#karaii fic

[bang-bang-gang]

public sex kinkmeme fill to go with isiah's mexico holiday vlog. happy belated mexico independence day, have some… daisiah? dannyzay? anyway—don't do drugs, thanks! or do, just don't do your research through smut fics on ao3! <3

[zarinthelwrites]

do you have any fave fanfic recs?

just.... in general? let me think of a couple

another name for a companion by simkjrs. genshin impact alhaitham & kaveh

Kabu series by tozette. itachi in a slow life setting

Honed by melanne. samuel vimes & vetinari

Five (or, a lot can change in a year) by karaii. long and well drawn comic series following kakashi during the year before sakumo dies

bring the forgotten dawn by poisedwalrus. Percy Jackson time travel

that certain calmness by grainjew. luffy & sanji post whole cake island

Through the Looking Glass by Luki. my next life as a villainess fic where game! gerald and keith are swapped with their isekai selves

quiet like a fight by shanatical. rachel gardner becomes a bnha student

Hope on a Distant Mountain by Handalion. this guys out there writing a new danganronpa game

Generation Cross by Luki. sawada tsunayoshi time travel with a fun twist

Wee Doctor by americanjedi. bbc sherlock time travel with many twists

[maiikawriter]

KakaRin Polyamory Angst Fics:

Title (rating)(***if incomplete)

ONESHOT:

the door is open, but the toll is still unpaid by mutemelody (w/Obito) (T)

How hot must bones become to char by Leu (Karaii) (w/Obito) (T)

our bodies, possessed by light by whopaintsthelion (Cerberussyndrome) (w/Obito) (M)

Wildflowers by Amikotsu (w/Obito) (M)

MULTICHAP:

A Mirror, in Two Parts by Loudest_Voice (w/Obito) (T)

Before the Morning Comes by myadamantiumheart (w/Obito) (E)***

The Incidents by LesbianOzoneLizard (w/Obito) (E)***

Pity the night the stars lose their shine by Melise (w/Obito) (T)***

BACK TO KAKARIN MASTERLIST

[unearthlyfromage]

Is your Stan looking for approval or praise from reputable personalities? I mean, AU Karaii Stan and Ford had terrible childhoods, so for Piraña Bill was like "figure of dad, mom", friend, boss, god. Is there this detail in your idea?

And what kind of childhood did your twins have?

That will be answered in the fic! Though to put it in vagues to keep interest going, it wasn't good. The eye he hides has always been a little.. wrong. And his Ford is different. Very different.

[akamikazae]

What is your favorite Naruto fic that you've written, and what is your favorite Naruto fic that you've read? ❤

Howdy friend !! 🥰 I think my favorite thats posted is probably ‘Love me Mercilessly’ tho there are some things I wish I’d done differently in the beginning, since it was the first fic I shared Other wise my 17th cent Japan wip  

Gahh I haven’t had time to read in so long ! 😅 And I feel like my mind has gone blank and I instantly forgot every single fic I’ve ever read. I am def missing some but here’s a few —in no particular order —since I couldn’t pick just one  :)

Five (or a lot can change in a year) @ /Karaii Helping hands by @ /lemony-snickers Take me out to Neverland @ /blackkatt To Answer the Call @/f4nf4n A Night in Kiri w the Hound @/butter_peanut The Night Bird’s Plea @/Pinkrelish Convergence @/Blacknoise We looked like giants @ /kikuneesama Eleven Months @ /Amikotsu (heheh) thank you much for the ask !!! <33

[ahkaraii]

el hubiera no existe (disco elysium fic, 2000 words)

cw: cops being bastards (ACAB), graphic violence, character death, alcohol abuse; harry is in his late 20's here

--

It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

“Coach?” The armed man suddenly appears child-like; his ugly sneer turned juvenile from frank disbelief. “You became a fuckin’ narc, man?”

Oh, God. It’s one of his kids. One of his gym rats. Think, Harry! What the fuck was his name!

“You know this A-hole?” mutters Sergeant McCoy around a cigar. His finger, notably, does not leave the trigger.

“Vargas,” you gasp as it comes to you. Pepe Vargas, alias La Verga, excellent at weight lifting but god-awful at sprinting. You’d successfully conned him into doing a stint at shot put by telling him to imagine it was his momma’s head he was flinging, and he’d scored second place at Le Petit Couron– you’d shed a manly tear in solidarity and tried to cheer him up passing around a bottle of Pilsner, explaining the pitfalls of counterfactual thinking while he sneered this very same sneer at you–

“Wow, Doobie,” Vargas says coolly, as his pilfered 9mm pistol gently turns in your direction. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Put your gun down before I put you down,” barks McCoy, and you have the overwhelming urge to yell DON’T! but your vocal cords are paralysed, your legs shaking. This is your kid, Du Bois. This is one of your fucking kids!

“Nah, I know how this ends,” Vargas says, and McCoy is tensing beside you, and you have to do something, you have to fucking do something!

“Do you remember–” you pant, like you don’t have enough breath, “–do you remember Le Petit Couron?”

“He isn’t gonna listen to reason,” McCoy says coldly, but you plow over him because fuck you, Sergeant Triggerfinger–

“That shot you made then–” you say, and you slowly put down your gun, because you can’t point this manmade horror at a boy you’d known for two fucking years, “–the one that got you second place?”

“Fuck you,” Vargas says.

“We talked about counterfactual thinking, and you said something to the effect of– ‘what-ifs don’t exist, Coach.’”

Vargas’ hands are shaking, minutely. “Shut the fuck up, you chota piece of shit.”

“You were right, kid,” you say, because back then you’d waxed about the Pale and retrograde entroponetics and you’d lost him, but you sure as hell aren’t gonna lose him now, “We can’t change the past. But we can change–”

A loud sound explodes in your ear, and for a second you’re stunned by the pain of it– the deafness that follows– have you been shot?!

No–

It’s Vargas that has fallen, and McCoy has pounced on him like a rabid dog.

Vargas is screaming, McCoy is striking him, and blood is pooling below them, and you’re standing there like the idiot you are, in shock, the world roaring back to life–

“And stay down, you Puta Madre piece of shit,” McCoy says, barely out of breath. “Du Bois, radio this in, will ya? A-Wing’s gonna cream themselves over this.”

“What,” you warble.

“Fuck’s sake, rookie,” McCoy says, and snaps his fingers at you. “Call. This. In! D'you want Verguitas here to bleed out, huh? We need him alive!”

But you shot him, you want to say, you’re the one who bashed his head in after– six times with a closed fist, your brain says helpfully, probably shattered the kid’s temporal bone if the ear-bleeding’s any indication– and yet your legs are dutifully taking you back to the ramshackle LUM '22, to the radio, and your hands are dialling from muscle memory alone, static resolving–

–to form Pepe Vargas’ tear-stained face; to his shaky, watery sneer; to him saying, ’El hubiera no existe, Profe’–

When you come back to yourself, Jules Pidieu is calmly taking your call, coaxing you to breathe, Officer, do you need backup? Over.

“Yes,” you say, and then course-correct, “No. I mean. Man down. Suspect down, I mean. Fuck. Sargeant McCoy and I are fine, it’s the kid’s that’s down. Over.”

“10-9, Message unclear, repeat message please, sir.”

Your scrambled up brain is screaming in twenty odd directions, so you slam your fist against the car to wake yourself up. You dent the car and probably dent a metacarpal in the process, but the pain aligns your neurons long enough for you to fucking focus.

“I’m requesting an ambulance to the corner of DeMettrie and Reunion for young male who sustained a GSW while resisting arrest. Over.”

“10-4, Officer; Requesting an ambulance to your location. ETA 12 minutes. Anything else, sir? Over.”

You glance over at your superior officer, part of you wanting someone to tell you what to do and the other needing to make sure the kid isn’t dead– and of course John fucking McCoy is perched on top of Vargas like he’s a giraffe-poacher out in the Valley of the Dogs–

“A-Wing, 'Doobie’ dipshit,” McCoy says, waggling his cigar at you. “Tell Oldboy to tell Berdyayeva we’ve got ourselves a new peone.”

A wave of pure, unadulterated loathing shoots through you. You’ve never wanted someone dead like you want McCoy dead, at this very moment.

“Sergeant John McCoy wants to inform Lieutenant Berdyayeva that the kid he shot may become A-Wing’s peone,” you say coldly, “if he doesn’t fucking bleed out first, or end up braindead from repetitive head trauma. Over.”

“Real cute, Du Bois,” McCoy sneers, and flips up a blood-stained middle finger. You want to take his hand and break it in five places.

“10-4, sir, I will 10-22 the Lieutenant on your, ah, proposal. Anything else, sirs…?”

You automatically thank Jules and hang up. Your hands are shaking. “Get off of him,” you hear yourself say from afar. “You’re hurting him.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo,” McCoy says, but swiftly gets to his feet when you approach him. “Jeeze-louise, calm down! You’re such a bleeding heart, DB. He had a fucking gun pointed at you!”

“I could have talked him down, asshole,” you insist, and kneel down beside the kid– he’s still breathing, thank Dolores Dei-- but wetly, his eyes roaming and getting glassy– “Fuck– Pepe? You with me?” You can see McCoy’s gunshot got him in the gut, and it’s bleeding pretty fiercely. “Fuck,” you repeat, and cover the wound with your hand. “Fuck, if you kill him–”

“He killed himself,” McCoy says from somewhere around you. “Choosing to point a gun at a cop. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you spit, “shut the fuck up, you child-killing piece of shit–”

“That man is no child,” McCoy says coldly. “He’s a gun-wielding drug dealer, who was coordinating the manufacture and distribution of adulterated Hunch–”

Hunch, a synthetic opiate with a high lasting a couple of seconds due to its rapid first-pass metabolism–

“Does he have any on him?” you interrupt. “Maybe it’ll help him–”

“I can see why he called you Doobie, now,” McCoy drawls. “Maybe you’re the peone, huh?”

A hysterical laugh comes out of you. “Yeah, that’s me, Coach Doobie graduating Puta Madre peones–” then your voice distorts, “–now stop fucking around and get him some goddamn Nosaphed, McCoy!”

“Coppo loco,” mutters someone that sounds very much like–

“Vargas!” Your head swivels back down. “Vargas, kid, god–”

“Fffuck you,” the kid slurs, though he doesn’t really look kid-like anymore, face bashed all to hell and blood everywhere. “Fffuck…”

“Keep talking, kid,” you pray. “Keep talking– d'you remember that day when you threw a twenty meter–”

–you can see it now; you can hear it– everyone cheering– Vargas’ disbelief turning into a huge, dimple-popping smile, saying ’Viste eso, jefe?!’–

“I saw it, I saw it–” you’re saying, “You were magnificent, that day–”

“Pinche… joto...” are the kids’ last words, because after that, his every breath starts to turn rattling, horridly wet, gasping, and he’s choking, and you’re choking– what do you do?! First aid, dumbass!– Airway? Obstructed by blood– Breathing? stopping– Circulation– failing– Pulse is fluttering and fucking gone, Coach–

So you start chest compressions, five centimeters deep like you were taught– you hysterically hum an old Disco classic to maintain the rhythm of a hundred beats per minute– and you do so relentlessly, even when you hear a crack, even when you feel the bones go pliant underneath you–

Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, your brain sings on loop, you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive–

You break the boy’s sternum in three places giving him CPR, and later McCoy will tell you (half-admiringly) that you did so for ten minutes, not stopping until he had to forcefully pull you off so the paramedics could take him off your hands. He accepts the first punch you give him without complaint, but punches you right back after you follow through– to the point that you’re both sporting nasty shiners by the time you get back to the Precinct, just in time to hear the news: that despite your best efforts, Pepe 'La Verga’ Vargas is dead on arrival.

It’s your first kill. You insist on it, actually: double-down on it when John 'the Archetype’ McCoy tries to claim it– because the fucker would take it as a badge of pride, and you’re taking it as an oath to never let it be repeated again. He has the gall to laugh at you for it, but backs down with a lazy two armed surrender when you turn up the heat. He invites you for a drink, after, “'Cause you owe me for the black eye, jackass”, and you’re so tired and worn down and exhausted that you can’t find it within yourself to say no.

The rest of the evening turns sour, hazy, facilitated by a steady stream of Semenine grain spirit– “Best swill tastes of blood sugar,” McCoy says, and, for once, placidly lets you ramble about the war crimes committed on the sugarcane fields of Banaital– a concession, you think bitterly, for the goddamn rookie cop crying a river over a dead Mesquito– it all blurs– your words, McCoy’s coy smile, the alcohol– you think you might remember McCoy’s hand stroking your hair out of your face as you hurl, saying, “You’re a real bleeding heart, DB”, but that might also just have been the kindness of your brain, making shit up after the fact– a beautiful what-if that never existed, also known as fucking counterfactual thinking, Coach–

–and so it goes.

By the time anything makes sense anymore, you’re laying horizontal on something soft and the world is spinning lazily. You’ve lost time, you think drowsily. Where are you? It smells powerfully of puke and piss– your oldest friends. But something else layers atop of that, floating like a dainty raft in a sea of shit. Something warm, and sweet…

“Dora?” you croak, hoarsely.

The soft thing you’re laying on shifts, and grows arms– pale white arms that encircle your aching head like a flower crown, fingers like thorns.

“Hey, baby,” Dora whispers. “You awake now?”

You bury your head into those arms. “No,” you warble. “’M still sleeping.”

“Okay,” she says softly, and pets your head just as softly. The strands of your hair are brittle and matted with god-knows what, but she’s still carding her beautiful fingers through it, as lovingly as she is able. “Sweet dreams, Suzerain.”

Your dreams are apricot-sticky, mind like molasses. Vargas’ sneer morphs into McCoy’s smirk morphs into Dora’s soft, sad smile, and their voices overlap like the demons in your head, like the crowd in Le Petit Couron Stadium, loud, louder, till you don’t know if they’re screaming from joy or from pain, and it blends and blends and blends until it’s everything all at once, like it felt when you went spelunking into the catacombs of Filippe the Opulent and stumbled upon an underground spring of Pale, and your baby brain experienced Porch Collapse for the first time, six year old mind fit to bursting from the whispers of the long dead– the future dead– all as one, in that singular moment– saying–

It was bound to happen, one day.

You wake up some time later choking on your own spit, on your own vomit, which you promptly upchuck to the side in a well-practiced motion. Oxygen comes rushing in like Dolores Dei herself has kissed it back into you, and you're gasping, heaving self is finally, finally awake.

And Pepe Vargas is very much still dead.

Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, you miserable kid-killer cop. One down, how many more to go?

[drdiabolical]

Fanfics From Reddit - Politics

I made an enquiry on r/narutofanfiction asking for political fics. These were the recommendations.

u/liristorm

Compass of thy Soul by Umei no Mai

Direct thee to Peace by Umei no Mai

The Medic-Nin’s Guide to Casual Revolution by spideywhiteys

These are all SIs so far which I do not read but I will give them a look.

u/radical-dreamer-57

Kazua Densetu by ProfessorPalmarosa

Appears to be Post-Hashirama’s death which isn’t precisely what I wanted (I’m gathering recommendations so that I can look into other people’s takes on shinobi politics before I write my own Minato-Centric political fic) but I did say I wouldn’t mind them. 

u/Jatnight

The Scorned Son by Calanor

The first user to give me their own thoughts: “It's on hiatus, though, but I found the inner work of the village's politics very interesting. It's not focused on Naruto, but it's on that timeline, dealing with what having a spy so ingrained in their midst that they would be an academy teacher(Mizuki) really implies and goes from there.(Also interesting to see the elders being portrayed like real people.)”

I think I’m looking forward to reading this one the most.

u/ertzer

Great Lakes & Expectations (previously pull down your dreams) by Electrasev5n

Vapors by Electrasev5n

Clarity by Electrasev5n

More SI and OC. This user also gave a comment: “This has a bit of a slow start with the OC not knowing japanese. It might be a bit off-putting to some but once she's established in Konoha it really takes a hella interesting spin on the political climate in Konoha with an intricate exploration of shinobi and civilian life. And, I mean, it's Electrasev5n. They know how to spin an intricate plot and the devil is in the detail.Also the sequel to Vapors that they have is also pretty politically geared but more in the focus of village politics vs the rest of the world.”

u/bibliomaniac15

Mythos of a Shepherd by Swiss Army Knife

Vainglory by kzusu

Uneasy Lies the Head by Hiiraeth

Five (or, a lot can change in a year) by Karaii

The Girl From Whirlpool by SilverShine

These are more what I was after, I think. Five is a web comic as well which is interesting.  

u/Lightbringer34

Redemption in a Worthy World by Lightbringer34

It’s a self recc and the user was a little self deprecating but it’s a time travel I haven’t read yet, looking forward to reading it

[bang-bang-gang]

Hi! Another prompt (because the hangmox snippet got me smjshhshshxhjdhsSPEECHLESS): 15. noncon, Hangman/Swerve

it is 45 minutes past midnight for me so. its day 15. noncon hangman/swerve with a nice little dead dove warning stapled onto it! hangman is. evil. in this!

initially this started as 1 of 2 parts where in the sequel swerve takes his revenge post-wrestledream but with the way the fic turned out, that part felt very redundant. still rotating some kind of sequel in my brain though!

[several-spoons]

~~Does it have to be from AO3? Because there’s some real gems on Livejournal. (And ff.net, I guess).~~

::scans the oldest few pages of Trigun fics on AO3::

One of my favorite Legato headcanons: Hunger by rabbitprint.

A cute worldbuilding/postcanon slice of life piece/the one acceptable Wolfwood reincarnation fic: A Little Piece of Paradise by XMagicalX or Xparrot

Two Wolfwood & Livio focused fics ‘cause I didn’t feel like choosing and they’re both good:

Three Rounds in the Chamber by Catwooman (”Wolfwood lives” AU where the writer alternates between scenes in the past and present, and the scene where Wolfwood wakes up and finds himself in an adult body all of a sudden is wonderfully horrifying.)

Men Like Us by Leu (Karaii) (Follows and expands on manga canon. Wolfwood’s narrating voice is spot on). 

Below the cut: NSFW.

Self-Inflicted by Angsty_McGoth (Doctor_Cyance). Easily one of my top 3 pwp’s, read more times than I’d like to admit, because I’m a slut for sexual tension.

Fic Back Friday

Make a post recommending a fic you love from at least a year ago. Dust off the archives, dig through your AO3 history and share those old fics with newer fans who might not have seen them - and the fans who’ve been around forever and might want to revisit an old fave.

Reblog art, edits, and gifsets from seasons past. Dig out those hold headcanon and meta posts and bring them back. What were the popular fan theories? What was everyone writing fic about 2 years ago? Five? Go comment on an old fanvid that got you right in the feels. Queue up that OTP playlist and break out the tissues.

[madwriter223]

Greetings, Gravity Fandom

Does anyone know where I can find the oh so lovely Karaii? I know they removed their tumblr, but I was wondering if anyone knows where they are currently? Are they still in the fandom, but under a different name? Did they go lurker? Do they have an account someplace else?

I want to contact them because I've finished a fic, and one of the scenes was inspired by one of their lovely comics (I go permission before they left tumblr).

[ahkaraii]

Harry's clutching at your face, breath hot and grimy. "Is that absolutely all you can remember?!"

(cw: slurs, unhealthy workplace dynamics; 340 words)

"I said it was, didn't I?!" You can't meet his blasted out eyes, heart in your throat. "Personal fucking space, Shitkid--"

"You're lying, Vicky," Harry insists. "I know it, you know it--"

"I'm not fucking lying!" You try to claw him off but he's like a dog with a bone when he gets like this, and right now you're very much the chew toy. "Get off of me, connard-- you're on speed again aren't you--"

"Someone messed with my crime scene, Vic!" Harry yells, spittle flying. "I can see it! I can fucking taste it!"

"Va te faire foutre!" You scream back. "I didn't do jack shit!"

Harry's laugh is horrendous. "Of course you didn't! You never do jack shit!"

That honestly really does hurt, but fuck if you're gonna let him know it. "You're legitimately insane," you say with bile. "You cooked up-- kooky cop--"

Harry's jagged laughter stutters, and becomes something more genuine. "What the fuck," he cackles. "Did you just fucking-- alliterate--"

Oddly enough, this burns more than being told you're useless, but you've got him laughing like a human being now, so you roll with it, because that's what you do, Satellite Officer Vicquemare, you fucking roll with the punches-- "You liked that, huh, you souped up sous-merde-- sack of sad shit that you are, you find that funny? Fucked up, sweat stained, sewer-piss--"

Harry's giggling, he's legitimately fucking giggling, sweating and shaking and slowing down from his high, leaning harder into you, pushing his head into the crook of your neck-- to hear the vibration of your throat, you think, because you know him too fucking well-- and you keep talking, you keep insulting him, racking your head for something, anything, to keep him from flying off the handle again, and it works, it's working. Within a minute Harry's calmed down against your chest, and eventually you calm enough to quiet, too.

It's almost intimate.

"Now get the fuck off of me," you say again, and Harry does this time.

[ahkaraii]

roach & izzy drabble, 1187 words

A/N: sadistic torture-loving cook-doctor and masochistic toe-eating first mate??? HELLO???? it writes itself ahksjtahk

tbh i rly wanna write roach and izzy knifeplay one day but until then have this gen drabble. cw: playfully implied cannibalism

---

“Baddie gotcha good, eh?” Roach comments as he pokes and prods about Izzy’s gut wound, assessing the damage as fast as he can.

“Ffffuck you,” Izzy slurs. “Am I… gonna die?”

“Hmm, maybe,” Roach says cheerfully. “Can’t promise either way.” He immediately starts fiddling butcher’s twine between clever fingers and a fishhook to knot stitches deep inside Izzy’s belly.

“Fuck! Fuck…” Izzy’s eyes are rolling in their sockets. “Done in by… fuckin’...” he trails off into muttered incoherence.

“Stay awake, Boss-man,” Roach hums with no real urgency in his voice, hands steady and skillful. “D’you wanna be fish-meat?”

“Nnn… No…”

“You’d rather be man-meat?” Roach continues, nonsensically.

Izzy’s brow is creased in confusion and pain. “Man…?”

“If you die I’ll cook you,” Roach promises. “Feed you to the crew.” He’s grinning and Izzy’s vision is tunnelling so much Roach’s teeth gleam in that darkness, his voice distorted. “Izzy à l’Orange.”

“What…” Izzy shakes his head, shaken and more than a little bit terrified. “No… fuck you…”

“Captain would like it,” Roach says, and he’s gratified when that gets Izzy’s attention. “Yeah, he likes oranges, y’know.”

“Ed does?” Izzy sounds dazed. His pupils are so dilated and his eyes so lost they look like they belong on a fish. Roach has filletted many fish, he’d know.

“Loves ‘em,” Roach agrees, not having the heart to correct Izzy on exactly which Captain he was talking about. “Made me make a forty-orange cake once.”

“What…” The spell of Izzy’s devotion is broken, and now he just looks sweaty, pale, and extremely constipated. “Fuckin'… waste…”

Roach laughs out loud. If Izzy’s still energetic enough to be pissed, odds are in their favour. “Super wasteful, but super tasteful!” He soaks another rum-heavy handkerchief inside Izzy and huffs triumphantly when there’s only a couple of spots left bleeding. Either Roach’s got all the bleeds or Izzy’s heart’s giving up the ghost and he’s not long for this world. Either way, Roach’s job is almost done.

“Wasteful…” Izzy echoes, groggily. “Fuck’s sake…”

“I don’t let anything go to waste,” Roach confesses. “Even this is something to learn from.” He’s practicing le point devant on Izzy’s belly fat and plans on doing le surjet on his skin, and they’re coming out fucking beautiful, if he does say so himself. “So if you die, it’s not gonna be in vain, yeah?”

Izzy’s bottom lip wobbles, and oh, that’s interesting. “Don’t wanna… die…”

“Then don’t,” Roach says simply. “Or I’ll fucking roast you.” He’s almost done with this line, and it’s a damn shame no one’s ever gonna see it, ‘cause it’s fine ass work. “I’ll sauté you with sauerkraut and ginger ale, feed you to your Captain.”

Izzy’s belly trembles and Roach takes a second to glance up at Izzy’s face because he’s expecting a death rattle, not a giggle. And yeah, Izzy’s fucking giggling.

“You like that, little man?” Roach says, grinning a bit because who wouldn’t, seeing Izzy Hands do that?

“Fffuck you,” Izzy wheezes.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Roach says primly, and finishes up with a flourish. “And done! Rest is up to you, Boss-man.”

Izzy blinks up at him, slow on the uptake because a good chunk of his lifeblood has spilled across the deck and down the stairs and all over Roach’s kitchen, but he’s alert enough ‘cause he starts wriggling his ass trying to scooch off the dinner-cum-surgical table, and it’s both fucking hilarious and really fucking sad.

“Ey, ey, calm down,” Roach says. “Wait till Wee John comes back, he’ll carry you to your room.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy says groggily. “I can… myself…”

“Sit your ass down,” Roach barks, and is gratified when Izzy immediately stills and stops trying to leave. “I didn’t fuckin’ waste a good amount of tonight’s cookin’ twine on you just for you to ruin my hard work. So chill out, man. Want a cookie?”

“Excuse me?” Izzy croaks.

“It’s an experiment,” Roach says, and plops a biscuit into Izzy’s mouth. Which Izzy promptly spits out, like a fucking child. “Hey! Don’t fucking waste food!”

“Sorry,” Izzy says meekly, and huh, that’s new.

“You better be,” Roach says grouchily, retrieving the biscuit, eyeing it, then shrugging and eating it himself. Five second rule! “Well, I think it’s pretty good,” he says with his mouth full. “Bit bloody ‘cause your blood’s on it, but not bad. Sure you don’t want some?”

Izzy’s eyes are half-mast and blown out and he’s paler than usual and that’s saying something ‘cause he’s already a pasty ass white man, so Roach isn’t really expecting him to participate much, but Izzy continually surprises him with his endurance ‘cause he sounds pretty coherent when he says, “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?” Roach says brightly. “Awesome! Here, chew on this.”

Izzy opens his mouth obediently and oh, that’s doing something for him. Roach places his lovingly handcrafted cookie on Izzy’s tongue and then it disappears into his mouth, and gosh, his eyelashes are quite long. For a filthy fucking colonizer, that is. Izzy chews on Roach’s masterpiece, slow and contemplative-like. Like a cow, or a goat, or just a man beset by immense blood loss.

“So?” Roach asks eagerly, juggling his butcher’s knife to keep himself busy. “Good, bad? Ugly?”

Izzy’s eyes are following the knife, like he’s hypnotized. Or, y’know, missing half his weight in liquids. All the while, chew, chew, chewing and saying fuck all, not even an insult! That’s most insulting of all!

“Sweet, not sweet enough?” Roach says, increasing in hysteria. “Gimme somethin’ man, you can tell me it sucks!”

Izzy swallows, and it looks like it’s hurting him. “It’s fine,” Izzy croaks.

“Oh, it’s awful, I know it,” Roach says, and stabs his knife three centimeters deep into his cutting table. “Fuckin’ bloodtrade sugarcane shit. Ruins everything.”

“It’s… fine…” Izzy repeats, slowly. “Just… bit dry…” Then he sways, and oof, of course, Izzy’s dehydrated to hell and back, huh?

“Yeah, yeah,” Roach grumbles. “You’d better try it when you’re feeling better, then, ‘cause I’m not taking that ‘fine’ as a final grade. My pride’s at stake here!”

“Okay,” Izzy says, and then his eyes roll to the back of his head and whoops, Roach catches him just in time, ‘cause Izzy’s swooned. Close call! It’d’ve really sucked to have had to stitch Izzy’s skull down if he’d brained himself, ‘cause those bad boys bleed like stuck pigs and Izzy doesn’t have much blood left to go around.

“Oy,” Roach grumbles. “You made me drop my knife, man.”

Izzy doesn’t even have the grace to apologize for it. But Roach forgives him, ‘cause he’s unconscious and all. Wee John’s taking a long goddamn time, and Roach needs his dinner table for cooking tonight’s feast. So he flexes his muscles and hoists Izzy into his arms like a sheep ready for shearing and takes him to the corner, where Roach’s own nap-cot is. It’s not much but it’ll keep Izzy out of the way. If Roach tucks him in a little, then that’s cause he doesn’t want his hard work ruined by getting food stuff on it. Nothing more than that.

(fin for now)

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] a 'what if cor didn't run away from gilgamesh and kept fighting' fic (2900 words)

When his sword cuts through flesh and bone and sinew and finally embeds itself with a crunch into Gilgamesh's armoured side, Cor at first cannot believe it. He stares up into the Blademaster's red eyes, dumbfounded at his success. They meet his, briefly, and then he's flying-- Gilgamesh has literally batted him aside, with his other hand.

Cor flips in midair like a coeurl, landing feet-first, crouched and ready for retaliation. But the Blademaster does not follow.

Instead, that huge, unsurmountable beast of a man remains where he is, kneeling, Genji blade embedded into his chest. Cor wheezes feverishly, heart in his throat. Has he done it? Has he actually defeated--?

"Impressive," Gilgamesh murmurs. "It has been many years since I have lost an arm."

Then the Blademaster grips the Genji blade with his right, remaining hand, and, with one easy tug, pulls it out of his side. He does not even so much as bleed. Cor stares in horrified awe as Gilgamesh stands, unruffled, despite missing a whole fucking arm, despite only recently having had a two meter sword embedded in his fucking chest.

"This is a good sword," the Blademaster says casually, swinging it twice in quick succession before manifesting a fucking magical spectral arm to replace the one he'd lost, and settling into a ready position.

Cor feels faint. He feels what little blood remains inside him sink, to the bottom of his feet. He now understands he cannot win. Not like this. He's lost his only weapon and he's going to die here, unremarkable. Pathetic and forgotten, like every other warrior who has gone down here and not come back up.

And worst of all? Gilgamesh will not even bat an eyelash. This is nothing to him. Cor Leonis is less than nothing. He has lived fifteen years for absolutely fucking nothing.

In another world, this soul-shattering dismay will make him turn tail and run. He will hate himself for it, berate himself for it, and be haunted by his cowardice for years to come-- but he will live to feel it, long enough to come to terms with it, to hold his head up high again, despite it.

In this one, Cor Leonis, barely fifteen years old and with absolutely nothing left to lose, bows his head to his fate. He's shaking with fear and rage and the indignity of not even having made his last opponent sweat, let alone fucking bleed. But if this truly is his end-- if he truly he has to die here-- then he will die with an Astrals-damned sword in his hands.

There are plenty to chose from: this bridge is a veritable graveyard of them. He is one of many, he thinks dully. And soon he will be one of nothing. He reaches out with a faintly trembling hand and grabs another katana. To his half-dissociated mind it feels ridiculously light, like he's holding nothing but air between him and his death.

"You've a true warrior's ken," the Blademaster may have said, but Cor isn't listening anymore.

His eyes are solely on the Genji blade, the sword he inherited from his mother after she became sick, after she became daemonified, after the Royal Guardsmen had finally managed to decapitate the Ronin she had become. How strange it is to remember her now. The Blademaster almost fights as she would have, as she did, and it's like recreating the memory of that day.

He'd seen the 'guards fighting her, all six of them, swarming around her like flashy locusts. He'd never known she was so strong. He'd never admired her, not once, until those minutes before her death. It was only then that he'd understood how incredible she was. And then she was dead.

Gilgamesh, however, does not die.

Cor stabs him with one, two, fucking five different swords, but each and every time he manages it the Blademaster bats him aside like an errant fly and manifests a spectral arm to pull the weapon out like it's a fucking splinter, until he's got six arms, six fucking arms, and each and every one of them has a weapon, and Cor is outnumbered, outmatched, and out of fucking luck.

He's making a high-pitched whining sound by the end of it, crawling on his hands and knees, desperately reaching out for another sword, but he doesn't have the strength to get up anymore. No, not like this. Not like this! Get up! Get up!

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Blademaster coming, casually walking toward him. No. No! No! Cor screams, feral, hands digging into the dirt, feet scrabbling for purchase, but he's pretty sure he's broke something vital after that last fall because he's not getting anywhere, he's not going anywhere.

No-- No--!

The Blademaster embeds one, two, all six swords around Cor-- but incredibly, none of them pierce him. They're more like a fucked up halo-- or a grave-marker, Cor thinks wildly. Well, fuck him. Fuck him! Cor reaches for the nearest one, he'll grab the damn thing by the blade if he has to, he can't die without a weapon--

And Gilgamesh fucking. Sits on him. Knees on his arms, his armoured backside digging into Cor's thighs, pinning him down. Rendering him immobile.

Cor screams, but the Blademaster is impossibly heavy, and when Cor tries to scream again, he finds that he can't, he can barely get any air in due to the weight pressing against his chest. He swivels his feet, fails to arch his back, flails in place, to no avail-- piece of shit, not like this-- not like this!-- Cor snarls, gnashes his teeth-- he'll bite that fucker if it's the last weapon available to him, he'll-- he'll--

Cor has exhausted himself hyperventilating, vision already splotchy and faint, when he finally understands the Blademaster is not going to do anything more. Indeed, that masked face has been looking down at him quite patiently: those red eyes even blink every now and again, slow and placid-like.

"You've calmed your warrior's frenzy?" the Blademaster asks, as if from a great distance.

Cor stares up a him.

"Ah, good," the Blademaster says. "I feared you'd become deaf."

What...?

The Blademaster adjusts his stance just enough that he's no longer bearing so much weight on Cor, resting on his haunches like he's in a fucked up seiza. Cor almost wants to laugh at it, hysterically, but he's too busy breathing in deep, hoarse breaths, hitching every now and again from the pain. He only now realizes every inch of him is shaking, from fear, adrenaline, and disbelief.

But he's somehow still alive, and Gilgamesh is still fucking sitting on him.

"Did I win?" Cor croaks, stupidly.

"I am very much still alive," the Blademaster responds, calmly, "So I think not."

Cor's head thumps back down onto the earth, dizzy and exhausted. That's it, then. "So what're you waiting for?" he asks, tiredly. "Kill me already."

"Giving up so easily, little Shield?"

Cor's eyes snap wide open, staring agog at the Blademaster. Had he just--?!

"I would call you by your name," Gilgamesh continues mildly, "But I do not know it."

Cor's mouth is so dry. He swallows convulsively. "It's Leonis," he rasps. "Um-- Cor. Leonis."

"You fight admirably, Cor Leonis," the Blademaster says, and doesn't Cor's heart skip a bit to hear that. "I much enjoyed myself."

"Uh," Cor says stupidly, "Thanks. You too."

Gilgamesh laughs softly, low and melodic. Cor is too anemic at this point to blush, but trying sure makes him dizzy. He feels really sick all of a sudden.

"I'm, um-- going to throw up now," Cor whimpers, and only just manages to turn his head aside to puke bile, blood, and what tastes like the bourbon he'd downed right before the fight.

Hands come up to help him-- Gods, Gilgamesh has six fucking hands!-- and he's practically cradled against the Blademaster's side, who is still kneeling patiently like he's got nowhere else to be. One of his hands is even petting his head like Cor's a fucking cat.

Cor pukes two more times, before simply falling limp in the guy's embrace. This is too fucking surreal. Everything hurts. He moans, feeling really, really cold. Wouldn't it be funny if he died now? he thinks, muggily. At least he could go to the afterlife knowing he'd made a goddamn impression...

"You must excuse me if this hurts," the Blademaster is saying. "These powers are not quite my own."

"Whuh--"

Cor suddenly screams. He feels every inch of his body come alive, like someone has injected him with a truckload of adrenaline and then set him on fire. He's seeing red, everything is glowing red, those fucking hands are like vices on him, crushing him, killing him--

"How very presumptuous," someone's voice says clearly, even through Cor's haze of agony, "Truly how often shall my brother sin against me, and I, forgive him?"

"Seventy-seven times, my Liege," a more familiar voice replies.

The pain goes on for ages, Cor thinks, and his shrieks turn into broken wails, cutting, hitched sobs, and he's pleading-- please-- please stop-- please-- Let me die--

"And we are four from four-score," whispers that first voice--

And then it's over.

Cor curls in on himself, shaking, mute from the memory of it. What the hell was that? What the hell...? But he's no longer in any pain, he realizes. And he's curling in on himself because he can actually move.

That kinda jostles him out of his funk. He scrambles-- those giant hands-- six of them! There are six fucking hands!!-- let him go when he pushes against them, so he's suddenly on his butt, on the dirt floor, staring up at the Blademaster's silver mask and his red eyes, and his spectral hands, Cor realizes, are fading, until he only has the one arm left.

And he's still sitting down in seiza, calm as you please.

"What was that," Cor says, dumbfounded.

"The magic of my Liege," the Blademaster says, quietly.

"Uh." Cor processes that. He remembers, now, Clarus mentioning that the Blademaster of the ancient Amicitia Training Grounds was the original Shield to the-- "The Founder King?!" he squeaks, scrambling to his feet. "That was the Founder King?!"

Despite being well over three meters tall, sitting down like this, Gilgamesh is just about level with Cor's eyes. He seems very vulnerable, suddenly. Surmountable. Like Cor could easily behead him at this height.

"The founder of my sorrows," Gilgamesh corrects, softly, and then stands up.

Cor steps back warily, all at once unsure if the fight will still keep going. He glances behind him, at the grave-marker of swords Gilgamesh made over him, and quickly lunges for his Genji blade. He snatches it and readies it, ready for anything.

The Blademaster does not follow.

"Peace, Cor Leonis," he says. "You have completed this trial."

"I lost, though," Cor says, dumbly.

"If that is what you take from this, then perhaps you did," the Blademaster says, and Cor feels like a fucking moron for opening his goddamn mouth. "Regardless, you have proven your strength and fortitude of character. What tempering remains will occur over time, as you are young yet, and have room to grow."

Basically, you're still a punk-ass kid, Leonis. Shit. He hunches in his shoulders, feeling stupid and young and frustrated.

"Let me try again," Cor says, impulsively.

The Blademaster has the gall to laugh, lowly. "I think not," he says mildly. "I tire of this, and your Liege is quite tired of waiting, too."

"My Liege--?" Wait, what--?

A BOOM and part of the cave wall has torn open. "It's about bloody fucking time!"

Cor stares, gobsmacked, at Regis fucking Lucis Caelum, who is glowing blue and furious and has a whole bunch of swords swirling around him, and is literally floating--

"Regs, what the hell!" Cor yelps. "What are you doing here?!"

"I'm here to save you!" Regis says, like it's obvious. "Where is that knave!"

Clarus bursts out of the debris looking haggard and apoplectic. "Don't fucking charge in without me, how many times--" his enormous claymore pauses mid-swing. "Cor! Oh, thank the Gods you're alive!"

Cor turns bright red with a mix of emotions, all too jumbled up to name. He whips his head back behind him, just in case the Blademaster's gonna attack-- but the guy's gone. There's no one on the bridge.

"No--" Cor gasps.

"He's gone," Regis confirms, powering down, looking all of a sudden droopy, like he does after edging Stasis. "Thank the Astrals. Are you all right--?"

"Fuck you guys!" Cor howls. "I had him!"

"Now see here, young man--" Regis starts.

"--I'm going to have your guts for garters," Clarus interrupts with a growl. "You dumb little shit! We nearly had a heart attack, finding you gone!"

"I had him on the ropes!" Cor insists. "I fucking stabbed him five fucking times and cut off his arm! I had him!"

"I'm sure it was all very impressive," Regis says, patting him down like Weskham does when checking for injuries, "but I really must impress upon you the severity of your actions--"

"But--" Cor says, desperate. "But I had to--"

"Had to what!" Clarus roars. "Kill yourself?!"

"Prove myself worthy!" Cor screams.

"Oh, my dear," Regis says, and Cor hates that, hates that he evokes sounds of pity every time he tries to be impressive, like he's just a pathetic little boy instead of a Gods-damned veteran, and he's not going to cry, not over something like this, but it's a near damn thing.

"I'm going to kick your ass," Clarus says, lowly, "six ways to Sunday--"

"Peace, Clarus," Regis says, tiredly, patting Cor's shoulder now that he's confirmed he is unharmed. "Let's just. Away from this place." He glances around, uncomfortably. "We are not welcome here, I think."

Clarus reaches out to squeeze the nape of Cor's neck with one large hand while Regis softly squeezes his arm and then they're force marching him out like that, like he's a misbehaving puppy-- he winces at the thought, feeling stupid and worthless and not at all like he'd won anything but the knowledge that he'd lived only because he was spared.

"Do you need curatives?" Regis asks, worriedly.

"No," Cor mutters. "The Blademaster healed me."

Clarus jerks, at that. "He healed you?"

"Said it was the magic of his King or something," Cor mumbles.

Clarus stops dead, as does Regis. Cor almost stumbles from it.

"The Blademaster has never been known to spare anyone, let alone heal them," Clarus says, agog. "Like. Ever."

Cor feels a little warm, hearing that, and also a little lame. Like, he was so fucking pathetic even the badass Blademaster took pity on him. Astrals.

"That must have been one very old potion," Regis says, nose curling in distaste. "Two thousand years old... not even wine could still be viable--"

"It wasn't a potion," Cor mutters. "It was, like. Actual magic, from the actual King. I heard him talk to Gilgamesh, something about it being presumptuous. And something like, 'how often shall I forgive my brother for sinning against me.'" Cor's developed a good memory for archaic words, thanks to King Mors' preference for it, so he's confident he got it right.

"The Founder King had no brothers, to my knowledge," Regis says, slowly. "And, besides, his spirit can only commune through my father's Ring. Though, I suppose... a shade, like his sword in my Armiger...?" He quiets to mumbles, like he usually does when he's working out something to himself. It's usually endearing, but right now it just makes Cor annoyed.

"I know what I heard," he grouches. "And I know what I felt. That wasn't a fucking potion, Regs. That was like, Oracle level healing." He graces a hand over his body, his ragged, blood-soaked clothes evidence of the abuse he'd suffered. "Shit... I was really messed up... I, uh... probably should'a died, huh."

Clarus squeezes the nape of his neck tightly and shakes him a little. "Maybe you got knocked around so hard you hallucinated those in the Beyond," Clarus jokes, in the way he does when he's trying to avoid resorting to violence. "Astrals know I've heard the voice of my Lord Father bitching at me enough times in that manner."

"Yeah, maybe," Cor says, still kinda processing the fact that his clothes are downright stiff from blood-- his own fucking blood, liters of it, to drench him like this!-- and, geez, the many places its been torn, marking all the places he was once wounded. He should be confetti, he thinks, a little amazed at his own resilience. "Probably," he relents. "I mean, otherwise the Blademaster really did pet my hair, and that was fucking wild."

Clarus chokes.

"He did what--" Regis' voice reaches up an octave.

"Like a fuckin' kitten," Cor grumbles. "He sat on me, first. So I'd stop fighting. Said I had to calm my 'warrior's frenzy'." He perks up a little at the memory. "He did say I fought admirably, though. Gave him a good fight, said he enjoyed it. Asked my name and everything."

Clarus continues to make dying noises.

"You know, my dear, you really should take this potion," Regis says, pressing a flask into his hand. "Just in case you're suffering, ah, internal injury."

Cor frowns. "You thinkin' my brain's bleeding or somethin'?"

"Or something," Clarus says. "Take the goddamn potion, Leonis."

"Yes, sir," Cor grumbles.

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] I won’t let that happen. Not to you. (2105 words)

Cor’s with Clarus when they learn his wife has gone into labour. Cor drives him and Regis to the hospital to see her, speeding past red lights and breaking speed limits, both hands steady on the wheel. He’s there to see Clarus’ face light up, tear up, and glow with something really special, when he finally gets to hold his firstborn.

“Gladiolus,” Clarus whispers. “My baby boy.”

Cor has never seen a man look upon another male with such adoration, with such pure and honest love. It humbles him, a little, to see it, and recognize it for what it is. He doesn’t think he would have been able to, when he was younger.

“I’m afraid you’ve been supplanted, my dear,” Regis whispers-says to Cor.

“‘Bout time,” Cor says gruffly. “I was getting real tired of that nickname.”

“Do you hear that, son?” Clarus says, a little wetly. “That’s the voice of your King, and his Sword.”

Cor has never heard himself referred to as the King’s Sword, but it feels good to hear it. Weighty. Official. Like he’s no longer a third wheel tacked on but one of a triad. Like he belongs here, with them, for real. He likes that nickname a lot more than ‘baby boy’, anyway, that’s for sure.

“Oh, Clarus,” Regis murmurs, leaving Cor’s side to join his Shield, to wrap a strong arm around him. “My friend. My most dearly beloved man.”

Huh? What? Wait-- Clarus is crying, Cor realizes. Clarus is literally sobbing.

“Clarus...?” Cor’s voice sounds oddly-pitched to his own ears. He has never seen Clarus cry like this, not once in the nearly nine years he’s known him.

“He’s going to die!” Clarus wails, his body curling around his baby like he can protect him, like he can shield him-- from his own duty, Cor realizes. From his own divinely ordained fate.

“Not while we live,” Regis promises him fiercely. “Not so long as I have the power to prevent it. I swear it, Clarus. I swear it.”

Cor feels like he shouldn’t be here. Like he’s intruding on something sacred, something profound. Like he’s just a street rat with no fancy name, no family history, nothing tying him so ruthlessly to the past like Kings and their Shields have, for centuries upon centuries.

Cor remembers asking Regis about the Ring, pained, Their will is for their kids to die for it?

He’s witnessing it now: a father finding the will to condemn his own son to death, for the sake of his family’s legacy.

Fuck! Gods-damn this! He can’t bear Regis’ ring for him, the one that is killing him. And he can’t save Clarus’ from his duty, either, the one that demands he die upon Regis’ inevitable death. But maybe there’s something he can do. Something only Cor can do, because he’s not a part of this long-winded legacy, not really. He’s here by choice, and that-- that can make all the difference.

“I’ll make sure, too,” Cor vows, finding his words. “Clarus, listen to me: I’ll make sure your kid lives, even if you die. And Regs’, when he gets around to it. And all the other ones, the ones that come after. As long as I can.”

Clarus is looking at him, red-eyed, red-faced, lip trembling. “Cor,” he croaks.

“I can do that much,” Cor says, fiercely. “So you can rest easy. So you can love your kid, without wanting to cry over him all the time.”

“Gods, Cor,” Clarus says wetly, but he’s smiling, just a little. “I’ll fucking hold you to that.”

“Language, my dear Clarus,” Regis says, a little sniffly himself, “or else little Gladiolus is going to grow up speaking just like his Uncle Cor.”

“Astrals forbid,” Clarus laughs.

Uncle Cor, huh? It feels a little funny to hear it, but not in a bad way. He lopes on over, to peer at that little bundle. Gladiolus. Kind of a dinky name, in his opinion, but it’s growing on him.

--

Cor starts noticing kids, after that. Like, really paying attention to their faces. The fact that they’ll all grow up and live their lives and one day die, and that someone might cry over them when they’re gone. It’s a dumb thing to fixate on, considering his kill count, but it jars him all the same.

“You’ll blunt yourself,” Gilgamesh mutters.

Maybe so. Cor focuses on his soldiers, instead: learning their names and faces and wants and fears for the future. It visibly shocks them to be asked so directly by ‘The Immortal’, hardass that he is, and a lot of them stutter as badly as Cor did, when Mors first taught him how to read. He doesn’t mock them, though. He knows how lousy it feels to be called out on it, and isn’t that a shocker: to feel empathy for another human being, no matter how pathetic, how unworthy.

He’s running through sword forms when his comrade-now-friend Dustin Ackers finds him, politely interrupting his meditation to hand him a thick binder.

“Huh? What’s this?” He opens it, and the first page is a brief but thorough summary of an ‘Albani, Adeodatus, Lance Corporal, age 28’, etcetera, etcetera. There’s a small photograph of him, and there’s a map showing where he lives, and there’s even a section detailing his ‘family history’ and his ‘apparent hobbies’. “What the hell, Dustin?”

“Background checks, sir,” Dustin says primly. “Of all the men you interviewed.”

Cor is dumbfounded, for a moment, and then his naturally cautious mind turns toward suspicion. “Why? Are they a threat to the Crown?”

“There are a couple that appear to harbour petty resentments,” Dustin says thoughtfully, “but none that I would accuse of treason. Shall I further redact a list for your perusal?”

“Uh, sure,” Cor says. “That’d be good.” He blinks, still a little mind-boggled at how many files there are, and how thorough they must be, considering the first one even includes the man’s favourite fucking color. “When’d you find the time to make this?”

“Monica helped,” Dustin admits. “She told me you’d been looking into your men so I allowed myself the indiscretion of redacting all that they confessed, and then adding our own private investigations. Don’t worry, sir, we were very discreet.”

Gods-damn. This shows an impressive amount of unprompted initiative, which could be worrying in a military context, but Cor trusts Dustin and Monica and he recognizes this gesture for what it is: his subordinates-- his friends-- supporting him, in whatever way they know best. It’s what he’d done for Mors, and now Regis, and Clarus, and even Dustin and Monica, too.

“This is downright impressive, soldier,” Cor says. “Good fucking work.”

“You flatter me, sir,” Dustin says, but he still visibly preens a little at the sound of it.

--

Clarus likes the files, too. “Who did you say compiled these?”

“Two of my subordinates,” Cor says. “Lieutenant Dustin Ackers, and Second Lieutenant Monica Elshett.”

“They sound familiar,” Clarus mutters distractedly while fussing over Gladiolus, who is babbling excitedly in his arms. “Oh, you’re so strong already, my little man. Look at you. Yes you are.”

“We worked together, blowing up bases in Duscae,” Cor says, a little uncomfortable at Clarus’ display but also a little amused. “They specialize in demolition and infiltration, respectively.”

“And information gathering, evidently,” Clarus says. “Come here, Cor, and hold my son for me.”

“Huh? What, no--” And then Cor’s got his arms full of squirming baby. “Clarus, wait! I could drop him!”

“You won’t,” Clarus says, grinning. “I trust you with the life of my King, how can I not trust you with the life of my son?”

Cor feels really funny hearing that, but he’s too busy trying to find a safe way to hold this precious payload to dwell on it. Clarus is right, the kid's strong: barely weighs a stone but is about as dense as one already. Gladiolus’ eyes are wide open, honey-gold and bright, meeting Cor’s own fearlessly.

“Talk to him while I leaf through this,” Clarus casually orders. “Babies learn language faster if you talk to ‘em.”

“Uh,” Cor says eloquently. “Yes, sir.”

He looks down at the baby, wondering what to say. He doesn’t know how to talk to children. He barely knows how to talk to civilians. But Gladiolus isn’t any person, Cor thinks. He’s Clarus’ son, an Amicitia. Noble-born, blue-blooded, and hopefully one day Shield to his future King, if Cor has anything to say about it. So he says just that.

“My name is Cor Leonis,” Cor introduces himself. “I’m a Captain of the Crownsguard, which your father commands, which you will one day command, too. You and I are gonna work together, one day, to protect the King.”

Cor awkwardly glances over at Clarus but he doesn’t appear to be listening, engrossed with a phone call he’s making to someone. Something about the Wall amplifier in northeastern Cavaugh, though his tone’s calm and not at all alarmed like it would be in an emergency, so Cor lets himself be drawn back to Gladiolus, back to his curious eyes, to his tufts of brown hair, impossibly soft against his palm.

“The King is the most important person, okay?” Cor murmurs. “But don’t forget that you’re important, too. I won’t let you forget that.”

Gilgamesh laughs quietly in his mind, mockingly, and Cor feels cold to hear it, like the Blademaster has already dismissed this child, already eliminated him, simply because he can’t hold a sword yet.

“I’ll teach you how to fight,” Cor promises, “I’ll do it, so your dad doesn’t have to, ‘cause that’s a fine way to get your kid to hate you, and I won’t let that happen. Not to you. You’ll have servants and silver spoons and so many things you won’t know what to do with them.”

Gladiolus coos, reaching out to grab at the buttons of Cor’s uniform, at his medals. Tugging at them, distracted by their gleam and texture. Cor knows that impulse-- he’s been drawn to shiny metal things since he was born, too.

“Yeah, you’re already greedy, aren’t you? Those are mine, kid, though you can earn yourself some, too, if you work at it.” Gladiolus manages to unpin one of the medals and promptly puts it in his mouth, chewing on it, teething himself on the stuff. “Like that one, huh? I got that one for killing a buncha Niffs some years back. Man, that was a pretty crazy day, even for me. I think I set a record or something.”

“You already dazzling my kid with tales of your exploits, huh?” Clarus is smiling, wide and smug, and Cor feels kinda embarrassed to know Clarus must’ve been listening in, at the end.

“It’s not all that impressive,” Cor deflects. “Just doing my job, like any soldier would. It’s you guys who keep inflating my ego, throwing all these fancy ribbons my way.”

“Cor Leonis, the finest show horse in all of Lucis,” Clarus jokes, then holds out his arms. “Gimme my son back, you fiend; at this rate, Gladio’s bound to believe you’re more badass than I ever will be.”

“That could never happen,” Cor says, grinning. “Yours is the biggest ass in all of Lucis.”

Clarus swats at his head mock-roughly. “Language around my kid, Leonis,” he grouses.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Cor says, and hands Gladiolus over with care.

“And just for that cheek I’m sending you to the boonies, soldier,” Clarus says, tucking his son into the crook of his shoulder with practiced ease. “I’ve information Niffs are planning on sabotaging the Wall amplifier over in northeastern Cavaugh, and I trust your sword to stop them, if they try.”

“Yes, sir,” Cor says, more formally. “I’ll form a squad immediately.”

“Take whoever you need, except your two Lieutenants,” Clarus orders, tapping the binder Cor’s brought him. “I want to send Elshett and Ackers on an information-gathering mission to Niflheim. The work they’ve done here is frighteningly thorough, and I’ve half a mind to berate them both for all the privacy laws they’ve violated without prior authorization. But at this stage of the war this kind of talent is game-changing. I want their eyes and ears on our enemies.”

“Understood,” Cor says. “I’ll send them your way before I go.”

“Thank you, Cor,” Clarus says. “And thank you for saying all those nice things to my kid, too. You always know how to make me tear up, baby boy.”

Yup, Clarus is still an asshole. “Glad to be of service, sir,” Cor says with a janky salute, and off he goes.

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] for the price of an arm (3666 words)

(spiritual sequel to my fancomic here, cw: gore)

"My, my," said the dismissive voice that still haunted Gladio's dreams, over a decade since. "Another one come for a rematch?"

"No." Gladio could not see Gilgamesh, but he knew the old bastard was watching him. "Not unless you don't give the Marshal back."

"The Marshal...?" A low, echoing laugh bounced around the bridge, and was then lost to the fog beyond. "Oh, the little lion? I'm afraid I bested him, long ago... He has belonged to me, since. And now, I have reclaimed him."

"Give him back," Gladio rumbled, voice like gravel. "Or I'll take all of your little arms, and then your fucking head."

The laugh echoed, fainter still, until there was a still sort of silence, broken only by a hair-raising whisper. "You may try, Shield of the Chosen King. But you shall not succeed."

"Show yourself," Gladio said, coldly. "And I shall prove you wrong, Corpse-Stealer."

It was only years spent fighting in the dark that allowed Gladio the reflexes to parry the blade that sought his head, and the years prior to that the ability to recognize the youth attached to the familiar body.

"Cor--?!"

It was undoubtedly the Marshal, but his once-lined face was now clear of scruff and weariness. His eyes were sharp, bright, and filled with a vicious determination Gladio had only ever seen aimed toward their enemies.

"Cor! Wait--"

The man did not appear to hear him, already in transition to perform a flawless gyaku-inazuma giri, and after Gladio hastily parried that opening onslaught, a tsuki thrust that nearly tore through Gladio's throat, managing only to avoid being skewered by leaping as far back as his legs would allow him, though of course Cor followed through flawlessly, relentlessly, and Gladio swiftly found himself on the defensive, gasping through disbelief and then raw, unhindered fury.

"You DARE!" Gladio howled. "You DARE steal his face!"

"His face belongs to me," tittered that ancient, odious voice, bouncing off the walls to the beat of Cor's Kotetsu against Gladio's Genji blade. "All of him does. And you shall not take him from me, unless, of course...you best me."

Gladiolus had bested the Blademaster once, and he could do it again. But it was quite a different story to be fighting against the puppet-corpse of his teacher, his friend. "Cor, don't do this," Gladio spared the breath to say. "Cor, don't make me do this!"

Cor did not appear to hear him, and through sinking dismay and true grief, Gladio knew Cor would never hear him, for Cor was likely already dead. Cor Leonis had said his goodbye, and everyone had respected it-- even Gladio had respected it, in the end. But he'd come down here to reclaim Cor's body and bring it back to Lucis. Bring it back home. He'd meant to bury the Marshal next to King Regis, as Gladio would want someone to bury him next to Noct, when his time came.

He'd envisioned having to fight the Blademaster for it, but he had never imagined he'd have to ruin Cor's corpse to win it back.

"You are dishonourable--" Gladio screamed. "You are despicable--"

"I am, at that," the voice may have whispered, but Gladio was fully concentrated on Cor's blade, the whistle of it before it nearly took out his legs; the metallic vibration of it when it parried his own massive katana; the reach of it, always further than one might expect.

Cor did not fight silently, for all that he did not speak a word. He grunted and gasped and growled, and it felt awfully like he lived again, for it was his selfsame voice, the voice Gladio had grown up listening to and learning from, fighting with and fighting for. It was both a gift and a gutwound, to hear it again, in the flesh.

It could have been a shorter fight-- intense, furious, but inevitably lethal-- had Gladio not kept missing opportunities to cleave the man in two. He could not bear it. A part of him longed to prolong this, if only to keep the fiction going. That Cor still lived, that Cor could still come back alive.

Unfortunately, the longer Gladio drew it out, the more tired he became. And Cor, in the undeathly grasp of Gilgamesh, did not.

He became faster, and faster, and impossibly faster, until Gladio knew that if he did not end this soon, if he did not end this now, then it was Gladio that would be cleaved into pieces, and Cor-- who had not once batted an eye at carnage, who had not once looked upon a fallen enemy with regret-- Cor would simply end him without giving a shit, and then Gladio would be dead, and all this would be for naught at all.

Cor Leonis was dead, Gladio told himself through glassy eyes and a swiftly clogging nose, and this? This was just a cruel echo. It would be kinder to silence it, and let it rest a memory.

So, without further hesitation, Gladio closed himself off, and with one sure thrust, impaled Cor's body with his very own Genji blade, twisting it to ensure he'd severed that great man's spine and abdominal aorta, then up to cleave through three ribs and into his lungs and hopefully his heart, so his end would be swift.

So his end would be sure.

But of-fucking-course the Immortal refused to die easy. Cor made a truly awful noise, choking on his own blood, body twitching with the aftershocks of an immense blow, still struggling, still attempting to swing his sword, which Gladio barely stopped with his other hand.

"Damn it," Gladio choked, through messy tears. "It's okay, Cor. Let go."

The man screamed wetly, gagging, jerking futilely against Gladio's hold. He was half-collapsed on Gladio already, legs limp and lifeless. But even still he refused to die, let alone let go of his sword, which came to rest on Gladio's shoulder, sharp side trying in vain to dig toward his neck, even now, when it was past the realm of unlikely into the sad reality of the impossible.

"It's all right," Gladio whispered. "Shh. Shhh. You can rest now."

Cor shuddered, twitched, and let out a rasping exhale, that seemed to last an age. Blood kept bubbling up his mouth, out his nose, and this close Gladio could see the burst blood vessels in his eyes, making the blue of them all the brighter, even as that inimitable gaze clouded, unfocused, and seemed to still half-lidded, far away.

His sword finally slipped out of his grasp, and clattered unceremoniously to the ground.

For a long while Gladio couldn't speak through his tears. The hand holding the Genji blade was soaked with Cor's blood, with his spilled flesh, and Gladio couldn't find the will to remove it, to further damage Cor's body with it. He pulled Cor close instead, tucking his old friend's face into his chest, shuddering through his grief and processing his rage.

"I'll kill you for this," Gladio promised wetly. "I will fucking desecrate you for this."

"You may try," the Blademaster said, finally showing himself at the other end of the bridge, both armless and unarmed. "I may even welcome it."

Gladio ran a gentle hand through Cor's bloodied hair, and impulsively kissed the top of it, like he remembered Cor doing, once, when he'd been six or seven and he'd asked Uncle Cor for a bedtime story, and he'd eagerly listened to the Marshal stumble through what was more a mission report than a proper fairytale, talking about some young punk going down to Hell to fight some big tough guy with a weird accent, to prove himself worthy of his King. And Gladio, who even at that age feared being unworthy above all else, had anxiously asked And he did, didn't he, Uncle Cor? And Cor had quirked that small, sad, private smile that he showed only to Gladio and Gladio's dad and their King, and then kissed the top of his head and said Sure, champ, 'course he did.

'Course he did.

Gladio gently laid Cor's body on the ground, dislodging the Genji blade from his sternum as carefully as he could. It was impossible to pull out the two-meter long blade elegantly, or even respectfully, not without the King's magic to simply dispel it as he would have preferred, but Gladio did his utmost to do it without messing Cor up more than he had to. He ached to throw the damn sword away and simply grab Cor's corpse and run with it, abscond with it, away from this traitor's cesspit of a bridge and finally lay it to rest where it deserved to be-- but another louder, righteous, and infinitely angrier part of him needed to take the Genji blade-- originally Cor's blade, and now forever the blade that had finally ended him-- and skewer that dishonourable, hateful, and pathetic wraith of a creature at the end of that bridge. If not for Cor's sake, then Gladio's own; for the Blademaster was, if legend served, ancestor to his own blood, traitor to his own line, and therefore Gladio was the last of that longwinded legacy, the last Shield, and if it was anyone's duty to end this farce of a trial, then was is his own.

Gladiolus Amiticia stood tall, and readied his bloodied blade with the grim resolve of a man ready to face his death and walk out alive.

Gilgamesh didn't say a word. He'd said all he needed to, over two thousand years of projected self-loathing, through cruel whispers and claimed corpses shambling in the dark, patiently waiting for his own end, waiting for just this moment.

The tension between the two warriors rose like a fetid odor, permeating a grave. Only one of them would leave here alive, and increasingly it seemed it would be Gladio, for Gilgamesh had made no move to summon either arms or weapons.

"Take out your sword already, you lowly piece of shit," Gladio demanded, coldly. "Or die without one."

Gilgamesh tilted his head slowly, gesturing towards Cor's corpse, cooling before him. "You've already taken it," he said, simply.

Rage enveloped Gladio. He'd killed defenseless men before, but only in the heat of battle; to kill a traitorous kin-killer like this would bring him no satisfaction. Hell, it might even bring him shame, and that pissed him right the fuck off. That even now, filled with so much grief and fury and resolve, he could still lose against this wretched ghost, because winning against a thing determined to die without a fight was no victory at all.

"Arm yourself, Blademaster!" Gladio roared, swinging the massive Genji blade, splattering drops of Cor's lifeblood upon the bridge.

"I have none left," the ghost said, mildly, shrugging his great shoulders bereft of limbs. "Claim my head, Gladiolus Amiticia. It is yours."

"You vile, repulsive--" Gladio snarled, incandescent with rage. "You dishonour my name, your name, the name of the man who you just made me kill-- the lives of my father, my father's father, and all the kings the Amiticia have served--"

"Yes," the Blademaster interrupted calmly, "That's right."

"Pathetic," Gladio spat. "You're pathetic. You are less than a man. I renounce you as Shield of the Founder King. I renounce your trial as anything more than worthless, wretched--"

"That is your right," the Blademaster agreed, placidly.

Gladio screamed, and in his mind, he rushed him. Genji blade met Genji armour and parted it like butter, revealed the putrid insides of a man long since dead; another swing beheaded the man and spilled his brain across the bridge; his red-soled boots stomped that skull to shards, mercilessly, pounding it into the ground, into less than dirt, into less than a memory; in his mind, his heart thoroughly disowned that heartless cur to oblivion.

In reality, Gladio only screamed. And then, heaving like a beast, he gathered up his spite and spat on the ground. "If you will not fight," the Last of the Amiticia swore, "then you will rot here, forevermore."

Gilgamesh's glowing eyes tracked him, quietly, then he bent his head forward, bent his whole body forward, into a bow. "Yes, Amiticia," that dry, ancient, patiently undying voice said, "I know."

Gladio could bear this no longer. He turned, blade in hand, seeking Cor's corpse--

Only to find Cor struggling to his knees.

"Cor?!" Gladio choked, and for a moment his grief and rage split him, for he could not kill Cor a second time, a second time would surely end him--

"Clarus...?" Cor's eyes were still bloodshot but the blue shone through, electric, and violently alive; his face was young, bereft of age lines and beard; he looked like he was half Gladio's age instead of double. "What...?"

"Cor!" Gladio fell to his knees. "You're alive!"

"You're not Clarus," Boy-Cor said, voice oddly-pitched. "Who're you?"

"I'm his son," Gladio said, through tears. "Fuck. God damn it. You're alive, Cor." He impulsively gathered Cor up in his arms, and the kid-- God! Cor was at most a fucking teenager!-- squirmed, uncomfortable, looking confused as all hell.

"As if I'd die in a place like this," Cor said, gruffly, and then he jerked up, "Wait, son?! Y'mean, you're his da?" He pushed Gladio away, squinting up at him suspiciously. "No fuckin' way... you ain't Marshal Amiticia. He's bald, and you got more hair than a goddamn Ronin!"

Gladio couldn't help but laugh, wetly-- even through his confused joy and skewered grief, hearing Cor speak like a feral brat was something else.

"...unless that's a wig? Uh, sir? Shit."

But Gods above, what if this was an illusion? Gladio's whole self shuttered at the thought. He wouldn't put it past that old ghost. He was vile enough for it, Gladio now knew.

"If this is a lie," Gladio murmured, tracing Cor's wary face with his eyes, thinking this might be the last time, "then I swear on my life, I will cut off your legs and piss on your mask, Blademaster."

Cor's eyes widened, narrowed, and shuttered in quick succession. "Well, that's gross," he said, tense-like, eyes skittering over to the Genji blade, thrown aside in Gladio's disbelief-- then he stared at something beyond Gladio's shoulder. "Wait, did'you actually kill him?!"

Gladio automatically followed Cor's line of sight, thinking he'd see the Blademaster as he had been seconds before-- but the fucker was no longer standing there, head bowed or otherwise. He'd vanished.

"Shit," Gladio swore, lunged for his sword-- immediately realized Cor had taken the Genji blade with him, and turned to snatch the Kotetsu instead-- and was on his feet an instant later, ready for a fight. "God damn it--"

"Ramuh's balls--" Cor piped up. "You fuckin' did!"

Cor had fearlessly loped on over to where the Blademaster had once stood, all two meters of the Genji blade casually resting on his shoulders like it belonged there, instead of the Kotetsu he'd carried by his side for forty years-- and then he was bending down, was the sword too heavy?-- no, Gladio realized abruptly, Cor was bending down to grab a familiar silver thing.

"This is his mask, ain't it? Goddamn..." Cor looked very small at the end of that immense bridge. "You beat me to it, huh."

"...I don't think he can die," Gladio said, uneasily. "He's probably hiding somewhere." He resisted the urge to spit and say 'like cowardly fucker', and instead adjusted his hold on Kotetsu, its smaller size unfamiliar to his hands.

"Maybe," Cor said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Shit...if only I'd been a little faster, I could've gotten him first." He looked down at the mask like it had impaled him, like it had skewed him straight through and had watched him drown in his own blood.

Gladio knew that look, because that's the same look Cor had had, as he'd died in Gladio's arms.

Gladio felt the unreality of the situation finally descending upon him. "Hey, kid," he said, low and slow. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was running away from this," Cor said quietly, down at the mask in his hands. Then he squinted up at Gladio. "Sure don't remember you, though. Sir. Did you come down for me 'cause Clarus said somethin'?" His lower lip stiffened, and there was an unmistakable wet sheen to his eyes. "I had it handled, sir."

Gladio's heart was hurting something awful. This wasn't the Marshal he remembered. That inimitable man-- the Cor Leonis that had indulged Gladio's love of fairytales, who had kissed his brow goodnight, who had taught him how to fight, whose last words to him had been 'Y'know, Gladio, I think I've finally earned myself a goddamn vacation'-- that immense, amazing, larger than life man was dead.

So, what was this mockery before him? The soul Gilgamesh had defeated and claimed, forty some years ago, now returned to its old body?

"I know it was disrespectful, sir--" Cor said, stiffly, misinterpreting Gladio's expression. "I know this Trial is only for Shields of the Amiticia line, but-- I can do it, sir, I was doing just fine--"

"All of this is a farce," Gladio said, hollowly.

"No, I can prove myself worthy!" Cor said loudly, desperately, and Gladio was reminded of himself, thinking that being a worthwhile Shield to his King was all he'd ever wanted or would ever want, that fighting some big tough guy could grant him that and more. "I can do it--! I'll try again, I'll beat him, I'll prove it--"

Gladio felt something heavy press against his chest. If this was Gilgamesh's last fuck you to his descendants, or, worse, if it was his idea of a fucking consolation prize--

"Let me try again," Cor said, firmly, holding the mask out like Gladio could summon the Blademaster with it. "I'll show you, sir. I'll show you I can do it."

Gladio's frustration was hardly this kid's fault. Well, it was only Cor's fault insomuch as he'd jaunted on down here as a brat, gotten his ass kicked and his soul snatched, then come back down for seconds when he was too old to care if he lived or died. But it wasn't this kid's fault, anymore than it was Noct's fault he'd gotten saddled with a prophecy that wanted him dead and he'd chosen to fight it for as long as he could, before finally succumbing to it, back straight and head held high.

Gladio had hopefully outgrown his knee jerk reaction of yelling at dumb kids for making dumbass decisions, and he liked to think he'd soon ease into the calm melancholy of a man used to outliving those he loved. Like Cor himself had. The Cor of his memories, now forever laid to rest.

And yet Cor-the-kid was still staring up at him, refusing to cry, looking as stiff and proud and fierce as ever, waiting for him--for Gladio, of all people-- to denounce him.

So he chose not to.

"You did do it," Gladio said, gently. "Cor, you completed the trial, and then some. You are more than worthy to be a King's Shield, or Sword, or soldier--whatever you wanna be."

"What I want is a rematch," Cor insisted, looking more and more like he was gonna fight Gladio for it.

"Maybe later," Gladio said. Maybe never, he thought. Gods. He didn't know if Cor could even leave Taelpar Craig, or if his body would collapse like the walking corpse it should be, without Gilgamesh's magic holding it together.

"Sir," Cor said, edging on the line of begging. "I can't go back empty handed like this. I'd rather die than live with the shame of it."

"Take the mask, then," Gladio said, with an exhausted finality in his voice. "It's there because you defeated him, in your own way."

"...you ain't gonna piss on it? Sir?" Cor said, suspiciously, holding it close like he was protecting it.

If you die as we leave this place, I sure fucking will, Gladio thought, but said aloud, "I'd gotta drink some water, first. You thirsty?"

"What the fuck, sir," Cor said as respectfully as he could, which, at this time, was not much.

"I'm joking," Gladio said, though he really wasn't. "I'm not about making some instant ramen, though. After a meal--" Cor's last, perhaps, "--then I'm leaving here, for good. You comin', or you stayin'? Your choice, Leonis."

He'd come down here for Cor's body, but if Cor truly wanted to stay here, forever fighting a disgraced demigod whose hobby was making undying warriors out of decent men-- if that was truly his idea of a good afterlife, then, hell, Gladio wasn't going to force him. He respected Cor that much, even if this wannabe Valhalla was, in his personal opinion, as disrespectful as it could get.

Cor's rumbling stomach interrupted his thoughts. The kid turned a little red, and it broke the spell of Gladio's melancholy some, to see that. "Hungry, huh?"

"I could eat," Cor admitted, with a stiff little shrug. "What kinda flavour y'got, sir?"

Even though it was far more difficult to travel light enough to fight on the go without the magic of the Armiger, Gladio still made sure to carry at least one of his favourite meals with him in a backpack. For this journey, he'd packed exactly two Cup Noodles: one for him, and one for Cor's memory. He'd left it at the fireplace just outside this final room, alongside the waterproof tarp he'd brought to put Cor's body in-- though now, Gods willing and Gilgamesh be damned, Cor might just walk out on his own.

"Beef," Gladio said, and was gratified by Cor perking up, as he hoped he would. "You okay with that?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and quietly admitted, "It's, um. That's my favourite."

"Well, ain't that something," Gladio said, instead of saying, I know. "You comin', then?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and even if this was Gilgamesh's last laugh, or his last apology, then Gladio would take it, because Cor was worth it, Cor had earned it.

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] wherein cor is aranea's deadbeat dad (3911 words)

A/N: So I've read a lot of 'Cor is a great dad' fics, but I haven't read enough 'Cor is a terrible dad' fics. He's not exactly awful here, but he's not a terribly good father, either. He's a child soldier raising a child soldier, you know the drill, karaii's real predictable when it comes to this theme

cw: slurs / cursing, prostitution, child soldiers, mentions of underage consensual sex (cor loses his virginity at 15 and the product is aranea), cor being an asshole to children

--

The Marshal had a well-deserved reputation for being a hard ass. He was, in many a Crownsguard's opinion, the very definition of married to his work. He did not take days off, not even sick days, unless the King or his Shield explicitly forced him to-- and even then it was an open secret that he could still be found in one of the Citadel's many training rooms, or, if at risk of being publicly berated by his Majesty for blatant insubordination, patrolling the city as far out as the outer Wall.

He expected of others no less than what he expected of himself, after all, and Cor Leonis was nothing but the absolute best. He'd made a career of it, and at twenty-three was the youngest highest-ranking military man in Lucian history because of it.

It was, therefore, absolutely unprecedented to hear the Marshal was stepping down from his post in order to attend a supposed 'family emergency', indefinite immediately.

"The Marshal has a family!?"

"Man's gotta have a mother, Sapientia."

"What, he wasn't born fully formed?"

"Quiet," barked out Clarus Amiticia, Shield of the King, and overall Insomnia's number two hard ass. "From now until the Marshal returns, Lieutenant General Dustin Ackers shall be his interim replacement." A bespeckled man by his side saluted sharply, and was saluted in turn. "Any questions?"

"What's the family emergency, sir?" Mars Sapientia asked loudly.

"None of your fucking business, Private," Clarus said through gritted teeth, and ignored Acker's stifled sigh at his side. There was a reason the King's Advisor did press conferences instead of the King's Shield, but needs must.

"When'll the Marshal be back, sir?" piped up Monica Elshett quite bravely, all one hundred sixty centimeters of her.

"You'll know when I let you know," growled the two meter tall behemoth of a Shield in a tone that said, Any other stupid questions?

"If no one has any further inquiries," Dustin interrupted smoothly, "then please return to your posts as per usual."

"Yes, sir," everyone obediently chorused, and scattered in two- or three-person clumps, already whispering amongst themselves. Maybe the Marshal was dying. No, wait, maybe the Marshal had a secret lover who was dying. Even better-- perhaps the Marshal's heretofore unheard of child had been found, and he had to go fetch it from the bowels of Gralea, lest it perish for bearing Lucian blood on foreign soil!

"They're like fucking school kids," Clarus groused, already eyeballing who he was going to castrate for loose fucking lips.

"Gossip does so energize our ranks," Dustin agreed calmly. "Shall I manage the media, as well?"

"Scientia's got that covered already." Clarus heaved a big sigh and crossed his arms. "Just keep this boat afloat until Leonis comes back."

"Very good, sir," Dustin said, and did not say, And when shall that be? Which was probably why Cor had chosen him to be his second-in-command in the first place. Clarus could appreciate the merits of a hot-headed underling-- Cor 'fucking fight me' Leonis was, himself, a good fucking example-- but level-headed types were the best in times of crisis, and Ackers was probably the coolest after Scientia. Dustin simply had the superior benefit of being an actual soldier, instead of a bureaucrat.

"The King and I really appreciate you stepping up, Ackers," Clarus admitted quietly. "But you better not give me another fucking aneurism. Kid's given me enough already, and then some."

"I would not be so bold, sir," Dustin said placidly. "I would use foxglove, instead."

Yeah, Clarus could see why Cor liked this guy. Damn it, Leonis. You better fucking come back soon, kid, or not even Reggie's gonna be able to get you out of this hot mess.

The hot mess, being, of course, the fallout surrounding said 'family emergency'.

Because, surprise, Cor Leonis did have a family-- and it consisted solely of one eight year old Niff girl, newly orphaned, by the name of Aranea Highwind. Apparent proof of her lineage: a handwritten letter with a damning photo attached to it, mailed directly to Marshal Cor Leonis of Insomnia, Crown City of the Lucian Kingdom.

It was a long ass story, and not one Clarus cared to repeat aloud in its entirety, but safe to say it was partially his fault Cor even had this problem in the first place. Clarus had been the one to cajole Cor into losing his virginity with the Niff girl Reggie had hooked up with after they'd triumphantly snagged the Katana of the Warrior from right under the Empire's noses, and, after they paid her for her services and she'd fucked off, he'd been the one to belatedly ask, 'Wait, did anyone give Leonis a condom?' and then done absolutely nothing when the then-kid had said, 'Uh...what's that?'

To Cor's credit, when he'd understood the severity of the issue, he'd blanched and run off after the girl. Reggie had laughed himself blue about it, and then worried his nails to the quick when Cor didn't show up for another twelve hours-- hell, even Weskham had been ready to burn the city to the ground to find him when Cor had finally returned, bright red, muttering something about it being taken care of. 'D'you mean she took care of you,' Cid had cackled, Cor had bristled, Wes had sighed, Reggie'd noogied their boy into submission, and Clarus had thought that was that.

No one had honestly thought the kid was lying when he'd said it-- they'd figured the prostitute was on the pill, or whatever it was working girls did, or maybe Cor had offed her-- he'd hardly batted an eye about killing Niffs before, civilian or otherwise, and it wouldn't have surprised Clarus to hear it, though he hadn't asked further as he hadn't really wanted to know-- but, well, point was no one had ever brought it up beyond teasing Cor about his first time every now and again, in private, just to see him turn red, or sneer, or bitch, 'cause it was funny.

It wasn't so funny now.

Clarus had been walking with Cor, headed toward the royal briefing room, when they'd been intercepted by a nervous-looking Postal Inspection Office worker. "Uhh, I think you should see this immediately, sir," the mousy guy had said, holding that fateful letter.

Everyone's mail at the Citadel was screened for dangerous content by exceedingly well paid interns with laconic dispositions-- this was not unexpected. Their job included writing concise reports of suspicious or noteworthy information, that were then placed on Cor's desk on the daily, which he inevitably delegated to Dustin, so that they could be further compressed for the King's bi-weekly digest in bullet-point form. What was odd in this moment was that Cor was being sought out for personally.

"Well, out with it then," Clarus had said, crossing his arms impatiently.

"Uh," the guy had waffled. "I think this is for the Marshal's eyes only. Sir."

"Anything I can see, the King's Shield can, as well," Cor had said, and, with the Marshal's blessing, the employee had proceeded to verbally reveal the contents of the letter. About an old tryst, planned on going forever unmentioned, until a plague had sickened her, numbered down her days, so that she had no other option but to entrust to Cor--

"A Niff daughter? Seriously?" Clarus had interrupted, disbelieving it on principle alone. "Ludicrous. Crown dissenters are simply becoming more creative than the national rags we call tabloids."

But Cor hadn't scoffed. He hadn't laughed.

And then Clarus had seen the photograph-- he'd completely forgotten what that Niff girl had looked like, nearly a decade ago now, but Cor himself was immediately recognizable, even at fifteen.

"Fucking Astrals, Cor," Clarus had exclaimed, loudly. "You let her take a fucking photo?!"

"There's more, sir," the meek employee had warbled. "The letter says her daughter has a copy of another daguerreotype-- with, um. With the King."

"Titan's fucking balls," Clarus had sworn. "Lock this down immediately!"

Cor had said nothing.

He'd said nothing even when Clarus had force marched him to the King's briefing room, and briefed the King on the subject, waving the evidence of their collective shame in typical Amiticia fury.

"She says she has a photo," Clarus growled. "A fucking photograph of you, Regis!"

"There's nothing for it now," Regis said pragmatically. "It is not my first youthful indiscretion come to light. It is Cor that worries me."

Cor still said nothing.

"Astrals, kid. I can't believe you," Clarus snarled, pacing like a caged coeurl. "I thought you said you'd taken care of it! Didn't you say you'd taken care of it?"

Cor's fists clenched.

"My dear," Regis said softly. "What would you like to do about this? Name it, and it shall be done."

Clarus interrupted, offering, "I can have this hushed up, quiet-like-- I can send a 'Glaive--"

"I'll go," Cor said, finally.

"All right," Regis said, easily. "What do you need?"

Clarus had not been so acquiescing. He'd bitched and thrown a fit and turned purple from rage -- 'We're in the middle of an Astrals-damned WAR, and you're the General of our fucking ARMY--' but Cor had been stubborn in his Unmovable Object kind of way, saying simply, 'This is my mess' and, 'I'll settle this'.

It could be a ploy, it could be a trap-- hell, the bitch may even be fucking lying about it, there was no further proof beyond a flimsy letter and a photograph she may have taken as future dirt, but Cor had seemed pretty damn determined the kid was his, and when Regis had stated, 'I trust you to do what is best for yourself, and for Lucis,' Clarus knew he had lost.

"I hope you know what you're fucking doing, Leonis," was the last thing Clarus said to him, stung but supportive, in his own way.

"Go with my blessings, my friend," was what Regis had offered, with his usual warm and genuine smile.

And so Cor had bowed low to them both, perfect posture drilled into him since he was twelve years old, and said, "Thank you, your Majesty, your Grace," and marched right on out like he was a man on a mission.

And that was that.

And now Clarus had to deal with the fucking fallout. Soldiers were worse gossips than nursemaids, and that was saying something-- Clarus had fired six nannies since Gladiolus had been born scarcely eight months since. But his King had ordered it, and, Astrals-damn-it, Cor Leonis was the closest Clarus had to a kid brother, and he genuinely cared about the guy, and, well, if you really dug at it, it was kind of Clarus' fault he was in this mess, wasn't it? So Clarus grit his teeth, put on a stiff upper lip, and made sure to keep the Crownsguard working like a well-oiled machine-- not just to keep them all too busy to speculate, but so Cor would still have something to return to, when he inevitably brought his shame back with him.

In another world, in another universe, Cor would cross the continent, cross the pond, cross enemy lines and track down his kid, the girl with his blue eyes and her momma's silver-white hair-- he'd find her at an orphanage and he'd observe her from afar and he'd see her boss around some kids, pick a fight and win it, snatch some bread and eat it, and he'd trail her and her haunts for three days before deciding one: there was no further photographic evidence to be found, and two: she was all right, she was strong and she was okay, she could and would live on without him, just like he could and had lived without his own parents, and so he'd turn right around and leave and come back home empty-handed, saying, 'It's been handled', and that would be the end of that.

In that world, Cor Leonis would never know Aranea Highwind as more than a what-if that never happened, and later, as a mercenary that could be swayed to Lucis' side, if he played his cards right. In some universes, after the Long Night fell and the end felt interminable, he even told her the truth. In fewer still, she took it well.

But in this time, in this place--

In this one, Cor Leonis travelled halfway across the known world and saw the kid, saw his blue eyes on her face and her momma's silver-white hair on her head-- and he thought to himself, 'That's my kid', and that was enough to get him to walk on over, and say, "You'll break a thumb, punching like that."

"Who the fuck're you," is the first thing Aranea said to him, "you creepy old man?"

Cor was literally only fifteen years older than her; he was hardly an old man by any means. But twenty-three to an eight-year old might as well be twenty to an eighty year old, relatively speaking. He didn't take offense. In fact, he was proud of her for staying wary. For not trusting anyone. He had never until Mors, and after that sparingly, and it had kept him alive until now.

"Make a fist like this," Cor said instead, and showed her without touching her, without coming nearer. "And punch with your whole body, not just your arm."

Aranea followed along and did not come any closer, either. "What're you, huh? A mercenary?" she asked, shadow boxing.

"Of a kind," Cor said, and then, "No, your stance is off. Like this."

"That's cool," Aranea said, copying him without taking her eyes off of him, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. "I wanna be a soldier when I grow up, too."

"For Niflheim?" Cor asked, casually.

"For whoever pays the best," Aranea said. "It's a family trade, y'know."

Cor could leave her now, he thinks. He could leave her here, and she'd whore her body out one day, if not on the streets then for her country; it was in her blood, on both sides, and inevitable in any environment. She'd survive, he thinks; he'd survived, he knows.

"You gonna kill anybody?" Aranea interrupted his thought process.

Cor cleared his throat. "What makes you think that, kid?"

"No reason," she said. "I gotta go, anyway. See ya, Mister."

He watched her go. He shadowed her, obviously; he felt proud when she realized it, later than same day. She caught on quick. He felt a bit perverse, making a game of it-- seeing her startle when she noticed, disappearing before she could follow. He didn't know why he was dragging it out. Either stay or leave, Leonis, you're the General of the goddamn Lucian army.

"Come out and fight, you asshole," Aranea snarled out, eventually, tired of jumping at shadows. "You gonna kill me or what? Huh?!"

"You gonna fight me, kid?" Cor asked, emerging soundlessly from her blind spot. He wondered if he was as terrifying to her as Gilgamesh had been to him; he wondered if this was what Gilgamesh had felt, seeing a boy trying his best to fight like a man.

"I'll bite your dick off if you try anything, you creep," Aranea said, and Cor thought, you're eight fucking years old, kid, what the hell; then again, how old had he been when he'd first killed someone, himself? Good soldiers emerged from all sorts of soiled places-- you simply had to ensure they were tempered properly, or risk them shattering.

"You'll need this first, if you wish to try," Cor said, and with a flash of blue light summoned his trusty old Kikuichi-monji. "This is a wakizashi blade." He threw it at her before she could run for it, and she caught it nimbly. Good reflexes.

"Lucians use swords," Aranea said, slowly. "Don't they?"

Kid was sharp, Cor thought. Then again, Cor was being quite blunt in his approach.

"So do mercenaries," Cor said. "You want to be one, don't you?"

"You gonna make me one, old man?" Aranea said, catching on quick.

"If you want to be," Cor promised, "then I will do all in my power."

Aranea was quiet. She unsheathed the sword, admiring it; running her hand across the bumps and edges of the hilt, its red rubies; the collar, the handle. Mors had gifted it to Cor, when he'd returned in disgrace from the Tempering Grounds; 'A sword befit your size, as the Genji was to your ego'. He'd found it hurtful then; she might find it hurtful now. But pain humbled you, made you strong. He could make her stronger, if she let him.

"My mom said my father was a Lucian soldier," Aranea revealed, oddly vulnerable. "She said he'd come for me, if something ever happened to her."

Cor didn't say anything.

"You him?" Aranea asked, faintly accusatory. "You my dad?"

"If you want me to be," Cor said.

"What if I don't?" Aranea said, raising her chin defiantly.

"Then I won't be," Cor said, simply. "I can make you a soldier regardless."

Aranea chewed her lip. She eyed him up and down, taking in his eyes, his face, his stance. Like she was devouring him, so she could recall him, even after he was long gone. "I'll think about it," she said, faux-haughtily. "Till then, see ya." She turned around and fled, blade in hand.

He let her go.

He let her think about it, for as long he could spare it. In the meantime, he made himself cozy around town. He grew a beard, bought some cigarettes. He picked up the local accent. Ended up joining a construction crew, to do a bit of spying; the Niffs were building something big further west, too big to keep fully secret; rumours implied it was wall-breaking. Astrals, it was time to go home. At least he could return with some useful intel, he thought, pilfering incriminating documents into the Armiger; enough to make this long trip worth it, even if the kid said Go fuck yourself.

Instead, the kid said, "Where the fuck were you, huh!"

"Around," Cor said, loosely shrugging his shoulders, slowly discarding all the foreign mannerisms he'd absorbed in the past few weeks.

"I thought you were gone," Aranea hissed. "You asshole!"

"Came back for my sword," Cor said cooly. "You gonna give it to me?"

"It's mine now," Aranea said, and it was odd in an interesting way, seeing his own glare reflected back at him in the flesh instead of through a mirror. "You gave it to me, so it's mine."

"I did give it to you," Cor admitted. "But can you keep me from taking it back?"

Aranea looked pissed, all twenty-two kilograms of her shaking. "Fuck you," she snarled. "If you take it, then don't come back, you shitty sperm donor--"

"Come back with me," Cor calmly interrupted her tirade. "And you can have it."

"To your band of mercenaries?" Aranea asked, shrewdly. "Or to Lucis?"

"They are one and the same," Cor said honestly.

"I knew it," Aranea said, breathlessly, having come to a revelation. "I knew it. You're the soldier they call the Immortal, aren't you."

"Hm." Cor's gaze was like looking into an abyss. "I've been known by that name, sure."

"Shit." She seemed excited, or scared, it was difficult to tell apart with her pale face flushed like that. "They say you behead Niffs. You just fucking cut their heads off. That you don't take prisoners alive. That when you do, you give them to your men to practice swordplay."

"They say a lot of things," Cor said, and he was stock still, like a predator, like death, before he did that weird shrugging thing again, and he was just a man, with a patchy beard, and Aranea's blue eyes, staring back at her placidly. "So? What's your answer, kid?"

"Yeah," Aranea said, shaking from the adrenaline of it, from the reality of her decision. "Yeah, get me out of here. I wanna learn how to kill like you do."

"C'mon, then," Cor said. "You got anything you'll miss before we go?"

"No," Aranea said, and tapped her head. "Everything I care about's up here."

Cor quirked a smile. It looked odd on that severe-looking face, but Aranea mirrored it, and it felt like connecting with a monster; like a big, wild coeurl looked at her and thought 'kitten' instead of 'prey'. It was thrilling, in a scary way, like she had to keep pinging as 'mine' or risk being done for. It felt like fighting for her life and winning.

"Good," he said simply. "Then let's go."

And so they went.

Aranea had never been outside her city, let alone Niflheim. She tried to be mature about it, stiff upper lip about it, clearly imitating Cor's silences and mannerisms, adapting to her circumstances as best as she could-- to survive, to thrive, to come out on top, and Cor respected that drive-- but her age betrayed her when she became excited about the sea.

"It's huge!" Aranea exclaimed, pointing at that wide stretch of blue-grey-green. "It goes on forever!"

"Not forever," Cor said. "But far enough that you can't swim across it, if I throw you overboard."

She eyed him warily, still unable to pick apart his joking tone from his serious tone, but when he made no move to carry through his threat, she perked up again. "Teach me how to kill someone," she said, "like you promised."

"Throw them overboard," Cor said. "That'll do it."

"Ugh, you're the fucking worst!" She ran off to go bother others, her gregarious personality shining through as she wheedled and befriended half the folks on board simply by chattering at them and fluttering her eyelashes.

Cor carefully followed her from enough distance away that she didn't pick up on it, but didn't interfere, even when some guy tried to kick her after catching her trying to steal his wallet. She kneed the guy in the groin and ran off, vaulting into their cabin and locking the door, keeping herself unharmed in this manner. Cor would have to lecture her on antagonizing folks in close spaces, and the importance of always having an exit strategy, but some things you had to learn on the field, and she seemed to be doing all right for herself. He spent that night on the deck, giving her space to cool down, to feel safe.

She was still pissed in the morning when he came back around, though, and he was mildly surprised by how close she stuck to him the rest of the day, bitching under her breath but not leaving his side again. He wondered if she was afraid of the man she'd hurt yesterday; he wondered if he should tell her he'd already thrown that guy overboard.

"Hey, old man," she mumbled into the small of her arm, the ocean breeze making a big tangled mess of her hair. "You aren't gonna ditch me somewhere, right?"

Ah, Cor thought. I see now.

"I won't if you keep up," Cor said instead, to keep her on her toes.