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circe69 · 2 years ago

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𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥! - 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

❤︎ simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader ❤︎ wc: 2.4k ❤︎tw: mentions of gore, suggestive ❤︎ tags - snowy valentines, heavy making out, pining, drunk confessions, aggressive!simon, but sweet as well :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

"You know today's Valentine's Day, right L.T?" Your words slurred together like pudding, and Ghost could smell the faint scent of whiskey, along with the remnants of some strawberry dessert, on your breath as he leaned down to hear you better.

He'd brought you up to the rooftop from the raging party downstairs, figuring it be easier to avoid any questions from Soap or Price about just why the two of you were standing so close. He looked up, stretching and rolling his neck from side to side, and was taken back by just how clear the sky was. It'd been months since he'd been able to make out any sort of constellation, and just about everyone had gotten used to the gunpowder-filled clouds and polluted air, but Ghost hadn't.

"What about it?" He said firmly, looking down at you and watching how you ever so slightly fisted the hem of his t-shirt in your hands, and every so often, your knuckles would graze the skin of his stomach, making his whole-body tense.

You smiled, your doe eyes and dilated pupils staring up at him with the most drunken affection that he'd seen in a while, "Do you have anyone?" You bit down on your chapstick-doused lips, enjoying the slight cherry flavor. Ghost watched you work; he could almost feel your tongue moving around on his just by watching your lick your lips.

He sighed, not annoyed, but a little anxious. He just didn't know how to act around you, he didn't know why you made him feel so different from everyone else. It'd been years since he had a friend, let alone a woman, an attractive one no doubt, clawing at him for more, practically begging for him to just pick her up and take her to a random closet to show her just how much he was willing to give. At this point, Ghost couldn't care less about the fact that you'd forget most of this in the morning. He loved the way you made him feel, even if there was a chance you didn't mean it.

"You're drunk, soldier." He gently pried your wandering hands off his body as you grimaced at the fact that he just called you soldier. You whined in response, hands instinctively shooting up to hug him around his neck, and Ghost allowed it, because he wanted it so badly. He wanted you so badly.

"Come on, just tell me already! You're no fun when you keep secrets." You were practically hanging off of him, your toes barely touching the ground, and even though he could've wrapped himself around you and lifted you up even higher, his hands stayed in fists planted at his sides. You leaned even closer to whisper,

"Do you have a valentine or not?"

A small smile stretched across Ghost's face, and for once, he was actually thankful for that thin piece of fabric covering it. Precious, he thought. You were the one thing that could unlock Simon's buried affection, and whether you knew it or not, you were the ticket to making his entire being feel better. He was bloodthirsty on the field, a man-killing machine known for his deceitful tactics and disgusting tricks for cracking a neck just right, but it disappeared in your presence. Not because he had to hide it, but because he would just much rather focus on you, the most perfect thing, right in front of him.

Ghost's hands hesitantly moved to the small of your back, but then slowly dropped them again before raising one to pinch the bridge of his nose as you let go of his neck, crossing your arms in annoyance at the fact that he just won't grab you.

"I know you're pouting because I'm not paying much attention to you, but I have to be gentle with you for now. You've had drinks, yeah? Maybe a few too many. Even if I wanted to, I can't touch you."

You looked up at him, the grimace resting on your face was a little more relaxed, "But" you started, "Do you want to?"

Ghost looked back at you, and his lungs felt like they'd burst into flames if you spoke one more sentence in that voice, the voice that's dripping with desire and demand, for him and only him. He whispered, "Of course I do. Of course, I want to touch you, I want to touch every part of you." His voice grew louder at the end of his words, making your eyes widen at the volume.

"Just because I'm being gentle right now, doesn't mean I always will. The things I want to have happen, the things I want to do to you, aren't sweet things. They aren't nice, they wouldn't be beautiful or sentimental. I wouldn't be careful. Do you understand?"

You craned your neck up at him, in a certain way that made your cheek bones shine perfectly from the dim light of the moon.

"I understand, Lieutenant," your voice was nothing more than a quiet sigh.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's role call is an hour earlier," Ghost said as he started to walk back to the door to the stairs, "Be there."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

You groaned in pain as an alarm rang through your room, off the walls and into your ears. Every part of you hurt, from your toes to your shoulders. I couldn't have done that much, right? You thought, slowly slipping out of your covers and top quilt before walking to the bathroom.

6 AM, and for what? Breakfast and a flag? Couldn't they wait an hour? I sure could. Your hair wasn't as dirty as you'd thought it be, thankfully, and it was easy to manage into a tight bun before tugging on boots and a warm winter coat and heading to the main hall. As you walked, crunching on a small layer of snow with every step, you tried to think back to last night. What even happened? You were kicking yourself, because you knew this would be the case. It happens every time. You're just more of a lightweight than you'd like to admit, and you remember it every morning after you drink.

You could remember the rooftop, being escorted up there by none other than Ghost, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but there were some parts of your conversation that just didn't make sense. It was all a blur but, there was something about being gentle? And Ghost mentioning that, sure he's being gentle now, but if you let him, he'd be the farthest thing from gentle with you.

But there was no way that happened. Fever dreams, drunk dreams, they're all the same. They're all vivid, and scarily accurate, but fake, nonetheless.

Once you arrived at the hall, a wooden door creaked open upon your entrance, along with the sound of your boots hitting the floor in attempt to shake the ice off. The room was packed to the brim with people, rescue dogs that didn't behave, and squeaking chairs moving round for roll call. Hot coffee was being poured and whistling kettles being turned off for tea were some of your favorite smells in the world. The dim fluorescent lighting woke you up fully, and if it were any brighter, it may have set you over the edge. No matter how hungover you were, snowy mornings were like a restart.

You made your way down the precise middle aisle, eyeing an open chair by Ghost and speedwalking to grab it before anyone else.

Once you sat down, you started shedding your large coat and draped it behind you. Ghost finally noticed and took a double take once he saw just who was sitting next to him.

Somehow, by some crazy unearthly miracle, even after a terrible hangover, you were still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He was almost frustrated at this point; you looked like you'd never drank a day in your life. Your hair was perfectly pinned, clothes beautifully ironed, which allowed for every curve to be hugged like a glove and shown off to every man in the room.

Ghost was borderline salivating. You smelled like you always did, lavender; and your morning voice as you said hello to him was just raspy enough to make him crazy, almost like crackling firewood. Even in the snowy, freezing weather, just by you being there, he felt perfectly warm.

"Morning," he said back, adjusting his pants that had somehow shrunk a few inches since you took your place by him.

The cup of coffee in his hand looked minuscule compared to the one in yours, which let your mind wander to other places, thinking about things that you shouldn't be. Like how small your body would feel enclosed in arms, and how those very same hands that were inches away from yours could destroy you within seconds.

Before you knew it, one of Ghost's arms raised and placed itself on the back of your chair, making you dizzy just at the contact. His skin wasn't even on yours, but you could feel the weight of his heavy forearm on the chair, and the way it gently ruffled the sleeves on your shirt. His breath was closer, practically pouring down the side of your neck, which made you automatically lean in closer to him. You could feel your heartbeat and was sure he could see it popping out of your chest every second.

"Hey," he whispered in your ear, making your eyes flutter at the deep tone speaking from a mouth inches away from you.

"If I left, would you follow me out?"

You looked at him, eyes wandering all over his face until resting in deep eye contact. You could tell all he needed was one word, one nod, and he'd stand up.

"Yes," you whispered. Breathed, more like.

Ghost stood, his height growing like a giant tree, from his seat and stomped out of the large dining room, and into a small hallway towards the back. You discreetly watched every move, every step he took, every nod he gave to the unsuspecting soldiers, and the exact turn he took to start his descent in the hallway.

You sat for a minute before moving. I could just stay, avoid any unnecessary confrontation, and tell him he misheard me, you thought. Your legs fidgeted for a few more seconds, trying to decide, but in reality, your answer from the start was genuine.

You shot up, faster than you intended, and started walking in the same path that Ghost did. Nodding to the soldiers, shooting smiles and quietly opening a door that led you into the same dark hallway that he entered.

There were a few small windows lining the hall, and the snow falling made it seem brighter than it was. You walked a few paces slowly down the walkway, looking in empty rooms and peeping your head in open doors, wondering where he could've gone.

All the sudden, when you were looking towards the opposite direction, a strong pair of gloved hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body into a room before slamming the door with his foot and pinning you to the back of it.

Ghost's face was inches away from yours, "Mm, finally," he groaned, his hands desperately running over and under pieces of your clothing. He tugged at hemlines, the belt loops of your pants, anything he could grab to signal he wanted more, and he hadn't even started yet.

"Finally?" You teased, trying not to whimper at the feeling of his hands squeezing the meat of your thigh, "You act like you've been waiting for this or something." Your words got breathier with every second, and so did his. All he did was hum in agreement, words weren't ever truly necessary for him, especially when he'd rather communicate in touch.

He quickly lifted up his mask just enough so his lips were available to you, and you took the opportunity to utilize them as fast as you could. Once you saw them, plump and slightly wet lips, your eyes drowned in the sight of them. Your arms shot up to his neck, and you pulled him down to your level so you could kiss him properly.

It wasn't sweet like a first kiss, or something that you'd want to take a picture of and frame it, it was like a secret. His mouth opening against yours, the air between you mixing like it was never meant to separate, the two of you were hungry, hungry for each other and only each other. The pads of his fingers rubbed your collarbone, making you shiver underneath his calloused touch, and he loved it. His tongue gently massaged yours, sliding his lips back and forth and your teeth gently bit down on his lip slowly before the two of you broke the kiss and slowly opened your eyes again.

Ghost moaned against his closed mouth, shutting his eyes before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as if you were a present from Christmas, something that he'd always wanted but never believed he'd get. He almost needed a breather from the aftermath of it all. He couldn't stop, and he knew he'd never stop for as long as you were in arms reach.

"Do you remember last night?" He said from his spot in your neck, to which you started to nod. "Too much to not be slightly embarrassed forever."

You could feel his chest vibrate against yours from the huff of air he let out, and after he lifted his head to meet yours again, straightening his posture to tower over you, "Ask it again." He demanded as his hand planted itself behind your head on the door.

The smile on your lips was enough to make his knees buckle, all it did was remind him that every part about you was made beautifully, was made to its most perfect potential.

You sighed before rolling your eyes slightly and dropping your head in your hands for a minute out of embarrassment, "Do you have a valentine, Lieutenant?"

Ghost allowed himself to just bask in the silence, to soak in what you just said like a warm bath. How wonderful, that he was able to hear you say that same question twice?

"Yes, I do," he started, before taking your hand in his and carefully kissing the center of your palms, "And I think I'm set for life."

#ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fluff #ghost fluff #modern warfare #simon riley x you #simon riley imagine #ghost x y/n #simon riley x y/n #ghost imagine #simon riley #circe69scribbles

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certifiedcodbabygirl · 7 months ago

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To Whisper Your Name pt.1

Konig x Reader Roman Goddess AU

Warnings: Violence ( minor character deaths), Roman deity inaccuracies, history inaccuracies, talks of SA

Reader is loosely based on the Roman Goddess Felicitas (Goddess of good fortune and luck)

It is not rare for minor gods/ goddesses to go unthought of. Some rise to fame as others are forgotten. Not many remember the deities of flowers, trees, or other smaller things. They remember Jupiter, Neptune, Venus. The greats, the Gods. Smaller gods go about their lives enjoying the few who do remember them. The small alters the mortals create for them, adorned with what is associated with said deity. They get offerings, praise, songs sung in their name.

Others are forgotten. Some deities share common rulings and the more famous deity gets the praise. They get the offerings, the songs, the alters. They get the memories. The smaller deity is left to watch humanity progress, knowing they are nothing to them but a passing face. Some grow depressed, heartbroken to be forgotten. Some grow mad, killing those who pray to the more famous deity. Most are unhappy or indifferent. They are too out of touch with humanity, differences between God and mortals being too many to connect with one another.

Despite all, you connect. The goddess of good fortune and luck, or as I should say, the small goddess of good fortune and luck. Throughout time, as you were forgotten and Fortuna rose to fame, you assimilated with the mortals. The fascination overtaking the grief pushed you to live among them. You aren’t well known among your village, just a simple face that passes by occasionally. Your home resides along the lake, a small and hidden house, property of an old man you met years before. You became like family to him, knowing who you are, he did his research. He offered you home, community, he offered you the human experience.

It was a quiet life, predictable, quaint. You go to the fishing grounds, bless the unsuspecting fishermen. You do the same to the cloth weavers, the doctors, the children playing. None may know, but fortune is on their side. It was a simple existence, a comfortable one.

A change happened at nightfall. Taking a late night walk was common, having no need for sleep. You’d walk a few miles, stay in a tree, maybe take a swim, then head back to your home. Tonight was no different. You opted to stay in a tree in a nearby forest, taking in the night sky, constellations seeming to taunt you with an unknown reason. Memories of when you were among the other deities fill your mind, a bittersweet taste left in your mind. Shouting and the crunching of twigs below rip you from your thoughts, whimpers from women below causing the hair on your arms to stand up.

Below, you see a small group of women with their arms shackled to a long chain. There are 2 men, daggers glinting in the moonlight. There’s no torch, no lantern, to light their way. It’s clear they are trying to be unseen, to steal these women. They adorn Roman clothing, as do the women, and seem to be heading away from the village.

“Please I’m begging you, I have children! They have no father and no one to look for them” A woman begs shakily.

“Then we will be back for them. I know someone who would pay bronze for youth like them” A man cackles and shoves the woman for her noise.

“Oh Gods, Please save us, if you can hear me” A woman whispers, kissing her hands and raising them to the sky.

Her voice is so broken, as if she's unable to conjure hope. Heart aching for these women but unable to physically intervene, you bless them.

“Luck be upon you” Falls from your lips in the form of a whisper.

As they are almost gone, a branch snapping catches the men's attention. Heads whipping in the direction of the noise was their first mistake. A soldier in Roman attire sneaks behind the leading man, dagger cutting through his throat as if it were simply fat.

The other three men turn and draw their weapons, preparing for attack. Their stance resembles that of a cornered, angry cat. One other soldier emerges from the dark. His towering frame, only being able to be described as a giant, unsheathed his sword from his holster. The glare from the moonlight shining off his sword gives an eerie and unsettling feeling in an already disturbing situation.

“Give in and come willingly, or face the same fate as your foolish leader” His voice is higher pitched than expected, yet still effectively intimidating. His accent is foreign, sounding from the north.

Ignorance clearly being their strong suit, the smugglers charge at the giant, only to be met immediately with a blade. The first one falls and seconds later, the other one is ripped through, practically in half, blood spilling like a never ending prayer. The men are ripped through like a tarp, eyes widening and dulling over.

The last man remaining drops his weapon, falling to his knees like a worshiper to their God. The giant stalks towards him, gripping his hair and tilting him back. You can feel the fear radiating off of the smaller man's body, most likely praying to the gods as the women they stole did.

“Your incompetence fails you. What were you planning for them?” He demands, gesturing to the women. They cower under the man's gaze.

The man remains silent, his mouth gaping like a fish, in search of words.

“Have mercy, please!” He begs, tears seeming to form.

The giant chuckles in an unamused manner, “Were you to have mercy on them? The gods have turned their backs on you. Now I will ask you again” He grips tighter, voice low and in a low growl, “What. Were. You. Planning? Who is your superior?”

The man refuses to answer and is swiftly met with a blade, as he serves no purpose. The giant and his partner turn their attention to the women, moving to remove their shackles. The women seem more frightened of them than they did the men that stole them. Perhaps it's because these men are soldiers, making it easy for them to be overpowered.

“Where are you from?” The giant asks a woman as he removes the shackles. The woman says she was visiting her family in a nearby village when the men came. The other women say something similar.

“It seems they had a type. Easily able to make them disappear if they only have a couple connections in a different village.” The other man states, the giant nodding.

They move the women to the same town you live in, keeping them in a new location until they find the leader of whatever ring they were getting sold into. You climb down the tree and quietly follow behind. The women are escorted to a separate cluster home and the men head to what seems to be a military station building.

Before the giant walks into the building, he looks behind him out of habit and spots you already looking at him. You quickly turn and walk away, not trying to attract unwanted attention. You make it to the lake before you hear a twig snap, someone being with you. Knowing who it is, you don't even bother to turn around, staying still.

“Why did you run?” He asked in an accusatory tone, walking up to you. His frame towers over you, his shadow overtaking yours. You turn towards him, finally meeting his eyes. His face is covered in a cloth, his eyes being the only exposed area. His gaze is stern, like that of a king.

“I've never seen a soldier like you before” you lie seamlessly, appearing innocent, “When you saw me, I worried I would possibly provoke you. Some soldiers around here hate when we stare”

He looks down at you, head slightly tilting. In mock or curiosity, you can't tell. There’s a long pause of silence, neither of you moving.

“Sir?” You ask quietly, “May I go back home now? I fear it will worry my family if I am out too late”

“You will meet me in the town square tomorrow at dusk,” He states, turning to walk away, “I will find you if you fail to come. Do not make that mistake, flos”

#call of duty modern warfare #cod x reader #konig #konig cod #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #cod konig #konig modern warfare #konig x reader goddess au #konig x reader history au #konig x reader roman au #konig x reader worship #konig x female reader #konig x fem reader #konig mwii #konig fluff

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nrdmssgs · 1 year ago

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Spiraling

Masterlist Part 2 (in case you need a happy ending)

Very mild angst Pairing: Ghost x you TW: no Summary: Ghost understanding, something very important just slipped through his fingers. AN: this is kinda sorta songfic. Here is the inspiration.

The worst part is that Ghost can't even get mad at you. He was never there to show you true love, you were never there to break his heart. There were no promises, no occasional touches or stolen glances. There were these two evenings: each beautiful in its own way.

On the first one, the squad was resting after a successful operation, waiting for a transport to pick them up. A large group of soldiers gathered around you and Ghost came closer to find out what was going on. The southern sky was strewn with large, bright stars. Not a single cloud hovered over the desert, so it was a perfect opportunity for stargazing. Time to time you raised you hand up, searched for a next constellation and did this strange, unpractical move: you pointed on the constellation, drawing an invisible line between stars and then pretended to grab it. Ghosts mind blurted out some jibe about you obviously being too short to grab a star. So he sat on the ground behind others, to say it out loud, when you pause. Only to find himself alone on the ground, staring up at the sky. "Lieutenant? Ghost?" Your voice brought him back to reality. "Our heli is here. Are you alright?" He nodded and was ready to stand up, when you offered him a hand. He reached out automatically and you grabbed his hand. It was almost pointless since you were much smaller, but still you helped him. Grabbing his hand like one of those stars, you'd never reach.

The other evening happened much later. Ghost could say, he got used to seeing you around. There were still no chats outside work topics, no interactions at all as soon as any of you was off to home. It was the way it was supposed to be: clean and professional. Ghost was in his office tending to paper work, when you knocked and entered. "Lieutenant, I wanted to let you know, I'll be spending the next few months away from this base. Volunteered to train international corps." Ghost nodded, not even raising eyes from his papers. "There is one more thing. I like working with you and plan to keep it on. But lately I've felt distracted, when you are around." His hand froze, not even finishing signing the last form. That sounded not good. So he finally looked up on you, only to find your absolutely peaceful smiling face. "Don't worry, I won't let it grow. We are all adults here, and I am planing to work here, not search for any kind of informal bonds. That's why I decided to take this job. Just wanted to be honest, ok?" Ghost nodded again, much slower this time. "Ok. Now go show them, how it's done." You left his office, and he tried to remember, where was he. But after a few attempts he understood, it was utterly pointless: his mind was racing somewhere. And that rush felt easy, even joyful. It was a good thing, you two were colleagues and there always was this formal barrier between you. But it was also a good thing, you were so mature and honest. It made him feel safe. His borders were secure. Somewhere deep inside, he was smiling.

Two evenings, they weren't even filled with anything special. So why the hell he felt as if a white-hot sting was deepening into his stomach, when in a few months he got a short message from you.

"The problem is dealt with. I'll be staying here for a little longer. Staying frosty."

You come back in almost half a year. Calm, polite, effective and professional - Ghost couldn't wish for a better squadmate. He finds himself observing you from afar. In theory, he must like, what he not even sees, but rather feels: you are at peace, you are over this. But a traitorous voice somewhere deep inside chuckles, "That easy, really? A few months to erase me, a few more - to consolidate success - and that's it?"

"It's good to be back, Lieutenant." You give his hand a firm, short shake.

"You aren't back," hisses something from the back of his mind, but Ghost only scoffs at it.

Too little too late, Riley.

That day, he finishes paperwork earlier and locks in his room. He sinks on his bed and watches evening lights slowly crawling across the ceiling. Simons' mind begins to spiral as he lays there, heartbroken over a love that never even happened.

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wordy-little-witch · 7 months ago

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Pls im begging im on my knees what happens in crossguilds honeymoon shenanigans? - dis is pertaining to the CG wedding anser sjdjdjdjdns i love it btw the asker is so big brained and u made it even better sjdmsjxkz

OKAY so I'll divide it up between General Content and Adult Content.

General first!!!

• at first, they didn't even plan a honeymoon. It simply wasn't in the cards to then, they didn't even consider it. Then Big Mom asked, making conversation at the following party, what kind of honeymoon they had planned. They told her just an evening together in their tent, then back to work.

The men, women and enbies of the Guild swooped right in there with bright grins. "We pooled our wages together," they announce, "and booked you a trip!" It's for a weekend, just three days, and they'd be gone perhaps five at most depending on the weather and travel.

All three are trying not to cringe into the ether because they'd be leaving the island for a decent chunk of time. Who would run everything?

Their commanding officers then give them an itemized delegated list, with all the primary functions taken care of. The Guild really prepared for everything, huh?

• the honeymoon is to a resort not too terribly far for Karai Bari. The first thought is for them to just.... divide and do their own things.

Only they keep running into each other that first day. Buggy and Mihawk wind up in the library with other. Mihawk and Crocodile run into each other in the sauna. Buggy and Crocodile meet up in the casino. It's constant, and eventually it even becomes rather fun.

• then evening hits.

Adult Content below~

• Buggy's got the self awareness of a walrus on cocaine honestly, so he doesn't really think before stripping down to change into his evening wear. Crocodile and Mihawk at first ignore it until they catch sight of a pale back full of freckles and scars. Both dark haired me are suddenly fighting the urge to kiss him there, to make constellations with their touch and tongue. They look away.

• Only One Bed - Mihawk wordlessly prepares the couch for himself and Buggy makes a hammock and Crocodile is getting the bed - the first night at least.

• sleepy early mornings are so intimate and nobody discusses that enough. Buggy is the first up, hair slightly messy from the braid he slept in, curls framing his bare face. He makes coffee and starts on breakfast. Mihawk joins him not long after. Crocodile wakes to the smell of food, coffee, and murmured voices and laughter. When he inevitably wanders into the kitchen, halfasleep, he accepts a playe and mug, presses a kiss to Buggy's temple, a squeeze to Mihawk's wrist. Both clown and swordsman take a moment to process that.

• Buggy isn't exactly a contributer to Gender, so he'll wear whatever so long as he likes it. Including, it turns out, a form fitting dress in a rich green with gold accents and jewelry which shows his long leg via a high slit. He plays the part of ditzy eye candy well for Crocodile, and all seems fine - until some others begin to look at Buggy as well.

• Crocodile is possessive. And they ARE married.... so he pulls Buggy close by his hook at the other's waist and yanks the other down to one of his legs, within neck kissing range. Buggy is flustered. Crocodile is glowering. The wandering eyes ease off.

• at some point, Marines show up. The resort is neutral ground, so none of the Guild leaders make moves to react. Through a series of events, it turns out the Marines are there to apprehend the pirates and have paid off the resort owners.

There's a fight which goes.... fairly normally with Mihawk close range, sinking vessels and soldiers alike. Crocodile is lurking midrange to use his poisons and sand most effectively. Buggy has opted for more long range with his explosives and plots. The whole thing is pretty damn smooth, all considered. Until someone makes it past and grabs Buggy.

A comment is made on his outfit, a cocktail dress and blazer with matching stockings. On his decorum. On him, specifically. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, and he's already halfway through a snarky comeback along the lines of "What, angry I'm hotter than your whore at home-?" when there is a wave of pressure. Buggy blinks. The marine officer stumbles.

There is suddenly a hand on his waist, a hook around his neck, two presences flanking him. "What," the both nearly snarl, "did you say about our wife?"

• Buggy absolutely gets butterflies.

• the rest of the fight is pretty quick, Hawkeyes and Crocodile out of patience to play with their foes. Buggy isn't a slouch either, by the way, he's lobbing explosives strategically all around. Nearing the end, he herds his husband's to their ship, pushes off, and gives a theatrical count down.

• the island and nearby ships are bathed in fire. Buggy is cackling, a mess, his hair wild around a filthy, bloodied face. The dress reveals his shoulders. The torn edges reveal more of those freckles.

Something in both taller men snaps, and they converge upon Buggy with claims and lips and teeth. On the deck of their ornate ship, to the cracking ambience of fire, they have their wicked way with him, learning his body and finding unexpected but delightful facts as they go.

Crocodile could transition fully due to Iva, but Buggy is not so lucky. His top surgery was experimental, and bottom surgery was never a huge deal to him. Mihawk, luckily, enjoys all bodies and pleasures of the flesh, and he is a quick study under Crocodile's tutelage and experience with the organs he once had.

Buggy falls to pieces more than once, teary eyed and begging and so sweet for them, so cute and attractive with his grasping hands and hiccuping breaths. He is beautiful as he sinks down onto one, cradled by another and wails with the stimulation and hands and hook that break him I to pieces just to reassemble him again.

It ends with them together, indulgent and depraved, christened beneath firelight and debris and the screams of their enemies.

And none of the three had ever felt quite so seem as they did in that moment.

• back on Karai Bari, they sashay back in, mostly, as Buggy has a mild limp.

The lipstick stains and bite marks and bruises and scratches paint a clear enough picture for what happened.

"How was your trip?"

"We blew it up"

"Wha-"

"Fire. Explosives. Our beautiful chairman has quite the knack for such weapons"

"D'aww! Hawky, you'll make me blush!"

"We can make you do more than that, you little shit...~"

"Hehe~"

The poor mercenary is left rebooting.

#buggy the clown #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #cross guild #cross guild polycule #fake wedding au #witchy answers!!

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quitealotofsodapop · 8 months ago

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So can we get more context on this situation for the Tang River Water au?

referencing this au.

Literally one of the first things Peng does when they get released from the Scroll is to try and kill who he thinks is Tripitaka [Tang]. Peng presses on Tang so forcefully that the stone around him cracks. Tang doesn't be looking so great afterwards either.

Only reason Tang isn't passing through Diyu after this scene is Azure mentioning that he's just the monk's reincarnation (which 100% must have tickles Peng pink since they of all people know how embarassing it must have been for Buddha's teacher's pet to fail to break the cycle of rebirth). I have seen aus where Tang does die in this scene and his Golden Cicada powers have to come in clutch to keep his soul there. (link to a really cool animatic)

But in the "Mother Child River Tang" au?

Peng immediately takes one look at this *obviously* pregnant monk and just starts screeching with laughter! You know that sound peacock's make thats like a strangled laugh? That is all Peng is doing for their first five minutes out of the Scroll.

Yellow Tusk has already given Azure a warm welcoming hug and gotten caught up on the most recent millenium by the time Peng manages to catch their breath.

Peng: "The- [peacock cry]! The monk is- [more peacock cries!] ahhhhh! I can't even be mad at him right now! It's so funny!" Tang, still a little hurt, now offended: "Rude. A pregnant man isn't that funny." Peng: "But a pregnant monk is! Looks like that vow of chasity didn't stick eh?" Azure: "Peng, they are not the monk." Peng, laughter stops: "...then who the Diyu are they??" Tang, emboldened: "I'm Tang! Reincarnation and/or decendant of the Great Monk! And this is my husband Pigsy, our son MK, and our friends." Peng, tears in eyes: "HE MARRIED THE-!" [peacock cry!] Azure & Yellow tusk: *both sigh tiredly*

On a more serious note, since Sandy was forced to push Tang out of the way of Yellow tusk's attack + Peng pinned him to the ground, the Monkey King's part of the Scroll is damaged, MK is having a mental breakdown, and if we combine this with "Slow Boiled Stone Egg" au - the Brotherhood has taken Yuebei Xing hostage? Tang is in a lot of physical and emotional distress rn.

Like... enough to trigger early labor-level of distress.

Bodhisattva Guanyin is summoned immediately to Subodhi's temple before any actual training can occur. She's (and many other buddhist deities) so preoccupied in making sure that the Golden Cicada and his baby survives that they are distracted from the threat sieging Heaven at that moment...

Pigsy has to be held back from trying to tear the Brotherhood apart himself. Zhu Bajie wasn't *just* "some demon". He used to be one of the most powerful Marshals in Heaven - commanding 80 thousand heavenly sailors/soldiers. In one mythology, Marshal Tianpeng was even a son of Doumu - the mother of constellations (making him the Queen Mother of the West's brother oddly enough).

Whos to say that Pigsy doesn't accidentally tap into the powers of that life? The whole naval power of Heaven is suddenly at Subodhi's school, waiting for the orders to turn the Brotherhood into a fine red smear on the wall. It's only Tang's own pleading that Pigsy doesn't act rashly.

The chaos does lead to an odd conciencidence occuring though...

Nezha, post-s4: "I do wonder... has the Jade Emperor broken the cycle of rebirth? If not, then that means the location of his soul could prove dangerous if left unchecked. I must contact the Underworld." *starts mediatating* MK: "What do you mean?" Nezha: "The Emperor was eons old. That amount of acculmilated divine power needs a host that can handle it. Like-" Tang & Pigsy's baby: *snorts/burps loudly* Nezha, realising: "-the child of the Golden Cicada and of the Doumu herself..." Yama, King of Hell, astral projecting: "You guys are not gonna believe where the Emperor ended up! He's in a half-demon piglet somewhere- oh there she is!" Tang & Pigsy: ( 0_0) (0_0 ) "uh oh"

#mother child river tang au #slow boiled stone egg au #lmk aus #pregnancy tw #lmk tang #lmk pigsy #lmk peng #lmk azure lion #freenoddles #freenoodleshipping #lmk #lego monkie kid

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dandelion-wings · 24 days ago

Note

For the angst/gore prompts, could we please have “06: Not Realizing They’re Injured” from the first list with Kujou Sara? Especially something to do with those poor wings I sincerely doubt she was ever taught how to properly take care of.

Thank you for the ask! <3 I have to apologize for this one too, anon, because it's another one that ended up not very whumpy--more a mix of hurt/comfort and angst (and a dose of 'how much can I villain Takayuki?'), because your particular prompt sideswiped a fic idea(s)(really more a constellation of fic premises and themes) that I've been turning over for a while and just kind of. stuck to that until it was irretrievably gummed together. I hope it is still sufficiently wing-focused to earn your forgiveness!

---

Kujou Takayuki has never once told Sara that she isn't permitted to fly.

She remembers his frown when she was a child, the one time she had leapt into the air to gain an advantage in training. Even though it had given her tactical superiority, he had penalized her for it when evaluating those training exercises. At the time, she had thought it about honor, about the unfairness of exceeding her peers not by outdoing them through the same efforts, but by using an advantage they did not.

When she was older, rising through the ranks in the field, she had once in extremis made an attempt to scout from the air. That time she had seen the frowns on other officers' faces before she had even landed, and understood that honor didn't figure into this at all. It was about being different, being *other*, about the fear some of her soldiers couldn't hide when reminded that she was a youkai, about the contempt some of her superiors showed when they thought she could not see or hear. About her adoption by humanity and what was required of her to uphold the Kujou name.

By the time she becomes a general herself, she doesn't need to be told to stay on the ground.

Flight might have been an advantage for her on the battlefield, but it had never been a necessity. No other tengu has served in the Almighty Shogun's military for almost five hundred years. *Certainly* none served in Watatsumi's. Perhaps she might have gained an edge by taking to the air, but she did not lose significantly by refraining.

After the war, after the Sakuko Decree is lifted, after Takayuki is removed as head of the Kujou Clan and the Tenryou Commission alike, that changes. Gliders have existed for hundreds of years, but have never before been a popular import, nor often even a permitted one; they are different and foreign, and the Almighty Shogun was so long resistant to things that were different and foreign that the Tri-Commission feared to march in lockstep. So has it been with many imports that the Kanjou Commission is only now slowly coming to authorize.

Gliders are particularly popular, due to the mountainous nature of many of Inazuma's most populated islands, where they no doubt would have been popular long before if not for the Tri-Commission's care, but the traveler had made their use seem particularly alluring and permissible. Unfortunately, it isn't only law-abiding citizens who can obtain them now that the sea around Inazuma is clear. The Doushin are struggling to keep up with bandits and smugglers who can just glide away from arrest.

Kamaji, after the third report of such in a row, orders a shipment of gliders from the Knights of Mondstadt to be distributed to the Doushin. When he tells Sara, he smiles, and nods to her wings, and adds, "Though you're fortunate enough not to need them."

Which is all but an order. Even if Takayuki *had* told Sara she wasn't permitted to fly, this would be the new head of the Kujou Clan countermanding that instruction. That the thought of spreading long-disused wings leaves her uneasy doesn't affect her duty.

---

The next such encounter occurs before the shipment of gliders has even arrived. This is a particularly troublesome group of bandits, who have escaped the Doushin twice before; when another report of their activities comes in, Sara leads her forces after them herself. They find the bandits' camp on the edge of a cliff, and when they're startled while celebrating their ill-gotten gains, it seems inevitable that the less drunken and more sharp-witted of them attempt to glide to an escape.

"You, securely bind our existing captives. You, take your troops down that way, and you, that way," Sara orders, pointing out the fastest safe routes down the cliff. "They seem to be aiming for that cliffside, so they may have a secret tunnel or hatch. I'll attempt to cut them off before I get there."

She turns away as the Doushin rush to follow her commands, and spreads her wings at the edge of the cliff. This isn't the first time she's done this, of course--flight is powered by muscles, and any muscle must be exercised. As soon as Kamaji had given his instructions, she'd begun practicing each day, finding a private place in the caverns beneath Inazuma City and attempting first short glides, then short flights, then longer ones. None have been in so open a place as this mountainside with the canyon at its foot, wind whistling through, but she trusts in her training. She could have flown this easily as a child.

Her wings catch the air as she leaps off the edge, and then she's swooping down, flapping to gain speed and get past the gliding bandits, diving towards the cliff to which they're trying to flee. From now she can indeed see a too-deep shadow at the base, where bushes grow. Despite the seriousness of the situation, there's a lightness in being aloft in the open air, a *joy* in flight, that only now that she feels it again does Sara recall, dimly, from her boisterous early childhood. She smiles to herself, all the unease she'd felt when anticipating this change falling away.

The bandits are behind her now, and the cliff close ahead. She flares her wings again to catch herself in the air and adjust, so that she can turn the dive into a plunging attack before she hits the cliff-

A gust of wind hits her broadside as she spreads her wings wide. The force of it wrenches her right wing with a pull that flares into lancing pain, and then the wing collapses in on itself at the wrong angle.

Sara finds herself spiraling as she flaps only the left, desperately trying to slow herself down, to change her bearing. Shifting her grip on her bow, she closes that wing before she reaches the cliff, the other not drooping and dragging limp, and manages to plummet the last few meters and land on both feet. Her right ankle twinges at the awkward landing.

She still manages to turn and straighten and aim before the bandits actually reach her. The uncooperative wing is still alight with pain, but she grits her teeth and lets Electro crackle around her. The bandits hesitate and spread wide to flank her, putting themselves right into the arms of her Doushin.

Lowering her bow, Sara takes a step forward and collapses to one knee as the fractured bone in her ankle snaps under her weight.

---

To add to the humiliation of being carried home by her subordinates, one of her officers goes out of their way to report her injury directly and immediately to Kamaji.

He arrives in the infirmary before the medic has even finished wrapping her ankle. Sara can't even rise to acknowledge his presence properly, only straighten her back, stiffening against the urge to wince when that grinds her injured wing against the back of the chair.

"The operation was a success," she tells him, keeping her voice level even as the medic pulls the bandage tight. "We've captured the entire gang. Their leader is undergoing interrogation now."

"I'm glad to hear it," Kamaji says. "Are you all right? The Doushin told me your wing... it doesn't look good."

Sara looks straight ahead, poised to give her report as best she can. "I trained inadequately for the conditions in the field, and overestimated my ability to handle them. I will have to temporarily remove myself from field operations. That will make the Tenryou Commission's situation more difficult if any complicated matters come up, and I apologize. However, I am still fit to coordinate the Doushin's administrative affairs and handle concerns within the city."

"You can delegate the physical work to your subordinates until you recover. This is a good opportunity to season some of our new officers. If anything serious arises, I *am* the Provisional Clan Head, and willing to take personal responsibility."

Which is in theory his duty--but Sara is accustomed to being Takayuki's right hand, the reason he didn't *have* to handle what he assigned her to personally, even if she had once or twice failed him in that role. She doesn't let herself think, sitting here directly in front of him, that Kamaji also lacks the experience to handle very serious Doushin affairs on his own, but certain conversations with Masahito do impinge vaguely upon her dismay. What matters is not his capability, but her responsibility to manage this department of the Commission, and that he currently considers her unable to do so.

"It will be useful for determining which officers are ready for more advanced duties," Sara agrees. It isn't her place to argue, especially with the results of her own failures. The medic has moved to her wing, prodding at it cautiously, and Sara grits her teeth against a stab of pain.

Kamaji smiles at her. Then he looks at the medic at work, and his smile fades. "How bad is it?"

"I'm not sure, Lord Kujou," the man says. "I've never treated a tengu's wing before. I think I can splint it, but I don't know how well it will heal."

"I don't see how it would be any different from my ankle," Sara says. "I have broken bones before. So long as it's properly aligned and held straight, I've always healed well."

---

The ankle heals faster. Sara is on her feet again within three weeks, though the medics are firm about limiting how much she walks about, and free of their restrictions in six. Her wing, though, lags behind.

It hurts at every slight bump against the back of a chair or a too-close wall, hurts jagged and sharp the first time she grasps a would-be escapee from an unwary Doushin by the arm and he turns and strikes her, and burns bitter and aching if she sits or stands for too long without finding something on which to prop the unwieldy limb up. The medics attempt a frame of bamboo that leaves it stuck awkwardly out; Sara has to discard that after a day of turning sideways to pass through doorways and feeling a fool in front of her men. At no point do they feel it's knit enough to abandon the splint and exercise it again.

A few days after that she's summoned to the Almighty Shogun's presence regarding some aspects of the palace's security. She can feel the Shogun's eyes on her splinted wing, impossible to fold completely against her back, for much of the discussion. Fortunately, the Shogun doesn't force her to recount her mistakes and explain her condition.

Instead, the next day Kamaji summons her to his office and opens with, "I received a message from Her Excellency yesterday regarding your wing." The mortification is so immediate that Sara almost doesn't hear him continue, "Once I explained everything, she arranged for help from Guuji Yae."

That explains the shrine maiden standing in the corner--not one of the bright-eyed young women or sweetly maternal figures who serve the public, but a grey-haired old woman with a lined face and keen eyes. She steps forward before Sara is able to suggest any place private for this examination and begins examining Sara's wing.

"They call this a splint," the woman mutters, and begins to undo it, her gnarled hands steady and sure.

As this was the Shogun's will, Sara simply extends her wing as far as she can when instructed and stands impassive as the woman pokes and prods at it, much more confident than the medics but no more gentle. Kamaji watches with unaccountable anxiety. His expression makes Sara have to breathe deep to quell some of her own. She has no idea what results the Shogun may wish from this examination, nor what instructions she may have given Kamaji regarding Sara's disposition if it does not go well.

Grasping the outer edges of Sara's wing, the woman flexes the joint to its fullest extension, pushing it so far past the point of comfort that Sara can't hold back a gasp as strained and swollen muscles complain. Then she folds it in to the same extent, almost as tightly as Sara has ever pinned them to her back. It can't quite make the full pivot in either direction.

"It never healed properly the last time," the woman says, waspishly. "Breaking it again has only made it worse. Did he have someone with a Vision heal it? I told him it should heal on its own."

"Heal what?" Sara asks, and at the same time Kamaji draws a breath in and says, "He did have a military medic with a healing Vision treat her. He said he didn't have time to wait for her to lie in bed."

The question's context falls into place. Sara knows she had needed tending, and healing, after her fall as a child, even with the Almighty Shogun's blessing to keep her alive. The haze of pain she'd been in afterwards had seemed to wrack every part of her, inspecific, but yes, she well could have broken a wing, plummeting from the air like that. Furthermore, she does recall the healer who tended her after she was brought to the Kujou stronghold, a man whose Vision's power had seemed another blessing on top of the one the Shogun had already given her.

"Not if they weren't used to hollow bones. They over-thickened it and impinged on the joint. And the way it's mending--have you been skimping on your grit?"

"My... grit?" Sara dislikes being so on the back foot in this conversation.

"Powder, sand, whatever you call it. Your mineral supplement. Don't tell me he listened to Mirei and you've been drinking *milk* all this time. I don't want to think about what that could do to your digestion."

"I don't have a mineral supplement."

The woman's grimace of disgust falls away a little too quickly to have been anything but performative, especially given the look that follows. Sara has seen medics giving dire news before. "That does explain why this isn't healing. And shattered into so many fragments, at that. Tengu are just like ravens in this respect. If they don't get enough grit in their diet, their bones go brittle. *Especially* the wings."

"Ah." Sara feels the air go out of her, and makes herself draw it back in. "What is the supplement composed of? I'll begin adding it to my diet immediately."

"Ground eggshells, or fish bones, or snail shells. But that's not going to fix this. It's started setting wrong, and it was already so fragmented that breaking it and resetting it would be a fool's errand. You needed to have been eating your grit the whole time to hope that this could be mended now, especially with that earlier break."

"Are you saying that it won't heal?" Kamaji asks, sounding agonized. Sara wonders again what instructions the Shogun may have given him.

"Not properly. Not such that she'll be much of a flier ever after."

Sara holds herself very still against the wave of despair. She is a competent warrior and an able servant of the shogun without her wings; she's served in that way her entire adult life. There should be no import to being told that she must continue to do so. Even if the issues with the joint preclude a tengu's proper flight, perhaps she can glide, or a glider can be adapted to her, so she can continue to assist the Doushin as Kamaji wishes. Even if the Almighty Shogun desires her wings mended... surely Sara's service has been sufficiently loyal that the Shogun will not reject her for this alone. Even if that disastrous flight had begun full of joy, the satisfaction in carrying out her duties should eclipse this strange sense of loss at something she had for years voluntarily put aside.

The woman seems to sense something in her stillness, though Sara knows she's kept her feelings off her face. "Honestly, I'm surprised this hasn't happened well before this, the number of battles you've been in."

"I've never flown in battle," Sara corrects her, voice flat. "This was the first time I've attempted to fly in the field."

"Why," the woman asks, looking at her in disbelief, "would a *tengu warrior* stay grounded?"

Sara holds her tongue, because she knows the answer. She knows it, and yet to say it would be to disparage Takayuki--to suggest that he had forbidden her to fly, when he never had, when he had never said a word on the subject one way or the other. He had only frowned.

He had only impatiently had her healed in a way this woman, familiar with ravens' wings and apparently with tengu's, had advised against. He had only disregarded the same woman's instructions on her diet, knowing that it would be to her detriment should she attempt to take to the air. He had only put her in a position that destined her, when she did try to take wing, to inevitably fall back to the ground.

"We'll find a solution to this," Kamaji says, determined in that way Sara has always admired, as if she, too, would be cause to challenge the Almighty Shogun if he had to. The words barely register as what Sara had always thought her understanding of the situation shifts once again.

Takayuki has never had to tell Sara she isn't permitted to fly. He's built that limitation into her very bones.

#i don't know why i want to drag sara's brothers into everything i write for her but the urge is inexorable so i just let it happen #see previously-posted meme etc.#i did bird medical research on this but not a LOT of medical research so i tried to vague over the specifics but please forgive errors #fic bits #asked and answered #why not meme i guess #kujou sara deserves nice things

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aita-blorbos · 5 months ago

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Am I the asshole for wanting to be a sugarcane farmer?

I was a born in London, a loyal subject of the king. I was a soldier for my country, was voted into parliament, had a burgeoning career. I was asked to run a township. I, of course, accepted. And then the king assigned me here.

Really, here? Seven thousand miles from England, in the middle of the jungle with the bugs? The food is barely edible, in this colony so far away it takes a month to get a message home!

But it's three thousand acres of land so fertile you could grow almost anything off it. I figured I'd skim each harvest, and soon enough be so rich I'd leave Guiana in the dust and buy a house in Chelsea.

But noooo. No, no, I'm still here. And now these engineers are building flywheels and some ridiculous brick sphere on the waterfront, the best place I can grow my contraband, sugarcane. Ah, glorius sugarcane. A letter comes from London telling me to give them what they need. Now I'm stuck with nothing. No, your Majesty, that's not what we agreed upon!

Then in comes this celebrity and everyone adores him. Even the monarchy. He speaks a lot of nonsense—some rot about the stars, while his soft hair shines in the low light and his eyes glitter like the constellations he loves so much. Personally, I don't find it worthy of my time to listen to him. Besides, it's infuriatingly distracting the way his lips purse when he maps out the stars. And—do you know the worst part? Then he has the nerve to invite an American! Woman! to run the project. Can you believe that?

Well, I of course tried to put a stop to that. At first I tried my hand at subtlety, poisoning the clay that made their bricks with lime. I'd hoped they might leave my township if their flywheels splintered, but no luck there. Yet another American woman noticed that one. There seem to be an awful lot of them, these days. And that celebrity, well. He kept looking at them. Like he's their friend. Hmph. He never looked at me like that.

But then I realised: this was an opportunity! If there was an accident, it wouldn't reach the throne for thirty days! I'd remove the evidence, using my quick wit and myriad employees, and I'd send a report home. Something tearful, painting me as a bystander who, tragically, was the only survivor of the dreadful accident that occurred. Murder wouldn't even cross their minds!

I've done my time! I've been the upstanding subject of his Majesty, and now? Now this "sphere" of theirs will crash to the ground, into the dust where it belongs. Here? I'll be the last man standing!

And the sugarcane will finally be mine. Rows and rows of it, and soon I'll be living like a king! Well, I'm not just doing this for sugarcane. I'm also doing it... because I don't like them.

So, AITA?

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

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lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom · 11 months ago

Text

Goombas Are Mushrooms Part 1

While their Japanese name does mean chestnut Goombas are meant to be based on Shitake Mushrooms. They are also from the Mushroom Kingdom and are traitors to the Mushroom Kingdom.

They are referred to as Stalwart Mushroom Monsters in description for the Ground Soldier Constellation from Mario Party 9.

In the Premiere Edition Super Mario Galaxy 2 Game Guide it calls them Mushrooms as well.

In a New Super Mario Bros. Wii card they are referred to as "fungal foes."

Follow up

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ms0milk · 10 months ago

Text

𝟏𝟓 | 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing."

slight cw drunken antics + slurred speech. shoestring patience. you are the only sober two left and carrying your friends to bed requires teamwork. remembering how to speak and pretending not to stare even though exhaustion makes Alderan eyes prettier. the first laughs– warm and uncontrollable. a quiet realization at the foot of the bed where your bodies keep curling closer 3.9k

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

The Great Hall vibrates the entire castle tonight. The celebration is obscene. The king is home.

You do not eat in the Hall, you never do, but you stand guard– sit guard from the grand staircase outside just in case. Music rolls through the closed Hall doors up to the entryway's silver constellations. The observatory is finished. The king is home. He does not attend his own banquet tonight and so you do not worry for your company inside. How did he never occur to you? He who built the garden prison for his wife and made it so that there is nowhere to properly hide in Takoba. It’s probably because you’re Alderan that you don’t think much about kings.

If only just until you are found, you will sit on these frosty steps, obscured by their size, and watch the stars twinkle through the widow behind them. It is as tall as they are. This view must be older than this family is because someone built it with love. Because there is nothing behind this part of the castle except for glass and stars and sea.

You smile and long for your oak tree and then smile softer. The muscles in your back ache with overuse, your shoulders too. Sparring with the prince is like dancing.

“Y/n.”

Your head snaps up at the voice from where it had started to slouch with sleep and like a dream your prince is standing at the foot of the staircase. He’s in fine Alderan gold. Did he come through the Hall? How could you doze through the sound of that door opening? Bakugou cocks his head which shakes his ash hair right over his eyes and sends a long red earring to rest soft across his jaw. All you have is moonlight to see him glow.

He hesitates before speaking again, “Is this where you like to hide?”

“You’re one to talk about hiding,” you tease because you are sleepy and lacking basic judgment, and his flinch is hardly hidden, even in the absence of candlelight.

“I need your help.”

If you weren’t awake before you are now, judgment back squarely in place as you skip steps in your hurry to be beside him. Bakugou pulls the air with his temples to lead you to the Hall, boots clicking, hands stiff. Laughter and music vibrates from inside.

“Wait here,” he grumbles and pushes open the door enough to slip through, perfectly enough for the fat wave of alcohol to make you wince. The sound pushes you physically backward a step and your eyes can’t adjust fast enough to stop from squinting, but you can’t help watching even half blind and only mostly awake. It’s only been a few hours but people are standing together on tables in their beautiful frilly clothes, screaming the words to a song no one seems to know. A sea of crowds cheer them on from below, equally as drunk, and the scene stretches on from wall to wall. Line dancing between benches, liquor across the floors and a whole room of joy– Sero is linked arm in arm with two waitstaff at the back of the room, kicking their legs and laughing together at their lack of coordination.

You chuckle before you can think to be weary of so many people crammed together. Uraraka, ten feet off the ground, mimes riding a great stallion around the room with a glass of ale in her fist much to the joy of the soldiers sat below her doubled over with laughter. Shinsou’s not far off, surely to keep her from embarrassing the garrison, but his scowling hands are full of Kaminari who can’t quite stand right without the guard’s hand around his waist. You lean in a bit farther. Just a step. At the front of the room, the Todoroki siblings sit bunched at a clean table, quiet but still talking and drinking like the rest. They are delicate and beautiful and you would lament having a father like theirs if you hadn’t just caught sight of your prince at the table beside them.

He needs help– did something happen? He disappeared this afternoon after the mess in the soldiers’ quarters, is he injured? Is someone else?

Bakugou is grumpy on the best of days, tonight he is fuming. Mina is limp over his shoulder, squealing, and something’s dragging on the floor behind him. You can’t see anything beneath his hips in this crowd.

“What’re ya laughing at?” He hollers over the lively sea and catches you in a stare on his march back to the doors. Were you laughing?

Bakugou holds the stare like he’s got something to say all the way back to your side. A band somewhere under the chaos tunes their strings for another round.

“Alderans can’t hold their liquor,” he growls over the threshold, “like a fucking disease.” It’s Kirishima dragging on the floor behind him. The prince has his champion in a chokehold by the back of the collar. He leans over to drop Mina on the floor, “They’re gone. Can’t go a second without tryin to eat each other’s faces off.” Mina shrieks when she’s plopped to the floor.

He rolls his eyes when he gestures to the pile of drunkards at your feet, “I can’t carry them both upstairs.” Then runs one hand through his hair and flexes the other on his hip to assess the situation. Kirishima drools.

“Miss Mina,” you whisper and crouch in front of her, “can you hold onto me?”

She blinks one eye at a time and grins, “an’thing fr’ pretty lady.”

Kirishima is less lucky, slung across the prince’s shoulders like a training dummy. At least he’s docile. Mina giggles and reels backward every chance she gets from her spot on your back. She squeezes your waist with her thighs and the pressure keeps making you wheeze.

“Ticklish?” Bakugou grunts under the deadweight of his champion. Something catches in his throat and you struggle to keep your head on the hallway ahead instead of checking what kind of face he might be making. He is framed by stars in every window. He glows at the edges in the moonlight. You are ticklish, he knows that.

It’s the four of you trudging through the castle, getting your hair pulled at odd intervals and trying to breathe in the opposite direction of your inebriated company. Kirishima keeps stretching out of his fireman’s hold and with a crackling bark from your prince, ends up halfway down his back. He narrowly catches you when Mina tries to lean back on a staircase, your hands tight under her thighs and the front of your tunic tight in Bakugou’s fist. You would like to laugh. You’re not sure you don’t, but Bakugou doesn’t pause to revel in stupidity with you.

He stays frustrated and silent and you remember dusk bedtimes at camp. Time passed frowning on carriages. Trying as hard as he is now not to look at you. It is easy to hate him.

You might have lost your fury, but your job isn’t lost to you. You haven’t forgotten your responsibility to your kingdom. Protect her son and serve the queen and keep your place in the castle. Don’t kill the King of Takoba. Mina doesn’t weigh much and she keeps the cold away, one foot in front of the other. Bakugou’s golden hair rustles with each step beside you and his biceps, frustrated, flex around Kirishima’s legs. It’s easy, so easy, so much safer to hate him and you just can’t remember how.

Your drowsiness vanished with adrenaline and when adrenaline vanished there wasn’t anything left in its place, it would be awfully easy for something to slip inside.

“She didn’t understand,” you murmur hardly loud enough to hear. Mina twirls your hair.

Even for all his stoicism tonight, the prince still rumbles an, “eh?” into the corridor. Maybe he rolls his eyes? Regardless, he doesn’t stop marching with his barely-conscious cargo.

You murmur again, “Shuzenji.” And he stumbles a bit. His champion is too heavy. “When I thanked her for the room.”

Something inside him shifts beside you– you can hear it, just there under his ribs– like the crumbling of a campfire. He’s looking at you now so you remind yourself not to turn and stare. You smile. It’s getting easier.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“For saving me.”

It’s the two of you walking side by side, failing impossibly. Trying hard not to watch one another.

“Repaying a debt.”

Blood bursts gently under the skin. And you can no longer speak without the smile, no matter how hard you try to tuck your chin into the bundle of Mina’s fingers at your collarbones.

Jeanist and your oak tree, Mitsuki at midnight, how many people can you say fill you with ease?

Bakugou is holding his breath but being here is still easy. Walking is easy. Mina is slipping a bit to the side. Standing close to him is warm, not arson. Sparring with him has made the air too thin and if you’re not careful you’ll touch him again. He’s buckling under the weight of something and you think maybe one of you needs to be tense for the other to know peace–

A clap explodes through the chill of the nighttime castle and your heart pops, a quiet overflow, at the immediate need to account for one thousand things, surroundings, threat, variables, full arms, Bakugou, a pantry staircase, the dark, and when you jolt to fix Mina back upright, she resists. Her hand is planted firmly on the meat of your prince’s ass, where she made good on a t-up to slap him as hard as you’ve ever heard anything hit. He’s frozen. You spit. There’s nothing for it.

As you sink to your knees, her palm leaves a grip in the crease of his trousers and you can barely keep her attached to you with one hand, the other muffling your laughter.

“Attaboy,” Mina groans across your shoulder.

It happens so much faster than you’d expect. But of course he must love them this much for a reason– Bakugou’s lips burst apart in a puff and one rich chuckle breaks the surface. He doesn’t hide it this time. It is flint and tinder. You turn up to him with startled eyes and his smile might be the sun; it’s hardly there and he can’t hide it, doesn’t– he can’t and he doesn’t even try. Yours hasn’t fallen and you don’t think you could force it down for anything.

“dn’t tell kiri.”

Mina’s last words come before either of you try to look away from the other, and modesty evaporates. Bakugou’s grin erupts across his face and you disintegrate fully in hysterics on the rug. He tips his head back and roars.

His laugh is a bonfire, you can hardly hope to hear it and ever calm down, you will laugh together like this until you die surely. He stumbles in his giddiness and backs against the walls to support Kirishima’s weight– Kirishima who wheezes between the chill of the marble and the body of his friend. Tears shine in four Alderan eyes. Mina growls at your jostling. Your hands are stuck firmly to the ground to keep you both from falling over but, surrendering, she lets her fingers slip limp from your neck and tips right over sideways, sprawled.

“– wait Mina, fuck, gods–”

All it takes it one fuck to have Bakugou sliding down the wall like a ragdoll, a hand trying to stitch his gut back together. He’s wheezing now too, exhausted. His ears are red. The veins in the back of his fist threaten to spill from how hard he clenches in laughter.

One second of eye contact and you’re both inconsolable again on the ground. He and Kirishima hunched against the wall, you trembling over your lost cargo, “Mina come back,” you urge through gasps and giggles. Every time you look over to Bakugou, another bout of something bubbles up from your heart. It comes out with the laughter you can’t keep down, but they aren’t the same. They can’t be. One is rich and warm, and the other burns like sugar. Like breathing fire.

A foot soldier is not thrilled to find the four of you enjoying yourselves all over her post and doesn’t appear overly excited at the prospect of corralling Alderans to bed.

“Up,” someone grunts, so much softer than anyone you know. Prince Bakugou has steadied himself on his feet and Kirishima again on his back, and leans over where you’re trying to coax Mina’s arms over your shoulders. He tries to suppress it, but his canines poke sharp out of the corner of a grin. He looms close. Close enough to cast his shadow over you in the moonlight and waft caramel through your hair, “C’mon.”

You would have complied without an argument, if anything failed to contain a chuckle or two, but he doesn’t give you time. Bakugou loops one arm around Mina’s back and your chest and lifts both of you up in an effortless hoist. You rush to grab onto her in the seconds he lets you dangle a few good inches off the ground before setting you down again. He rolls his eyes at the Takoban guard, “Dead on my fucking feet,” and reaches for you to follow. He’s blinking at you like he didn’t just toss three full-grown Alderans around and you’re focusing hard to blink back. Your ears itch with an awful heat.

“Captain,” he looks between the guard– antsy and relieved– and you, and smirks with confusion, “let’s go.”

You hop twice to situate Mina and nod as politely to the guard as you can manage before falling in line beside your prince. Your shoulders bump in the rush. Not-looking was easier before you knew what his smile sounded like.

Mina’s room is in the guest wing, where they house drunk ball guests and foreign diplomats. It’s entirely plain. You ignore a pang of satisfaction at your new bedroom in the highest tower and knock the door open with your hip, boys close behind.

Bakugou hardly waits a second before he dumps Kirishima over his shoulder hard onto a white sofa. They both wheeze, Kirishima more of a subdued misery compared to his prince’s relief and the next sound is a creak not a breath because Bakugou’s feet are heavy on the floorboards when he walks away.

Your friends aren’t lords, but you’re still a soldier. You’ll be gentle. In the dark, you sit at the edge of Mina’s bed and lower her backward into the blankets where she lays, snoring, before you roll her onto her side. It’s pitch black with the curtains drawn, but you know from the silence the prince is long gone.

With a few pillows lined up behind Mina, you rise and make your way to the poor champion in a lump on a sofa much too small for him. You’ll need light for this. The curtains take two hands to tie back; they’re thick for winter weather but when you do, moonlight drowns the room and everyone inside begins to glow. Why are beautiful things here so cold? Your stomach aches from the laughter and you try to be thankful instead of anything else that the prince has gone to bed. This is your job after all. You can’t smell the sea with the windows closed and so it’s almost like being home, dead alone like always.

“What’re you doing?”

Your forehead cracks against the glass in surprise and you turn with both hands pressed hard to your head like you weren’t just falling asleep against the windowpane.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow behind a tall candle and shuts the door behind him. “You know you’re not actually talkin when you stare like that, right?” His grin is more sarcastic than before but no less warm. You gather yourself as the prince sets his candle in a slot beside the door and surveys his company. “Go to bed,” he clucks after a moment of thought.

He crosses the room and inspects three more fat candles melted together on a table in front of the sofa. Kirishima groans. Bakugou pinches a wick. Pink and white burst from under his fingernails and purple crackles under the light his sparks make. Red is next. Pinching, pinching, popping in the dark, until each candle has been lit by the smell of caramel.

He crosses again and lowers himself onto a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed as you watch and remember to speak, “Go.”

“I can’t leave them.”

“They’re fine.”

“I won’t.”

After weeks of defiance, why does he choose now to smile like that? “You’re a nightmare.”

“I can’t. If they aspirate–”

“They’ll deserve it.”

“Highness–”

“You think I can’t keep two drunk babies from dying in their sleep?” Bakugou rolls his eyes and finally scoops his chin up to look at you.

Weeks, months– years, of vitriol– and in three nights you’ve forgotten how his lips curl when he stares at something that he hates. How could you think of anything but home when he watches you with all his attention and the warmth of earthenware eyes? How does your heart hold its seams closed?

He will watch over his friends without sleep, he will suffer their boredom in a matchbox carriage so that they can see this ocean he hates so much. He will fight Takobans and diplomats and royalty to keep his party safe, he’ll sit in the kitchens and pluck your splinters instead of attending a feast in his honor and he will throw himself into the sea.

“Y/n.”

“I won’t leave you.”

His flinch would be bright enough to see on a starless night– in the blacks of shadows. You kneel beside the soft spot he’s made for himself at the foot of Mina’s bed and try to remember how easy it was to laugh with him now that the closeness makes your skin prickle at the hair. He clears his throat instead of teasing.

Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing.

His voice comes and you turn to look because you are incorrigible. His lips are the first thing that catch the light of the stars in the window beyond you. They’re crooked with attitude. He wets them when he’s thinking and they purse to the left as he speaks.

“I,” The sound is gravel underfoot, “I want..”

You hum, confused– exhausted– and he blinks once slowly, something between frustration and thought and the lull of bed, before turning to meet you. This isn’t the closest you’ve ever been. That helps you see him better. A scar you’ve never noticed catches the moonlight and shines in his hairline and you can count the sleep starting to gather in his pretty eyes.

“Yesterday– earlier I,” a shake of his head kills the thought. It’s hard to hear so you’re much too close and when your pinky presses his from how near you are leaning he turns away and frames himself again in starlight like a ruffled hen. “Earlier,” growling now, “Why unarmed?”

“Unarmed what?”

His jaw catches candlelight when he looks to you again so quickly, exasperated but seemingly entertained, “Combat, you oaf.”

“In the soldiers’ quarters?”

Where did the hatred go? There are mosquitoes you haven’t forgiven– is that what this is? Forgiveness. Sitting on your knees like a proper soldier but letting sleep take all other reason away? Pressing closer than you need to hear him because it is autumn in hell and fire radiates from his chest– a longing Alderan fire you lost somewhere in the sea.

Bakugou rolls amused eyes but nods at the question. Forgiveness isn’t right but you can’t move away, you will never be free of him. You will never want to be.

“It’s,” you start, distracted by weariness and the rhythm of Mina’s breathing– footsteps in the castle and a blue tinge on the windows edge like frost– he bumps your shoulder with his. Warmth finally bleeds into you. He watches just as close as you do because you’re both whispering hardly-awake, but his attention is firmly yours. Red flicks from your neck to an ear, and back again. From your eyes to your lips and back again.

“It’s harder to hold back with a weapon.”

He jerks back instead of spitting on you because his laughter comes faster than he can keep it down, but Kirishima groans and candles flicker and you close your eyes to eat the sound of his joy. You’re slipping. You curl towards him and rest your head on the curve of the bed as he regains the parts of himself that will help him sit up. When he faces you again he’s lost his shield and spear. The iron that clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows and slit his eyes and lace his scowl with hatred, gone. All that’s left is lionheart laughter and a fascination with your smile.

Two Alderans melting. Your legs are sliding out from under that proper kneel and his hands are slipping from the fists he tried to knot them in. Bakugou mirrors you when he rests his head on the edge of the mattress because his bonfire is burning down. Mina snores once loudly and startles herself.

“What does aspiration sound like?” Prince Bakugou Katsuki is his mother’s son smiling with a pale moon cheek smushed into the bedding that supports him. Always looking at you. Close enough to hold.

“Like someone choking on vomit.”

He laughs with everything he has left and rolls his face flat into the duvet. Everything he has left isn’t much, maybe just a candle. It’s enough that you’re smiling again in the pool of wax.

He peeks one eye out from the blanket, “Think we’re in the clear?”

He will roar, he will kill for his people and speak to strangers like ants. He will scare children and end wars and infuriate his dressmaker. He will glare. He will let his mages tease him because it makes them happy and he will watch over them when they’re too drunk to stand. He might laugh. Gods please laugh again. He will close every window and throw you a peach and he will make magic because he knows that you love it.

Suddenly it’s easy, not forgiveness, something new. You, spear and shield of the king. Something like devotion.

It’s a horrible thing to sleep on the floor and Bakugou wakes up first, facing the sunrise with your weight on his arm. You, the fierce and deadly dragon. Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder and the pressure makes you pout. Your lips tremble with breath.

He’ll watch your chest rise. He’ll let your fingers curl around his like ivy when he dares to move and he’ll close his eyes for a moment instead of thinking too hard about hunger or the pink scar that pokes out from the neck of your tunic. You will wake up slightly later than dawn, drooling, alone, blankets wrapped warmly around you.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @dreamingoftomorroww @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @king-dynamight @sky-angel101 @rosiejacklyn

could not tag for some reason :(

#what happens when you realize your previously sworn enemy has stronger morals than god #what happens when it's kinda hot #thank you for all this support as always! i am spoiled by my readers <3 im so so happy you enjoy these two weirdos #a hymn to black water #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo #fantasy bakugou x reader #fantasy bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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daevastanner · 11 months ago

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P R E L U D E

This is the love story of an orphaned priestess and a heartbroken spymaster. It is not for the poets or the scribes, but rather, for the dreamers. For those who look at the stars from the bars of a cell or the stained glass of a temple, and wish.

P A R T I

“You should be with someone who’s crazy about you, Jess.”

“That’d be really nice if it was coming from someone who hadn’t just punched me in the face.”

– Nick and Jess in Elizabeth Meriwether’s “New Girl” ep. 6 s. 2, directed by Jesse Peretz

“You’re not staying?” Nesta asked.

Azriel averted his gaze, straightening his bracers. For whatever reason, answering her question felt like he was confessing a secret. “No, I promised Berdara I’d give her a private lesson in dagger handling.”

To his relief, both Nesta and Cassian were both too preoccupied with the decrepit mortal village he’d winnowed them to to notice his unease. Why admitting such an arbitrary detail felt so disconcerting was beyond Azriel. He was Gwyn’s trainer after all. Trainers met with trainees one on one to help them further their skills all the time.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Azriel said mildly.

He didn’t linger, allowing his shadows to swathe him in darkness and winnow him away.

Between one blink and the next, the shadows dissipated and Azriel found himself in open air outside the House of Wind. He spread his wings and banked forward, allowing the wind to carry him towards the opening that led to the training ring. Swooping downward, preparing to land, he saw Gwyneth Berdara already within.

As soon as his boots made contact with the ground, Azriel snapped his wings in, jogging to a stop when he realized the priestess was leisurely twirling a blade far too long and far too heavy for her.

His brows pulled together as he started across the ring towards her.

She was smiling at him, blissfully unaware that she was one wrong movement from seriously injuring herself.

Closing the distance between them, Azriel held out his palm, “Give me that.”

At the flat tone in his voice, Gwyn surrendered the dagger with a bemused expression. “My apologies, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel sent the weapon floating back to the weapon’s rack on a tendril of shadow, then reached into the bin of wooden sparring daggers, removing two. He handed one to Gwyn with a serious look. “Not only was that entirely the wrong size, but you could’ve put out your eye.”

Just saying the words gave him heart palpitations. Gwyneth Berdara had been through enough without carelessly blinding herself, or gods forbid, giving herself a nasty scar.

Gwyn’s expression was playfully grave. “Well, thank you for saving my best feature. I’d hate to lose it.”

While Azriel agreed that Gwyn’s eyes were certainly beautiful, he didn’t believe them to be her best feature. Her best feature, in his opinion at least, were her freckles. They dotted her skin like constellations in the night sky, reminding him vaguely of the stars he used to glimpse between the bars of his cell. They’d always given him hope during the dark days of his childhood. Much like Gwyneth Berdara. Because if Azriel had ruthlessly slaughtered four of Hybern’s soldiers and it had saved the life of someone so good, maybe there was hope for his soul after all.

Read the rest on ao3

@almosttenaciousmoon @vikingmagic33 @mystical-blaise @hlizr50 @headcanonheadcase @beaumaismortel

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #gwynriel supremacy #gwyn and azriel #acotar fanfiction #gwynriel fic #gwynriel fanfiction #ao3

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multi-lefaiye · 3 months ago

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sunbringer's song preview: elsewhere

hi i wanted to share a preview for sunbringer's song. teehee.

this is a bit from the end of the prologue--very light on actual spoilers for the game, but hints heavily at things to come. this also highlights three characters that aren't eden, but who will be important to varying degrees to the ongoing storyline.

tagging (tentative sunbringer's song taglist form?? idk just tagging people i think would wanna read this rn): @skitzo-kero @anexor @chaieyestea @vacantgodling @chaieyestea

@paradoxspir1t @moonflowerrss @invaderskoodge @albatris @void-botanist

Elsewhere, the nightwarden stands in her watchtower, her eyes scanning the map before her for the hundredth time.

Below her, the sound of her soldiers celebrating echoes through the still evening air, slurring vulgar drinking songs and banging on their drums.

It’s grating, their incessant hedonism, but by now, she’s able to tune them out. They may be disgusting and foolish, far beneath a warrior of her standing, but she can tolerate them as long as they remain useful, as long as they remain loyal. The nightwarden doesn’t need enlightened minds, only willing bodies.

In the coming days, the goblin horde she commands will march again, conquering thousands more in Her name. Until then, let them revel in their filth.

The nightwarden is brought out of her musings by a loud, booming thunderclap, and she startles briefly as she looks up at the sky. Rather than a storm, however, she sees a ball of fire plummeting towards the ground. She watches as it passes overhead, narrowing her eyes as she listens to the roaring fire and screams above. Something about the shape is familiar… Almost as if-

Just as soon as her mind begins to wander, she comes back to herself, wrenching her gaze from the sky and down to her map. A heartbeat passes, and she realizes that she’s gripping the parchment tightly enough to tear. She loosens her grip, ever so slightly, and lets out a quiet breath.

She has work to do.

Elsewhere still, a pale tiefling stands on a rocky ridge, peering through a telescope and jotting notes in her journal. She has a tiny, relaxed smile on her face, idly sketching the constellations above her. Her mother was right, loath as she is to admit it--they are far, far more beautiful in person than in a textbook.

At the thought of her mother, her hand stills, pencil still pressed to the page. She takes a breath, her shoulders slumping, and shakes her head.

No need to dwell on the past.

A sudden thunderclap catches her attention, and she turns her head towards the east, dark eyes widening and her mouth falling slightly open. Just over the horizon, she sees a ball of fire manifest and tumble through the sky, bigger than any comet she’s ever seen. Her little smile grows into a full-fledged grin, and she nearly breaks the lead on her pencil as she continues her sketching.

As she traces the meteor’s trajectory and mentally calculates its landing site, the breeze picks up, ruffling her blue nightshirt and long, silver hair. A distant smell wafts past her nose, nearly imperceptible were it not for the way it burns her skin. Sulfur.

Abruptly, the tiefling’s smile falls, and her drawing hand freezes. It takes her a long moment to start moving again, turning to pack away her journal and telescope for the night. Her hands shake, near imperceptibly, as she does.

That’s enough for one night, she thinks.

And yet elsewhere still, a githyanki knight lands his dragon atop a snowy mountainside. The creature has only just touched the ground when its rider is dismounting, cursing through shuddering breaths as he puts a hand to his side. Even with his armor and years of training his body, he wasn’t able to escape the battle unscathed, left with a sluggishly bleeding gash just under his ribs.

It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Hells, he’s had far worse injuries before--his instructor had been unforgiving, unyielding, uncaring for those who were anything less than perfect warriors. But today’s failure is just added salt in the wound. He’d been so close, and yet once again the comet had slipped through his grasp.

If the knight were a less determined man, less devoted to his cause, he would have gone mad long ago. As it stands, however, he knows he must persist.

He lets out a long, slow breath and clenches his fist, willing himself to push through the pain. Behind him, the dragon lets out a quiet huff, and he turns his attention to the creature. The dragon’s golden eyes shine in the night, watching him with a solemn understanding. Despite himself, the knight smiles as he lifts a hand and places it on the dragon’s muzzle, the beast leaning into his touch with a gravelly purr.

They both know they have more work to do come morning. There is no time to waste. The knight squares his shoulders, and he sees the dragon mirror his posture.

“Once more, my friend,” he murmurs. “We must return to the search.” The dragon clicks its tongue in agreement. They can only rest when their work is done, even if that day never comes.

#multi makes text posts #multi's writing #bg3: sunbringer's song #sunbringer's song

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prismaticpichu · 4 months ago

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For @spongebob921, based on their lovely ask for a happy-ending ZS sickfic!!! Said ask was 110% not accidentally deleted when I was clearing some things (I’m so sorry forgive me… 🤣😭❤️)

Anywho… Another Short ZackSeph SickFic! 💕

(angst & hurt/comf & vague humor?? - Genesis mentioned - there is totally not extreme bias anywhere to be seen - return of one of Pichu’s favorite characters)

“C’mon, pal. You gotta take this. It’ll help your fever go down.”

Viscous beads of sweat constellating on his forehead; tarnished silver clinging to the sides of his clammy skin; tossing and straining against the drenched mass of pillow, two blanched hands clawing relentlessly at any attempt to get the medicine near his snarling lips.

“Leave…!”

“Shhh…” Zack didn’t even flinch, having become desensitized to the jagged noises ever since the sickness took complete hold. “You know I’m not going anywhere, Seph. I already promised.” He tried again with the medicine, gently coaxing the syrupy liquid toward his friend—

“Poison… NO!”

—and Zack abruptly withdrew his hand as if the small plastic cup had been replaced with acid, sapphire eyes burning like hellfire, his chest having grown so taut that it was becoming genuinely agonizing to breathe.

“Shhh…” hushed the SOLDIER in another gentle, fruitless solace, using his other hand to try to steady Seph’s quaking shoulders. “It’s not poison, bud. It’s not poison. It’s medicine. The doc gave it to me. He says you need to take it as…”

“Please…” Seph’s voice suddenly shriveled into something small, weakening into a vulnerable little choke. “I don’t want to… It hurts… the poison hurts…”

“Shh. Everything’s okay, pal. There’s no poison. I would never give you…”

“Please, Hojo… Stop…”

His heart twisting another hundred degrees, Zack couldn’t even take in his next breath.

It hurt too much.

“Hey, hey…” The only way out of this delirious haze was forward, delicate step after delicate step, Zack softening his voice to the most ginger and tender it can be as Seph buried his face in the pillow. “I’m not Hojo, pal. I’m your friend. I’m not going to hurt you… I promise. Okay?

His hand still lingering Seph’s shoulder, he gave the quivering terrain of muscle a gentle, loving, pleading squeeze.

“I’m your friend, ‘kay? Your friend…”

There was some shivering silence after that, as if Seph was struggling to process and understand his voice, struggling to detangle the haunting sneers of his nightmares from the soulful and pleading voice of his present.

And the man strained tighter, his brows furrowing in the delirious effort to speak, words just barely cracking through his feeble lips.

“Gen… Genesis…?”

And Zack’s heart snapped like a broken branch.

“…No. No, bud…” he tried to handle the confession as fragile as he could, shards of glass littering his tongue, deciding it was probably for the best to leave he fell to his death out of the heartfelt equation. “It’s Zack. It’s Zack… remember? Your best bud?”

Nothing in Seph’s body language showed even the slightest hint of recognition, still hidden away in a blotted shadow of memory, curling even further into its tenebrous grip under the covers.

Zack’s heart burned on the ground.

“Okay, okay…” Het set the medicine down on the nightstand, swallowing the potent sting. “You don’t have to remember me right now. Just… please take the stuff, okay? Your fever is sky-high right now—“

“No…!”

Zack recoiled a little bit, watching Seph burrow deeper into the pillows, coughing and rasping against their sopping cotton.

He swallowed again.

Okay, so… No way was Seph taking that medicine if he didn’t trust the person giving it to him, suffice to say that it was already too late to backtrack and impersonate Genesis (which, in itself, felt very wrong for several reasons). The only thing he could do was keep trying to get through to his best friend, keep trying to find a way to cleave through that delirious haze clouding his mind…

Gently, he looked down at the bed, blue eyes scanning the crinkled battlefield of sheets and linen, eventually spotting the flame-orange dragon wedged against Seph’s turned back.

And Zack couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Hey…” The SOLDIER’s voice was hardly above an airy whisper, reaching down on the bed to scoop up the lovable plushie, fingers gently tracing its velvet horns and threaded smile. “You remember this guy, though… right? Muffin? I… gave him to you. So you would never have to be alone again, even when I’m away somewhere…”

Trembling still, but clearly becoming too weak to fully fight, Zack gingerly placed the plushie between Seph’s quaking arms—

“Hnnnn.”

—immediately stepping back in case of a violent recoil, instinctively shielding his arms from where Seph had already clawed them, sapphire eyes waiting apprehensively for any vague reaction the small shard of their bond could…

…And a small smile budded on Sephiroth’s lips, his muscles relaxing in almost immediate tandem, fully clutching the plushie against his quelling chest.

“Zack…”

#ffvii #sephiroth #crisis core #zack fair #ff7 #pichu writing #ff7 fanfic #genesis rhapsodos #zackseph

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en-scribed · 7 months ago

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ORION'S FINEST [fantasy short story]

Personified immortal Stars have lived secretly on Earth throughout history. This piece takes place in 14th century Mamluk Egypt, so Arabic star names are used as the main roots. Yad al-Jawza (currently the Star Betelgeuse) and her brother Rijl al-Jawza (Rigel) interfere in human affairs for fun. The Stars' world was created by myself and @heirmyst. Previous post: [THE THREE BIRDS] Next post: [GATHERER OF GRAIN] [CENTER OF THE WORLD] Word count: 7,275

For the sake of the sultanate’s sanity, the leading amir’s jockey getting knocked off his horse just short of the race’s end was an act of God, and certainly not Yad-al-Jawza casting a minor explosion to keep him from winning.

“Yamna,” her brother Jabbar scolded, sitting beside her on the cloud. “Why are you playing with the earthlings again?”

“That one has won every race these past several weeks now.” She gestured to the affronted amir, his screams drowning out even the fallen one as attendants came to his aid. The last centuries had taught Yamna that the rich ones whined incessantly about even the most minor of grievances. “He needs to be humbled.”

“Do you truly have nothing better to do?”

She sighed, sitting back. “Not since the last execution.” Her assumption had been that a sultanate formed by ambitious slave soldiers would be endlessly stimulating, and it was proven wrong long ago. All the stories from the sun king and other fellow Stars over at Iran made her jealous; they lived near all the action, while all she and her brother got to have these days was covert attendance at parties. Still, she’d learned to make her own entertainment wherever possible. Turning to Jabbar conspiratorially, she said, “The week-long hunt starts shortly. Anyone in particular you want to unleash an ostrich onto?”

He scoffed. “Sister, please. I am a captain, and I have much more important—”

“Oh, I understand,” Yamna said, a smile playing on her lips. “Of course, this means I’ll have gathered up more activity to report to the king. You can proudly say that while I was doing all this, you just sat there, refusing to engage. I’m sure he’d love that.”

Jabbar’s eyes narrowed, sudden competitive fervor lighting them up with blue flame. Conjuring a glowing hunter’s net in his hands, he opened his wings and took to the air. “Excuse me while I set the trap.”

Yamna laughed, calling after him as he flew off. “That’s more like it. Show them the real hunter’s spirit!”

She meant to simply unleash the unique chaos of Jabbar’s attempts to show off, sitting back and enjoying the resulting mess from a distance, but truthfully, the curiosity was irresistible. He could go and rile up the prey all he wanted; Yamna would take the first step in knocking the hunters off their pedestals. She took off, and the sand blowing in her face was a small annoyance compared to the triumph of finally getting her brother to do this with her again. He was getting too up in the clouds about being the constellation’s captain lately, and she resolved to remind him he still wasn’t above having fun at the mortals’ expense.

She touched down near the paddocks, wedging herself behind a nearby strip of date palms. For once, she resented her stout, muscular form, good for everything except stealth; even vanishing her wings did nothing to help her hide convincingly.

Surveying her marks, she resisted the urge to gush with excitement about the sheer wealth of potential practical jokes available to her.

Should she release the precious falcons into the air? Let the gold-adorned dogs or the trained cheetahs out? Disrupt the tent building activity taking place around the preserve? Perhaps she could even steal crossbows and wait for the amirs to fight about it amongst themselves.

The majordomo entered, calling after the hunters, who all stood at attention. He carried a sack of blowguns. Perfect, Yamna thought, thanking the skies above for this glorious opportunity. The man left the sack on the ground, bowed respectfully, and made a swift exit as all the hopeful hunters descended on it like hawks.

Yamna tapped her fingers impatiently on the palm’s trunk, waiting for them to disperse. They were taking an ungodly amount of time, examining the make of the guns as if they were samples of fine wine.

Fortunately for her, when they did abandon the sack, they were too distracted arguing amongst themselves, measuring extremities under the veneer of respectability.

They left the door right open for Yamna’s entrance.

In a blink, she rushed to the sack and retrieved one of the spare blowguns. She rolled the accompanying clay pellets in her hand; she could make this work. Counting on all the large animals at the edges of the paddocks to conceal her, Yamna took in her marks. Who was going to have the honor of being the first target?

“Back to the tents. Now.”

The genuinely threatening tone caught Yamna’s ear over the sea of overly saccharine, passive aggressive mingling. A cheetah growled in response to whoever spoke those words.

“And if I say no?” a woman’s voice challenged, low and lilting.

Yamna perked up, at attention. This, she had to hear.

She peeked over the horse’s behind blocking her vision, just enough to catch sight of the man and woman in question. The woman, every bit as maddeningly serene as her voice, held the cheetah back, meeting the man’s eyes with the unspoken implication that it was entirely his luck that she didn’t let it pounce.

The man, a nondescript amir who looked exactly the same as the rest of his ilk, didn’t seem to catch the subtlety at play in the fog of his obvious insecurity. “Malak,” he said, the name familiar and disdainful in his mouth. “I entertained your fantasies up until here. I believed you’d see sense once we reached this… frankly ridiculous excursion.”

“Ah, so keeping me from this is out of care for my welfare now?” she shot back. The cheetah purred with agreement.

He shook his head. “Deny truth all you want, but don’t ask me to indulge this.”

And just like that, Yamna’s buffet of choices narrowed to one insufferable man. She balled a clay pellet in her fist, imbuing it with red hot energy from the flame that made up her entire being. With a few swift motions, she loaded the blowgun, and aimed for his shoulder.

She shot. The pellet-sized explosion hit right on cue.

“Who dares?” someone screamed, and another responded, “Save them for the birds!”, while another with slightly less skewed priorities yelled for a physician.

The shock gradually turned to a blame game as everyone scrambled to figure out who had enough of a petty grudge against the amir to waste a pellet. As Yamna took off, away from the admittedly tantalizing scene, she cast one last glance back. To her relief, Malak was safely being escorted away.

Then, she saw the man himself, and wanted to slap herself. She had not, in fact, hit his shoulder and ruined his chance to hunt like she wanted. The shot grazed the back of his turban instead.

Well, she couldn’t win everything.

Once again, she took to the date palms, this time perching on one’s canopy for a better vantage point on the paddocks. The chaos had settled, and the crowd was several bodies lighter; everyone except the most foolhardy of hunters, surprisingly including Yamna’s victim, had fled to the comfortable tents.

Before she had the chance to search for Malak, a blue filter overtook her vision.

A net dropped over her and pushed against her side, knocking her toward the ground. Her wings were snagged too, leaving no chance of resistance.

“Jabbar!” she protested. “I was watching the mortals scatter like ants! That’s always the best part!”

He dissolved the net into thin air, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. “Shame on me for assuming you’d stay put,” he said, but the mask of annoyance wasn’t enough to hide the restrained laugh. “What did you do?”

“Shot a man who had it coming,” she said breezily.

“Right,” he said, unconvinced. “How badly did you miss?”

Yamna punched his shoulder, refusing to dignify that with a verbal response, even as her face burned with embarrassment. She would submerge herself in the Nile at night before she admitted he was right about having better aim than her. “Forget that. What did you do?” She rubbed her hands together in excitement for the answer, small sparks bursting at her palms.

“Managed to lay traps on the fringes of the preserves before having to stop,” he said. “I ran into the sultan. He wanted to speak to you.”

She made a face. “Skies above. That barely formed child?”

The clop of horse’s hooves announced a new arrival. “I am no longer a child, Yad al-Jawza.” Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad gracefully disembarked from his mount. From his gait, it seemed as if he’d come into his own as a young man, but Yamna privately thought he still looked woefully undercooked. She was further vindicated when, obviously unaccustomed to having to function without a go-between, he reached for Yamna’s hands and wisely stopped before going further. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced.”

“We have,” Yamna pointed out. “You just happened to be a hatchling at the time.”

His face hardened with defensiveness, reminding Yamna that he was in fact a man with a chip on his shoulder about having something to prove. Disappointing. She missed the precocious child, in over his head as he was. “You’ll find that much has changed since then.” His attention shifted to the nearby paddocks. “I assume you caused this havoc?”

Yamna stiffened. She had not been expecting to get caught.

Jabbar stepped protectively in front of her. “Great sultan, I hope you don’t presume to charge my sister with—”

The sultan held a hand up to stop him, without breaking eye contact with Yamna. “Who did you hit?”

The posture broke any tension Yamna might have felt; how was she supposed to feel intimidated when she easily towered above the man? “The one accompanied by his wife and a cheetah,” she said without hesitation. “Honestly, if I hadn’t done it first, the creature definitely would have. And I wouldn’t overlook the wife either.”

Jabbar sighed, realizing there was no use defending the guilty. “Why do I bother?”

“Hossam, then,” the sultan said thoughtfully, clearly having stopped listening at the man’s description. “Yes, I have suspected. A particularly troublesome one.”

Somehow, Yamna didn’t feel as if the suspicion was in her direction. Jabbar looked at her, just as confused.

“These last two reigns have barely been my own. Still, rest assured, this one will mark history.” Remembering the Stars were his audience, he said, “My predecessor’s execution was only the beginning. If I allow you free reign to inflict what you wish upon the amirs during these hunts, do you believe you can… clean out my court?”

Jabbar scoffed. “With all due respect, we don’t merely exist as tools for your mortal politics and—”

“We wholeheartedly accept, great sultan,” Yamna cut in. Here was an excuse to have all the fun she wanted with these pompous amirs, handed on a silver platter. Why shouldn’t she take it? “When do we begin?”

The sultan stared at Yamna like he didn’t quite know what to make of her, then turned to address Jabbar, because apparently his opinion was the important one at play. Typical. “Rijl al-Jawza, I assure you, this will benefit you as well. Your—”

“Save it,” Jabbar said coolly. “I’ll defer to my sister here, thank you.”

Yamna smiled. It was moments like these that made her certain she would scorch the very skies for her brother. “Let Orion’s hunt begin!”

Without further ado, the siblings took to the air, laughing and kicking up a small sandstorm in the faces of the sultan and his horse.

As soon as they ascended beyond the clouds, the air cooled between them in the absence of the need to perform. Falcon cries echoed from every direction. One almost flew right into them. Yamna let it perch on her arm.

“Thank you,” Yamna said to her brother, stroking the falcon’s head. “I’m… sorry I got excited. I know you had your reservations, but…”

“Sultan or not, he had no right to supersede your acceptance that way,” Jabbar said. “I doubt he even has the facts straight about our ranks. Who does he think he is?”

“A man,” Yamna ventured.

“Exactly! A mere man! Why would—” Jabbar trailed off, realization about what she truly meant dawning slowly on his face. He sighed, exasperated; he tended to forget such matters entirely, treating them like an inconvenient reminder when brought up. Yamna honestly envied him. “Humans and their ridiculous divisions of sex…”

“Jabbar,” she said, amused. “We’ve taken on those divisions as well. We call each other sister and brother, for skies’ sake.”

“Not all of us have taken the easy way out. The North Star outright refuses to, and they’re in good company. Besides,” he said with a teasing smile, gesturing vaguely to Yamna’s whole form, “tell me what about any of that signifies a woman in any mortal’s sense of the word.”

She let the falcon go free and pulled her military coat tighter around herself, glaring. So what if she preferred it this way? After all, so-called women’s clothing was much better admired from a distance. Preferably on a different beautiful woman. “It signifies so in an immortal’s sense of the word,” she said. “And by an immortal, I mean me. It’s my word.”

Her brother nodded sagely. “The only word that matters.”

She laughed. At least human men’s narrow-mindedness gave her and Jabbar a common enemy. Now he had no choice but to take part in the game out of sheer contrarian spite.

The two of them touched down in the shrubs lining the hunting preserve.

Predictably, a ready net had materialized in Jabbar’s hands before Yamna could even close her wings. Forging ahead toward a clearing with obvious purpose, he said, “This way!”

“Oh?” Yamna followed, her curiosity piqued. “Why that direction in particular?”

He laughed, confirming her hope with a wink. “A good hunter always knows when his trap is sprung.”

They barrelled through the thicket, stopping short when a gaggle of amirs’ screams reached their ears. With a light touch of flame, Yamna burned away the leaves obscuring her vision and peeked out her makeshift window. Ahead, a glowing net, hanging securely from branches above, had hoisted three men into the air. Two ostriches on either side tossed the swinging net between them, a different cry ringing out with each hit depending on which man was the current victim.

As if that wasn’t delightful enough, for a split moment, Yamna caught sight of a burned turban. Hossam was one of the men inside. This was everything she wanted.

Yamna looked between the sight and Jabbar a few times, impressed and baffled. “You did not.”

He shrugged, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. “Who else could?”

“I thought you didn’t want to,” she said without thinking, and immediately wanted to smack herself for how pathetically wounded her voice sounded. When Jabbar looked back at her, his face creasing with concern, she forced a sardonic laugh into her next words. “I mean, I thought Orion’s illustrious captain was too good for fun now.”

He elbowed her playfully. “I thought so too. Then you dragged me into this.”

Yamna wanted to cry. Ever since the rest of their constellation scattered towards their own tasks, Jabbar was all she had. Him avoiding time with her in favor of appearing serious and competent for Stars that weren’t even there with them… stung in a way she could never quite figure out how to say out loud. She could have, right then.

“You were going to rust uselessly if I didn’t,” was what she said instead. “Idiot.”

He rolled his eyes, the smile not leaving his face. Then, he reached within the folds of his outer tunic and pulled out a crossbow. He notched the arrow and handed it to Yamna. “Do you want to end their misery?”

“Where did you—”

“The sultan had to approach me without his procession in tow,” he said. “Should have kept a closer eye on his stuff.”

Yamna mentally rescinded every comment she’d made about her brother becoming boring. Eagerly, she swiped the crossbow. Taking the arrow’s end in her fist, she added her own personal touch to it. She positioned the weapon and aimed.

When she made to shoot, she underestimated her strength.

The arrow flew unscathed. Its bow wasn’t too lucky. It cracked from the force of her grip. Wood splintered in her hands and fell to the ground in useless, charred pieces. Jabbar pulled her back into the shrubs before she could reach to salvage something.

The explosion she’d stored in the arrow went off and the men screamed, falling to the ground with a too-loud thud.

Yamna dared to peek.

She hadn’t just hit the branch she aimed for; she’d toppled the entire tree backwards. At least the ostriches had escaped.

“Good work,” Jabbar said flatly.

She shoved him in retaliation. “Well, it covered for us, didn’t it?”

Hossam shoved the other men off of himself and struggled to his feet. “Did anyone maintain this preserve?” he yelled to no one in particular. “Trees falling everywhere. Unacceptable.”

Yamna smiled smugly at Jabbar. See?

One of the men cleared his throat apprehensively. “I believe the ostriches went that direction, my lord.”

“To hell with the ostriches,” Hossam shot back. “And with this so-called sultan. Were it not for my unwanted company, I would have finished him off before this poor excuse for a game began.”

Yamna froze. Beside her, she felt her brother tense with sudden focus. Was this…?

“You cannot still be considering this plot,” the third man objected strongly. “After Baybars’ execution?”

Hossam scoffed. “The cowards who were scared off by that stunt didn’t have what it took to begin with. I refuse to let this man under my skin with his overcompensation.” Promptly, he proceeded to walk backwards into a loose branch and fall flat on his face. Waving off his men’s attempts to help, he said, “One way or another, I will end this hunt prematurely!”

The half-hearted hunters scurried away toward the wildfowl that they lost. As soon as they were out of sight, Jabbar seized Yamna’s shoulders, unmistakable urgency in his eyes.

“We need to nip this plot in the bud,” he said.

“Why?” Yamna asked. The news was shocking, to be sure, but she had no attachment to the sultan. All of these nominally powerful men blended together in her mind. “Let him do it, I say. Either way, it will be fun to watch.”

Jabbar shook his head. “At least this current fool on the throne knows us and is a reliable secret keeper. Can you say the same for anyone who’ll usurp him? The lack of a succession line guarantees us nothing!”

She cursed under her breath. Out of every possible thing Stars had to worry about, humans’ political instability was the most annoying. She could handle skirmishes with monstrous Hauntings or devastating floods any day of the week, but she could not explode her way out of a succession crisis.

Or at least, she’d never tried to. Yet.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Jabbar scanned their surroundings. “I’m going to keep the conspirators occupied and see if they’ve got anyone else involved. Hossam made it sound like most of the coterie wouldn’t be, but it can’t hurt to make sure.”

Yamna stood. “I’ll come with—”

“No!” he shot back, so adamantly it made her flinch. Instantly though, the flame in his eyes faded, and he went on, softer, “Yamna, I didn’t mean…”

When he reached for her hand, she pulled back, plastering on a smile. “It’s fine,” she said, even as a break in her voice betrayed her. “I’ll let you take this, captain.”

She took off, because the last thing her brother needed to worry about right then was her inconvenient emotions. If he knew how she felt, he’d either give in despite being right, or he’d stay to make her feel better.

Neither could happen right then, Yamna decided; she was not going to ruin more than she’d already had.

As the sun began to dull, she landed where the falcons circled, near the ground populated with extravagant tents. Taking a deep breath, she closed her wings and left the safety of the palm trees. If she couldn’t do anything useful in Jabbar’s stealthy and serious mission, she could at least be mindlessly entertained with the nonsense in the tent quarters.

She’d be here for a whole week. This was how far she’d fallen.

In the midst of feeling sorry for herself, Yamna didn’t see the cheetah before it tackled her.

She proved too heavy to instantly knock to the ground, but it didn’t do her any favors; the surprise was enough, and she was too preoccupied trying to keep any spontaneous fire at bay to focus on her balance. The cheetah pinned her to the ground and bared its teeth, growling.

Yamna spat loose sand. “Can we not do this now?” she asked the cheetah, tired and unfazed.

It stopped growling and stepped backwards, its gold eyes blinking in confusion. It hadn’t released Yamna just yet; she’d just gone from intruder to curiosity.

“You must forgive Hurairah. I asked her to guard the tent,” a new voice floated in, bemused. A woman walked out of the nearest tent. Malak, Yamna recalled. “Get off of the nice lady, beloved!”

Hurairah finally left Yamna alone to return to Malak, and Yamna was left on the ground, blinking. Had she just been called a lady, and a nice one at that? There was no telling what would come next.

Malak helped her to her feet. “She’s still staring,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the cheetah. “I believe she likes you.”

“Flattering. I wonder why,” Yamna said, knowing exactly why. Night was setting in, and cats always did tend to be more perceptive to Stars’ light around this time. “How are you enjoying the hunt?”

Malak’s face scrunched with irritation. “Please. Genuine enjoyment for me might as well be a crime.”

She laughed bitterly. “You and me both.”

A spark of interest seemed to wash all of Malak’s boredom away. She met Yamna’s eyes with an odd sort of hope, as if she was looking for some of her own discontent mirrored. “Are you… here with anyone?”

“My brother,” Yamna said automatically.

Malak’s gaze remained steady, hungry for more. Skies above, Yamna thought, trying not to panic. If she couldn’t manage stealth in the hunting grounds, how was she meant to do so in a conversation?

Carefully, uncharacteristically testing every word in her head, Yamna went on, “We’re here on the sultan’s request. My brother’s an incredible hunter, and I misfire every weapon I touch. As much as I’d love to be out there, you can see why I’ve been made to retreat.” She paused. Was that everything? “And, well…” She gestured vaguely at herself. “You know how men are.”

There, she thought, satisfied with herself. Enough of the truth to say comfortably, and vague for plausible deniability at the same time.

Malak nodded, fully on board. “Do not get me started. My husband is out hunting, and I’m left here.” On cue, the cheetah smacked her head against Malak’s leg, making her laugh. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, beloved. You know that.”

Yamna watched the woman fawn over the cat. The silk mantle draped flawlessly around her, and she carried it as effortlessly as if it were part of her own flesh. Malak seemed so much freer, less on-defense now than she was back at the paddocks. Fighter that Yamna was, she couldn’t help but tense up; this was too intimate for her to bear witness. She was not used to seeing humans letting down their walls of pomp and performance.

This woman must be guarded, she thought. Most of all from that unbearable man she has to call her husband.

Her husband… the conspirator she and Jabbar were meant to clean out.

The instant Yamna remembered the mission, her mind burst with glorious clarity.

She was going to make herself useful, and she was going to do it without collateral damage. This challenge would be conquered swiftly.

Yamna cleared her throat to get Malak’s attention. “This would be when I take my leave, my lady. Do you know of any spare tents I can use until my brother returns?”

“Nonsense!” Malak said, reaching for Yamna’s hand, smiling widely. “I wouldn’t dream of subjecting you to the…” She bit her lip, searching for a polite descriptor. “...various characters who saw fit to trail this hunt. You’re staying with me.”

“My lady—”

“Stop.” She held up a palm. “I won’t hear a word otherwise. And for the love of God, the name is Malak. Call me as such.”

Yamna smiled, and she didn’t have to fake it this time. This was starting off even better than she’d thought. “As you wish, Malak. Please, lead the way.”

Malak bolted into the tent, dragging Yamna by the hand. Yamna let herself be led forward, but she made it only one step inside before her feet touched carpet. Lush, very flammable carpet.

Bury the fire, she told herself, trying to repress it even though it was a laughably contrary instinct for a Star. Bury it deep, deep down.

Malak let out a cry of surprise and abruptly dropped Yamna’s hand. Concerned, she touched her face. “Friend, you’re positively feverish!”

“Am I?” She scrambled for an excuse that wouldn’t get her cast out of the tent; she was too close to be pulled away now. “I’m… simply adjusting to Cairo’s weather. This is nothing to worry about!”

Malak sighed. “Of course. You’ve been out all day, haven’t you? I’d have assumed the sultan would at least given you and your brother a proper welcome before hoisting this task on you.” She looped her arm through Yamna’s and led her, more gently this time, to a spread on the ground. A lead platter sat there, a lavish mutton dish inside with a piece of fresh bread. Two golden goblets were placed on either side. “Eat. You need it, and I’m certainly not passing up the rare chance at a meal with someone tolerable.”

At her insistence, Yamna sat, racking her brain for the appropriate way to act; it had been far too long since she had to consume a human meal. As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, Malak unwrapped her head covering, her tied-up tresses falling to her waist like midnight waves. She was looking at Yamna expectantly. Clearly, the guest had to eat first.

Yamna tore half of the bread for herself, a safe bet on a fair share.

Then, she wrapped it around the portion of meat, and bit down on the meal with full force. Malak was staring, her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth. Skies above, why was she staring? Yamna blinked, her mouth full of food that she couldn’t prevent in time from instantly burning.

Malak burst out laughing. “Right. I should’ve realized.” Her gaze swept keenly over Yamna’s form, an approving smile blossoming across her face. “You didn’t achieve that… impeccable physique by shying away from food.”

Yamna swallowed, relieved and oddly pleased by the compliment. “Yes,” she said, even though she hadn’t eaten in the last century, and for the life of her, she could not understand humans’ inexplicable push-and-pull with their source of sustenance. Why would consuming less of one’s life source ever be considered a virtue? Light was the closest thing the Stars had to an equivalent; no one in their right minds would think to deprive themselves of it.

“Oh, wait!” Malak grabbed the remaining piece of the bread and imitated Yamna’s haphazard method of wrapping it around meat, bubbling over with infectious laughter. She attempted to stuff it in her mouth in one go, but had to settle for a quaint, human sized bite from the top instead. That didn’t seem to deter her enthusiasm for even this quiet act of rebellion. “Lovely.”

With gleeful abandon, they devoured the platter clean and didn’t leave a single morsel to spare.

The two of them were lounging on the carpet, indulging themselves with the beverages and exchanging stories of travel, when a scream sounded outside the tent, followed by Hurairah growling. Malak’s face fell, the brightness of the past hour vanishing as if it had never been there.

She cast Yamna an apologetic look as she donned her covering. “He’s back.”

Yamna perked up. The target. She could start learning how to end him now. She followed Malak outside.

“Leave him alone, beloved,” Malak called out, and it might have been the most half-hearted, toothless reproach Yamna had ever heard, second only to the way Jabbar scolded her for exploding people who beat children. Hurairah obeyed, without taking her eyes off Hossam.

The man struggled to his feet, dazed. Yamna noted with amusement the net burns on his outer garments. “If you don’t get that accursed animal under control, woman, I’ll—” He seemed to notice Yamna for the first time, and reached for the sword at his belt, eyebrows furrowing with anger. “Who are you?”

Yamna couldn’t muster a reply at first, until she realized; he was mistaking her for a man. The child sultan had made the same error when she first appeared to him, simply because of her cropped hair and dressing; and here, she’d thought humans got wiser with age. “This is immensely improper behavior, you know,” she said.

Hossam froze at the sound of her voice and sheathed the sword again, now more confused than angry.

A shadow of a smile returned to Malak’s face. “Yamna here is my friend. She’s kept me company in your absence.”

He was already shoving his way into the tent, muttering something about Malak’s choices in company. Yamna took this as her cue to leave and reconnect with Jabbar, but Malak held her back.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

“I plan to,” Yamna said truthfully, savoring the look of relief that crossed the other woman’s face. “I must meet with my brother first.”

Malak nodded gratefully, turning to go back inside. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Hurairah grumbled, making her displeasure known as soon as Malak was out of earshot. Sympathetically, Yamna patted her soft head. “Sooner than you think,” she promised.

After making sure every hunter had taken refuge in their tents, Yamna opened her wings and set off into the night sky. Jabbar sat anxiously on a cloud nearby, waiting for her.

“Yamna!” He took a few tentative wingbeats toward her. “I’m sorry, you know I never wanted to—”

“Oh, shut it.” She shoved him playfully, sending him flailing about in empty air for a moment before he steadied his flight. “You can have your serious missions, and captain duties, and whatever, they’re all yours. I’ve found some new entertainment in the tents.”

“You… have?” he asked, with inexplicable disappointment. The tone gave Yamna pause. Shouldn’t this have made him happy? “With what?”

“Not so fast, dear brother. If I tell you now, it will only distract you.”

“But—”

Before he could continue, she cast an explosion at him, which he easily countered with a protective net of his own.

“Fine!” he conceded. “Keep your secrets. Have a good week, I suppose.”

Yamna folded her arms and nodded, satisfied. She would have a good week, and get the stupid conspirator out of their way as she did so. “Nice work today,” she told him. “I saw how much you managed to bust him up when he returned.”

He perked up. “Really? If I keep it up, would the king be impressed with me?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she said, and resolved silently to follow through. After all, Jabbar didn’t know it, but he was going to make this much easier for Yamna; in every way, this would be a team effort.

“Alright,” he said, quietly, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Yamna looked at him curiously. In what world would he think she wouldn’t even do that little for him? He caught her eye and straightened up. “I should go back to the preserves and… set up for when they leave after Fajr prayer.”

He bolted away before she had the chance to press further into the strangeness of leaving so early. There were several hours left before Fajr; maybe he simply didn’t want to be around her when he had to take care of work.

That’s fine, she reminded herself. I have work too. She dived, returning to the tent grounds.

As the week went on, Yamna learned a great deal from witnessing Hossam and Malak’s daily life up close.

Malak was a different person depending on proximity to Hossam. The iron core beneath her lovely silk garments and the sharpness in her eyes was a constant, of course, but when she was alone with Yamna, whom she had known for only a few days, she was all smiles, loose and carefree.

Around the man she’d been spending her life with, the defenses went up. She spoke as if on trial, and he belittled her every happiness; the one bad time Yamna had observed on the first day seemed to be their norm.

He annoyed Malak, that much was clear as day. Yamna would be doing her a favor by taking him out.

Or at least, that was what she told herself, every subsequent sunrise. The reality of the days involved much less watching for Hossam’s weaknesses and more… warm mundanity with Malak. Sharing meals, walking Hurairah, relaxing in baths… all of this they did while Hossam was out. He was the subject graciously sidestepped in conversation, never mentioned by name, lest the acknowledgement shatter the joy.

On the fifth day, it hit Yamna all at once; she was no closer to ending him. Once more, she’d neglected the seriousness of a mission for… what? Useless play?

Malak jabbed her in the side with an idle foot, sprawling across a ridiculous amount of pillows. “What are you afraid of?” she asked, casual as ever.

Yamna puffed out her chest. “Never in my long and storied life have I been afraid of anything.”

“Really?” she asked slyly, clearly pleased in meeting this challenge. “Your silence and fidgeting today says otherwise.”

Yamna threw aside the pillow she’d already ripped to shreds. “So?”

“So, I want to know more. Even if we ignore right now, surely you don’t expect me to believe you’ve always been this perfectly sculpted, absolute marvel of a woman who could kill a man with a glance?”

If only killing a man with a glance was accepted behavior at the moment. “Trying to flatter me into confession, are you?”

Malak inched closer on the mattress. “Is it working?”

“Almost,” she admitted. And so, like she had with every question thrown her way, Yamna played the game of dressing truth in human skin. It was always more convenient than lying. “I earned the spoils of every game I’ve played fair and square. I didn’t start out like this, I made myself so because I was bright and unstoppable and… I just could. I’m an asset to the ruler of my land, and my brother knows it.” This hung in the air. She hadn’t seen him all week except for in short glimpses. He was always so busy with the mission. “I hope he doesn’t take it to heart.”

“He shouldn’t,” Malak said. “You’ll both be on your way as soon as this hunt passes, nothing soured.”

The next question, Yamna didn’t meticulously polish. Raw and unfiltered, she asked, “Where will you be? After—”

Malak placed a finger on Yamna’s lips. Their eyes met, and they were close enough together that Yamna knew she wasn’t the only one heating up. Oh, she realized, comically too late. She’d done this a little too well. Yamna leaned down enough for Malak to eagerly make her move.

Their lips collided. Malak, determined, held fast, practically scaling Yamna’s body to deepen the kiss further. Yamna kept a hand on Malak’s back, pulling her in closer; suddenly, keeping the explosions at bay was second nature, because in that moment, they were not Yamna’s greatest pleasure. This was.

They parted for breath only when Malak toppled them over onto the mattress.

“You,” Malak managed between breaths, still on top of Yamna, “light fires within me. A force of nature, you are.”

You have no idea. Yamna reached up to pull a strand of hair away from Malak’s eyes. She wanted that smiling face before her in all its glory. “Look at you,” she said admiringly. “Such brilliance, and all of it waters down in other company. What are you afraid of?”

Hossam’s voice yelled outside, drawing closer and shattering the scene.

“That,” Malak answered softly, instantly moving to smooth out her hair and dress.

Yamna bolted upright with a start, and not just because of who was coming their way. “What did you say?”

Malak flinched, avoiding her eyes. She hadn’t misspoken, then.

“You’re afraid of him?” Yamna pressed. All that shameless rebellion, then… what for? “You know you can—”

The tent entrance parted and Hossam stormed his way in. “Five days,” he said between heavy breaths. His clothes were blackened in impressions of Jabbar’s nets. “Several men lost in the maze these preserves have become. And not a single worthwhile kill to show for it!” He rounded on Malak. “You. Make use of all the space you and your beast have been taking up. I need some relief.”

Yamna clenched her fist, sparks coalescing within. She could end him now.

For a moment, Malak held her gaze. Then, she turned to Hossam, resentment burning in her eyes. “You can’t get this… relief elsewhere?”

He laughed humorlessly. “You are the only wife who insisted on coming along. Who else would it fall to?”

The unabashed crass speech, in front of a third person no less, was unbelievable. Then again, Hossam stopped seeing Yamna as a person the very second he no longer perceived her to be a male threat. Resigned, Malak looked to Yamna. One word, Yamna thought, trying to convey it with her eyes. One gesture from you and he’s dead meat.

“Go,” Malak said instead.

Stunned, Yamna walked out. This time, Malak hadn’t begged her to stay. What else could she have done?

So much, she reminded herself. I could have—would have done it all. I lost my nerve when it counted most.

She lingered outside the tent, listening. It started with argument, the louder voice dominating like it was his right until the lower one snapped under the pressure and dared, for a few words, to match its volume. Dead silence, and then…

The tent’s hide only barely muffled the discordant sounds of pain that followed.

Yamna stared at empty space in the unforgiving night sky, thinking for the first time since the week started something other than the game. This was why she’d contented herself with witnessing only the humans’ fumbling, overdressed public selves; what lurked behind closed doors was too dark, too at odds with the fun she wanted to have, and not everything she found distasteful in this domain could be swiftly humbled with an explosive practical joke.

She came to a startling conclusion; she would not kill Hossam.

Neither would Jabbar, and certainly, nor would the sultan. None of them had earned the spoils of this particular hunt.

She looked to the sky. “Next sunrise,” she resolved, waiting every drawn out hour for the king’s sun to bestow upon her the strength she was going to need.

Finally, the time came.

The men filed out of tents to congregate for Fajr prayer, and Yamna wasted no time in bolting toward the tent. Fortunately enough, Malak was already outside, putting out a piece of dry meat for Hurairah.

“You aren’t praying?” she asked.

Malak jumped, surprised, but the relief on her face could have melted mountains. Yamna didn’t miss the difference in the way she wrapped her head covering, so it covered more of her face than it usually did. What she’d heard in the tent last night made it easy to guess why.

“It’s my… monthly exemption,” Malak said with a wry smile. Yamna thanked the skies above that Stars didn’t have to deal with the counterproductive mess of periods. “I suppose I’m impure in more ways than one now.”

“And all the better for it,” Yamna said. “I believe so, at least.”

“Your word is worth more than any other.” Then, the smile faded and she said, softer, “I told you to go. You likely get enough grief as is for existing, and I—”

“I will go,” she promised quickly. “But first…” From the folds of her outer coat, she produced a blowgun, handing it delicately to Malak. “Follow the hunt. Stay unseen, the way you’re so adept at doing so. There is only one… particularly potent pellet. Save it for the beast whose blood you know deep down you’re justified in spilling.”

Malak took it carefully, her expression unreadable, and Yamna wondered if this had been the wrong move after all. “Tell me,” Malak said slowly, stroking Hurairah, who was rubbing against her leg, “how something said to be impure has brought me nothing short of an angel.”

“I’m no angel,” Yamna said. “Merely a fellow woman who wants you free.”

“Stay?” It was no longer a desperate cry for company. Just a question. A request.

“You don’t need me to,” she said, pleased. “Not anymore.”

When the hunt left, Yamna trailed them from the sky. Naturally, she found her brother in the preserves without having to look too hard. His hair, frazzled, stuck out in every direction, and even the ready net in his hands was misshapen.

“You’re here!” he cried out. Yamna braced herself for the captain's reprimand. “Thank the skies… do you know how hard it is to keep these men preoccupied? I can do nothing without you, Yamna, I need you! I need your misfired weapons, and first resort to violence, and—”

The initial shock of the admission hit Yamna like a flood; it was so strikingly mirrored with her own innermost feelings. Once it faded, Yamna shot forward and enveloped Jabbar in a hug. “None of that will be necessary,” she promised. “The mission is over.”

“Wh—” He tried to break free of the hug to look around, but couldn’t shake Yamna’s iron grip. “What do you mean? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” she answered happily. “That’s the remarkable part.”

With impeccable timing, a bang resounded a few thickets back, followed by glorious, disgustingly familiar scream. Laughing, Yamna grabbed her brother by the hand and flew in the direction of the noise.

From the green canopy, they could make out a woman and a large cat, calmly and precisely smoothing over a patch of ground that was slightly off-color, like it had been dug up.

Crimson liquid mixed with the raging embers of Yamna’s magic, scattered throughout the scene as a lovely garnish. The gun had worked.

Malak turned her gaze to the sky, mouthing a silent yet treasured, “Thank you.”

That smile alone gave Yamna such immeasurable satisfaction, she didn't even care that she hadn't seen the man die herself.

“This was your new entertainment?” Jabbar said, his voice heavy with incredulity and awe. “You are truly unmatched.”

She gave him a half bow, proud. “Never underestimate the power of pleasure, brother,” she said. “Now, Orion’s hunt is at an end. What's our next game?”

#writing #fantasy writing #short story #original character #oc #stars collapse #en writes #historical fantasy #shout out to all the queers who made up unhinged plotlines with playing with barbie dolls #this miniseries might kill me actually #but i'll do it for the sapphics and only the sapphics

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littleredpencil · 11 days ago

Text

Work Song

Type: Oneshot Fandom: VLD Pairing: Shiro/Adam

Based on an ask suggesting that Work Song by Hozier is an Adashi song; just two tired soldiers who deserve to finally have some peace together.

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The house was old. Its wooden floors creaked and it had no right angles, the supports hidden away by plaster walls sagging and shifting as every new year brought further settling of the foundation. The furniture was sparse, chosen for efficiency rather than comfort, but as bare minimum the shelter the house provided, it might as well have been a fairy tale castle.

Because it was on Earth. Solid ground beneath his feet and familiar constellations overhead.

Shiro stepped out of the aging shower, inspecting his reflection in the cracked, foggy mirror. White hair, tired eyes, scarred face…he both looked and felt far older than his twenty-six years.

He dripped off a bit on the threadbare shower mat, knowing that the warmth of the US west’s summer was going to hit him in earnest as soon as he was dry. This place didn’t have any air conditioning, adjusting to it from the climate-controlled vessels of space travel was going to take some time.

When he did dress it was in borrowed clothes, a pair of fatigue pants and black t-shirt that was a little bit snug on him. He had always been more muscular than the shirt’s owner, but now that he didn’t have any of his own clothes it showed. He had a uniform, given to him by the Garrison when he’d returned, but it remained folded in the newly issued duffel bag until he needed to go back to base.

He left the small bathroom, wincing as he felt the age of the stairs under his weight on the way down. They would definitely hold him but they still felt rickety in spots, and after all he’d been through the last thing he needed was to break his neck falling down the stairs.

The house was mostly empty, but clean. The faded walls were wiped down regularly and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen, and the few pieces of furniture were taken care of. Shiro passed through what had once been a sitting room, now filled with communications equipment. He stopped to look at a pair of monitors, one showing radar readings for the area and another displaying the slow, steady readouts of the many probes buried out in the ground around the property.

The lights in here were dim, meant to help keep the small house hidden from night fliers. Shiro made his way carefully through, out the back door into the warm night, leaning against the worn railing of the old back porch. The sky was clear above, the stars sparkling like a sea of diamonds, and the horizon was lit by the orange glow of the Garrison’s particle barrier in the distance.

Between here and there was open desert plain, he could see the destroyed ruins of the city to the east of the base. He knew there were other small houses out there, secret human communications stations like this one, but by design they would be impossible to pick out in the night.

This was a world that had become accustomed to Galra occupation, where life had begun to continue around the trespassers in its own way. They had become such a fixture on this planet that the men and women who manned these stations did so with very little fear, long-since adjusted to the patterns of their oppressors.

He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, and not one of the Garrison’s. This was an older style car, and as he leaned out over the railing he thought he could make out what might be a Jeep. The back door opened then, and Curtis joined him on the porch. He was dressed similarly to Shiro, in fatigues and a dark tank top instead of his usual officer’s uniform.

Curtis had been the one to invite Shiro to join him on recon tonight. Tomorrow the Paladins would be attempting to summon their Lions and would be attacking the six known Galra bases, this would be the last quiet night on Earth one way or another. They were gathering atmospheric data and monitoring both enemy and any local human chatter, and Shiro had been under the impression it was only two soldiers per comm station at a time.

“Do you have a guest?” Shiro asked, pushing away from the railing and turning to Curtis. He knew there were still people out here, the Galra tended to flock to the cities they’d overthrown and avoid the less domesticated areas. Every now and then they swept the outer areas to try and capture a few more, but for the most part these unorganized outliers were more trouble than they were worth.

“Am I interrupting some regularly scheduled conjugal visit?”

“Not quite,” Curtis grinned, climbing carefully over the porch railing and dropping down onto the dusty ground below. “Visitor, yes. For me, no.”

Shiro didn’t know what that meant. He moved down to the far end of the porch, following Curtis, watching curiously as he flagged down the oncoming Jeep.

“Sometimes, soldiers who go missing in the line of duty get found when we liberate work camps,” Curtis said, moving out of the way as the Jeep turned onto the narrow, dusty road to reach the house. “Every now and then, one of them decides that since their tour of duty is up they’d rather just disappear instead of coming back to the base.”

The Jeep came to a stop about ten yards away. Shiro could see the shadowy outline of the driver climbing out, but he didn’t know who would go out of their way to retire in obscurity only to return on the evening when the fighting was really about to get started.

It only clicked a split second before the new arrival came around the Jeep and became visible in the starlight. Even in the night, even after several years and with only the barest sliver of a moon in the sky, Shiro recognized his face. It was the same face he’d woken up next to on so many content mornings, and the same face he had mourned recently on a memorial wall of the dead.

There was a jagged scar running down the right side of his face, but other than that and a few new laugh lines he was the same. The only real difference was that he wore jeans and a light jacket instead of anything even remotely resembling military attire.

Shiro was jumping the porch railing before he even knew what he was doing, closing the distance and throwing his arms around the slightly smaller body. The surprised laugh that rang out when he lifted Adam clear off his feet was like music, the arms that embraced him tightly back felt like coming home.

“They said you were dead.” It was like Shiro’s tongue had stopped working, like his throat didn’t want to let any words make their way past his lips. “They said your plane crashed, I saw your picture on the memorial.”

“Yeah, well, they said you died in a crash too,” Adam answered. Shiro felt a kiss on his temple, such a tiny, simple gesture that brought with it a huge wave of happiness. “You’re breaking my ribs.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Shiro lowered Adam to his feet, putting his hands on the other man’s shoulders and shoving him back so he could get a good look at him. Thinner than he had once been and much more scarred than at first glance, but otherwise in one piece. Healthy, whole, and as beautiful as ever. “Where were you? Why aren’t you at the base where it’s safe?”

Adam pursed his lips and turned his gaze past him at Curtis, who shrugged slightly.

“I didn’t tell him anything. I’m going inside, though, and you guys should soon too. They’ll have an hourly fly-by soon.”

He disappeared inside, leaving them alone. Shiro turned his attention back to Adam, who looked almost guilty.

“My plane went down in the first attack, but I ejected. I got picked up in a sweep of the area and stuck in a work camp, until the military raided it. I ran into Curtis before any other soldiers that knew me, he told me Sam Holt warned Sanda what would happen but that she sent us out anyway.”

He hesitated, rubbing one arm, and Shiro imagined there was probably more scarring under the fabric there.

“My tour was up by then and I didn’t owe them anything. And I didn’t think I could serve under her. So I just left…there’s a small colony out in the cliff caves, the Galra don’t go out there. I grow plants and teach kids, and engineers are always useful when you’re rebuilding civilization. It’s kind of nice, if you can ignore the bloodthirsty aliens everywhere.”

“They had you in a work camp,” Shiro repeated, feeling a flood of concern. His eyes traced over the scars again, wondering how many had been from a rough ejection landing and how many had come at the hands of Galra overseers. “How long?”

“A couple months,” Adam said it almost absently, as if it weren’t important. His attention was on Shiro’s arm, he started lifting it and twisting it to look at it with a mix between an engineer’s curiosity and a loved one’s worry. “Your arm…your hair…what happened to you?”

“It’s…a long story,” Shiro looked from his arm up to the sky, remembering the threat of hourly Galra flyovers. “We should go inside and talk there.”

He hesitated, then held out his good hand. He and Adam had parted on unhappy terms but not angry ones, two people who loved each other but were being pulled in opposite directions by circumstance. There was a very good chance this entire planet could be wiped out tomorrow if things went wrong, Shiro did not want to waste what might be his last chance to say all the things the memorial wall had made him realize he should have said.

Adam hesitated for a moment as well, and Shiro could read on his face that it was for similar reasons. His hand was warm when he did reach out to take Shiro’s, their fingers lacing together as they headed into the house. There was a lot for both to say, and it was going to be a long night.

* * * * * * * * * *

Three years later

The sun was setting when Shiro finally left the Garrison, extracting himself from the celebrations more than six long hours after the Atlas had made berth. The end of the war had come with the defeat of Honerva, and although Allura had her hands full with a colony of confused and betrayed Alteans, the obstacles the Coalition faced were much smaller.

The Blade of Marmora had rebuilt itself over the last few years and wrestled power from the imperialists, and the more violent of the Galra had been reduced to pirates at the edges of civilized space. There was work yet to be done but the majority of Galra civilians were in favor of peace, and were not violent and bloodthirsty like the regime that had ruled them for so long.

Planets of the Voltron Coalition were beginning to form what they were calling the Galaxy Alliance, and peoples who had so far been only military allies were becoming political and social ones as well. The seat of the Galaxy Alliance was slated to be founded on Arus, where the Arusians not only welcomed the return of Princess Allura but actively offered to share their planet as a new home for the lost people of Altea.

The Atlas’ deployment as the Coalition’s main warship was finally over. The long, exhausting campaign against the last vestiges of Zarkon’s empire had come to an end, and the ship had finally come home.

Shiro drove past houses that hadn’t been here three years ago, past a new mall that was under construction and along the winding road that was now spotted with driveways. He saw fenced-in yards with children’s toys on the lawns, a group of teenagers standing outside one house laughing, a couple pushing a baby coach and walking their dog.

There were still ruins, not everything had been rebuilt, but three years ago this had been nothing. Now he saw life.

And, as he pulled to a stop and parked in front of a familiar old house, in the distance he saw the ships.

The Atlas was easy to see from her size alone, but her two smaller sisters were visible as well. Built for speed and power, they had proven necessary when some of the Galra imperialists had attempted to retake Earth in the Atlas’ absence. The planet had not been untouched by the continuing war, but it had been far better defended than it had been in the days of Sendak’s invasion.

The Eris and the Nemesis, chaos and retribution, glinted elegantly in the dying rays of sunset. The fact that there was no Jeep parked outside of the house already meant that the head engineer of the Eris was still on duty.

Shiro leaned back against the car to take in the few for a few more minutes, the vision of a world that could finally be at peace. The fingers of his prosthetic hand toyed with the gold ring settled on the fourth finger of his good one, scratched and dented from his tendency to constantly play with it.

It was his reminder, in those stressful or lonely moments, of what he was fighting for. Of what was waiting for him back at home.

There had been no honeymoon, not even a wedding night. Just their last minute decision to make it official only a few hours before the Atlas had been scheduled to launch. Three years of contact only through long distance messages and video chats, but to Shiro it made no difference. He got to wake up each morning with the knowledge that Adam was alive, and that he was waiting for him to come home.

The front porch was far more solid when Shiro finally went inside, finding the spare key tucked up on top of the door frame. The porch stairs and railing had been replaced and several of the floorboards were new, and all of the wood was newly sanded in preparation to be stained. The communications equipment was gone when he stepped inside, the windows now framed with curtains instead of boarded up to keep outsiders from seeing any light.

The air smelled faintly of sawdust and paint as he moved through the small house, out of the living room and into the kitchen. This room was finished, probably the first one Adam had tackled, cheerful yellow walls and white cabinets and counters that made it bright and welcoming even now as night fell.

The stairs didn’t creak as he went up them, taking a look at the two small bedrooms up here. One was filled with tools and building equipment, a pile of two-by-fours and a stack of drywall against the wall. There were cans of paint and varnish, drop cloths, and a table saw ready for action.

The second bedroom was finished. Unlike the kitchen this one was far more calming, carpeted to quiet the noise and with light dampening curtains to let occupants sleep in. The furniture had clearly been bought used, there was no way the elegant old style could have been found new anywhere, but painstakingly refinished and restored to its original glory.

Shiro looked in the drawers of the bureau out of curiosity and couldn’t help but smile. The left ones, which had always been his when they’d lived together, were stocked with clothes. They all still had tags, only recently bought with the homecoming of the Atlas in mind. He went through them and pulled out some jeans and a t-shirt.

The bathroom had been made slightly bigger and updated. The shower he took was far more luxurious than the last time he had been here, a plush, soft shower mat waiting for him to step out and a new medicine cabinet that showed him his reflection.

Somehow, at almost thirty, he looked much less tired and far more happy than he had three years ago in the cracked, foggy old mirror.

Shiro noticed the new banister on his way down the stairs, and the fact that the treads had all been replaced and no longer sagged in their middle. The whole house was a work in progress but to be honest, he was glad it wasn’t finished. He looked forward to putting some work into it, to adding his own touches and helping make it what they wanted it to be.

He could hear music when he reached the first floor and padded along through the house, following it to the back door. He stepped out onto a finished back porch, slightly larger than it had originally been and now with actual stairs to go down instead of having to jump the railing. They led out to a yard that was now fenced in, where he could see that decent soil had been put out in preparation to start landscaping.

It was lit by the stars above, and by the warm glow of the string lights that ran along the porch ceiling. To his right, where there had originally been nothing, there was a hanging swing bench with two little end tables, occupied by a tired engineer who had kicked off his boots but was otherwise still in uniform.

Adam was sagged down on the bench, arms resting across his stomach, with one foot resting on an end table and lazily swinging himself with the other. He had an open beer in one hand and his glasses pushed up into his hair. He gave a smile, tired and maybe not as bright as it might have been earlier in the day, but it lit up Shiro’s entire world.

“You’re two days early,” Adam complained. “I was still on assignment out of state.”

“I was in a bit of a hurry to get here,” Shiro smiled. “I had some things on my schedule.”

“Oh?” One eyebrow quirked up a bit, the corner of Adam’s mouth curving up teasingly. “Hot date, maybe?”

“Man, I sure hope so.”

Adam finally gave in, setting down his beer and getting up. Shiro expected him to come in for a hug but instead Adam reached up to cup his face, thumbs running lightly across his cheeks, then pulled him in for slow, deep kiss.

It left him breathless and giddy, his stomach fluttering and his chest feeling as if it might burst. There was so little in his life that made him really happy and he sometimes forgot what it felt like, until moments like this brought the feeling crashing over him again.

When they parted it was only for Adam to pull back slightly, leaning his body into him instead. Shiro wrapped his arms around him and held him close, feeling almost dizzy as Adam rested his head on his shoulder. They fit together so perfectly.

“Welcome home. How long do we have?”

How long. Adam meant how long until his next deployment, how long until he was taken away again on some other long-term duties. No complaints about him being gone for three years, no demands that he stay. This was the reality that he’d been too proud to consider so many years ago, that Adam leaving him had never been about wanting to be chosen over Kerberos. It had always been about Shiro’s health, it had always been about trying to keep him alive, it had never been about not understanding his ambitions or wanting to hold him back.

Here they were, about a decade later and potentially in the same position, and all Adam wanted to know was how long they had before Shiro left again. But this was something Shiro had already thought about in recent days, long and hard.

“I was thinking that maybe it’s time to transfer to a smaller ship,” Shiro said slowly, lightly rubbing Adam’s back. “Spend a little while helping secure trade routes and help set up the Alteans on Arus. Something that would only take me off planet for a few days at a time.”

Adam pulled away to regard him with a frown, and Shiro thought he looked painfully lovely. His glasses were still shoved up into his hair and he was barefoot, his uniform jacket tossed off on the swing leaving him in a t-shirt that showed off a body full of vivid scars.

“You love leading the Atlas. Exploration and pushing boundaries, that’s your thing. You won’t be happy playing security guard for supply ships.”

“I don’t know, I think it could grow on me,” Shiro answered, looking up at the sky. The stars were out, constellations he could name off by heart and find his way by, safe and familiar. “I’ve done everything I ever really wanted to do. And now I’ve been a Voltron Paladin, Captained the first space-worthy Earth warship, and led the victory in a ten-thousand-year-old, universe-wide war.

“All before I was thirty. Now I’ve broken every record there is to break, I think I can take a rest.”

Adam didn’t say anything. Shiro wondered if he’d said something wrong, and when he looked back down from the sky he was startled to see the other man’s expression. Adam looked like he was trying not to cry.

Shiro didn’t have to ask why as he pulled him back into another hug, holding him tightly while he tried to fight back tears. Adam had been through a lot in his life, he’d spent a good portion of young adulthood helping care for a sick boyfriend then lost him to a universal war; he’d fought in an invasion he’d failed to hold back and nearly died, had been held in a Galra work camp, and had watched their home planet burn firsthand.

Takashi, how important am I to you?

That was the question that had played in Shiro’s head over the last few days, over and over again. It had been asked almost ten years ago and it was only now that Shiro found he really had an answer.

More important than anything else should have been the reply. Life hadn’t been that simple back then, but it certainly was now.

The radio had gone to a commercial while they’d been standing there, but now it went back to music. Shiro didn’t know the song, but he started moving slowly to it, pulling Adam along. The night was warm, a soft breeze stirring the leaves of the potted plants hanging over the porch railing. The curtains were closed in the kitchen, leaving the glow of the string lights the only light for him to see by.

He had never thought they’d be here when he was younger. Shiro had expected to die young, and after Kerberos he’d never thought he’d get back to Earth. When he’d arrived and found Adam’s picture on the memorial wall, he had known it was really over.

But here they were, both back from the dead. Two people who had defied the universe’s efforts to put them in their graves, and made their way back to each other out of sheer spite.

They were tired. They were still hurting. They both deserved a chance to finally settle down and rest, together.

#VLD #Voltron Legendary Defender #LRP: VLD #LRP: VLD Oneshot

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