#the knight in solider armor | cloud

[citrusici]

LU Star Wars AU: Part 5

LAST BUT NOT LEAST ITS TIME AND SKY LETS GO

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Time

Time is a direct survivor of Order 66. He was a child living in one of the more remote temples when everything happened, and was able to escape alive by fleeing into the dense forests of the planet.

Time spent many years after that traveling on his own and not getting close to anyone out of fear of being found out, or worse, left behind. He holds a certain bitterness towards everything that's happened, and when he was a teenager, he was involved in a major incident on the planet Termina. Time finally decided to bury his saber on a remote planet after that, unwilling to take on the responsibility that comes with it.

Time actually ended up meeting Sheik and donning Mandalorian armor some time after that in his teenage years. He doesnt always gel with Mandalorian warrior ideaology, but he doesn’t truly fit the Jedi way of his childhood anymore either, after all the war and death he’s seen. He's determined to be strong enough to protect those he cares about, like Malon.

Time doesn't entirely get along with the Chain at first. (Especially Warriors and Twilight; Warriors reminds him of his old Jedi master, who wore a red scarf, and Twilight's saber looks suspiciously familiar.) The boys eventually grew on him anyway, and he counts them among the people he cares about.

Sky

Sky comes from a gaseous planet in the Outer Rim with settlements that float in the clouds, constructed far above its surface.

Sky's planet is a bit of a cosmic mystery, since it should be impossible for islands of solid rock to float; some theorize that it was constructed instead of naturally occurring, or that there is a unique combination of magnetic fields and orbits that make it possible, but no one knows for certain. Loftwings are part of the planet's ecosystem of impossible floating islands, and are an important part of the culture there.

Being so remote, the Empire didn't show much interest in Sky's home planet until Ghirahim showed up. The Empire hasn’t taken over his home yet, and he is determined to keep it that way, along with the rest of the Knights of Skyloft (including Sun). Ghirahim's interest in the planet involved rumors that there was an old Jedi temple hidden on its surface, and the secrets that were hidden within it.

Those rumors turned out to be true; there was an ancient abandoned temple on one of the floating islands, and Sky and Sun ended up discovering it before Ghirahim did. Sky also found a protocol droid named F1, and with Fi's help he and Sun managed to forge their own sabers with the only remaining kyber crystals there.

Sky's connection to the Force manifests mostly as visions, and he occasionally experiences strange, cryptic dreams as a result.

Linked Universe AU belongs to @ linkeduniverse!

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[middlenamesage]

Images, circumstances or feelings that the planets bring to my mind

Sun

Being given an award or certificate

When you feel clarity about yourself or an endeavor, with zero doubt

Taking the mask off (showing your authenticity)

Being complimented or GIVING compliments

Leading or inspiring

Being in good health

Being on stage

A playground

Whatever makes you feel most alive

Your creations like art or children

Going your own way

Finding a passion that makes you feel like you’ve found more of yourself

Moon

Comfort food

The relationships that feel most like family

Breastfeeding

The menstrual cycle (“on your moon” or “moon time” as some have called it, and fun fact: there have been significantly ongoing times that my period came every month during my lunar return, her phase has been less relevant for me personally.)

Counseling or the things you do to manage your emotional health

A shoulder to cry on

Empathy and sympathy

Trauma responses

Self soothing habits

Your childhood home

Your ancestors

Déjà vu

Mercury

Books and libraries

Phones

Chat windows

Search engine

The local roads

Journaling

Classrooms

Secretaries

To-do list

Maps

The mail

Wit

Word games

Asking “how”?

Venus

A palette of paints

Walking barefoot in nature

Flowers

Cuddling🫠massage🫠orgasm

Cherished possessions

A feast

Hips swinging

“Buy me a coffee”

A spa or a retreat

Wedding rings/promise rings/vows… to give mainstream examples, but anything to honor and recognize a relationship.

Reciprocation (or awareness of however your giving vs taking looks like in relationships)

Models of good manners and social grace

Doves (peace) and swans (grace)

Mars

Scars

Rough or energetic sex

Break ups

Gym equipment

Athletics

Tournaments of all types

An erupting volcano

Demolition at a construction site (and now I’m literally envisioning a red wrecking ball! 🔴)

Punching bag ���

Knives and swords

Knight in shining armor

A can of pepper spray

Standing your ground

Setting your sights on something and not backing down

Criminals (fighting/violence/violation/stealing)

Men in power starting wars (Mars AND Saturn and they have actually been going to war over Venus i.e. resources/wealth and historically women too!)

Heroes

Jupiter

Winning the lottery- or using that as metaphor, any expansion brought to you that feels like you won the lottery.

Long distance travels

Archery or horseback riding

When suddenly everything seems possible

Praying

Religious and spiritual texts

A desire to be generous and pass on good fortune

Celebrations of excess, like flaunting wealth. Or eating competitions/livestreams (speaking of the latter, I recently saw a headline about a Tik Tok star for that who died aged 24. He did in fact die during his Jupiter return).

Strong fiery excitement a little like mania❤️‍🔥 (personally I’ve noticed this happening to me when Jupiter’s strongly active and connect it to making new meanings and/or optimism, this has made it the benefic usually easier to enjoy; more on my natural wavelength than the relaxation of Venus.)

Connecting the dots / seeing the big picture

Asking “why”?

Saturn

An old building with construction still more functional than the new ones

A rock wall (built from solid earth, and a boundary!)

Mountain climbing

City hall or school board meeting

Government/law enforcement/the boss

A ten/twenty/etc year plan

The designated driver

Elders

Child prodigies

The borders of nations

“Waste not, want not”

Saying no

Traditions (especially on societal levels, family traditions are so Moon!)

Building your resume

Uranus

A political or human rights protest

Boycotts

Artificial intelligence

Genius

Technological simulation

Space travel

Rejecting norms and being contrarian

Experimenting with new approaches

Mad scientist

Foresight built on logical observations (distinct from intuitive premonitions)

Embracing your quirks

Turbulence

Mental overstimulation

Sudden ideas

Not “irl”

The urge to flee situations that have you feeling caged

Self autonomy

Neptune

Clouds or fog obstructing the view

A fortune telling booth

Swindlers

Drugs

Dreams

Synchronicity

Metaphors and symbolism

Premonitions

Wearing rose-colored glasses

Not getting credit

Self sacrifice and martyrs

A funhouse mirror that distorts your reflection

A pseudonym or “pen name”

“All is one and one is all”

Questioning if you exist

The ocean (this could obviously be the Moon too!)

Pluto

A cemetery

A bombshell reveal that changes everything

Relationships marked by power imbalance

Emotional manipulation

Alchemy

Butterfly metamorphosis

Water frozen completely solid

Everything those in power keep buried from us, also the reveals when they happen

Driving through a dark tunnel

Financial and trauma inheritances

Psychological repression

The hidden treasure chest (of your personal power)

⬆️ Ascendant 🌅

The vehicle with which you’re using to navigate all of this through life…

The helm of the ship, or the steering wheel

Mile marker 0 (your starting point; it was the moment you took your first breath)

When your eyes open in the morning!

Note: Seeing the ascendant as gate to the rest of the chart, I emphasize the value in connecting more deeply with your ascendant sign, your ascendant ruler, and any planets in the first house especially if they are conjunct the ascendant.

[adelina-shifts]

𝒮𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝒜𝑠𝑘 𝒢𝑎𝑚𝑒. 🦢

thank you @callsigndio for tagging me 🦢 i will be writing as my tsitp self

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒕 running home to your sweet nothing: what is something in your dr that relaxes you? ever morning at exactly 6:25, i open the juliette balcony i share with my brother and breath in the new day. it faces the center of the side of our neighbor's house, our neighbor who is the boy i grew up loving. his window is visible, just enough from this point. i don't look at it immediately. first, i close my eyes and i breathe, when my eyes open once again, that is when i search for him through his curtains, but as boys are, he is probably still in bed at this time.

𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐬 - 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆 laughing 'till our ribs get tough: who are your 'people'?

my best friend, Vinny, lives directly across the street. she's lived there since i was 5. she pulled up in a moving truck on summer day in july and waved at me when she was helped down, a teddy bear clutched in one hand. she's like my sister, my family adores her, my brother has always treated her like an extension of me, and i don't know how i'd ever survive anything without her. my brother, Ren, on the other hand, exactly nine months older and yet, somehow those nine months has always seemed larger than the seven seas. Ren is the kind of older brother who dances with you without music, he's the one that holds your hand when you're crossing the street together, the one person you can trust with any secret. when we were kids, he'd take me out on the small balcony–only big enough for two kids and a blanket–and tell me stories, he'd always say my name came from the stars. we both knew it hadn't, but it was nice pretending it had. and then there was Benji. our neighbor. the boy i'd known since i was born, granted he was only a year and a few weeks old, but he was there. he had been there–every birthday, every family reunion, every wedding, every deb ball, ever st. martins school dance, every holiday, every speech, every award, and every anxious breakdown. he's always been my knight in shining armor: my prince, only in secret.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 - 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆 what the fuck are perfect places anyway?: describe your environment however you'd like.

Benji’s presence is made of deep, solid hues–warm brown eyes, navy blue sweatshirts, and that soft, golden warmth that flickers into his smile when he forgets to guard it. when he looks at me, the world stills—time turning to a hush-colored silver, as if everything quiets just to make room for the moment. Aidan carries cooler shades–arctic blues, crisp white, and eucalyptus green, like an early morning ocean. he feels like clean air before a storm, all steady calm and quiet clarity, a contrast to the heat i'm used to. Ren is the smoky gray of pencil lines and wit-sharp shadows–comforting, constant, sharp as ever, always reading the room three steps before anyone else. Vinny is dusty pink and sunset clouds, laughter that smells like mischief and berry lipgloss. she colors every space she walks into with her own kind of twilight. cousins in the summer is salt-white and ice-cream colored. the skies blush soft coral, the bikes are mint green, our shorts fray at the edges like denim-dipped sunshine, and the air is thick with creamsicle laughter. everything feels barefoot and endless. the deb ball all wraps itself around us with tradition and elegance–buttercream gowns, wine red nails, and the warm glimmer of champagne lights on polished floors. it smells like perfume, pressure, and possibility. and me–i move like a whisper in silk. my skin carries the scent of vanilla and lavender, and i'm always checking my lipstick, always reaching for that soft shade of quiet rose. people say i look like an angel trying to pass as human. and some days, it feels almost true.

𝐤𝐢𝐰𝐢 - 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒔 working through a cheap pack of cigarets: simple pleasures that make you smile.

i am terrified of growing up, it's has always been a fear of mine, though not really spoken about, it is a well-known fact about me. whenever Ren calls me "Little Lina" it takes me back to those days where we weren't cramming for finals; those days when all that every mattered was what flavor of ice cream was tastier or if Steven and Conrad were better than Lorenzo and Benjamin at volleyball. or if Davina, Isabella, Taylor, and I could beat the boys in a game of UNO. i pretend i hate "Little Lina" because little sisters are suppose to hate when their older brothers give them a nickname, but i don't, and sometimes i think Ren knows too.

𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 - 𝒔𝒂𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 yeah i'm a busy woman!: what do you do in your free time?

i am vice president of st. martins key club, st. martins student body union secretary, i run a tiktok account advocating for women's rights and educating people on climate change, and i set up beach clean-ups from june to august every summer. not to mention my APs, extra curricula's, and the class exams i'm studying for at the beginning of each year. i sound like a busy bat, but i have a schedule i developed back in junior high and it has worked perfectly for me and i typically get sunday off after church.

𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝 - 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒚 your crash landing's over: what's something that shaped you into who you are now?

one day in august when i was 6 or 7, Ren and Benji thought it would be a fun idea to tell me all the things they'd seen on an environmental documentary. 7 or 8 and boys, they'd tried to make it sound as horrible and disgusting as possible, but i didn't really care at all, not until they'd brought up the animals and how non-profits were shutting down because they didn't have money to fund them any more. i cried for a bit. Vinny was in Europe visiting family and i had no one to help me but the nursemaid, who'd asked if i'd wanted freshly squeezed lemonade to help cheer me up. from her words, i'd gotten the bright idea to earn money for those non-profits. i was young, but i was determined, and all by my lonesome–though, with the help of my nursemaid–i created a lemonade stand on the sidewalk in the front of our gate. Ren and Benji eventually found me in the kitchen, attempting to squeeze lemons i'd picked from the backyard. when they finally got me to confess what i was up to, Ren laughed at me–so hard he had nearly fell off the barstool. we'd bickered back and forth a bit, but then Benji caught my attention. he'd stayed quiet after i'd spoken, too caught up in fighting with Ren, i hadn't noticed. his mouth hung ajar slightly, but when he'd noticed me staring, he turned his head to the side and called me dumb. it wasn't loud like Ren's insulting laughter, but soft and quiet, like he didn't want me to hear what he really meant.

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐰 - 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 we turn the speakers up 'till they break: your favorite songs.

Benji and i have always shared a love of the classics. i have a playlist for him, but he doesn't know, blackbird by the beatles is the first song on it because blackbird is the first record we'd ever heard. it's my favorite song by the beatles, but my favorite oldie is sugar by billie holiday. it reminds me of Benji, but it also makes me think of love in the 40s and 50s, when diner girls and speakeasies were a thing. honey, honey, the mama mia version is mine and Vinny's favorite song to dance to. it's always playing when we're in control. whether it's on road-trips, cruises, airplanes, in the drawing room during tea, by the pool at lunch, or in the breakfast room in the morning. there's no real reason why we love it, other than it's really catchy and to us it never gets old. i'm a lana girl through and through, so a collection of my favorite songs wouldn't be complete without my favorite lana del rey song–though i love all of her songs, my favorite would have to be west coast, it's such a summer song and i can't put my finger on it, but when i listen to it, life just doesn't seem real.

tags: @princessaffirms

[bobauthorman]

RWBY "White" Trailer Analysis

Since it's Weiss' birthday, let's take an in-depth view of her cinematic debut; the "White" Trailer, which debuted on Febuary 14 (Oh hey, Valentines Day!) 2013, first on "Ain't It Cool News" and then on the Rooster Teeth website and Youtube 4 hours later.

By now, RWBY has been approved and is in production. And perhaps to show it, our trailer starts with this little kernel of wisdom;

This is foreshadowing, not just for our girl, White, but for how we perceive her. The message is about empathy, which will be White's character arc throughout the series.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Weiss Schnee."

Those are the first line of dialogue in RWBY ever. I should note that there's a reason why Weiss' name was spoken aloud in this otherwise voiceless short. "Weiss Schnee" is German for "White Snow", at least according to my online translator and countless entries on RWBY name trivia. So by having her name announced, it's a subtle way of notifying us of Weiss' fairy tale motif, that being Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

We are out of the woods now, away from the savages of the wildness. Now we are in civilized lands. This is not a forest to fight in, but a stage to perform on.Our central girl is not a lost, lonely child, but the center of attention. A young starlet surrounded by countless adoring fans. This is her show, and therefore she must be the Weiss Schnee mentioned by the announcer.

And as she sings (Yes, the song that plays is one Weiss sing), our perspective shifts. We are no longer on the public forum, but in a lonely house.

This is a great of showing the duality of Weiss' character. And the 'mirror showing two sides of a character' is sometimes cliche, for example, the opening of Sailor Moon, but it can work if done creatively enough. This transition makes it work, I believe.

Now our girl is in combat. This princess isn't being saved from danger by a knight in shining armor, she is in danger because of the knight. Unlike Red, who fought a pack of wolves, Weiss is dueling a singular opponent. This is a clear case of David and Goliath, the smaller protagonist up against a gigantic foe. As an extra, I am reminded of the tutorial level of Kingdom Hearts, where Sora had to fight a giant Heartless. Right now, there is no indication as to what this battle even is. Is it a memory? (Probably, as the Weiss on stage has a faded scar, while the Weiss in battle doesn't yet) Or is it a representation as to the duality of Weiss' being, the conflict within her soul? (I know it's not, but I like this interpretation too)

(My musings on this are ruined by supplementary material that confims that the battle did happen, and was a test set forth by Weiss' father- the "Royal Test" mentioned in the "Red" trailer's song)

When the knight lands a solid punch, causing the wound I just mentioned, we get a shot of a skylight. The clouds part, revealing the full moon. This goes in tandem with Weiss activating her weapon's special features and her own special powers. Just as the moon's full light is revealed, so are Weiss' true powers unveiled to us, the audience.

I would be remiss if I didn't bring up the song Weiss sings. Called "Mirror Mirror" (Yet another Snow White reference), the song is most likely represents the conflict within Weiss, the duality she wields;

"Who's the loneliest of all?"

"Fear of what's inside of me"

"Can a heart be turned to stone?"

"Save me from the things I see!"

These are the feelings that Weiss deals with. Her isolation, as indicated by her being alone on stage, even surrounded. Is she asking the listener to be afraid of her hidden warrior side? And what about her other feelings? Does she still have them? This song is an anthem of Weiss' personal condition.

And after destroying the knight with one final strike, Weiss realizes, "I'm the loneliest one of all" as we return to the stage. We started when her concert began, and it ends with its finish. And Weiss curtsies, showing that while she may have this strong inner self, she is not ready to show it to the world.

[shallow-wordsalad]

January 31, 2004 (Night of Fate)

(Other chapters available Here! )

I rise fully to my feet and straighten my back. With Berserker before me, all fear of the enemy Servant has been cast out of me. Berserker's determination is mine, and mine is his - I knit my brow and stare fiercely ahead.

The Servant standing in my defense is a tower of a man. 203 cm in height, he looms hauntingly over most everyone I know. He's even taller than the Servant I'm fighting, even if his build isn't quite as dense. To those that know no better, they might presume the enemy is still the more powerful Servant…

But my Berserker is the strongest.

His armor creaks once again, steel grinding against steel as he turns his head just slightly towards me. He's asking for orders.

"This is your first battle for me, Berserker," I answer with expectations lending weight to my command. "Show me what you can do, and lay waste to our enemy."

"…" He doesn't answer, except to take a few deep, labored breaths. It feels like he's controlling his anger at every moment to avoid rampaging like a living storm. His armor creaks once more, and he takes a single heavy step forward. Plumes of smoke seep menacingly from the seams of his armor, and whorl around him in a vortex of the violence to come.

—The enemy Servant, meanwhile, understands completely the gravity of the foe he now faces. No longer thrashing a human mage so far from his equal, he focuses - and with his tension comes a flash of silver. Instantly, his casual clothing is replaced by gallant armor of brilliant white, encasing him in the symbols of his chivalrous past. A cape of blue forms and billows behind him, feeling the pressure of Berserker's slow approach.

A sword manifests in his right hand as well. A silver blade that radiates an undeniable purity. I'm just estimating at this distance, but it looks to be between 60 and 80 cm, making it a longsword by Western definitions. For a lesser man, it'd be a two-handed weapon, but my opponent wields it like a feather in one.

"I am the Servant Saber," He declares in a deep and powerful tone, pointing his blade in challenge at my Berserker. "Be you a knight as well, Berserker?"

…Berserker takes another heavy, belabored step. The smoke whorling around him twists and writhes in response to Saber's words.

Saber narrows his eyes and his mouth becomes tight.

"I know not from which nation you hail, brother, but any true knight is a friend of mine. So tell me…" His grip on his sword tightens. "You wear the armor of my friend, Sir Lancelot. Is that your name, Berserker?"

"—" Berserker seethes, another heavy breath leaving his helmet as yet more smoke that clouds the air around him. A hand rises with the groaning of steel, and in Berserker's right hand manifests a steel longsword charred black by his conflagrating presence.

As Berserker takes another step, I scan my surroundings for cover, and flee away from the fight to come. Saber watches me retreat, but with Berserker in his path makes no effort to follow. He has neither time nor focus to pay my way with that thing slowly marching towards him.

"Sir Lancelot, if you can hear me," Saber retreats but one step, only to square himself into a solid forward stance. He calls to Berserker with a pleading command in his tone. "If you are yet possessed of any reason…It is I! Your brother-in-arms, Gawain! Fight the maddening spell which binds you, my friend!"

"—You are wrong, Saber." The deep, seething voice that leaves Berserker is made resonant inside his hollow helmet. "I am not Sir Lancelot."

I take cover behind a sturdy, short wall in the park. Still observing, I'm at least out of range of the sparks that will fly from this battle. As if sensing that his defenseless burden has been shed, Berserker's restraints are lost and his steps become fast and powerful. I feel a pull from deep within me as he begins to supply himself with my mana, and move with the purpose for which he was called.

One step. Then two. Then three. Berserker charges. His blade rises—then falls, a perfect arc aimed for Saber's neck! Steel sings from Saber's deflection, drawing their swords into a bind at forward range. Both about one step from each other, Saber and Berserker's blades meet in testing taps and swaying changes in strength. An attempt to weave under Berserker's sword is deflected and drawn into a low bind, then a thrust from Berserker is caught and tied back into a forward. Saber's strength pushes through Berserker's guard, and he makes to strike the opening at his shoulder! But it was a lure to make Saber strike! With his gut open, Berserker turns to void Saber's strike and sweep a blade at his armored belly! Saber swiftly catches the lethal attack by twisting awkwardly from his own, and locks his sword with Berserker's - only for a gauntlet-wrapped fist to strike his jaw!

…I may have given the implication that my human eyes could fully follow what transpired. They could not. For me, all I saw was lines and arcs of black and white clashing beneath the moon, and then Saber staggering back a step. He's unharmed, but rattled.

"You're sane…" He hisses, keeping his sword steady in his familiar forward stance. "This isn’t the wild flailing of a madman—it’s the skill of a knight." "—" Berserker feels no need to confirm the obvious, resuming his own stance - low with his sword near his waist. "How? By your class's ability, you should be a rampaging warrior of fury. But…moreover," Saber swats Berserker's sword aside with his effortless strength, but the follow-up he creates is redirected by Berserker's rising blade. "Why are you in brother Lancelot's armor?!"

"You distract yourself with trivialities." Berserker's voice is the crackle of flame in response, turning his defense into an attack with a twist of his shoulders. Saber is made to fall back by repeated attacks in zwerchhau, exploiting Saber's high guard to curve slashes towards his head back and forth. Each strike is parried, kept away from making any contact, until his retreat creates enough distance to pull his sword under Berserker's and stab for his chest! The blade is caught with a turn of Berserker's wrist, drawing the blade's motion in a circle and back into an overhead bind - where Saber lunges forward not with his blade, but with his shoulder! The full weight of the massive knight crashes into Berserker. Steel clangs against steel as their armors dent, and Berserker is pushed back.

—This is too even. They're equally matched! The energy Berserker is drawing from me makes my breath come fast and ragged, like I’ve just sprinted a hundred meters. He’s pulling this much from me—so why isn’t he winning? My Berserker should be destroying him, but Saber's skill matches his strength… Although it seems Saber's losing mentally, their swordsmanship is perfectly balanced. Gawain. He said his name was Gawain. Sir Gawain, of the Round Table? A true knight of purest virtue, among the mightiest of King Arthur's court. Second only to Lancelot in skill, and unmatched by any in sheer strength. It's said that so long as the sun shines, none can contest Sir Gawain. …I suppose it's some measure of mercy we met at night. Literal things like that are the core of Servants, and why most keep their identities hidden. I suppose Saber's confidence and nobility outweigh his long-term tactical sense. Meanwhile, I’m wracking my brain for a way to tip these unfairly-even scales…

[gerbiloftriumph]

Lost and Found (ao3):

Grandpa's story of the goblin caves started out familiarly enough, but as he spoke, the story started to twist and change. New friends, new conversations, and new ways to use old items transformed the tale, and the young king discovered new ways to be brave in the dark tunnels beneath Daventry.

~*~

An attempt to reinsert the cut lines from the subtitle file. Ch2 has a ton of cut content, and a lot of the lost dialogue is grand, but currently the only way to read it is in a contextless, barely legible slurry in the game files. I'm reconstituting it and fluffing it up and out to make it more accessible.

(1/?)

Daventry guidebooks usually didn’t mention the rain. Which was fine, really, according to the Committee for Tourism Improvement, which mostly consisted of Royal Guard Number Two and a pile of badly illustrated pamphlets he trotted out whenever someone remembered they had a Committee for Tourism Improvement and wanted a meeting about it.

“It’s not like it rains all the time,” he said. “Not worth mentioning to anyone.”

“It rains for a solid week.”

“Yeah, but that’s just one week during the summer.”

“Peak tourism season!”

“So, we sell them more umbrellas. Win for everyone. They stay dry, we can afford armor polish.”

For a solid week, give or take a handful of days on either side of it, midsummer rains crash over the mountains. The heavy clouds are buffeted by winds from the neighboring country of Serenia, and they get caught in the low valleys and tangled forests, lingering like a bad cough (which the rains often give the citizens with weaker lungs, a cough which might outlive the rains, outlive the people). Lightning illuminates the lanes, thunder rattles ill-fitting window frames, and the rain sweeps everything away. Sweeps it into the tunnels and caves below the kingdom, cleaning away the detritus of the previous season and leaving the streets sparkling with water and reflected lightning.

Once a year, the rain takes everything away.

Everything.

Even, sometimes, people. Even, once, the king himself.

~*~

The King of Daventry was very much being swept away with the rain. Not by any fault of his own, except perhaps his own inattentiveness and the ability to be in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

His curly hair was soaked through, rainwater dripping in his eyes beneath his crown. Ropes binding his shoulders and wrists and ankles were swollen with water. He strained uselessly against them, bumping into the goblins that stood at attention beside him. Goblins as unbothered by the rain as they’d been unbothered by his helpless protests. Water rolled from their sharp spear points, like the raindrops had been cut in half.

They were racing down the river on a raft—a mattress, really. Bouncing from boulder to boulder, ricocheting high into the air before coming back down with a wet thump. Water splashed up over the lip of the mattress, but the occupants were already soaked. Wet on wet felt like a slap, though, and it just made the king more irritated.

Not that there was anything he could do. As nice as it would be to lash out, to knock these goblins from their posts, he wouldn’t get far past those spears, and then he’d still be on this raft, bouncing past blurry, waterlogged riverbanks with no real way to stop it. He also thought about diving off the raft and swimming to safety, but the water was fast, their hands were tight on his shoulders, and his own hands were knotted up behind him.

No, he was well and truly being washed away with the rest of the rubbish of the country, falling deep into the caves.

He couldn’t help but wonder what else was getting washed away tonight. Seeds, flowers, maybe even trees.

More than that. People, too. Villagers, maybe. Guards, possibly. Knights, perhaps.

Kings, absolutely.

Pushed into the darkness beneath the country. Gone.

For now, at least.

~*~

“Grandpa, you told me this story already.”

“Did I? Are you sure?” He was leaning forward, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye that Gwendolyn didn’t notice—she was staring intently at the mirror and the images it was showing off, of a bedraggled king being wrestled down a long, dark cave passage by a cluster of bouncing goblins. A grim image, but it was lightened by the candles and the tapestries and the warmth of the bedtime story setting surrounding it.

“Very.” She watched one of the mirror goblins trip the mirror king, and then thump him over the head with a glowing mushroom before laughing. The little mirror king scowled, while the real-life Graham smiled. The images weren’t exactly what the mirror had shown a couple days ago, but the basic idea looked the same.

“Okay, you’re right, I did.” The real Graham waved a hand. “I told you all about the goblins, and the caves, and Whisper and Acorn—”

“Wait, you didn’t mention them before.” Gwendolyn turned, and then she noticed the grin on her grandpa’s face.

“No—to tell the truth, Gwendolyn, I left out a lot of details the other night.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know. I wanted to tell a story, and it was a good story. The right story for that night. But that doesn’t mean it was the whole story.”

“Some people would say that makes you an unreliable narrator.” She was already getting comfortable in the chair, settling down for a long story.

“Unreliable? Me? Never! I’m very reliable! Okay, I wasn’t that reliable a couple nights ago, and I wasn’t that reliable back on that rainy night.”

“Tell me?”

“Of course.”

~*~

Graham blinked at the salamander. It blinked back. It lazily flicked its tail.

“Yeah, granted, but I dunno, I still think she should have ended up with the duke,” Graham said. “It just would have been better for her character arc, y’know?”

The salamander yawned, long pink tongue flicking out.

“He wasn’t boring, didn’t you read the bit where he helped save her from the sea serpent?” Graham argued.

The salamander curled up, delicately put its tail over its nose, and closed its eyes.

“You’re not a very good book club partner,” Graham said, and leaned back against the little stone block he’d been using as a table.

The salamander said nothing, as the salamander had done all day, every day, for the last three days. It glowed faintly in the dark, casting a strange blue wash over Graham’s surroundings. Rocks, mostly, and a couple pipes. A handful of most definitely poisonous mushrooms.

“To be fair,” Graham said, “it’s been a couple years since I read it, too. Maybe we should recite addendums again? Start up where we left off? Number, ah, three thousand seven hundred and two? And a half?”

The salamander started to snore.

“Or maybe I could break down the door, steal a spear, thump the guards over the head, get out of here, and be home before tea time. That could be fun.”

The door in question was very soundly locked with a very secure padlock. He would know. He’d spent hours staring at it, wishing it would break by sheer force of will, with no luck. Which left him locked in a small and unpleasant cell. It was damp, and cold, and full of glowy salamanders, and had no way out. Not for lack of trying, kicking, knocking, pleading with empty shadows.

What had happened was this: he’d had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. An audience had gone loudly and poorly, with royal guards declaring the day opposite day (approved by Graham accidentally), the throne room filling with squirrels and snutes and rather too much chaos for one person to sensibly manage. So, flustered and feeling like this was just the frosting-on-the-custard-pie of his miserable and uncertain week (…make it months, really, ever since that equally frantic and sudden coronation), he’d snuck out for a walk to try and calm down. He’d been pinned in the castle for ages, trying to learn what it meant to be a king, and he wanted to get outside, unbothered and unfollowed. For once.

The fact that it was monsoon season and thus pouring rain didn’t really help, but he was determined. He’d gone for town, trying to see if Wente or Amaya or Muriel (not Chester) could offer advice, warmth, comfort, anything.

Anything, before he gave up everything.

But he hadn’t found villagers. He’d barely knocked on Wente’s door with broken hope fluttering in his chest before something shrill shattered the night. A flute. He’d spun, soppy cloak swirling out behind him, looked up, saw goblins, saw goblins pounce, and then...well, not much more to tell after that.

To be fair, a lot had happened, but it had mostly just been a frightening blur of ropes and rain and hard hands yanking him along. And being kidnapped by goblins could have been a fun adventure, back when he was a knight. But now, he was a king, shiny hat and all. And it was a bit more terrifying.

Taking a knight has certain expectations. Taking a king has. Well, larger expectations. Generally not good ones. A knight could get several hundred gold coins as ransom. A king had…more.

He’d been dragged into underground caves, presented to some large goblin in a silly hat in a silly chair, compared to a tiny illustrated king in an illustrated book the large goblin had been holding, and flung face first into this dark room. No explanations, no understanding, and no one to try and talk to.

He felt like he was going to lose his mind.

Thus, the book club. Which would probably be going better with a more conversational partner. But Newton was illuminating only in terms of bioluminescence, not scintillating dialogue.

A clatter and rattle and stomping outside caught his attention. He stumbled up and to the door, squinting into the shadows beyond. He hadn’t seen anyone besides salamanders for a while, so seeing a couple goblins bickering about cobwebs made for an entertaining view. Better than an unresponsive book club partner, anyway. 

From there, the story proceeded in the same way. Goblins, bored of their own chores, yanked a hapless young man from a locked room and ordered him to clean. To brush cobwebs away with a rag. And from there, the young man was a little freer to wander, to discover old friends locked in slimy darkness while a pack of goblins watched silently.

Finding and sharing food, slowly clearing goblin guards out of the way so he could free the villagers, one by one by one. Solving fairy tales for goblins, for frogs and peas and roses and coins to fill his pockets.

But also, the story started to twist.

Grandpa’s eyes glittered in the candlelight as he spoke about changes. New friends in new places. Different tools, different conversations. A new way to learn an old lesson.

Things changed in the goblin tunnels under King Graham’s narration. “Maybe not all for the better,” he warned. “I chose to tell a different story originally. This one might not be up to the same standards. It’s not been practiced or vetted. It’s about cut things. Lost things. Things I chose to remove.” But he told it anyway, and Gwendolyn curled under a blanket nearby, clutching a steaming mug filled with hot milk and honey and cinnamon, listening to the story unwind.

[rosavulpes]

" You've all fought well ... and done more than enough here today . Tend to our wounded . Aid in the retrieval of our fallen sisters and brothers . This is my order . The remaining followers of abundance in this area are mine to deal with "

He's spoken those orders often enough , that these soldiers knew better than to disobey him at this point . Besides ? The gentleness in which Dan Feng recently touched down on the ground , taking care as to not trample any flowers ? Betrayed the immense strength he'd used to not only pierce the gigantic monster of abundance they'd encountered , but to slam it's body against the hard rocks after he'd brought it down with his polearm just moments ago . Shattering it , and creating a crater where it once stood .

He was eager to see the day's fighting done , perhaps a bit more than usual . To which he'd taken point on this day . Leading the charge himself , leaving the skies to Baiheng , leadership to Jing Yuan , and even entrusted command of his own Vidyadhara troops to Jingliu .

Walking forwards , with his left arm outstretched . It wouldn't be long before his polearm which lay embedded into the disappearing corpse of the creature he'd slain rematerialized within his palm .

Closing his eyes to listen to the sound of metal greaves becoming fainter , and fainter . He didn't need to turn his head around to know that they'd obeyed his order .

Good . This particular form of cloudhymn magic was still something that he was actively working on , perfecting , and wasn't quite yet ready to be shown to other eyes save for his own . Willing a growing pool of water to enshroud his feet , then pointing forwards with his polearm , would the waters carry him to his next destination . Riding atop the waters like a flash flood .

Stopping short once he finally came upon the last remnants of Abundance on this battlefield . Plants , timbers , solid earth , and the endless , ever flowing life energy of Yaoshi . Those were the components that gave life to the creatures of abundance before him . Shaped into the forms of animals . Bears , lions , tigers , eagles , and more . However , due to the nature of Yaoshi's energy . The forms were imperfect , distorted , and warped .

As they began to stomp , claw , and howl in his direction as he began his approach . Dan Feng would close his eyes as he raised his polearm up towards the skies above him . An aura of turquoise beginning to flare around his form , giving the creatures before him pause , a reason to momentarily hesitate as his magical power began to accumulate .

Growing stronger , and stronger . Culminating with the vidyadhara releasing his hold on his polearm . Allowing it to free fall towards the ground on it's own .

The visage of the ground beneath them beginning to fade , until at last the bottom end of Dan Feng's polearm reached the ground ... and began to slowly submerge within it . Disappearing within the mirror like , reflective surface of the tranquil waters that had come to replace it . The effect quickly spreading like ripples in a pond , until the lands around in the vidyadhara reflected only the skies above them . As if they were all standing above an unmoving ocean .

" Surface "

With his command , would spouts of water began to arise to the surface . Aggregating around him . Taking on the shapes and forms of cloud knights . Armor , weapons , and all . Save for their forms being comprised solely of water . The appearance was still one to one . Theirs numbers continuing to grow , until at least they were even with that of the abundance .

Opening his eyes , as his aura began to diminish .

The sounds of howling , and splashing becoming louder as his enemies began their charge to which he'd outstretch his hand out towards them . His " cloud knights " raising their heads in unison , turquoise light filling their eyes as the grips on their weapons became firm . Awaiting their master's order .

" Go "

[tiptapricot]

Moon KnightCember day 5: Cab-allero and/or Constellations

This one is the least edited so far, I gotta go to bed but still wanted to put something out, so it’s a bit rough n experimental, but hope y’all enjoy :-)

———

The road is very quiet at night. Drunks are the only ones who hail cabs after a certain point, and into the early morning, it’s just quiet and dark.

Now, Jake is used to that. For most of Khonshu’s service the night has been his home. It’s where he copes with what has to be done, where he makes sure there is safety in silver, and a hard wall to block the blood spatter. The night belongs to the Knight, to Caballero Luna.

Shit. That name always makes him smile. There aren’t many he’s introduced himself to but… kids come up with good titles when they’re able to live through an abduction. He doesn’t forget that. He won’t.

Most of the time, when the knight of the night is Jake, Marc somewhere safer, more solid, it’s clear cut business. Bandages as armor, crescents as his sword, some great dragon to slay for a happy ending, yadda yadda. But some of it… some of it is still his. Some of the time still belongs just to Jake. The moments between the page flip, on quiet streets, where the only fairy tale is whether he’ll hit another green.

Jake savors that time.

The night is silent, but the radio hums low. His finger taps on the wheel, his eyes glancing past his cap to the murky light polluted skies of London. A few stars still peek through, dull pinpricks, nothing like the sky of the desert or the open ocean, but he still likes them. Likes to make wishes if he’s feeling lucky, though he usually isn’t. But something in them makes him feel content. Orion’s Belt, muted in its shine, or the Big Dipper scooping through the clouds. They share that space with him, periods and punctuation, dotting what the eyes scan over.

Maybe one day those wishes will mean something, some starlight far and bright away paying forward an ever after, but he doesn’t really care too much. The roads are always long, after all, and his glovebox won’t run out of CDs anytime soon.

———

Check out the prompt list here!

[bunnidarling]

Art commissioned by me from total sweetheart @evaporatingvoid

Tusk and Horn

Except from Chapter 1: Origins

Half a dozen bodies lay strewn in various pieces and parts to either side of the road. The grass and gravel were soaked through and muddy with spilled blood. Most of it wasn’t his. Despite what looked like a victory, the half-orc was flanked on all sides by four remaining foes- a pair of tieflings, and a pair of either humans or elves. It was hard to tell for certain because of the heavy dark robes obscuring their faces. He had completely used up all of his potions, and he could only hope that if he survived the rest of this battle, he might find some kind of health concoction or scroll from one of the bodies. 

There were no clever quips or daring moves like the bards often tell. No honor or grace, just gritted teeth and grunting with the clash of steel. The half-orc had a solid head of height on all of his remaining opponents, but they wore him down. He dug deep into the stores of energy and strength he had remaining to swing a massive greatsword over his head, bringing it down on the tiefling before him. But he was too slow, the sword hitting the ground with a heavy clang that rattled his bones and left him exposed for the human at his side to rush in, shoving a dagger into his ribs. 

Fuck. That was bad . He was already in poor shape, but now blood was pouring from his side. How did they get between the layers of armor? How did… His mind was starting to get cloudy, his vision dark around the edges. Maybe he could knock the tiefling down and search them before the other three descended on him. He laughed a bit at that thought, the laugh turning into a sputtering cough. Somehow, he was still standing. He didn’t have the strength or speed left to swing his sword anew, so he let it drop, swaying on his feet. If he could just get close enough, he could… 

He unsheathed his dagger and lunged at the tiefling, who swiftly dodged his blade, catching him in the gut. They both fell, the dagger slashing beneath the tiefling’s throat. As their ichor bubbled from the wound, Grimm desperately searched their robes for a pocket or pouch that had some healing potion tucked away. “Fuck,” he muttered, going limp as his vision went dark. 

Suddenly, the bellowing clang of metal clashing against metal resounded in the half-orc’s ears, but on the verge of consciousness, as he was he could feel neither fear nor relief from its presence. What little strength he had left in him was just enough to alert him to its din- but that was all. The one who had caused it, on the other hand, was still full of zeal. Vigor and razor-sharp focus sprung from the pits of a youthful, tenacious soul currently driven purely by fiery hot rage. Rage sprung from seeing them here, out on the open road, disciples of the Lord of Lies driven out from the shadows for some foul reason or another, cowardly attacking what the interrupting knight assumed could only be an innocent traveler or mercenary. 

This man detested the cultists of Asmodeus with a burning passion, and he certainly had his reasons. Now, his silvery paladin’s armor with its gilded ornaments gleamed as if to defy the clouded skies above him as he came to this poor stranger’s aide. His halberd tore through the black and red fabrics of the assaulter’s robes, causing thick blackish blood to splatter from the wound splitting the tiefling’s abdomen wide open. They were his kin, but it mattered little. He never asked to be born into what he was. The remaining pair, humans or elves or whatever they were beneath their robes, yelled something he couldn’t make out to each other before swiftly fleeing the scene. The tiefling in the shining armor was left standing in the dirt and gore, confused, aggravated, and now saddled with the task of saving the man lying in the mud. 

The half-orc’s eyes opened slowly, his mind still clouded from his brush with death. Or was he already dead? No, you wouldn’t be in this much pain if you were truly dead, right? His vision focused on the figure leaning over him, haloed in light supplied by errant sunbeams streaking through the stormy cloud cover. The newly revealed sun glinted off of golden armor that was spattered with the same dark blood that was soaked into the ground he lay upon. That face. It was so handsome, far too pretty for a place like this, ethereal even. Maybe he wasn’t dead, but dying. Perhaps this was his guide to the afterlife? “Is it truly time?” he asked, his voice a deep, velvety rumble.

“Time?” The voice drifting into his ears from just afar was gentle but seemed somewhat bewildered. When the half-orc managed to catch another glimpse of his eyes, they were deep amber and as gentle as his tone. The paladin observed widened eyes on the fallen man, with slightly dilated pupils, which puzzled him. Perhaps the man was just being cautious. Yes, that must be it. How could he know he didn’t have foul intentions himself? “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you are talking about, but I am healing your wounds. Those bastards roughed you up pretty bad, I’m afraid. But please tell me, if you’re able to speak at all, are you affiliated with the Asmodeus cult? I want to know if I am wasting my magic here.” 

Get the whole chapter here:

[socialmediasocrates]

YOUR PRINCESS IS IN A DIFFERENT CASTLE: a wip intro

Genres: fairy tale retelling, fantasy, adventure, romance, new adult

Status: plotting

Tropes: Knight in Sour Armor, Earn Your Happy Ending, The Power of Love, Don't You Dare Pity Me!, Boy Meets Girl, Girl in the Tower, Be Careful What You Wish For

In short: Two unremarkable side characters try to rescue their love interests from a demon who doesn't even know who they are...oh, yeah, and save the storyscape, that, too.

Synopsis

The starborn is among the last of its kind, doomed to a lonely eternity in the Graveyard of the Stars...or it was. Until a kitchen runner accidentally summoned it and botched the entire ritual. Now the starborn is Aster, a pathetic little man with an equally pathetic little crush. Grappling with suddenly having humanity thrust upon it was not in the Design. Being a nameless filler character in a story it doesn't even know was not in the Design. Inheriting an infatuation with Theobroma Cirolla, a pastry chef with the temperament of a wet cat on a good day, was not in the Design. But the starborn is making a valiant effort at doing all of the above, all the way until the day one of his own kin devours his story, steals Theo away, and casts him into the broader storyscape.

Forced to join forces with shepherdess-turned-witch Beata, Aster strikes out to save Theo, go back to his quiet, unbothered existence, and save the fabric of reality, in that order. None of this was in the Design, but the Design is unraveling. Along with his last goddamn nerve.

Characters

ASTER

The food runner was squishy where he wasn't gangly and bony, unevenly freckled all over, the image of earnest mundanity. It takes the starborn a solid week to get used to using these clumsy, slow feet, and nearly a week longer to adapt to the surprising strength of the arms and upper back. It trips over Aster's uselessly long legs all too often, sending trays laden with foot and drink scattering, shattering, and splattering all over rugs that look expensive. Nobody even seems surprised by this. At least it's slotting itself neatly into Aster's life.

THEO

Aster had thought the pastry chef called "Theobroma Cirolla" or "Theo, unless you want a finger chopped off" was the most beautiful person he'd ever laid eyes on. This, unfortunately, colors the starborn's perception of her, too. She is small, even for a human. Soft, composed entirely of curved lines and circles. The hair that peaks out from beneath her scarves is densely curly and roughly the color of melted chocolate. Her eyes are big and brown and ringed with heavy, dark eyelashes, and her skin is always a little flushed from the ovens. She refuses to lift her chin to look him in the eye. She is always looking up at him through that screen of eyelashes, and she is always looking at him like he's a cockroach in her bread basket. And the entire time, it is endlessly, hopelessly charmed.

BEATA

He thinks that you would end up with someone that looks like her if you took a cloud, dipped it in gold glitter, and sculpted a person out of it. The mystery woman has puffy wheat-blonde hair and deeply tanned skin and, most crucially, a shepherd's crook that bleeds magic. It is nearly blinding to look at. He has to blink four times for his sight to clear enough to make her out again; by then, he's more or less determined to avoid her at all costs. She is perched on a fence, waving to get his attention, a welcoming smile edged with venom on her face and a feral sort of panic in the tension of her shoulders. He wants nothing to do with her. Because life is never about what he wants, though, she is directly in his path.

FAUST

Now, give a good think to what you would do in Faust's shoes. You made a deal with a demon because you wanted people to like you better. It blew up in your face. The demon is now threatening to unravel the fabric of reality and ascend to godhood, and you are being rescued at this exact moment. If you think that you'd be a little grateful, it's because you're not Faust. Faust grins one of those stupid grins. He holds up some twisted chunk of metal in his hand and opens his mouth to say something. He never gets to, though, because Beata throws her shoe at him.

[xspilltheteapleasex]

Life Is In The Souls of Birds

A Poem by xspilltheteapleasex

My Main Masterlist

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶

My Poetry & Art Masterlist

A day as ordinary as any other can be full of beautiful and curious little things,

Moments that bring joy and peace like this one can be remembered for a lifetime,

But it only takes a second for things to change and fade away, no matter how hard you cling,

Everything will have its chance at life and its chance to pass at the right time.

Anyone can do anything, and anyone can take away the chance for something,

Maybe the chance at blossoming into a beautiful flower or the chance for dedication to commit,

Taking away a moment of joy and peace leading to destroying the beauty of life like a bombing,

So I think it would be best, yes, very much so,

It would be best if you put that back where you found it.

A little birdie with its black feathers sleek and smooth,

Glistening under the sun with little sparkles every time it turns his head,

The knight in shining armor adorning a vibrant red splotch with meaning of sleuth,

Jumping along the many tree branches of his mighty kingdom bred.

Birdies that twitter and flutter about with a song in their mouths,

All of this can be taking away if you steal their wings and souls,

No care in the world, they didn't ask for this, can you at least put them in the ground,

You shouldn’t be in charge of what jewels your body, for only God is at the controls.

Those many tree branches belong to a fortress of solitude,

A tree who upholds the very breath of every living thing we call life,

Weaving roots throughout the earth that no one can allude,

Whom some call home, a place to escape the fear of strife.

Billions upon billions of fortresses are destroyed each year,

No one gives another thought to saving their much needed lives,

Am I the only one seeing how our situation is this horrific and severe,

Can we not just follow the will our God gave us to abide?

Geese fly overhead of all the forest and under the misty clouds,

Loud as can be to announce their grateful presence,

They never break formation and they never stop making sound,

One day they will leave again, but I know they will once again show their luminescence.

Pillows are what I use to lower my head and have magnificent dreams of love,

Cushioning cotton or memory foam will do just fine for me to close my eyes,

So why do we need the best pillow that leave geese in cold blood,

God made these noble creatures for our kind to take care of with our hearts.

The wondrous lake is where the geese lay the wings and take a rest,

Making ever so little creases in this body of water and leaving behind traces of beautiful down,

Basking in the vigorous fountain of never ending droplets which it has expressed,

Our beautiful lake is my queen with a solid rim atop her head as a glorious crown.

Water is the something that every living thing needs in his temple of a body,

It provides an oasis for creatures and plants alike,

Yet we still feel the need to dump our garbage into the sea and turn it snotty,

Polluting the quality, which makes for a great realization of your throat being hit with a spike.

A rim holds place for little children to rest their little feet and have some fun and play,

Pitter-patter on the rim of rocks holding the foundation for centuries,

Just an excuse needed only for me to gaze upon such beauty of life, whom am I to say,

Rocks can be eroded with time, but etched forever are our wonderful memories.

Smoke and ashes rise above our children heads and strikes fear into their eyes,

Take care of your children and hold them tight as can be,

Your neighbor just started a fire that grows and grows as implied,

It started from his mouth but spread into the size of the northern sea.

My gaze is interrupted by an alarming siren warning of swiftness,

Quick must the siren's owner reach the fearful destination,

Praying with my hand and in my heart, with hope this lifts us,

God, oh please, please God, please help those of your own creation.

Taking the wings and soul of a little birdie is taking a life,

Chopping billions of trees is destroying the earth's fortress,

Starting fires in your mouths and littering them to the ground is the same as a thousand knives,

Can't you just stop for once, leave it, and support us?

Anyone can do anything, and anyone can take away the chance for something,

Maybe the chance at blossoming into a beautiful flower or the chance for dedication to commit,

Taking away a moment of joy and peace leading to destroying the beauty of life like a bombing,

So I think it would be best, yes, very much so,

It would be best if you put that back where you found it.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶

[infintasmal]

Jingliu - Body Study

Height : 5'11

Body Type : Very athletic but on the slender side, muscled with very little fat, straight waist, solid. Post sedition she lost a considerably amount of weight. She is still athletic but appears more willowy than before.

Hair : Blue toned pale gray, thin, waist length, side swept layered bangs. Usually worn half up, fully tied back in combat. Notes: head was shaved after surviving the Cangcheng due to burns. Cut her hair short Post Sedition but has not cut it since.

Face : Diamond face shape, low cheek bones, crimson, almond eyes, small nose, down turned mouth, fair cool toned skin

Scars : Skin is clearer than expected thanks to her healing factor, she does not scar by normal means. She does have faded burn scars across her torso and arms from the Cangcheng. Lacerations from the dragon abomination, claw and teeth marks on her arms and legs. Post sedition, her hands and forearms are perpetually frost bitten from use of her sword, skin appears 'frosty' with blueish gradient coloration, darkest at the tips of her fingers and palms, spreading to near white at the forearm. Similar effect on feet. She has decreased sensation in these parts. Claw marks around her eyes from trying to claw them out, succeeded a few times but the eyes grew back. Lips are often chapped or bitten.

Piercings : double lobes, earrings cannot be removed for extended time periods without the holes healing over.

Tattoos : None, unable to have tattoos due to healing factor.

Make up : None. Baiheng used to try.

Clothing style : Official Cloud Knight uniform. Preference for pants and light armor in active combat but wears the women's dress uniform and cape for official occasions. Post sedition she is seen in a stylized lunar themed dress. She is not picky about clothing and dresses for practicality in battle. Wears long gloves and ensures her midsection is covered to hide scars. Wears a blindfold Post Sedition to ease her hallucinations. Keeps her hair tied with a ribbon and is sometimes seen with a moon shaped silver hair piece. Favors blues and silvers. Clothes are lightly armored.

[hikeheroics]

Okay, here's the story in a captivating way, geared towards American hikers

The Trailblazer's Conundrum: MIRACOL 18L Hydration Pack, Hero or Hype?

Picture this: you're deep in Yosemite, sun beating down, legs pumping. Sweat stings your eyes, and your throat feels like sandpaper. But wait, you planned for this! Reaching for your trusty hydration pack, your heart sinks. It's the MIRACOL 18L, the one that promised all-day hydration and adventure-ready toughness. Yet, whispers of doubt cloud your mind. Will it hold up? Here's the thing, folks, the MIRACOL 18L is like a trusty trail companion – with a few quirks.

Built to Last (Almost): This pack boasts a rugged exterior, shrugging off scrapes like a seasoned hiker. It's got your back, literally, when it comes to durability – for a while. Some folks have mentioned seams getting a little frayed after serious mileage. So, while it's no lightweight champion, it can definitely handle the bumps and bruises of the trail.

Hydration Hero: Let's face it, staying hydrated is rule number one. The 2.5L bladder is your knight in shining armor, keeping that life-giving H2O nice and chilled for hours. Say goodbye to lukewarm water on those scorching climbs – this pack's got your thirst covered. However, some adventurers have noticed ice evaporates a little quicker than they'd like in extreme heat. A minor hitch, but worth keeping in mind.

Gear Guru or Gear Gremlin? This pack's got pockets galore – think compartments for snacks, sunscreen, that epic National Park map – you name it. Organization is key, and the MIRACOL delivers. But listen up, fellow trekkers – some folks have wished for more external attachment points. Imagine those trekking poles easily accessible, or your carabiner holding your water bottle within arm's reach. A small tweak that could make a big difference.

The Verdict: A Pack with Potential

Look, the MIRACOL 18L hydration pack is a solid contender, especially for those seeking a comfortable, feature-rich companion. Its large capacity, insulated bladder, and multiple pockets make it a great all-rounder. Just be mindful of potential seam wear and the limitations on external attachments. Hey, even the best packs have their quirks, right? So, weigh the pros and cons, consider your hiking style, and this MIRACOL might just be your perfect match for hitting the trails in style.

[5gcloudsoftware]

Unleashing the Power of 5G: Exploring Cutting-Edge Cloud Software Solutions

5G technology is revolutionizing the way we connect, communicate, and innovate in the digital age. With its promise of ultra-fast speeds, low latency, and massive connectivity, 5G is poised to unlock new possibilities for businesses and consumers alike. In this article, we delve into the cutting-edge world of 5G software solutions in the cloud, exploring how the convergence of 5G technology and cloud computing is reshaping the way we access, deploy, and manage applications and services. Let's unravel the transformative power of 5G and discover the endless opportunities it brings in the realm of cloud software solutions.

Evolution of Mobile Networks

From the days of waiting for your dial-up internet to screech its way into existence, we've come a long way in the realm of mobile networks. Enter 5G, the superhero of connectivity, here to make your browsing faster and your streaming smoother than a freshly buttered hot potato.

Key Features of 5G Technology

Picture this: you're streaming your favorite show in high definition while downloading the latest cat videos in a blink of an eye. That's the magic of 5G technology. With lightning-fast speeds, reduced latency, and massive connectivity, 5G is all set to revolutionize the way we interact with the digital world.

The Intersection of 5G and Cloud Software Solutions

Understanding Cloud Computing in the Context of 5G

Cloud computing is like having your own digital genie – it stores your data, runs your apps, and grants your wishes of accessibility from anywhere. Now, pair that with 5G, the speed demon of networks, and you've got a match made in tech heaven.

The Role of Edge Computing in 5G-Cloud Integration

Imagine Edge Computing as the wise old owl, perched at the edge of the forest, making split-second decisions on what data to process locally and what to send to the cloud. When 5G and Edge Computing join forces, they create a dynamic duo that ensures faster, more efficient data processing.

Key Features and Benefits of 5G Software in the Cloud

Low-Latency Communication Capabilities

You know that moment when you send a message and anxiously wait for the reply? 5G swoops in like a knight in shining armor, slashing that latency dragon to bits. With near-instantaneous communication, your data travels at the speed of thought.

Enhanced Security Protocols in 5G-Enabled Cloud Solutions

In a world where data breaches are scarier than a haunted house on Halloween, security is not just a luxury – it's a necessity. 5G-enabled cloud solutions come fortified with encryption, authentication, and virtual bodyguards to keep your data safe from the digital boogeymen.

Use Cases and Applications of 5G Software Solutions

IoT Deployment and Management with 5G in the Cloud

Internet of Things (IoT) devices are popping up faster than daisies in spring, and they need a solid network to bloom. Enter 5G in the cloud, providing the ultra-reliable, low-latency backbone for seamless IoT deployment and management like a digital green thumb.

Enhancing AR/VR Experiences through 5G-Cloud Integration

Augmented Reality (AR) and Virtual Reality (VR) are the cool kids in the classroom of tech trends, but they demand high-speed internet to shine. With 5G and cloud software holding hands, your AR/VR experiences will be smoother than a jazz saxophonist playing on a moonlit night.

There you have it – a whirlwind tour through the realms of 5G technology and cloud software solutions, where speed meets security and innovation dances with efficiency. With this dynamic duo leading the charge, the future of connectivity looks brighter than a shooting star in a midnight sky.

Challenges and Opportunities in Leveraging 5G for Cloud Software

So you've heard about 5G - the superhero of wireless technology promising lightning-fast speeds and unparalleled connectivity. But how do we harness this power for cloud software? Challenges and opportunities abound in this dynamic duo partnership. Stay tuned as we unravel the mysteries of leveraging 5G for cloud software!

Data Privacy and Compliance Considerations in 5G-Cloud Ecosystem

In the wild world of 5G and cloud software, data privacy and compliance are like Batman and Robin - essential partners in fighting cybercrime and ensuring ethical data practices. Navigating the complexities of data protection regulations while riding the 5G wave requires a strategic approach and a keen eye for compliance nuances. Holy data breaches, Batman!

Scalability and Interoperability Challenges in 5G Cloud Solutions

Picture this: 5G struts onto the cloud software scene with its flashy speed and futuristic capabilities, but can it play nice with existing systems? Scalability and interoperability challenges may lurk in the shadows, ready to thwart seamless integration. Fear not, brave cloud adventurers, for overcoming these challenges is key to unlocking the full potential of 5G cloud solutions!

Future Trends and Innovations in 5G-Enabled Cloud Solutions

Buckle up, tech enthusiasts, as we zoom into the future of 5G-enabled cloud solutions! From AI to network slicing, the possibilities are as endless as a bottomless buffet. Join us on this thrilling ride through the cutting-edge innovations that await in the realm of 5G and cloud software.

AI and Machine Learning Integration in 5G-Cloud Environments

Imagine a world where AI and machine learning seamlessly dance with 5G in the cloud. This dream team holds the key to unlocking intelligent, data-driven insights and revolutionizing user experiences. Get ready to witness the magic unfold as AI and 5G join forces to create a tech symphony for the ages!

Advancements in Network Slicing for Customized Cloud Services

Enter the realm of network slicing, where tailored cloud services reign supreme. With advancements in this cutting-edge technology, users can enjoy customized network configurations that cater to their unique needs. Say goodbye to cookie-cutter solutions and hello to a world where personalization is the name of the game in 5G-enabled cloud services!

In conclusion, the fusion of 5G technology and cloud software solutions heralds a new era of innovation, efficiency, and connectivity. As organizations harness the power of 5G in the cloud, they can unlock unprecedented levels of performance, scalability, and agility in their operations. By staying at the forefront of these advancements and embracing the possibilities they offer, businesses can pave the way for a future where seamless connectivity and cutting-edge applications drive success and growth. Embrace the potential of 5G-enabled cloud solutions and embark on a journey towards a more connected and dynamic digital landscape.

Original Sources: https://themediumblog.com/unleashing-the-power-of-5g-exploring-cutting-edge-cloud-software-solutions/

[keploy]

Improving Code Quality and Accelerating Development: The Continuous Testing Way

Introduction

In the fast-changing world of software development, teams struggle to maintain good code quality while shortening development schedules. Continuous Testing (CT) in CI/CD pipelines stands out as a powerful strategy. It allows teams to weave testing directly into their development workflow, offering quick feedback and stronger quality assurance. This article delves into Continuous Testing's core, making it an indispensable role in CI/CD, essential tools, and strategic considerations to optimize your development workflow.

Understanding Continuous Testing

Continuous Testing is the practice of automating tests to run as part of the software development lifecycle, allowing for immediate feedback on the impact of changes. At the heart of the CI/CD pipeline, it tests and validates every new commit, driving better quality and quicker delivery to end-users.

The Role of Continuous Testing in CI/CD

Integrating Continuous Testing into CI/CD pipelines revolutionizes how teams approach software quality and delivery. It catches defects early and fosters a culture of quality, where teams continuously seek and implement improvements, streamlining the path from development to deployment.

Key Tools for Continuous Testing

A plethora of tools supports Continuous Testing across different stages of software development:

Building high-quality software at lightning speed? That's the dream, and continuous testing (CT) turns it into reality. But navigating the vast landscape of available tools can be overwhelming. No need to worry! Get ready to explore the must-have tools for every stage of your CT journey, ensuring you're equipped to turn that dream into reality.

Fortifying the Foundations: Unit Testing Frameworks

No matter your coding language, a solid unit testing framework is your best friend:

Python: unittest, pytest, and nose keep your codebase squeaky clean.

Java: JUnit, Mockito, and TestNG ensure your Java is jittering with confidence.

JavaScript: Jest, Mocha, and Chai help you tame even the most complex JavaScript beasts.

.NET: NUnit and xUnit.net are your .NET knights in shining armor.

Connecting the Dots: Integration Testing Frameworks

Your code's components play nicely together, right? Use these tools to make sure:

Java: Arquillian and Spring Integration Test bridge the gaps between your Java modules.

JavaScript: Puppeteer and Playwright orchestrate seamless browser interactions.

REST APIs: Postman and SoapUI test your APIs like nobody's business.

Going the Distance: API Testing Tools

APIs are the glue that holds your app together. Here's how to keep them rock solid:

HAR testing (e.g., Charles Proxy): Analyze network traffic to spot API performance bottlenecks.

Contract testing (e.g., Pact, Pact Broker): Ensure your APIs are speaking the same language.

End-to-End Experience: From Head to Toe

See your app unfold just like real users do:

Selenium, Cypress, and Playwright: Automate browser interactions for comprehensive testing.

Mobile device testing (e.g., Appium, WebDriverIO): Don't forget your mobile users!

Pushing the Limits: Load Testing Tools

Can your app handle the heat? These tools will tell you:

JMeter, Gatling, and Locust: Simulate heavy user loads and identify performance issues.

Cloud-based load testing platforms (e.g., LoadRunner Cloud, K6 Cloud): Scale your testing with ease.

Security First: Security Testing Tools

Security breaches are no fun. Protect your app with these tools:

Static code analysis (SAST) tools (e.g., SonarQube, Fortify): Find vulnerabilities before they become exploits.

Dynamic application security testing (DAST) tools (e.g., Acunetix, Burp Suite): Scan your app for real-time security threats.

Security scanning tools (e.g., Nexpose, Qualys): Identify vulnerabilities in your infrastructure.

Keeping it Organized: Testing Management Tools

Don't let your tests become a tangled mess. Use these tools for clarity:

TestRail, Zephyr, and Xray: Manage your tests efficiently and track progress with ease.

Continuous testing platforms (e.g., Bamboo, CircleCI, Travis CI): Integrate your testing seamlessly into your CI/CD pipeline.

Selecting the Right Tools for Your Project

Choosing the correct Continuous Testing solutions requires careful consideration of your project's individual requirements, such as size, technological stack, team skills, and budget. Tailoring your tool choices to these aspects will result in the most efficient and successful testing method.

Developing an Effective Test Execution Strategy

Determining how often to run tests and managing parallel execution are critical for maintaining efficiency in your testing strategy. This balance guarantees that testing is thorough and time-efficient.

Conclusion

The ecosystem of Continuous Testing technologies is large and diversified, meeting every testing need across the software development lifecycle. Using these technologies, development teams may assure speedier delivery of products that satisfy the highest quality and security standards. The tools you choose will be determined by the unique demands of your project, the technological stack, and team preferences. Continuous testing allows for the development of better, quicker, and more reliable software.