#imouto is a precious child who needs to be cared for

[lapismaid]

I spent all day playing incest lifesim rpg and grooming/fucking my sister

truly, this must be what heaven is like every day

[ythmir-writes]

onee-sama, If you could, will you write about the midcin suitors and their swords, pretty please? :) I've been seeing plenty of amazing weapons on my dash and I thought of you hehe. Stay safe and stay healthy too!

a/n: imouto – you are asking me??? to write about swords?? Ahaha! Ahahahahaahahh –  yes

do i love weapons? yes. have i been heavily influenced by growing up and seeing amazing weapons in games and anime? absolutely. did i research this? somewhat. do i have absolutely any idea how to describe swords in a fantastical way? i tried. 

any discrepancies as to timeline, i ask you dearest reader to indulge. the term sword is a broad term used to refer to all bladed weapons which are longer than knives. To properly describe a sword, one must look at the historical epoch, the region, and the intended use. Its precise definition thus may appropriately vary.

With all that done, I think we can begin.

Midnight Cinderella Suitors and the Swords they chose (or think they did)

Alyn Crawford has carried many swords to battle, but he favors a double-edged pallasch, grooved and ridged on both faces. It is a practical thing, resilient and heavy in his hands, bare of any decorations save his own Captain’s crest – the snarling mouth of a long-eared dog – carved on the knuckle guard, and twin droplets of rubies at the base of the blade.

Alyn received the sword as a gift from the Wysterian King on the eve of his acceptance into the Royal Guard select. Alyn remembers there had been no moon that night. He does not remember if the King had ever looked so sorrowful.

He carries it with him wherever he goes, sheathed, polished, and sharp, as a knight’s weapon is expected to be, ready to be drawn and used at a moment’s notice. The gleam of the silver blade does not give away its age, how many battles it has triumphed through, how much blood has been cleaned from it.

Alyn has named his sword Excidium, and tries very hard not to roar alongside it during war.

Leo Crawford similarly favors the practical and resilient sword, and carries an estoc. Much like his twin’s, Leo’s sword is bare of any decoration, save for red flames engraved and crisscrossing on the dull grey blade, from base to tip, and the Crawford crest of a bird in flight drawn on the leather wrapped around the hilt.

But unlike his twin, Leo prefers to leave space for some ingenuity. At the center of the blade is a smooth and edgeless portion that allows him to grip the weapon with his other hand to deliver a more powerful blow, or a more poignant point, thrusting and piercing into armor with relative ease and the quiet simmering rage he is careful to never display.

Leo has taken care of this sword since he was twelve. A relic, he would describe it, if he was flustered; a nightmare, if he was about to be damned. He carries it with him when he takes long and winding walks, whenever he visits the Crawford estate, and on days he thinks it would rain.

Leo will never say he has named it Ignis, after the embers stretched out in the sky on the night he had dug it from their parents’ grave. Nor will he ever say that whenever he wields it, he could, ever so faintly, hear their voices whispering to him again.

Louis Howard has never been one to participate in any degree of violence but a Duke must carry a sword, if not for practical purposes then at least, something decorative. It took a long time for Louis to truly choose a sword – until it was too little, too late.

The walloon he carries with him was not chosen so much as the only thing back then nearest to him that he could grip with his one functioning hand, to try to defend the one person he loved the most. And from then on, he had turned to it over and over again.

It is a beautiful thing, with a polished iron guard that had punched holes in the shape of flowers, and a blade the color of the sky that glowed whenever Louis held it, and sang whenever it cut through air. Louis tries not to relish how the sword is like an extension of his arm now, that he has never been seen without it, and that he sometimes stares at it transfixed through the night.

Louis has named his sword Agonist. But Louis really need not struggle, need not resist. He only need carry it with him always – or risk losing a loved one again.

Giles Christophe’s affinity with swords had always been in his blood, in his name, in his soul – so when he had been unceremoniously disinherited by his family without having been bequeathed a weapon, Giles threw everything he had into making his own.

His schiavona is an intricate thing. Forged to be slightly lighter than most to suit his needs, and with a sharper double-edged blade and pointier tip to make up for what he does not have. The guard is a dizzying and complex black metal work in the shape of an unfurled wing, formed by thin strips bending and curving around the hilt and enclosing most of his hand. One might even notice the distinctly shaped cat’s-head pommel – if they were lucky enough to get a close look. But who can really say?

Giles rarely carries his sword with him as his duties as Chamberlain require only his wit as a weapon. Many people are thankful for this, because it never bode well for anyone when Giles appears wielding his stark black blade.

Giles has named his sword Vindicta. He longs for the day when he could finally carry it without shame. He has not had enough of its screaming.

Sid carries a claymore, a daunting thing, with a long, straight, and broad double-edged blade, serrated at the tip, that would have made anyone else look gangly while wielding it. The angled guard made the hilt take the shape of a cross, and it is encrusted with multiple sapphires on both ends which glinted like the All-Seeing Eyes of old.

But do not mention this as Sid has never been one for superstition. The sapphires were there as pawn pieces, he would maintain, not because he they had been the first thing that caught his attention when he won them in a card game, not because he had always been able to predict a blow coming from behind. Not because, and this he would adamantly insist, the Eyes help him see.

Sid never walks the streets without his sword and makes a point to brandish it whenever conducting his business. Sheathed, if he was feeling charitable; through a body part, if not. A dark blue weapon that seemed to coax even the most unwilling tongues to speak.

Sid has named his sword Attestation. It would be best to never ask him why he keeps telling you the sword knows when you lie.

Rayvis Harneit carries a sashka, the curved, narrow blade and guardless hilt an ideal weapon for the streets the Nightwatch patrols. It is a striking thing, the blade unnaturally white like bone, and was carved with fangs on both edges, making it look as if it were serrated. Rayvis is careful not to touch them – too many have bled even when hit with the blunt end.

The scabbard that holds the sword is equally striking, gray painted wood that ended in a wolf’s snarling mouth. It would have been less unnerving if not for the stubborn stains in the shape of a hand around it.

Rayvis carries his sword only during his patrols as it is the last thing he received from his parents before their untimely end. A memento precious and useful. He hopes it would not be the last thing he is holding when he meets his own death.

Rayvis has named his sword Venari. He can feel its hunger grow with every strike.

Byron Wagner’s sword is a katzbalger, with an owl distinctly etched on its pommel. It is a mysterious thing, with a double-edged blade so black it seemed to have been sculpted from ink. It would not have been noticeable in the dark if not for the dozens of tiny gemstones peppered into the blade that sparkled at the barest hint of moonlight. It is no exaggeration to say that whenever Byron took his blade, it looked as if he wielded the night in his hands.

He received the sword from his father the moment he learned to speak. A treasure, surely, and the only gift he had received from the mad king that did not outright give him grief.

Byron carries his sword in the same way as the Steiner kings have done before him: sheathed in an even darker scabbard carved with ancient, looping Steiner symbols for eternal rule; always with him even in his sleep; and held as close as possible to his person, as to replace his heart.

Byron has named his sword Kaalam, and hopes to make a world where he does not always have to turn to it to make people understand.

 Albert Burckhardt’s zweihänder is a heavy thing. It stands up to his chin, with a double-edged blade and a large diamond shaped onyx where the hilt began. The hilt, in turn, is cruciform, brown on black and brown, and had just enough space for Albert’s two hands – not that Albert needed both to lift the giant of a sword – but everyone else’s seem to be an ill-fit, their grip not quite right, always slipping, always grasping it wrong, or unable to carry its full weight.

The sword is a family treasure, passed down the Burckhardt line to the child who was to truly serve the Steiner King. Albert remembers his mother had confessed to him that it was not Albert accepting the sword. It was him who was had been accepted. No one else could hold it without cutting themselves on the blade.

Albert carries the sword at his back with a special double leather sheath, its straps running across Albert’s chest to secure the heavy sword behind him. Sometimes, it almost feels as if it were giving him a tender embrace.

Albert has named his sword Ardent, like all the wishes he does not have the courage to say.

 Nico Meier does not look as if he knows how to wield a sword, and this grossly inaccurate impression has always worked to his advantage. The rapier he keeps at his hip only added to his veneer as an attendant, looking more decorative than useful. His sword had a golden hilt and a scabbard with gold rings at the bottom, both intricately carved with falling petals. The hand guard, though only two strips of curved metal, was masterfully done and inlaid with small tourmalines.

The rest of the sword was deadly – Nico makes sure of it. He keeps the point finely polished to prick at the slightest touch, and the edges of the slender blade sharp. What looked like a strictly piercing weapon could inflict a thousand cuts. Like its master, it is a misleading thing, and the story of where he came to own it changes every time he tells it.

Nico carries his sword as he would any delicate china, lightly, playfully, and with a certain flair, able to switch from his right to his left and back again with relative ease. The duality is second nature and one must do their best to keep up, or perish.

Nico has named his sword Constante, and ironically is the only true thing he believes in in this world.

 Robert Branche would always prefer holding his paintbrushes over a weapon, even to save his own life, but he does own an old schweizersabel, its knuckle guard still intact despite the wars Robert had tried to bury it in.

The sword’s blade is long and curved without compromising its sharp edge. And though it is a slightly dented thing, its re-curved quilliones scratched in every place, it has never lost a speck of its elegance. The green hilt still had its sheen as if in its prime, the knuckle guard still glinted despite several decades of neglect, and at an angle the carved runes on the blade would even seemingly shine, as if holding in some mysterious power, as if proud that despite all of Robert’s efforts, the sword remains by his side. Robert can read them. He will never translate it out loud.

It is hard for Robert to shake off old habits – the sword will never let him – so he continues to carry it wherever he might go, even for running simple errands for his home or his art. His grip would be iron-tight, keeping it firmly in its scabbard. And though it had been lifetimes since he had used it last, he knows he can never be too careful with a sword untouched by time.

Robert has never named his sword. He is afraid of its memories.

[coruscorp-blog]

DEAR, MS. ( MITSUE ONISHI )

We are pleased to have you back for another year as an UPPER SECOND YEAR STUDENT at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We sincerely hope your classmates in RAVENCLAW treat you well.

sapporo, hokkaido. 1988. odori park is where onishi rikizou and matsumura kanon meet under the fleeting flowers of spring. two people lost to the heart of a work culture that demands constant overtime and obeying of seniors, their minds only know of exhaustion. one silently craves death, telling nobody of their thoughts. if the two of them had not met, forced to share a bench to eat their respective lunches, then perhaps this story would come to end in a tragedy.

conversation strikes solace. then a friendship blossoms while the brief sakura wilts above them. among the emerald and turquoise of summer, rikizou decides to ask kanon out on a date. the cicadas almost drown his voice out, but she hears. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile that shone so beautifully in his life. she can’t wait to offer him many more, scattered throughout the future.

kyoto, honshu. 1998. “nee-san, nee-san!” there is a loud thump of a body hitting the floor, but the excited boy in question does not feel the pain from the soft tatami. he scrabbles over to a nearby coffee table, to slap his sister’s arms. “okan and otoun are coming back! i see them right out the window!”

“amato what did i say about keeping calm?” his sister hisses without much malice for she too is excited, leaving the table to head to the door. it only takes a few seconds for the door to unlock and there enter two proud parents. kanon is cradling a precious bundle against her chest.

“amato. yuika. come to meet your imouto mitsue.”

kyoto, honshu. 2003. “mitsue, what did i say about climbing the gingko tree?”

“but nee-san i can’t think as well when i’m on the ground.”

“are you a bird? why do you need to be high up to think better?”

“maybe it’s the sky…” the little girl reaches her hand out towards the broad blue carefully. "because when i look at the sky it spreads out infinitely and it makes me realize how much i don’t know…but also how much space my mind probably has. like the sky.“

“is that what a five-year-old should be saying? maybe amato was being serious when he said you’re smarter than him,” there is a giggle, a brush of leaves against branches as a familiar figure sits beside her to stare off into the distance. but unlike her younger sister, yuika is unable to see the same colors and thoughts.

but though she won’t tell mitsue beyond a fond stroke of the younger girl’s hair, yuika knows that she doesn’t want to live the same life. a life of obsessing over details, solving riddles and theorizing things that extend even beyond a simple explanation of imagination.

kyoto, honshu. 2004. “mitsue is what? a witch?” kanon pulls her daughter closer to her on the couch, but the little girl is not paying attention to her mother’s movements. she’s focused on the sudoku book in her laps, but she can hear distress. she can also hear the stranger’s words.

there’s some things about magic which now explains to the little girl why she’s often been able to stare at something long enough for it to float. or the few times that she’s been angry at her older siblings she’s made the ceramic on the dining table crack much to her entire family’s further displeasure.

weird things happening. emotions correlating to power. there’s an answer to it all. there’s always an answer to things, it just depends how easily everything can be reached. the stranger does’t take long to convince kanon and rikizou of their daughter’s behaviors and soon she is sent off every morning on umi tsubame to an unknown island with unknown people.

unknown, but they are just like her somehow.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2008. “mitsu! what book have you lost your nose in this time? put it down! we’re going to be late to the entrance ceremony.”

“hai, hai, i’m coming!” mitsue sighs but she’s not actually annoyed by her friends calling for her, tucking away the milky way road by miyazawa kenji into her gold colored robe she runs after her them. opening ceremonies are nothing new, but this will be the first time she attended mahoutokoro as a boarding school and not something simply for the day.

it’s the first time she’ll be away from her parents and her two older siblings. it was the first time she saw amato cry too when he hugged her goodbye, but the girl had promised him when he handed her his stack of mangas that she’ll read them all and message him back about it before they meet again over christmas holidays. there was no way she wouldn’t go back and risk missing her mother’s osechi during the new years.

“are you excited to live here mitsu?”

“stuck on an island with you? i don’t think so,” she earns a sharp jab in the ribs by a rough elbow but the laughter in the air as the flock enters the building is enough to explain everything about them all.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2014. “takeru you’ll get water all over your bangs.”

the boy leaning over the water foutain looks up at her with a goofy lopsided grin, mischief glimmering in his eyes. she sighs at his response, reaching into her robes to pull out a simple red hair-clip. her fingers are careful when they brush aside wet bangs, clipping the stray strands into place with a satisfied smile.

“is this the school idol onishi mitsue that i know? the famous mahoutokoro quidditch manager being a lot more approachable than rumors say and even doing a few things beyond playing tactician? shocking.”

“what are you saying? are you an idiot,” mitsue scoffs at takeru but she doesn’t break eye contact from the warm familiar brown hues that she’s come to call a piece of her home. comfortable silence fills the space between the two of them, then it too is pushed out of the way as he leans in to close the distance between the two of them. her eyes close. briefly, a sensation like honey floods her entirety for eternity. but eternity is always so painfully short.

“hmmm, i wonder? what am i saying to my girlfriend?”

“girlfriend,” mitsue tilts her head to the side playfully. “quidditch captain, i wasn’t aware that someone like you could actually get a girlfriend?”

she screeches when cold water hits her robes but the noise dissolves into a fit of giggles under the sunny warmth.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara 2017. “onishi-san, as you are the valedictorian of your year and someone who holds an excellent extracurricular record, i would highly recommend you to attend the new program at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry,” there is a short but loud snap of a folder snapping to a close. mitsue sits in her gold, knees pressed together and hand on her lap. maple irises are reading the headmaster’s every expression.

hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. another transition to another world.

“kouchou sensei, i’m honored you believe that. but are you positive about this? it’s halfway across the world and i have never stepped one foot outside of japan. i may know english, but i know nothing about the people there. the culture. i don’t think i’m suited for it, i would be so lost.”

“remember when we first met?” there is a warm hand on her shoulder, offering her a comforting squeeze, “i told you that i wanted you to become like the sakura trees and blossom beautifully. but you told me you didn’t want to live such a short fleeting life. that as someone born to a regular family, you wanted to become a tanpopo. one that can survive anyplace anywhere. people may call you a weed, but they would also be the ones holding hands with the wind to spread the seed of your legacy. that was almost ten  years ago when you told me this mitsue. you wre still a child when you said such profound words. now tell me, where is this dandelion now?”

a pause, there is a small shuffling noise that comes from her aureate robes as she finally stands up from the couch to bow down to the senior.

“preparing for a journey across water and land to scotland.”

highlands of scotland. 2017. i can already tell, you’re a smart one. but i have one question for you, do you like quidditch?

“no, i’ve never been athletic. sweating’s gross and flying’s not as fun on a broomstick.”

interesting, but when i look into your memories i see a lot of the sky.

“when i’m high up, i think better. i tell myself the sky is endless and that the only part stopping me is the horizon itself. same goes for the human mind. we’re stopping ourselves.”

the sorting hat murmurs something she can’t quite catch then it roars into the great hall.

RAVENCLAW.