolate oatmeal cookie with chopped nuts and raisins inside. Not necessarily what you would enjoy but you knew they were all flavors Gilbert held dear.

He studies the cookie for a moment, silent. You wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe he just wants to go to sleep and not eat anything. Maybe he does not want to hear about a holiday from the country that is threatening his with war. Anxiety swells your heart and at the same time squeezes it with icy chains of uncertainty. This was a bad idea. Why did you even think it would be-

Gilbert lifts the cookie to his lips and takes a bite. His eye closes as he chews and you watch his face, the movement of his jaw. You notice the way his expression softens. There is peace in a face far too used to suspicion, to calculation, to hiding behind smiles and sharp words. There is bliss for a mind that has to think around a thousand corners. A mind that can now, in a moment of respite, simply enjoy the taste of something that you, the woman he loves, has made for him.

He finishes the whole thing with his eye closed. When it is gone, you reach out and take the plate from him, setting it down on the nightstand. When you lean back, he reaches for you. His kiss tastes like chocolate, like the richness of night, like the velvet softness of a love returned.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

[lukedanger]

Owlcatober - Day 2 - Fake Names (KM)

Day 2 of @owlcatober, focusing on a group of differently named adventurers preparing to infiltrate the Kingdom of the Cleansed...

[Ao3 Link]

And so dear readers, we leave the tale of the Baroness to follow the deeds of Sir Tristian, friend to Amalia of the Kingdom of the Cleansed! And the tale is now written not by Linzi the [insert title later], but Brynn the Ca

“Story check.”

Linzi looked up as she was interrupted by Ekundayo, her heavy maille shirt rustling as she did. They were all dressed differently, even Tristian had traded his Sarenite robes for the earthen robes of a humble pilgrim. A large black furred wolf with a riding harness was also sitting by the fire with them, next to Tristian at the moment.

“C’mon,” Amiri growled, clearly unhappy without her oversized sword in favor of the javelins, hatchet, and small shield of a skirmisher, “We went over this a bunch of times. I’m not dumb, I’m even learning those stupid letters!”

“Stories fall apart in the details,” Ekun retorted, having wrapped his head in cloth in a Thuvian style. “I will start: Taiwo, mercenary from Thuvia. Came north to see the world, offered to guide Tristian’s party. Prefer to be left alone.”

Amiri grunted, shaking head. “Fine - Valeria, thief from Numeria. Got caught robbing a League tower, sold as a slave, broke out after pushing a mill wheel for years, looking for a new life in Gevaudan.” She glanced at Octavia, “You next.”

“You had to use that as a background…” the wizardess exhaled, shaking her head despite the large pointy hat and thick black robes she was wearing. “Okay: Aurelia, necromancer from Galt trying to redeem herself. Fond of quite good whisky, late night strolls, and hates cities.”

Their attention turned to Kaessi, wearing a worn gambeson with a spear propped next to her seat on a log. “Layla. I came here to make a new life away from Qadira, joined a village militia with other settlers, and deserted after the troll attacks.” She cast a particularly harsh glare towards Tristian - the kind that stayed whether she was feeling kind or harsh that day. “So why does he not need to lie?”

“Amalia is… not fully aware,” Tristan admitted, looking down as if in shame as he was judged by kindness. “She knows me only as a humble pilgrim who was interested in how the Kingdom of the Cleansed offers redemption.”

“The covers were my suggestion,” Ekundayo added, “to reduce suspicion.” He turned to Linzi, then frowned at her notes. “I thought you left the book behind? Too iconic.”

Linzi exhaled. Yes, he had been quite firm on that. “A Cavalier of the Paw still has her entry in the annals to consider! A worthy cause sought, and a worthier one to charge into!” She stood up, the heroicness of the pose rather dampened by stumbling. Linzi was unused to the weight of maille on her shoulders, even with the belt of strength that Valerie had lent her.

“Regardless,” the bard-pretending-to-be-cavalier continued, “You can be sure to follow Brynn into gllloorrrrrrious battle!”

“Speaking of paws,” Amiri grumbled, “where’s Dog?”

Ekun sighed. “Too known. Besides, someone else plays the role of war wolf. Brynn?”

“Oh, right,” Linzi had almost forgotten the most important part! “Thank you Sir Tristian for keeping an eye on Gnaw while at Tuskdale!”

She could see Kaessi tilting her head and mouthing ‘Gnaw’ in confusion as the large black furred wolf rose and sniffed Tristian’s hand.

“Perhaps you should get her out of the harness for tonight,” Tristian suggested, gesturing towards Linzi.

“Oh, of course!” Linzi really should have known better. She didn’t have a squire, after all! Then again, I end up playing squire often enough… she thought as she started removing the strapping. Oh, if only she could write what she was really doing: she knew readers would have a laugh at it.

Hopefully the Baroness did not realize it either. That would be awkward. And embarrassing.

====

NOTES:

While I do not plan on doing as much with Kingmaker for Owlcatober, I did want to do a few things and test the waters a bit. Since KM was my first stab into Pathfinder at all I went relatively generic, and the baroness I rolled for it ended up as the proto version of Elaina. I've been mulling on ways to reroll her to stand out as her own character. Luckily, a confluence of circumstances such as the name I grabbed for the barony and certain problems like "They're In This Together!" constantly repeating offered an idea...

[sugar-lolya]

Anything can be cured.

Sandor Cligan x reader

Chapter 3

The sun had already risen into the sky, and horses were neighing in the courtyard. The formidable man was engaged in saddling horses, he did all this quickly and steadily, because he had been the head groom of Winterfell for more than one year.

Krystal stood next to her horse and fed her carrots before the hard work. He is tall and strong, as befits his breed. His fur was as white as snow and glistened like fresh ice. The horse was loaded with several sacks, and on one side of the Crystal was a small travel bag, and on the other was a silver sickle.

After finishing the caresses, the girl deftly jumped onto the harnessed horse. Kicking his sides lightly, Crystal moved forward. As she rode up to the castle gates, she saw the retreating squad led by Robert and Eddard. Without wasting a second, the girl trotted to the front of the line. Crystal thought that the party was too numerous for a normal hunt, because there was no need to attract unnecessary attention and make unnecessary noises, although if it was necessary for Robert's safety, she was fine with it. The girl noticed that the king had lost his former form, but she knew that these were the consequences of his royal life.

When she finally caught up with Ned and Robert, the girl beamed. Crystal was glad that the seven had brought their trio together again. The girl's face changed abruptly, the joy disappeared as if it had never been, replaced by concern. "Be careful… The girl said, "a group of twilight cats were recently seen in the forest." Crystal had a bad feeling about this day, and she decided not to go far into the thicket. She knew that Robert would not listen to her, but if not, he would probably think about her words. The king burst out laughing, "Crystal, Ned and I are not like Cats, we can take down a dragon. So you don't have to worry." Robert said and smiled reassuringly. Having once again repeated her fears, the girl kicked her horse and galloped into the forest, leaving the detachment behind her.

When she reached the right place, Crystal stopped and easily dismounted from her horse. She loosened the girths, patted the horse's neck, and went in search of the necessary herbs. The business was in full swing, the girl was genuinely surprised by the number of plants she needed. There were usually two or even three times as less.

For the next hour, Crystal worked tirelessly. But suddenly, an unusual sound was heard in the wilderness of the forest. The girl stopped working, straightened up and listened to the silence. The sound came even louder and clearer, screams for help, all that Crystal could make out, but it was enough for her to start acting. Cursing, the girl quickly gathered her things and ran towards the Blizzard. The horse was still grazing on the lawn. Crystal ran over, put everything she had packed into her bags, tightened the girth straps, and jumped into the saddle. Grabbing the reins with her hands, Crystal sent the horse forward. The blizzard, as befits its name, was rushing through the thicket at an Incredible speed. With each leap, the screams became clearer, it was a man and a young man. When the last tens of meters were left before the screamers, the girl took out a bow and arrow, ready to shoot at any moment. Flying out of the forest into the clearing, Crystal saw a terrible picture. Three twilight cats surrounded the Crown Prince and the Hound, the animals made eerie guttural growls, indicating the outcome of this event. The man stood in front with a sword at the ready, his shoulder was torn and scarlet blood was pouring out of it. The grass beneath him was turning more and more purple. The young man was sitting on the grass unharmed, but scared to hell.

Pulling the bowstring, Crystal shot at one beast and hit it in the neck. The cat immediately began to hiss and squirm in pain. The other two turned to the girl and headed in her direction. Before Crystal could get the next arrow, something huge and snow-white jumped out of the dense bushes. Quickly rushing past the girl, it clung to one of the animals. Undeterred, the girl shot at the remaining one. The two wounded animals whimpering and ran back into the forest. But the one who was grabbed by the white thing went limp on the ground, blood spurting from his neck.

The silhouette of an Ice Fox loomed out of the white spot, it seemed to consist of ice, but the tips of its paws, ears and tail were black as coal. Their kind almost disappeared from Westeros, but those who remained lived exclusively behind the Wall. Jumping off her horse, Crystal went up to the beast and gently patted it behind the ear. From the caress of the mistress, the fox curled his bloody muzzle in the semblance of a smile. Looking back, the girl saw the bewilderment on the faces of the victims, but noticing the man's injury, she went to him.

"Sir Clegane, please take a seat by this tree, you clearly need medical attention," the girl says, pointing to a wide tree. "I'm not a fucking Sir, and I don't need your fucking help!" the Dog growls like an animal, either in pain or anger. Crystal ignored his objections, taking his whole hand and sitting him down under a tree. Summoning a horse with things and taking everything she needed, the girl began to carry out the necessary machinations. After treating the wound with alcohol, Kristall began to sew it up, and throughout the entire process, the Hound's face did not show a single emotion. When she was done helping, the girl looked up at the man, his face showing annoyance. Involuntarily, Crystal reached for the inviting scar on his face. A jerk, and the girl's hand is in the grip, "What the hell are you doing?!" - his voice turned into a growl. Releasing her hand from his grasp, Crystal gave the man a soft smile, "I'm sorry, si.., Sandor… I didn't mean to offend you, I hope you feel better," the girl got to her feet and looked around, the silhouettes of Robert, Ned and the rest of the squad could be seen in the distance. Joffrey was still sitting on the grass, but when he saw them approaching, he abruptly jumped up in his feet and shouted, "Father, this place is terrible, the whole North is teeming with monsters and monsters, just now I was almost eaten by a whole pack of Twilight Cats!". Crystal and Sandor rolled their eyes at the same time, won't find a more moody boy in all of Westeros.

Upon arriving, the squad tensed, seeing Buran, Robert shouted the order to "Raise your swords" - horror flashed in his eyes. Eddard raised his hand, urging everyone to calm down. Dismounting from his horse, he approached Crystal, looked into her eyes with a fire of confidence, while stroking the Buran on the head. His words were quiet, so that only Crystal could hear him, "I'm going to King's Landing, I'll be the hand of the king. You're needed there, too, for Robert, me, Sansa, and Arya. You will also make medicines for the king and his family personally. Are you willing to help us, but if you don't want to, you can stay here in Winterfell…". "I agree, anything for you," Crystal said and hugged her brother tightly.

To be continued

[demidoodlefox]

If you draw Satan and put it in your comic I don’t have his anger management therapist. Do you have a fear as to why your management therapist wears like an angelic robe, seems ironic.

Do I have a theory as to why Satan's therapist wears an angelic looking robe?

This may be a stretch, but maybe it's a Lucifer reference. Maybe Lucifer used to pacify Satan in a similar way.

Or maybe the writers are evoking the shoulder angel/devil trope with Yogirt.

Could be a plot hole. Or perhaps Ozzie was focused on Fizz at the time he saw Striker.

Also Striker's a hitman. So even if Ozzie recognized him, Striker could just say he got hired by someone else at that time.

Striker seems to be a sell-out/grifter. He goes with whatever's convenient for him. Even if it's against his own principles. He may hate royals, but he still thinks he's better than other lesser demons. Internalized racism/classism

No biggie. Thank you for the messages.

Yogirt to Lucifer: Oh, Your Infernal Majesty, Sir! Your agitation and heartache is throwing your spiritual energies off-balance! Let's take deep breaths. Inner peace. A rose quartz to all those emotional wounds.

Yogirt to Michael: Oh, Great Sword of Heaven! I am sensing some tension that clouds your mind! Lets do some meditation. Harness that sapphire energy to sift through those messy thoughts and bring clarity to the truth!

[sephirthoughts]

Now that you jumped on the Nero is Vincent's son train, how would Sephiroth and him get along? Nero has a lot of grief from Weiss death of course and overall trauma in general. Would Sephiroth also react to him like he did to his sister?

OH. I am so glad you asked. Cause I love this so much.

*cracks knuckles* Characters: Sephiroth and Nero (big brother and little brother).

Setting: Vincent and Cid's house, later the same night Nero arrived.

THIS IS NOW VINCENT'S NEW KID JUST DROPPED, CH. 2

In the small hours of the morning, when that blanket of silence that lies upon a sleeping household was thickest, Nero carefully opened his bedroom door. The knob made the faintest metallic click, then it swung open silently. Fortunately for him, the house was new enough that the hinges didn’t creak, which he had observed earlier in the day, or he'd never have tried this.

Enveloping himself in darkness, he padded down the pitch dark hallway, as softly and silently as a cat, past the closed door of another bedroom. 

Across the T intersection in the hallway, were the doors to the occupied bedrooms. The baby’s door was open a crack, but the main bedroom’s door was closed. Not as if they’d have heard him anyway, with the way one of them (certainly the scruffy blonde smoker) was snoring.

Letting the tendrils of darkness lead, Nero turned right, gliding toward the living room. There was a night-light on, by the front door, casting deep, eerie shadows across the space. To him it was a beacon. Only a few meters to the front door and freedom. Then he could go back and wait for Weiss, at their secret place.

He sneered to himself, as he stepped out of the hallway. He should thank that idiot judge for remanding him to the custody of that man they kept calling his father. These fools were far too trusting, to leave him unchained and unguarded. Did they really expect him to quietly accept his fate, and submit to living in capt—

Only his preternatural reflexes saved him from being blinded by the razor-sharp blade that was suddenly mere millimeters from his eye. He stood frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears, all his hypertuned senses focused on that long, thin blade. It was steady as a rock, without even the tiny movements caused by a swordsman’s pulse and breathing. How the hell had he not sensed it! The darkness should have alerted him!

In the inky shadows, behind the blade, a pair of glowing, bright-green eyes materialized. “Going somewhere?”

Nero cursed inwardly. What the hell was this psychopath doing here? He didn't live here, the other bedroom was empty. He assumed the man had gone. Well, nothing for it but to brazen it out.

“Getting a glass of water.”

The green eyes blinked. “Which required you to put on your boots.”

“I already had them on,” he retorted, mustering all the sullen indignation he could. “What business is it of yours? And what the hell are you doing lurking in the dark with a sword? Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”

The shadowy figure withdrew the blade and stepped closer, looming over him like a shade of death. Nero, who was only five-eight, himself, looked up at Sephiroth, attempting to swallow in a suddenly dry throat.

He definitely hadn’t looked this big, when he’d met him today. Granted, he’d only seen him sitting around with the baby. Now, he was inclined to believe the reports that Shinra's infamous weapon of mass destruction was six-foot-seven. 

His casual clothing from earlier had been replaced by that iconic, leather coat, with the white pauldrons and chest harness, and his famously beautiful silver hair was left loose, cascading freely about his shoulders. He hardly seemed like the same person, at all, with the vicious light in his slit-pupil eyes, and that icy, malevolent smile.

“You’re Sephiroth,” Nero said. “That famous war hero, who they say went mad and slaughtered an entire village full of innocent people.”

“You’re mistaken,” Sephiroth said mildly. “Everyone knows that he died. Or, did you not get the news, in whatever hole Shinra was keeping you in.”

“That’s too bad,” Nero sneered. “I admired his work.”

All this time, his tendrils of darkness had been creeping around behind the man, coiling like snakes. As he said the last few words, all of them struck at once, instantaneously creating a crackling, purple-black vortex of certain death, around the target.

He and Weiss had developed this attack, together. There was no evading it and there was no shield, physical or mystical, that its Chaos born un-light could not pierce. He smiled coldly to himself.

But just as the field constricted, to consume its prey, his darkness vortex slipped out of his control, and began to spin, faster and faster, the tendrils curling in on themselves, contracting and condensing, till the whole thing was no larger than a baseball. Sephiroth held it, floating between his fingertips.

“A pretty little trick. But too easy to turn against you,” he said, and absorbed the purple-black sphere into his palm. 

Nero choked and staggered. Black blood streamed down his chin and dripped onto the floor. His connection to the darkness, that let him feel it and manipulate it like part of his own body, was wrested from him, by Sephiroth. His booted feet skidded across the wood floor, as his own power was used like puppet strings, to drag him toward the man. Sephiroth’s big, black-gloved hand caught him by the throat. 

“Let us clear a few things up, Nero,” he said calmly. “The only reason you are here, is because my father is too soft-hearted.”

Soft hearted? Nero shuddered, thinking of that maniac demon, immune to his darkness, who had torn through him like paper and beaten him within an inch of his life.

“I am not nearly so gentle nor forgiving as he is. He may have accepted you, as his son, but I have not accepted you, as my brother. Until you have proven to me that you can behave like a proper member of this family, I will not acknowledge your right to be here.”

“I don’t w—want to be here!” Nero choked out, clawing impotently at Sephiroth’s absurdly strong hand. “I don’t care about this family! My only family is Weiss! If I don’t have a right to be here, then let me go! I want to go back to my brother! Let me g—ck!” His demands were strangled in his throat, as Sephiroth tightened his grip. 

“Keep your voice down, intruder,” he hissed, in Nero’s ear. “If you wake my little sister, I will make sure you regret it.”

So saying, he dragged Nero bodily into the kitchen, by his neck, and shoved him into a chair, in the breakfast nook. Nero’s body moved jerkily under Sephiroth’s control, his hands and feet placing themselves flat on the table and floor, respectively, as if they’d been glued in place. 

Seeing him yanking at them, Sephiroth gave a snort of laughter. “There’s no point in attempting to break free. You’re not even a match for my father, and he is no match for me.”

As he said this, his black leather ensemble, including coat, gloves, trousers, and high boots, warped and shimmered, and he was suddenly wearing his white t-shirt and black jeans, from before.

Nero left off struggling and watched, dumbfounded, as Sephiroth pressed a button on a thing that looked like a miniature rice cooker, then took a baby bottle out of the refrigerator, and put it in the thing.

“Ollie will be up soon. May as well warm up her bottle, now,” he explained, to his bemused captive.

Was this seriously the hero of Wutai? The one-winged angel? The man whose very name struck fear into the hearts of pretty much everyone? Why was he so…domestic?

Sephiroth, meanwhile, wrapped his long, silver hair into a knot, and stuck a chopstick through it, to hold it in place. Next, he got out a glass, filled it with water, and placed it in front of Nero.

“What the hell is this?” Nero demanded. 

“Your glass of water,” Sephiroth answered blandly. “Oh, but how thoughtless of me.” He opened a drawer, from which he produced a bright-purple curly straw, and stuck it into Nero’s glass. “There. No hands required.”

Nero blinked down at the water, then back up at Sephiroth. Now he was taking containers from the refrigerator, and heating a frying pan on the stove. Nero was too spellbound by this bizarre behavior, to bother being contrary, and unconsciously leaned down to take a sip of water, from this idiotic straw. He realized, after that sip, that he was parched with thirst, and drained the glass quickly.

Meanwhile, Sephiroth had put oil, leftover rice, and some vegetables and tofu from supper into the frying pan. After he browned the mixture for a while, he added some garlic and soy sauce, and a few things Nero didn’t recognize. At that point, the enticing, savory-salty aroma permeated the kitchen, and Nero’s stomach growled with hunger. 

He hadn’t come out of his room for supper, from sheer obstinacy, and the dry ration packets they sporadically bothered to toss into his cell in the max-security prison had been frankly inedible. Not that he ate much, anyway. He hadn’t had something he’d call a meal since…

He clenched his teeth against the deep pang of homesickness, when he thought of his brother, and forced his mind back to the immediate present. His thirst had only been whetted by the glass of water, and his lips felt dry and cracked, but he’d be damned if he let any of these people think he wanted anything from them.

To his manifest irritation, Sephiroth stepped over and dumped some kind of orange liquid into his glass, from a cardboard carton. Before he even had a chance to glare at the man, he had already walked away, and was cracking eggs into his steaming frying pan. 

If sitting him here and making him watch the most dangerous man in the world act like a housewife was some form of psychological torture, it was ingenious. But he may as well get what he could out of it. Rationalizing it to himself, as necessary fuel for his body, now that he wasn’t being saturated in mako all day, Nero sucked down the tangy, sweet, slightly aromatic juice.

He was trying to make his exhausted brain work out a plan, for a way escape, when a bowl and spoon were plunked down in front of him, giving him a start. He looked down and grimaced at the contents of the bowl.

“Fried rice,” Sephiroth said.

That was certainly what it looked like. The formerly white rice was now part of a brown, oily mélange, which also included egg, orange and green things he knew were carrots and peas, and various pale bits that must be tofu. It looked disgusting. 

“You expect me to eat this?” 

Sephiroth crossed his arms on his impressive chest. “You didn’t come to supper. I know you’re hungry.”

Nero tossed his head indignantly. “Tch.”

“I’m going to free one of your hands. You will use that spoon to eat everything in that bowl.”

“Like hell I wi—” 

“If you refuse to cooperate, I will feed it to you,” Sephiroth cut him off, with that terrifyingly placid smile.

Nero glowered. “What business is it of yours, anyway? Why do you care if I eat or not?”

“I do not care about you, in the least. But if you starve yourself and become ill, my father will be unhappy.”

“So what? Why should I care if he's unhappy?”

“He is your father, too.”

“That person is not my father! It’s his fault all of this happened! It’s his fault that Weiss—” Nero broke off and looked down at his bowl. “It’s all his fault. I have to get back to my brother. I need to get back to him.”

“Wiess is dead,” Sephiroth said flatly. “You know he is dead. I am the only brother you have, now.”

“No. No. You’re not my brother. Weiss is my brother. He’s the only one. The only one.”

“Eat. Now.”

Knowing it was useless to resist, Nero used his freed hand to pick up the spoon, and sullenly shoved a bite of the strange food into his mouth. He was so surprised, he was unable to entirely conceal his reaction, when he tasted it, at which Sephiroth smirked. 

Nero didn't care. He no longer cared about anything but this bowl of food. He had no idea anything could taste like this. He’d been fed dry rations and nutritional pastes, since he was a child. Weiss was the only person who had ever cooked him a meal, and that had been a bit of tough meat and some mushy, flavorless vegetables. 

This was…this was what food in heaven must taste like. He felt his eyes sting, like they were about to water, so he kept his head down and focused on getting as much of it into his mouth as he could, as quickly as possible, as if he was afraid someone might take it away.

When his bowl was empty, Sephiroth took it and filled it again, without a word. By the time he was halfway through the second bowl, the fatigue hit him full-on. His eyes were drooping and his head kept nodding, but he pressed on resolutely, to the very last bite. 

“You’re fixated on Weiss, because he was your blood relative, and he was kind to you,” Sephiroth said, taking the empty bowl away, to place it in the sink. “But don’t forget, my father is also your blood relative. And he has saved your life twice.”

He turned back to the table, but the black-haired young man had passed out, and was fast asleep in the chair, with his head hanging to one side. Lifting his brother in his arms, like a child, Sephiroth carried him down the hall to his bedroom, where he laid him in his bed, removed his boots, and tucked him in.  

“I was just like you,” he sighed, looking down at the sleeping face, that was so much like their father's. “So terrified to be alone, and so determined to push everyone away. You’ll get better, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

When he returned to the kitchen, he stopped short, stiffening up and becoming suddenly nervous. Vincent was standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, looking around at the frying pan and utensils, and the bowl and things still in the sink. 

“I wasn’t going to leave it,” Sephiroth said hastily. “I was just coming back to clean up.”

Vincent turned around slowly, looking at him with those beautiful, scarlet eyes, that everyone in the family had, but himself. He reached out, suddenly, as if to touch him, and Sephiroth flinched. A reflex, from years of violent abuse, by Hojo and his handlers at Shinra.

Vincent jerked his hand back, looking embarrassed. “Oh, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s—I didn’t mean to—anyway, I’m sorry. Sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up, now.”

Sephiroth hurried to the sink, avoiding his father’s gaze, and set to work cleaning up. Behind him, Vincent reached out again, wavered, then drew back. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For looking after your brother.”

Sephiroth turned, to make some reply, but Vincent was already gone.

LINK TO CH 3.

[nothingxs]

FFXIV Write // Reticent

“You can’t be serious.” Nenera huffed in disapproval.

“Come on! It’ll be fun. Don’t you want to see if those stories Ilysa told us were true?”

Celica’s bright, amber eyes shimmered in the sparse light of the Pearl Lane, open and excited. Nenera groaned, vacillating with what to say next. Celica grinned wider at the chance.

“You’re the one who kept talking about how romantic it all was. The avenging blades, protecting the weak and punishing the wicked.”

“They’re fighting in a gladiator’s pit for blood and sport! There’s no romance in that,” Nenera retorted, exasperated.

“Listen. If it gets ugly, we’ll go. I just want to watch him fight. Please, Nene. I am begging you.” Celica clasped her gloved hands together at the palms, rubbing them together before pushing them against her lips and giving Nenera the most pleading look she could muster.

Nenera’s shoulders sagged, and her eyes rolled even as a chuckle finally escaped her. Celica’s eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Alright—fine. Fine! Let’s go see this so-called Endymion of the Fury.”

—

The crowd was roaring with excitement, the acrid smells of sweat and smoke filling the air.

“DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG!” came the cheers, adding to the cacophony

“And the crowd clearly is united in its appreciation for our tall, dashing Desert Fang! The man who has captured the eyes and imaginations of onlookers near and far over the past few moons, amazed by his tenacity and ability to overcome every challenger thus far!”

Celica and Nenera had elbowed, scurried and pushed their way through the tight crowd until they reached the front. Celica crouched low to join Nenera under the stone guard rail, letting Nenera nestle herself right in between her arms.

“…This is a madhouse.”

“I know! It’s great!”

Her head tipped over Nenera’s left shoulder, they both looked down to the two fighters circling each other in the arena.

One was a massive Roegadyn man with sharp features. The announcer had called him dashing—rightfully so, if Nenera’s nod of approval and quirked brow upon seeing him was any indication. Lean and mean, wielding a hooked sword in one hand and a hatchet in the other, dressed in light, dark-brown leathers that clung tight to his body, with several straps and harnesses for other medium or small weapons.

The other was a tall, Elezen man. Compared to Desert Fang, he was lanky. He walked with a slouch; his upper body was turned to always face his opponent. The upper side of his face was concealed by a black, angular mask that hid his features and obscured his gaze from the world, and that made him seem all the more inscrutable. Blue leathers were his choice for armor on his upper body, but his gauntlets, as well as his chausses and boots, were heavy and plated, and as dark as pitch.

Desert Fang’s stride was confident, secure. It projected a level of self-assurance so profound that it quickly drained the doubt of all that lay eyes upon him.

“DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG! DE-SERT FANG!”

Desert Fang grinned widely and stretched his arms outward, beckoning to the Elezen man.

Celica thought of how unusual the Elezen’s movements felt. How it felt like he was coiled up, as if waiting for a moment to strike. Even in the face of Desert Fang’s taunting.

Desert Fang’s head tilted to the right, the grin on his face still wide. He spun his weapons in his hands and leaned forward just so, before he sprung forward.

The crowd roared.

The Elezen man waited.

“You’re too SLOW!” Desert Fang spat out, winding up with his blade, preparing a low swing that’d rake across his enemy’s front.

He did not count on the Elezen springing forward, faster than he could track, and closing the distance so soon.

Nenera’s breath caught in her throat.

The Elezen man’s shoulder neatly caught Desert Fang square in the chest, and the angle he took robbed his swing of any power. Pushed back, Desert Fang lifted his weapons in a guard as the Elezen man’s right arm lifted the sword onto his right shoulder.

The loud crack of plate against leather was drowned by the cheers.

The raised weapon had been a feint.

The Elezen had swung his leg out in a brutal leg kick, smashing Desert Fang’s leading leg aside and causing him to stumble, losing his footing. Desert Fang’s confidence wavered as searing pain coursed through his leg, and for the first time in his tenure at the Coliseum, he had taken a step back.

The Elezen man slowly circled him, blade resting on his shoulder, held in both hands. His empty, masked stare never wavered.

“…By the Twelve.”

“Right?” Celica felt herself grin ear-to-ear.

“…He’s so hot.”

“Never mind,” came the quick retort and Celica felt it was her turn to be exasperated.

The gladiators didn’t give her the time to be. Desert Fang leapt forward with a thrust of his hooked sword that the Elezen parried with a quick motion of his blade. Desert Fang promptly followed that a a step out and another stab at center mass this time, which the Elezen deftly avoided by stepping back. The crowd had begun to get behind Desert Fang again. He swung, thrust and hacked away, and the Elezen man stepped back and out a little more each time. It looked like he might run himself out of room, with Desert Fang’s strikes leading him off to the side.

The Elezen man stepped back one last time and dropped into a lower stance, choking up on the sword as it lay on his right shoulder, once again coiled to strike. When Desert Fang’s thrust came, the Elezen retorted with a short, tight swing, deflecting the blade to the side, and shoved him off once more with his shoulder.

The crowd’s cheers waned for a moment.

Staggering, Desert Fang turned and swung his hatchet.

The Elezen's grip on his sword shifted, his feet dug into the ground and with a twist of his hips, his greatsword lashed out with full force, crashing into the hatchet and smashing it, the head flying away into the wall of the arena. The man brought his blade forward into a new stance, the overhand grip leaving the blade to jut forward at an angle, covering most of his body.

Celica gaze was fixed on his form.

His movements, his decisions. How he weaved a guard into a strike, a parry into repositioning. How he punished mistakes. How he led and conditioned Desert Fang into committing to them.

“It’s over,” she caught herself whispering.

The crack of the Elezen’s pommel across Desert Fang’s skull echoed through the arena as he dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Celica held onto Nenera tight as her blood boiled with excitement.

—

“No.”

“Come on. What is it. Do you want me to pay for the privilege? I’ll do it.”

The Elezen man shook his head and took another swig of his mug of mead. He didn’t even look her way.

“…Please. Listen, okay. I—”

“No.”

“—I’m begging you. I’ll just come for lessons, and I’ll get out of your hair, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer you not bother me.”

Celica felt her blood run hot, and before she gave into any worse impulses, she threw her hands into the air, groaned in frustration and walked away.

The Elezen man let his gaze follow her as Celica shoved the back door of the Quicksand open and stormed off into the Pearl Lane.

—

“A hundred-and-thirty. A hundred-and-thirty-one. A hundred-and-thirty-two.”

The blade wasn’t precisely like his. First, the ricasso was a bit flatter, which didn’t make much of a difference when she tried to choke up on the blade. Second, it was a broader blade altogether, tapering out after the unsharpened ricasso.

She didn’t seem to care. She kept swinging.

Ilysa kept watching from the side on her bench, having completely lost interest in the book she was writing in and just watching Celica repeat swing after swing after swing.

“Yer gonna fuckin’ melt yer arms off.” Ren shook his head before wiping his forehead with a rag. “Why so fuckin’ obsessed? Why in th’ swelterin’ fuckin’ heat, for cryin’ out loud?”

“A hundred-and-forty-one. A hundred-and-forty-two.” She continued to swing, concentrating.

“...There's no way ya suddenly started fancyin' men for a bell, right?” He looked over at Ilysa with a bit of a shrug. Ilysa laughed, shook her head, and went back to watching Celica swing away.

“A hundred-and-forty-nine. A hundred-and-fifty. A hundred-and-fifty-one…”

Ilysa watched. And wondered.

—

Another evening in the Quicksand.

The Elezen man had just sat on one of the stools, arms folding onto the counter as he leaned forward. In the next stool over, Ilysa turned to look in his direction.

She smiled.

“Ser Hector.”

The Elezen man turned and looked at her. He studied her features for a long moment, then nodded. “You look well, miss Ilysa.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“Maybe not.” He nodded and leaned back onto the counter, staying quiet.

“I heard you’ve met my friend.”

“…Mm.” He shook his head.

“Oh, no? I suppose that red-headed firecracker’s made it all up, then?” A quirk of the brow was joined by an incredulous smirk that crept upon her face.

Hector winced in his seat and lifted his left hand, leaning against it to cracking his neck to the left, then to the right. “Her. Yes.”

“Ah! So you have, then. Good.” She clapped her hands together, grinning.

“She's been after me every single day this past sennight."

"She's very persistent, isn't she?"

"I’m not doing it.”

Ilysa reached over and put her hand on his arm. Her grin softened to a smile.

“Please, Hector. She’s aimless right now. She has tried in so many other ways. She has no star to guide her." Her grip tightened. "But you…”

Hector let out a long sigh and turned his head. “I’m no Paladin. You realize this, yes?”

Ilysa’s smile remained. She nodded. “Neither is she.”

Hector’s eyebrows raised for a moment. A woman on the other side of the counter set a frothy tankard in front of him and slid it over to him. He reached out to it and pulled it close, nodding quietly as he gripped it with both of his hands.

“No promises.”

She ran as she always did each morning, along the outer rung of the Goblet, quickly dashing up stairs and maintaining a decent pace.

She was not expecting to see the Elezen man from a distance, sat in the open space that she normally used to practice. She couldn’t see any of her friends. She hadn’t seem him in the Quicksand in days. Was she in trouble?

Wait. Were any of them in trouble?

She pulled up a distance away, her jog slowing to a walk as she did, the sword Ilysa had let her borrow strapped to her back. She gave him a serious look, and she felt a knot in her chest catch in her throat as she spoke.

“…Mornin’, Ser... what was it. Endymion of the Fury, yeah?" Her brow furrowed deeper. "Anything I can help you with?”

Hector chuckled and slowly rose to his feet, not bothering to dust himself. “No.”

“…Then?”

“Your friend is as stubborn as you.”

Celica’s eyebrows both rose.

“I expect you here every sun at the crack of dawn.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Let us see what we can make of you.”

[shining-scion]

Your heart always remembered this, but your mind is just starting to. 

Of course, you were too young to really remember anything at all, but you know.

You were too small to see past the walls of the deck, so it was all sky, all colors— pinks and blues and purples and stars. Oh, the stars, how you loved them, glimmering with mana you’d never harness for yourself, falling and trailing light and dust, marking the path to a place you’d never go.

If you couldn’t see past the deck walls, you surely couldn’t see their faces, but you knew who they were. She was a long coattail and a decorated sword at her belt, a wide brimmed hat that shrouded her face in shadow when she knelt down to speak to you face to face. She was a sharp confident voice that commanded and a cheerful song that celebrated. She was recklessness and passion and chance.

He was her mirror, a short shining pistol that covered her flank and a quiet smooth voice that spoke with purpose. He was tall boots and rough gloves, a worn map aged yellow clasped in his hand. You can’t remember his face either, but he was logic and reason and observation.

And you were with them always, from the moment you knew you were yourself. They would put you on their shoulders and you’d see the world from the eyes of indomitable giants, aboard a little world all its own as you strode through a much bigger one. You’d reach up and touch worn cloth, pull on rough rope, and sometimes you’d fly just close enough to a cloud that you could almost graze your fingers against it if you were quick enough.

There were others too. You know there was a shorter man who spent quite a lot of time playing with you when they were too busy to. You called him uncle, which they approved of, and found rather charming. You know who he is now, and the name you called him back in that dream of a memory was incorrect, said by a voice too young to know such a thing.

Both of you were in the room below the surface when it happened. The night was warm and seeping through the boards of the ship, creaking of wood replacing cricket song, and you had no idea where you were sailing to, or if you were going anywhere at all, or even where in the great sky you were. You were only in the sky, surrounded by faceless giants that laughed and split shiny things amongst themselves, and that was all you cared to know.

You were speaking to your uncle excitedly when he came in, ruffling your hair first before speaking with soft urgency.

Ship. Looks strange. Not one I recognize.

And then a reply.

War. Machines. Men.

A word you were told not to repeat.

He leaves, quicker than he came in. Your uncle tries to return back to the fun you were having a moment ago, but now you’re curious. You ask to go to the surface, where you can see the sky. He tells you you’ll catch a cold, but the night is warm so you know he’s lying.

You know not to be trouble when a lot of things start happening, so you try to return to playing. She comes in a few moments later, just as the room shakes.

She leans down to your level, but the light in the room obscures her expression. She speaks to you sweetly, calmly, but quickly.

It’s going to be loud. Stay here. Stay with uncle ???.

And she hugs you, and then she draws her sword, shouting words you don’t understand. Your uncle slams the door just as you see something bright and orange. He begins to open drawers and cabinets, stuffing a bag older than you are with things you don’t have time to see. He explains some things, but the words are big and unknowable. You only catch a few.

Military. Mechanical. Inhuman.

The room shakes and quivers, and you begin to cry as he takes your hand, rushing out to the deck, starry sky obscured by black clouds and bright hot metals you only see when they rush past you and hit a sail. 

There’s a man with her, and he’s wearing well pressed clothes with a stiff posture. His head is white but you can’t really tell.

There’s nowhere to go and all the giants in your little world are rushing to stand by her. The man you do not recognize has a ship behind him, and that ship has claws digging into the soft wood you thought invincible. The man says something without moving even an inch, a flat monotone voice you can’t make words out of. She draws her sword and stabs towards him, but he’s smooth and has something silver in his hand that he points when he steps aside and your uncle covers your eyes as another loud sound slams against your little ears.

Your eyes are covered as the world grows more unsteady, and when they’re not covered you’re running, and it’s so bright, but not like the day when there’s birds and singing. 

At some point your uncle is gone and your world is breaking and cracking and on fire. You find a big piece of what you now know is ruin, and you cling to it very tightly as it floats with magic you’ll never learn or understand, and when everything is quiet again you are alone and the sky is empty and you are small.

The sun shines down on your skin when something grabs the back of your shirt. You don’t look at your rescuers as they take you somewhere where the stars always shine and smog crushes your chest. They speak of you in a tone that makes you ashamed, that you were raised strangely, without “discipline”— that it’ll take strict effort to make you a person worth much at all. Your little voice doesn’t speak, instead staring towards that sky and wishing it was you departing from those docks you’re soon not allowed to even walk near.

There’s pirate in you, they say as you grow. Dangerous and untamed, impolite. You’ll thank us later, when you’re older and have a good head on your shoulders.

One of them insists you call them father, and the other insists she’s your mother, but you feel no attachment to either of them as they tell you how to dress and walk and speak and act and think.

So you become greedy and hold onto every piece of gold you can find on the street, from money for lunch you never buy, and then you sneak out one very cold and very dark night, to that dock, and you beg the man with the worn ship to take a passenger. He looks at you, and you’re a little taller now, so you look up back at him.

He steps aside and does not say a word. You lose another home that night.

You think you’re almost grown up when you see the men in the well pressed coats again. You know their name now.

Armada.

Your mind forgot, but your heart remembers, and when the metal men come to your new home, it’s only a matter of days before you act brashly, swift as you’ve become from years of exploring your world. You think yourself free now, and that was true— it feels very good to stand against the machines you don’t remember, until your little sword— a plaything, really— is knocked from your hands and you’re led away in chains, made an example of.

You smile bravely as they take you.

Now in your present, you lay in the same room he and she once did, and your mind knows their names now— Mama and Papa. You know some of their crewmates, and you know just exactly where they went to that made them so infallible. Now you’re to head there yourself, you assume.

The wooden boards creek in the darkness, and you can swear you hear your mama’s voice singing in the space between. The swaying of the old vessel almost feels like how she used to sway you on stormy nights, and if you close your eyes you can almost pull yourself back there, tear a hole in time just like a stormgate tears a hole to the outer dark. Some part of you is forever in this sky, your surname etched in the windlines— no longer bound by mortal syllabary, rather written in the script of stars and clouds.

Forever in the wind, never to be anyone’s daughter.