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zepskies · 2 years ago

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Break Me Down - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: Surprise Sunday update! I was able to put the finishing touches on Part 2 a bit early. 😉

Song used in this chapter is “If I Didn’t Care” by The Ink Spots (but more like Amy Adams' version). Song inspiration for this chapter (and the song title) is “All My Livin Time” by Radio Company (Jensen’s band with Steve Carlson).

Word Count: 4,500 Warnings: 18+ only! Willful seduction, kidnapping, SB being himself lol.

Part 2: You Move Me, Baby

This next mission was going to be a bit more…hands on.

It was a gentlemen’s club, styled like a 1920s speakeasy, of all things. If nothing else, Soldier Boy was predictable.

Through a crack in the dressing room door, you didn’t see any gentlemen here. You saw a bunch of skeevy bastards.

For the record, you didn’t like this plan. But as Butcher once again pointed out, Soldier Boy’s less likely to fuckin’ recognize you than any of us.

And you certainly couldn’t (wouldn’t) imagine Butcher in rhinestone nipple tassels.

Right now, you were waiting to be assigned an outfit. Hopefully, you could just blend into the background of whatever performance act the stage manager wanted to slip you into. And you really hoped you wouldn’t have to striptease on stage.

In the meantime, you sat on a stool in a black lace bra, matching panties, and sheer pantyhose, while Annie was helping you with your stage makeup. Years as a pageant child had taught her well. You felt like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality, fending off getting hairspray up her ass.

Sure, you had gone undercover several times, but this was slightly out of your wheelhouse. You bit your lip, forgetting that you were already wearing several coats of scarlet red lipstick.

Annie slapped your hand. “Stop it. You’re smudging my paint job.”

You had Butcher and M.M. to thank for arranging this little detail.

May they both rot in hell, you silently simmered.

“Oh, stop pouting. You look great,” Annie said. You caught the little smirk she was trying to taper down.

Then the manager’s head popped into the dressing room. When he verified that all the young women had at least their underwear on, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“All right, listen up,” he said in Spanish. You understood just enough to follow what he was saying. “Angelica got food poisoning.”

You grimaced. Angelica was the main act. She had a whole burlesque-style routine with the rest of the women—for which you were meant to step in for one of the girls in the ensemble. Hopefully in the back.

“Daniela, you’re filling in,” said the manager, pointing to a busty brunette.

“What about the second act?” asked another girl. If you remembered right, her name was Raquel. “Dani can’t sing like Angelica to save her fucking life.”

“Excuse me, bitch. I sing better than you,” Daniela snapped back.

The manager rolled his eyes and clapped his hands harshly to end the bickering.

“Okay. Which one of you bitches can actually sing?” he asked, first in Spanish, then in English, you noticed as he glanced at you.

Annie looked at you with raised brows. You glared back at her.

Damn you for telling her about your childhood church choir days. You were sure your religious mother never thought you’d be using those talents like this.

“No,” you said firmly. Annie just smiled and waved the manager over.

That was how the two of them ended up all but pushing you on stage—after Annie had wrangled you into a shimmering red gown over your underwear and pantyhose. It was overlayed with delicate beading in intricate patterns. And it was easily the most beautiful thing you’d ever had on your body.

However, you did take issue with how long the slit was, running all the way up to your hip bone.

Not really ‘20s style, now is it? you thought sourly.

Annie just slapped your ass and guided you forward.

You shot back one last look at her—one that swore you’d have your revenge.

Then the curtain slid open.

Fuck me, you thought nervously. This was really happening!

The lights blinded you for a moment, and you blinked the glare out of your eyes. They soon adjusted as you forced yourself to move towards the microphone at the right-hand side of the stage, close to the live band. The pianist shot you a smile and a wink as he started to play in dulcet tones.

Steeling yourself, you grabbed the microphone with a slight tremor in your hands. You stared out into the crowd as the rest of the band joined in, slow and jazzy.

You’d informed the manager that you really only knew one song by heart.

“Eh, that is too slow,” he’d replied to you in English.

“It’s that, or Dani belts out in her best soprano,” you informed him. He sighed and waved a resigned hand.

“Get her the red one,” he told Raquel. She then handed you the dress on a hanger.

Now, you held the microphone between both hands and started the song your grandmother used to sing to you when you were a kid.

“If I didn’t care, more than words can say,” you began. “If I didn’t care, would I feel this way?”

You took in an unsteady breath. With each note, your voice was getting stronger, more confident.

“If this isn’t love, then why do I thrill? And what makes my head go round and round, while my heart…stands…still…”

As you eased into the rest of the song, you remembered your mission.

You scanned the dark room, rows of men of all ages, women serving drinks and food and their own bodies. You weren’t finding your target.

But this intel was good. The source was the girl you’d replaced in the show, and M.M. had already worked out her safe exit out of the city for a while.

There. You finally saw it.

Or rather, you saw him.

Towards the back, Soldier Boy sat at a large exclusive booth. He had a long joint propped between his fingers, and a working woman from the club already propositioning to service him. Her manicured hand eased down his chest.

He also seemed to have hired men sitting at a table nearby.

Your voice nearly hitched at the sight of him, but you forced yourself to take a calming breath during a musical interlude.

You knew Annie and the rest of the team were here in the club somewhere, to back you up. But Soldier Boy knew Butcher and his team were onto him. the bastard would recognize them. You were the distraction here.

And if he went away with that escort, he could easily disappear upstairs and hop out the window again, gone like a coil of weed smoke.

Somehow, you needed to keep his ass in his seat.

So your voice came back in strong for the final verse.

“If I didn’t care, would it be the same? Would my every prayer begin and end…with just your name?”

You watched Soldier Boy’s gaze drift toward the stage. Your lips curved as you held his eyes for a moment…but then, you coyly slid your gaze away.

Okay, what’s going to grab his attention…

You shifted on the stage, letting the curve of your hip and ass sway to one side. You raised your other foot on the tips of your toes. And the slit running up your leg slid open, revealing your tall silver heels and a smooth leg, all the way up to the inside of your thigh.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to fit your gun holster this time.

“And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare…” Your voice rang out on the high note; at that climactic point, the music reached a crescendo.

You turned your head and looked directly into Soldier Boy’s eyes, and his mouth slid into a grin.

He was watching you.

Good.

“Would all this be true,” you sang, “if I didn’t care for you…”

As the final notes reverberated from the piano, applause and male whoops erupted from the crowd.

You slowly released the microphone, breaking off eye contact with your target.

Then you turned around, trying to hide the nervous tremor in your legs. You pressed a discreet hand to the communicator in your ear after the curtain fell behind you, and you told the team.

“He’s here.”

Annie was no longer backstage.

“Good job, crooner,” M.M. said on the comm.

“Watch him ‘til he’s ready to leave,” Butcher said to everyone.

You agreed and dodged the manager so you could slip to the back room within the dressing room.

You were about to change into your real clothes (and grab your gun), when you were stopped by a Latino man. Though he clearly wasn’t a local or a tourist. He looked ex-military, complete with a crew cut and dark beard.

“Soldier Boy would like to meet you,” he said in lightly accented English. You affected some doe-eyed shock, even though some of your surprise was genuine.

You’d just wanted to keep him watching the show. You hadn’t expected him to take the bait this much.

“Oh, wow…where? Now?” you asked.

“Now,” he confirmed. “Upstairs.”

He couldn’t even pick me up himself? Lazy, you wanted to tsk.

You spied the stage manager over by the doorway. He gave you a stern nod that told you that you had no choice but to accept.

Not that you ever intended to decline. Though of fucking course the manager had known Soldier Boy was here. He was probably a damn regular.

You gave Soldier Boy’s man a charming smile. “Lead the way.”

This wasn’t the plan, exactly. You decided it was even better though. Just infinitely more dangerous.

Even though you had years of training, honing your body and your mind in a fight, you weren’t a supe. You were, in fact, exceedingly breakable.

“Are you crazy, cherie?” Frenchie said on the comm.

You also thought you heard M.M. mutter an, “Aw shit.”

“She don’t got a choice now,” Butcher said. “But it’s a good play to get him alone. Slip her one of them hockey pucks.”

You heard M.M., Annie, Butcher, and Frenchie’s continued twittering back and forth about the change of plan. Meanwhile, you were being escorted upstairs.

Kimiko managed to maneuver into your path from the opposite direction, and she slipped a small disk into your hand as she passed you.

You gave her a grateful wink and discreetly placed the device into your bra while your escort wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t a dose of Novichok, but it was something that might keep Soldier Boy occupied for a moment. You intended to use it if he got too fucking handsy.

You were let into a room on the third floor. With the lavish way it was furnished, complete with a king-sized bed, it almost looked like a hotel room.

Yeah, Hotel California, you thought wryly, as the door shut behind you.

Soldier Boy sat at a table by the far wall, gazing out the window with yet another joint (or perhaps the same one?) and a generous pour of whiskey in his hand.

Even you could admit, he cut an attractive figure. He was dressed in light brown slacks, a matching suit jacket and a white dress shirt with the top buttons left open. A simple ensemble, but well-tailored and suited to the golden tan he’d developed here in South America. His beard was neatly trimmed, his short hair styled back in its familiar sweep on both sides.

Even seated, his posture was casual, yet controlled as his head turned to meet your gaze. A smile started to curve his lips.

Show time, you told yourself.

“You’re new,” he said. You tilted your head, a bit of flirtation in your smile.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

He gave you an oh please look. With the hand that held his whiskey, he gestured with a curling finger.

“Come ‘ere. Don’t be shy,” he said. It was an order rather than a request, but you hid your instinctive annoyance.

You subtly took in a steadying breath. And you moved farther into the room. You didn’t stop until you were sitting opposite him at the window, crossing your legs beneath the table.

You could tell he’d expected you to take a seat in his lap, but to a degree, you didn’t want to do what he expected. He was likely paying the club well for this time. You didn’t want to make it easy.

You wanted him to be enticed. Invested in this moment.

And distracted, for as long as he let you.

You watched him glance down with interest at your bare leg peeking out. At your strappy silver heel shining along with your dress in the soft lamplight, which casted shadows across his profile.

“Want a drink?” he asked.

You were surprised he was offering you anything. You’d half-expected him to order you onto your knees already. Upon which, he would’ve received the gift currently residing in your bra a bit early.

You didn't want to take any drink you hadn't poured yourself, but you also needed to keep this act going...

"I'm not gonna fucking drug you," he said, reading the look in your eyes. "What would be the fucking point of that?"

Hmph. smart-ass motherfucker, you thought. But you didn't detect a lie.

You quirked your head and took the proffered sip from his glass. You wanted to play it cool, but maybe you also needed a little liquid courage.

“All right, easy on the booze. Get his guard down,” Butcher said in your ear. You resisted the urge to frown.

Could Butcher see you somehow too? Or was he just hearing the ice clinking in the glass as you gulped it down.

“Did you enjoy my performance?” you asked Soldier Boy.

“Still am, doll face,” he said with a smirk. You raised a brow.

“I’m not that new,” you replied, biting indelicately on a dark cherry. Your heeled foot slowly slid against the inside of his thigh.

It was his turn to raise brow. His head tilted with his smirk.

You didn’t know if he was more amused than turned on, but his gaze roamed openly over your legs, the cleavage on display, your dark red lips.

“Are you enjoying your stay in Medellin?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, yeah. I’m having a fuckin’ ball,” he said wryly. He dabbed some ash off his blunt with a finger.

There was something off there, and you didn’t miss it.

“You sound bored,” you said. Soldier Boy considered you with a lustful, challenging gaze.

“Maybe. You gonna help me with that, sweetheart?”

A flutter of nerves churned in your belly, but you used it, letting the feeling prickle awareness across your skin.

“Depends,” you said coyly.

Both his brows rose this time, as if he was surprised you were actually pretending to resist him.

“On?”

You subtly leaned forward when you gave him back his glass, allowing him to spy a bit more down your dress. You stared into his deep green eyes, and tried not to get lost yourself. He was an attractive man, but he was also your target. A job you intended to finish.

A smile played at your lips.

“On what excites you,” you replied.

By the way his eyes darkened, his smile curving, you thought he liked that answer.

Then his hand extended toward you, a silent command in his gaze. Steeling yourself, you tried your best to be graceful and sensuous when you took his hand. He playfully jerked you forward, making you fall into his lap.

You waved some dank weed smoke out of your face as you looked down at his amused one.

He was nearly down to the roach on his joint. Meanwhile, his free heavy hand slid up your bare leg, disappearing beneath your dress and making goosebumps spread across your skin. Your breath hitched, though you disguised it with a smile.

“You afraid of me, sweetheart?” he cooed.

Yes, if you were honest with yourself.

There was a false sense of security in his deep voice. You looked down into his eyes, very green and intensely focused on you, despite his air of nonchalance.

“Not really,” you replied. “Only that you might get ash on my dress.”

He chuckled, smoke blowing out his nose. He put out the joint in the ashtray and took another sip of his whiskey, likely to drown out the cotton taste in his mouth. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers spreading between the open buttons, and felt his warm skin.

He glanced up at you with another challenging tilt to his head. What are you gonna do now?

You met that challenge, boldly leaning down to press a kiss against his lips. You held his face, delving your fingers into his soft hair.

Soldier Boy grabbed your hips with a bruising force. It made you wince, instinctively biting into his lower lip. He uttered a pleased sound, guttural in this throat. You braced yourself against the wall behind him for leverage as his chair started to tip back.

Before either of you could fall, he lifted you effortlessly by the waist and pivoted, pinning you against that wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist as his tongue invaded your mouth, devouring you with hot and heavy hands holding you in place.

His fingers pressed into the flesh of your thighs, and you knew you couldn’t easily escape if you needed to.

This is getting out of hand…

He was busy kissing a wet and sloppy line down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin. It actually felt so fucking good to be touched. You hadn’t experienced it in so long, it almost startled you when your heated core pulsed with the friction you were feeling against the hardness in his slacks.

You would never admit it, but it wasn’t an act when you moaned into his ear. Fuck…

But when his hand again slipped under your dress and crept up your inner thigh, alarm bells triggered in your mind as panic started to set in. You panted for breath.

With him seemingly distracted, you reached down into your bra and grabbed the metal disk.

You gasped as Soldier Boy grabbed your wrist, tight as a vice. He looked down at you with a sly grin.

“You were fuckable in black, but red’s my favorite so far,” he said.

Your eyes widened. When the hell did he see me in black?

And then you remembered. You’d worn a black dress at the last club, where you got groped on the dance floor and found Soldier Boy’s latest note…

Had he hung around after all, watching you and the team pick up his clues?

And you realized, he knew exactly who you were.

Soldier Boy glanced down at your lips, then at the tops of your breasts heaving as you caught your breath. His eyes shone with mischief and lust.

“It’s a real shame. You’re probably a good fuck too,” he remarked. It sparked your irate disgust like a wildfire.

Then you smirked. “You can fuck this.”

You activated the disk in your hand and flicked it at him. He instinctively grabbed at his face, releasing you. The device attached to his cheek and electrified enough volts through his body to drop an elephant.

Maybe five. The CIA weapons specialist hadn’t been too sure.

And a star bolt shot Soldier Boy in the chest, shoving him away before he could grab at you.

You jumped back and continued to put several feet of distance between you and Soldier Boy, while Annie and the rest of your team poured into the room. They were poised for a fight, once Soldier Boy ripped the device off his face with a grunt. It probably hadn’t hurt him much, but he looked pissed now.

He rolled the kinks out of his neck and surveyed the room with a slow gait. He spared you a fleeting glance. You were now at the safety of Kimiko’s side, and Frenchie handed you a gun.

“Ah, the Scooby Gang,” Soldier Boy remarked. He nodded at Butcher. “This is how you repay me for taking care of Homelander? My own son.”

“He weren’t your fucking son,” Butcher replied. “I’d reckon you know that best of all.”

Soldier Boy’s lips twitched. Whether at a smile or a frown, you couldn’t tell.

“You found me, remember? So what, you got buyer’s remorse?” he said.

“See, the problem is, supes like you are what we call,” said Butcher, “a menace to fucking society.”

Soldier Boy’s lips pulled down into a frown. He looked a cross between annoyed and impatient.

“I fought for my country. I saved lives—”

“You took just as many as you might’ve saved,” M.M. interrupted. “And not just that building you burnt the fuck up last year.”

Soldier Boy hesitated at that. “You really wanna do this?”

You all really want to die? his eyes said. He got determined silence from all of you. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted his blazer.

“All right,” he shrugged.

Then all hell broke loose. You ducked for cover as Soldier Boy deflected the giant flare gun M.M. shot at him. With his bare hand.

Hired security then poured into the room—you assumed hired by Soldier Boy. And you protected Hughie from getting his neck snapped by shooting a man between the eyes.

You and M.M. continued to fight them off. Meanwhile, Kimiko and Annie tried to give Butcher and Frenchie a chance to get close with the Novichok gas on Soldier Boy.

You took care of three more men before you heard a low buzzing sound. You turned around, and a gasp fell from your lips when you saw Soldier Boy’s chest lighting up.

You knew what came next.

And so did Annie. She poured her all into her next star bolt—which managed to shove Soldier Boy through the window. She and Kimiko flew or otherwise ran out the window to follow him. While Butcher, Frenchie, and M.M. helped you fight off the last of the hired guns.

Finally, you covered Hughie as the five of you left the normal, human way, and ran down the stairs to exit the club. By the time you were able to join Annie and Kimiko, however, Soldier Boy had disappeared.

You glared down the dark, busy streets of Medellin.

Damn it!

You returned to the hotel disappointed and angry beyond fucking belief. Mostly at yourself.

After all the work you did, having to seduce and make out with that bastard, only to discover he’d made you long before you took the stage at the club.

Fucking hell, you thought angrily as you kicked at your suitcase. It sent your clothes tumbling across the dirty carpet, but right now you didn’t give a fuck. Damn cocky bastard.

In the bathroom, you kicked off your heels in relief. You looked yourself over in the mirror and found various cuts and bruises from the fight. Your softly curled hair was a shambles, along with your makeup.

Parts of your dress were torn, along with your pantyhose. Which was probably Soldier Boy’s doing, if you thought about it. You sighed.

You were about to start undressing, but then you heard something. A small sound, like a thump.

Your gun was on the table in the main room. Frowning in suspicion, you left the bathroom cautiously. Before your hand could close around your gun, a gloved hand grabbed your wrist.

You aimed a punch with your free one and caught a man directly in the jaw. He reeled back, but was quick to recover and try to grab you again.

While the guy was strong, you could feel that he wasn’t a supe. A human, you could deal with. He wore a mask over his face, but you could see he had shoulder-length brown hair. He was tall and lean, and one of his boots was strangely larger than the other.

You didn’t have time to focus on it. You redirected his following blow and used his strength against him, flipping him over your shoulder. Unfortunately, he landed on the table that held your poor laptop.

“Aw, shit,” you snapped with a grimace. You searched for your gun in the wreckage.

While you were somewhat distracted, he aimed a kick that caught you in the face, sending you onto your back with a pained cry. You quickly rolled over and got to your feet, just as your attacker threw out fist after fist.

You dodged and shoved away most of them, until he grabbed your arm and managed to crack his elbow into your temple.

You went down and hit your head hard against the bedframe.

And it was lights out.

You slowly, painfully woke up in a moving car.

You were suffering the cottony taste of a gag in your mouth and a musty bag over your head. Your wrists were tied in front of you, and it felt like you were shoved into the backseat. The car was quiet, save for the radio playing Latin pop on low volume.

You never would’ve thought Shakira would be the background track of your kidnapping, but here you were.

The car eventually stopped and you were dragged out, forced onto your feet on a cobblestone driveway. Then into a house.

…Well, this fucking sucks.

The thought rattled through your mind as you were led down a hallway, across a cold expanse of tile floor. You couldn’t see where you were going with this stuffy bag over your head, but you knew it was tile. Your bare feet all but scraped across it as they dragged you.

Whoever held your arms in a vice grip eventually forced you to sit in a rickety wooden chair. They pulled your wrists behind the chair and bound them together with a zip tie.

You felt the slit on your dress sliding open, so you crossed your legs, for whatever good that would do you. At the very least, it would give the impression that you were sitting here casually, and not (figuratively) shitting yourself with fear.

“What the hell is this?” a deep, familiar voice asked.

“A gift.” You knew this voice as well. Neither one instilled you with calm.

Then the bag finally came off your head. The gag did not, however. You knew your red dress was in unfortunate tatters. You knew you were bruised and scratched, and overall worse for wear.

But when your gaze found your kidnapper, you glared up at him with a stubborn tilt to your chin. Antonio, Señor Groping Bastard from the club, was smirking back at you.

What the fuck.

Then you noticed him.

Soldier Boy stared back at you with raised brows, and instant recognition in his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

AN: 😬 So we finally made it to the prologue opener! Was it everything you thought it would be? How did you like her attempt at "undercover?" 🤭

And are you ready for what's coming next?

To keep reading: Part 3

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @pallographsunspot @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303 @123passwort @xoxovienna @magnificentnightmarehadi @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28 @nancymcl @ashbatz @yvonneeeee @fckinel @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022 @waters-2567 @emily-winchester

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humanintownau · 3 months ago

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☆Human in Town!☆

Welcome to the blog! This is all the information you need about this blog! (Updates will be notified!)

Last updated: 02/01

My main blog: bbqgrape

•

What is this blog about?

By the title, this blog is about my new BATiM AU "Human in town!"

Now, about the environment:

• This story takes place in Toon Town, or as most refer to it "Toonsie town". A small fact, toons can immediately tell what type of personality a toon has just by which name they use for the town.

• Toon Town is the equivalent of New York, which was infested with all sorts of different toons, considering it was a big town. The smaller towns are Inkfell (Full of mafiosos with ink businesses), Hale Halos (Populated by mostly angels, I'll get into it on why later on).

• As by the first cover I did for the AU, this au takes place in 1961.

• Toon Town and other towns or living areas are separate from the human world. Each toon has the ability to leave the human world, but none can leave the toon world. This is important.

The characters:

I removed the refs for each of the characters' scars, because Tumblr only lets 10 per post 😔

• Daniel/la Darling:

(Couldn't fit each personality trait, so everything is a bit specific sorry `^u^)

Oooh boy, Daaaaniel, I have a lot to say about him...

And you probably already guessed, Daniel is a human in disguise. Well, he's technically a toon now, but with all the differences he has compared to toons, he might get his own category soon.

Daniel was a victim of "Angel farming" (will get into that later), and was a subject to torture and experimenting. And with no choice, he had to use one in a lifetime chance to escape. And that cost, well...a lot. First off, he's homeless, hungry, and even craving those peas he was force-fed back in the facility.

As I mentioned before, he was a victim of "Angel farming". This is an old project that has been active since the 1930's. This project is about turning humans into toons, more preferably angels, or any feathery toon. They are used for their wings (or halo). After those parts are removed, they make them regrow back by ink. This is a cycle that brings a lot of money to not only criminals, but also studios. Yes, studios. Money is money.

"Toon farming" is more popular, due to having less resources to make and sell them. (One of the reasons barely any toons are in the Human world).

Next on the list is...

• Benedetto 'Bendy' Stein

For now, I'll keep this short, since I don't want to spoil much. And I'll have elaborate on why Bendy's personality traits are too short (Yeah, it's because Bendy's gotta be the center of attention).

Soo... Let's start off straight and clear, Bendy's a mafia boss. And a good one at that, despite being kind of a dumbass. However, he's kept quite a reputation for the past few years, especially in 1959 (I ain't telling you why 🤫🧏).

His partners in crime are Boris (his best friend, and also a part of the mafia), Samuel 'Sammy' Lawrence (One of his soldiers), The Butcher gang (which joined Bendy's gang as an agreement), Katie, and Daniel.

And for his personality, well...

He's... confident to say the least, it's what scares the rivals, and other things... 😨

Anyway, he's, despite his attitude or "occupation", he's quite loving and caring to the people he loves or cares about. One of his redeeming qualities. And if we compare him to the other mafiosos, he'd be a saint. But it doesn't mean he doesn't get his hands dirty when he needs to.

• Boris Stein

Another mafia boss to the list (Benedetto and Boris run the same one. They were forced to share /j)

Okay, Boris seems like a prick on the outside, but is quite caring and soft to the people he thinks deserves it (except Katie, they don't get along well...). His tough exterior and physique helps him in fights, and also to intimidate rivals.

Benedetto's short temper and anger problems always have to be relieved, and Boris is there to do it as the calm older brother.

• Samuel 'Sammy' Lawrence

Oh this grumpy old man...

Anyways... Sammy's a human as well. And has been here FAAAR longer than Daniel is. He died in 1935, when he was 26 years old, and is now pushing his retirement age. He hides his true age so Benedetto wouldn't place him in the retirement home. He's still 54, but his "body" and mind is one of a 30+ year old. He isn't that wise to be a grandpa, but isn't ignorant enough to be your typical older brother.

He's a trustworthy man for Benedetto, with his intelligence surrounding ambushing, and unlocking different closed off places, rooms, vaults, etc.

• Cinnamon --------

Toon Town's biggest sunshine. She's basically the kindest person you could ever talk to. She's amazing at advice and enjoys spending time with her friends and -----.

She, despite her sweet and optimistic personality, is quite reserved, afraid of saying too much. She always tries to display herself the best way possible. She's afraid to show her true self.

• Katie M'lady

Born to be a tiger, forced to be a lap cat.../j

Katie is a fierce soldier who will always protect her fellow comrades. If you're being jumped, she'll probably help you (unless if you stole her favourite booze from the bar cabinet). Benedetto always takes her everywhere during chaotic missions, because of her experience with fighting, and also her capability of working under pressure. She's quite reserved, so no one knows much of her. Only that she'll beat your ass if you look at her the wrong way.

• ----------

Wait, who was she supposed to be again?

• ??? (No name for now, still thinking of a desc)

(temporary drawing)

•

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Differences between humanoid toons (Non-native toons) and real (native) toons:

Let's take Daniel (outdated design, will be remade in the future, but so far everything is canon) for example...

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Tags:

#BBQGrape's art: all my art is in this tag, including my main blog.

#Human in Town au lore / or just lore: lore about the au, environment, characters, backstories and so on

#Human in Town au: Anything related to the au / blog

#Daniel Darling: Mentions or drawings of Daniel (my oc)!

#Oc:Daniel Darling: Same as the previous one

#Benedetto Bendy Stein: for that cheeky bastard Bendy

#Boris Stein: for the big ol' woof

#Katie M'lady: ladies first.

#Cinnamon --- the ferret: Mmm, Cinnamon buns...

#Samuel Sammy Lawrence the old bastard: the old bastard.

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Qna:

• Is it okay for my ocs to interact with the characters?

A: of course! I am more than happy to answer them! ^^

• Can I make ocs for this au?

A: Of course! Feel free to draw them and most importantly, tag me; I'd love to see them!!!

• What kind of asks will you ignore?

A: I won't ignore any, except for ones that are basically not related to the blog in any way.

Or being inappropriate. That's an option too.

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Thank you for reading!

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pascalhowlett · 27 days ago

Text

Ethereal Chapter 6

A/N: SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE LIFE GOT IN THE WAY :/ There is SO MUCH MORE from where this came from! I know this is slow burn kinda but I promise we are getting closer to the *spicy* stuff.

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Summary: After the Roman Empire takes over Numidia, Cecilia is purchased by Emperor Geta as a pawn in his attempts to take over Rome. What will happen when she meets General Marcus Acacius, the soldier who was responsible for the death of her lover, Atticus Claudius?

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 6! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k -ish

At dawn, Acacius led Cecilia to the library that was attached to the palace. The morning light spilled softly through the corridors, but instead of escorting her to the usual alcove, he brought her there.

“The orders for the day—the documents—should be on the scribe’s desk,” Acacius explained.

“Where is that?” Cecilia asked as they paused their footsteps outside of the library entrance.

“In the corner, with the scrolls,” he replied, glancing around warily. “You must go alone. It will look suspicious if I’m seen inside.”

“Why would it be suspicious for you to be in the library?” she asked, frowning.

Acacius hesitated, his expression hardening for a moment. “Because I’m not meant to handle such matters. My place is elsewhere, and questions would follow. Yours, however, is less constrained—use that to your advantage.”

Cecilia studied him for a moment, her frown deepening as unease settled over her. Still, she nodded, stepping toward the grand oak doors of the library. Acacius lingered just out of sight, his posture rigid, as though he were ready to attack anyone who dared to hurt her.

The library was silent, the kind of stillness that only indicated trouble. Shelves towered around her, their contents a treasure trove of knowledge and recent decrees. The faint scent of parchment and ink hung in the air, but it did little to soothe her.

A fire should strike this place, she thought, Rome could start anew.

She moved quickly, her steps muffled as she winded down the different aisles of books. The scribe’s desk was easy to spot in the far corner, a cluster of scrolls and papers spread out haphazardly. Cecilia hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the door as though expecting someone to burst in. When the silence held, she forced herself forward.

Her fingers skimmed over the papers, her pulse quickening as she searched for anything bearing the signature of her cynical husband. Finally, her hand stilled on a scroll sealed with wax, the names on the paper ironically written in red ink. Gaius Tiberius, Quintus Publius, Aulus Servius, Caius Nero, Manius Cato. Five innocent men signed away to death…just to make a statement.

She slipped the scroll underneath her gown, her movements quick but shaky. For a moment, she paused, ears straining for any sound beyond her panicked breathing. Satisfied, she turned and began retracing her steps toward the exit. Her pace was measured, her nerves taut like a bowstring. The door loomed closer, the hallway beyond promising a return to relative safety—

A creak.

Cecilia froze, leaning against a shelf as she caught herself. She held her breath, her ears straining. The sound came again, soft but distinct, from deeper within the library. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart hammering. Was someone else there, hidden among the shelves? Or was her mind conjuring shadows out of fear?

Shaking her head, she made a beeline for the door and gripped the handle, pulling the door open just enough to slip out. Acacius was waiting, his eyes scanning her face.

“Do you have it?” He asked in a low whisper.

She nodded, keeping her voice steady despite her unease. “No one was inside. But I heard... something.”

Acacius stiffened, his gaze darting toward the library. “We need to move. Now.”

“Five men,” she said as they reached the alcove, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Five men will die today if we don’t stop this.”

Acacius took the scroll from her trembling hands. His fingers were rough against the delicate parchment, and his expression darkened as his eyes scanned the names:

Gaius Tiberius, Quintus Publius, Aulus Servius, Caius Nero, Manius Cato.

She saw the moment the meaning of those names sank in, his demeanor changing to one of pure rage. His shoulders tensed, and his breath came out in a sharp exhale. His hand clenched the scroll so tightly the wax seal cracked and fell away. When he spoke, his voice was low, as if restraining himself from a deeper reaction.

“Three of these are my men,” he said, his tone sharper than she had ever heard. “Men who’ve served loyally, with honor. And the other two…” His jaw tightened as he turned away, pacing in the small space. “Elders. Respected men who dared to challenge the council’s growing corruption. This isn’t justice—it’s slaughter.”

Cecilia sat heavily on the stone bench, overwhelmed by the weight of his words. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why? I do not understand…why these men?”

“To send a message.” He stopped pacing, sitting next to her and holding his head in his hands. “The soldiers are expendable to them, scapegoats to spread fear. The elders? Their deaths will silence any who might follow their example. The elders, they trained me, made me who I am today…”

She looked at him, startled by the intensity of his anger. His face was a mask of fury, but his eyes betrayed something deeper—grief. She’d seen Acacius upset with calculated actions, but she realized his rage was a weapon as sharp as any blade. This was different, heavier than anything she had seen from him before.

“You blame yourself,” she said softly, the guilt practically seeping through his skin.

He stiffened, his gaze snapping to hers. “Of course I do. They’re my men, Cecilia. I should have seen this coming. I should have protected them.”

Cecilia scooted closer to him. The anger radiating off him was palpable, but she placed a hand on his arm, her touch light. “This is not your fault. They just want to kill anyone to make a statement.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw clenching. He could not bring himself to look at anything but the floor beneath him. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. When he looked at her again, the rage was still there, but it was tempered by her gentle touch, her soft caress.

“I don’t want to fail them,” he said, his voice quiet now. “Or you.”

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “You could never fail me. We will do this together.”

His gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she saw the man beneath the soldier—the one who had risked everything to protect those he cared about. “You’re braver than most soldiers I’ve known,” he said, his lips quivering into the faintest hint of a smile.

Cecilia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her own lips twitching upward despite the gravity of their situation. “I don’t know if that’s bravery or recklessness,” she said lightly, trying to ease the tension that still hung between them.

“Sometimes,” Acacius said, his voice low but warm, “there’s no difference.”

She blinked at him, startled by the unexpected tenderness in his tone. He looked at her as though trying to memorize her face, as if this moment might be their last. He noticed the dimples when she smiled, the way her soft brown hair curled at the edges as they cascaded to her shoulders. She was breathtaking to him. Her cheeks were still a rosy red, his words clearly having an effect on her.

“You don’t have to say that for me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“I’m not saying it for you,” he replied, stepping closer. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve seen fear break the strongest of men. You feel it, and yet you stand. That’s not recklessness, Cecilia. That’s courage.”

Her breath hitched, the sincerity in his words cutting through her defenses like a blade. For all his strength, there was a vulnerability in him that made her chest ache.

“And you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What about your courage?”

He looked away, the flicker of a smile fading as he shook his head. “Courage doesn’t stop the people you care about from dying.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Cecilia reached for his hand without thinking, her fingers brushing his. “No, but it’s the only thing that gives them a chance to live. Your courage has saved countless lives before, and it will today as well.”

Acacius stilled, her touch anchoring him. He gave a short nod, his hand tightening briefly over hers as their fingers laced.

“We’ll give them that chance,” he said. “Together.”

She nodded, confidence building within her. His touch made her feel fearless. They didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on unspoken fears or unacknowledged feelings. Time was slipping away, and five lives depended on them.

His loving gaze was quickly replaced by a solemn determination. His composure was slowly returning from his previous fit of rage. “I will take the scroll with me to the colosseum and show it to the people prior to the execution.”

“That’s risky,” she said, “what if they discover it is gone?”

“They will,” he admitted, but a small, almost mischievous smile flickered across his lips. “Which is why we’re not going to let them pin it on me—or either of us.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Acacius began pacing as he let go of her hand. She automatically ached for his touch once more, but his mind was clearly racing as he pieced together a plan. “The scroll alone won’t be enough. We’ll need the crowd on our side, but we can’t rely on their outrage alone. We need someone within the council—or close to it—who can verify the authenticity.”

“Not a traitor,” Acacius said. “A sympathizer. There are still a few who believe in justice, even if they’ve been too afraid to act. I know someone who might help, he works directly with my soldiers.”

Cecilia was unsure, and not as quick to trust as the General. “And you trust this person?”

“Enough to know they want the council’s corruption to end as much as we do.” He turned to her, his gaze steady. “I need you to deliver the scroll to them. I can’t be seen leaving the Colosseum before the executions, and if they trace it back to me, this will all fall apart. You can move through the city without drawing suspicion.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “And because I trust you.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she quickly shook off the distraction. “Where will you be while I’m doing this?”

“At the Colosseum, preparing the crowd, making sure the Emperors are distracted,” he said. “If I can sway them before the executions, it will be easier.”

“Tell me who to find, and I will do it.” She said.

Acacius pulled her close, his hand resting briefly on her waist. “Near the south end of the palace. A merchant named Valerius. He deals in armor, but his loyalty lies with the people.”

“I’ll find him,” she promised, tucking the scroll safely back beneath her gown.

“Be careful,” he said, rubbing the small of her back, “If anything happens to you—”

“Nothing will happen,” she interrupted, a faint smile playing on her lips. “We don’t have room for failure, remember?”

He smirked, the weight between them lifting slightly. “I’ll see you at the east end of the Colosseum. And Cecilia—thank you.”

“Thank you, General” she said, her eyes brushing over his soft, delicate lips. Acacius noticed her glance, his heart skipping a beat despite the impending doom around them.

His heart skipped at the sincerity in his words, but he nodded. “Acacius,” he corrected her, “call me Acacius.”

“Acacius,” she said, smiling once more before turning on her foot and heading out of the alcove. As they parted ways, Cecilia couldn’t help but glance back at him. His anger still simmered beneath the surface, but it was clear that he’d harness it, turning it into the resolve they both needed to see this through.

As she disappeared into the palace, Acacius stood for a moment, his gaze lingering on the spot where she’d been standing, the smell of her sweet perfume still heavy in the air.

He wasn’t about to let five innocent men—or the woman who had become his partner in this fight—die for no reason.

Cecilia quickly dressed into her cloaks and left towards the south end of the palace. The south market was alive with activity, despite the early hour. Merchants called out their wares, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of bartering and haggling. Cecilia pulled her cloak tighter, her eyes scanning the bustling square for the armor merchant Acacius had mentioned.

Valerius. A name spoken with trust, yet tied to danger.

She spotted the small building near the edge of the square, draped with metal pieces of armor, shiny silvers, brilliant golds, and soft red cloaks to compliment them. A stout man with a thick beard stood behind the facade of armor, his hands working with an open flame as she approached. Taking a deep breath, Cecilia stood in front of him, her posture friendly but guarded. She waited until he turned from the open flame to begin speaking.

“Valerius?” she asked, her voice low.

The man’s hands as he placed the tools he was holding on a table nearby. His green eyes flicked to her, sharp and assessing as he realized exactly who she was. “My lady…Empress Cecilia,” he bowed, making her cringe inwardly.

“Please, do not bow,” she told him, “I am just a woman, consider me a friend.” She hesitated, then pulled the scroll from her cloak, careful to keep it concealed as she held it toward him. “I was sent by Acacius. He said you could help.”

At the mention of Acacius’s name, Valerius’s expression hardened. He glanced around, as if he was worried they were being watched. He then leaned closer. “You must be careful saying that name out loud here,” he muttered. “Follow me.”

Before she could respond, he had grabbed her wrist and disappeared behind his building, lifting a heavy curtain that concealed a narrow doorway. Cecilia hesitated only a moment before ducking through.

The small room behind the stall was dimly lit, its air thick with the scent burning fire and casting irons. Valerius stood by the curtain, as if he was worried someone would try to walk in.

“Show me,” he demanded, his voice low but urgent.

Cecilia unfurled the scroll, holding it out so he could see the names listed there. As his eyes scanned the parchment, his expression shifted—from curiosity to anger, then to something heavier. “They mean to execute them?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded. “At the Colosseum. Emperor Geta…my husband… signed away on these orders. Acacius believes the brothers want to make an example of them. He thought you might be able to help expose the truth.”

Valerius exhaled sharply, his hand running over his beard. “This… this could change everything. But it’s dangerous. If they catch wind of this, it won’t just be me they come for.”

“I know,” Cecilia said. “But if we do nothing, five innocent men will die. Acacius is preparing to rally the crowd at the Colosseum. If you help him step forward with this evidence, he believes we can stop the executions.”

Valerius studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze searching her face. “You’re not a soldier,” he said finally. “Why are you risking your life for this? Why are you turning against your husband?”

“Emperor Geta is not my husband by choice… and because it’s the right thing to do,” she said simply. “I trust Acacius, I believe he can fix what these brothers have broken.”

The corners of Valerius’s mouth lifted slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “General Acacius. That man has a way of inspiring loyalty, doesn’t he?”

Cecilia chuckled at that as she nodded, clutching the scroll tightly. “Will you help us?”

Valerius hesitated, then gave a short nod. “I’ll do what I can. Meet me at the east entrance of the Colosseum just before the executions. I’ll need to find someone within the council willing to back this claim.”

“Thank you,” she said, relief washing over her.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Valerius replied grimly. “This will only work if Acacius can hold the crowd’s attention long enough for me to act. Tell him to be ready.”

“I will,” she said, putting the scroll away, “I will also ensure you are compensated for your efforts.”

Valerius thanked her once more before she pulled the hood of her cloak back over her head, vanishing into the bustling crowd.

The Colosseum loomed like a beast against the morning sky, its towering arches casting long shadows over the bustling crowds. Acacius stood near the main entrance, his cloak drawn tightly around him to conceal his face. The roar of distant cheers echoed through the stone structure, a grim reminder of the bloodlust that had drawn the people here today.

He attempted to remain hidden in the shadows, his jaw tightening as he steeled himself for what was to come. The names on the scroll burned in his mind, each one a life he was determined to save.

And yet, even as he surveyed the crowd, his thoughts drifted to Cecilia.

He could still feel the faint brush of her fingers against his hand, the quiet resolve in her voice when she’d insisted on standing by him. Her courage had caught him off guard, piercing through the armor he’d built around himself. She was no soldier, no seasoned warrior hardened by years of battle—but in her determination, she was every bit his equal.

A part of him hated sending her into the city alone. He wanted to go with her, protect her from anything she may face. The thought of her walking into danger twisted his gut. But, he knew she could handle herself, she had survived being married to a bloodthirsty killer.

If something happened to her…

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now, not when he felt his entire army’s lives were at stake. Cecilia would succeed—she had to.

Still, as he moved through the crowd, his gaze flickered toward the horizon, half-expecting to see her weaving through the throng, returning to him with the reassurance he didn’t dare voice aloud. The din of the Colosseum pulled him back to the present. Spectators jostled for position near the gates, eager for the executions to begin.

If he could sway even a fraction of them, their combined voices could drown out the brothers’ authority. But he would need the perfect moment—and the right words. This wasn’t just about saving the five men condemned to die; it was about exposing the corruption that had poisoned Rome. He knew he must remind these people that they had power, too.

Acacius exhaled, steadying himself as he saw the five men, tied up and thrown to the ground like animals to the slaughter.

Gaius Tiberius, the youngest of them, barely more than a boy, stared at the ground, his shoulders trembling as he tried and failed to maintain some semblance of composure. Acacius’s chest tightened. He had trained Gaius himself, watched him grow from an eager recruit into a disciplined soldier. The boy had once spoken of a family waiting for him in the countryside—a mother and two younger sisters who depended on his service to survive.

Quintus Publius and Aulus Servius stood side by side, their expressions grim but resolute. They were seasoned veterans, men who had followed Acacius into countless battles without question. Men who would do anything for the people of Rome, to serve a greater purpose. They didn’t deserve this. They had served with honor, their only crime being too loyal to question the council’s orders.

Caius Nero, a man well into his years, stood stoically despite the weight of his bonds. Acacius remembered how Nero had once defended him before the council, arguing for fairness and restraint when punishment was dealt. The man had always valued justice over blind obedience—a quality that had clearly made him a target.

And finally, Manius Cato. He was a former council elder whose calm wisdom had once guided the city through crises. A man whose words knew no limits when it came to saving his people. Now, he stood among the condemned, his grayed hair and dignity bearing a stark contrast to the injustice he was facing.

These men were not criminals or traitors—they were scapegoats, lambs led to slaughter to satisfy the council’s insatiable hunger for control. Acacius’ anger wasn’t enough to dull the guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He had led three of these men in battle, trained them, trusted them—and they had trusted him in return. And now they stood here, awaiting death, because he hadn’t seen the council’s betrayal coming.

He tried to push those thoughts aside as he scanned the crowd again, searching for the subtle signals he’d arranged with his allies. He would need their help to amplify his voice when the time came.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he held onto the thought of Cecilia—her strength, her trust in him, and the promise they’d made to face this together.

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dollfaced-erin · 1 year ago

Text

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟'𝕤 ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕖 (Blade x F!Reader x Jing Yuan)

PART 9

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8

A/n ! :

sorry i'm late ! i was waiting for the 1.3 update to see if there was anything wrong with the content i already had in the story. But it seems like everything i wrote is still ambiguous and according to the main story, so i dont have to change much !! yipee !! anyways, did you guys pull for dan heng ? tell me how it went !

Taglist ! :-

@rebeccawinters , @nayukiyukihira , @pix-stuff , @fluffy-koalala , @swivy123 , @starxao , @kaoyamamegami , @kimura-uzuri , @rsvye , @seikouryuu , @just-here-reading , @matsulovesyou, @sincerely-aaronette , @prettyliliy , @chibiduck , @hermosacolibri , @la-diablas-thingz , @farelady-fate

Once…there was a legend. Of the clan that inherited the will of an Aeon, Long the Permanence. This clan was bestowed with the gift of immortality, being able to spend hundreds of years roaming this world.

This legend…revolves around two beings that directly inherited this will. The will of the heart of the dragon. Those who have successfully inherited this will through trials and challenges will be bestowed with power that overleaps its bounds of regular limits.

Born from different eggs, yet inherit the same heart, was two siblings. Similar to each other, yet so different from the other. A fierce and stoic brother, and a kind and gentle sister. One inherited the might of the seas, and the other inherited the wisdom of the remedies.

Once this shy but sociable sister desired to find company. So her confident but reserved brother brought her and introduced her to a group outside the walls of her confines.

With the arrogant heart that she managed to pure, she followed through with eyes of a child, and a heart yearning for more. A heart that showed nothing but kindness, until the blacksmith taught the princess the meaning of love.

But siblings don't go too far from each other. Sooner rather than later, even the brother began to favor his heart towards the short-lived species. The heart that was in his sister began to resonate as greed and jealousy plagued his soul.

He would fight, even if it meant going behind his dear sister's back.

With greed…all three of them fell into ruin. Even the homeland they so desperately tried to protect…

The dragon went missing, the princess lay in rest, the blacksmith was cursed and the prince's kin was exiled.

"This is a legendary tale told amongst the Vidyadhara children," said the nurse to her charge. The young doctor sighed and pouted, a cute frown on her lips, a rosy blush on her cheeks.

"Why are there only tales of woe wove from the history of dust ?" the next high elder asked, looking up from her many books, setting down her brush that was dipped in black ink.

"Because in the end, we can only remember the memories that impacted us the most, Lady Bailu."

Bailu huffed, and crossed over her arms before looking up at the ceiling that housed her in her little 'cage'. The tail behind her whipped in annoyance, the shackle binding it making it heavy.

"I wonder what happened to them after the story ended..."

It happened all in a blink of an eye. In one moment, she had knocked down one of the Mara-struck soldiers. She was about to hand her gourd to one of the healers to apply to the fallen star when the other plagued ones had rose to their feet, about to attack her.

The trailblazers (Y/n) had recognized from Jing Yuan's hologram meeting were there too, watching from the sidelines as they stiffened, grabbing their weapons as they were about to step in to assist. The grey haired star traveler with her bat, the pink haired girl with her bow, and the man with the power of the imaginary.

But before they managed to step in, a cool icy breeze pushed past them, small thin petals of ice drifting in the wind from behind them. The wind began to pick up, all of a sudden from out of nowhere. All visions blurred for a slight moment as the icy winds shut their eyes.

A determined thump of a heal resounded in the little dragon's ears, as her eyes were blinded with the sudden hurricane.

"Freeze within the confines of beauty and purity," a cold yet warm voice whispered through the mist.

As eyes opened again, the mara struck soldiers were stuck in lotus like cages, cold air being stuck in their confines, freezing them to the core. The abominations thrashed in there, but their movements were growing slower by the second.

But that wasn't all.

In front of Bailu, stood a tall woman, her (h/c) swaying around her as the winds died down, probably due to the extreme power this woman exerted just from her form.

"Are you alright ?!" a woman asked, standing proudly and protectively in front of the healers that were startled from the sudden confrontation.

This woman...the lady with silky (h/c) hair like the finest silk, woven from the freshest flowers. Eyes of (e/c) carved from the most brilliant precious stones in the universe. Skin so clear and soft, like a child that had just hatched from their egg. Blue horns that perched on her head, confirming her identity and status.

Bailu would be crazy not to recognize the woman before her.

"L-lady Dan--" Bailu cut herself short, knowing the information she had received earlier.

"Lady (Y/n), what are you doing here ?!" the young dragon girl asked.

(Y/n) looked behind her to immediately notice the horns perched atop of the girl's head, the tail swishing so eagerly behind her. She frowned, her eyebrows creasing for a moment. Her beautiful purple tail...was shackled. For what reason...?

"Are you alright ?" (Y/n) asked, crouching down in front of the young heiress, hands on her arms as she looked into those troubled blue eyes. Once she had received a nod from the young girl, she turned to the Astral Expressers, her hands clutching her fan tightly.

"I...I'm alright ! M-my name is Bailu !" the little girl quickly introduced. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow at the hastiness. Was this little girl...scared of her...?

"Give them a moment. You can knock them out cold once the ice lotus has froze them." (Y/n) said with a nod to the oldest of them, finding her instincts telling her that he was leading the two young women.

Soon after she was sure that the forsaken ones had froze from her powers, the ice petals of the lotus that caged them moved in a wilting way, releasing the abominations of their confines and disintegrating into fine mist. And the Nameless got to work.

"Thank you for your assistance, Lady..." the brunette-haired man asked, looking at the refined young dragon woman before him. He wasn't quite sure how to address the woman before him, but he was sure she was of high standing, based on her clothes, horns, air of elegance, show of power. And most of all...the way the young dragon lady addressed her as Lady.

"(Y/n). My name is (Y/n)." (Y/n) said with a nod, standing up to acknowledge the help. Bailu had went off with the other healers to assess the wounds and conditions of the Mara-struck soldiers, being knocked out cold for a while as Bailu gave them her elixir.

"Lady (Y/n). My name is Welt Yang," the brunette man introduced before gesturing to the other two women. "And this is March, and Stelle."

March beamed out a happy and bubbly 'Hello !" at the woman, and Stelle nodded in acknowledgment, commenting shortly about 'You have pretty horns. Are they real ?'. (Y/n) nodded softly, finding Stelle's question rather...humorous.

"Thanks for helping to stabilize the patients..." Bailu sighed as she turned around from the fallen mara-struck soldiers to meet the Trailblazers that had helped them.

"Your...'assertive sedations' techniques are quite effective." Bailu acknowledged with a small nod.

"Assertive sedation techniques...? Does she mean beating people up ?" March asked with a finger to her lips.

"However..." Bailu said, looking behind her, and then looking down to the ground. "These Cloud Knights were already sick, and now they're injured too. I've gotta bandage up their wounds, realign their bones...ugh, as if I didn't have enough already on my plate !"

Then (Y/n) turned to Bailu. "I could help you if you need. If I could just remember things right, I should be able to do it." she said with a nod, and Bailu gleamed in joy.

But before Bailu could express her gratitude, March cut in with a question, after inspecting the two horned beings before her, trying to connect the dots. "Where did you come from, little one ? Is your dad around ?"

Then March turned to (Y/n). "Do you know where her parents are ?"

Before (Y/n) could answer, Bailu chirped up, "I don't have a dad."

"Uh...what about your mom ?" "I don't have a mom either."

(Y/n) was so perplexed at the exchange, she couldn't even find it in her to laugh at how clueless and vague Bailu made the Vidyadhara situation to be.

Bailu sighed, looking at March then shaking her head in disappointment. "I get it, you think because I'm small I'm must be a runaway child."

"Welcome to the Xianzhou, my short-lived outsider friends, appearances can be deceiving here !" Bailu announced, her little hands on her hips. "The Vidyadhara race is self-reincarnating. No mum or dad required !"

"What she means is, as you can see here, we're not humans. We're a more draconic race known as the Vidyadhara. Our most significant features are our pointed ears, but for special cases like for myself and Miss Bailu here, we have horns and a tail." (Y/n) explained, crouching down and placing a hand on the small back of the little lady next to her.

"We don't have parents. Whenever we are gravely injured or our bodies no longer are able to sustain us, we return back to an egg for reincarnation process." (Y/n) patiently explained, using what knowledge she had from her 'past' life. Although it wasn't too hard to dig out since it was general knowledge instead of self-history.

"Yeah ! I've been studying the art of healing ever since I cast off my old shell ! You're looking at a recognized, practicing, dedicated doctor !" Bailu proudly said in front of the Trailblazers, and in front of (Y/n).

(Y/n) let out a soft chuckle, realizing why this child was a little hesitant with her in the beginning. This child wanted to show (Y/n) she was a capable person. For what reason ? Perhaps this abundance of energy would let it slip later.

"Belobog kids are making snowmen while children here are writing prescriptions..." March said, as she looked at Stelle. A frown pulled at her pretty lips, while her companion shook her head in response.

Bailu looked up at March, worry in her pretty sea eyes. "Things haven't been very peaceful on the Luofu recently. Make sure you don't--" "Go running around, right ?" March continued, a soft smile on her lips.

"Well your general gave us an errand, so I'm afraid we have to." March said, shaking her head.

As they continued to talk, (Y/n) couldn't help but notice the constant pair of eyes that burned through her back. It seemed that there were some that are quite...dissatisfied with her presence here. She was sure that when Jing Yuan allowed her to roam the streets, he must've held an audience with the Six Charioteers, the Ten-Lords Commission and the Vidyadhara Preceptors.

So why is that maid in the back there looking all fidgety...?

(Y/n) turned around to leave the group (after learning how to exchange beacons with Bailu and the rest), and walked towards the maid that stood quite a ways behind them. She wasn't much of a person up for confrontation, but if matters called, she didn't mind putting people in their place, now so that she had regained some memories of her past identity.

"You." (Y/n) asked as she stood in front of that maid. This was the maid that looked quite dissatisfied with (Y/n) from the moment (Y/n) stepped close to Bailu.

This woman had pointed ears. Huh. So it must be Bailu's retainers, then. Such a heavy watch for a child that could barely even reach her waist. Had something happened once she had succumbed to her slumber ?

"I was hoping you'd never step close to Miss Bailu." the woman said, and it made (Y/n) raise her brow at this.

"And why is that ? Is she not the next High Elder ? Does she not have a say in what she should and should not do ?" (Y/n) asked, her hands holding onto the fan.

"Once you had woken up from your slumber, the Preceptors are threatening to remove Miss Bailu of her position. After your brother, Dan Feng threatened to ruin the High Elder Succession of the Luofu..."

"Hold on. Miss Bailu's draconic features is more than enough proof for her to be the High Elder, is it not ?" (Y/n) said, putting a thoughtful hand to her lips. Then she shook her head. "And if you're worried about the succession of the new High Elder, you mustn't worry. For as long as my brother does not return, I cannot be the High Elder, no matter how much power I behold."

"I would merely be...incomplete without him."

And suddenly, she felt as if her heart was beating loudly in her chest. Her eyes widened as she suddenly felt the loud thumping in her chest, pulling her somewhere. Somewhere...familiar.

Following her heart, she excused herself from the maid and went off. It felt as if something was pulling her heart, like a string pulling her along where she walked.

Past the citizens...through streets...and into the dark alleyway none would've dared walked into.

She was alone in the dark. She wondered not why did she follow her heart without thinking rationally. She clutched her fan tightly in one hand, though she was sure anyone in their right mind wouldn't want to venture into these silent and cold dark spaces. Not when there was the internal strife she was told about.

(Y/n) shook her head, pondering about why did her heart really bring her here. That was, until she felt strong arms wrap around her smaller form, her back colliding with a rock-hard surface, and a weight softly dropping itself onto her shoulder, breathing softly as the individual took in her scent of flowers and ice.

"Even though I didn't want to let you see me again..." a deep and cold voice resonated in her ear. Then soft lips pecked themselves on her shoulder.

"I just had to see you one last time..."

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #hsr blade x reader #hsr blade x you #hsr jing yuan x reader #hsr jing yuan x you #hsr jing yuan #hsr blade #blade x reader #blade x you #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #dragon's cradle

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inevitably-johnlocked · 11 months ago

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hello hello! I was wondering if you had any winged aus tucked away? the latest post I could find (though goodness knows tumblr’s search feature is iffy) was from 2019 and I was curious about an updated list if it isn’t too much trouble!

Hey Lovely!

You are correct, it's been a LONG time since I've put a new list together... I don't have any new personal recs (been a LONG time since I've read them), so what I'm going to do is do a tag search on my MFL list and put together a nice fresh list of fics suggested to me by you guys! Please note that I have NOT read any of the fics on this list so I'm probably wrong somewhere, LOL. They're not ALL winglock, for sure, but if anyone has anything relevant that they can add to this list, please do! Enjoy!

WINGLOCK / ANGELS / DEMONS Pt. 2 (MFLs)

See also:

Winglock / Angels / Demons (Updated Apr 2022)

Sherlock x Good Omens Crossovers (Updated Apr 2022)

The Detective and the Demon by oreganotea (G, 2,389 w., 1 Ch. || Supernatural Elements || Pre-Slash, Urban Fantasy, Demons, Humour, Friendship) – “Every demon on record is described as either monstrously terrifying or breathtakingly beautiful,” Sherlock says. “I have never heard of a demon with a forgettable face and a propensity for ugly jumpers.” The demon looks down at his jumper. Okay, so it might not be the most flattering article of clothing in the world, but it sure looks a hell of a lot more comfortable than Sherlock’s two-sizes-too-small shirt.

The Babadook by CatieBrie (T, 6,886 w., 1 Ch. || Babadook Fusion || Post-TRF, Horror, Demonic Possession, Violence, Halloween, Grief, Angst with Happy Ending) – “A children’s book,” John mutters as he flips it open. The pages are scrawled with beautiful charcoal lines and thick black ink. The cover, bright red, edges the open pages and something tugs at the back of John’s brain. It’s a familiar feeling, black and tarrish and thick in his thoughts. He shakes it off and picks the book up off his bed, turning so that he can sit on the edge and spread the book out across his knees. If it’s in a word or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook. He turns the page, ignoring the pressure building beneath his chest. There’s a closet on one page; paper doors meant to be opened by the reader flutter as John reads the text on the other page.

In The Arms Of The Angel by Watermelonsmellinfellon (M, 8,585 w., 3 Ch. || Fallen Angel AU || Friendship, Angels/Wings, BAMF John, Trust, Fluff, Romance, Eventual Happy Ending) – The human population possesses the ability to grow feathers from their spines, but less than even five million at a time ever actually grow any. A feather for a life. Every life saved, earned a feather. The feathers would overlap each other, until there was finally enough to create a wing and if some were lucky, two wings.

The Soldier And The Demon by LipstickDaddy (G, 8,998 w., 6 Ch. || Victorian / Demon AU || Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Soldier John, Demon Sherlock, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Happy Ending) – Johnlock/Kuroshitsuji AU - 1879. Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is dying from a near-fatal gunshot wound in the Kandahar desert; until a demon saves his life. There’s a catch, though; one day, his saviour will eat his soul.

You Don't Need Wings to Fly by Laiquilasse (T, 11,326 w., 11 Ch. || Wonderful Life AU || Bullying, Angels, Suicidal Ideation, Christmas) – John, an angel, is sent from Heaven to help a desperate Sherlock Holmes by showing him what life would have been like if he had never existed.

Tattered by SrebrnaFH (M, 15,857 w., 6 Ch. || Winglock || Family, Childhood, Society, Abuse, Electricity, Hurt John / Sherlock, Protective John, No Smut, Bullying, Sudden Relationship Change) – John visits Baker Street without any warning and gets an eyeful.

On Feathers and Bacon Sandwiches by Kryptaria(T, 21,092 w., 8 Ch. || Winglock AU || Demon John, Asexual Sherlock) – No one has ever stayed with Sherlock longer than a month. At least, no human. Fortunately, John Watson isn't about to let the little things - like biohazardous experiments and the constant threat of danger - get in the way of his friendship with a very special, very brilliant man like Sherlock Holmes. Part 1 of Feathers 'verse

The 13th Book by meet_me_in_samarra (T, 24,491 w., 13 Ch. || Magical Realism Winglock AU || Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Witty Banter, Interspecies Bromance, Demon Sherlock) – Summoning a demon was actually quite simple if you could avoid getting killed in the process. Therefore, only the powerful, the desperate or the stupid would attempt it. John Watson was likely the first, definitely the second but hopefully not one of the third kind.

This Is Family by SaraStarchild (T, 39,840 w., 16 Ch. || Hereditary AU || Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Mycroft, Cults, Mycroft Whump, Sherlock Whump, Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Retelling) – When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited. This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary. Part 1 of Sherlock Halloween Stories

Though the brightest fell by BeMyGoldfish (M, 41,243 w., 7 Ch. || Celestial AU || Post THoB, Soulmates, Guardian Angels, Demons, Mystrade, Background Johnlock) – In his office, Mycroft (the Archangel) tries to recruit Greg (the ‘ex-angel’ mortal) on a celestial mission to save Sherlock from what he wants most. "This is some elaborate joke cooked up by your brother as revenge for me not asking him to help on the Islington Exsanguinations, isn't it? How did he get you in on it, Mycroft? Did he hide your trouser press? Or threaten to expose your secret ciggie habit to your mum? This isn't funny. It's weird and obscure, but it is not funny.”

Trapped by Gem_Gem & harrylee94 (M, 41,311 w., 3 Ch. || Demon John AU || Demon John, Mild Gore, POV Sherlock, Mild Homophobic Language, Kiss, Bonding) – During his most recent case, Sherlock finds himself in the hands of the very people he had been trying to pursue. This mistake lands him in a cell, already occupied by a strange man who calls himself John. But who is John? And why does he look so... hungry? Part 3 of the Bonded by Words Stories series

Murderous Imprint by MojoFlower (E, 52,634 w., 24 Ch. || Winglock || Organ Theft, Imprinting, First Kiss / Time, Whump, Torture, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Case Fic, Magical Realism) – Sherlock should be focusing on the series of brutal vivisections Lestrade has brought to him. Instead he's distracted by a most amazing and unexpected experimental opportunity from the basement apartment of 221C. Will he figure out the one in time to stop the other? And does he need help in order to do it? Part 1 of the Hatch series

Not English But Angels by orphan_account (E, 203,251 w., 15 Ch. || Twisted Canon, Slow Burn, First Kiss/Time, Minor Character Death) – A sort-of canon, sort-of AU fic in which I twist and supplement canon to weave it into a new story in which Sherlock and John come from different worlds and nothing is quite what it seems.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

The Posthumous Game by S_IRIS (E, 58,695+ w., 12/19 Ch. || WiP || Supernatural Elements AU || S4 Fix It, Crack, Humour, Fluff, Demonic Possession, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss/Time, Sherlock Whump, Hurt Comfort, Hallucinations) – A Season 4 fix-it fic where Jim Moriarty really is dead but comes back as a demon to haunt Sherlock. The only problem is Jim is a total newbie at demonic possession so he tries to make-do and ends up making Johnlock happen. Only, it doesn’t happen the way you’d think.

Hellfire by HarleysCompass (E, 66,660+ w., 19/? Ch. || WiP || Fallen Angel AU || Biblical References, BAMF John, Sexual Content, Fallen Angel John) – In 1880 Dr. John H. Watson dies on foreign soil. The next thing he knows he's wandering the planes of Heaven. After betraying God, John is cast out, employed by the devil, and protecting a sociopath of a human with a penchant for trouble and pissing off Angels.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #winglock fics #angels and demons #supernatural fics #magical realism fics #my fic recs #marked for later fics #wip fics

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yiga-hellhole · 6 months ago

Text

TFTK 23&24

His forces gathered, Zant plots his next move. The Triforce of Power is within reach now, and he will need little more than a Blade to retrieve it.

hiiii everyone. since i've added the prologue (which will be getting its own promo image.. eventually...) the chapter counts are a bit out of wack so this update is both. the update has been up on ao3 for a bit but artfight season made me a little slow on the visual art side! but no longer! SOOO excited to bring you all this update!

once again thank you to the lovely @bulgariansumo and @orfeolookback for betareading!!!

CW this chapter for body horror, graphic violence, mutilation

ao3 mirror

As the days at the Bulblin settlement went on, so did their army grow. Those who stayed at the encampment as visitors spread the word home, and as perilous as it was to spread the information of the deceptively alive lieutenants, Zant had permitted it gladly. After all, Hyrule was much too busy celebrating victory to pay any mind to those fractured tribes, now without a cause to unite under. Oh, what little did they know!

Very much united under a cause, Zant had gathered commanders from their haphazard bands in the new Chief’s tent – Earl Eydra, second daughter of the late Hallra, also accompanied by Lord Banayu, spokesman of the Bokoblin tribes. His very own Ghirahim, of course, stood right beside him, etching away at a map that Zant gingerly brushed his fingertips along.

The Valley of Seers. Zant had never seen it, but Ghirahim had twice over. Being meticulous as ever, he had of course committed every second of footage to memory, and translated every measurement and possible point of interest onto paper.

Negotiations followed as usual. Instead of being a silent bystander who offered his knowledge only when an interruption was permitted, Zant took an active role. He stood at the front of the map, all his pegs and baubles at his disposal, and commandeered it as though his movements would shift the fabric of reality itself. Intel was exchanged for commands ‘round the strategy table. One bokoblin stood by the side of one particularly dull-looking, flat-faced hound man, relaying information through a different tongue in hushed whispers. The dimwitted lug nodded hard, his floppy ears wiggling with the effort. Ghirahim wondered if brute strength among dolts like those would be enough to win them this battle.

But he supposed that’s what he and Zant were for.

Ghirahim quickly returned to sketching his map. Zant was catching up to him, his brow increasingly furrowed by what he saw. “Is it not possible that, at this point, Sorceress Lana is instead taking residence in the Temple of Souls?” asked Zant, seeming perturbed by the inhospitable sights of the Valley.

“We find it unlikely, Sire,” hissed a Hyrulean soldier from across the tent, bearing a voice far slimier than a human would suggest.

This out-of-place figure soon turned out to be perfectly where he should be. He grimaced, his hands tightening in claws. The metal on his gauntlets melted to black, then to skin, then to dark brown fur over clawed, spindly paws. Helmet and pauldrons similarly fused to his flesh, until it became his flesh itself. The plumed feather on his helmet ripped into two, twitching to each side of his head to form ears. Finally, his cloak unfurled into a pair of ink-black bat wings, quivering and flapping with relief of freedom. Now revealed, the Ache perched its hands on the edge of the table and leered at his General with great anticipation.

Only to have the gloved hand of his Lieutenant smashed indignantly in his face.

“You will not speak unless permitted,” snarled Ghirahim, baring his teeth at this defiance. “Now you may continue.”

The lesser demon whined, rubbing its wrinkled snout. It gulped down any other sniffles and spoke. “Egh… Th-... The Temple is currently being used as a jail. Lieutenants Yuga and Wizzro are held prisoner there, awaiting prosecution, Sire.”

Zant perked up almost pleasantly. “Is that so? I expected them to have been executed by now. Well, that saves me some time and effort.”

Before Ghirahim could frown too hard at his statement, Zant disturbed him even further. “Perhaps Hyrule noticed that right now, for Yuga, being alive is enough of a punishment. But that will have to wait until later. Tell me of our battlefield.”

The team of scouts relayed their findings. Having eyes in the skies once again worked thoroughly in their favor; the whole of the Valley had been surveyed in practically no time at all. On a dark, cloudy night, the hides of their demon forces would be noticed by none. And to their luck, as Zant expected, their target was scarcely guarded. A handful of outposts, at most, with hardly five hundred men huddled about in total. A disaster to encounter in formation, but pathetic when spread thin across the entire territory. Even better, with Ganon’s defeat, Hyrule had sent its guests across time home in a teary goodbye. Left in this realm were only the Princess, her Knight, her General, and the Sorceress. In other words, Lana was thoroughly unprepared for any sort of siege.

“How awfully convenient,” said Ghirahim, bringing a hand skeptically to his face. “I’d almost think this is a trap.”

Zant snickered under his breath, arranging pawns wherever the little tippy-taps of batty fingers told him where outposts sat. “On the contrary, Ghirahim. It makes perfect sense. What enemies does Hyrule expect to have left, that they cannot confidently tackle in isolated groups?”

Pawns thwacked decisively in place. “It’s clear to me. Tell me, Lord Eydra, have you heard anything, at all, from our neighbors further out into the sands?”

Eydra shook her head, her horns clacking and bangles jingling. “None at all, Sir. Not a peep from ‘em since ‘ey’ve gone and blown up a couple weeks ago.”

Ah, that whole incident. So he was not suspected of having caused the moon crash in the desert. At least, not by these people. Ghirahim restrained his expression and turned to him. “So they’re leaving the Gerudo alone. That means…”

“The ones who birthed their nemesis? Who conspired against Hyrule’s throne? That ought to have been their first order to persecute. Yet they are not. Most definitely, Hyrule is laying low. Staying out of trouble as it rebuilds, I’ll wager,” Zant smiled, flicking Ghirahim’s finger as he pointed it at the map. “Oh, my blade. Taking the Valley will be a breeze. And the Triforce with it.”

That was when a slight snort caught their attention. Lord Banayu stuck his snout over the table and made himself heard. “Respectfully, Sire. If it will be such a ‘breeze’, as you say… I don’t see why our starting numbers are to be so small,” he asked, tapping a thick-nailed finger at a group of pawns on the map. “We ought to clear them out as quickly as possible.”

“On the contrary. I intend to deceive her.”

Brows raised around the room.

Their collective confusion only served to make Zant grin more. “If we go all out from the start as you suggest, Lord Banayu, the Sorceress will cry to the Palace before we can even reach her dwelling. If we give her the idea she can win on her own… She will spell her own doom, and we will decimate her at the last second.”

As his fellow conspirator stood there, palms upturned in an inviting gesture and his ego swelling to burst, Ghirahim clicked his tongue. “A bit of a cowardly move.”

Earl Eydra, once hesitant, now nodded along to Ghirahim’s words. “Aye. Your old boss never would have bothered with such mind games.”

“And that’s precisely why he is dead and I remain standing,” Zant stated bluntly, unflinchingly, his hands folded behind his back. “Any further questions?”

–

Their march would be a long one, rife with delays and detours. They simply could not risk their procession being spotted by any opposing force; tension in Eldin, in particular, ran wild, with clades once squashed now once again vying for territory. But the Valley was right around the corner. Zant’s forces had set up their camp (the one he was in, at least), just past the hills that separated the rain-shadowed grasslands of the south with the green hills of the north. Beyond the tallest of those hills, the Valley was in sight.

That was where Ghirahim and Zant then stood, overlooking that promised land. It was strange seeing the place free from Cia’s influence. Where the sky was once swirling and ominously crimson, it was no different from the dark blue veil of the horizon now. They would gather no intel just standing there, watching from afar. Zant likely just wanted to brood.

Speak of the devil, there he went, and said, “just between us, Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim perked up, not looking at him just yet. “My. I’m privy to your secrets, now?”

Zant frowned a little. “I’ve none more to keep from you. Either way… We will be the only ones to face Lana tomorrow. I’ve played up our strengths to our men, but they will only be taking care of her fodder. That being said, we cannot underestimate the Sorceress whatsoever.”

“Oh? We’ve taken care of her just fine before,” Ghirahim noted, idly turning a dagger in his hand to check it for nicks.

Shaking his head, Zant looked down the hills. “And yet I believe she’s stronger than she lets on. In fact, I think she might be older than this land itself.”

“Impossible,” Ghirahim frowned, dismissing the dagger with a snap of his fingers. “I’ve never heard of her until I arrived here, and I’ve lived eons before Hyrule came to be.”

Zant stepped up to loom over him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not listening. I meant this land.”

Whenever Zant was being vague like this, he’d usually think he caught onto some mystery or other. Ghirahim saw no point in delaying the inevitable and sighed. “This again… Fine, prattle away.”

At once, the shadow over his eyes faded, replaced by a manic glint. Ghirahim almost spotted a smile when Zant turned away from him. “I was doing some digging before we entered this phase of the assault,” because naturally, he had. “Of course, I wasn't the first to be curious about the nature of this world. I stumbled upon it in the Sorceress’ library – the bizarre ways of timekeeping in this area, the oddities in the landscape; it did not escape the notice of scholars in this time.”

Ghirahim put his hands on his sides, fully prepared to stand there for another hour or two. “And, I take it, they came to a similar conclusion?”

“Indeed. At some point, the different branches of time must have converged, and their landscapes with it. We saw it in Faron Woods, and the Master Sword’s pedestal, deep within,” he said, his gestures leaving light trails behind his hands. Odd runes shaped into approximate images of the locations he named, but could hardly take shape before he clawed them to smoke and turned insistently to Ghirahim. “Which, in and of itself, was a duplicate! An empty husk!”

When he thought on it, he recalled that the Master Sword of this era had been stored in a different temple, right in the middle of Lake Dumoria, southwest of Faron Woods. Yet, a pedestal remained in Faron, the one they saw for themselves. Did the sealing place change? Ghirahim realized any question he asked might leak into another hour, so he simply nodded. “As you say.”

“Think about it, Ghirahim. For Lana – for me, to have command over allies and monsters of the past, all of these worlds must have once existed. Otherwise, we would have to reach across realities, a power befitting only a God. And I, not yet, have recognized such power, neither in her or in myself.”

Suddenly, Zant turned around, giving himself room to pace about frantically. “But for them to merge in the first place… This would explain why the magicks she uses are unknown to us both. They must have been born from divine force, to be uniquely wielded by Cialana, with the Triforce of Power as its conduit. It must have been her to merge these worlds.”

Ghirahim frowned, cocking his head. “... Right. And, you don’t suppose this god-like power could have perished with Cia?”

Turning back to look at the Valley, Zant’s expression lightened by an uncharacteristic degree. “I wholeheartedly admit I haven’t the slightest clue. Let us not risk finding out.”

Bemused by his attitude, Ghirahim sidled up next to him, deciding to give him attitude by bending at the hip and leaned into his field of vision. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

Zant grinned. “I’ve combed a fair share through this magic. It requires vocal commands first and foremost. When we come to face her, silence her,” he said, reaching to cup Ghirahim’s chin in his fingers. He tilted him back upright, guiding their eyes to meet. “Cut her tongue out if you must.”

Ghirahim returned a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Zant seemed content with this exchange, though the thumb stroking across the Sword Spirit’s chin and the eyes latching onto him for a moment made it seem like he’d wished for more. But the open air always made Zant uneasy, and Ghirahim knew this. So when the former did indeed step away, the latter was only mildly disappointed. “If all that is clear to you,” Zant said, “I’m going to do something I should have done a long time ago. When my usurpation comes to fruition, I’ll be far too busy for it.”

The allure of bloodshed putting him in a bit of a mood, Ghirahim turned to him with a croon. “And what might that be?”

With thorough nonchalance, Zant then proceeded to kick off his shoes. Toes wriggling in the grass, he promptly set off almost gleefully, as if mere seconds prior they hadn’t discussed a violent coup.

“You’re a looney,” Ghirahim said, watching him wade through the plains. “You’re sick in the head.”

“And you are functionally immortal,” Zant quipped back. He climbed up on the roots of a gnarled cedar nearby, his hand resting on its bark. “Confident as I am in our victory, I’m grabbing my little shreds of joy where I can get them. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Ears piqued at the sound of some insect, Zant’s eyes scanned the green expanse before him. When spotting what he was looking for, he didn’t so much as prowl for it as he hopped down from his vantage point, shambled towards it, and launched himself into the grass with a slapdash vault.

“As I thought,” he exclaimed, struggling to keep the object of his interest trapped in his cupped hands. “I haven’t seen this species yet!”

It was a miracle he’d even caught the damned thing. How could he think about such frivolous things now? Ghirahim stood and shook his head in sheer disbelief, but felt compelled to follow him either way. Just in case, (and it was likely), Zant’s lack of self-preservation had remained even as his plans were unfolding successfully, and he somehow managed to slip and crack his head on a rock, or some such nonsense. A little nest of grass denting below him, Zant sat in the meadows, the brittle strands of his hair waving along in the wind with the sea of green. He cradled a bottle with the cricket carefully in one hand and consulted his field journal in the other, a smile on his face as he noticed Ghirahim beside him.

So calm he was, the night before a crucial, all-deciding siege. Normally, mortals would pace before a war, even the mightiest of generals anxious in the face of death. Lacking sleep, decreased appetites, heart rates skyrocketing, and pleasantries ‘round the camp dwindling to an all-consuming air of dread. Consuming all but Ghirahim, at least. Battle was his purpose, his joy. Nerves were just about the last thing on his mind.

And now, beside him, there was a man studying wildflowers like it was just another day. Ghirahim found himself jarred by just how much he understood him, then. So, an odd, tickling weight rolling about in his core, he kneeled beside him and watched along.

—

The night of their assault arrived quietly. A deep black sky, with stars shimmering like the facets of an onyx, served as the hiding blanket for hundreds of demons. On foot, the first wave of their army marched to the hills circling the Valley. Without Cia’s influence, the Valley appeared that much more tranquil. Heather grasses and saplings reared their heads timidly above healing soil, not knowing they’d have been better off staying below. In the epicenter of the Valley, hovering above a fog-stained cliff, was the Sorceress’ altar. Like swarms of ants, the alerted soldiers rushed their way to their posts, all eyes aimed at the hills where they would meet their match. Down the dozens of staircases, they ran, clinging themselves to every corner they could think to fortify, and then, lay in wait.

Beside Ghirahim, Zant was calm. He was without helmet, and would remain that way, it seemed. When Lana broke it back in the Gerudo Desert, it must have been gone for good. They had been spotted by a band of Hyrulean scouts much earlier, whose horses kicked up a concealing cloud of dust as they galloped to warn their commander of the impending ambush. But they would not know all – beyond the hills, many more Blins were waiting, and their aerial troops remained undetected.

How eerily this first stretch of the battle resembled Zant’s exact plans.

In this initial quiet, before Zant could raise his hand and release the floodgates on their troops, Ghirahim pondered just how strange a situation he was in. Once again, he was at war, taking commands from a man other than his Master. For Cia, it had been the promise of Demise that had strung him along sufficiently enough to tolerate it. But Zant… By all means, he should hate this man. And he did, in a way, but the anger he felt no longer needed a vengeful release.

They had shared a bed again. Hands wrapped lovingly, yet fiercely around his waist, his wrists, his throat, as if grasping onto his hilt. Ever since Zant had used part of him to behead the late Bulblin Earl, he’d been drunk on the feeling of being wielded. So he didn’t care anymore, how treacherous it felt to have a part of him presently thrumming in Zant’s zealous grip. He sensed death in the eyes of the man who wielded his so-precious shard, and like the starved hunting dog he was, he wanted to chase after it. There was blood to be spilled, power to be taken. As any legendary blade, Ghirahim lusted for his name to be chronicled. In the past, he had scarcely been remembered. This changed today.

Zant marched onward, and onward, and onward. Eyes set on nothing but his goal, he waded his way through the crowd as if it hadn't existed at all. Any soldiers that dared close in on him were repelled instantly by an unseen force, and those that did manage to push past, met their end by the instinctive lash of Ghirahim’s blades. The Demon trailed his false king like a shadow, as thoroughly under his dominion as all of darkness had ever been. His scimitar swung over his shoulder, he hadn’t drawn it even once, depending instead on his Blade to guard him differently. Their passage left a scar on the battlefield, of dead meat and soil. That was how they combed through the Valley, cleaving the crowd as they traversed the scattered islands that would lead them to their prize.

The only thing to shake Zant out of his enduring resolve was the first display of the Sorceress’ magic. A pale blue light appeared ‘round the corner of the Altar’s gates. From it, swinging its pincers fiercely, came a towering Gohma, scuttling its way directly to the pair of commanders.

Zant instantly zipped himself behind his lieutenant. A light, encouraging tap on his shoulder and a whisper, caught Ghirahim’s attention.

“Buy me some time.”

So he did. Ghirahim swerved around to the raging creature’s legs, jabbing his swords into its joints, to little more avail than slowing it down. Out of earshot, Zant had hissed an incantation, and though he hadn’t followed its words, Ghirahim knew the spell had been cast from the eerie chill that traveled to his every extremity. Piercing past the droning arcane hum from earlier, a screech and the flapping of wings prompted Ghirahim to get out of dodge as soon as he could. Once he had joined Zant’s side again, he could see a King Helmaroc, pecking the Gohma to bits.

They intended to slip past this distraction, but Lana wouldn't let them. Cyan lights broke past nearly every corner of the battlefield, massive shadows raining down from pillars of light. More and more monsters poured forth, pulled from corners of the past even Ghirahim could recognize. And though Zant made his best efforts by summoning beasts to their defense, Ghirahim yanked him out of focus before he could rip open his fourth portal. When he pulled back, the glove he’d covered Zant’s mouth with was smeared with blood.

Panting, wiping the thin streams of crimson that poured from his eyes and nostrils, Zant never took his eyes off the altar.

“This… This is incredible, Ghirahim,” he stammered, a mad grin on his face. “I can’t keep up.”

Ghirahim ducked behind him with a grin and ran through the first soldier who dared to approach. “Singing praises of our enemy now?”

Now, Zant drew his scimitar, hacking it into an ambushing Hyrulean in one clean swing. As Ghirahim faintly shivered with delight, Zant berated him. “Fool! Of course I do! That is the power I covet, that I deserve,” Zant snarled through his teeth, fending off soldiers by the dozen. His speech, his violence, equal in cold execution. “I was unflinchingly loyal to his cause, to him, and yet, Ganon kept everything to himself. Now that I have it all within my grasp… How can I not fawn over it?”

“You can save your fawning for when it’s actually within your hands, you lunatic,” pulled from his basking, Ghirahim bit back, spying trouble as the pair guarded each other's flanks. The monsters Zant couldn't keep up with were catching up. “And, for when we are not under the threat of these beasts! Collect yourself, and go!”

“No… No, not yet,” Zant yelled, flinching when an enemy blade bounced off his wards. “We are to mask ourselves in the chaos of these giants, and when we’ve kicked up enough dust… We will go straight to her.”

As if hearing of this plan, a last-ditch effort exploded from the north. The stone bridge connecting the Altar to the rest of the valley had collapsed.

Zant saw this and hardly batted an eye. Their troops, however, seemed far more alarmed. Bridge after bridge crumbled into the depths, some with their men still traversing, plummeting right along. The setback left their army with fewer and fewer routes to advance. Hyrulean and Blin numbers were almost even now, Ghirahim reckoned from their vantage point. And as their side was funneled back out through the remaining bridges, Ghirahim looked behind him.

Zant nodded. Taking a page out of the Hyruleans’ book, Ghirahim raised his fingers to the sky, and set loose a trail of diamond sparks. Strings of light whistled and twisted high, high up above, red and flashy among Lana’s still-bleeding portals. The reaction was almost immediate. Rushing forth from the hills, Blins cascaded onto the battlefield and rushed through the bridges still left intact. What was once intended for the escape of the invading forces, now simply funneled in more. Men were pushed off the bridges and trampled in the footfall, while a select few managed to die a dignified death amidst the senseless crowd.

Above them, the stars in the night sky seemed to flicker. A deluge of airborne demons rushed by them, undetected until crossing the threshold of the altar’s pale moonlit stone. Hyrulean soldiers were lifted off the ground, others eviscerated on the spot, all while a desperate few hacked and slashed with wild abandon in an attempt to defend themselves.

Chaos. Exactly what they were looking for. Another Gohma, almost fallen into the abyss, clambered back onto the cliff’s edge and made for the pair of commanders. Just as its pincer was about to bore into them, Zant grabbed onto Ghirahim’s wrist and pulled him into the shadows.

When they reappeared, Ghirahim looked around to find himself in the altar’s inner room, strewn with bookcases of which the contents were largely toppled. But before anything else caught his eye, there stood the Sorceress, hunched desperately before a scrying orb. She whipped around the second Zant’s transportation magic rustled behind her.

“Hello, Lana,” Zant said pleasantly. Lana glared back, placing one hand back on the crystal ball. The sight made Zant smile. “Oh, please. Do you think your precious Hyrule will be here in time? Who do you think they’ll send? A few little platoons? Clearly, they’ve already given you what they could afford. And those men are not holding out very well out there.”

His words were emphasized by the sounds of clashing outside. Soldiers yelling, screaming, the sound of arms hitting armor and lifeless bodies hitting the ground.

“This will take a minute, at most. Hold still, if you’d please.”

For a moment, Lana looked afraid, deathly so. But her courage gathered itself remarkably quickly, giving her the strength to turn around and shield her crystal ball behind herself. “ ‘Hold still’? Who do you think you are, you creep!?” she yelled. “How dare you come into this sanctuary and defile it, just as we worked so hard to recover it!”

Zant grinned at her, squinting his eyes the slightest bit. “That’s a funny thing to accuse me of, considering the dynamic here. Either way… Ghirahim, if you will.”

At once, Ghirahim launched himself at the Sorceress. The first slice of his sword she just barely managed to step back from, but not without drawing the slightest bit of blood from her collar. In response, Lana strengthened her wards – a shimmering layer of pale, iridescent blue flashed in view to cover her body.

But the barrier would not save her from what was to come. As Lana became duly occupied with defending herself against the Sword Spirit’s merciless attacks, Zant began weaving his spell.

The first sentence was enough to make her flinch, but the second sent her into full-blown alarm. In her urgency, she ceased simply defending and instead attempted to push back against Ghirahim. She intended to break past him at all costs, and put an end to the words pouring from the Twilight King. Try as she might, though the whacks of thunder from her spellbook jittered Ghirahim down to the teeth, he would not let her gain even an inch on him. They were at a thorough standstill – one incapable of drawing blood, the other, finding a weakness but finding her enemy’s will too strong to overpower. All the while Zant kept chanting, and chanting, and chanting, the world around them not silenced, but rather, the three of them cast in a muffling cloak of darkness. But soon, Ghirahim would lose. Annihilation, his most precious weapon, failed him when he needed it most, and wouldn’t reward his wicked strikes with more than a nick past his opponent’s clothing. She truly was strong. Just a few more thundershocks and he would be brought to his knees, and with his Blade out of commission, Zant would not be able to defend himself against her.

He had to knock that grimoire out of her hand. The makeshift wards on her body protected her from the cutting edge of his sword, but the impact of his swings could still knock her off balance.

Ghirahim didn't get the chance to just yet, though. Their sprawling army of demons found her little hideout. The lot of them crawled along the windows, claws dragging and fists pounding on the barriers. Were they to break through, the enemy commander would be overtaken in seconds.

Lana realized this too. She withdrew instantly, her grimoire snapped shut, and made for the only spot in the wall unoccupied by bookcases. She, of course, ran straight through. Had Ghirahim’s intuition not stopped him, he would have smacked face-first into it. One hand bracing against the stone barrier, he realized it would need a key phrase to grant him passage.

Or, as per Zant’s stroke of simple genius, simply blow the wall to smithereens. Powder-turned stone and pebbles blasting outward around him, Ghirahim burst through the rubble and sprinted after the first sight of cyan he could catch. Bouncing against the walls, masking her every direction in this endless maze, Lana recited her counter-incantation.

Behind him, Zant laughed at the challenge, weaving his spell longer and longer. Ahead of him, Lana’s rapid footsteps kept his prey drive red-hot.

Run, run, but there’s no hiding from me. Along the floor, the thrum of Ghirahim’s core showed him the path the Sorceress had taken. He remembered these hallways perhaps better than she was aware of and, wagering a lucky guess at her meandering trajectory, he cut a few corners. He rammed solidly into her at the intersection. Just as he wanted, the grimoire went flying, and he placed himself between her and its landing spot.

Unfortunately for him, it didn’t render her powerless. But she did become weaker. The lightning she flung behind her as they resumed her chase was enough to hurt him, but not to slow him down. The little drops of blood he’d drawn that disappointed him before now worked as an irresistible lure, second to his expert dowsing. He could hear her breath, her heartbeat, and almost, every panicked thought as she tried to stall for enough time to think of a better plan than simply running and chanting with her heaving breath. Such was the power of that delectable fear! He had to have it. Closer, and closer, and closer he drew, his once graceful run now turning into a desperate, bestial sprint. She, the poor thing, was slowing, immortal in soul but human in guise. When even her last ditch effort, the casting of a lightning bolt point blank at his core, didn’t work, her desperation buckled her. Hands clawed, Ghirahim swiped for her.

At long last, he’d grabbed her, her arms locked in his elbows. Lana struggled fiercely, but no matter the power she borrowed, she couldn’t break free from steel of this caliber. How lucky she was, that his daggers couldn’t pierce her! Grappling fresh blood like this made him feel positively starved.

Even then, he wouldn’t have been able to play for very long. Zant had carefully followed his blade, his every step haunted by the all-consuming echo of his voice. As that voice grew closer, the world became still around them. Colder. Twin breaths turned to foggy clouds as the pair of locked combatants panted, their eyes each glued on the hallway before them. Shadows poured around the corner, only to be drowned out by a pale blue light, hovering around the Twilight King like an aura. His eyes, normally golden, now carried that same ethereal hue. When he extended his hand, there was a cavity in his palm, the void of which made Ghirahim’s core spin just looking at it.

Lana struggled again, until she steeled herself. The incantations she’d failed to recite in their scuffle came back to the forefront of her mind, the first words passing her lips. Just one glance from Zant, and Ghirahim moved instinctually. He rushed his hand to her face, and stuck the point of his dagger against her tongue. Of course, none would think to place wards there. The Sorceress shrieked, but every movement of her head sliced deeper into her cheek, her lips, the inside of her mouth. Ghirahim shushing in her ear, she froze wide-eyed, her chest heaving up and down rapidly in breathing. Like a rabbit on a butchery table.

One more sentence and Lana began to writhe, groaning in pain. Zant stood before them, palm upturned. It was almost done – Ghirahim could feel it. It was practically in their hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the face hovering above them. All else disappeared. Not even the blood, that precious ambrosia that trickled from his dagger down his glove, could shake him from his mesmerization.

With those last words, the skies went dark. The rim of light once encircling Zant burst outward into shards, leaving only an endless dark that splattered across the walls like paint. It left them in a void; cold, and deafened, and unfeeling, just the three of them locked inside. Just the three of them, and the little golden triangle hovering between them. Lana wept in terror, in regret, in pain, while her two adversaries made no sound at all. For just a moment, childlike wonder sparkled in Zant’s eyes, before that little bit of innocent hope was throttled by an overwhelming flame of greed and vengeance. From having their treasure dance above his palm, he suddenly seized it, snatching it out of the air.

With a deafening roar, like the sound of a mighty river rushing by overhead, the shadowy expanse around them imploded in on itself. Every inch of its fabric tore rapidly to one point: below Zant’s feet, sucked into his shadow. When the light returned to the hall again, there stood Zant, the same man as before.

The triforce now glowed on his palm.

But past that gently humming light, another sound caught their attention, now that the veil was lifted. War horns, far unlike theirs. Lana had stalled for enough time.

The second the both of them turned to the sound, Lana wrenched herself free. Though claws tore into her arms, and the dagger sliced through the corner of her mouth, she stumbled from Ghirahim’s grip and made for the light at the end of the hallway.

“Ghirahim-ili, how unlike you… Ah, well. I say let her run. She will be useless without this, anyhow,” he giggled, admiring the back of his hand.

But Ghirahim knew better. Eyes set on the desperately shambling woman, he aimed for her, hand outstretched, and snapped his fingers. A trio of daggers glistened in the light as they soared through the hallway, and thwacked into her back. Then he ripped back around, bound for his general in a steadfast march before the man could praise him – and it was a look of praise that colored his face – and snatched him by the wrist.

Yet Zant shook himself loose. His eyes blazed with unparalleled drive and fury. He glared down the still-stumbling Sorceress from afar, before clenching his fists. A throat-rending cackle ripped loose from him as his head was encased in shadows. Shrouded he was, then he was not, as particles of blackness burst outward to reveal a new sight.

Zant’s helmet. Once again perched on his shoulders, but entirely different. A wicked snarl was encased in the metal, and a finned collar encircled the reptilian face. At the peak of it all, a crown of horns declared him king. Now, Zant accepted Ghirahim’s so-hastily offered hand, and blinked the both of them outside the altar.

After just that split second, Ghirahim was jarred to find himself floating, high, high above the Valley, Zant’s fingers still lacing around his’. With a raise of his hand, and his triumphant, wet giggling still holding, he forced Lana’s portals to a close. One more wiggle of his fingers… that was all it took, and one by one, their troops disappeared from the battlefield.

Before Lana’s body could hit the ground, the two invaders were gone. Her efforts had been for naught. When the Hyrulean reinforcements finally crossed the foothills, the Valley was empty.

#ghirazant #ghirahim #zant #lana #lana hyrule warriors #hyrule warriors #loz fanfic #tftk #beararts #bearwrites

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jumbled-messy-confused · 10 days ago

Text

She Sees

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Kirigan is used to darkness. Used to cold. Used to solitude. Alina Starkov is none of those things. In a world where every day is a battle, she is the one person that can offer him peace, even for just a moment.

Notes: This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.

The first time it happened, Kirigan barely noticed. The war room was suffocating with tension, thick with the stale scent of wax-sealed reports and ink drying too slowly. Messengers had arrived with grim updates from the front, their voices clipped, faces taut with the weight of bad news. Others stood at attention, their gazes fixed on him, waiting for his missives. The crushing pressure of it all, the endless demands of the battlefield, settled over him like a heavy cloak. He gave his orders methodically, measuredly, but inside, he was already tired. The day had barely begun. The workload since Alina’s arrival had doubled, tripled. The Tsar’s demands grew sharper, the war more relentless, the expectations more crushing. He barely slept. The candlelight in his chambers never fully faded—only burned lower before another report, another decision, pulled him back from the edge of rest.

Then, light footsteps. Hesitant, but deliberate.

Alina.

She had no business in the war room, not really. And yet, here she was, lingering just inside the door, holding something small and delicate in her hands. A cup. “I thought you might need this,” she murmured softly, pressing it carefully into his cold hand. It was tea. No, coffee—strong, dark, an unmistakable hint of cinnamon.

He looked at her then, properly, and there it was—the gentlest smile, the kind that wasn’t demanding anything from him, wasn’t expecting him to be more than what he was in this moment. Tired.

She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t push. Just left the cup and slipped away, her warmth lingering even after the door closed behind her.

It had been days since he last felt hunger. When he entered the dining hall some time after midday, the other Grisha had long since eaten, the room quiet save for the muffled sounds of staff clearing dishes. They barely met his gaze, cautious, respectful. Even here, he was the Darkling before he was a man.

He knew, he should eat; but his body ached with the weight of exhaustion, and he didn’t feel hungry; just a hollow fatigue that pressed into his bones. Sitting stiffly in his chair, he stared listlessly at the meal that had been set in front of him. The food was well-prepared, fragrant, and hearty, but in his current state, it simply wasn’t appealing.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye—a small plate slid across the table toward him. Alina. Sitting a few seats away, half-tucked behind an open book. She didn’t say anything, just nudged it closer, smiling softly. On the plate were a few slices of apple, a handful of grapes, and a small square of dark chocolate. Simple. Thoughtful. Nothing he had expected—yet, exactly what he needed. He met her gaze, and for the first time that day, he exhaled.

She was pure sunlight. He watched her from his window one grey afternoon. Down in the courtyard, Alina was surrounded by a handful of children—orphans, his soldier’s sons and daughters, too young to be in the war, too familiar with its aftermath.

She knelt among them, her hands alight with her wonderful power, drawing their laughter as she conjured gentle orbs of vibrant light that danced above their heads. The little ones squealed with delight when the spheres burst into a thousand tiny shards, like a rain of crystal, scattering golden reflections across the cobblestones. One of the smaller girls clapped, beaming with joy, and Alina laughed, head tipped back. The sound carried, clear and bright. This ethereal being didn’t belong in a world shaped by war, yet here she was, scattering light like it might reach even him. A part of him wanted to walk away before the sight of it could settle too deeply. Another part—one he didn’t know how to silence—hoped it already had.

Kirigan lingered a moment longer than he should have.

A few days later, it was his neck. He hadn’t noticed how tight his shoulders had become, how the strain of endless meetings and hours spent hunched over his desk left his muscles aching. Not until Alina sat across from him one evening, a book open in her hands—the one he had assigned her to study.

She was supposed to be reading, absorbing the knowledge he had deemed necessary, but instead, she was frowning at him. At the way he rotated his head, trying to relieve the tension, rubbing the back of his neck absently.

With a quiet sigh, she closed the book, set it aside, and pushed back her chair. He glanced up as she stood, but before he could question her, she stepped behind him.

Then, without hesitation, she placed her warm hands on his shoulders and pressed gently.

Kirigan went still.

Her fingers examined the muscles lightly, finding the knots of tension built up over time. “You don’t relax enough,” she remarked, half concerned, half reproachful. Her touch was maddening, not because it hurt—but because it soothed. He hated how easily she seemed to disarm him. He had spent centuries building walls, fortifying himself against weakness, yet her hands on his shoulders threatened to dismantle all of it with a tenderness he didn’t know how to refuse.

He wanted to tell her he couldn’t afford to relax. But before he managed, she pressed her thumbs into a spot just below his neck, and he exhaled—too sharp, too sudden. His control slipped for the briefest moment.

Her lips quirked. “See?”

He didn’t argue.

She made him laugh. It startled him every time. He was on his way to the Grand Palace when he heard it—Alina, arguing fiercely with Zoya on the training yard.

“No, I did hit that target!”

Zoya folded her arms. “You grazed the edge. That’s hardly the same.”

“It absolutely counts!”

“Saints, you have the aim of a drunk Shu mercenary.”

“I do not!”

“Fine, then prove it.” Zoya gestured casually toward Ivan, who had just finished training a group of Grishenka and sent them off. “Hit his shoulder from here.”

Ivan barely had time to turn before a small, shimmering orb of sunlight zipped past his ear. He flinched, scowling.

Alina’s eyes went wide. “That was—”

“… my head,” Ivan growled.

Kirigan laughed.

The sound surprised them all.

Alina turned, startled, then—seeing the rare, unguarded amusement on his face—she grinned.

He shook his head, still smiling as he continued on his way.

It was solitude that he thought he wanted—until she broke it. The war room was quiet now, thankfully. The tense bustle of another demanding day finally gone, leaving behind only the soft glow of flickering candles. It was well past midnight, and for the first time in hours, Kirigan was alone. He pressed two fingers to his forehead, a futile attempt to ward off the crushing fatigue settling over him. His eyes skimmed over the page in his hand, more than once. But he didn’t take anything in.

He felt her before he heard her.

A gentle warmth against his arm, a touch that pulled him from the haze. He tensed instinctively, but then he recognized the familiar pressure of her fingers. He blinked, lifting his head slightly. “Alina?” His voice was rougher than he expected.

Her eyes were steady, determined in a way that left no room for argument.

“You’ve read this report three times already,” she pointed out softly. “It hasn’t changed.”

He exhaled, a slow, measured breath. Weary. He didn’t resist when her fingers carefully pried the parchment from his grasp, easing it from his hold. A part of him wanted to argue—he couldn’t afford to stop, not now. But with her hand still warm on his skin, the idea of pausing, just for a moment, didn’t seem quite so impossible.

He thought he could keep going. His body disagreed. Kirigan had ignored it for days. Weeks. Pushed past the headaches, the sluggishness, the way the world seemed to blur at the edges when he moved too quickly. He’d endured worse. Survived worse.

The meeting with the Tsar had dragged. Hours upon hours of veiled threats, of measured words, of navigating the Sovereign’s insatiable hunger for power. Kirigan had kept his composure—he always did—but it had cost him. The moment the war room door closed behind him, exhaustion slammed into him. It wasn’t just physical. It was in his bones, in his thoughts, in the marrow of his soul. His body felt heavy, like he was dragging a weight behind him with every step.

His mind, however, was still racing. There were decisions to be made. Plans to be executed. The war was not won, not by a long shot. He could not afford to falter—his Grisha, his people, and those suffering under the Tsar’s rule depended on him. He carried their hopes on his back, every step becoming heavier as the days passed, his strength waning with each blow he took, each sleepless night, each life lost. But tonight, his body betrayed him.

Suddenly, his vision swam. The world tilted. And then he was falling.

On his way down, he collided with a wooden commode. The impact was brutal, his body slamming into the sharp edge with a sickening crack before crumpling to the floor. The breath was knocked clean from his lungs, and a sharp, unbearable pain exploded in his ribs.

For a moment, everything was a blur of agony. The searing heat in his chest spread like wildfire, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. His body, overwhelmed by the shock, refused to respond to him anymore. It simply shut down; everything went black.

His world was reduced to fragments—pain, cold. And her voice. Breathing was an effort, shallow gasps rasping from his throat.

Somewhere, through the haze of his suffering, a voice drifted toward him—distant, but urgent. Familiar. A hand on his shoulder, strong yet careful. “General!” Alina’s call sliced through the fog, sharp and clear, like sunlight piercing the thickest clouds. He tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn’t obey. Fragments of conversation echoed around him now—Ivan’s steady baritone, Fedyor’s lighter reactions—but he couldn’t make out the meaning. Hands slipped beneath his knees, his shoulders. They lifted him, the movement jostling his broken ribs, sending fresh waves of agony through his chest. His body arched involuntarily, and a strangled, gasping sound tore from his throat. It was raw, unguarded—a guttural response to the sharp, burning pain.

Ivan barked something again, demanding and concerned, but the words blurred together while his consciousness drifted further away. His body was unable to hold on. He slipped away once more.

He came to the sensation of being lowered onto something soft. But he barely felt it; the world had turned to numbness. His chest heaved but it was useless—he managed just breathless gasps, weak and fading.

Somewhere above him, voices tangled together in sharp commands, hurried motions, but then—

Heat. Gentle, soothing heat seeped into his bones, into his battered body. The pain dulled, fading into a distant ache that no longer burned. Slowly, his chest expanded, a full breath filling his lungs for the first time in what felt like forever; not his own but guided by unseen hands. A Healer, his clouded mind supplied. The warmth deepened, and with it, his awareness faded. It wasn’t sleep, but a controlled darkness, a deep stillness meant to protect him while his body healed. His mind quieted, the world slipping away as he was gently pulled under, safe in the Healer’s care.

Warmth had been a foreign thing, for too long. Until now. When he finally woke, his body ached as if it had been dragged through the Fold and back—every muscle heavy, his head pounding with each thready beat of his heart. His eyelids refused to lift, but amidst the exhaustion, he sensed it—he was warm. For the first time in weeks, he felt warm.

Multiple blankets had been piled over him, tucked carefully around his frame. His boots were gone. His Kefta, too, replaced by a loose shirt and soft trousers.

And there was more. A presence—

A hand.

Small. Resting lightly on his shoulder.

He tried to shift toward the touch, but his limbs barely responded. When he finally managed to crack his eyes open, the light burned against his vision, leaving him disoriented and dizzy. But there, beside him, was Alina. She was perched on the edge of his bed, her gaze fixed on him with so much relief that it nearly undid him. Her lashes were wet, cheeks blotchy in a way that spoke of recent tears.

"You’re awake," she whispered, as if saying it any louder might undo the fact.

Kirigan exhaled slowly, voice hoarse. "It would appear so."

A breath of something that might have been a laugh escaped her—but it was too thin, too fragile. Her fingers twitched against his shirt, but she didn’t let go. “You were—” She swallowed hard. “You scared me.”

He averted his gaze, shame cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He hated this—hated that she had seen him like this, vulnerable, weak. Hated even more that she had worried, had cried because of him. "I didn’t mean to," he murmured.

"I know," she assured him, swiftly. Then repeated, quieter, "I know."

A slight movement near the door caught his attention and he turned his head toward it, though even that small action was a struggle. Ivan stood there, arms crossed, his usual unreadable expression tinged with a rare softness. Fedyor had stood up and moved closer, leaning casually against the foot of the bed now. It was obvious they’d been keeping watch.

There was no rebuke in their eyes. No frustration. Only concern.

Kirigan let out a slow, unsteady breath. "You two had a hand in this?" His voice was rough, but wry. He tried to gesture with his chin toward the bed.

Ivan snorted. "You think Starkov could have dragged your sorry ass there alone?"

Before Alina could react, Fedyor did. "Ivan," he scolded, shaking his head. "Tact."

"What?" Ivan replied, deadpan. "It’s a fair question."

Fedyor snickered, and even Kirigan let out a faint breath of amusement, though the motion sent a dull ache through his ribs.

Alina huffed, but she was smiling now, just barely. That was better.

He sighed, letting his head sink back against the pillows. "I take it you’re all going to insist that I rest?"

Ivan’s eyebrow arched. "What gave it away?"

Kirigan hummed. "The blankets, mostly." He tried to shift slightly under the heavy mount of fabric, but even the attempt was too strenuous. "…and the fact that I seem to be practically restrained by them."

Fedyor leaned in just a little, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Restraints are unnecessary. Let’s be honest—if you tried to get out of bed, you’d end up flat on your back in less than five seconds. And none of us wants to deal with that kind of drama again." Kirigan turned his face away for a moment, exhaling slowly as the resignation set in. Fedyor, undeterred, flashed a bright, almost mischievous grin. "And before you ask—no, that tender bit of care wasn’t Ivan or me. That was all her." He tilted his head toward Alina, practically beaming.

Kirigan glanced at her, surprised.

Alina shifted, suddenly looking unsure. "You just—" She swallowed. "You were so cold."

He blinked. It was such a small thing. And yet, it wasn’t.

Kirigan held her gaze for a moment, his chest tightening. Her words weren’t accusing or demanding—they were simple, sincere. But the way she said it made something inside him stir; an ache he couldn’t quite place.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke.

It was Ivan’s sarcastic comment that broke the silence. “Still breathing under all those layers, or should we start digging you out?”

Kirigan huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. Yet, he felt his strength ebbing. “Stop hovering,” was the only thing he managed.

“You’ll have to get better before you can give orders again,” Ivan retorted dryly. “Until then, I’ll hover as much as I damn well please.”

Fedyor rolled his eyes and stepped in, nudging him firmly in the side. “That’s enough, Ivan.” He put a hand on his back, steering him toward the exit. “It’s obvious the General prefers Alina’s hovering to ours.”

Alina’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, her gaze dropping to the edge of the blankets as though they suddenly held the secrets of the universe.

“Fine.” Ivan allowed himself to be manhandled out of the room, though not without some parting words. “But if you pass out again, don’t expect me to carry you. You’re heavier than you look.” Kirigan couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips, amused by the antics, despite his exhaustion.

Fedyor grinned at the display, then turned to follow his husband. Yet, just before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder, his tone warm and teasing. “Rest, General. That’s an order.”

The last sound lingering in the air was Ivan’s good-natured snort before the two disappeared into the hall, their footsteps fading into the quiet.

Now, they were alone. As the door clicked shut behind the two Heartrenders, the room felt a little quieter, a little emptier.

Kirigan’s attention drifted back to Alina, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was still staring at the blankets, her fingers fiddling nervously with the edge, like she was debating something she wasn’t sure how to say.

Keeping his eyes open was becoming a battle he was losing, but he fought against the pull of exhaustion with sheer determination. He couldn’t let himself drift off- not yet. Summoning what little strength he had left, he rasped, "Alina?"

Her gaze flickered to him, wide and uncertain. The concern still etched into her face sent a sharp pang through him. It ate at him, knowing she felt this way—because of him. He tried to speak, but no sound would come. He swallowed, tried again. “What… is it?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. But then, as if she could no longer keep it in, the words spilled out. “You work yourself into the ground, and I—I don’t know how to help, and I hate it.”

He should reassure her, give her some well-practiced answer about duty, about responsibility, about the burdens he had carried since long before she had been born.

But he didn’t.

He barely had the strength to stay conscious, let alone spin empty reassurances. And so, he said the only thing that was true. “You… do help.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “I—”

“You do,” he repeated, though the words came out even weaker this time. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his words seemed to die before they left his mouth. With what little strength remained, he whispered, “Alina… please.” He needed her to see. To see, how important she was. To see, how much he needed her. Because he did. More than he could ever admit; needed her so much it hurt, more than he could bear to hold back any longer.

With a final surge of effort, he pulled his arm from beneath the heavy blankets, the endeavour burning through his already shattered strength. It took everything he had just to tug weakly at her sleeve, a touch so feeble it barely registered.

But she moved immediately, shifting onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under her weight, and she pressed herself against him, her arms wrapping carefully around his frame, mindful of his injuries, of his exhaustion.

Still, even that slight pressure was enough to steal his breath. He let his head fall against her, his overstrained body sagging with the rare comfort of being held, sinking into the relief of her presence. His breath came in uneven shudders, his head aching from the mere act of staying conscious.

She tucked her face against his neck, and he felt the dampness of her tears, even as she fought to hold them back.

He was the Black General, the one who bent armies to his will, whose very name conjured fear. But here, with Alina’s arms around him, he was nothing more than a man—a fragile, broken man who didn’t deserve her warmth yet couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

His lashes fluttered. The fog in his mind was becoming thicker with the second, pressing in from all sides.

Her voice cut through the haze, barely more than a whisper. “Please, Aleksander. Rest.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’ve got you.”

Something inside him cracked. The last of his resistance crumbled, and he let himself fall. It was so easy to slip under again, to let the exhaustion pull him down. Because she was here.

Darkness took over once more. And this time, he didn’t fight it.

This time, he let go.

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musings-of-a-rose · 2 years ago

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Musings-of-a-rose's Fic Recs

Musings-of-a-rose’s fic rec list (never complete and always adding!)

This will always be a work in progress, as I will always be adding fics!

If you need more and can’t wait for me to update, you can search on my blog for #fic rec and all of them will come up!

Frankie “Catfish” Morales:

Fix You by @astoryisaloveaffair

Howl by @astoryisaloveaffair

My Drug is My Baby (age gap) by @astoryisaloveaffair

Run Through the Jungle by @astoryisaloveaffair

The Bachlorette AU by @icanbeyourjedi

Sex Worker Frankie AU by @prolix-yuy

Still of the Night (Signs/Triple Frontier mashup) by @foli-vora

Trustworthy by @need-a-fugue

The Candyman by @hopeamarsu (this is a series but I’m linking chapter 1 here)

Oberyn Martell:

Burning Bright by @tropes-and-tales

And So We Sing in Elegies by @haildoodles-writing

Pero Tovar:

My Mercenary Bold by @astoryisaloveaffair

Petrichor by @rainontherooftops

Cathedrals of Our Own by @haylzcyon

The Cross by @blueeyesatnight

Safe Haven by @marvel-and-mischief

Wedding Night by @absurdthirst

Zach Wellison:

You’re So Classic by @chaoticgeminate

Inn Over Your Head by @javierpinme

Max Phillips:

Take the Pain Away by @icanbeyourjedi

Dave York:

Baby, Let the Games Begin by @wyn-n-tonic

Maxwell Lord:

Shutterbug by @lowlights

What’s Love Got to Do With It by @storiesofthefandomlovers

Din Djarin:

Healer by @bestintheparsec

Marcus Pike:

Our Last Christmas by @supernaturalgirl20

Javi G:

Insatiable by @javierpinme

Hush by @javier-pena

Agent Whiskey:

Harder to Hold by @brandyllyn

The Traveler by @silksaddle

Marcus Moreno:

Yo Te Prometo by @marvelousmermaid

Here Without You Now by @wyn-n-tonic

Javier Peña:

Better Love by @disgruntledspacedad

It Takes Two by @icanbeyourjedi

Self Sacrifice by @albertasunrise

Into the Dark by @juletheghoul

Hermosa by @keala on Ao3

Joel Miller:

Days of You and Me by @wyn-n-tonic

That’s a Real Fucking Legacy by @wyn-n-tonic

Dieter Bravo:

Disturbia by @astoryisaloveaffair

Win a Date With Dieter Bravo by @icanbeyourjedi

Simulated by @prolix-yuy

Teacher Ben (SNL):

Love, Wings, and Football by @icanbeyourjedi

Rainy Days by @chaoticgeminate

Well Read by @wyn-n-tonic

The Thief

Enigma by @javier-pena

Tim Rockford:

Apple Pie America by @rainontherooftops

Jay Castillo:

The Wedding Date by @icanbeyourjedi

Triple Frontier Boys:

The Audition by @astoryisaloveaffair

Santiago “Pope” Garcia:

The Best of Us by @a-bang-for-your-bucky

Benjamin “Benny” Miller:

I Got Away With You by @mermaidxatxheart

I’ll Be Your Brightside by @dameronscopilot

Only You by @albertasunrise

Timing Is Everything by @theewokingdead

Benergy by @theewokingdead

La Primera Fiesta by @marvelousmermaid

Looking For You by @green-socks

Commitment Issues by @coweye

Sunshine State by @brewsterispunkk

William “Ironhead” Miller:

Return to Honeymoon by @carni-val

Bucky Barnes “Winter Soldier”:

Paint Me a Memory by @mermaidxatxheart

My One and Only by @mermaidxatxheart

Almost Had Me Believing It by @tuiccim

Poe Dameron:

The Bet by @no-droids

The Art of Falling by @brandyllyn

Clint Barton “Hawkeye”:

Sure Shot by @astoryisaloveaffair

Rhett Abbott (Outer Range):

Sacred Oasis by @wyn-n-tonic

Selfish by @dameronscopilot

Lessons by @wyn-n-tonic

Tommy Miller (The Last of Us - HBO):

That’s a Real Fucking Legacy by @wyn-n-tonic

I’ll Have Another by @wyn-n-tonic

Violent Delights, Violent Ends by @ay0nha

I Need You to Tell Me I’m Good by @psychedelic-ink

#fic rec #fic recs

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autocat5876 · 7 months ago

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THE MASKERS AU

hello hello! these guys came to me in a dream

the maskers are a subspecies of the lost ones and are different by their use of the comedy and tragedy masks. they tend to stick together in large groups in old places in the studio that would have once been highly populated, like a cafeteria or a theatre. as lost ones don't have much in terms of face to show their emotions, maskers use double sided masks (one side comedy the other tragedy) in order to show their moods, aggressive or passive. when the mask is on the comedy side, they are aggressive and will attack main character (either audrey or henry, i'm leaning more to henry at the moment) and will lock onto and attack then should they come near. they're used as a mechanic to prevent the mc from progressing through the studio in the incorrect order. when the mc has completed what they need to to properly enter the room the maskers are protecting, they flip their masks to the passive tragedy side, where they regain some humanity and the ability to speak and remember their pasts (something the comedy side doesn't allow). the mc can walk through the area peacefully and even interact with the maskers and talk to them if they really wanted to.

as for the masks themselves, they were created by wilson as a way to turn the lost ones into his willing peons and soldiers, but they didn't work and the masks were scrapped behind the old gent factory. a group of lost ones found them and put them on, causing the maskers to be born. the masks are flexible as they're. you know. made of ink, and that's how they can be flipped to either side and not look awkward.

i would love to hear any thoughts or feedback or ideas or anything! this is my first time posting an au or an oc or anything of the sort on tumblr so there's going to be a lot of updates as the time goes on.

(i'm thinking they could be a species for bendy the cage? but i've been keeping myself in the dark about that game so i can see it for myself when it comes out)

#the maskers au #batim #bendy and the ink machine #bendy au #batim oc #I KNOW THE HANDS LOOK LIKE ASS. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRAW HAAANDS #this was also my first time drawing a proper “human” so i think it turned out pretty ok?? hands could use some work but #other than that i do fw this and am super proud of myself for this heh #bendy and the dark revival #<- because wilson was mentioned i guess

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veiledlinks-vn · 8 months ago

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So I randomly stumbled across this and it looks really neat!! Are you still working on it? How are things going? It looks like the last update was around New Years, do you have any more news (even something small, if you don't have anything big)? I'd be super interested to hear!! (P.S. godspeed soldier, idk much about it but I know coding and game-making can be a huge task)

Oh, hello there! Thank you for your kind words. ;w;

Yup, I'm still working on it, the only reason progress is so slow is because real life has kept getting in the way, sadly enough. It's been many frustrations and disappointments these past months. If I'd had it my way, I would've finished a demo last autumn at the very latest.

We'll get there eventually, and I have to stop beating myself over it. I do apologise for the wait, though, and while it's not much, I still want to share what has been done since the last update:

Ryouken's part of the demo is in its final editing stage, so he's so close to being finished!

I found the last audio files I needed, and one of them was something I've searched a long time for, so that was a huge relief.

I've decided on how the cover images will look like and have sketched up one of them and started inking and painting the other.

I've managed to finish another CG, as well as make 3 sketches for Yuusaku's route. He still needs some proper planning with how many more branches he has compared to Takeru and Ryouken, but I'm having so much fun with it.

Future drinking games for players: take a shot every time Ryouken deems something as irrelevant, Yuusaku shrugs, or Takeru says "what".

I'm not sure how interesting the coding process can be, but I did some editing to the randomise function and now, it works splendidly while looking neater!

I promise coding is fun and not as complicated as it might look like!

That's it for now. Hopefully, the summer will be better than it was last year. Thank you again for stopping by, I appreciate it! ♥♥♥

#yugioh vrains #ygo vrains #vrains #veiled links #fujiki yuusaku #yusaku fujiki #homura takeru #takeru homura #kougami ryouken #ryoken kogami #visual novel #ask

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yumomia · 2 years ago

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hi i've decided im gonna pioneer this ship and also this fandom.

so here's my mia and me spotify playlist

here's my pinterest board

here's my ao3 account

this ship has a couple different names. miyumo, yumomia, and my personal favorite: the sunrise trio!!

enjoy my rambling :D

(i'm updating this post whenever i get a miyumo hugging picture)

fics i write! i'll try to keep this updated!!

the rewrite:

escape (a mia and me series)

Mia has magic. She’s not sure why, or where it came from. Like every high-schooler, she’s a little bit preoccupied with figuring out her crushes first. Unfortunately, with the attacks on the mystical island of Centopia, she might not have time to focus on that. Mia has to figure out how to use her magic, and fast.

the non-rewrites:

there will come a soldier by oriocookie

A Yuko character study.

love should never be kept a secret by oriocookie

Mia Marconi, a.k.a. Spider-Girl, is Centopia City's fearless protector. She's strong, smart, kind, and brave, putting her life on the line daily to protect her family and her city. And Mo and Yuko, her crushes. But that's not important. She's got a whole city to worry about.

hold on tight to this time, this place (cause everything you know will be erased) by oriocookie

There's someone missing. Mo and Yuko know it, they can feel it when they turn to talk to someone and they're not there, when they try to think back on the specifics of their adventures and are met with a gap in their memories. They just don't know who.

i’ll love every version of you by oriocookie

Since she met them, Mia’s always been drawn to Mo and Yuko. She never could have imagined why. We will be together again. I promise.

absolutely smitten by oriocookie

Mia never, ever expected to see her celebrity crushes in person. And she never, ever, ever expected them to like her back!

but that’s just a theory! by oriocookie

Mia is, frankly, a weird person. She’s cagey about her past and while Mo and Yuko love her, they get curious sometimes! Can’t sue them for it!

enchanted by oriocookie

"You don’t get it!” Mia yelled, holding her arms close to her chest. On one wrist, her treasured bracelet. On the other, the names of her soulmates. Mo Kiev and Yuko Lavigne. “Mia, I do! But you can’t fall in love with the characters from your book!” Paula said. “I know they share the same names with your soulmates. But you said they don’t have names on their wrist, right?” Mia refused to give her the satisfaction of being right. But no, no one in Centopia had a soulmate. Not even her elven self had the names from the real world inked into her arm. “All we’re saying, Mia,” Vincent put in, “is that you should focus on the real world. You could have real soulmates out there.” “I can’t believe this.” Mia fumed. “I’m leaving.”

strongest shape by oriocookie

Mo wound an arm around each of them, thankful for the low light so Yuko couldn’t see the blush spreading across his cheeks. “I’m glad Mia’s our friend,” Yuko muttered sleepily from her spot under Mo’s arm. “She’s nice.” “Yes, she is.” Mo agreed. “Pretty, too.” Yuko said softly, and Mo looked down at her in shock. But Yuko’s eyes were closed and her breathing was light, and Mo resigned himself to talking to the both of them about it tomorrow. Mia and Yuko were both amazing, and Mo didn’t want to choose between the two of them. But with Yuko’s half-asleep admission about Mia, there was now a new possibility: Mo could love them both, the same way.

#mia and me #miyumo #yumomia

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journeytothewestresearch · 2 years ago

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12th-Century Sun Wukong

I was happy to learn that the Monkey Pilgrim (Hou xingzhe, 猴行者), Sun Wukong's antecedent, appears among a large set of late-12th-century ritual scrolls portraying the famed 500 Arhats. [1] He is depicted as a monkey-headed, black robe-wearing figure with the lower half of his body obscured by clouds, making him hard to see unless you zoom in on the image. He holds what appears to be the head of a staff in his left hand (fig. 1). Our hero is located just behind Tripitaka, who is riding a white horse led by a spirit-soldier(?) or perhaps Sha Wujing’s antecedent (fig. 2). The full scroll shows this scene happening above the heads of four arhats (fig. 3), indicating that the Tang Monk is considered to be one of these Buddhist sages.

I actually found the simian immortal by accident while researching an article about Tripitaka’s Buddha title. Dr. Meir Shahar tells me that this depiction of Monkey doesn’t appear to have been mentioned in previous JTTW scholarship (personal communication, June 3, 2023). [2] Therefore, I’m so very happy that I can share this discovery with my readers!

For more ancient depictions of Sun Wukong, please see my past article:

Fig. 1 – A detail of the Monkey Pilgrim (larger version). From Lin Tinggui and Zhou Jichang, Images of the 500 Arhats (Wubai Luohan tu, 五百羅漢圖, 1178-1188 CE). Hanging scroll, ink and color on silk. Image from Nara kuniritsu hakubutsukan, Tōkyō bunkazai kenkyūjo, 2014, p. 86. Courtesy of Dr. Liu Shufen, a research fellow at the Institute of History and Philology, Academia Sinica.

Fig. 2 – A detail of Xuanzang on his his horse (larger version).

Fig. 3 – The full scroll (larger version).

Notes:

1) To learn more about these paintings, see Zhou (2021).

2) Dr. Benjamin Brose tells me that the painting appears in a Japanese source, but the Monkey Pilgrim is only listed as an “ape-like figure” (personal communication, June 3, 2023). See Nara kuniritsu hakubutsukan, Tōkyō bunkazai kenkyūjo henshū, 2014, p. 86.

Sources:

Nara kuniritsu hakubutsukan, Tōkyō bunkazai kenkyūjo henshū [Nara University Tōkyō Research Institute for Cultural Properties (Ed.)]. (2014). Daitokuji denrai gohyaku rakan zu [Daitoku Temple’s Tradition of the 500 Arhats Paintings]. Kyōto: Shitau bungaku.

Zhou, Y. (2021). The Daitokuji Five Hundred Arhats Paintings and Their Beholders [Master’s dissertation, University of Alberta]. Education and Research Archive. https://era.library.ualberta.ca/items/f0bf436c-f6e5-46a2-920a-91c8b9dd5ba9

#Sun Wukong #Monkey King #Monkey Pilgrim #Journey to the West #JTTW #Song Dynasty #Arhats #Luohan #Chinese art #Buddhism #Lego Monkie Kid #LMK #MK

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imtrashraccoon · 1 year ago

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And the winner is... Writing Requests!

Thank you to everyone who voted! ＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／

So, I will be accepting up to five requests, depending how many of you are interested of course. (I may accept a few more though.)

Classic Papyrus Oneshot [Completed]

Doctor's Orders [Completed]

A Gentle Soldier [Completed]

[Open]

I will write for any existing Undertale character, preferably those who have been in the fandom for a while or have easily accessible information so I can research them. I usually write Reader inserts (second person pov) but I can write OC's too.

The drabble will be at least 2,000 words but probably less than 3,000 words, depending on how much detail I end up going into.

I will not write:

Smut/graphic sexual content (I know a few of you are minors and I'm not comfortable writing that anyways.)

Anything endangering minors such as graphic violence or anything sexual.

Gore (Blood and injuries is fine, just nothing intense like torture.)

Incest, Sanscest, Papscest, or Fontcest. (You can ship what you like but I don't like any of these and I will not be writing them.)

Obvious kinks (I shouldn't have to list them all here but if they make me squirm, I am not writing them. Liking teeth or claws, pulling hair, or being slightly dominant in a situation are fine though.)

These are basic guidelines and I may add onto them if I realize I forgot anything. As much as it pains me, I cannot write everything and I have the right to reject your request if it makes me uncomfortable.

That said, I will write:

Reader x Character or OC x Character (I would prefer to write F/M as I am a female but I can write gender neutral too.)

Fluff (This is easily my favorite thing to write!)

Spicy (I also love writing this but I'm still new at it so no promises. Sex will be treated as a fade to black if you want that still.)

Frans or Soriel (I do ship these so long as everyone is consenting adults. I may consider other ships but no promises as I don't really ship any other non-canon pairings.)

Angst (I do like writing this, however, I can't promise it will be good. I prefer happy endings but if you want to see a character suffer, I can do that.)

I may also add onto this list if I remember something else. I have only ever written the Underfell brothers, some of the Classic brothers, G!Sans, and the Bad Sans' including Nightmare, Horror, Dust, and Killer.

I'm interested in writing Cross, Dr. Baggs, Dream, Ink, Error, Fresh, the Swapfell brothers, the Mafiafell brothers, the Underswap brothers, Farmtale, or various other interpretations such as cryptids, sirens, or different settings like a Western.

Have any questions about something not listed here? Please shoot me a message!

I'm doing this for fun but I want you to enjoy the process as well. No promises how long these will take to write as I'm generally pretty busy. I will update this post as the requests come in and unless you don't want me to, I will be posting these requests on my AO3 as well as on here.

Here's to a fun year! Thank you for reading this far if you did! (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ

#raccoons drabbles #writing requests #masterlist #new masterlist #new pinned post

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storkmuffin · 1 month ago

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The surreal reality of being a South Korean woman with a nice life is reading articles like the below during the intermission of the Global Ballet Star Gala at Sejong Arts Center. N. Korean soldiers, who are both my enemy and my family, are dying by the thousands in the Russo-Ukrainian front of WW3 because they were sold for money by their government. They're my brothers and they would also shoot me right in the face on orders without a second's consideration. My mother lamented, How will they (the N. Korean gov't and its supporters) cope with the consequences of this evil? and I had to tell her, They know there won't be any consequences, not for them, and not their children. There never are.

Diary of a Dead North Korean Soldier Reveals Grisly Battlefield Tactics

The troops are exposed, green, loyal—and dying by the thousands in front-line combat against Ukraine

By Dasl Yoon in Seoul and Jane Lytvynenko in Kyiv, Ukraine

Updated Jan. 11, 2025 7:38 am ET (Wall Street Journal)

The crude stick-figure diagram, sketched in blue ink, details how North Korean soldiers deployed to support Russia in the Ukraine war should respond to the approach of a Ukrainian drone. One soldier—referred to as “bait” in the drawing—should stand still to lure the drone so that a pair of comrades can attempt to shoot it down.

The grisly tactics were divulged in a diary taken off a slain North Korean soldier on Dec. 21, with passages containing mundane details of life at the front, descriptions of combat tactics and expressions of love for North Korean leader Kim Jong Un, according to excerpts recently made public by Ukraine’s special-operations forces. Independent experts say the diary entries appear genuine, with penmanship, word choice and expressions of ideological fervor all common in North Korea.

The young soldier who penned the passage about the drone died in a firefight alongside two other compatriots, according to Ukraine’s special forces.

“Even at the cost of my life, I will carry out the Supreme Commander’s orders without hesitation,” reads one entry from the diary. “I will show the world the bravery and sacrifice of Kim Jong Un’s special forces.”

Notes left in the diary of North Korean soldier Jong Kyong Hong, who was killed fighting Ukrainian forces

Longing for my homeland, having left the warm embrace of my dear father and mother here on Russian land. I celebrate the birthday of my closest comrade Song Ji Myong.

If a UAV is spotted, gather in groups of three. One person must act as bait to lure the drone while the other two take aim and neutralize it with precision shooting. The bait must maintain a distance of 7 meters from the drone. The other two should prepare to shoot down the drone from a distance of 10–12 meters. When the bait stands still, the drone will stop and it can be shot down.

Even at the cost of my life, I will carry out the Supreme Commander’s orders without hesitation.

I will show the world the bravery and sacrifice of Kim Jong Un’s special forces.

The roughly 12,000 North Korean soldiers who arrived in Russia’s Kursk region last October were kept from the front lines for months, digging trenches and offering logistical support. Now they have been deployed into combat—and are being killed at a high rate as they fight another country’s war far away from home.

Neither Moscow nor Pyongyang has publicly confirmed the presence of North Korean soldiers in Russia, which came just months after the two countries signed a mutual defense pact in Pyongyang. Neither government responded to requests for comment.

Russia has deployed its own soldiers with little regard for their lives, sending waves of men to almost certain death to advance just yards, say Kyiv and Washington officials, as well as Ukrainian troops and captured Russian soldiers.

In their first weeks of combat, the North Korean soldiers have been deployed recklessly, according to Ukrainian special-forces drone footage and military experts. They cut across open fields on foot and without armored vehicles or artillery backup, their dark camouflage uniforms highly visible against the white snow. Their training and integration with Russian forces look inadequate.

Many North Koreans are refusing to be captured, opting to kill themselves first or being finished off by their own side when injured, according to Ukrainian officials. “Due to their ideological mindset and indoctrination, they simply lack the concept of surrendering,” said Col. Oleksandr Kindratenko, spokesman for Ukraine’s Special Operations Forces.

Some 4,000 North Koreans have died or been injured since last month, said Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky on Thursday. U.S. officials say more than 1,000 North Koreans died in the last week of December alone.

Zelensky said Saturday that Ukrainian forces had captured two injured North Korean soldiers in the Kursk region. He said they were being treated for their injuries and that Ukraine’s security service was questioning them.

The diary entries are likely motivated by North Korean military lore that celebrates the tale of a young hero from the 1950-53 Korean War. The soldier penned a letter expressing a willingness to give up his life for the motherland just moments before thrusting himself in front of an enemy machine gun.

“Letters expressing your loyalty to the regime are an attempt to leave a legacy that allows you to be glorified in case you die in battle,” said Ryu Seong-hyeon, a former North Korean soldier who defected in 2019.

‘Human waves’ tactics

The heavy North Korean losses come in Kursk, a region in southern Russia on the border with Ukraine. Kursk has been hotly contested ever since Ukraine seized roughly 100 Russian towns and villages there last summer. As the only Russian territory under Ukrainian control, Kursk is seen as a potential bargaining chip in any talks that would halt fighting.

Ukrainian incursion into Russia

Russia has taken back about half of the lost territory, according to the Institute for the Study of War, a Washington, D.C.-based think tank. But in recent days, Ukraine has kicked off a new counteroffensive in Kursk.

The early glimpses of the North Koreans in action depict them under duress, frightened or confused, according to a video compilation released by Ukraine’s military and verified by Storyful, which is owned by News Corp, the parent company of The Wall Street Journal.

In the compilation, clusters of North Korean troops cower in place or try to outrun Ukrainian drones chasing them. They often lack any cover as they run across fields between trenches.

About 30% of North Korea’s dispatched troops appear to have already been deployed for front-line fighting, with the rest undergoing training or waiting to be rotated in, according to Doo Jin-ho, a senior analyst at the Korea Institute for Defense Analyses in Seoul.

“The North Koreans are contributing so that the border isn’t breached and freeing up Russian soldiers to search for breakthroughs in other regions,” Doo said.

Zelensky has suggested that tens of thousands of North Korean soldiers could eventually be deployed to Russia. Last month, South Korea’s spy agency said it had spotted indications of a second deployment in the works.

‘Brainwashed North Korean’

Little was known about the North Koreans’ activities in Kursk until recently, when Ukraine first started sharing details of their fighting losses. Letters and notes have been found on various fallen troops. In the past several weeks, Ukraine’s special-operations unit has uploaded five handwritten diary entries that it says are from the same North Korean soldier, which include the stick-figure diagram.

The author of the diary is named Jong Kyong Hong, according to the passport Ukrainian officials found. He and two fellow troops were killed in a shootout on Dec. 21 with Ukraine’s special-operations forces near the village of Pogrebki in the southwest tip of Kursk. They were also found with fake identification documents.

DNA tests by Ukrainian authorities on the three soldiers suggested they had East Asian origins—Chinese, Korean or Japanese, according to Kindratenko, the Ukrainian military spokesman.

The phrasing also appeared authentic. For instance, in describing the drone strike, the diary used the word “so-myol” as a translation for “destroy.” In South Korea, “so-myol” describes the extinction of an animal species.

On Dec. 9, Jong jotted down a celebration of a friend’s birthday, whom he called “my closest comrade.” He wrote that he longed for his homeland, having “left the warm embrace of my dear father and mother.”

In the description of the drone tactics—which was undated—Jong wrote that the soldier acting as a lure should maintain a distance of about 7 meters, or 23 feet, from the drone. Soldiers under artillery fire should run toward a previously hit location, since the odds of the same spot getting hit twice is minimal.

Elsewhere, Jong listed some ideological tenets of the Kim regime. He says he grew up in the “benevolent embrace” of the country’s ruling Workers’ Party and that his mission as a soldier is to protect Kim. He wrote that he needed to atone for unspecified sins of the past.

“The contents of the diary are typical of a brainwashed North Korean soldier,” said Bang Jong-kwan, a former South Korean army major general.

In a different entry, Jong had penned the words from a speech that Kim gave to battalion commanders last November in Pyongyang. That speech may have been conveyed to front-line troops by the North Korean commanders, experts say.

Soldiers like Jong are required to memorize Kim’s speeches word by word. The diary passage quotes Kim’s goal for the North Korean army of “engaging in battle immediately” after receiving an order.

Soobin Kim contributed to this article.

Write to Dasl Yoon at [email protected]

Appeared in the January 13, 2025, print edition as 'North Korean Diary Shows Ukraine Horror'.Hide Conversation (1052)

#north korea #north koreans in ukraine #south korea #i am a diarist too #i would do this too if i had to be at the front #i would have to record it

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