#my huswife | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arsenicflame · 1 year ago

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It used to be that he and Ed would sit together upon an evening, sharing a drink and some quiet time together after a long day. Ed would do all manner of things, puzzles, smoking, whatever's captured his attention at this moment- but Izzy would always do the menial tasks, the things he didn't have time for in his day, too busy running around from dawn till dusk. But in these quiet moments, he would get to do those small things, he'd get to turn his brain off and sharpen knives, or blacken leathers, but most often, he'd do the mending.

It became such routine that Ed stops noticing, it becomes just another thing Izzy does for him, another part of his job, add it to the list.

Eventually, as their relationship breaks down, they stop having their evenings together. But Izzy never stops mending Ed's clothes. He brings the pile back to his room, working by the light of a candle, returning the clothes before Ed ever notices they're gone. It continues even on The Revenge, Izzy scooping up Ed's repairs as he spends time distracted by Stede, by the crew, by his rediscovered zest for life. All the while Izzy goes on unnoticed, declaring his love in every stitch.

When things settle down after the reunion, Izzy starts picking up Stede's mending. He picks it up before he restarts with Ed's, still (justifiably) angry at everything that happened. But Izzy's duty has always been to his captain, and Stede's his captain now, even if he might not be ready to say it out loud.

He drags the clothes to his room, at first, things damaged in their sword fighting training and found in their raids, but Stede's way more aware than Ed, especially about his clothes, especially when he has so few, and he notices the repairs quickly. It takes him a lot longer to pick up that its Izzy doing it, assuming its the usual Frenchie / Wee John repair team, but one night Ed's telling tales from his past, and his nights together with Izzy come up, and it all clicks.

Stede wont stand for Izzy doing the mending in that tiny cabin of his, and drags him back up to the captains cabin. Its awkward at first, with tensions still running so high between all of them. The obvious issues with Ed and Izzy, the yet unspoken words between Ed and Stede, and the now new bond between Izzy and Stede that has this sitting between them- the fact that Izzy did it, and the fact that Stede noticed.

It was never a thing he and Ed addressed and Izzy doesn't quite know what to do with himself, with Stede taking an active interest in what he's doing- to be fair, Stede doesn't know what to do either. Even if he never said it in as many words, Ed's story showed him the sentimentality of this for Izzy, and he doesn't quite know how to react to this being offered to him- of Izzy offering this to him- he doesn't even know if Izzy truly understands the weight of why he does this, but Stede, looking in from the outside can see the meaning plain as day.

All he knows is that he likes it and he wants more- and maybe he wants more from Izzy in other ways too. Having him sat on their sofa with their mending, a kind of domestic bliss that he never had, but is maybe beginning to realise he wants. Its never like that with Ed, they feed off each others energy too much, get too amped up, but here, with Izzy, he can sit in complete silence but know he's not alone.

The first time he kisses Izzy is on one of those nights. He's just finished fixing Stede's favourite shirt and offered it to him to check over and Stede all of a sudden finds that he's unable to help himself, pulls Izzy down by that fucking necktie and kisses him so hard it knocks his glasses askew- things progress quickly after that.

After, Ed will be told what happened. After, Stede and Ed will stop dancing around where they stand. After, Ed and Izzy will finally talk about all the things they never said.

It ends much as it starts, with them sat together on an evening, with a drink or a book, chatting and laughing, with a pile of mending, fixed with love.

imagine izzy pulling out that sailor’s sewing kit and quietly mending stede’s torn clothes, without being asked to. this is something he did for ed all the time (ed Can sew but he gets too restless so it never gets done) and now it’s what he does for stede. stede loses his mind in a combination horny/sentimental way.

#ACTS OF SERVICE #Izzy sewing is everything to me (i am projecting my interests onto him)#also those sewing kits are calling housewifes/huswifs ... everywhere i go i see wife coded Izzy #additional hcs that Izzy and Ed made his huswif themselves back when they were kids. on Hornigold's boat with scraps of whatever they could #get their hands on. from raids and rags and stolen cloths. Izzys necktie was one scrap that they deemed 'too nice' to cut up for the kit #the huswif has got embroidery all over it; things they planned and things they didnt- Ed could never concentrate long enough to sew #functionally but he loved the little doodles he could do (this later manifested in his tattoos)#Eds forgotten this (or so Izzy thinks?) but Izzy has treasured that thing for years- mends every worn spot before it becomes a hole #kept it safe through boat changes and raids and even a fire- he would grab it over almost anything he owns (as precious as his ring)#they made that; together; with their own hands. its theirs in every way. a symbol of Ed and Izzy #its not the most functional huswif ever; but its theirs and Izzy wouldnt swap that for anything. Stede asks about it once and Izzy gets so #defensive that Stede never ever suggests a new one- but he does give Izzy a little pile of fabric hes collected to make new additions #to make room for new embroidery. not removing from what they had; just adding something new- some new strength for the weak spots;#some space for new doodles.#nyxtalks #ofmd #ofmd s2 spoilers #izzy hands #dude im sorry this was supposed to be just a silly little tag ramble about izzy sewing but it got out of hand #but i am taking ur 'SHARING YOUR META BOY' to heart dfhndnd :D

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lanymme · 5 months ago

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hi this is rose (wavers huswife) Can I put in a request for Kiara yuri violence with Nero who is feeling her own encroaching Beasthood crawl up her back. can be chaldea or CCC setting but I am curious to see kiara taunting Nero into becoming a beast and getting gay with it too

What a fantastic request. Fate/Extra CCC is a game about showing the most embarrassing parts of yourself to others, and I always felt like dear Saber didn’t get her chance to shine in that light. And wow, I had fun with this. Thanks for giving me this opportunity to write some of my favorite characters!

This takes place during the CCC True End, so, spoiler warning for that!

CWs: gore, consent

Saber’s heels clack and splash through the shallow wine-colored water, blood roaring in her ears, fire burning in her veins, as she charges toward that howling mass of disquieted spirits and the manifestation of depravity at its center.

A swirling mass of magic rises above that horned head as the incantation end, and with peals of indecent, unrestrained laughter, hundreds of streaming trails of souls peel off it fly toward her. She dodges and weaves and turns as they spatter the ground, sword cutting sheets in the water as it trails behind her, eyes fixed on the prize: the newborn goddess she will bring crashing down to honor her dear Praetor’s beautiful path through life, that lead her from knock-kneed fawn to eagle-hearted worthy, who would stand alone against certain ruin, head held high without even a knife at her hip.

But her Saber is here now, and even as she takes a few bolts in the shoulder, she reaches her foe and brings up her sword, clashing against that outstretched palm. Kiara, that enigmatic but approachable holy woman who always gave her Praetor advice, who heard her worries and made their struggle possible, smiles down at her, bemused, loving. Saber pulls her sword—tries to pull it back, but that palm has curled forward, and the grip of those fingers are irresistible. Desperately, she pulls on her blade to removed it.

Kiara leans forward, so close that Saber can smell her, incense and flowers and something unnamed.

“Ah, Saber,” she lilts, voice sweet and slow. ”I thought you had unlocked your Origin and donned that mythological Mystic Code to play with me, and yet your sword has no strength behind it. Have you decided to accept my love, after all? Please, if you are ashamed, don’t worry—shame, humiliation, disgrace: to the enlightened, these are perfumes of life.”

She grits her teeth, uninterested in responding, fighting for control. The Rose of Olympia is better than this—her dauntless partner deserves better.

Kiara laughs, and her Praetor cries out to her, and shame brands her like bitter inelegant wine.

For a moment, she remembers. Tacitus, blind to the glory of her art, ignorantly wounding her pride; Seneca, dismissing her brilliance. That gaping, yawning emptiness opens up in her heart.

She never wants to let that person down, never wants to see her disappointed in her Servant, to be unable to protect her.

Digging deep, she jerks her blade out of Kiara’s grasp, and delivers a quick duelist’s strike to her wrist, tasting blood. Turning, she spins to strike again, but her blow is deflected, unseen, and Kiara’s open palm takes her in the chest, an overwhelming flood of sensation shattering her concentration, bringing her down to a knee. Weakly, she raises her sword to defend herself, but just as Kiara bears down on her, throwing her full bodyweight into both hands, her Praetor rescues her, healing her just at the brink.

The blow is crushing, agony beyond reason seeping into her, but she survives. She survives, and she leaps back, disengaging: battered and bent, she remains on the stage.

Hakuno’s hand touches her arm, and she meets her concerned gaze, smiling proudly to reassure this precious woman whose life depends on the mettle of her sword.

But inside, her heart is shaken. She can’t disappoint her, can’t let her down—can’t fail to measure up. Anything but that.

“Good grief, Kiara. Even now, you’re playing with your food? I suppose the last dregs of your self-restraint truly rotted away in that chrysalis.”

“If you would like to fight her yourself, by all means, allow me to support you as your Master.”

“As if I could stop you from showing your ass, you gutter-side slut! Go on, embarrass yourself. I’ll just watch from here.”

She takes her Praetor’s hand in hers as she steps away, letting it drop when only their fingertips can reach.

“Keep your eyes on me!” she declares, an edge of insecurity in her voice, like it’s a plea, not a declaration to reach the ears of the gods. “I will show you how I shine!”

She turns before she can see the flash of worry in Hakuno’s eyes.

For a moment, she remembers that awful moment, repeated again and again—the eyes of the people falling, turning away, as she begins to sing.

Kiara giggles, staring at her, eyes burning. Delicately, a hand comes up to her cheek, one finger to her lips—an indecent perversion of that considerate, sisterly gesture she often showed in her rapport with Hakuno. “Oh, Saber,” she intones, voice ringing and sticky-sweet. “You’ve shown me something so interesting to inaugurate my ascension. Please, let me reward you—let me bestow favor upon you, who pleases me.”

“Foolishness! I am my Praetor’s instrument, to be wielded by her hands! The only thing I require from you is a triumph for the stage!”

Striking a ready stance, she calls up her power, the power of Rome, of a people ripening and flowering, whose aspirations and dreams she carries on her shoulders. “Fountain of Flames!”

Something stirs inside her.

Aestus Estus ignites, and she rockets forward to rejoin the fight.

“Let the arc of my blade signal the curtains to fall! Rosa—”

Kiara pulls her hand back, and a hundred magical threads entangle her, jerking her to a halt. “Ahaha! Please, don’t be so hasty!”

Saber jerks and struggles, a mere fly caught in a web. Despair runs through her heart. She can’t bear to turn around and see the face of her Praetor, who has faced adversity time and time again to bring her here, entrusting her fate to this sword now frozen in the air.

Kiara smiles at her, pityingly. “You speak of triumphs, and yet, to my recollection, you never had one yourself, did you, Heroic Spirit of the Sword?”

Saber glares at her, sword raised uselessly above her head. Kiara begins to step closer, howling spirits and death’s head encroaching alongside her.

“When I saw your impressive Mythological Mystic Code, I was so surprised to learn that one with such few achievements in the eyes of humanity would have such sealed inner mysteries to unlock!” She claps her hands together, smiling sweetly, the very picture of an innocent young lady, curved crescent ox horns titling with the motion. “I thought the Moon Cell must be unexpectedly generous, to put such thoughts toward you.”

She stands before Saber, who struggles desperately, mortally, in her bonds. But she’s too weak to free herself, to weak to respond to her Praetor’s cries, to weak to stand on the stage to which she had devoted her life.

Those beautiful, baleful eyes glint wildly, conspiratorial with dark enlightenment. “But as we have… fought,” she offers, and it stings like a knife between the ribs, “I have come to understand: the Moon Cell, the eye of god, sees things as I do.”

Kiara’s scent envelops her, running like lightning through her body. One hand strokes down her sword arm, and her face passes close enough that Saber can feel her warmth, feel the tickle of her breath agains there ear, wine and blood and smoke, and a shiver passes down to the base of her spine. “Suffering and bliss. Favor and disgrace. Pride and shame… they are each one and the same. So please, comfort yourself: your name is exalted above all others, immortalized, celebrated, in the eyes of all the world.”  Something, something is rising inside her. Her knees are wobbling, her chest burns. Her head hurts, ah, it hurts, as bad as that day, when flames reached the heavens.

Kiara looks conspiratorially over her Saber’s shoulder, at her Master, and then back to Saber, eyes twinkling, conspiratorial.

She leans in, so close, to whisper breathlessly in Saber’s ear.

“Nero Claudius. Whore of Babylon.”

Lightning strikes through her—a fire, dark and sweet, in her gut—singing, calling, hollow craving, devouring her shame, blissful, forbidden.

At the edge of her vision, tiny flames lick at her corners of her eyes—fledgling embers, things to be nurtured, on blood and wine, on the engorged hearts of humanity.

She squirms and struggles in her bonds, panting and jerking, trying desperately to look over her shoulder, while Kiara coos to her, and smiles, and presses a kiss just behind her ear.

“Please… no.” she cries, voice melting. “Not, not in front of her.”

“Mmmm… if you want to break free. Then all you have to do is stop holding back. Right? Do it for her sake.”

It’s true. It’s true. Ah, she’s been so foolish. Disgraceful. But even in her disgrace, there’s something, something she can do, to respond to that hand that reached out to her, that accepted her, that chased her back until she could stand beside her, that rescued her when she was injured, that returned for her: Hakuno, who sacrificed her body to free her from that eternal sleep.

“…”

I’m sorry.

She can’t bear to look, can’t bear to see the expression on that face. But all of a sudden, she snaps her bonds, and strikes her blade deep into that shoulder. Blood, rich and red and plentiful, gushes from the wound, even though this is the Moon Cell, and such things are normally impossible.

Kiara laughs, full and throaty, and with a backswing of her hand, a wall of force swats Saber away, desires and foibles and vanities sizzling and burrowing through into her.

But now, it is devoured, into that hollow, hungry emptiness burning inside her.

All too soon, she sees that wound close, fading away to nothing. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. To… to find victory, for her Master.

Her stomach growls.

She refocuses her attention on Kiara, and all of a sudden, she is dazzled. How could she not see it before? Decadence, vanity, satiety and want—a cradle of sin, a body offered up, mother-sacrifice to all of humanity: the ripest, burgeoning fruit of the intersection between wilderness and civilization, the she-wolf that suckles the world at her breast.

Breathtaking.

“… You really are the most graceless, despicable manifestation of a woman,” Andersen says, disgust permeating his voice. “Come on then, Kiara. If you’re done wallowing in your own filth, let’s get this over with.”

“As you say. Come, Saber. Shall we dance?”

“…I smell the scene of rot in you, woman. The time has come to pluck you from the vine with my own hands. As you have set the table, so I shall sit down to feast.”

Kiara claps her hands together, delighted. “Oh my, how lovely! I’m so glad to see you have accepted my invitation and received my teachings honestly with your heart. After all, the first step on the path to enlightenment is to renounce one’s heavenly desires, is it not?”

“… Saber?”

She shuts out that frightened voice. It hurts, it hurts, but… win, win—she just needs to win. To cut this woman down, so she can…

So she can?

So she can devour her heart, bite by bite. So she can reclaim the throne that belongs to her, the cracked egg in the branches of the blooming Sakura tree, shining down the light of civilization on them as they stand in the blood of humanity, so that she can gather it in that grail, her crystal glass, and watch as it pours over onto the earth below, as the fire spreads at her feet.

Her head hurts. Blood seeps down through her hair, and she catches some of it on her tongue as it passes beside her nose, into her mouth. Rich, salt, iron. The fruit of conquest, of germinating empire.

“Saber!”

She charges forward again, and as she sees those rapid mudras begin once more, she rends her sword through the waters at their feet, and a foul scarlet wave rushes ahead of her, floating lotus blossoms bobbing up, turning over like helpless ships in an angry sea.

She laughs, imperious, hollow, anguished, as she charges forward, bursting through the swell.

Kiara raises a hand to stop her, the wave parting around her, but Saber bursts through it at her side, flanking her, and puts her whole weight into spinning, stabbing forth with all her strength—shattering that barrier, taking her foe in the side, drawing out a cry somewhere between scream of pain and heat laugh, her burning blade hissing and crackling as it rends through spiritronized flesh. She groans in satisfaction at the first taste of this extravagant gift.

“What a delicacy you will make. The appetites of a dozen burgeoning cities, fallen and decadent, condensed down into the body of one woman.” She looks into those gold eyes, wells to the hollow where all the desires of humanity collect to steep and mature. She twists her blade in the wound, and Kiara’s body jerks. “I shall be sure to clean my plate.”

Kiara steps closer, approaching like a lover through a doorway, sword sliding deeper into her body, and strikes Saber in her sternum. Flashes of muddied, amalgamated desires tear through her thoughts even as the blow fractures bone: the unfulfilled promise of decadence, starvation after feasting, an unending cycle. Sharp pain, the dull and intoxicating burn of want, mingle together like a dizzying, fragrant wine. She shudders, overcome, and then seizes that wrist and bites into it deep, like ripe fruit, like meat, raw and bloody, tendons and bone, the deeply marinated craving of a myriad living souls swirling down to the hollow in her gut as Kiara moans in agony.

(Somewhere far away, someone calls her name. The echo of mortal shame tugs at her, and she pushes it away).

But Kiara offers her arm up to Saber’s face, does not so much as flinch to pull away. “There you are,” she soothes, voice hot. “See?” Her other hand comes up to stroke the back of Saber’s neck, softly, encouraging, even as she licks at her bones, lips and tongue and teeth, inside her. “I—ahh—always knew our tastes would be aligned, if you could only let your hair down. Would you please me, down on Earth? Live in depravity, voluptuary, chasing your own ends?” She tucks a hair behind Saber’s ear, the wet sound of consumption smacking like a deep kiss. “Accept my love, and your place in paradise: an endless banquet where the ten thousand-colored decadence of humanity blankets the land, want and excess and prosperity swelling and withering on the vine.”

She salivates, and gnaws, and dreams. City after city, conquest and shattered spears, empires at their apex with gravity just taking hold—hers to savor and take in forever. The unquiet spirits that roil behind Kiara reach out to her, dozens of beseeching hands grasping toward her. All the while, the fantasy smoulders in her gut, tempting, yearning.

But she has to kill this woman here. To devour her.

She releases that arm, and wrenches her sword free, and Kiara gasps, eyes fluttering and rolling, legs going weak, as Saber pulls back into a high guard, preparing to shear those generous arms off by the shoulder.

But in that moment, those binding threads cast by Kiara’s quick hands steal her momentum, long enough for her target to dance back out of her range.

“A pity,” Kiara laments. “But you have been wonderful. I can at least content myself to thoroughly enjoy you at your fullest, in the end.”

All the hairs on her body stand up.

Andersen is saying something. She doesn’t hear it. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears. Kiara clasps her hands together—her wrist is already better, like new.

Spiritrons gather with foreboding density, and she can feel the laws of the space they occupy run thin.

Saber races toward her, all agility, animal quickness.

But too slow. She won’t reach in time

“The hour of salvation has arrived. Those who are still alive—nghh!”

A familiar ring of energy collapses around her, disrupting the flow of spiritrons, and Saber instinctually takes advantage of the moment, landing a clean strike across her chest, mangling one of those perfect breasts—but a moment later, all evidence of the strike is gone.

They clash again, sword inches from outstretched palm.

“Your Master is persistent. Unshakable, unlike her Servant.”

A pang runs through her.

Again and again, the two of them exchange blows. Clashing, feinting, riposting. She takes a hit to her ribs, and then her shoulder A cut across Kiara’s thighs, across her stomach—rich, satisfying, but so fleeting: unlike her, her opponent doesn’t flag in the slightest, and is back to full condition in a second.She can feel her grip on victory slipping, desperation setting in.

A blow to her head makes her vision swim, and she steps back, covering the distance with her blade as she disengages. She begins to warily circle Kiara, who stands still, watching her.

Those sharp, accepting eyes pick details from her face, from her body, and Kiara smiles at her, patient, kind.

“You understand, don’t you? Yes, we truly are compatible. Your seeking fang, your hungry flames…” she sighs, a hand coming up to her impassioned lips, eyes dewy. “Ah, it’s like a dream. You truly are giving it your best. But, dear Saber, did you forget? I have an Authority over craving. All The World’s Desire is pointed at me, and living things take succor from my flesh. But in that fleeting satisfaction, want is never satisfied: and so that craving returns again to me.”

A cold sweat breaks out on Saber’s body.

Kiara smiles, sweet, radiant as the golden clouds that surround their battlefield, while that formless mass of spirits that lies behind her struggles and clutches and cling to her, a hundred grasping hands, and that giant smoldering death’s head lurks, watches, from above. “I see you understand. If you would like to indulge yourself in this body, by all means, continue. But if your object is victory… triumph…”

Desperation. Humiliation.

“I think you may find that more difficult to come by.”

Crush. She has to crush her, like a ripe tomato between her teeth.

The ground trembles. A peal of distant thunder rumbles through the throne room, and tiny ripples form in the water.

For some reason, a pang of sorrow runs through her. But she knows this is the only thing left.

She lifts her head—

And startles, as two hands slap the side of her face.

“You stupid Emperor! You were the one who said you would always answer if I called for you! Listen to me when I try to get your attention!”

Oh. There are tears in her eyes.

Her Master is standing there before her, in the middle of the field of battle, her back to the enemy. Of course she is.

Of course she is.

She takes hold of her waist with one hand, pulling Hakuno behind herself, and the other comes up to parry Kiara’s killing strike.

“Aha, I see you—“

“Silence! My Praetor is speaking!”

Her riposte strikes Kiara in the kneecap, smashing the intricate bone there, dropping her too her knees with a scream.

Leaping backward, Master in tow, she creates a wide berth of distance between them.

Midair, she makes eye contact with her foe. Kiara glares at her from the floor, water lapping up over her hands, horns bent low. Her eye twitches.

They land, and Saber sets her Master down. But she won’t meet her gaze.

“Look at me.”

“I need to—“

“Saber, look at me. I mean it. Please.”

She can hardly bear to do it. She has thrown away all her pride, tarnished and bloodied the gold that she wears, shown a side of herself that even the lowest would sneer at. She has nothing left to offer her Master of that bounty she brought from the Throne: neither reassurance, a steadfast back to chase, nor the strength to stand as her champion, as she promised so long ago, in that place of death at the bottom of the Lunar Sea, far away on the Near Side of the Moon.

But she does still have faith. She has the faith they’ve built in each other.

And so she looks again into those eyes.

“There you are,” Hakuno Kishinami says. “Thank goodness.” She smiles.

Her lip wobbles a little bit. But she does not cry.

That kind hand, with only one command seal remaining, touches her face. “It’s okay, Saber.”

She knows that nothing is okay. But still… still, it’s comforting, to hear those words from that voice.

“I don’t think any less of you, you know. I just… learned more about the person you choose to be. Surrounded by darkness, but still shining on that stage… That’s my Saber. The person I admire, who taught me how to live as a human being. To lead a beautiful life.”

She does sob, this time.

It’s undignified, unworthy of her, but perhaps… perhaps in front of her Empress is the proper place for an Emperor to show that side of herself.

Behind her, she hears splashing, as Kiara stands.

“Even so,” she starts, voice wavering, as Hakuno wipes a warm tear track from her cheek, “even so, I… I’m not strong enough.”

“Nothing we’ve done has ever been certain,” Hakuno says. “We’ve always been the underdog. All we’ve ever promised each other was our best.”

Truly nothing, nothing can soothe her the way this woman can.

Kiara’s fist is clenched, but her eyes are misty and lost

“… I don’t understand. Surely my sermon was without fault. How could this be the outcome? It makes no sense.”

Her Servant laughs at her openly.

“Seriously, Kiara! You were so embarrassed about reading fairy tales, and yet you still couldn’t see this coming! As a reader, you should reflect on yourself a little!”

Hakuno takes both of her hands

“I need to keep this last Command Seal for when we win. But… but if I can ask anything of you, as your Master… I want to see you perform. I want to see you shine brighter than you’ve ever shone. And whatever comes after, I’ll be satisfied. Can you do that for me?”

She brings herself to her full height, chest puffed out, smiling through the tears.

Really. She never needed anyone else’s love, anyone else’s regard. So what has she to fear?

“Umu! You need not even ask! But hearing those words, I must raise my sights beyond the heavens! My Master, my Praetor. Your loyalty is just! Allow me to show you the art of a genius that reaches the very gods!”

She turns to face their opponents once again, emboldened, blood singing, blinking the last tears from her eyes. A pristine rose in bloom manifests in her fingers, and she closes her eyes as she takes in its familiar fragrance

Kiara begins a series of mudras, but her Master, whos heart beats as one with Saber’s own, preempts the attack with the codecast she inherited from Leo, setting the stage as she has so many times before.

Heart full, pride and love and wonder ringing throughout her body, she tosses a single rose into the air and as she charges forth, she declares:

“Behold my genius! Listen to the thunderous applause! The glory of the Empire is here!”

With a flash, a single magnificent stroke in one impossible stride as she passes over that glorious inlaid golden floor, she cleaves past Kiara’s defenses just as that flower comes to rest on marble.

“Throw open the doors like a flower in bloom…”

Once again she stands on that stage where all the beauty of the world’s beauty gathers, where storms of rose petals fall like snow: stands proud before a beloved audience who truly appreciates her art, stands in the light of the sun where she can shine unparalleled like she has so often in her dearest dreams.

“… to my Golden Theater!”

#fate series #fate extra ccc #fate/extra ccc #my writing #ficlet requests #request fill #kiara sessyoin #sessyoin kiara #red saber #nero claudius #hakuno kishinami #highly suspect nuns

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