#the right height for me to just reach over and pluck out what ever tool I need

[viciousewe]

Caught sight of this silly little box at target and my first thought was "that would be great for weaving supplies!" And look at that.

[prolix-yuy]

The wheel has spoken: "Sit on the throne" and I mean... Oberyn probably invented that one, so.

You know, it does seem fitting. He does want to be on that iron throne so badly, after all.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x OFC

Position: Sit on the Throne

Word Count: 945

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, PiV sex (don't be a fool, wrap your tool), fingering (f receiving), allusions to public sex, exhibitionism, cum tasting, slight noncon at the end.

Notes: This got very plot-y towards the end but it was a hell of a lot of fun when it came to me so it's staying! Heed the warnings that there's an element of noncon at the very end if that's not your thing.

The platter is heavy with fruit just under her nose, tempting her to steal a bite before delivering it to the Prince Oberyn’s chambers. Stomach grumbling, she contemplates if he’d even notice a piece missing. From the look of the platters removed, the room’s occupants rarely wanted for anything.

“Enter,” comes the drawling Dornish accent welcoming her into the ocher silks and nude bodies. It must be a quiet day, with only a handful of men and women indulging around the Prince’s lavish apartment. She scans the room for the man whose voice she’d heard both giving and receiving pleasure loudly in the halls ever since he arrived.

“Here,” he says, lazily motioning to a table within reach. She makes sure to sway her hips as she walks, gauzy fabrics billowing. The heat draws dewy perspiration down her throat, a slip of skin revealed as she leans down to place the platter. 

“Will that be all, my Prince?” she says demurely, looking up through her lashes. It’s the closest she's ever been to the man, a golden god shimmering with finery. His smile is lascivious, tongue lapping slowly at the pad of his thumb as his thighs spread in his plush chair. 

“Is that all you wish to offer, pretty thing?” he drawls, plucking a dark berry from the platter and placing it between his lips. The crush of his teeth bleeds red juice onto the swell of his lips. 

“It is not my place,” she defers without retreat. He watches her with curiosity, pink tongue lapping away the juice. 

“No, I believe that is right here,” he says, stroking his large hands over his lap. One pass strokes along his cock, and from here she can see it jutting proud beneath his robes. “Come here, pretty thing, and sit on the throne.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes but take the final steps to brush knees, turning to sit in his welcoming lap. Catching the glint of his dark gaze, she settles just enough away that his cock isn’t snug against her bottom. Barely.

“Such grace in my pit of sin,” he purrs, leaning up to drag his nose against her neck. Goosebumps raise along her nape, a chuckle preceding his lips. “Are you scared of me? Shivering in the viper’s den?” 

Gathering her courage, she rolls her hips back against him, the curve of her cunt grinding against the desert heat of his thighs. He hums approvingly, hands coming to her waist to guide. The layers of fabric separating them shift and crinkle, a drip of sweat gliding down her spine. He licks it up, a hot brand of a kiss following. 

“More sumptuous than your wares, I believe,” Oberyn muses, fisting at the layers of her dress. She shifts above him, nimble fingers finding the heavy folds of his robes to caress him. He nips at her skin, gold-laden fingers smoothing over her ass before finding their target and sliding into her sweat-slicked pussy. 

She keens, head thrown back as he fucks her on his fingers with long strokes. Lifting her hips to ride his knuckles, he coos at the neediness. 

“Don’t worry, pretty thing, I’ll give you exactly what you need,” he grits out, and soon his velvety cock caresses her inner thigh, fingers removed to slick himself with arousal. “Sit on your Prince’s cock and I’ll bring you to heights no one will ever match.”

Sinking down, she shudders at how well he fills her, long and curved to nudge against the pleasurable places inside. He lets her set the pace, leaning back to watch her bounce and grind on him. She can feel his cock thickening inside, almost hear the haze of lust cloud his voice. Raising her hands up to her head, she fixates on his tensing thighs. 

She only has one chance.

Pulling the poisoned hairpin from her braids, she brings her arm down quickly to bury it in his thigh. She's sure of her success, most men too drunk on pussy to react to an assassination.

But she's messing with the Red Viper, and his strike is just as quick.

One hand clamps around her wrist, the other wrapping around her throat as he shoots up to pin her against his chest. She screams and struggles against him, guards being called as the fleeting chance slips away. 

“Dangerous thing, you are,” he growls in her ear, the hairpin falling to the floor with a clatter. “I commend you for your boldness, and your commitment.” He drops her now-unarmed hand, letting her scrabble to grab his hair, his face, scratch his eyes out if she have nothing left to lose. Instead he tightens his hand on her throat, his other burrowing under the dress to find his cock still buried inside. Deft fingers circle her clit, the shock of his touch making her struggle against him.

“A parting gift, for all your troubles,” he hisses in her ear before sharp circles throw her mercilessly over the edge of an orgasm she snarls and thrashes through. By the time she's come to her senses the guards are tearing her off Oberyn, now leaning back in his chair and looking disinterested at the fruit beside him. He licks his fingers absentmindedly before chasing her taste with another berry. 

“Death to the house of Dorne,” she hisses as she's dragged from the room, cunt still clenching at his expert touch. He tuts at her exit, calling after.

“Take care, pretty little scorpion, maybe one day you’ll beat us all to the throne.”

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

[catharrington]

ABO prompt time! Could I get typical alpha Billy against bratty, bossy, dominant omega Steve? Where Steve’s the only male omega at school so he’s been king and getting his way for years. Maybe set during season 1? Steve has been courting Nancy and chasing after her, but then starts being chased by Billy and ends up liking that more? (Probably the shittiest prompt but I can see it in my head 😭)

Thanks for this promt I’m so dang sorry it’s late && long. I actually have more I cut off for a second part in the future lol. Enjoy!

I wanna go, Me and you in Malibu.

***

Tommy leaned against the wall right behind Steve, leering over his shoulder and making the perfect shit eating grin for the lackey he was. Billy was watching just a locker down as he interrupted Steve’s sentence.

“Good call,” Tommy interjected. Probing with his words into Steve’s side. But the other boy only laughed, nodded slight but continued to invite pretty petite Nancy Wheeler and her glasses wearing friend to his house party.

“So are you in?”

“In for what?” And that has Billy rolling his eyes. Nancy was a beta, a stiff when it comes to scent and courting. She didn’t know what she had strutting around right in front of her. Peacocking around with the bravado of an alpha, it was frustrating because that is exactly what Steve Harrington is not. Billy can smell him. Even with Nancy stifling him, Tommy’s alpha scent hanging from his shoulders, and expensive honey wheat shampoo- Billy can still smell the omega dripping from the glands in Steve’s neck.

He’s dripping wet like some vine ripe fruit Billy can’t quite name. And god, he smelt so good.

Billy tuned out of the conversation and let his eyes drift to Nancy’s friend sitting nicely at her side. Short hair, ugly coat, glasses, Billy recognized her.

He licked across the top of his teeth as he thought up a little plan.

Two class periods later, the last one of the day, and Billy was unbuttoning his shirt to be horribly lower around his navel as he cornered Barbra Holland on her way out of their algebra class.

“I’m so not interested,” she opened with before he even finished lounging himself across her desk.

“Alright,” he smirked still; wouldn’t be derailed that easy. “I ain’t asking for you then. I’m asking for a ticket to ride.”

She pushed her glasses farther up on her face, sizing him up. She was beta too, just like Nancy, but Billy wasn’t wearing blockers so maybe she could, if she tried hard enough, smell his alpha scent rolling heavy from his skin.

“I’m listening,” she puffed.

Once Billy mentioned in a hushed tone he was interested in breaking into the Harrington palace for stealing Prince Steve away, sweeping him off his feet, Barb was all for inviting him. She wasn’t a fan of Steve. Wasn’t a fan of sharing Nancy is more closer to the truth Billy guessed.

He pulled up into Steve’s huge driveway and let his engine rumble and speakers play Metallica for a half a minute before turning it off. Nancy and Barb were there already, he could hear them playing pop music out back and see the glow of an outdoor pool from around the wall. Billy wasn’t the type for knocking.

“Sorry I’m a little late, not the best with street names yet,” he groaned out with practiced ease as he swooped around the corner. All eyes snapped up to see Billy. Tommy and Carol were interrupted from their public display of affection, while Steve stopped mid passing over a bottle opener and a can of beer to Nancy.

Billy found Barb’s eyes, she was sitting with her arms and ankles crossed on a deck chair. She was uncomformably stiff in her thick jacket and frown, so Billy curled his lips into the friendliest smile and draped his arm over the back metal bar of her chair.

“Gonna introduce me?” He purred.

“Yeah,” Steve lowered the beer and the opener. Reawakening slowly from where he was frozen. “Please introduce him. I so didn’t know you were dating anyone?” He shifted his weight to one foot then the other. Billy didn’t care if anyone noticed the way he dragged his eyes all over that lithe body.

“Steve, Nancy,” Barb turned to look at everyone circled around her, “Tommy and Carol, this is-,”

“Billy Hargrove,” Billy finishes. He stepped away from Barb’s shoulder to get closer to Steve. “And it’s just a casual invite, really I’m new in town. Looking to lick some flavors. Acquire new tastes.” Then Billy is close enough for Steve to smell. And he knows what he smells like, oak and burning spices. Marbled with his cigarettes his scent was blisteringly heavy. Billy knows his alpha scent is overbearing in the best way.

He wraps his fingers round the beer still clutched in Steve’s hands. Gives it a tug, growls inside from the way his fingers rub across Steve’s as he pulls the beer free.

“Oh yeah, I know you.” Carol pipes up. She’s hanging off the one arm Tommy has around her waist. Maybe she’s already drunk, or maybe she’s an omega that baits alphas and gets off on it. “Just moved from California. I’ve seen your car, it’s super cool! Not as nice as your ass though.”

Tommy shakes her around, makes her curls jump, makes her laugh. Glares over her shoulder at Billy, but one alpha to the other he doesn’t do much.

Billy only shrugs, pops open the beer and takes a smell of the cheap liquid.

“You picked a great time to crash,” Steve pulled Billy’s attention back to him. His hands on his hips and a glimmer in his brown eyes. “I was just showing Nance here how to shotgun a beer. They do that over in sunny California?”

Billy only nodded. He was holding an open can already, kept his nose hovering over it and looked up to make that obvious.

“Oh perfect then.” Steve snatched the can from Billy’s hands, quick with nimble little fingers that the alpha didn’t even see coming. He pushed up next to Billy to do it, and leaned over him a just a tad, enough for his sweater to shift an inch down his collar bone. Letting his neck bare and scent heighten. Billy didn’t hide how he was watching.

“Because that was the lady’s beer. And this is going to be your beer,” with a smile, he handed Nancy the open can she timidly accepted; before Steve turned back to the bottle opener. He nudged it in Billy’s face. Smile sobering to a playful curl.

Taking the jagged metal, Billy turned the coolness around and around in his hand. It was warm in the middle from Steve’s fingers gripping it. Billy watches as Steve plucks off a beer from a six pack on his short pool side table and starts back towards him.

“Nah,” Billy raises his hand, doesn’t realize he’s he’s using the opener to point- but it gets his point across.

“Steve,” Billy rolls the name around his tongue, tastes good, “better be bringing one for yourself. I’m only gonna do this if you race me.”

Nancy has her beer cupped in her hands and settles down on her own chair, scooted closer to be right next to Barb’s. They share a quirky half smirk.

Steve is fidigiting in his tight pants. “I just finished one before you-,”

“Then it’s not a big deal, huh? If you’ve already done it?” Billy sneered, tipped his shoulder like he was shoving it against Steve’s own. God, he wishes he could shove his nose into the throat of the omega.

There’s a moment of a deep breath, wide chocolate brown eyes blinking, then Steve plucks another beer free. He throws it to Billy in a wide arch that almost ends up in the pool, but Billy catches it with one big palm. Steve comes to stand close in front of him, sizing Billy up as he mirrors the motion of rolling the cold can around in his hand.

“You’ll need this,” Billy offers the can opener back. Steve takes it hesitantly. “I’ve got my own tool,” to show off, Billy bends down to slip his hand into his ankle high biker boots, fishing for his pocket knife. The ringlet curls of his hair brushed Steve’s olive green sweater at his stomach just for a second.

Then Billy was standing back up, and flicking his knife open in a sharp click.

Steve’s chocolate eyes are melting. “You’re a cliché,” he drawls in a wicked grin. “You so relaize that?”

Neither boy notices the way Barb shoves her elbow into Nancy’s side with a raised eyebrow. They had their eyes locked on each other.

“You want a countdown, Malibu?” Steve sings.

Billy pressed his knife to the bottom of the can, getting ready, just as Steve was holding his. He shakes out his long hair. Swipes his tongue across his lower lip.

Steve tilts his head back like a haughty bitch, watching him down the bridge of his nose. The one inch height he has on Billy mostly evened by the boots, but he kept the air all the same.

“Go!” Tommy yells from over Billy’s shoulder.

Their cans puncture at the same time, a hiss of carbonation and a twist to open the bottom. Then in sync Billy and Steve lift to drink. From behind them Tommy and Carol are hooting in a gross chant. Billy’s focus is only on getting this cheep beer down his throat, breathing out his nose in a few short breaths, then he’s taking one last mouthful down before his can is empty. Billy crushes the tin in his fist, reveling in the way it sounds.

He flicks his eyes open to see Steve still tilted back working on his. Billy doesn’t think, he’s blurry in the thrill of winning, and he reaches out his free hand ever so slightly to cup the omegas hip. Steve’s sweater is hitched up letting a moonlight colored sliver of skin poke out. Billy gets his hands on his hips and swipes his thumb across the flushed skin, sends shivers down his whole body.

Just then Steve finishes, his can dropping with an empty clink to the ground. He braces himself from a stumble like he’s about to fall over. Eyes dip down to see where Billy’s hand ghosts over his naked skin, lingering there for a moment.

Billy pulls away just as Steve yanks down his sweater.

“Hell yeah, California! You beat Stevie boy here real good!” Carol steps up close to Billy, runs one well manicured hand up the arm of his denim jacket. Gives his bicep a squeeze like she’s testing the muscle.

Billy focuses her with a questioning glare, still a little hazy, but just as he does she goes in a blur away from his vision. Tommy scoops her up and takes a running leap into the pool.

There’s a brief moment of silence before they breach the water laughing like hyenas. Then Steve and Nancy are laughing, Barb trying to hold it back, and Billy turns to watch how cute Steve’s cheeks get when they are pushed back from a smile.

“Hey Nance, lets get in there? Don’t want them to have all the fun!” Steve moves to Nancy’s chair and is begging her with two hands curled around her own. Tugging her when he could swoop the slender girl up and just throw her if he wanted to.

“Steve,” she warns, but stands up. “This is a really bad-,” then she takes one step, and two, and she’s close enough to the pool that Steve does just that. Wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her to splash down right into heated waters. She sputters as she breached the surface, steam rolling off her wet hair in tendrils.

Then Steve is glancing to his side, taking a look at Billy. Asking if he’s impressed. And Billy is, he so is. Billy doesn’t even bother taking off his jacket or leather boots as he steps up closer to Steve. Gets his shoulder pressed right along the others rippling with an energy of trouble making. Clicking together like teeth in a kiss. Then they take a gasp of air scented with the other smell at the same time and jump into the water.

When Billy surfaces he sees Steve has gone to Nancy. Getting her thin waist back in his arms and playfully tossing her around in the water. Billy doesn’t have time to linger before he gets a harsh splash to the back of his head from Tommy. The alpha challenging him in the simplest low risk form of splash battle. Billy bares his fangs and uses his whole arm to send a wave that gets Carol too, makes her squeak.

The pop music is drowned out by their laughter. Even Barb who doesn’t move from her chair or unzips her jacket leans forward and laughs.

Really gets a good laugh out of Billy dunking Steve under the water to ruffle up his styled hair. Billy takes a long feel of those silky locks flowing around his fingers, moving his hand down to cup Steve’s neck. And shivering in the heated pool water as Steve vibrates a purr from the slight touch. Lifts his own hand to curl around Billy’s shirt front. A spark of heightened omega scent tastes of fruit rolled in sugar. He can feel ruby red juices trailing down his mustache hair. Wants a bite so badly.

Their affection goes on for a count of three seconds before Steve is pushing him away and resuming the splash fight.

Carol is the first to crawl out, whimpering about her clothes shrinking, with Tommy following behind. Billy lingers as he watches Steve help Nancy out of the pool. Them both rushing inside to stay warm in the cold Indiana night. Billy doesn’t care that he could come off as crazy. He hefts himself from the side of the pool and follows to the Harrington’s sliding glass doors. Listening into their low voices.

“It’s late, Steve- I’ve got to go home?” Nancy poses her intent like a question as she shrugs off the omega’s grabby hands. After a few too many beers, and their late night dip in his heated pool, Steve is itching for attention.

“Nance,” he whimpers, pouting glossy lips. “Why don’t you crash here?”

In an elegant gesture, Nancy stands on her top toes for a chaste kiss then drops back down and tightens a towel around her shoulders. It’s a long stripped patterned one and it would fit perfectly on a sandy beach with a certain pretty omega laid out on it. Now it was draped across Nancy’s thin shoulders.

“I’ll bring this by to return another night, okay?” She whispers. Now they are too low for Billy to over hear. He scuffs his boot into the sliding patio doors. There’s a scolding noise from Barb not far from him, but Billy doesn’t listen. His denim jacket and tight denim pants are soaking chlorine into his skin, and his hair must be a new level of curled to put it nicely.

Barb had sent him a lingering look earlier as they all crawled out of the pool. Maybe she was flirting, if you were Tommy and Carol and dumb as rocks. But Billy knew that look. And her lame little thumbs up as Nancy trailed off after Steve’s flourishing smell like a puppy.

He had taken the pack of smokes on Steve’s poolside table because his Marlboro reds got wet. Billy chewed on the end of one. Imagined chewing on Steve’s lips. And waited like a good boy.

“Bye,” a breathy voice blew past Billy just as a skinny shoulder nudged into his arm. Billy moved off to let Nancy out. He watches her and Barb walk around the huge yard, maybe he sees Barb throw her arm over Nancy’s shoulders. Maybe Billy’s got wishful thinking.

“Early night for the princess?” Billy teases as he smells Steve before he turns to see him. Bites down on the fruit taste in the air.

There’s a scoff, and Billy turns to see Steve rubbing a towel through his hair. He’s a fucking tease with his long dark hair damp and wild, draped over his forehead and droplets of water reflecting the night sky midnight back on his olive skin.

Billy snarls. Bites down on the filter of the cigarette. Makes Steve smile.

“She’s shy,” Steve supposes.

Tommy and Carol are padding through the living rooms soft carpet over to the couch where they tumble awkwardly down. Billy is the only one left standing outside.

“I’m not shy.” It’s said in a growl and not exactly Billy’s smoothest line, but it gets the job done.

Steve blushes bright red down to the tip of his long nose. “It is late. Maybe another night, Malibu?”

Then he turns his eyes to Billy’s, searching them with his own wide ones speckled with the sparkling stars in the sky. Billy watches his reflection in Steve’s eyes too. Wondered how anyone could have eyes that beautifully large and if he could drown in them like it looks like his reflection is doing.

“Rain check then, pretty boy,” he exhales as laugher. Nodding his head with it. Trying to make his disappointment low. Trying to make his scent roll gentle, when all he wanted was to claim.

Steve nods back. Starts sliding the glass doors shut. Billy doesn’t wait for it to hit him in the ass. He walks off around the palace grounds back to his Camaro. Tries not to think about the way his nose doesn’t stop smelling like fruit even after he showers off pool water.

[deathfrisbeeinthetardis]

i love you by billie eilish but it's playing while ryan is driving a car to their haunted destination and shane is sleeping on the other seat and ryan may be pining a bit. suddenly it starts raining and shane's face scrunches up so ryan just puts some hoodie as a blanket over his friend and shane relaxes again.

This made me cry at 9 am in the morning so here’s a drabble  :’)))

Shyan week day 3: Togetherness

as it gets dark

The road stretches before him and Ryan’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, blinking his eyes hard in a vain attempt to stop the aching there. The tires hit a bump and the half-empty cup of coffee in the console sloshes. 

He spares a glance at it, weighing warmth against some more extended consciousness. 

Shane makes a soft noise in his sleep, and Ryan looks up at where the other man had curled up in the passenger seat, a fleece blanket thrown over his lap, his head tucked into the nook between the seat and the window. 

Shane looks young like this, the shadows under his eyes smoothed over in the semi-dark. A smile tugs at Ryan’s mouth, and then he’s swallowing down the cold liquid left in the styrofoam cup. The bitter taste lingers even with the milk he had dumped in, and he almost wishes it was something stronger, something that would dull the ache in his chest. 

It’s not like you can just tell your best friend you love him. 

Especially when that best friend’s already taken. 

‘It’s not trueTell me I’ve been lied to’

Ryan fastens his eyes back on the empty road, they shouldn’t be far now. There’s a low silky song playing on the radio, fingers that had given up guitar years ago forming patterns against the wheel as if he could pluck he melancholy cords out of the car. 

The rental does that well enough on its own. 

There’s really no use thinking about it. He’s seen how Shane looks at Sara. He knows she’s the one for Shane, he can see it in the way they are around each other, the comfortable silence and shared glances, the twinning expressions of adoration when they pet their demon of a cat. He has no right going in any direction that is even vaguely between them, he’d never do that to the two people who had only ever been there for him when he needed it. 

It was the two of them that took him in after the breakup, letting him tag along on their outings and half-dates just so he could get out of his apartment and breathe easy, so he could see their merriment and remember what it is to be happy again. 

Sometimes he permits himself to look, when he’s sure no one would see. And each time what he sees makes him ache more, knowing that she offers Shane the sanctuary and comfort in ways that Ryan never could, not while he could live with himself.  

He looks at you like that too, he hears, and it may as well be the devil and his conscience combined. 

Would it be better if he hadn’t ever met Shane, he wonders. If he had never gotten to know and bond with the kind funny man that always takes the care to make the people around him comfortable. The man who indulges him and his supernatural beliefs and follows his lead until Ryan drives himself to the edge of overexposure, who would then become the support Ryan needs. If he had never gotten himself into this complicated tangle of emotions, had fallen so completely.

No. 

Ryan wouldn’t give those years up, he’ll take the pain, damn it. 

He shouldn’t mess with what they all have, he doesn’t have the right to. He could more than live with the strangely spectacular friendship that’s already in place. Why tamper with perfection, right?

’ Up all night on another red eyeI wish we never learned to fly’

The first splatter of rain against the windshield startles Ryan, and because not everywhere can be nice like California, it’s pouring within minutes. The running water filters the road markings back at him in their distorted yellow glow under the headlights. His view of the outside world blurs.

And so does everything in the car. 

’ Maybe we should just tryTo tell ourselves a good lie ’

It’s the song, Ryan thinks, wiping at his face furiously. He’s always been an emotional son of a bitch, and this one is stupidly on the nose. 

Shane’s face scrunches up in his sleep, the blanket coming a little short in covering his lanky limbs. For all that Ryan startles easily, the big guy’s actually the lighter sleeper of the two, but when eyes open before they should, Shane can always find his way back to comfort in the darkness. And Ryan, well. 

They’re driving through the last stretch of country before reaching the town, and it’s all open fields on either side of the road with no sign of humanity. Ryan knows the crew isn’t far behind them, can see their headlights around corners and turns, but it feels like its just the two of them passing through the darkness.  

It takes him a few careful seconds of maneuvering, but he manages to shrug off his hoodie, reaching over to drape it over Shane. Warmth curls in his chest when the other man’s face relaxes, even when the chill air rushes to meet all his newly exposed skin. 

He keeps his eyes on the road, it’s just the song, he tells himself. 

‘I don’t want tobut I love you’

Ryan’s fingers tremble against the wheel, and he grips it tight. 

Ryan watches Shane sleep, he almost always does in these haunted places. The sight soothes him, knowing that he’s not alone here, though it’s not like Shane would be much help if a ghost tried to murder them. 

A few pencils lie on the floor next to them, tools of a bygone age that they had tried to use in a knock off seance hours before. Ryan creeps an arm out from the warmth of his sleeping bag and picks one up, twirling it in his fingers. If he moves it just right, it spans the height of Shane’s head perfectly. An idea pops up in his overactive brain. 

He’s not sure what insane surge of energy prompts him to do it, but he finds himself tracing Shane’s face, the eraser of the pencil ghosting over the other man’s skin in a barely-there touch. It’s almost like asmr, and Ryan feels his heartbeat in his fingers, steadying for what feels like the first time tonight. 

’ There’s nothing you could do or sayI can’t escape the way, I love you ‘

The fucking song’s stuck in his head now, the low woeful tune playing in a loop in his head, every word stabbing at his mind. He turns his mental back on it, blocks it out with the care he takes to trace the pencil, again and again. 

A largish hand comes out of nowhere to clasp his, and Ryan lets out a yelp. Then Shane’s looking at him through bleary eyes. 

“Jesus man.” Ryan says. Shane lets go of his hand after a second, and Ryan shuffles it back against his chest. The unexpected contact burning into his skin. “A little warning next time?”

“Mmm, I thought you were a spider,”

“And your first instinct is to grab it?” Ryan asks, incredulous. 

“Well, yeah.” He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice, see the flash of teeth from his sleepy grin. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah.” Ryan admits. It’s far from the first time this has happened, why the fuck is he still embarrassed?

Because it’s Shane, his mind supplies. 

Shut up, Ryan thinks. 

“C’mere.” Shane murmurs, disentangling an arm from his sleeping bag so Ryan can tuck himself close. They’re plenty experienced at keeping themselves comfortable in these places and Ryan’s not cold, but the solid warmth of Shane at his side is something to hold onto in the dark. 

“It’s okay Ry, I’ll protect you from the demons.” 

Shane settles again, soft steady puffs of air glance across Ryan’s face. They’re a bit close, maybe too close while both of them are on their backs, anyway. Ryan’s body is stiff where it presses against Shane through two layers of sleeping bags, and he doesn’t dare move. He matches his breaths to Shane’s. 

“That’s it, I’m right here.” Shane’s hand rubs small circles into Ryan’s shoulder, and his face is so close. 

That’s the moment Ryan chooses.

He chooses and it’s dangerous and entirely unreasonable, but he’s got just enough fear and sleep deprivation and an ever-looming sense that the world might just lose it very, very soon that he doesn’t care for a split second. 

Shane’s lips are soft against his own. 

Too bad reality’s a real bitch sometimes, by the time he regains his brain, it’s already done. Ryan jerks back. 

’I don’t want to, but I love you.’

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers, eyes stinging. He should be watching Shane’s face, he’d always been bad at reading the big guy but at least it could have helped. But the shadows swallow them whole in this room and Ryan’s not brave enough to make out Shane’s expression through it all. 

His breaths are coming fast again, there’s going to be a hitch in his voice soon, “I’m sorry, Shane. I didn’t mean to, fuck what is wrong with me–”

“Ryan, Ry stop.” 

Shane’s hands grip his shoulders and Ryan shudders out a breath, “I’m sorry.” he repeats. 

“Don’t be.” Shane’s voice is rough, like he’s having trouble breathing too. He brings a hand down to tilt Ryan’s head towards him, “I’m not sorry.” He enunciates, eyes searching. 

“But Sara–”

“Sara knows.” Shane swallows and he almost looks shy, “She’s, uh, rooting for us, actually.”

“She is?” Ryan chokes out.

“We care about you, Ry, both of us.” Shane pauses, and Ryan feels their eyes meet in the dark. “We’d like to be more, if you’ll have us.”

The air is stuck in Ryan’s throat, it seems too good to be true. He manages a jerky nod, a tear slipping down his face. 

Slowly, Shane reaches out and wipes it away. 

“We can talk more about this when we get back, just, sleep now. I’ve got you.” Shane settles his chin on the crown of Ryan’s head, and Ryan can feel the vibrations of his voice. He makes an effort to count his breaths, slowing them down. 

One, two, three–

A ting sounds from the corner of the room, and Ryan jolts. 

“It’s just the radiator, shh.” 

Four, five, six, seven, eight–

I love you.

[c-atm]

Setting the record Straight

White Diamond waited patiently for him to arrive, eyes closed sitting in her crossed legged position, the perfect symbol of tranquility. Hiding the fact that she was completely and utterly nervous for this conversation as well as cracked with guilt over taking so long to have it, but the time has come. If they were to continue helping shape a brighter future for gems both on Homeworld and abroad, shed had to start at home.

The sounds of her door sliding open alerted the tyrant turned pacifist, her eyes opened and she felt a bit more pressure on her gem. She gave a smile despite the pressure in her cut.

"Starlight, thank you for coming and Twilight, what a welcomed surprise." She looked at them eye to eye, fighting that small wrinkle of pride, seeing their surprised faces at her newer human height. She had Yellow change her for this meeting, She didn't  want to feel as if she was condescending at all to him..Them now, during this talk. 

She didn't expect to be slightly looking up at them both, not physically anyway. 

"White." Twilight...Connie said evenly. Indifferent lips in a line, a deep stare in her black eyes, right hand in her lab coat pocket, left interlocked with Steven's, as always.

White knew better to think this woman feared her, now or ever. She wouldn't be surprised if the human woman already had a plan to crack her, if things ever went sour and the only thing that's keeping her from initiating it is in her left hand. She bit back a sigh, she did deserve her ire.

"Hey, White." Steven, her starlight, spoke in his gentle way. A presence of kindness and love,  even after everything he's been through. Though he now held a weight of strength and command as well, with zero fear towards White.

White would never stop adoring him and how he always seems to change more and more each time, same with Connie as well. Even if she knew they didn't feel the same about her. That's not her choice.

.

"Yellow said you wanted to speak with me?" 

"Yes.. Please?" White offered them a pillow for them to sit on in front of her. 

"I'll leave you to it." Connie started as she released his hand.

"Wait Connie.I would like you to stay, I...I owe you this conversation as well."

Connie looked towards the matriarch for a moment, before nodding asking a seat besides Steven.

White felt the nerves she didn't possess rattle like little jumping beans. In front of her was the victim and witness of her most haunting act...The removal of Steven's gem. She could dissipate  at any moment from the anxiety alone. The concerned looks on her two guests didn't  help either. 

"White...Is everything ok?" 

She gave Steven a reassuring grin at the worrying tone..She didn't deserve such attention not from these two.

"Y-yes." She stuttered as she looked downward toward her white knuckles and trimmed nails. Her face glowing pink in embarrassment. "No...It's not." She shook her head. "Steven...Connie…"  she inhaled deeply into her non-existent lungs, turning to them with pleading eyes. " I'm sorry for what I've done to you two."

Steven's face held a bit of confusion at what she was talking about. His mind going over recent visits and meetings with White and not finding anything out of the ordinary haughty annoyance. 

"Sorry?" 

Steven looked over at his Heartberry, the cold voice from her lips could make a room of Sapphires feel like a sauna.

"Six...Years." Connie growled as she ball her fist to the side. "It took six years for you to apologize," her voice rose little by little, " and while that might mean nothing to a multi-eon being like yourself, that six years of holding these feeling of rage and sadness." Her eyes were moist as her voice reached a roar. Of recurring nightmares! Each playing a what if scenario of him dying BY YOUR HAND only to wake up and play nice with You! The one who got closet of taking him away from me!"

"Connie!" Steven called looking up at her and grabbing her hand. She was poised to attack, with her dead cold glare and waist level hands held like blades. He knew the R&D member enough to know that she would attack with precision and brutality and possibly regret it after it was done.

"Mister.." She looked at him receiving a shake of his head as a response. She breathed deeply and rested back to her seat, her back facing White. "I'm not apologizing. I don't regret what I was planning to do."

"Con-"

"I don't expect you to." White sincerity was evident. "Your hate is founded, Connie. I will take it...If it allows me to have some communication with you."  All she got was a slight glance and sneer from the woman.

The man shook his head as he looked towards White. "This is quite the heavy subject, White." He sighed.

"I apologize...but It needs to be addressed."  White offered. " It ...has plagued me. Vision of my past actions..Most predominantly that event. Usually when I fall into stasis."

"You've been sleeping and having nightmares." Steven surmised.

"I supposed...Though the weight of my sin against you two is always present, regardless." White peered at the young adult, who gave her an even smirk. "Why aren't you mad at me, still?" 

Steven brows rose at the question. " Hmph…Maybe because my hands aren't exactly free of shards themselves."

"None of our hands are clean." Connie added in a low tone, getting a surprised look from White.

"Peace is relative and progress is the result of  trial and error." Steven offered to Connie, before turning to White.  "That being said.." Steven sighed "I don't have the mindset to be mad anymore… Not after I've tried to crush your gem after you gave me free control of your body" He turned away shame on his face "I took advantage of your good will and wield it as a weapon... and that was after I shattered and realigned Jasper." 

"Jasper was a mistake." Connie and White spoke in tandem.

"One that I still live with." Steven retorted. "The same with my actions against you, White." Steven admitted. 

"Starlight. That...That was a result of what I did to you."  

"Compounded with all you were going through." 

"Still doesn't excuse what I did…." Steven argued with the two, before turning to White. "What we did to each other. " He exhaled given her and apologetic glance. "I never apologized to you."

"I don't deserve it." 

"You'd try to help me when I was corrupted."

"Everyone did." White smiled glancing at Connie. "Some are immensely more effective than others."  

Connie gave a slight nod at her praise-filled voice.

Steven gave Connie’s hand a quick squeeze of appreciation. Before turning back to White.

"I didn't enter this conversation, looking for forgiveness. Just to tell 'clear the air'..I believe that's the term...Between us." White started seriously. 

Steven nodded. "Fair enough. Please." Steven  proposed. 

White lips pressed hard together as she gathered her thoughts. "I can't truly apologize enough for what I've done. Taking your gem from you, even in an attempt to bring back Pink, as pathetic of an excuse that is, was a horrendous wrongdoing." Her voice started breaking. "I nearly lost a chance to have a connection with you, Something I truly  treasure even as strained as it is."  She trembled as the density of her guilt hit her. " I am so sorry for hurting you two in such a way."

"I can't forget what you done." Connie breathed out. "Ever...I don't forgive you either." She continued coldly. "I was held against my will unable to do anything, while you plucked his life force out of him, literally; all because you didn't believe that he was who he always was." She turned forward glaring at the smaller diamond. "You nearly killed the most important person in my life, in front of me..While making me feel useless and powerless...You broke me,White and I truly hate you.." 

"Connie." Steven looked shocked

She breathed out her hand up.."Or at least I did…" She folded her arms looking indifferent  " You have changed from the gem you used to be. It's hard and unfair not to acknowledge that." Connie's eyes relaxed the slightest of measures. "I don't yet forgive, nor am I a fan of yours, but I don't hate you,White..I can't hate someone who's actually trying to change themselves and In the future,  who knows."

"That's more than I deserve from you, Twilight." White voiced in true gratitude.

Connie nodded as she turned to Steven. Who looked towards the ceiling 

"I don't know what to say actually." Steven's honest voice caught them both off guard. " I've held so much rage, fear, vengeance against you, but I know I've never hated you, not truly." Steven looked down at White. "I'm never gonna forget what was done to me, but also can't forget what I attempted to do to you. The things I've done...The only thing I can do is. Start to forgive you."

White was surprised at his statement. Her palm covering her mouth. "Steven…?"

"Listen. It's like Connie said. You aren't the same gem. " Steven pointed at the matriarch. "You've given yourself fully to gems allowing them to talk about their own problem..Turning to their avatar so they can workout their problems. You give your support to Little Homeworld R&D, from essence, to tools, to text and more." Steven rubbed the back of his head a feeling of modesty. "You're  essential to era 3, especially on the whole ambassador front...White, you have changed from before and  still a long way from what you can be. You're leagues better from what you were.." Steven laid a hand on her shoulder. "You earned a chance at forgiveness. Just keep doing what you doing." 

White couldn't speak, too afraid to destroy the gifts these two gave her. The simple fact that they didn't cut her out was more than what she thought, but to also be given a chance to earn their forgiveness. White could only nod as tears of relief and appreciation ran freely from her eyes.

[thefinalcinderella]

Tsurune Book 2 Chapter 6-Door (Part 2)

It’s the Inter-High finals! Who will win, who will lose? Read on to find out! Also some really weird shit happens and by that point I was just like “...yeah okay”

This part took forever, but I hope it isn’t so tedious to read

Glossary here

Full list of translations here

Translation Notes

1. Heki-ryu Insai-ha is one of the styles still active today

2. Sakae Urakami was a 10-dan hanshi rank archer who was very well known in the kyudo world. He shot in the Heki-ryu Insai-ha style

3. Mato-tsuki means pointing the arrow at the target and teki-wari literally means dividing the target, which means turning the bow with the arm outstretched apparently. I could only find one English source for this the rest was in German hahahahahaha

4. Meigen is the ceremonial plucking of the bowstring. It is primarily done for the Imperial family. It’s believed that the tsurune helps drive away evil spirits

5. Fudou Myouou or Acala is a Buddhist deity who is a Wisdom King. He usually looks angry, carries a sword in the right hand, and has flames at his back

6. This isn’t the first time I came across wabi-sabi, and you’ve probably heard of the term before, but it’s a “world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection

7. The “Bow Saint” is a title given to Awa-hanshi

Previous | Afterword

At the moment one step foot in that place, one was invited into another world.

A tsurune, a matooto that pierced through the chest.

The shouts of "Alright!"

Bows and arrows came into this world as tools to sever the lives of others, but archers used them to sever their own lives.

And then, be born again.

Minato slept like a log after he returned from the hospital, and the next morning, his fever had completely receded. Even though there was still some pain left, his body felt lighter than he expected.

The fourth day of Inter-High, the last day.

The venue was wrapped in a tingling atmosphere. The number of spectators was also the most on this day out of all the days. There were many famous schools that had won, and their bow covers and bags with their schools’ name on them let their tradition and self-confidence peek through.

Next to Seiya, who was stretching, Ryouhei and Nanao were having the mysterious conversation of "Did you gooshura last night?” “Of course I did.” It was somewhat comforting. Here was the same scenery as when they were at Kazemai High School.

Kaito, with a sullen look, suddenly struck Minato’s back.

“Ow!”

“Yesterday you seemed to be gasping for breath, but since you’re able to cry out that loudly, you’re fine.”

“Your way of making seems a bit rough, Onogi.”

“Whatever. Right, we going soon?”

Prompted by Kaito, the five bumped their yugake-covered right fists.

Their opponent in the quarterfinals was the winning school the year before last. Kazemai won with seventeen hits against fifteen.

After the deciding matches for fifth to eighth place were finished, the semi-finals began. They won and advanced, but it was hard to listen to the sobbing from the people crouching behind the venue or from the washroom stalls. This was the path that they had taken, and for this tournament as well, there was the bitterness everyone except for the winning school tasted equally. The insides of their mouths felt coarse and rough.

Kazemai’s opponent in the semi-finals was Tsujimine High School.

In the hallway before the waiting rooms, Nikaidou had an amiable smile on his face. His large eyes were so full of vigor and spirit that one wondered if his panicked self from yesterday was an illusion.

He approached Minato, who was swinging his white headband.

"Why, if it isn’t Minato-chan. We were both miserable yesterday, weren’t we?”

"No, it was a good experience for me.”

"Heh…what a mature way to handle it.”

Behind Nikaidou, Fuwa was standing at a distance. He did not like to get friendly with others, so this sense of distance felt comfortable to him.

In the extreme cases of Ootaguro, Higuchi and Aragaki, they did not belong to any group from the start, because they had the air of people marching to the beats of their own drums. They were neither ashamed nor proud to be minorities—they had a natural attitude towards it. They wouldn’t feel insecure or worried even if they weren’t connected to large number of people.    

Minato fixed his gaze on Nikaidou.

“Nikaidou-senpai. I’ve been recalling a lot of Saionji-sensei’s words since then. Because of that, I am convinced of this. Even if Saionji-sensei opened his door wider, your uncle would never be his disciple.”

"I’m shocked. Minato-chan, the always good boy, is provoking me? Do you feel like doing whatever it takes for the sake of winning? You sure have grown, Senpai is so proud of you.”

“Your uncle shoots in the shamen uchiokoshi style of the Heki-ryuu Insai-ha, correct? (1) Also, taking the ‘sanbun no ni’ is from the Urakami school, isn’t it? (2) Saionji-sensei talked about it. He said that since nowadays most people did shoumen uchiokoshi, he didn’t want the number of shamen archers to decrease. He also said that since he could only teach shoumen uchiokoshi, if we ever wanted to try shooting in shamen style in the future, that we shouldn’t hesitate to seek other teachers.”

“What?”

"I think Saionji-sensei knew the difference between who each archer wanted to be, and where they are aiming for. He wasn’t amazing because he hit a hundred targets. Hitting a hundred targets doesn’t have that much meaning, but the figure of someone shooting a bow is cool.”

"Heh…Thank you so very much for your valuable opinion. You must have an awful lot of free time to think about things like that the day before the competition.”

“I loved seeing you shoot, Nikaidou-senpai. The Heki-ryuu taihai you showed us several times: mato-tsuki, teki-wari and the yudaoshi towards the front of target—it was all truly cool. Yeah, you really love kyudo, Senpai.” (3)

“…I’m doing kyudo out of a force of habit. It’s just that since I’m doing it, I don’t wanna lose, and when I need to, I can use it for university referrals. It’s only insurance for broadening my future course.”

"Even so, I looked up to you when you were holding a bow. Those kinds of sharp movements could only be done by someone who trained a lot, and even now, you don’t seem like you’re doing kyudo out of a force of habit at all.”

"Hah…you two really are alike. Just as I thought."

"Huh? What do you mean ‘alike’?”

“You and your master.”

A corner of Nikaidou’s mouth lifted, and he left while fluttering his hand at him.

At the convocation call, they went on towards the third waiting room and passed through the door.

In the space enclosed by white cloth, there were also five to six staff members in addition to the competitors and managers from the two schools. Minato’s team placed their bows and arrows in the designated place and sat down in their seats with Tommy-sensei, their manager, at the end. To verify the identities of the competitors and manager, they underwent inspection of their equipment and numbers, as well as their attire, hands, and other body inspections. The staff told them that even if they lost, the deciding matches for third and fourth places would begin immediately, so they would need to come back there again.

Tommy-sensei collected the ID cards hanging from their necks, and took with him a small basket containing things like reserve arrows stuck in palm-sized, three sun (9.1cm) targets and spare bowstring reels, then they moved to the second waiting room. The competitors put down their bows and arrows again and sat down.

They would be entering the shajo once they left there. Tsujimine’s Ootaguro was cramming his left hand into a flat can filled with fudeko powder, and next to him, Seiya was doing things like rotating his shoulders.

At the signal, the ten competitors took their bows and arrows in hand and lined up in one single line.

When they entered the kyudojo, Tsujimine and Kazemai entered the first and second shajo respectively and sat down—it was finally time.

“Rise, begin!”

They did their yuu bows simultaneously, advanced to the shooting line and nocked their arrows.

First to shoot was Tsujimine’s oomae, Nikaidou.

A yugamae done in the shamen style involved making the tenouchi small to make it look like red leaves piling up, and pushing open the bow diagonally to the left at a third of one’s yazuka. Keeping that form, one raised their bow, and then at hikiwake, the right hand passed over the ear, and the arrow stops at a height that is almost level with it, which is the “sanbun no ni” position. After doing kakehodoki—making a grinding noise with the yugake at kai—he flicked his thumb, and the sharp flight of his arrow invited a matooto.

Next was the second archer, Fuwa.

His hoozuke was slightly higher than those for shoumen uchiokoshi, and his arrow was placed in between his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth (kuchiwari). He continued to stretch his arms as though they were holding the ends of a piece of string and he was extending it evenly to the left and right. He waited for the "yagoro"—the moment that led to the perfect opportunity for hanare. He also hit the target.

The third archer, Ootaguro, was very conspicuous due to his bamboo bow that was unusual for a student, the huge size of that bow, and not to mention his massive and bulky body. His amber bow bended so much that it seemed to engulf other people, and his arrow pierced the target with such a force that it made the azuchi cave in.

Conversely, the fourth archer, Higuchi, slowly lifted his bow. He drew his bow so gently that it verged on being too careful, and even if one thought that he finally reached kai, he took a considerable amount of time to release his arrow. After the spectators, wondering what was going to happen, were kept in suspense, finally at last, his arrow drew a parabola and fell to the target.

The ochi was Aragaki the maskman. Of course, he took off his mask in the shajo. Since he was narcissistic about his profile, he was extremely particular about the angle of his face. He fixed his gaze on the target to ascertain it, as though his name was being called from the target. He did not blink even once since he started uchiokoshi. He performed nobiai at kai as though to thoroughly worship his own profile.

The five got a kaichuu, and there was applause from the stands.

Kazemai did not succumb to them.

Elderly people, even if they were great archers, could never imitate the lively and youthful shooting they performed one after the other. They captured their targets in succession, and heated shouts of “Alright!” flew from the stands. The frog fans were shaking faintly.

In the second round of shooting as well, neither school missed.

Aggressive Kaito, cheerful Ryouhei, intelligent Seiya, sparkling Nanao, and cool and clear Minato――.

They increased the freshness of the colours each of them possessed, and painted a picture rich with those five colours.

Suppose that the settings book for the story called life had been written in one’s genes before one was born. Inevitable large events were prepared at each important point. However, it was up to the person themselves to write a heavy and dark story or a fun and bright story. Even if the plot was the same, it would become something else depending on the episodes one chose, and even for the same episode, just changing its arrangement would change the implications and meaning of it. There were endless ways to write, and each person had their own impressions and feelings.

Just as everyone’s faces and voices were different, no one had the exact same shooting form. No one could always shoot with the exact same form. Humans were creatures who kept on changing moment by moment. What one ate became flesh and blood, the information that entered from the eyes and ears was processed and stored by the brain, and skin cells were reborn in two weeks. One’s faces yesterday and today were similar but different. Even if one came to a stop, hung one’s head, bent over, crouched down, or shed tears of blood, a wind would still blow somewhere.

A new wind blew.

Supple limbs danced.

The color of evergreen.

Let’s etch these moments that would never fade into our memories.

The third shooting round. Seiya missed.

In the fourth shooting round, Nanao also missed, and Kazemai had the result of four, four, three, three, and four for a total of eighteen hits.

For Tsujimine as well, Fuwa and Aragaki both missed one shot each, and the results of four, three, four, four, and three—a tie.

For the tiebreaking match, each archer would shoot one arrow, and the school with the most hits won. Each person received a spare arrow from their manager, who acted as the kaizoe and sat in a reserved chair, and steadied their breathing. Even though it was just one arrow, it felt heavier than the four arrows they always had, and it was slippery in their hands from all the sweat.

“Begin!”

After finishing yugamae, both schools’ oomae raised their bows grandly. Both were marked with circles.

The second archers hit. The third archers hit.

And then, the fourth archer. The ochimae.

Tsujimine’s Higuchi missed, and Kazemai’s Nanao hit.

In the stands, the spectating Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo shouted while holding each other’s hands.

The last was the ochi.

As Aragaki’s matooto sounded, Minato was inserting himself into the centre of his bow. He performed nobiai in all directions, and waited for the moment of release. After he let go of his arrow, a circle was displayed on the scoreboard.

In the midst of the applause, they exited the shajo, and Minato’s team clapped each other on their shoulders. Ryouhei carried Nanao on his shoulder and they were shouting joyfully as though the championships were already decided for them.

Kaito, overcame with emotion, covered his mouth with his hand.

“…Did we just break through the semifinals?”

Seiya answered him.

“Yeah. We defeated Tsujimine.”

“Crap, my stomach kinda hurts.”

“Again?”

While Kazemai was shouting for joy, the competitors from Tsujimine were silent. They walked as though they were heading towards the practice venue.

Nikaidou and Fuwa looked at their two senpai.

“Higuchi-senpai, Aragaki-senpai. We should hurry on back to the waiting room.”

“I’m sorry for missing…”

“It’s fine, Higuchi-senpai. That’s just how kyudo is.”

Aragaki also nodded deeply.

Nikaidou turned his back on Minato’s team and started walking. His eyes were tinged with a quiet heat.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

So frustrated, so frustrated, so frustrated, so frustrated…

I will not be finished. This isn’t over――.

Fuwa laughed scornfully.

“It still ain’t over yet. Let’s go take third place. Then, after the closing ceremony, we’ll have a strategy meeting. When we win third, I’ll turn the information I learned into a souvenir, we’ll snatch permission to use the gym, and then we’ll reassemble a practice regimen for next year’s Inter-High.”

“…You serious?”

“If you don’t wanna, then I don’t really care.”

“…You’re still a crafty bastard, as ever.”

“Aren’t you the same?”

Nikaidou gave Fuwa a good punch in the stomach.

Tsujimine High School won third place.

The finals match.

The school that lasted to the end was, as expected, Kirisaki High School. It was a match between schools in the same prefecture.

The five Kirisaki team members were face-to-face, and Motomura gave them his final words.

“Let’s make this our greatest stage. There is nothing that can frighten us. Let’s show everyone the shooting of the powerhouse, Kirisaki!”

Shuu and the others got goosebumps at strong and confident Motomura’s words. No, they were trembling with the excitement of warriors. It felt like a burning in the pits of their stomachs. An impulse only understood by archers were in love with the bow, who were at the mercy of the bow.

Bargaining with the target.

One must not let it know that you wanted to shoot through its heart.

The five light bumped their yugake-right fists together.

Meanwhile, Kazemai was also gathered around Tommy-sensei. Masa-san spoke.

“Forget everything I’ve said up to now. You should shoot as you want, as though this is the first time that you are holding a bow.”

Tommy-sensei spoke after him.

“I feel the same way as Takigawa-san. All of you are plenty cool as you are. The best archers. This is today’s final mission. Now, let’s go.”

“Yes!”

Tommy-sensei put out his hand, and Kaito, Ryouhei, Seiya, Nanao, Minato, and Masa-san placed their hands over it.

After they entered the second waiting room, the two schools sat next to each other.

Kirisaki High School—Motomura, Senichi, Manji, Sase, Shuu.

Kazemai High School—Kaito, Ryouhei, Seiya, Nanao, Minato.

There had never been a scene that was so tense. The prefectural finals felt like it had happened a long, long time ago.

Shuu was on Minato’s left side. Even at this tournament, he got a continuous kaichuu and accomplished a monster-like act, but didn’t that put more pressure on him instead? You couldn’t keep on hitting forever. No matter how masterful an archer was, the moment when they missed would inevitably come.

However, Shuu was indifferent to Minato’s worries; he seemed happy. When he met Minato’s eyes, he smiled gently. It was like the time when they played with Souta at Saionji-sensei’s house, like even now he was planning a trick. Seeing him like that, Minato unintentionally guarded his left flank. He was far from his persona of being the “Young Prince Shuu” who many archers knew him as. He was just like a child.

Where did that calmness come from? He said that he would embody “one shot and expire,” but Minato didn’t even know what that meant.

What he did know was that his heart was pounding, and that he was excited.

The joy from being able to shoot on the same stage as Shuu.

At the signal, they stood up, and Kazemai and Kirisaki faced each other and bowed, saying, “We look forward to competing against you.”

It was the start of nyuujou. The five sat down simultaneously in the chairs of the first waiting room in front of honza. Tommy-sensei also sat down behind the competitors. The arena was different from the kyudojo they had always shot in, and even the smallest sound was picked up. It felt like everyone could even hear the sound that persisted in Minato’s chest.

His exposed heart.

The immovable target.

At the order to “begin,” the two schools went towards the shooting line, their yellow-green and purple headbands swaying above their shoulders. Masa-san, holding his breath as he watched over the group with the same-color headbands, was also at the very end of the shajo.

The oomaes began to raise their bows.

Motomura had the face of a young family head, and his true form was that of an extraordinary exorcist. When admonished by his gentle face, one would forget suspicious things and uncanniness. There were “sounds” and “words” that made people uncomfortable and those that soothed them, and seeing miracles on the bow since ancient times was because of the beauty of its form and shape. Before true beauty, people lost their wickedness, and a beautiful tsurune possessed the wavelength to heal people.

Meigen—the sound of joy. (4)

A sound that reset everything, returning them back to zero.

Kaito did not hide the heat that slept within him, and suppressed the demon with his look of anger. Like Fudou Myouou (5), he held a sword in his hands and carried flames on his back, waiting for sprouts of new life in a burnt field.

The second archers after them were Senichi and Ryouhei.

For both of them, their ideal archer was Shuu. His shooting that surpassed those of the same generation as him always captivated those who saw it. They groped for how close they could get to him, how it could superimposed over them, and how to recreate it. It was fascinating how even if they copied him, it wouldn’t be exactly the same as the original, but another way of shooting was born, mixed with their own colors.  Senichi was delicate, and Ryouhei was bold and heroic. They both hit their targets.

The third archers were Senichi’s younger brother Manji and Seiya. They painted layers of muddy paint and hid their own inborn colors.

Manji had sealed up his fast shooting and kept on practicing to shoot carefully and without rushing in order to not have hayake. Just like how Senichi chased after Shuu, Manji chased after Senichi. The two of them absolutely couldn’t stand was being left behind or surpassed. A circle was shown on the scoreboard.

Rather than imitating someone, Seiya pictured his ideal image of what he wanted to do in his head and simulated it. He repeated that until he tricked his brain into believing that was truer, so even he himself completely forgot who he was originally, but from Kaito’s point of view, he didn’t seem to be able to change completely. His intricately calculated hanare induced a matooto.

Sase was an idol lover, and he himself had the talent of an idol. Like a refreshing and easygoing sportsman, he was not bashful at all, and was always in the center of a circle of strangers. He started talking to Motomura, who was brimming with wabi-sabi (6) even when he was young, not because he worried that he felt out of place in class, but because he wanted to talk to him and so he did. He also started doing kyudo because he wanted to try doing it. That was all it was.

Nanao was actually quite straightforward. He knew very well that his popularity with girls would make him the enemy of some boys, and that was exactly why he spread love. He couldn’t keep his overflowing feelings in his chest. I smile because you smile. I’m happy when you’re happy. Your angry faces, your troubled faces, I want to see lots of you.

After he snatched a magnificent hit, the yellow-green frogs in the stands swayed.

The ochi were Shuu and Minato.

When Shuu raised his bow, the world changed completely. One got lost in a shining golden land. Before that divine and beautiful archer, everything that had life stopped breathing. The fire he released from the depths of his body created an updraft, which started up and quickened. He slowly raised his two wings and spread his white feathers.

Sound was what fell.

A sound that stole away people’s memories.

When the watchers recovered their senses, the area was engulfed in the echoes from shouts of "Alright!" It gently rained with the sound that made their skin tremble and scorched their chests.

At the same moment, Minato raised his bow up high. He held his bow at kyuuha, with a strength like he was playing with it—not too strongly, not too weakly. The beautiful tsurune he heard when he was young. When that sound rang, Minato’s world changed. On the other side of the rain that fell beside him, a rainbow from thick clouds spread.

Even if he tried to not recall what was taught to him, his body remembered it all perfectly. The disciple inherited the master’s colors. Kazemai had Kazemai’s colors, and Kirisaki had Kirisaki’s colors. Even from among the many archers, when told, "You are from Kazemai High School Kyudo Club, aren’t you," he could continue hitting.

In the silence that made one even hesitate to move, the shouts of "Alright" bounced off the surrounding walls, continually going back and forth.

From right to left.

From left to right.

Thud, thud.

The sound, similar to fireworks, echoed.

The instrumental trio of tsurune, matooto, and shouts.

In the second shooting round also, tsurune were played in succession. It was all hits. Two five-person kaichuu were carried out, and there was applause.

When they entered the third shooting round, A bead of sweat ran down Minato’s cheek. His hearing wasn’t working normally, as the way he heard things was somewhat strange. A sensation of having dozed off, like he was being talked to in his head, like he was talking to someone in his dreams. Where was he right now? What was he doing? Even the act of drawing his bow felt like he was doing it in a dream-like state and lacked a sense of reality.

In the stands, Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo whispered to each other.

"They are so good it’s kinda scary…"

"I agree. I feel chills, even though it is the middle of summer."

"――This is divine possession."

Seo’s words made their surroundings more and more frozen.

In the fourth—final—shooting round, the oomae Kaito missed. At someone’s sigh, the tension in the shajo was broken for a moment. Perhaps overwhelmed by the change in the flow of that wind, the arrow the second archer Senichi released also pierced the azuchi. Since it was an indoor azuchi that didn’t use soil, a tap sound, similar to a matooto, resounded.

With that, both schools had one miss――. Once more, it became a one-on-one battle between the two ochi.

The spectator’s gazes were fixed on Shuu and Minato.

When Minato raised his bow, Shuu also raised his to follow him. They parted their bows grandly and inserted their bodies into the middle of them. They slowly released their breaths from their filled and content dantian. Upon doing that, the target itself approached the archer and assimilated into him.

The target is me, and I am the target. The great I, whose boundaries as an individual had blurred, will draw my bow.

They extended in all directions and formed crosses.

Nikaidou had asked Minato, "For what reason do you shoot a bow?", but that question didn’t make sense to him. He didn’t draw the bow to win or to train his body; he faced the target to breathe. Breathing was the proof of living. Therefore, on the days when he wasn’t holding a bow, he felt like he was dead.

It wasn’t "correct shooting makes for true hitting," but "correct questions make for correct answers." A good answer was born from a good question. If one were to ask Minato a question, it should not be "for what reason," but "How do you shoot a bow?" He embodied the answer to that question every single day.

Minato and Shuu were no longer thinking anything.

They didn’t hear anything.

They returned to the time when they met, losing themselves in drawing their bows.

For honing one’s body and entering a state of absolute concentration, it was annoying and hindering to have words inside one’s head. Thinking interfered with physical activity. Therefore, deep breathing was what helped empty one’s head. Along with breath, one would make "thought" get out of one’s body.

The one who shaded the event of an arrow hitting a target with good or bad, or emotions, was the "self," and the opposite of hayake and Yips was the state of "selflessness", or the zone. Being unconscious, in a sense, was like being someone who had expired. Dead people had no consciousness, and babies played innocently and without thought. Words did not intervene there.

――One shot and expire.

The archer dying at kai and being born again at hanare was the greatest shooting technique in the ultimate secret techniques left behind by the one who was called the Bow Saint. (7) The two were making use of that technique—Shuu intentionally, Minato unintentionally.

They cried their yagoe in their hearts.

Fly, yagoe.

Clear your path.

Run, yagoe.

Today’s a day of beginnings.

The two arrows were sucked into the bull’s-eye.

Amidst thunderous applause, the bell signalling seven-and-a-half minutes sounded. Minato and Shuu turned to face their targets and moved backed towards honza, and then sat down in their chairs.

Nineteen hits to nineteen hits. It was a tie.

The two schools’ managers handed their archers one backup arrow each. Each team shot a total of five shots, and if it couldn’t be decided in one set, then they would repeat the process. It was like an izume match for group competitions.

"Rise, begin!"

The Kazemai and Kirisaki archers nocked their arrows. With a single arrow, victory or defeat was decided. An arrow that was too heavy.

My chest hurts. My chest hurts. My center of my head feels hazy, and my fingertips are getting really numb. The insides of my ears sting. To get away from this choking feeling, I’ll breathe slowly, slowly.

The first shooting round. Both schools got hits.

Next was the second round.

Ryouhei’s arrow landed to the right of the target. Sighs overlapped with shouts of "Alright" from the stands.

Third round, hits.

Fourth round, hits.

And finally, the fifth round.

Minato and Shuu made beautiful tsurune ――.

After they exited the shajo, Kazemai and Kirisaki bowed to each other. Kaito and Motomura, feeling just like Ryouhei and Senichi, mutually smashed their yugake together. Minato and Shuu also bumped the backs of their yugake.

When they passed through the exit, the press gathered to interview the winning school. Minato and the others passed by them. On the return path, there was the staff room partitioned off with white cloth, and large windows on the left side. It was dazzlingly bright outside the windows, the trees swaying in the breeze.

Ryouhei came to a stop in front of the wall between the windows, and collapsed on the spot. He pressed his head against the wall hard, and his shoulders were shaking. He got on his knees temporarily, then he couldn’t stand up anymore.

"If I…If I hadn’t missed… I wanted to shoot more, and more… It’s my fault we lost…”

Minato put his arm around Ryouhei’s shoulders from behind.

He couldn’t say anything. That regret he himself had also tasted. That intense anger and sadness towards himself.

If one was experiencing such painful emotions, then they shouldn’t be doing things like kyudo.

I’m so frustrated, I’m so frustrated, I can’t forgive myself――.

Seiya also bent down in that spot and placed his hands on the two boys’ shoulders.

"Me, Kaito, Nanao and Minato—we’ve all missed before. We’re all the same. Someone who never missed before doesn’t exist."

"Uugh…ah…"

Kaito was watching over shoulder at Nanao folding Ryouhei, Minato, and Seiya together into a big hug. Kirisaki, having finished their interviews, passed by them there, and Shuu remained behind as the other members continued on.

When Nanao and the others noticed him, they removed themselves from Ryouhei, and Shuu knelt down before him.

"Ryouhei, Sae wants to meet you. Summer vacation is still long, so would you come and play with us, if you like? It seems Toujou would also like another bout with you."

"…Alright. I won’t lose, after all."

Ryouhei had his hands taken by Seiya and Minato and stood up. He then smiled.

Shuu left them.

In the hall, competitors could be seen chatting with their families. The accompanying children, perhaps bored, ran around in their slippers while making pitter-patter sounds.

Suddenly, Shuu remembered that it was the day of Sae’s violin lesson today. He turned his face towards where the sun was shining and narrowed his eyes. He could see an illusion.

"…Sae? Why are you here?"

“Shuu-niisama, congratulations. We came here to support you, of course. We thought we would make you nervous if you saw our faces, so we made sure to not be seen. It was hard.”

Next to her, Shuu’s mother was also smiling.

“Congratulations, Shuu. You were wonderful.”

Unexpected words, from an unexpected person.

As Shuu was at a loss for words, a man appeared from behind. Without needing to cross swords with anyone, he gave off the air of someone who made others lose their will to fight—someone who had the nickname of “Samurai.”

“Father…”

“Congratulations. Your shooting closely resembled that of Saionji-sensei’s in the past. I can see that you trained a lot, Shuu.”

“…Thank you very much. I am truly sorry that you had to come all the way here while you were the one who was busy, Father.”

“To tell you the truth, I received many phone calls at my company. From Sugawara Senichi-kun and Manji-kun, Motomura-kun and Sase-kun, as well as Narumiya-kun and Yamanouchi-kun. All asking me to please come and see Shuu shoot. It seems that my son has some good friends. I am looking forward to seeing the growth of all of you from now on.”

Shuu wanted to respond, but couldn’t make words come out of his mouth no matter how hard he tried.

The unseen words written on that Tanabata paper strip were, “From your son, Shuu.”

To be able to heard the word “son” come from you--.

When the wind came dancing in from the doors, the light that reflected off the windows hid Shuu’s face.

Meanwhile, Minato and the others exited the hall to find Masa-san waiting for them.

He smiled, and while saying things like “Alright!” “Okay!” and “Let’s go and eat something tasty”, he roughly tousled the five boys’ hair. Tommy-sensei also patted their backs.

Even though Minato had been holding it back for a long time, it was at that moment that his tear glands loosened. Seiya, Ryouhei, Nanao, and Kaito were the same.

Masa-san, Tommy-sensei, you’re both awful.

Even though the closing ceremony is going to take place after this, isn’t it super uncool to mess up our hair like this…

The five boys formed a circle.

And then, they shouted that they would stand on this stage again.

At dusk, the train carrying five boys departed.

On the screen of Ryouhei’s phone, there was a picture sent by his sister.

It was a picture of overpowering mountains and a tall sky.

The first star of the evening, which couldn’t be seen from the windows of their rooms, shone.

Fragrant ears of rice and the sound of cicadas.

Before he knew it, Minato dozed off, and leaned on his teacher beside him.

Previous | Afterword

[thanidiel]

Wit is a(n)...

It’s a good thing that Rose is not one to ask questions.

Just a normal shopping trip between the girls, right?

The Doman pulls her sight over shoulder, her hand flicking away obscuring waves of hair to fix onto the quiet Roegadyn - something that earns a hefting shrug, like the woman’s body is less a fluid connection of sinew and more the Earth struck animate.

No questions.

Usually she doesn’t bother Rose with trips like this, her friend is busy after all with matters of the Runner’s security, or on little business dealings and trips here and there with Es’mena. She’d normally ask some cargo-loader to just come with her if she needs to step off the ship. That was enough protection, most of the time.

But this time she needs… a little quiet, a little trust. Rose doesn’t gossip, or pry, or do much of anything involving Xiaohu’s privacy that she, herself, did not wish to be.

Which, what the fuck ever, for most circumstances. Who cares if their hostess is looking for a certain type of cosmetic, or fabric, or simply picking a crowd clean for Es’mena’s pockets?

This is…

It’s not ‘her.’

Not their idea of… whoever she is. Xiaohu, Princess, Housecat, whatever. 

There’s something else here, in this choice. 

Not Chitora either.

It’s a little…

A little... (Hui).

...forget it.

It’s just not within expectations.

This… tradition.

She’s performing tradition.

She never does that.

Even in Hingashi, she was supposed to be beyond tradition, and neither was she in the place of one to be providing gifts (but rather the one taking them).

Eastern gift-giving; what a fucking bitch.

So many fucking qualifiers.

Eorzeans, she’s noticed, either give something sentimental or something stupidly expensive. She almost wishes she could get out with those lazy options, it would be so simple to hand over silks to make a Bugyo or Khan jealous, or pass over some old belonging.

Here, in this domain, she must do both and more.

A proper gift is not only her introduction, but her trial, and her worship, all at once.

Especially in the circumstance of Daughter to Mother.

It must revere the other woman and her life, as much as it demonstrates not only Xiaohu’s filial piety, but her individuality and all that it entails. You know, on top of being properly expensive. But not so expensive as to offend and imply a lacking understanding of the Steppe, or even gluttony. 

What a fucking bitch of a tradition.

She spends a while trawling the sprawling street-market, the pads of her fingers tracing materials; discerning quality, and as though the physical connection between her and whatever object catches her eye would tell her is this adequate? Are the Jin urging me to this?

The fucked up thing is that a lot of the shit that this mysterious woman would appreciate, is shit that has nothing to do with Xiaohu.

Surely there’s some story in the classics that fits this enough for her to bounce off of.

Ugh.

She relies on the old witticisms passed to her so much.

Maybe she should just throw her arms up in the air and go tend some shrine like she joked to Big Brother. Or take up those stupid scholarly exams and go catch a ship to stupid Bukyo.

“Hey, Rose?”

“Aye?”

She steps back, letting her eyes take in the whole of their section of market like she were looking over a misty forest,

“How would you describe me, sincerely? Not socially. Just… me.”

“...are you trying to pick out a style of clothing?”

The Roegadyn’s brow deepens, her features turning ever-so-slightly towards Xiaohu from where she has leveled their heights with a drop to her knee… then her face breaks into that slow, comfortable (yet somehow still hesitant) smirk that materialises so subtly,

“Because I think I have proven I can help you out,” is added in that wry wax of the other woman’s voice.

“Unfortunately not, dear Eikon. It’ll just help me, alright?”

“Aye, well… if we are not speaking of socials… you are subtle, Xiaohu,” she looks confused to be the one disseminating another for once, between them, “You are thoughtful and think of the little things we do not, and you manage all of them very carefully.”

“Alright,” the younger woman accepts this easily, placing the filter of these words over her worldly lens. At the same time, she dips in, an amiable peck swept to Rose’s forehead before she is slinking away like her feline namesake.

Something small to the mind, and yet significant, then. 

In that case, it has to be a pleasant sort of cleverness; an acumen eye for the universe-solving detail that bores, or otherwise does not arrogantly insist its importance to an object’s associated purpose.

Nothing that would make one think of the Motherly huntress initially, but yet would wholly provide the woman her livelihood.

A ‘little’ thing much like the ‘little’ things that Xiaohu so endlessly curates in formation of her precise arrangement of her world.

No shortbow, no furs, no bones, no paints, no tools, no horses - nothing so overt as this will directly benefit you. Even if any of such objects were something she were truly familiar with, such is not Xiaohu.

Rose is right.

And then she stops, seeing a delicate thing lull and sway slowly towards the dusting earth of Thanalan, and before Xiaohu knows what she is doing - she is reaching out. Somehow plucking it out of the warm breeze without trouble when more clumsy, brutal, hands would have disrupted and broken the flow of wind, having to scrabble, and scrabble, for the object until it found purchase against the dead dirt. 

She holds it aloft, straight up in the air, as the backs of fingers brush aside another unwanted cascade of hair.

A fresh feather - aplume in elegant, oil-rich, white.

In an instance, her mindeye sees the way it can be so easily trimmed; claiming one of three ends to the split back of an arrow.

A clever little anchor that provides all of the poise for that sharp head to fly and puncture.

Her gaze travels past her newfound treasure, settling on the squawking turmoil of a stall overflowing onto the streets with stacked cage-towers of fluttering, aggrieved, geese.

“Rose?”

Her friend’s response, upon following the trajectory of her attention to the infamous beasts, comes out in a low-throated gust of the only Hingan word shared between their knowledges,

“Kuso.”

@kinari

[mz-hide]

Trick of Might - Chaper 7

Aka: a Dragon Ball Z slash fic.

Chapter 7

The calm before the storm.

Summary: An ancient enemy makes a sudden comeback into Goku’s life. Long-suppressed memories surface again and it’s no longer possible for the young saiyan to ignore them. Warnings: Dubious Consent, (because of drug use) Ships & Pairings: Bulma/Vegeta, Goku/Vegeta, Goku/Turles, Goku/Turles/Vegeta, Turles/Vegeta, Raditz/Turles, Nappa/Turles, Nappa/Raditz/Turles, Daiz/Turles Contains: Threesome - M/M/M, Group Sex, Polyamory, Aphrodisiacs, Secret Crush, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangles, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Biting, Scratching, Boners All Around, Feral Behavior, (just a tiny bit), Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content

You can find the rest on my AO3 page (username: originalmonkeyhydes)

The Tree of Might was an enchanting enigma, one its ever consuming, demanding nature made it all the harder for him to study. No matter how long he’d been spreading its seeds across the galaxies, watching it feed on entire planets and then absorb their energy himself, through its fruits, it seemed as if its potential was bottomless. Its existence was an endless mystery, perpetually enfolding.   Ever since he’d found it on his path, Turles had lived just to prod its most hidden essence, in awe of its many secrets. After all the time he’d spend feeding of its power, stumbling upon something new like that was truly surprising. He had tried eating its sap before, but somehow it had never crossed his mind to do when it was in bloom. Had he regretted not having thought about it before, surrounded by its sweet scent and warmth, flared nostrils and delight filling his lungs with every greedy breath. He’d almost risked not making it out the experiment alive, so long he’d lingered on the doomed dwarf planet, delaying his departure as much as possible to indulge the pleasure of his latest discovery. He had to repeat the experiment as soon as luck allowed it. It wouldn’t have helped with his primary research but “for the hell of it” was a good enough excuse for his newly ticked interests. Luckily finding a planet that mediocre in size was an easier feat than finding one apt for the tree’s final stages. It didn’t take him long to figure out how to recreate the perfect conditions for the magic to happen and once he did, he would seek out all the perfect planetary candidates, order his crew to wait for him at the other side of the planet and retreat on his Tree to celebrate in solitude. There was nothing sweeter than reaping what he’d so lovingly sowed. It didn’t take him long before the idea of sharing his new discovery started to tickle his fancy. He’d just started wondering who to share it with when the answer come to him. Specifically, it came in the form of one of his crew members, following him to the Tree, too curious too see what their leader was up to to obey his orders. He’d waited to reach the thickest part of the Tree’s crown before acknowledging the observer’s presence. “Disobeying my direct orders, Daiz?”, he’d called out. The man behind him audibly flinched. “I know you’re there. Come out. Now.” His minion was wise enough to recognize a command when he heard one. “How-?” “You forget I’m a saiyan”, the pirate said, not deigning to turn to the intruder just yet, “I might not have a scouter on but I can still smell you.” “C-captain, I-“ “You were following me, were you not?” “It’s just that… For some time now you’ve been choosing odd planets to plant the Tree. This planet is not a good candidate for it to bear fruits. It’s highly likely that it won’t resist much longer before crumbling apart. And you come here alone, without armor and without a scouter and I-” “You were curious to see what I’ve been doing up here all this time. Correct?” “Well…” “Answer me. I asked you a question. Am I correct?” “Yes, Captain.” Turles took a long, dramatic breath, inhaling the scents around him and a dangerous smirk bent his lips. It was time. His eyes caught sight of a dark, wound-up bud. He reached out to grasp it. Thick, juicy petals unfolded in his grasp, releasing a gush of rich, crimson sap trickling down his elbow. He brought his arm to his face and licked the liquid off. His nostrils twitched in delight as a familiar heat started spreading through him. He could feel the other’s tension as he watched him, taste the apprehension that took hold of him, ignoring what was about to happen. And it was delightful. What luck indeed that it had been Daiz the one to follow him up there. He was going to make the best out of that situation and he knew just how to. “Curiosity kills, Daiz. Isn’t that how the saying goes?” “I didn’t mean to-“ “Hush. No need for apologies. After all it’s just normal that you would follow your gut. After all, I should know. I’ve followed mine across the universe in pursuit of answers. We’re not that different, you and I.” He let another pause of silence fall between them as he intently sucked his fingers clean, feeling his suit grow tighter around him.  Only then did he turn his head to look at him. The sight of deep, blue eyes blown wide with apprehension was a welcome one. The other’s mouth was pulled into a tense, thin line, his body stiff and alert. Turles studied his underling carefully. There was no doubt he had gotten wind of the heavy fragrance stagnating in the air, he wouldn’t have needed a saiyan’s keen sense of smell to detect that. To his disappointment, however, it didn’t seem to have any particular or significant effect on him other than elicit curiosity. But there was an anticipation to him that spoke of something other than fear and wariness, something Turles had his fun willfully ignoring so far, watching it increase over time as if nurtured by his neglect. Daiz had always struck him as an ideal servant, needy for praise, eager to obey, qualities a saiyan like him would have normally found demanding. Turles found it an enjoyable sensitivity to frustrate and tease. He’d had his fun in delaying and denying the satisfaction of his attention, of his praise, knowing it would only make his man’s needs grow keener. His indifference had kindled a desperate, voracious devotion. He could see it clearly bubble to the surface now, plain and evident, ripe for the plucking.   The dark saiyan’s lips pursed into a knowing smirk, pleased by the way the smaller alien was looking at him. The Tree might not have affected him, but something else clearly was. “Tell me, Daiz…”, he finally spoke again, obsidian eyes growing dangerously intense, an airy flutter in his voice, “Our races look quite similar, don’t you think? The rest of my crew is fine and mighty, that’s for sure, but aesthetically speaking they’re an oddly assorted bunch. You and I, on the other hand… we always had a special connection.” He licked his lips and saw the other warrior shudder slightly, following the movement of his tongue. No doubt he’d caught a glimpse of his fangs. Daiz always seemed to enjoy the likes of them and Turles was far from oblivious to it. Just as he was far from oblivious to the alien’s subtle charm. Daiz was smaller than him, weaker, supple in interesting places and slender in others. The hue of his hair and irises, the asymmetrical pupils, the crisp, almost mineral scent of him… everything about him was entirely alien to Turles. And yet, entirely alluring in a lot of wrong, right ways. “Between you and me, I’ve always felt like the both of us would fit better together… if you catch my meaning…” “I think I do”, the other replied fervently. “I do know what you mean.” The captain found the way the youth was looking at him very much to his liking. “Very well, then, I guess you won’t mind me asking this of you”, Turles carried on, turning and standing in front of his crew member, the front edge of his pants tugged down and one hand shamelessly groping the base of his engorged sex. “How would I go about sticking this inside you?” The blue haired alien’s eyes blazed with eagerness, as he slowly crawled up to him and meekly got to his knees. “I would start from here”, Daiz murmured, disclosing his jaws. An elongated blue tongue stretched out of his mouth, sheepishly. Turles smirked. He put a hand on the back of his soldier’s head and took the advice, sliding home. He too found that was a damn good place to start.

Bulma had been so dumbfounded by Vegeta’s sudden interference she hadn’t recovered her wits in time to put some distance between herself and the ship. When the rockets went off, she was sent staggering backwards and lost her balance. She’d lowered the hand she’d shielded her eyes with and looked heavenwards, watching the fire trail scorching the terse, midnight sky. One last glimmer, probably occurred at the edge of Earth’s atmosphere, and the ship was out of sights. That unbelievable tool! She directed a ferocious glare at the sky that went sadly ignored. Not that it would have had any effect even if Vegeta had been able to see it. So, she directed her scowl towards the Namekian. The green alien had no trouble enduring the strong gusts of air from the ship’s departure, obviously. He also hadn’t moved a muscle to prevent her from falling backwards, butt down on her parent’s lawn. He stood tall and still, holding his precious, unconscious pupil in his arms, his disapproving gaze directed upwards where the ship had disappeared from view. Bulma let out an exasperated sigh and pushed herself back on her feet. She should have known better than to expect Piccolo to put her safety before Gohan’s. Her friend’s son was the only thing that could make the Namekian seem human. That devotion was almost moving. Too bad that, in any other department, he was just as infuriating as Goku and Vegeta. “Brutes and ingrates, all the men in my life”, the scientist mumbled, swatting grass off her clothes. “Mind explaining to me what was that all about?!” Piccolo didn’t budge, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. If the height difference hadn’t been so dramatic, she would have gladly yanked the Namekian by those long, green ears of his. “What did you do to Gohan?” That seemed to get through to him. The alien lowered his gaze on hers. He appeared tense. “I only knocked him unconscious.” “You say that like it isn’t a big deal!”, the woman exhaled, exasperated, bending down to examine the boy’s head. “If I hadn’t done it, he would have run after Vegeta and I couldn't have stopped him.” “I still fail to see how that would have been worse than letting Vegeta run after Goku on his own”, she huffed, “You could have least followed him. You seem to trust him as little as I do, after all.” “He insinuated that it would have been better not to follow along. Apparently, it’s saiyan business.” He grimaced as he said that. “Honestly…”, Bulma sighed, letting her eyes fall on the unconscious boy’s face. “Well… Vegeta’s gone and the only person who could go after him now is missing too. There’s only so much we can do at a time like this. We should take care of Gohan now. I can get a bed ready for him and get an ice pack or something-“ “Bulma, sweetie! What was that noise just now?” Her mother had stuck her head out of a window calling for her. “Nothing, Mom. Just Vegeta being Vegeta again. He took the ship for a spin. Got back to sleep!” “I would, but the noise woke the baby and he’s crying like a little demon!” “Just what I needed…”, Bulma groaned, running a hand across her face. “It took me a whole hour to put him to sleep earlier too…” “You seem to have your work cut out for you. I’ll take care of Gohan”, the Namekian declared, holding the youth against his ample chest. I wish Vegeta were half as considerate of his own son… “Chi Chi should be grateful you’re around”, she told him as he turned to leave. “You should remind her if she gives you trouble. She’s not going to be happy to find out her husband’s gone again and you knocked her precious boy out.” She could swear the alien had stiffened at those words. She had no time to confirm her sensation, however. In the blink on eye, the green-skinned warrior had flown off. Bulma was left alone with a crying infant and her own moping ruminations. “Here he goes again, blasting off into space without a “goodbye” or “thank you”… sometimes I wonder if he forgets I’m the mother of his own son”, she was mumbling, begrudgingly, as she rocked little baby Trunks back and forth to calm his crying down. “Your daddy is the universe’s biggest idiot”, she confessed her son, almost apologetically, as she offered him her breast to suckle on. “Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in him…” If only she’d opened her eyes sooner, she could have tied the knot with Goku instead. Maybe she would have found herself cradling a sweet, dark-haired baby instead of a blue-haired one… The scientist shook her head. The late hour was starting to push silly thoughts on her. Goku had grown into a handsome man, there was no denying that, just as it was pointless denying she’d found herself fantasizing about her friend in that way multiple times. The thought was like a delicious, whimsical “what if” she entertained her fancy with from time to time, fully knowing it wasn’t anything she truly regretted. Goku was a total hunk, that was true, but he was also a clueless, careless boy she’d grown to cherish as a friend. And a good friend he had been. As a husband, on the other hand… she was certain Chi Chi would have had quite a lot to say on the matter. Not that I’m in any position to judge either of them, after all... Trunks finally fell asleep again. She carefully laid him down in his crib once more, turned the lights low and left the baby monitor on before leaving the nursery. She dragged herself back to her own room and let herself fall face down on the bed, wincing slightly once the smell of sex left on her sheets filled her nostrils. Ah, yes… that was the other reason she kept putting up with Vegeta’s nonsense. She grimaced. I’m such a weak woman… if I had a little more backbone I would just kick him out for good. But he’s a fine man, more than easy on the eye. And in bed… A sigh. She could feel air hitting her rear, cooling the wet smear of moisture she hadn’t had time to clean off her before having to get out and save the day. …in bed, he’s a treat I deserve to enjoy to my heart��s content. These idiots wouldn’t know what to do without me. I have all the right to indulge in something nice, for once. Vegeta is not all that bad, after all… Sure, he came to Earth to steal our Dragon Balls and is he the reason most of the gang died back then… But he’s come a long way since. If he would only stop running off after Goku all the time he could almost be reasonably likable. Saying that was wishful thinking on her part was extremely reductive. Vegeta getting over his obsession -because obsession it clearly was- for Goku was unlikely to happen. The other saiyan was the only true reason Vegeta had decided to stick around on Earth in the first place. In a way, she owed her lover to her friend, but at times it felt like Vegeta thought she owed him her friend, instead. She couldn’t clearly tell what the dynamic between those two was truly about. She always felt there was something more than rivalry, some sort of tacit undercurrent she wasn’t sure the two warriors understood either. She tiredly slipped the shoes from her feet and climbed into bed properly. I ought to give myself some credit too, she thought to herself with the slightest hint of self-satisfaction, as sleep crept up on her. I did my hardest to keep Vegeta falling into my bed all this time and it has always worked. That’s all my doing and it paid off big time. She fell asleep, listening to the dull throbbing of her well-used sex fading away into a remote corner of her consciousness.

“What a vulgar woman…” The Prince had found himself uttering those words more and more often during his time at Capsule Corp. It had started as a scoff, a reflex caused by the scientist’s shameless way of flirting with him, but it had eventually grown into a secret expression of endearment. It couldn’t have been otherwise, when the blue-haired woman gave him that hungry yet knowing look. That was the look that had him follow her into her bedroom for the first time. “Yes. And you love it”, her half-lidded eyes seemed to say as she pushed him backwards towards her bedroom. Vegeta let himself be swayed. The press of her warm body against his promised something very unambiguous. He could feel she was wearing nothing beneath her clothes. She had a red dress on with buttons all the way down to the hem. The first handful had already been strategically unbuttoned. The Prince easily imagined himself ripping them all open in one yank, sending them flying across the room. It would probably have infuriated her, if he had, and it was something he wasn’t willing to risk right there and then. The two of them did not always go along. They would get on each other’s nerves more often than not. She didn’t fully understand him, nor did he her. But they soon learned they could rub each other in the right way as much as they would in the wrong way. For such a weak creature, Bulma was ridiculously assertive. She was a frail human. He was  saiyan elite. He could have easily blown her away along with her entire planet. And yet he turned meek as a sheep at her every wish and whim. It hadn’t taken long for the woman to seduce him. Despite his initial reluctance, the Prince had turned out to be an all-too-willing victim. He let her push him down on her bed, her mouth raining hot kisses across his own, his jawline, neck and chest her her hands nimbly hooked at the edge of  his trousers, pulling them down his hips. Vegeta’s own hands went to the taunting, plunging neckline, unbuttoning further down, just enough for the woman’s generous chest to spill free from its cotton cage. As expected, she hadn’t worn anything underneath. Bulma gave him a sly grin as she slid down his body to kneel between his legs, glancing appreciatively downwards at his rapidly swelling erection. “Oh my, is this for me?”, she mused, cupping one of her cheeks with a pale hand with mock-bashfulness. “Depends. Are you gonna do anything about it?” “Depends. Am I going to get something in return?” “Why don’t you go ahead and find out?” Bulma lowered herself against his crotch, her bosom morbidly encasing his sex as her hands ran along his well-toned thighs. “Why don’t you ask nicely first?” Not chiefly to her surprising attractiveness, but rather to her confidence he attributed his downfall. He had always responded well to that. It was in his blood, after all. The woman might not have been a saiyan, but Vegeta could very easily imagine her as one. With his entire species wiped out from the face of the universe, she was the next best thing to an ideal mate. For the sake of his pride, however, he couldn’t fully show just how much he was willing to comply. He wasn’t sure he liked any of the possible implications his immediate compliance would have entailed. Nonetheless, he found it tough to appear annoyed when faced with that sort of display. “Are you trying to domesticate me like I’m some sort of pet?”, he growled, grimacing ever so slightly. “Only if you’d like me to”, she replied, coquettishly, “You’re fun to play with.” Then, he found his window. He leaned back on the mattress, on arm holding his torso up and the other draped across it. He knew his chest would have stood out that way and. By the look in the scientist’s eyes as she followed his movements, it had worked. “Then, by all means”, he encouraged, his voice sultry yet demanding, gazing at her from below half-lidded eyes, “play with me.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. He could tell she was disappointed for not having reduced him to ask for it the way she wanted him to. He could also tell the unexpected twist didn’t completely disagree with her. In fact, if her lips initially pursed into a pout, they disclosed for him soon enough. And not for rebuking. To his satisfaction, her hands were on him and her tongue soon followed, expertly coaxing him and moistening him up for what was to follow. The saiyan let his head fall backwards once she took him in her mouth. It didn’t take long before his breath started hitching. He sucked air in through his teeth, hissing, long-drawn out sighs hollowing his lungs as sweet suction enveloped him to the root. Her hands had been diligently repurposed, touching and teasing at his base and at his sack until he could feel his toes curl. If he hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn the woman had a cock of her own. She knew her way around one way better than she had any business knowing. His free hand instinctively went to reach for her but was swatted away before it could fist handfuls of blue locks like it wished. “No pulling”, she warned him, sternly, the shadow of a pleased grin bending her lips. “Hands where I can see them, buddy.” He settled for gripping the sheets instead, feeling his body tense up, fighting the urge to buck into that wonderful mouth. The interruption hadn’t thrown her off. She picked up her rhythm almost immediately, ripping guttural groans from her lover’s throat. The only thing that kept him for throwing his bead backwards was the mesmerizing sight she offered, flushed cheeks stuffed full with him and watery eyes gazing upwards to look for his. Whether it was watching him or knowing she was watched in turn what she liked, he hadn’t found out yet. It hadn’t taken him too long to find out that for him watching her was half the pleasure. And did she give him pleasure! But pride demanded his due too. Holding himself back was grueling. He could feel sweat started to bead on his skin. Waves of heat coursed through him in shivers. He felt like he was steaming from every pore. The velvety glide of her tongue along the underside of him, the tight hollowing of her cheeks and her accommodating throat… the bobbing of her head was far from from being relentless, but it was steady and committed. She knew exactly what she was doing; driving him insane. His sex throbbed eagerly. His fists clenched the sheets underneath him until he couldn’t hold back anymore. Only a fervent grunt warned her of his imminent release. The woman let him go just in time to avoid having her mouth filled with his seed. Spurts of warm spent hit her across the lips and underneath the chin, dripping sloppily on her voluptuous chest. For a moment, they stared at each other, wordlessly, both flushed and heaving. Bulma wiped her lip with her thumb, triumphantly, glancing down at his softening length. Vegeta, on his part, looked thoroughly appeased, glancing at the mess they’d made with approval written all over his face. “It’s nice to play nice, isn’t it?”, he taunted, smirking smugly down at her. He made a move to get on his feet and pull his pants back up but he was stopped in his tracks by her hand gently pressing him down to the bed. Vegeta frowned slightly watching the woman climb up his body like he was a tree. “What now?” “You’re not going anywhere yet, mister. We’re not done here.” “Oh?”, he quirked a brow, watching the scientist urgently settle over him, knees on either side of his face. She hitched her dress up. The scent of her arousal hit him, making his nostrils twitch. She wasn’t wearing anything under either. “Dig in, Princey”, she requested, imperiously, letting an eager grin bend her lips. “You make my lunch breaks worthwhile but I haven’t got all day.” “And here I thought you were just trying to be selfless there”, the saiyan commented, appearing unimpressed. “I was, wasn’t I?”, she retorted, bringing her hand down, spreading herself for him. “Be good now and maybe you can have seconds later. Nice to play nice, remember?” He gave her a sardonic smile. She shivered in anticipation. His hands went to her waist and pulled her down towards his grinning mouth. It wasn’t long before she was reduced to a disheveled, whimpering mess. She was fun to play with too.

There was a mighty pulse rippling through the air that made the world shake, powerful enough to reach him even in the depth of sleep. Somehow, he felt like it was raining down on him. Goku found himself floating somewhere at edge of consciousness. The air around him felt heavy and muggy, sickeningly sweet balm filling his lungs. His body was encased in humid warmth, beading on his skin and hair. Unshakable lethargy clung to him mercilessly, making it his eyelids weight like boulders over his eyes when he tried to open them and see. Around him, just dense shade and the dim throbbing pulse of eerie, crimson fluorescence, ever present at the corners of his vision. Where once had been the heat of touch, the haunting brushing of skin against skin, now there was only the ghost of contact slowly cooling. Turles wasn’t there anymore. He was alone. And everything was still. But he could have sworn he’d felt something. Something familiar. He could feel it in his gut. He couldn’t tell how long he spent waiting, keeping himself from falling back into slumber, chasing the nagging suspicion he’d just felt something he should have known well as the beating of his own heart. Then, he felt it again. This time he felt the ground below shake with him and the air above shiver. It was an aura, one he knew well. Vegeta. He could sense him now. He could feel him. There was no mistaking this time around. His rival was near… Then, as quickly as it had flared up, the aura disappeared, leaving him alone with the doubt he’d been chasing an elusive dream of his clouded mind. Even so, he clung to the wake of his straining conscience. He tried relying on his ears next, but even those felt plugged by honey. It took him a whole to hear beyond the slow, rolling wave of his own breath. He heard a heavy rustling sound, like the sea crashing on a sandy shore when the wind had started to rise. He heard the faint sound of something dripping slowly, pooling on the ground around him, like humidity falling down in the mouth of a cave. Then, over the soft symphony, he caught a sound, like a distant echo. Voices, distant like they’d been speaking to him through the ground itself, but real nonetheless. Unmistakably so. Raising and falling at times, peaking somewhere between pleasure and rage. The warrior closed his eyes again, his ears straining to listen to those distant, mysterious sounds until he could recognize the familiar timber. Vegeta! The sound was faint enough to be the whisper of a dream but he found himself responding to it as if it had been flesh and bones, insinuating in his ears, dancing on his eardrums, sinking into him all the way to his core. And there is stayed, spinning his nerves like threads of silk. Vegeta… If it were a dream, it was all too indulgent, catering to his heart’s whims in that way. Even if it were a dream, this was one he was willing to indulge in. The warrior closed is eyes once more, letting darkness behind his eyelids conjure up images to match what his ears were hearing. His hands ran down his chest and stomach, reaching down where heat and blood had pooled. The dull, pulsing yearning of his loins was tickled and stirred, until his head swam. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, the fragrance stronger and sharper. Every touch, every pull washed through him like a warm, honeyed wave of delight. A swelling tide rose within him until he couldn’t take it anymore. Pleasure burst through him, flooding his senses. The tension in his spine and limbs dissipated as ecstasy washed over him, leaving a dim, enjoyable numbness in its wake. He didn’t have time to think about what had just occurred. He was too blissed out to, breath slowing down and delightful tingles in his gut. The heaviness of sleep was upon him, weighing down in his eyelids, his mind clouded with joyful contentment. Around him, sound softened and his mind too. His consciousness slipped all too easily back into slumber, like a baby falling asleep, sated and content, with a belly full of milk.

For a failed experiment, Daiz had been anything but a disappointment. Turles had to admit, even though finding that Ambrosia had no effect on the other alien had been a let down, the results had been extremely pleasant nonetheless. He had no idea Daiz could produce such sounds, like low, throaty hisses and wails. It sounded like Turles was forcefully knocking the breath out of his lungs with his every motion. Calling it gratifying would have been an understatement. The sight the smaller, paler body, bent in pleading offering before him, quaking and quivering with every one of his harsh, unforgiving thrusts was absolutely, maddeningly satisfying.   “C-captain… more…!”, the blue-haired alien was whining, hips shamelessly bucking backwards into his. “More- Ah!” He was cut off by a sharp blow on his rear, so hard it made his legs buckle. “I am your Captain” A dark hand fisted his hair harshly, yanking his head back against a snarling mouth. “You don’t give orders around here. I do. If you want something, beg for it.” Daiz appeared to have lost his ability to speak for an instant before he finally cried out eagerly, “More… please, Captain! Harder, please…!” A chuckle rumbled in Turles’ chest. “You’re a wanton slut, aren’t you?” Daiz’s head was pushed down and pinned to the ground, a large hand wound tightly in his hair, making his flexible back arch to its limits. His hands were shaking, curling and uncurling as he tried to hold on to something, anything. The dark saiyan was towering over him now, trapping him with his weight. Daiz wouldn’t have been able to get away from him even if he’d wanted to. And it was very clear the thought of leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind. The alien was glancing over his shoulder at him, his pupils blown wide open and glazed over with lust. His mouth was open, heaving and moaning like no tomorrow, drool trickling down his chin. He was completely out of it and loving every second. His wails grew higher and higher as he started moving again, slamming against him hard enough to properly pound him into the ground. Turles sucked air in through gritted teeth. It was a tight fit, made even tighter by other’s flesh clenching and throbbing about him. He was having the time of his life. “Daiz, you absolute freak…”, he hissed between thrusts, “You were wishing for this, weren’t you? You have been dreaming to have me inside you all this time!” “Yes… yes, Captain! Yes!”, the alien cried out louder and louder. One of his hands moved to reach in between his legs. The renegade caught sight of it and let go of his scalp to grin his wrists, lifting him up by his arms. “Don’t get distracted. This is what you wanted”, he growled, delivering a hard, emphatic thrust, “Now take it!” The alien’s whines were soon replaced by cries of encouragement once his Captain picked up his punishing pace once more. “Yes… YES!” He mounted him furiously, violently and Daiz came undone, just like that, without touching himself. And Turles was all too happy to turn him around and making him scream out for him again. He’d always had the feeling Daiz was a sucker for being kicked around. If only he’d known before just much of a sucker he was for being bent over and pounded like that he would have gotten him on his knees sooner. It was too bad Ambrosia had no effect on him. Since he was absolutely loosing his mind just from having Turles inside him, however, the dark saiyan couldn’t complain. Finding out his underling couldn’t wait to get underneath him was a sweet enough consolation price. He doubled him over, folded and twisted him in every possible position his sex-crazed brain could come up with. Any angle his mind would design for him, the other’s body would bend in. Maybe his enthusiasm got the best of him, maybe he did get too carried away, after all. Daiz burned out before he had the chance to fully sate his appetite. Turles felt the other’s body go suddenly lax and realized he’d passed out. “Is that all you got?”, he’d asked as he’d pulled away but got no answer. Daiz was sprawled before him, leaking his seed from both his thoroughly used holes. A welcome enough sight, as he took his own sex in the hand and painted his stomach white. I should have known. A lesser race couldn’t keep up with a saiyan, Turles considered, as he checked on the unconscious alien. He makes for a good toy. He should keep me well entertained while I go look for someone who could benefit from Ambrosia as much as me… He could feel an interesting idea tickling the back of his brain.

[the-collectim]

.:RP:. A Day at Suzume

Characters: Chuuya Miyahara (male Raen), An Yeung (male Duskwight)

Rating: General.

Origin Date: 24 Feb 2019

Fresh off business for the Suiren Temple’s opening, An Yeung has some steam to blow off. So he heads for a rather unassuming paper shop in the Rakuza district

Normal text = Chuuya

Italics = An Yeung

{ xxx } = hand signing

-----

It was another day at Suzume. The shop was in the Rakuza arts district to the north of Kugane, tucked away. There was just enough foot traffic for people to find the shop by chance but hidden away enough in a nook to lay quiet and unnoticed if needed. That was because it was property of the Azuma-gumi, one of the top three yakuza syndicates in the city. Innocuous as the paper and souvenir shop may seem, the men lingering outside the store playing go atop a crate were armed, tattoos hidden from sight.

Chuuya was hard at work in his room, the sliding doors open to the tiny garden in the back. There was no fear he would run. Where would he go? Besides there were always guards about. It was something the young man resigned himself to as just part of his life. He had no clients at the time and he sat at the large desk he did his work at, seated properly on the floor and taking a thin blade to pale paper, carving out intricate, razor-thin and precise shapes that looked as if they'd break with an ill-intended breath.

The red kimono sat low on his shoulders, another thing forced upon him that was routine. He was pretty. And his employers used that to make up for his other flaws. That and the long snow-white hair that as tied loosely back in a subtle, but elegant style.

  An Yeung was flustered. His name was not shared with Lord Bai, but he was still very much a sworn brother. To be looked upon as lesser and regarded as such was a frustrating thing. He should have just talked freely rather than thinking to be mindful of fragile Doman sensibilities and egos. 'This humble one' his ass!

Walking up to the shop, Yeung just eyed the men playing their game of Go and went right by. Let them cause trouble, he'd gladly knock them right into their place. The jug of peach flavored rice wine swung on its rope in his hand as he went up the stairs and opened the door to the shop. The boots already being slipped out of as he balanced there from one leg to the next. He wouldn't prance all over the shop in the things he had been wearing all about the city and residential quarters for most the day. He wasn't that barbaric.

"Ge ge!" He called out as he made sure the boots were out of the way of the door.

  The guards were used to the odd Elezen but they usually let him come and go. He bought things, after all. Though one did get up and follow after eyeing the wine and visible irritation of the dark-skinned man. They did have a job to protect their wares and that included the Raen hard at work.

Speaking of, he looked up from his design towards the sliding doors at the call. An Yeung? But he'd just visited not too long ago, it felt like. Or had it been? It was hard to keep track of time when one was a victim of routine. A click of his tongue and a small red panda scampered down from its cushion in the rafters. A fluffy cute lil thing, it had been trained from near-birth by Chuuya. It scampered over the paper doors, nudging at it and then having enough space to stick its head in the cap to open it up and peer up. Aka just stared up at man. Oh, he knew this one!

   "Hello Aka." He gave a wave to the panda and squatted down a hand reaching out to rub the top of the red pandas head. A grin spread across his face from the moment he saw the critter to this very moment. The jug making a sloshing and blop sound as it rested down on the ground. "I'm sorry to have forgotten treats today! The stand was fresh out of yakitori when I went by."

   The panda stood on its hind legs to enjoy the full motion of such pets! He was such a spoiled lil thing! Indeed he was sniffing for treats, paws out to grab at the guest's sleeve. Where is?

Meanwhile Chuuya was smiling, setting his tools down. Spotting the guard that had followed, he raised a hand in a comforting motion. He had no fear of An Yeung. Besides....as if they would be too far anyway. The yakuza made a face at that and nodded. He was winning his game, likely his partner already manipulated the board while he was away!

With that done, the Raen shifted properly to face the entryway, hands in his lap as he watched the attention lavished upon his furry friend.

After only a few more moments, An Yeung plucked up the critter in one arm as the jug hung from his other's wrist. His coppery eyes settling across the way to Chuuya whose desk he walked right over to before plopping right down on the spot. The Duskwight already at the pinnacle of height for his kind just leaned there and sat the wine down on the desk, careful of the work being done and kept the Panda in his lap to continue scritches.

"I'll bring treats next time! Unless you want a cup of wine~" He teased the red panda as he rubbed at its belly and looked over to Chuuya. "Aw...you could have left the guard. It's fun to test how much I can get away with around them."

  Aka was perfectly content to skitter up that arm and drape himself about this tall tree's neck. Well-behaved, he was!

Chuuya shook his head with a small frown. No, not messing with the guards. And the dark red eyes looked to the wine in a bit of disapproval. Alcohol never did anyone any good. ‘{You're back in town already? The business has opened?}' he signed with a tilt of his head. He'd heard rumor of the Elezen poking about but he was never allowed to wander over into the residential districts to see things himself.

  '{Things are smooth there.}' His signing, as always, was short even if it was smooth. "Though I've a lot to say to Lord Bai that he will likely enjoy." A heavy sigh left him and he leaned on the desk. His chin upon the heel of the hand, the other on top of the silk cover of the clay pot of brew, and a finger tapping at it as he looked over Chuuya's handiwork. "Granted if some stuffy Doman samurai thinks he'll just waltz out of his room for them, they got a surprise coming for them."

  '{Samurai?}' The frown returned to his pale face. '{And Doman?}' True, Doman businesses were popping up here ever since refugees managed to make it across the Ruby Sea years and years ago before Hingashi closed its ports. But to hear of one causing issues? '{What did you do to anger them?}' was the instant assumption.

He stood at that, a practiced graceful gesture that would make a geisha proud. Chuuya needed to make some warm tea!

   "I am an angel!" An Yeung declared; feigning hurt as finger tapped at the top of the jug. "The most humble of servants to the house of Bai, and I'd never slight my sworn brother's name so sloppily."

Really. He huffed a flop of that ginger-and-white hair out of his face only for it to fall back in place. The Duskwight not even wearing a pout, but instead a slight frown. Though his attention followed Chuuya's movements. Really the Raen was so neat and orderly.

"They were the ones that wouldn't let me read the letter they were handing me for Lord Bai, saying I had no right to it. Even after I showed them my white jade crest, and Atlas affirmed I was very much the most trusted right hand of the Lord Playwright!"

  There was a small stove to the other end of the large room, purposely /away/ from all of his crafting materials. A portable crystal-powered thing that he detested still to this day. It never heated evenly. A pot was put on, water poured in from a pitcher on a stand. Now it would only take forever to heat up with its pitiful heat! But none of that irritation never showed as Chuuya padded back over, listening to his companion's gripes.

He sat back down, tucking the deep red cloth about his legs properly. '{Some are paranoid. I heard rumor that with the war over, there are those looking to falsify documents as former lords. Maybe they were afraid you were playing a game?}' Always one to give the benefit of the doubt.

  "Pffft, like we of Nanxia would lower ourselves to such a point to pretend to be lords." An Yeung huffed at that. Though he moved to pull the covering off the jug and lifted it by the rope to take a drink. "That said the temple is coming along nicely, ge ge. It is a shame I couldn't show you it in person. When a Kami resides there it will be even more splendid."

The change of topic chosen so he didn't have to think about that insufferable samurai. Why was it when you put a sword in their hands they became so insufferable? A man with a blade was no better than a commoner. They all bled the same color red in the end, and breathed the same air. Ugh just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes, but An Yeung resisted that temptation.

  There was the slightest bit of disapproval on the Raen's face but he said nothing. Well...signed nothing. It wasn't his place to correct another. What to do... Ah. Turning a bit, he reached under the low desk for a small box. Opening it, he took out a piece of his work and handed it over. Once he'd heard the name of the place, he had to do something to commemorate it! It was all the artist could do to offer encouragement.

It was handed over properly with both hands, a small smile on his face.

An Yeung glanced over at the handiwork. That was a good enough distraction, and sure enough he licked wine from lips before taking it in hand to glance over. With his hands being careful in holding the piece, he at least couldn't drink from that jug so it was a good choice in distractions. Plus how could he not look at what Chuuya made? It would be downright criminal not to look and praise him!

"It's lovely work as always, Chuuya." He praised, the grin softening a bit. "I'm sure Lord Bai will love to see your work on display in Suiren Temple, and so will whatever Kami comes to rest there."

  The praise meant more from someone that wasn't holding his chains and the Raen couldn't keep a smile off his lips, his tail swishing over the cushion behind him. '{No charge this time.}' He added, a little flip in his gestures giving off a vague feel of light teasing. The long thing hands paused before he continued. '{I'd love to do work for the Temple but there has to be a contract in place. And do you really want my work in a holy place?}'

"Why would your work not be fitting?" An Yeung inquired as he looked over towards Chuuya. Really it was remarkable, and he didn't think the Kami would care about such frivolous details like where it originated from. "Plus you know well enough Lord Bai will pay any fee you ask of his coffers for your work. Your work for the last play drew several people to his stage after all."

A light click of his tongue and he moved carefully to place the piece down and back into range for Chuuya to take back. His expression light as he noted to reaction to that praise. Ah it was good to see the Raen in better spirits.

"Maybe I'll have to kick your guards' backsides and spirit you off to see it one day." Kami knew the Duskwight had yet to have a good fight in ages. Biming kept out of trouble which left Yeung restless and bored. "That would be quite a trip to take indeed. Once we've Kami and a priest, that is."

  Instant panic at the suggestion chased away and contentment, ever-fleeting. Eyes were wide and he waved his hands 'no.' To have the yakuza after An Yeung and they would know for sure of a new shrine opening and the name attached to it. They could all be killed, the place burned down. Or even worse, the soft power of threats to keep petitioners and students away! That would slowly suffocate any place.

Another wave of his hands in that no gesture. '{I can't do that, we both know it. Please don't say such things.}' He nodded to the doors. The guard may have left but still, ears were about.

   "Aye..." The relenting word left him, but he did muse at the panic that came with the suggestion. It was always amusing to work up the other. His fingers moved to make for the jug again. "I wouldn't tempt tigers to act against small birds."

A private metaphor for Biming's work. The playwright didn't just write poems and plays, after all. He was a collector of Magpies as much as secrets. Though he was of the benevolent sort as long as someone didn't cross his path in the worst way. No that An Yeung had to regularly go out of his way to crush threats and problems for the reclusive lord.

"I should say such bold things more often if they get that kind of reaction!" he teased.

  That seemed to only make the worry stay! If the Duskwight did say such things so much, it wouldn't take much to bar him from the shop. And to lose an acquaintance, his only one that wasn't simply a customer, would...be terribly lonely. Now that Chuuya had had a taste for such social things, it would be terrible to be deprived of them once more.

'{Just, please, watch what you say.}' With that, his hands fell to his lap, nervously wringing in the silk of the kimono.

  An Yeung's orange gaze just watched him worry at that kimono silk, and he let out a relenting sigh before drinking down a measure of wine straight from the jug once more. It was back on the desk soon after. Those long dark fingers just resting over the lip of it. Though he was once more sitting there quite lazily, elbow on the desk, and chin in hand. His fluff of short cut hair barely hiding the violet tinged face from the wine.

"I shall, ge ge, I shall." He assured. "I'm only teasing you. Kami...there need be something they'll let you do! You can't be cooped up in this fancy cage...shop...thing...all the time."

  Red eyes glanced out the window that let to that tiny yard, the wood of a building right there as well. There was no clear sky, just the scent of the ocean that managed to waft down these alleys. '{I can go for walks once a moon.}' His motions were more resigned, less with the energy from when An Yeung had first arrived. '{They are kind to allow me such an opportunity.}'

"You need see the sky and sea more than that." He let out a sigh and let eyes close.

To him it still made little sense why they would keep the Raen locked away like this. What was he? Some prized consort? An Yeung could almost believe such a thing to be frank. Especially as he looked over him.

"Let’s go see it tonight." One coppery eye opened to look to him. "The sky will be clear and the sea still. It will be perfect, and we can dodge your hounds."

  The panic was back in an instant and he put a finger to his own lips. Shush, the motion read. There was no need to know signing for that! Then those fingers flew. '{I was already allotted my walk this moon. I went last sennight. I have to wait.}'

  "And you didn't invite me? A shame..." Of course he dropped it, and instead opted to play dejected instead. His arms crossed over the desk and he rested his head there. "Ge ge, don't you want to go on walks with me?" He looked up to the Raen through the fluff of white-and-ginger hair. The glass beads just clacking together as the slightest turn of his head disturbed them. "I can show you where the best wine is sold in all of Kugane."

  '{Thank you but I don't drink and you were out of town.}' Straight to the point yet polite. The Raen jumped as the pot whistled. About time! A slight bow of his head to excuse himself as he stood to tend to it. Two cups were all that he had, one for himself, one for a client. Doman black tea was put in orb-like steepers, placed in each delicate cup, and then the hot water added. Both were then put on a tray, as was proper, and he walked back over with small, controlled paces.

The tray was offered first to the guest, of course.

 An Yeung sighed heavily at that response. What a curse his job was! Though it had been for good reason and cause, and Biming was interested in this particular investment. So he had no choice but to follow his sworn brother's obscure whims.

"I would be here in the strike of the kilin's hoof, if you called for me." He reasoned even if the scenario was impossible.

The Elezen lifted a hand from his crossed arms, and plucked up the cup. The thing tilted to let the infuser clatter against the ceramic piece of work. What a frustrating scenario. Watched here. Couldn't take him on walks. Didn't even touch wine. What could he do?

"Then I shall stay here the night before Lord Bai calls to drag me off again, and once that's done I shall camp out here until your next walk's allowance!"

  A blink that left Chuuya just staring at the other man. Stay? The night? No, no that was impossible. He shook his head, the long hair framing his rather feminine features in the motion. Not allowed, no. His tail curled behind him at the thought.

  "What? I'll sleep in the window, or at your step like a good gentleman." Though normally didn't a good gentleman take the couch? Well somethings were complex when one didn't own a couch to slumber on!

An Yeung moved to sit up. Nursing the tea like it may as well been even more wine, leaning his weight upon the arm while the other reached forward towards Chuuya. It was hard to resist the temptation to touch that hair. Maybe he already had a fair amount of wine in him? It wouldn't be beyond the monk to waltz about drinking when he had no immediate responsibilities. That or he just wanted to fluster the other further.

It was definitely that last option.

  And it was quite successful. Chuuya recoiled quickly, the other cup in the tray spilling over. Fortunately the tray caught most of the liquid, only a few dots spotting the silk he wore. Now quite out of sorts he was quick to put the tray down on the desk and scampered over to the stove to grab a towel.

  Did the masters not allow him to be touched either? An Yeung let out a sigh and just dropped the hand back to rest on the ground and leaned back into it. The tea cup tilted back as he took a long sip of it. Though he looked sideways to the red panda then.

"I keep getting rejected, Aka, whatever shall I do?" He lamented with great woe to the pet as if it was empathize with him or provide some insight.

  The panda was a master at adjusting whenever An Yeung did, always finding some part of his body to perch on. Unlike his master, he was quite apt to cuddle against others. Big round eyes looked over at the voice, nose wiggling. As if he could provide an answer!

Towels fetched, Chuuya returned to mop the mess out of the tray. Firm presses of the rough woven fabric to the coppery-hued metal to soak up the hot tea. Careful not to let his fingers touch. If they were burned and he couldn't work, he would've caused damage to yakuza property.

  "Ge ge, let me." An Yeung moved forward to take the towel. He was careful in how his pitch-dark fingers - lined with some spots of white from his freckled patterns - touched the other's hand to get that towel. "It is best you take care of your hands after all."

  The Raen shook his head but a moment later, did pull his hands back. The threat of being in trouble was more than simply being rude to his guest. Nervous now, he clasped hands together near his stomach as he watched the cleanup. Why did he have to make a mess?

  "I do apologize," he said lightly, "I'll be more mindful next time."

An Yeung's words were sincere at least. It didn't mean he'd outright avoid teasing him, but he would at least be more mindful now. The copper eyes just looking up to him as he dabbed the mess clean. Once done he offered his cup and what remained to him.

"Here take the rest of my tea."

  A shake of the head though he did bow a bit in gratitude. That was his guest's tea. He wouldn't indulge. After holding the position a moment, he moved forward to take the clean tray and its contents. They would be washed and cleaned later by the help that stopped by in the morning and evenings.

  An Yeung settled back once more and sighed. Though he glanced back towards the way the guards would be. What a pain! And he had missed out on the one walk for the moon. He finished off his cup and just sat it down after. For now he was just quiet and looked thoughtful.

   With that set aside, Chuuya prepared himself another cup of tea. Fortunately there was enough hot water left in that tiny pot. He took his time, trying to calm his nerves. Anything that was out of routine always made him anxious. Especially with this man! It wouldn't take much provocation for the guards to kill a single man. And the fight that would break out as a result would leave plenty of damage to Suzume. What would happen afterwards?

A deep breath before the artist walked back over and sat on his cushion once more. Unsure of what to 'talk' about now, he simply sipped his tea.

  Oh An Yeung would like to see them try. His fist was greater than a dozen of the henchmen any Yakuza could think to tire, and he was certain his stamina would hold out for many a night so sheer numbers alone wouldn't vex him. He chuckled at the thought. The sound rolling into a laugh, but at no particular one. Ah how he wished he could say such things out loud!

"Chuuya, come on. Let me stay here just to rest one evening. I don't wish to go to my Lord with sour news already." He said then in pleading tones, once more testing the waters as he plotted.

  The sound of the laugh had those red eyes looking up from their gaze on the tatami floors. His expression easy enough to read, that uneasiness. With a small clink, he set the cup down on the desk next to his work. A small sigh before he answered. '{I can't. They patrol. They'll find you if you stay any in or on the property. I'm sorry.}'

  An Yeung sighed. "Then at least permit me to nap for a spell? All but a bell, maybe two? I shan't disrupt your work."

  Chuuya looked over to the chronometer on a small shelf nearby. Then he held up one finger. One. He had a client after that.

  One bell? He smiled with that. This was a small victory at least! So he moved to rest down upon that desk as he had before, eyeing the Raen with a single copper hue. "Will you help me rest easier with a pat upon my head?"

  A small noise of surprise and embarrassment left the mute at that. Pale cheeks, more devoid of scales than most of his kind, flushed pink and he shook his head in a most definite 'no!' In fact, he picked up his small blade again, intent on getting back to work!

  At least he hadn't talked on the 'and call me a good boy' part! An Yeung just grinned a bit as he admired that blush. Really a flustered Chuuya was the best even if it cost his life one day.

  Must concentrate. It was more difficult to do so in the presence of someone. Again, his poor routine! It was bells of working alone interspersed with client visits or tourists looking for souvenirs. Accepting a presence outside that was always...different. Not necessarily negative. It was just something out the ordinary. But he had work to do and with a deep breath, Chuuya continued to do so.

[abadzone]

A Weekly Song: Episode 8 - Joe Hisaishi

A Weekly Song: Episode 8

Joe Hisaishi – Procession of the Gods

“When’s he going to do a movie composer?”

“He’s always going on about film soundtracks.”

It’s true, I am, I do. The reason is this – I listen to a hell of a lot of them. I’m an aficionado. When you’re writing and drawing all day and night, whether it’s writing articles for magazines or scripts for other artists, or just drawing your own comics and illustrations, you listen to a lot of music.

About five years ago, other than corporate work, I changed my professional emphasis from both writing and drawing to predominantly writing (largely because I make more money from writing than from doing both. Making comics and graphic novels is slow, hard work where you do about ten jobs for the price of one. Plus, anyone in comics publishing will tell you how little most artists make, but that is not the purpose of this essay so I’ll leave that story and observations on same for another time).

I’ve always found that I can’t listen to music with lyrics or indeed a human voice of any kind while writing – I find it distracting. This leaves instrumental music – Jazz and Classical, sure, Ambient definitely, but most often – soundtracks. Film and TV scores.

Perhaps the reason for this is that the part of my brain that I use to create stories and voices of characters is also the part that listens to and processes speech and singing. I don’t know that for sure, but whatever the reason, because most of my time is now spent writing, there’s much less time to listen to listen to podcasts, talk radio and the like.

When I was doing the more “automatic” tasks in the creation of a page of comics, like lettering, inking or colouring, I always found myself listening to something with a human voice – a play, a podcast, radio documentaries. My inking was actually better, both looser and slicker, if I was slightly distracted by listening to radio plays or discussion of some kind. (Hi, BBC Radio 4, NPR and Big Finish. I miss you.)

Correspondingly, my appetite for soundtracks has increased, but they’ve always been an important – nay, essential part of my creative process. They are both mood setters and emotional emollient, both starting points and helpful compositional markers in the creation of a story.

It goes something like this: you think of a scene, what the purpose of it is, how you want it to play, what the characters are saying and doing and you choose a piece of music that sets the temperature of that set of incidents. I think every book and every comic I’ve ever written has had a temp-track of sorts, a tracklisting that serves as a guide for the mood and atmosphere I’m looking for.

In many cases, this temp-track evolves and changes as the story does, with some pieces of music being dropped in favour of others as the shape of the narrative develops. I imagine it’s a similar process in an editing suite; as you revise and modify the focus of different elements of a story, the linguistic accompaniments necessarily change too. In film or TV, it might be the Foley sounds, a change of emphasis in lighting via colour grading; in comics it might be the layout, the way the guttering of a page affects the pace at which a reader scans it, and where their eye is led; the tempo at which it subtextually guides a reader to the turn of the page and an emotional turning point, all the while preserving a sense of immersion. Every small detail the author employs affects everything else, and everything has to be right and constantly rejigged to create the illusion of the real world within the story.

This is the kind of constant balancing act common to all forms of visual storytelling. While comics don’t have the luxury of sound and motion, it is still a supremely nuanced and sophisticated language in its own right. What I always liked about comics as both art form and means of expression is how accessible they are and that they can be created relatively cheaply in comparison to film or TV. Anyone can make a comic; you really can be a sole creator, whereas film and TV are collaborative media. A graphic novel really can be one person’s creative vision, unlike a film, which although it may be steered by one overall captain, the authorship really is shared by many (despite what the director’s credit would have you believe: “A Film By…”)

I digress. The point is, one art form and means of cultural expression runs into the next; none of them stand alone. Everything influences everything else and in my case, I’d go so far as to say, these days, music probably influences me more in terms of the kinds of stories I like to tell than many other comics do. Storytelling is a free-flowing activity that inhabits every possible mode of human expression.

Obviously, all this means I have a lot of favourite soundtracks and film composers. How to pick one, and just one track from so many, for this week’s song?

Well, first time around, I’m gonna do the easy thing. I’m going straight to someone who supplies music for one of the greats in a related field: animation. The greatest living animator, in my humble opinion, is Hayao Miyazaki. One of Miyazaki’s constant and most consistent collaborators is Mamoru Fujisawa AKA Joe Hisaishi, who has composed scores for every Miyazaki movie but one. Not to compare Miyazaki to a Spielberg or a Lucas, but Hisashi is Miyazaki’s John Williams.

It’s really difficult to pick a favourite Miyazaki film, and equally difficult to pick a Hisaishi score. He is, predictably, a composer who can match the depth, vision and moods of Miyazaki, one who seems as comfortable with experimental electronica as he is with the orchestra.

My admiration for Hisaishi is a fairly usual reaction to his music; sometimes it’s interesting to look at exactly why a composer is beloved. His association with one of the best storytellers in the world is partially the reason, but composers are of course storytellers in their own right. There is a line of thinking that viewers shouldn’t really notice movie music – that it’s a subtextual support to the emotion and action of the story being told onscreen. While there’s an element of truth in that, there are just as many examples to the opposite. What I think a good film score should do is complement and highlight the story, help make it an immersive emotional experience; be textural as opposed to specific. It should help you, the viewer, get caught up in the characters and story without necessarily calling attention to itself, which calls for a lot of nuance and is a very neat balancing act. You can still notice it – I sometimes do, but what’s fascinating about it is that, when it’s working well, I often don’t do it consciously. The opposite is true also – I notice it when it’s intrusive or overly sentimental, signposting emotions rather than being an integral part of them.

Something that interests me is that Hisaishi is on record as thinking many modern Hollywood soundtracks don’t have enough “space” or silence in them – that quiet is as much a tool of the composer as loud is. This is a man whose comprehension of emotional colour and silence as a tone in his palette is second to none. I love his work in film and beyond it (which is why I’m also going to cheat a bit and also recommend his Minima Rhythm series, the first of which you can listen to here).

That’s not today’s pick though, which I agonised over. I almost went for the opening of Princes Mononoke, Attack of the Tatari-Gami, which is both great action music and one of the most sinister themes in animation history. In the end, I settled upon a piece from Spirited Away, which is possibly one of Hisaishi’s most sweeping, yearning scores. 

Variously known as Procession of the Gods (on the US pressing of the soundtrack I have), Procession of the Spirits and The Procession of Celestial Beings, the cue is actually seriously truncated in the movie and not allowed to fully bloom the way it does on the soundtrack album. You’re going to have to take my word for that, because unfortunately there is no official Studio Ghibli channel that I can find on YouTube that showcases Hisaishi’s work, but you can do a search and find several cover versions that attempt to recapture its ominous majesty. Here’s a link to how it sounds in the film, but I’d encourage you to seek out the soundtrack album and listen to it in all its pomp, 

The scene it accompanies is shortly after the main character, a ten-year old girl called Chihiro, finds herself stranded in a magical world. Her parents have turned into pigs (yes) and she attempts to find the tunnel that is a gateway back to her reality, only to find that she is now separated from it by a newly-appeared river. A boat begins crossing the water towards her and this music begins to play, all string-plucked notes and magical portent. There are no visible passengers until the boat hits the shore, where Chihiro stands watching. Doors open, the music swells, heralding the arrival of beings that no human child should witness. They appear as masks that float around head height and, floating above the deck, file off the boat one by one. As they disembark, cloaks flow from the masks, like paint tipped from a bucket, flowing down to describe the shapes of their intangible bodies…

…And Chihiro flees, the music fades. On the soundtrack album it reaches a magnificent crescendo and ends on a playful note, punctuated by human voices. It’s a scene that goes from a foreboding menace to awe and wonder, from fear to celebration and back again.

If you’ve never seen the film, see it. It is far, far from being merely a children’s entertainment and occupies a place among the most visionary films ever made.

I have another version of Procession from the Spirited Away Image Album, which I think might be a demo rather than the more usual “song in character” pieces you get on those kinds of tie-ins (but I can’t read Japanese, so I might be completely wrong about that. Feel free to correct me if so via Twitter or email or if you have any further information about this particularly sumptuous film score).

To get a flavour of Joe Hisaishi’s imaginative brilliance, you can watch and listen to a whole concert here.

More info on Studio Ghibli (n English) available here.

[itsthejuggernautbitch]

You Look Like Trouble (Morning Glory Wine - Cable/OC

Here’s chapter five! And the corresponding playlist! It got real.

(And as always, not to be that person but if you’ve got the time and the inclination, kudos or a comment would be greatly appreciated.)

Taglist: @this-that-and-every-thing-else  @ptite-shit  @lesbianyondu  @chromecutie  @gallifreyangrandtorino  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @akihecko  @bigstarlightkingdom

Xavier’s Mansion was a lot further out past the city limits than Vivian remembered. Like, a long car ride away. The roads weren’t great, there were all these ropey winding hills - it was just a bad scene altogether. She didn’t do well on long car rides anyway. Too much motion, too many bumps - especially all the way out here.

Thankfully, she made it relatively intact (with the exception of her nerves). She pulled up to the front of the mansion in her tiny black car, an ant sitting next to an immobile boot. The mansion was a huge structure, all brick and stone. It had been so long since she’d seen it last that she’d almost forgotten that it was so gargantuan. And it probably still just as musty and cavernous on the inside as it always had been. She hesitated to turn the car off and get out; in fact, she briefly considered just turning around and leaving.

Nevertheless, she’d driven all the way out here to the boonies. No reason to waste gas money. She finally got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

Colossus answered so quickly that Vivian suspected he might have been waiting on the other side of the door. “Vivian!”

He reached down to hug her - no small feat, considering a more-than two foot height difference. He was in his armored form, which wasn’t unusual. Vivian vaguely remembered that he tended to prefer this form over his human form for whatever reason. Not that it mattered, she supposed - he was pretty attractive either way. She supposed he just enjoyed the utility of being constantly invulnerable.

Vivian smiled, returning the squeeze. “Piotr.”

He ushered her through the front door, leading her into the hallway. His footsteps echoed gently in the empty hall. “It has been a long time since I have seen you. I trust you are well?”

“Well enough. How have you been?”

“Ah, the same.”

“Overworked and underappreciated? I know the feeling.”

Vivian followed Colossus into the kitchen. It was a small, cozy little room - all warm greens and browns and mahogany, cluttered with silver appliances and papers everywhere. It was one of several kitchenettes in the mansion - the place was too big and there were too many students to just have one big kitchen, so there were a few of them dotting the halls.

Vivian sat down in the chair that he pulled out for her. Such a gentleman. “You wanted to talk?”

More than fifteen years had passed since Vivian had been a permanent resident of the house. She’d returned a time or two, usually to pick up something she’d left that someone had found stuffed away in the attic. She’d returned at Colossus’s insistence once before, but that was when she was still in college. She hadn’t been in the past few years though, preferring to stick to her routine in the city.

Colossus was older than her, yes, but not by much. They’d been friends as children and remained so, which is why Vivian knew it would be better to outright deny his request to talk. She had continuously denied his requests until this day for the singular reason that she knew it would be difficult for her to hear him out and tell him no right to his face. Nigh impossible, even.

He could be persuasive when he wanted to be, and he didn’t even have to be nefarious or underhanded about it to be effective. No, the worst part about his persuasion technique was that he was sincere. He pulled the right heartstrings by being completely honest and altogether altruistically himself.

Colossus sat in the chair across from her. It was a huge oak chair, just large enough for him, but it screamed when he sat. He held out a cup of coffee for her and took a sip from the cup of tea he made for himself. “I will admit, I am surprised you agreed to come here, Vivian.”

“Wade finally wore me down. Said you’d stop making him wear the trainee crop top if I came.”

“Well, I did promise…”

“So he wasn’t just pulling my leg,” Vivian said, more to herself than to Colossus. She took a sip of her coffee. “Alright, why did you want me to come back here?”

That’s when the painfully honest persuasion techniques began. “Vivian, we need you here. We have no medical staff, no one to treat the kids when they get hurt.”

“I knew that’s what you were going to ask.”

“I would not ask this of you if we were not in such need. I am more than aware that you value your independence.”

Vivian leaned towards him, elbows on the table. She felt like she was trying to negotiate a deal. “Do you have any students who are healers? I mean, I can’t really train them because I’m not a healer by nature - just by profession. I could at least teach them some first aid, though.”

“No. The students with basic healing abilities have all left, and we have not had a true healer here in a long time.”

Vivian knew once she sat down with Colossus, it would be hard to turn him down. The honesty is what always wore her down, even when they were teenagers. He was just so sincere. And she’d never been able to say no when there was a problem. The mansion had a real need, and he was just trying to do his job and fulfill that need.

“I can’t, Piotr. I have two jobs already, and I can’t quit either of them.”

“I would not ask you to. I am simply asking you to consider the option of returning here to be our doctor in whatever spare time you have. You have a place here, if or when you decide to come home.”

“This place hasn’t been my home for fifteen years.”

“You can make it your home again.”

Vivian supposed she should be thankful that she was dumped here as a child rather than one of the orphanages around that city that actively tortured mutant children. It was a good place to grow up (minus the occasional explosions).

Even in his armored form with his odd gunmetal eyes, Vivian was drawn in by the depths of his pleading. “Jesus, it’s so hard saying no to you. I’ll consider it. No promises. No guarantees.”

Colossus nodded, a modicum of pride in his expression. He must not have been expecting any kind of acquiescence. “That is all I ask.”

“I don’t know when I’ll have an answer for you. I hardly have enough time to even think.”

“I know,” he replied, gently. “Wade tells me that you still work yourself too hard.”

“It’s necessary.”

“He does not seem to think so.”

Vivian shrugged. “That’s Wade for you.”

“He means well, I believe,” Colossus said. There was affection in his voice, despite the fact that Vivian knew Wade must drive him nuts.

“I know he does. If I could get my kids back, I’d…”

Colossus was aware of her situation. “Have they presented with any abilities?”

“Not that I know of. If they had, I’m sure Jack would have shipped them off to me by now.”

“They may be hiding it.”

“That worries me.”

“They will be fine,” Colossus said, just as reassuring as ever. “If that is the case.”

“Not if Jack finds out before I do.”

“Then we will go and get them,” he replied sternly. She had no doubt that Colossus would, and that Wade would be running along at his heels.

They were silent for more than a minute as each sipped the drink in their hand. It was a comfortable silence, just a quiet morning between friends. As Vivian stood up to leave, Colossus left her with a final pleading request.

“Please come home, Vivian. We miss you. We need you.”

Vivian was already packing up for the night when another knock sounded at her door. She sighed in exhaustion (it was past one a.m. and this wasn’t the first time that night she’d been interrupted while packing up to go home), but she opened the door anyway. She couldn’t turn away someone bleeding on her doorstep.

This time, it wasn’t one of her regular patients - it was Cable. He was pale, peaked, but was obviously well enough to be upright and talking. He held his right shoulder with his gloved left hand, blood blossoming against the sleeve of his torn shirt and trickling out underneath the bottom of his hand. She could see the jagged red edges of a wound peeking out from between his fingers.

“Got a minute?” he asked, waiting for Vivian to step aside and let him in. He leaned against the doorway, resting on the shoulder that wasn’t bleeding.

“For you, I have two.” Vivian replied, ushering him in. “What happened?”

She sat him down in her exam chair and proceeded to extract all of her tools from her medical bag. They glittered in the sterile white light, all polished chrome and pointed edges. She fanned them out over her little metal table and went to go wash up.

Cable’s answering voice was rough and tired, husky from lack of sleep. “Knife wound. Not the worst I’ve ever had, but this one needs stitches.”

“Well, I can certainly handle that,” she replied, sitting down in her rolling chair next to him. She plucked at the ragged edges of his shirt sleeve, rolling them back gently so that she could get a good look at his leaking wound. “I’m going to have to cut this side of your shirt open to get to it, though.”

“No great loss there. It’s already ruined.”

“It’s not ruined. You could make a muscle tank out of it if you really wanted to,” she teased, winking at him. “Just cut the other sleeve and walk around guns blazing.”

He smirked just a little bit, which Vivian caught the tail end of. “Nah, I get enough funny looks as it is.”

“I think you’ll get more than funny looks if you walk around with those muscles bulging for everyone to see.”

Cable didn’t respond, but he chuckled quietly, which is all Vivian was trying to get him to do anyway. She’d found that procedures went by faster for both her patient and herself when she made jokes. And she liked hearing him laugh - that was a nice bonus.

Vivian set to work cleaning him up and stitching him closed. As she poked and prodded and threaded the needle through his skin, she definitely noticed something crawling around underneath his skin. It was metallic silver and it seemed to be repairing him - though not fast enough to consider it regenerating. She wanted to ask, but she thought better of it.

Cable watched her work, wincing only when she hit a particularly sore spot. “I can’t imagine sewing up people like this day in and day out. Seems like you’d get burnt out pretty quick.”

“You get desensitized after a while,” Vivian replied, voice barely louder than a mumble. She worked diligently, tongue poking out from between her teeth. “I don’t even think twice about sticking my fingers in most wounds. It’s only a select few people that I just hate stitching up…”

Cable was made of muscle, so tense and hard that even with a needle poking through his skin, he barely flinched. Only the deep, sore spots seemed to bother him. Vivian figured it had something to do with the odd silvery bits that kept darting around underneath his skin (which was mildly creepy, but they didn’t seem to be bothered by her needle).

“Knife wounds are pretty routine around here anyway.” She wiped away a bead of blood that trickled up out of his wound. “I always hated seeing Wade come in like this before he could regenerate. I don’t like stitching you up either.”

“Good thing you don’t have to do it often, then.” He sounded a little pleased, but Vivian could have been reading into his tone of voice too much.

“Well, you definitely seem to be good at your job. You’ve only been in here twice in the past few months since I’ve met you,” Vivian said. She tied off the end of his stitches, clamping the threads together to secure her work in place. She doused the angry red line with more saline and patted it dry. “I used to see Wade almost weekly. Not that he was bad at his job or anything - he’s always just been a little reckless.”

“I’ve been cut up plenty before,” he replied, craning his neck to see the finished product. He looked satisfied that it was tight and closed. “I can usually patch myself up or ignore it.”

Cable stood up and stretched, then held out a hand for Vivian to take. He pulled her to her feet. He wasn’t much taller than Vivian, maybe three inches.

The sterile white light cast his face into sharp relief. Vivian looked up at him, studying his face. He hadn’t shaved in the past few days - the shadow over his cheeks was rough-looking and gray-black. His face was lined, but it seemed mostly from exhaustion rather than age. His mouth looked soft, an off contrast to the sharpness of the rest of him. The scars around his right eye were deep, almost cavernous; they stopped at the edges of his eye socket like whoever had slashed his face hadn’t been quite close enough with the knife.

Vivian realized she was staring, but it was hard to look away. “I know. I looked at your skin. All the bruises and… scars.”

Cable was very close, which she realized while she was ogling him. He stretched, joints cracking, but he didn’t move away from her. He didn’t move to leave the room, leave her space. She didn’t move, either.

Yeah, he was close. He smelled spicy - cleanly masculine, but with a faint undertone of sweat and rusted metal.

“I’ve got a lot of those.”

Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, but it seemed deafening in the silence of the room. She couldn’t even hear the din of the bar on the other side of the door. “Yeah?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

They were barely more than an inch apart, just a hair’s breadth away from being pressed together. Neither one of them could really figure out when they’d gotten this close to each other; they waited to see if the other pulled away, but neither one did.

Vivian smoothed the ripped corner of his shirt down, careful not to touch the line of stitches binding his shoulder together. She left her hand against his shoulder. “Is this the part where I ask if I can see them?”

“You’ve already seen them.”

Cable leaned down and pressed his lips to hers - his mouth was soft and warm, unobtrusive and uncharacteristically gentle. She could get lost in him - was lost in him - the way he moved, his scent, the way he pressed himself against her. He didn’t grab her and pull her into him, didn’t move in so close that she couldn’t breathe. It was just the brush of his chest against hers and the softness of his shoulders beneath her hands.

And then, quite abruptly, he pulled away.

Cable stepped back, running a hand through his hair. The strands fell out of place, running astray and unstructured. “Shit, fuck… I’m sorry.”

“Hold on, what’s wrong?” Vivian blinked, a little dazed. Coldness settled into the pit of her stomach, a fear that she was wholly unfamiliar with. “Did I do something?”

“No, no, it’s not… you’re not… that’s not it.”

“Then why-?”

Word vomit bubbled up at the back of his throat - something he’d never experienced before. A hot wash of guilt bled into his stomach, up his throat, and he’d blurted it out before he could stop himself and explain. “I’m married.”

Well. That was a slap in the face. Vivian made a habit out of not kissing married men.

She could feel herself flushing, and she knew that her face must be bright red. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not even wearing a ring.”

“It’s complic-”

She didn’t let him finish. “Goddamnit, I should have guessed.”

Vivian stormed out without bothering to pick up her medical bag and slammed the door behind her. She heard Cable call her name once, but no more than that. Half the bar went quiet and just watched her stalk out before glaring at the wooden door. The murderous intent was palpable.

She walked by Weasel’s station at the bar and grabbed a key from under the lip of the bar before she stalked out the front door. “I’ll come in early in the morning and clean up, Weasel.”

Weasel stared at her like a man who obviously didn’t know how to comfort upset women: absolutely terrified and super uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

Cable waited a few minutes before he left the back room. Why the hell had he said anything? He’d dealt with this already, hadn’t he? He was here to stay - he’d chosen to stay. He’d come to terms with this. And he’d ruined a good kiss - a great kiss - with his misplaced guilt. And hurt her. She was the last person who deserved to be hurt like that.

As soon as he stepped out, the whole bar went silent. He’d been glared at by bigger, more intimidating men that the ones currently deciding whether to get up and deck him, but this was a different kind of murderous intent. This was a protective intent.

Cable ignored the nasty looks and walked up to the bar. He sat down, staring straight at the wall, barely acknowledging Weasel’s presence.

Weasel looked at him. “Dude… what just happened?”

Cable rubbed his temples. “I fucked up.”

[double-threnody]

The Long and Dark 02

Wood splintered and cracked beneath blows of the axe, sending sharp peals echoing through the forest with each successive strike. The tool still felt unfamiliar in Burkegan’s hands, even through the thick skin of his calloused fingers: it lacked the weight necessary to hew flesh through armor, and it lacked the reach and the strength to give him a properly delivered swing. The woodsman’s axe was made for trees, and with a final grunt of exertion, he chopped through the heartwood of the one before him.

“Eyes up,” he barked, more out of habit than any real danger of catching someone beneath the falling trunk. The handful of volunteers that remained among their band had dwindled in recent weeks, each of them setting out to build new homes in their reclaimed homeland one after another. With the temple itself completed and the scores of refugees taking their newfound skills and blessings of the kami with them to greener pastures, his life had become relatively quiet once again. His axe fell once, twice, carving the thick branches from the trunk one after another while his thoughts swarmed over him like a cloud of flies.

Seeing his… well. Calling them his friends may have been something of a stretch, but seeing the faces of his Ward companions had filled him with energy. Ezenzakhialga and Lolah both seemed different – though that could easily have been the months of his exile speaking – and the new runt, Maya, had caught his eye. Ropes slung over the log as he thought back: it was a surprise to see Lolah there in the first place, let alone a pushover like the little Garanji. His shoulder pressed against the slope of the tree trunk alongside his palm, and with a rumble of exertion, he pushed the thing until it rolled over the ropes and allowed him to coil the knots.

Maya must have had guts of some kind to follow a pair of Xaela into the Steppe with nothing but her book and Lolah’s cocksure attitude. Briefly he wondered how Lolah was doing in the wake of the Adarkim khagan’s… hospitality.

The ropes slipped easily over his shoulders to cross over his bare chest. With a few more quickly drawn knots and hitches in his makeshift harness, he leaned into the taut pull of the rope, grumbled a platitude to the kami, and began to walk.

It was a relatively short walk back to his ger, hidden in the shade of a few small trees left on the outskirts of the temple proper. The trip certainly wasn’t a level one, however, and his grunts only increased in frequency as he struggled to drag the twenty-fulm log. Each slight slope of the hills and upturned rock in his path sent a slight tremor down the long, narrow groove carved into the earth behind him. A quarter of a malm further and he could smell the freshly tanned leathers of his hut over the ever-present stenches of sweat and salt sticking to him beneath the bite of sap. His scars burned beneath the ropes, but finally, thankfully, he drew to a halt hardly a dozen paces from the opening of his tent.

“You’re going to throw your back like that, you old, blind, mutt; make no mistake. Hope that you fall over at the peak of a hill so we have a chance of rolling you back here.” Harsh but playful, the Doman words spilled from the inside of the ger with a spectator’s faux sense of concern.

“Hatsumine,” he rumbled, turning the bright orb of his left eye on the tent. Where he had held a glass replica in his right socket before, only an empty, puckered hole beneath withered scar tissue now gazed out from the right side of his face. Tearing a strip from the bandages binding his left arm – it was as good as healed, anyway – he wove the fabric around his shaggy mop of shock-white hair to form a makeshift eyepatch. “You should have sent word you’d be visiting; I might have made tea.” He wouldn’t have, but it was polite to lie. The Doman dialect suffered on his tongue, but every passing week granted him a little more mastery of the language than the handful of words he commanded before he arrived.

Hatsumine’s smile, dim beneath the shade of the ger, suggested she saw the lie for what it was. “Perhaps if our leaves agreed with you, you wouldn’t be rattling such a ruckus against death’s door. Doma blesses all with her bounty, if only they accept it.”

“Perhaps if Doma had a bounty worth steeping I’d share it with you,” he jabbed. It was becoming an old routine between them, and as he finally worked himself free from the remaining ropes, she stepped out into the light to deliver a response.

“Perhaps if you shared more often, my sisters would find less opportunity to harass me over your health, mutt. They could simply look at you and see that you’re wasting away.” She drew closer, glinting softly in the sunlight as the small collection of jewels and gold hoops adorning her fingers and neck gleamed. She seemed Burkegan’s opposite in nearly every metric: at barely half his height, jet-black hair to his snow-white, and a smug grin to match his deadpan grimace, she was every ilm a maiden of the shrine. “They ask after you daily now. Are you hunting enough to eat? Are you ill? Have you been taken by dysentery while none of us were watching? Tell me about your shits.”

The axe split free from the tail of the log with hardly a flick of effort, and Burke hesitated as he nearly brought it to rest in the non-existent hook situated over his left shoulder. He barely spared Hastumine a glance as he tugged a rag from his belt. The sweat from his brow, the skin beneath his scalebeds, and the scarred flesh under his horns and throat nearly left it drenched. Flicking the thing at her face as he trotted past, he stepped into the ger with a warm, welcoming chuckle.

“Hardly two months ago I believed you were as stoic a vessel for the kami as you could find. Now listen to you. Steeped in such filth I am moved to silence.” Running a hand over the bamboo frame, he dropped to a knee to begin pulling his boots from his feet.

“Then be silent already and pack me a pipe, will you? I know you keep a pinch here; the namazu are horrible liars. Now that trade is reopening between our people and the tribes to the North, They’re always scurrying about underfoot to try and find something new to sell us.” Her robes, simple in ornamentation but frighteningly clean in comparison to her current surroundings, swept in her wake as she passed right by him to take a seat on his pile of bedding. While spacious for one, the ger wasn’t built to be shared comfortably by two people. Burkegan counted himself lucky that the shrinemaiden’s frequent visits typically only added up to one and a half. With a swat of his hand he brushed her aside, ignoring her chuckles as he lifted the furs beneath her to paw at a battered, tin box tucked away between strips of hide.

“Your Eminence,” he mumbled, dripping a conciliatory note into the Eorzean word as he pressed a corn-cob pipe full of dry, pungent tobacco. Her smile twisted into a more devilish grin as she plucked the pipe from his hand, lighting it with a match from some hidden pocket deep within her white robes. “You’re going to stain those with smoke, if not with ash.” Idly, he peered at her while his practiced fingers worked at rolling a paper full of the stuff.

“The kami observe the purity of my heart and hear the purity of my singing soul, and so too shall my clothes remain pure,” she chuckled drily, pausing between heady puffs of the smoke.

“I’ve never heard that verse.”

“Yes, I just made it up. Trust that when I come to instruct you in meditation I’ll have something more heartfelt.” A teasing glint remained twinkling in her eye as she watched him seal the cigarette shut with the tip of his tongue.

“I am illuminated,” he snorted. The tip of the cigarette pressed between his lips, right in the groove of the scar that split them, and he waited for her to fall silent again before lighting it.

“You’ll be meeting another sister soon.” Her voice cut through his slowly stilling thoughts, disrupting the pleasant images of Lolah and Maya he’d barely finished dreaming up. Like a pink beacon in the shade, his eye blazed open, turning lazily to rest on Hastumine where she reclined in his furs.

“I find myself constantly amazed at how much you speak during your visits. We haven’t even fucked; what did I do to deserve this?” A sharp laugh and a short plume of smoke from her nest between the remains of a bear and a massive tiger preceded her reply.

“It’s improper. I am a woman of the cloth, Burkegan; have you lost your other eye, or did you merely forget?” The question hangs in the air amid the haze of flavored smoke, tweaked and tinged with her smile. “You committed a grievous sin and traveled to us in a pilgrimage of atonement, of course,” she murmured, crossing her legs beneath the heavy robes.

“I acknowledge my failure and will work to correct it.” Even as the words escaped him they fell flat against the dirt floor; he knew it was the proper response, and she knew he knew how to respond, and both of them knew that he had done nothing but listen – if begrudgingly – to the maidens of the shrine for weeks. “Speaking of my failures,” he mumbled, dancing a bright line through the air with the cherry at the tip of his cigarette, “has there been any word from Miyasuke? The temple is done, your people are fed. Your trees are cleared and Doma begins to rebuild herself around you.” His gaze slipped from Hastumine to his palms, covered in fresh cuts and scars and calloused skin after months of unfamiliar labor. Revivifying and oddly calming, but unfamiliar labor all the same. “Few chores remain for me. I’m turning into a guard dog, and I don’t recall signing that contract.”

Caught in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the flicker of hurt that flashed over his friend’s face upon the mention of Miyasuke’s name.

“No word as of yet, mutt. Rest easy tonight; I’ll see if we have some leftovers among the offerings for the guard dog’s belly,” she laughed. A trail of smoke and the scent of fresh linens flowed in her wake as she stood and walked past, pausing to rest her hand against his shoulder. “Think on these things, Burkegan. Clear your mind of what was and what might be. Your work has helped the people of Doma stand upon their own legs once again, and with the temple complete we can spread the guidance of the kami to everyone who lives with pain in the pit of their heart.” Her fingertips traced softly over the scars splitting his skin, coming to a rest over his left breast and the massive, rhythmic muscle beneath. “Meet with our new sister on the morrow. I will personally bring you word when I receive it from Miyasuke.” Her smile was as warm and infectious as always – the kind of smile that encouraged the work of a hundred laborers when the temple was only a crater – and Burke couldn’t help but crack a small grin in return.

“Good. Thank you, Hatsumine.”

“Thank you, mutt. Even half-blind and wasting away to nothing, the kami are grateful for your continued support. As are we.” Her laugh lingered in the tent flap, half-hollow in her departure.

@miyasukeietada

[myselfinserts]

“those eyes…”

Gentle humming. The light scent of lilies. The sensation of cool water brushing over his forehead. There were many sensations going on as Aizawa returned to consciousness. 

It was blurry. He hated blurry. Blurry meant weakness. Vulnerability. Death. 

And yet, he couldn’t find himself fearing any of those things here. 

Whatever was causing him to let down his guard, it had a beautiful singing voice. 

“You’re awake,” said the voice softly. “That’s good. I’d be shocked if you didn’t wake up at all.”

That’s right, he remembered. Its her again. This is the second time she’s healed me. Dammit. I must have wandered to her without thinking. 

“I’m sorry for burdening you, Lady Lazarus.”

“Don’t be,” she assured. “Contrary to popular belief, I actually enjoy company from time to time.”

Aizawa slowly say up, groaning from pain as he was made to lay back down. In the corner he could see his gear, newly repaired.

No, that wasn’t right. These looked brand new all together. Shining metal and softer fabrics. It looked stronger. Almost as though they were made for him. 

Lady L took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I hope you do not mind, but I asked some friends of mine to fix your supplies. There’s proper healing waters amongst your medicines now as well, courtesy of my friends at the apothecary.”

“It’s alright-” he paused, eyes wide in shock. He’d always seen her with her masks. Veils, shrouds, various visages to hide herself. But here? Now? Now she wasn’t obscured. His hand reached up, gingerly cupping her face as though this image would vanish before he’d taken time to memorize it. 

“Those eyes...”

She smiled sweetly, leaning in slightly closer. “Take care to memorize them. For this is most likely the only time I’ll ever show them to you.”

The scent of salt and lavender took hold of his senses, and the darkness began to creep closer. He fought to keep awake. But the pain, his wounds that had been weighing him down, the fever that burned fierce as holy flame. All this pulled him back. His hand slowly fell from the Lady’s face, only to be caught in her own as she placed a tender kiss to his palm.

“Rest now, Aizawa. For the Gods have chosen to spare you from the afterlife yet, and your path to recovery will be just as long as the last.”

As the world around him faded, he found himself praying for the first time in years. 

Praying that those eyes would still be there when he awoke.

“Dammit. They didn’t return to this village.”

Aizawa buried his face in his scarf, trying to hide the smirk on his face. Reports had come in of Lady Lazarus and her motly crew having appeared in the old remains of Faerun, one of the few naturally enchanted areas left in Elspie. The village itself was once home to a plethora of elves and fairies living side by side. With the stunning lack of elves, the place had come to ruin. 

“Search the grounds,” Mary ordered. “Spread out. Search every nook and cranny. I want any reports of any magic to be brought to me at once.”

Aizawa rolled his eyes and continued toward the west end. Watching the ruins, admiring the way the forest naturally reclaimed them, he felt almost nostalgic. How like the seaside town woodlands it reminded him. The kingdom was filled with places like that, but this one came closest to perfectly replicating the sensation. 

As he continued on his way, he stopped by a small house with a name scratched off the stone out front. Slowly approaching, he felt something draw him to it. Was it because this little cottage reminded him of the Lady? Or perhaps it was because it was the most well put together of all the old burnt huts. Slowly, he opened the door. 

And was immediately shocked by what he saw. 

The hut, which looked barely large enough to fit a family of three, was really just the top of a larger building that hid beneath the ground. Gleaming with crystal leaves, trees sprouted from the earth, rising higher and higher towards a ceiling that was not visible to the outside. The walls were lined with books and scrolls upon shelves of redwood. There were fountains near the center of this grand library.

And by one of the fountains sat a woman whose hair was as lush as fully ripened wheat crops, dressed in the Autumn’s glory of coppers and reds. Her ears atop her head twitched as she read over a book bound in leather and gold. Her tail moved slowly to and fro, just barely above the water behind her. 

Slowly, he found himself approaching the woman. 

“Excuse me?” he called to her, making eye contact and nearly stumbling back at the strange heather color in place of the whites, which stood out more against the deep garnet stare. “Who are you?”

“I am Rhiannon,” the woman said, closing her book. “I am a Goddess of Wisdom and Knowledge.” She rose to her feet, sending him stepping back farther at the sight of her height. “What do you seek, child?”

A Goddess? This couldn’t be. “I seek nothing.”

Rhiannon shook her head. “If that were the truth, the door to my realm would not open to you. You seek something, and so the worlds have called me here to you.” She smiled softly. “Or perhaps the wisdom you seek has nothing to do with active thought. Perhaps one more passive, yet controlling.” She stepped forward, leaning in closer. “Those eyes...are the eyes of a man in love.”

His heart skipped a beat. 

“I thought so.” Rhiannon walked over to one of the trees, reaching up and plucking a jeweled fruit from one of its many limbs and handing it to him. “Take this. A fruit of my realm will give you the answers you will need in your darkest hour.”

Slowly, Aizawa nodded. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me, child. Knowledge is a curse as well as a blessing. It is only through wisdom of experience that we are able to call upon that knowledge and wield it properly. I give this to you not just as a gift, but as a tool. Use it and find the one you love.”

“What in the name of-”

Aizawa spun around, eyes wide in shock as he saw one of the other mercenaries standing near the entrance. The Merc turned around and ran out of there, calling for Mary to come see this. 

“I need to leave,” Rhiannon said. “Rest assured, child. When you leave all memory of this place will vanish from their minds. I promise. Now go forth.”

Regretfully, Aizawa rushed out of the library, taking a moment to turn around and see Rhiannon one last time before leaving. The moment the door closed, the hut crumbled and turned to dust. 

“No way she’s coming back,” he sighed. He glanced at the fruit in his hand, the only remnant of his meeting with the Goddess. 

“Use it to find the one you love.”

I’m sorry, L. I love you. I want to find you. To see those eyes once more. But I can’t risk putting you in danger now.

He raised the fruit to his lips, asking for the knowledge to keep the Mercenaries off the right path.

[retributionpriest]

Shatter

Prestige Class Story: Iriina Sunshatter: Sunshatter Ardent

This was a long time in the making, and as it turns out, one of the longest things I’ve written in a long time. A big thank you to @curiouslich who wrote just about half of it with me, and of course @stormandozone for letting me play in their fanon.

I’ve wanted to write more for my fav pclass in the system and this was the perfect time to do it and explore the lore a whole bunch.

Dawn

“What's the point of all this anyway? We have blacksmiths who can do better work than I can. Why do I need to be the one to forge the blade? If I need to use it for combat won't it just be inferior?” With an almost petulant huff, Iriina had wiped away the sweat that dotted her brow, scowling at her uncle. It irked her, having to follow traditions she had been thrust into since birth, to uphold tenets that she herself had not chosen.

Checking on his latest ‘student’, Isilos gave an exhausted sigh, She was not taking to the lessons well. Preparing to give his well practiced speech he strolled on over to the laboring woman. “Inferior or not is the point. The point in this ritual is craft your blade with your own hands.”

Standing at full height he took his best ‘lecturing’ pose. “Just like with our crops, it is the Sun and the plant that causes growth, but it’s our tools that nurture that strength. While you may be capable with my tools. Nothing will work as well as the tool you make for yourself.”

“Does that make any sense to you?”

With a frustrated noise, she brought the hammer back down against the metal on her anvil. “If I was actually a blacksmith, sure. I only know the very basics of folding metal, if I took this blade to a fight it would probably shatter on me. I get that this is supposed to be some big lesson about our connection to our weapons to make them extensions of our will or whatever, but don't you see that in practice this isn't going to help me?”

Leaning over the woman he looked at her work. She was being honest, even to his unexpert eyes her work was shoddy at best. “How are you so sure it would shatter? Have you ever wielded something you made?”

Moving away now he went to the other end of the anvil to watch his niece work. “Then if you are having such a problem with this experience, then what are we making? When you think of the sun and your magics… well I suppose your magics more then the first, what do you see?”

“Look at it uncle! If your weapons looked as bad as this one would you stake your life on them? Anyone can see the flaws here, trained or not.” With another sigh, she thrust it into the bucket of water, stepping away so it did not get on her boots as it boiled.

“Magics come so much more easily,” she grumbles, folding her arms. “Fire, bright like the Sun, a spear made from its rays.”

“And you still aren’t listening Iriina. There is a reason for all of this. Ardents don’t waste time on worthless matters.” Moving over to the calipers he plucks the blade from the quenching bucket and lays it back onto the anvil. “Are you proud of this? Did you pull this weapon from inside or just complain and go through the motions?” Looking at the blade she was right, it was…. Not great, and would no doubt shatter on first contact with another. “So look deep inside and ask, are you proud of what you have made?”

“Then what is the reason? If the purpose of this exercise was to show me my inadequacies as a smith then I'd say it's been very successful. How can I be proud of something that I know is so inferior? If I had the skills or know-how from even just a few years then perhaps I would say yes. But not now, not this. How can I be proud of what is clearly a failure?”

“Iriina.” His voice was getting more stern. “Answer the question. Are you proud of this? Did you honestly try?” Reaching out for a hammer he hefted it up and offered it to her. “Here is your first choice on this path. If you are happy with the effort and will claim this as your weapon then we can move on.” Golden eyes fell on his niece. “If not, then break this blade and start over.”

“Despite my protests Iszanore is putting her faith in your ability. Time to decide which one of us was right.”

The mention of her cousin spurred her into motion and Iriina picked up the hammer with a frustrated noise, smashing it down to start over. “Then get someone to show me how to do it right. If I'm going to have to craft my own spear then let me learn how properly.”

His smile grew at her new fire. “This is a lesson you will have to learn on your own. All you are doing is crafting the embodiment of the Sun in your hands. It must come from you, Unguided. We can’t walk this path for you. If you want it, then take it.”

“My scythe wasn’t my first weapon. Nor will your spear be your last. We learn that the Sun moves, and we with it. What is important is to craft what you are now, not what you can be. Does that make more sense?”

“And if it still comes out awful because I have no talent as a smith?”

“All that matters is that you are proud of your work.”

Zenith

Find a person you trust, someone you want to protect. Just as you forged your weapon, these bonds are forged in flame; weakness will only be consumed. It gets easier as time goes on, as you bond with others, but learn and learn well. Their life, and yours, depends on it.

Iriina remembered when the priestess had ridden in to treat with her uncle, a pale stranger in their sun kissed land. Before her, there had been no outsiders who showed interest in the ways that she had been thrust into since birth. She had watched as the priestess had spoken with her uncle, hours on hours of time spent deep in discussion and often drinks. On rare occasions she had been invited to join, three of Goldsea's children huddled together until the Sun herself rose again to bless them.

The day of Lirelle's trial, Iriina had watched from the sides as she had exchanged words with her companion, the bond between her and the red haired man clear for all to see, forged in the fire of a hundred battlefields. From the very start, she had been bold, slashing her blade across his throat and meeting Isilos head on, furious in her confidence. When the blinding light of their fight had faded and her and her bonded were left standing, Lirelle had pulled Isilos to his feet, the High Advotcator wrapping her in his arms and proclaiming her an Ardent, an outsider no longer.

Iriina found herself almost envious of the ease with which she had settled, of her belonging. Never before had she seen the Order as it was, a second family that shared more than her name. She wanted a part of that.

Dusk

It was not long before the day of her own trial drew near, and she faced it with not only trepidation, but excitement. Her arguments with her uncle about purpose and ideology had not lessened, but now they had more substance to them. Every dawn had seen her training with the others in the fields, and each dusk she had sharpened her spear, still ugly and misshapen, but strong. When it was finally time to stand before the High Advocator, she did, back straight, and for the first time, proud.

Smiling warmly he greeted his niece. He had waited some time for this day. The trial of what would hopefully be the next Ardent. First though, she must prove herself. Rising to meet her he stepped down from the dias and walked towards Iriina with open arms. Robes of gold and white cascaded behind him.

“May the Sun greet you my dear. I hope you are ready for the Trial of Dusk. Things draw near, and the setting is soon. Are you ready to begin?”

“And may it shine upon you too uncle.” She offered him a bow befitting his station before also giving him a quick embrace saved for family. “I'm ready. You've watched me train, we both know I am capable.”

Wrapping his arms around her he nodded. “So you have. You have improved and learned a great deal since arguing about the use of making your first blade.” Eyeing the crude weapon she still held he smiled. “I hope you are ready to graduate to something a bit more elegant.” Looking to the sun once more as it nears the horizon. The large bay windows casting the room in an orange glow. “The time of Dusk. Where we will test what you have learned. If you can control your light and use it to protect those you are bonded with. You are the first since the passing of my Sister and the ascension of Lord Itrius. Truely a new generation. Have you chosen your bond and advisory?”

Her grip on her weapon tightened, almost protectively. It had taken her countless attempts to produce something she was willing to put her trust in, but she now knew each fold of the metal by heart. “I intend to uphold the name of the order, and our family.”

Iriina beckoned behind her, her golden haired brother stepping forward to the dias. He had walked these same steps long before his baby sister was born, his name in the order long established. Following suit, he greeted Isilos, pressing one hand to his chest. “With the amount she's been harassing me these last week's, I would dare say she's ready.”

Placing his own hand to his chest he nodded in kind. It was ever so wonderful to see family. He always thought the Ardents brought the best out in the Sunshatter House. “So the question then is, Iriina, is Irieth your bond, or your opponent tonight?”

“My bond, of course.” Reaching up for his arm, it was easy for her to form the connection, one born of countless hours spent running through golden fields, splashing in the Diamond, baking in the sun that blessed each one of them.

“That is a lot of faith to put in your younger sister. Irieth, do you believe your sister capable enough to keep you alive? I would hate to lose an Ardent because of another’s failure” The word was meant as a joke but the sting still there under his tone. “But a families bond is strong, my bond was our former Lady. She was like a sister to me, we grew even closer afterwards. Do you know who will attempt to drive a wedge between you two? The sun is starting to set, so we are nearing the hour.”

“I have complete faith that her tenacity will see her through the trial, whether it will be enough to keep me alive…” Irieth paused, and the look in his eyes showed that he believed in her, with all his heart. “We’ll have to find out,” he said, giving his sister an easy smile. “This is a trial after all. Many times has it revealed what was not be obvious to any of us.”

The small barbs, though meant in jest still grated on her. Swinging her spear around, Iriina rapped it on the marble floors. “I am more than capable. Whether you two think so doesn’t matter, I know so. Lets get on with it.”

“Well if you are so sure you are ready.” Moving back towards the dias his pale robes glide across the floor. Rising up to his seat he pulled the ceremonial garb from off his head. Dexterous fingers moving to the buttons. “You never answered my question, and as the hour of dusk is upon us, we must begin.” Pulling open the robe he revealed his tanned skin, and aged muscles. For someone as ancient as him he kept in good shape. “Iriina, my dear niece. This is for you.” Walking over to her he held a golden and black box. Regal and articulate like much in the Sunshatter house. “It’s time to actualize the blade you saw before. Crafted in the heart of the Dawnforge and made solely for your hands.”

Any quip died on her lips as he presented the box to her. With some measure of confusion, she slowly reached out to open it, gasping loudly when she saw the contents. The blade contained within was everything the one she held was not. Instead of ugly, thick metal, it was elegant and fine, crafted by a master instead of an amateur. She lifted her eyes to meet Isilos’, raising her own spear. “But this… you told me…?”

Beside her, Irieth just smiled. He remembered when he had received his weapon. The one it replaced hadn’t been much uglier than her’s.

“I told you, you’d craft your blade and bring your weapon to life.” Smiling, he loved the rite of the False Dawn. “Not that you would be making its final form.” Letting her take it away he placed the box down. She could have that later, but first needed to earn the work. “Its customary as a part of the final test to take your new blade and learn to run your light through it.” Looking over to Irieth his smile turned to a grave expression. “Now then, the true work its time to prepare your bond.”

Gently she replaced the spear in the box with her own, allowing Isilos to set it off to the side. He was right, it felt natural in her hands as she hefted it, perfectly weighted for her. With renewed determination, she faced her brother, one hand reaching out for him to establish their bond.

Stepping in between the pair he grit his teeth. “Not this one.” Gripping her blade he gave her no choice. In one fluid motion he pulled her and her spear right against the large scar in his gut. GIving out a groan as the blade cut into him and started to spill his blood. With sweat smearing his hair he started to pant as he drew her closer pushing it further. It had to be a mortal wound after all. Breath now labored he released the spear. Replacing it with his hand he tried to keep his blood where it belonged. It was a swift movement and one to catch both of them off guard. An added difficulty and testament to her prowess. “Now, it begins.” With the sun vanishing below the horizon he looked back to the brother before falling to his knees. “Un~until the dawn. And, the sun, rises.”

“No! Uncle what have you done?!” As Isilos let go of the spear, it clattered to the floor as Iriina rushed to his side, pressing both hands against the injury. She grit her teeth against the panic that pounded in her breast, forcing calm upon herself. There was no time, and even of there was, she still had to honour the trial.

The trial.

Her grip on Isilos tightened as she called cherished memories to her, of him carrying her through golden fields as a child, of her first induction to the Order, of long debates into the dead of night. Slowly, she wove each image like cord, binding the two of them together with something to transcend, even deny fate, the blade of her spear beginning to glow softly as her fingers closed on its shaft once more.

Though surprised initially at the turn of events, Irieth merely smiled. Knowing full well what this meant, he spun his scythe from his back and entered a low guard, ready for combat. “Come sister, it’s time to prove your worth.” With light coursing through his weapon he started with a great sweeping arc, one that had cut down his enemies as if they were wheat on the battlefield.

Iriina made no move to hide the pain and worry from her family, brushing the tears away with the back of her arm as she took up a stance facing Irieth. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,”

“Nothing is the way it’s supposed to be in battle,” he said as he struck at her, great heaving blows that while easy to anticipate and block, shook her the bone. “It is a lesson you must learn. Fast.” Irieth nodded towards their uncle, his life slowly slipping between his fingers.

Each of his blows was blocked, the force traveling up her arms. When she made the mistake of looking back at Isilos, he punished her for it, but the sight forced her to act. As he pulled back to strike, she unleashed a dazzling blast of Light into his face, thrusting her spear through the flames as they rolled.

Irieth parried, impressed with the martial prowess of his sister. She’d make a fine Ardent, as long as she saw this trial through. He struck at her again, observing her as she used the light to both harm and to heal.

Each blow she struck home bolstered her bond, the edges of Isilos’ wound slowly beginning to knit together, the tide of blood slowing to a trickle. Using another shock of Light to disorient, she put distance between her and her sibling, a copy of her spear manifesting in the air beside her, a trick learnt from the priestess and refined to suit herself. It was outlined in cold, white moonlight instead of the expected gold, almost harsh and glaring in its intensity. She plucked it gently from the air, weighing the ephemeral weapon on her fingertips before grasping it and throwing it like a javelin, the tip of her own blade not far behind as she leapt forward.

Expectation.

Obligation.

Burden.

That had been all that the Ardents had been to her once, but no longer. Now she burned bright and hot, the words of her mentors finally falling into place.

Blaze.

Shatter.

@thesunguardmg