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

[eorzeashan]

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

[minecraftbookshelf]

In the Age of Icons: Mistakes Are Made

Chapter One: The Day Of

A Marriage of State AU Fic

[AU Masterpost (includes the AO3 link)]

Characters: Jimmy Solidarity, Xornoth, Katherine Elizabeth, Mythical J Sausage

Relationships (for the AU as a whole): Eventual (very slow burn) Flower Husbands, (established) Shadowbeans/Jizzie, (obnoxiously new) Jornoth, Eventual (very far future) Nature Wives

Wordcount: 4214

Rating On AO3: This particular fic is rated T, future installments in the AU may go all the way up to E for graphic violence but most will be between T & M

Chapter POV: Jimmy Solidarity & Xornoth

Summary:

The Codfather weaves his fingertips together so that the slight webbing between his fingers touches. It's the first time in a while he's had both hands away from his shoulder, where at least one has been hovering near his sword hilt almost the entire time, despite Katherine's glares. "It's a marriage treaty, between the royalty of the oppositions, bound in blood and salt, for peace and mutual gain." His voice has gained a slight sing-song cadence to it, even through what is clearly a slightly stumbling translation, that Xornoth recognizes from their own anytime they are reciting something from their childhood lessons, even to this day.

Warnings: A sort of general reminder of the narrative tool "Unreliable Narrators"

This AU features multiple arranged marriages across the spectrum of platonic-romantic and the complicated nuances of chosen and arranged.

Any section from Xornoth's POV does have parts that read like very violent and occasionally graphic intrusive thoughts due to the whole "there is a demon living in their head" thing. If that's something you think you might have issues with, please proceed with caution if you choose to proceed at all.

--

Jimmy spends the majority of his flight to the Overgrown fuming and imagining the many different ways he could kill Sausage. It's cathartic indulgence and if he's busy imagining swarms of axolotls and pufferfish descend on the Mythlandic king in his minds' eye than he isn't worrying about the actual situation and what it could potentially mean for him and the Swamp.

Much. He isn't worrying about it much.

The fact that Sausage had made it past the Swamp border and all the way to Jimmy's house without being seen or stopped is...fine. It's fine.

The wind catches Jimmy's elytra at an odd angle and he dips alarmingly low for a heart-jolting moment; his tail flailing out on instinct in an attempt to steady him in a non-existent current. He catches himself before he actually crashes into the treetops, though he does have to bank hard to the left in a way that pulls the harness sharp against his shoulder. The joint twinges at the strain and he grimaces. He'll probably feel that tomorrow. He's been skipping out on his stretches, in all the chaos of the escalating tensions, and his bad side has been worse than usual. He can feel the tension of the old scar tissue at his elbow and the tightness of the muscle down his neck and shoulder.

Joel will yell at him for that.

On the bright side, maybe he'll go to war with the Mythlands and then he'll be too busy to get yelled at. He thinks Pix would call that 'silver linings.'

The trees thin out and give way to green grass fields dotted with sheep and flowers and Jimmy angles his trajectory downwards. The magic saturating the Border of the Overgrown brushes his scales as he enters and he shudders. It doesn't matter how many times he comes to visit Katherine, every time is just as unsettling. It feels like the time he bit an electric eel as a fry. A tingle and a buzzing that leaves the webbing between his fingers numb and his teeth hurting.

Katherine's house materializes on the horizon, the layers of glamour falling away and Jimmy banks into a spiral to land. He's been airborne for so long that he's barely even damp and, last minute, he decides to land in the water feature instead of on the grass surrounding it. He lands in the fountain with a splash and a sigh, the water closing over his head and offering blessed relief. His gills flare, water flowing freely through his right side and even managing a pass on his left. He allows himself a moment to settle beneath the surface and let the itchy dry feeling of his scales fade, away from the biting cold and thin air of the skyways.

He rolls over and stares at the sky, taking a minute to just exist. It's uncomfortable; his elytra, his trident, and his sword all pressing into his spine, but at least it is calm and quiet.

His view is almost immediately obstructed by a far, far too familiar silhouette tinted red and gold.

Jimmy bolts upright and almost slams his forehead into Sausage's.

He scrambles back and to his feet where he stands, dripping, in the fountain to the backdrop of the displeased gazes of Katherine's door guards and the giggles of the King of Mythland.

How did this go so wrong so fast?

"Hello, Jimmy!"

He manages to clamber out of the fountain without tripping and falling flat on his face at least. He splashes Katherine in the process, where she is hovering off to the side but he can't really be bothered to worry about that. All he can manage to do is stare at Sausage's smirking face.

"Hello, Jimmy!"

Katherine's greeting is much less mocking and Jimmy looks back down to acknowledge it. Way down. Katherine is the shortest emperor and the white tips of her ears barely clear his elbow. She is smiling up at him as if she hasn't invited him to her house only to ambush him with one of his greatest enemies. As if he hadn't trusted that her home was safe. As if he hadn't trusted that she would stand with him.

"What is he doing here?" He jerks his chin at Sausage, who is still giggling like a child. He sees Jimmy looking and grins at him, all teeth.

Behind the mask, Jimmy bares his own teeth and takes some comfort in the knowledge that he has more of them; and they are sharper. He straightens his spine and does his best to stand at his full height instead of curling slightly to the left. His sword and trident clank softly together over his shoulder.

Katherine looks briefly unsure before she sets her expression and gestures at her door. "We should all go inside and talk there. I would like to help negotiate peace between The Swamp and Mythland."

She's using her official voice. Sausage keeps giggling and Jimmy can barely hear it beneath the roar in his ears. He leans down to try and whisper into the faerie queen's ear.

"I really need your alliance right now, Katherine." He hopes his desperation doesn't show in his voice.

She gives him a reproving look that throws him right back to his brief time spent in a classroom. "I'm allied with everyone, Jimmy. You know that."

"He invaded the Swamp," Jimmy hisses, his ear-fins flaring, ignoring the shudder down his spine from her use of his Name, even in part. "He crossed our borders. Again. He's threatened war." He's no longer whispering by the end, standing to his full height, shoulders back, sword hand by his shoulder.

"And according to him, you've threatened it right back!"

It's almost a physical blow, the way the betrayal hits him. He manages to keep from physically staggering back only because Sausage appears beside him and throws an arm over his shoulder. Something the Mythlandic king has to stand on tiptoe to accomplish. It yanks Jimmy uncomfortably sideways and down and his trident almost slips from his back.

"Come on, Jimmy! Let's talk!" Sausage smiles, all teeth like an alligator, lurking on the surface of the water. "We can make peace!"

Jimmy knocks his arm away and straightens, doing his best to loom over the other ruler. His extra foot of height should be more of an advantage than if feels like. He grabs for the hilt of his sword and is only stopped by Katherine, who flies right up into his face to frown at him.

"No weapons!" She shakes her finger right in front of his mask and Jimmy clamps down on the instinctive urge to yank up the Codfather head and bite it. That would be no help to anyone, especially himself. No one takes him seriously as it is. Except maybe Pix. Maybe.

Instead he focuses on glaring at Sausage over Katherine's shoulder. The king of Mythland beams back at him, hands clasped innocently in front of himself (well away from the hilt of his own greatsword), head cocked to the side. The picture of harmless amiability were it not for the malicious sparkle in his eyes. Ohhhhhh how Jimmy would love to feed his organs to Lizzie's axolotls. He flexes his claws before Katherine grabs his arm and tugs him towards her front door, six tiny fingertips digging into his scales above his vambraces. (The embossed leather the only armor he'd worn, he hadn't realized he'd wish for more.)

Sausage trails behind them and as much as Jimmy reminds himself that not even Sausage would have the audacity to attack him in Katherine's house (probably) he can't quite shake the prickling tension from having an enemy at his back. It feels like the first time Lizzie and Joel took him to clear an ancient monument and he'd stalked through the twisty corridors and boxy rooms with the creeping feeling of being stalked in turn.

Sausage slips and almost falls on some of the tacky slime he'd accidentally tracked in and that does help. Even if he does feel bad for messing up Katherine's floor. He can feel the impassively judgmental stare from Katherine's guards, who's features do not change but still somehow radiate disapproval. He knows he probably shouldn't take it personally, most fae don't think highly of outsiders but it still feels personal.

Sausage recovers quickly and shakes out the fur lining of his coat. "Is it just me or does it smell fishy in here, now?"

"Sausage," Katherine looks disapprovingly back over her shoulder. "That's rude."

"Oh," Sausage blinks at them both, "I'm sorry, Jimmy, I didn't realize."

Jimmy wants to stab him so badly, he sets his shoulders and refrains. He can do this. He's technically trained for this, even if the skills are rusty, fallen aside before the more hands on duties that rebuilding the Swamp has required.

"Oh, this one is new!" Sausage immediately changes the subject, pointing at one of the skulls hanging on the wall of the hall. It's some kind of middling-sized land animal...a sheep maybe? with poppies filling the eye sockets and woven in a crown, there are delicate lines of gold painted across the surface of the bleached bone.

Katherine beams, her irritation at the rudeness forgotten (or at least set aside, fae never truly forget breaches of etiquette) "It is! It's a gift from a childhood friend," she looks fondly upon the skull for a moment. "We've been reconnecting lately."

Sausage nods sagely, "It is always good to spend time with your friends."

"It is," Katherine's ears twitch and her wings flutter briefly before she resumes walking. "Which is why we are going to fix this."

She leads them down the hall towards her library, a room so thoroughly warded that Jimmy can feel the magic against his scales when he passes through the door in an echo of the fae-realm boundaries.

It is a cozy room, despite the elegance and delicacy. It makes Jimmy feel out of place and reminds him a little bit of Lizzie's war room, if a better lit and less damp version. Every corner is full of plants and flowers and books and crystals, and blessedly free of guards and staff and other judging eyes. It's just Jimmy and Katherine and Sausage and the Elvenking sitting in the corner.

Jimmy may or may not do a full and proper double take.

Huge white and black wings, glittering obsidian antlers, an incongruous cup of tea on the side table. Apparently this meeting has interrupted the...reading time? of the King of Rivendell. Jimmy grits his teeth at the presence of one more ally for Sausage and turns his attention to the other two rulers instead. He'll worry about the Elvenking if they decide to become a problem.

-

In retrospect, Xornoth probably should have left as soon as Katherine escorted Sausage and The Codfather into her library, her expression tense and serious despite the cheerful tone to her chatter but in all honesty they were so startled at first that they froze. Now its been just long enough it would be too awkward to get up and leave. And the others are in-between them and the door, which just makes it worse. So they sit in the corner, tome in hand, trying their hardest to pretend they aren't getting a front row seat to the latest incarnation of the Mythland-Swamp dispute, featuring The Codfather's tangible rage and frustration over Katherine's stubborn neutrality.

(Which is understandable, but arguing a fae over their nature is a futile task and The Codfather seems too much a fool to realize it.)

The palpable hostility in the room has Xornoth's feathers fluffing against their will. Katherine is doing her best to mediate but she might as well try to climb a cliff-face in a blizzard. Sausage seems more interested in taunting The Codfather than coming to any kind of agreement and The Codfather himself stubbornly refuses to even consider any kind of negotiations until...a disc is returned?

Meaningless frivolity.

Xornoth isn't quite sure of the intricacies of the Mythland-Swamp conflict, since most of it happened during Rivendell's seclusion and so they don't even have any accounts of it other than what has been acquired in the past few decades. Accounts that are, somewhat understandably, for the most part slanted towards the Mythlandic perspective. (It is Mythland that Xornoth is allied with and it is Mythland that writes things down while The Swamp seems to lean heavily towards oral histories.) They don't think they've heard anything about a disc before, that might be new.

Both Sausage and The Codfather are known for their chaotic natures. If this does escalate to war (as both have threatened multiple times in the past hour) they will both involve their allies. As much fun as it would be to go toe-to-toe with the King of Mezalea in the arena, if Xornoth has to deal with wartime logistics because of these two acting like elflings not yet out of the home, they will just walk off into the mountains and wait for the winter to take them.

Do not pretend such reluctance. I see the truth.

Xornoth turns a page.

"At this point," The Codfather snarls, leaning on the back of the sofa he is standing by, looking inches away from leaping across the library to strangle Sausage (or try to at least) regardless of Katherine's policy on unapproved violence, his speech has been steadily growing more formal as the debate raged on, but also with a lot more insults in a multitude of languages. (Which Sausage had been more than happy to return.) "I don't think I'd trust even a-" he makes a series of humming, clicking syllables that Xornoth recognizes as Oceanic, but does not understand "-from you lot!"

That, of all things, is what grinds the entire conversation to a halt. Even Sausage stops his mocking dance around the edge of the room to look at The Codfather in confusion. "A who now?"

Katherine is frowning in concentration, mouthing words to herself while she tries to translate. "An...in-law treaty?"

"You know," The Codfather waves a hand dismissively. "A Binding Agreement."

At least he's speaking Mythlandic again, a language Xornoth supposedly understands.

"No, we don't know," Katherine still looks confused by also speculative. "Please explain. What kind of binding exactly is this?"

The Codfather weaves his fingertips together so that the slight webbing between his fingers touches. It's the first time in a while he's had both hands away from his shoulder, where at least one has been hovering near his sword hilt almost the entire time, despite Katherine's glares. "It's a marriage treaty, between the royalty of the oppositions, bound in blood and salt, for peace and mutual gain."

His voice has gained a slight sing-song cadence to it, even through what is clearly a slightly stumbling translation, that Xornoth recognizes from their own anytime they are reciting something from their childhood lessons, even to this day. They've never been able to quite shake the "student voice."

You are still only a student. And you will be so long as you refuse to take what is rightfully ours.

"Oh!" Katherine's face lights up with recognition and she bounces on her toes, wings aflutter. "I read about that! It's an Oceanic thing!"

Oceanic, not Swamp. Interesting.

The Codfather tilts his head to the side, radiating bewilderment despite the mask completely obscuring his features. "Um...yeah? Wait, do land-folk not do those? At all?"

Both Sausage and Katherine shake their head and Katherine expands verbally, talking right over the Codfather's hushed 'oh.'

"Not between empires, not since the Worldspawn Treaty. It's not uncommon for different families within an empire to form alliance through marriage though."

Xornoth wisely stays silent, though they can't quite help but touch the enchanted jewel fastening their cape at the shoulder. Only Katherine notices, but she's the only one of present company who knows what it means anyway.

"Oh," The Codfather seems a bit taken aback. "I thought it was just that it hadn't happened recently, not that you didn't at all."

"No," Sausage looks intrigued. "We don't."

"We could though," Katherine says suddenly, looking ecstatic. "The treaty just rendered those kinds of alliances of limited use, it didn't forbid them. What about a marriage truce between The Wither Rose Alliance and The Swamp!"

All three of them stare at the faerie queen like she's crazy. (At least, Xornoth is assuming that's what The Codfather's emotions are.) Sausage's eyebrows alone are conveying enough skepticism for the whole room. The Codfather's tail swishes uneasily.

Like a fish on a hook.

Sausage latches onto the movement with a smirk. "Aw! Do you not want to marry me, Jimmy?"

"I would rather move to the desert," The Codfather says without hesitation. "Or the Nether."

"Maybe not the two of you," Katherine says, even her spiteful optimism clearly powerless against the reality of what the outcome of that would be. Wise of her. Xornoth doesn't trust them to not kill each other before they make it to the wedding night. If they even made it to the wedding itself. "We are trying to make peace, not break it irreparably. But the Wither Rose Alliance is the largest alliance. Surely something can be arranged. For a...Binding Agreement the two parties have to be of equal or near-equal standing, right?"

"Well yes, but-"

"So," she says triumphantly, cutting The Codfather off before he can even get started. "One of the other emperors?"

There is a moment of silence as they all contemplate, even Sausage looking more focused than usual.

They are going to hurt themselves, trying that hard to utilize what little intelligence they have.

"Fwhip?" Sausage eventually offers, somewhat unsure, but also clearly just trying for a reaction.

And he gets one; a loud, rattly, snarling hiss that, despite usually considering The Codfather's threat level somewhere between "negligible" and "non-existent", Xornoth find themself sitting up straighter and even has Sausage taking a step back, visibly startled. Deep in the corner of their mind that Xornoth does their best to ignore, a shudder of disquiet resonates for a moment before being cut off.

Katherine's eyes are wide and, seemingly without realizing it, she takes to the air slightly, hovering over the floor, set to evade any attacks. Xornoth realizes that their hand is on the hilt of their sword and slowly, so as not to draw attention, they withdraw it back to their book. Their wings stay mantled, primaries brushing against he walls of their alcove.

"Okay, not Fwhip," Katherine says hurriedly, slowly dropping back down to the floor and smoothing her skirt out in a nervous gesture she's had since she was small. Usually she does better at controlling herself. She'd had the unphased exterior trained into her well before Xornoth ever met her and, however amiable and relaxed she likes to appear, they know its always there beneath.

If we pinned her wings to the wall like a butterfly and made her watch, that would phase her.

Xornoth contemplates smashing the side of their head into the wall. Unconsciousness has about a 50/50 chance of bringing peace and quiet with it. Unfortunately, the hangings in this library nook are imported from Rivendell, several layers of thick woolen brocade. It probably wouldn't be a very effective attempt. And would have them looking crazy in front of two allies and a...not quite enemy. (Though if they don't sort this out that will probably be changing very soon.)

Let there be war, one step closer to our full power.

Katherine has moved on. "What about Gem?"

Sausage snorts a laugh but also looks a little terrified at the idea of even suggesting such a thing. Perhaps the wisest he's been all day, based off what Xornoth has gathered about what seems to amount to a neighbors' spat between him and The Codfather. (Albeit a neighbors spat with centuries of animosity behind it and that is now threatening war.)

The Codfather shakes his head a little frantically, the copper-beaded tassels on the side of the mask clinking against the trident slung across his back. "She's scary."

He seems to realize that he said that out loud and quickly scrambles like a fish suffocating on a rock to cover for it. "And, uh, Great Wizard isn't a title with a lot of..." He flounders a bit. "There could be a new Great Wizard tomorrow, if someone beat her. It has to be a more permanent title."

Personally, Xornoth finds the likelihood of anyone replacing Gemini Tay at any point during a mortal lifetime (and possibly longer) very, very unlikely. It takes a lot to outshine bringing the dragons back. But The Codfather is right. And not only is Gem scary, she's also mean. Which most people don't realize because she spends so much time keeping Fwhip and Sausage from getting themselves killed. Xornoth has been to enough Wither Rose meetings to fear her though. She would eat The Codfather alive.

They do also find themself a little bit impressed, they hadn't thought he had that level of awareness of the internal workings o the other kingdoms.

If we gutted him like a fish he'd squeal so nicely.

It's been a while since Xornoth turned a page. They turn a page.

"Pearl can't be that closely tied to any other ruler," Katherine keeps going. "Too many people across the Empires rely on their trade with her and it isn't fair to your people to risk their well-being that way."

Honestly, if it came to war, Xornoth is fairly certain that Pearl would fight to remain neutral. It would destroy her, being unable to help her friends. Rip that golden heart of hers right out of her chest and shred it in the dust, but so many people from all the lands depend on Helianthia's crops and herds to remain fed. And her sense of duty, to her own people and all the others would take precedence over her loyalty to her friends, and that would kill her swifter than any blade.

If the war did not destroy her lands, and her with them, first.

The page in their white-knuckled grip begins to tear on the edge.

Rip them all to pieces, give the farmer the fight she wants.

Rivendell would follow Helianthia, Xornoth acknowledges. They are not as selfless as Pearl. And even if they were, they could not condemn Rivendell to another harsh winter of starvation and death. They would stand to defend her against all comers (and there would be many who came, lured by the resources she guarded) both as a friend and as a political alliance. Rivendell is not back to the point of being able to sustain themselves, not if the winters continue to worsen the way they have been. Loathe as they are to admit it, even inside their own head where no one can hear.

Well, no one but-

Wheat fields burn so easily, all it would take is a single spark in the right place and all of Mythland would be in flames.

Carefully, carefully, Xornoth sets their book down on the table beside them and places their hands in their lap. Katherine will stop allowing them to borrow her books if they start spontaneously combusting them. Hopefully she doesn't notice the slightly singed cover.

"Joey?" Now it is Katherine who's skepticism is betrayed in her voice and Sausage actually snorts a laugh. All three of them look over at Xornoth, though The Codfather quickly looks away again.

Free us of the silly bird.

"Good luck with that," Sausage says, giggling, and waggles his eyebrows at Xornoth. They pretend to not see, giving their full attention to the tapestry on the wall beside them in a vain attempt at pretending that their painfully un-subtle affair is not the most gossiped about topic among the emperors at present.

This is an old one, probably gifted by their grandparents to the House Blossom Lady of the time. The knot-work symbol in the corner is one they are unfamiliar with, not the signature of any artisan from their lifetime.

"And Xornoth is already married," Katherine doesn't acknowledge Sausage's behavior, beyond an annoyed look, which is probably for the best.

The Codfather jerks his head sharply to the side, "and that's all the royals in your alliance." He sounds almost smug. "None of them work."

And that is when Xornoth makes what they will refer to for centuries to come as "The Mistake." They pick their book back up and affect disinterest as they impulsively decide to wipe the smug grin they are imagining off The Codfather's face. "There is my brother."

There is a long moment of silence. Xornoth eventually looks up and gets their first inkling of how badly they might have just messed up when they see the astonished expression on Sausage's face, and the slowly dawning delight on Katherine's. They stubbornly ignore the blank cod-face staring directly at them.

Why do you consistently choose to prove your incompetence.

"Your brother is alive?" Sausage says but is cut off by Katherine.

"Oh!" she says, bouncing on her toes, hands clasped under her chin. "That's perfect!"

--

Chapter Two [TBA]

Chapter Three [TBA]

[dont-offend-the-bees]

I am defo not gonna write this bc the sheer amount of worldbuilding is beyond my mental capacity rn but I would go absolutely insane for some kind of Payneland Legend of Zelda AU.

Like BOTW is what comes to mind immediately — Edwin as the clever prince, triforce of wisdom, descended from the Goddess and trying desperately to live up to his family expectations and harness his power in time to stop a great evil rising, fearing all the time that it's out of his reach and he's not good enough and he'd be better off pursuing his scientific inclinations to help shore up tactics and defences.

And his knight, Charles (who DEFINITELY talks more than Link lmao), courage incarnate, who is to be the champion that fights the great evil if Edwin fails to harness his powers, so naturally at first Edwin resents him and sees him as a symbol of his failure that he can't get away from bc it's Charles' duty to be by his side at all times, a constant reminder.

But he grows closer to him, he grows to know him and like him. He likes this strange little man with his odd goofy and feral qualities, who'd lay down his life for Edwin in a heartbeat. They confide in each other about the burdens put on them by their fathers, about what they'd do if only they ever had a choice in the matter. It's Charles who is there for him when Edwin is hollowed out, his prayers unanswered and his power unresponding. It's Charles who takes the weight of the world off Edwin's shoulders and takes it on himself.

So when the evil does return, and Edwin feels as unprepared as ever, he insists on trying to fight any way he can, even if that just means being there by Charles' side. It's Edwin crying in the mud of the battlefield when all is lost and it's all his fault. It's Charles fighting to his last, not a hope in hell of defeating the evil but if he can protect his prince, that's something, that's all that matters. And when Charles falls and a monster goes for the final blow, it's Charles' life in danger that finally awakens Edwin's power.

But Charles is dead — or near enough — and the evil has risen. Edwin cannot vanquish it alone in his state, but he can contain it. And if they hurry, there might be hope for Charles, too.

And so Charles awakens, a hundred years later in the Shrine of Resurrection. The world he knew is a war-torn ruin that nature has begun to reclaim. Most of his memories are gone, but the ghosts and ruins of the land tell him what must be done; tell him that the boy who was once his prince has been enduring a neverending torment for the last century, locking himself in the castle with the evil and doing everything in his power to keep it contained there. That only Charles can save him. He has to find allies, find his sword and, if possible, his memories. His entire life and purpose coming back to him in drips and drabs, in memories of Edwin, as he forms connections all over the ruptured land with the pockets of people descended from the survivors of the cataclysm.

In the end, it takes both of them to defeat the evil. Prince and knight, reunited after a hundred years. Two boys, sixteen and a hundred and sixteen, lost in time. Finally, they are both ready. Finally, Edwin and the land are free from torment once more; and Edwin and Charles can be together once again.

[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

[muffinlance]

PEEEEEASE!!! Some Song and zuko shenanigans!!! I just love how you write them <3<3<3

The ostrich-horse comes back weeks after she was stolen. She raises one big foot and scratches at her harness, which clearly hasn’t been tightened properly, because the saddle finishes slipping sideways and dumps the thief himself into the dirt outside her stable. Song is just coming off from a shift at the clinic, so her first thought isn’t That bastard, it’s Dehydration, probable sunstroke, has he had a single meal since he left us, that bastard.

His eyes are closed. His breathing is shallow. She nudges him with a foot, then pats him down. Two swords and a knife get hidden in the shed at the bottom of a grain bin. She draws up two buckets of cool water from the well. One of them goes in the ostrich-horse’s trough. The good girl coos, and drinks greedily. The other one goes over the thief’s head.

He sits up, sputtering.

“Hello, Junior,” she says, and drops the bucket on him, too. 

“What? Where? …Song?”

He doesn’t have the grace to look sheepish. But she’ll take the flash of fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders twitch under the lacking weight of his swords, the way his hands convulse around the bucket. It feels good. Probably not in a way she should like, but it’s not like she’s planning to do whatever it is he’s afraid of. 

(He was afraid the last time he was here, too. But not of her.)

“The well’s in back,” she says. “Get a drink. Don’t make yourself puke. And don’t steal my bucket.”

She’s moved on to brushing the ostrich-horse’s feathers when he comes back. The ostrich-horse has moved on to pecking grain. Li is holding the bucket, and wobbling a little. His skin is still sun-flushed.

“Sit down,” she orders, pointing to the porch, with its shady overhang. 

“What…?”

“Sit.”

She finishes rubbing down the ostrich-horse’s feathers. Checks her feet for scuffs and stones, and her legs for strains. Then she walks past a sitting, wide-eyed Li, goes into the house, and comes back with a basket of carrot-potatoes and a scrub brush. 

“Clean these,” she orders. “You know where the water is.”

And he’s already got a bucket to do the washing in. He’s been clutching it since she handed it to him. She’s getting a little sick, of that cornered pygmy puma look of his.

“You got a meal and an ostrich-horse rental from us, last time,” she says. “This time, it’s payment up front. With interest.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Work for it,” Song says.

Li has no idea how to clean a tuber. He’s very diligently overdoing it when her mother comes home.

“Hmm,” she says quietly, stopping next to Song. “Do I need to get someone?”

Li’s shoulders stiffen, because he’s got better hearing than either of them thought, and because he has to know that ostrich-horse theft isn’t treated lightly. Their town isn’t big enough to warrant guardsmen, but a few neighbors and a rope would get things done. 

“He’s starving,” Song says, after moving this conversation farther away. 

“Hmm,” says her mother.

“Our ostrich-horse isn’t.”

They both stare across the yard. At a refugee with golden eyes, who doesn’t know how to even start preparing his own meal. But whatever money he had, however he’d gotten it, he’d let their bird—his bird—eat first. 

They don’t let him sleep in the stable, for obvious reasons. He doesn’t run off in the night, for less obvious ones.

[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...

[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.”

[tozettastone]

for the ask prompt thing: itachi/sakura #6

Sakura woke to the fire alarm.

I am going to kill Uchiha Itachi, she thought, in the furious privacy of her mind where she kept all her most antisocial impulses.

Instead of leaping out of her bed and scrambling for her wallet so she could walk down five flights of stairs and stand out in the cold, she lay silently in her bed for ten shrill, agonising seconds. In the apartment to her right, dogs began to howl, but they were almost drowned out by the alarm.

The idea that it might actually be a real alarm this time finally got her moving. She wrapped herself in her blanket, scooped up her bag from beside the door, and shuffled outside to the landing.

The first time this had happened she'd ended up in a long stream of evacuees marching down the stairs at midnight, all in their pyjamas and house slippers and dressing gowns. Her right-side neighbour had been out on the landing, clipping leashes and harnesses to three large dogs to take them along down the stairs. One of them was a lean, high-strung racing breed that had panicked and started screaming in the close, windowless space of the stairwell and had needed to be tossed over his shoulder to come along.

"Sorry," her neighbour had said, smiling with one visible eye over his face mask. "He's a little excitable. Could you hold Pakkun?"

And so Sakura had ended up cradling Kakashi's incredibly chill little pug all the way out onto the street.

That was two months ago.

Two months... and sixteen evacuations.

This afternoon, Kakashi hadn't even bothered to evacuate. Sakura wished she could be as blithely irresponsible as him. He was undoubtedly going to be rewarded for ignoring the alarm. But she worked in the ER and had seen, plenty of times, what happened to people's lungs when Konoha's—historical, wooden, highly flammable—residential buildings went up in smoke.

Now, the evacuees were a trickle, not a stream. Half the building had clearly gotten Kakashi's memo and stopped bothering. So she was really torn between thinking, it had better be a real emergency this time, and hoping it was another piece of burnt toast.

Sakura really did not want to get called in to treat half her building for smoke inhalation. But she also didn't want to be woken up three hours after she'd got off work for another failed stir fry or whatever it was this time.

It was the left-side neighbour who was the problem. At first, she'd been annoyed. Then she'd discovered Uchiha Itachi was hot, which had given her a boost of patience that had lasted through another few evacuations.

Well. Okay. Another one evacuation.

It was winter. The streets were cold. And Sakura? Sakura was way more judgemental on the inside than her external facade ever showed.

Her prurient curiosity led her to some snooping, and then to some gossip. Ino had pilfered some police records and reported back that his parents had been brutally murdered when he was thirteen, which had made her feel bad for being annoyed, and also explained why he was such an awful cook.

And then he'd set off the fire alarms six more times and she'd really come all the way back around to being annoyed. She'd reluctantly concluded that you simply could not be hot enough, or sympathetic enough, to make up for the constant scream of the fire alarm. Especially if you lived next to someone who worked long ER shifts and really valued her sleep.

Now, Sakura was standing out in the cold. Her toes were freezing, because she hadn't put on proper shoes before introducing her feet to the frost. The rest of her was cocooned in her blankets as she stared grimly up at her apartment complex. It wasn't on fire. It wasn't even smoking.

The fire department arrived and inspected the building.

Hoshigaki Kisame, ex-missing-nin turned local fireman of apparently endless patience, had evidently adopted their building specifically. Now he was leaning on his giant sword, playing with a ball of water in one hand, and casually questioning the facilities manager. He had a warm-looking cloak.

Was it an electrical fault?

Was there a real fire at all?

Sakura could have answered these questions, but she stayed silent and only glowered at her building from the street.

Listening closely, she learned that Uchiha Itachi had burnt his instant ramen.

The man in question didn't look embarrassed about this: his unfairly beautiful face was calm and composed as he explained what had, through some insane fluke of circumstances, happened in his kitchen. Kisame-san looked like he was taking this very seriously, nodding along with his head bowed towards Itachi.

Eavesdropping, Sakura learnt that you could burn it to the bottom of a pot, if you cooked it on the stove top, and then eventually it would turn to charcoal and start smoking. And then that smoke would trigger the alarms. And then the building would empty out onto the street while the fire department was called.

Some of the occupants standing out in the frozen wonderland of the streetscape chuckled.

Sakura envied their patience. She looked up at the awnings and wondered if any of those icicles was sharp enough to kill Itachi-san on his way back in. Maybe she could engineer a freak accident.

Itachi-san was fully dressed. His toes looked warm.

They looked like they were going to be here for a while. Baleful and filled with grumpy ire, Sakura wandered off down the street to the welcoming glow and bright lights of Ichiraku Ramen.

"Ah, Sakura-san," said Ayame, looking concerned. "We heard the alarm. Is everything okay?"

As much as she liked Ichiraku's food, Sakura was pretty sure the only reason Ayame knew her name was that she so often accompanied their favourite bottomless pit, Naruto. She lived much closer to the place, but they could have probably kept their whole business afloat on Naruto alone.

"Aa," said Sakura, darkly. "False alarm." She didn't buy anything today. Instead she collected six identical menus, each printed on flyers that lived near the front of the store.

"Again?" Ayame scratched her chin. "Is there something wrong with the wiring in your building...?"

"No." Just the neighbours. "Thank you for your time," she added.

"...You're not going to order anything?"

"I'm sorry. Another time." Sakura bowed, a stiff little caterpillar in her blanket cocoon, and backed out of the store with her hands stuffed full of menus.

By the time she got back down the other end of the block, people were allowed to return to their homes and there was a little queue of mildly disgruntled bodies waiting for the elevators.

Itachi was still talking to Kisame, blank-faced. If he was embarrassed it was impossible to tell.

Sakura took the stairs, despite their inconvenience in the blankets, because it was faster than waiting for the single, ancient elevator.

She called out, "It was a freak ramen accident, Kakashi-san!" to Kakashi's door as she passed—no real answer, but Pakkun yipped—and then shuffled past her own door to contemplate Itachi's.

There were a couple of traps, but unsurprisingly they mostly triggered when one tried to open the door, which she had no intention of attempting. Unhindered by these precautions, Sakura let her blankets dangle precariously off her shoulders while she flicked through seven hand signs at a rapid pace.

In the hospital, you got plenty of ninja who thought they should be able to remove, rearrange, edit or destroy their own notes, and there was a cute little jutsu to stop that from happening.

Now, Sakura used it to attach six Ichiraku Ramen menus to his door. If he wanted to get those off, he was going to have to work for it.

Her message, she thought, could not have been much clearer.

Then she tugged her blankets back up and went back to her own apartment—and her bed, where she slept the righteous sleep of the petty and passive aggressive.

Next time, she told herself, snuggling down into her sheets. Next time she'd simply kill him.

(She was woken again at 6.

She did not kill him this time, either.)