#warriors: maybe they... turned invisible..?

[skyward-floored]

Trick of the light (downfall iau)

Going back in time a bit, a quick thing about how Wind and Four actually ended up in the wrong universe.

...

“Don’t come any closer!”

Wind huffed in annoyance, glaring at the bad guy that was threateningly waving some kind of device around. They’d finally cornered Wizzro up here after a long chase-slash-fight, and now he’d hidden himself behind a forcefield and was grinning at them all like he wasn’t totally about to be stopped.

Four beside him rolled his eyes, and Wind heard their father let out a sigh as the villain cackled again.

“Wizzro, you’re surrounded, drop your shield and drop your weapon,” he said coolly.

“Never! I went through a lot of work to make this!” Wizzro hissed, then ran a loving hand over the device. “It’s ready now— all I have to do is use it, and nobody will be able to stop me!”

“Oh yeah? What’s it do?” Warriors drawled, and Time tilted his head at Wind and Four, making a few small hand gestures.

They nodded, and began to slowly inch around to Wizzro’s other side while Warriors distracted him, Wind wishing Wild or Legend had come with them. It figures the two people we could use the most didn’t come.

“Well, it’s... very powerful,” Wizzro began to explain, twiddling with some switches, “so powerful that not even you will be able to stand up to me, Fierce Deity!”

“Ooh, scary,” Warriors grinned, casually crossing his arms. “You have no clue what it does, do you?”

“What? Yes! Of course I do!” Wizzro snapped, but they all saw the hesitation in his eyes. “I do!”

Time raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Oh shut up! I’ve combined several different designs to make an all-powerful weapon!” Wizzro yelled, and then held it up so they could all see it. “And the power that fuels it is not to be reckoned with!”

Wind saw a glimmer of light in the bottom of the gun-like device, bright enough that he couldn’t really tell what it was. Maybe some kind of stone? He didn’t recognize it though, and based on Warriors and Time’s frowns, they didn’t either.

He kept going alongside Four though. They were almost directly behind Wizzro now, and with his focus on Warriors and Time, Wind was confident he’d be able to use his winds to shut off the forcefield so he and Four could tackle him. He was a little uneasy about the weapon, but he could just blow it out of Wizzro’s hand if it came to it.

“And what exactly is this power that we should be so terrified of?” Time asked dryly, hiding his own unease. Wizzro only grinned, and twirled his weapon.

“That’s only for me to know about, I’m afraid. But you should be terrified.”

“Why exactly? If you don’t even know what it does, why should we be afraid?” Warriors asked, and Wizzro hummed, tapping a withered finger to his chin. Or at least what might have been a chin. His hood mostly hid his face.

“You know, that’s a good point,” Wizzro said casually. His grin grew. “What do you say we test it?”

And then before anyone could react, he whirled around and shot it through his shield directly at Wind and Four.

Pure light burst from the device, so bright that it seemed to blot out every sense that Wind had. He plainly heard his father’s panicked shout though, and Wind had just enough time to grab onto Four before the light intensified over them like a solid weight.

His breath left him, otherwise he would have screamed with the way it felt like every cell in his body lit up with energy. The world swirled around and the light felt like it was passing through him, pulling and tugging him away.

Wind held Four with everything he had, and the world went white.

...

The blinding light lasted several seconds, then abruptly faded, leaving Time, Warriors and Wizzro all blinking rapidly in an attempt to regain their vision.

And when it did, Wind and Four were nowhere to be seen.

Wizzro blinked, looking at his weapon, then at the place where Wind and Four had been, and then back at his weapon again.

“Hm. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Warriors decked him with a blast of ice to the chest.

(...)

Wind woke up to a distant call of his name, and someone frantically shaking his shoulders.

A groan escaped him, and he managed to drag his eyes open, though he immediately closed them again. The light felt like it was burning his eyeballs, and even though the shaking was kinda frantic, Wind didn’t move, trying to get the world to settle and the pain in his head to ease up.

“Wind! Come on, wake up!”

At the sound of his brother’s frantic voice, Wind finally peeled his eyes open, despite how much it hurt them. The light was a little less intense this time though, and he made out a blurry face in front of him, expression on the panicked side.

“Uh... Four?” Wind managed to groan, and Four nodded, looking relieved.

“Finally! I woke up like ten minutes ago, I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to. I had to drag you into an alleyway!” he said a little frantically, and Wind squinted at him.

“You dragged... wait, why?” he asked, sitting up with a grunt. Ow. “What... what happened?”

Four bit his lip, and looked behind him somewhere. “I... I don’t know. That light hit us, and we got thrown somewhere, I guess. But when I woke up people were staring at us, especially at our suits, and this one guy looked bad, so I tugged you away when he glanced away, and Wind, it looks really weird out there.”

“Really weird how?” Wind questioned, and Four anxiously rubbed his arm.

“Like... wrong.”

Wind frowned, and looked around the alleyway Four had dragged him into, not noticing anything too out of the ordinary. It was a little stinky, but there was nothing wrong.

Not until he saw a poster on the wall that made his stomach lurch.

Wind stood, wobbling for a moment then righting himself, and walked to the wall, staring at the poster. It was partially torn, but still almost entirely legible. The part that had caught his attention though, was the part that said DIRK LAKEWOOD, KEEPING US SAFE.

Four looked over his shoulder and choked, and Wind kept staring at the poster, Dark’s winning smile making him want to tear the poster up and run.

“Th... that’s Dark,” Four said shakily, and Wind’s mind flickered back to the disaster with Dark and the island, the robot and the fight, and... Four almost getting kidnapped. “How...”

“I don’t know,” Wind said quietly, and looked at Four. “But... I think that light did more then just zap us off the roof.”

Four paled a little and leaned against the wall, and Wind’s mind was running in overdrive, trying to figure out what this meant. Dark was dead, no doubt about that, but somehow he... wasn’t?

Rapid footsteps pounded nearby, and Wind and Four startled and ducked back a little, watching a figure charge into the alleyway and begin working his way up the wall. It was a super, outfit a dark red, hints of black and green interspersed, and Wind squinted, the colors familiar, yet... not.

Four suddenly gasped, and Wind realized it was Legend jumping over dumpsters and climbing up onto the roof. But last Wind checked, Legend was at home with a cold, and the Legend currently working his way upwards was all wrong, the colors of his suit too dark, his frame skinnier than it should be.

Wind caught a brief glimpse of his face, and his blood went cold, the face so obviously his brother’s and yet not at the same time that he had to sit down.

He and Four watched the strange Legend disappear onto a rooftop, and didn’t say anything for a few long seconds.

“I think you’re right,” Four finally whispered.

They exchanged frightened looks, and Wind glanced back at the poster one more time, Dark still grinning at them with an obnoxiously perfect smile.

What had they just gotten themselves into?

[starry-songs-canvas]

Take Care of Him

The boy, who had Damian’s face, couldn’t be more different than Dick’s (alive?) baby brother.

Aside from his Snow White hair, he smiled and laughed freely, making puns on top of his embarrassing story about his supposed twin brother.  

(“Clones don’t have childhood memories right?  So if I have an embarrassing story or two, that’ll give you a way to check that I’m not a clone AND give you ammunition for teasing!”)

“—And that’s how his face—and his pride—was forever wounded by Sparta the warrior cat!”  Danny finished his story with a flourish, cracking up immediately after.

“Huh, and to think he left it at “training”, obviously he didn’t think anyone would let the cat out of the bag.”  Dick said, laughing even as he eyed the lookalike.

Danny snorted.  “Yeah, I doubt he thought anything as Cat-astropic as that would happen.”

They sat in silence for a moment, overlooking the buildings below, with the Dalv. Co. Labs smoking in the distance and the breeze blowing past the two, yet only seeming to affect Nightwing and not the phantom beside him.

“Is he safe?  Is he happy?” Danny murmurs as he looks up at the stars, looking every bit the forlorn ghost he claimed to be.

“…We keep each other safe.  And I’d say once he got past the stabbing faze, he’s pretty happy in Gotham.”

“But I’m sure it’d make him happy to see you again.”  Dick thought back to the comments the vampire-ghost they’d fought earlier.  It didn’t sound exactly, “happy” or “safe” for Danny.  Or anyone else involved.

Danny shook his head.  “Nah.  He’s… moved on.  And with how crazy my after-life is?  I’m already dealing with ghosts, ghost-hunters, and my—err—that frootloop from earlier.  I do not need to add furries and murder-ninjas to the mix.”

Danny sighed as he floated into a standing position.  “Speaking of which, if you could just, maybe not tell him you saw me?  Better to let dead dogs lie.”

Danny’s piercing Lazarus green eyes looked at Dick and he saw the exact same expression B had on whenever he “had to do it alone”.

“Just, take care of him, Kay?  Or I’ll haunt you to the ends of the universe!”  He said, throwing up a peace sign as he turned invisible.

Dick snorted, “Yeah, sure kid.”

Dick got up and started off toward the bat-plane.  He had a brother to interrogate, and another brother/clone of his brother to find.

[amjustagirl]

chapter 4

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 5k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate. 

The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you. 

“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet. 

He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him. 

He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost. 

His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand. 

Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him. 

His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates. 

A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs. 

The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth. 

She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes. 

This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.  

You close your eyes. 

You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.  

“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -” 

He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.” 

“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?” 

Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air. 

This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge. 

Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home. 

You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?” 

“Perhaps in another life”, he replies. 

In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

(wake up) 

The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.

For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer. 

(please, wake up)

“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.” 

The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone. 

“Let me sleep”, you whisper. 

The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber. 

Perhaps you could be content like this. 

Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer. 

Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas,  shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.

An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you. 

Your heart begins to hum. 

You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open. 

The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you. 

“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!” 

Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake. 

You fall back into a dreamless sleep.

You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams. 

People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away. 

Your parents show up to visit you. 

‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired. 

You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark. 

Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep. 

A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again. 

“Hey”, he says hoarsely.

“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”

His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?” 

You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here? 

“I’m here for you, silly���, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.” 

You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time. 

Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay. 

Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest. 

Soshiro’s the worst of the lot. 

At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit. 

“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.” 

He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”  

It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit. 

“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.” 

You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.” 

“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.” 

“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm. 

It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before. 

“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”

A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?” 

“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”

“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.” 

“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”

“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”

He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.” 

His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.” 

“You could’ve died.”

“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. 

“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.” 

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I’ll try my best”, you offer. 

An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies. 

“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.” 

After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self. 

“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -” 

“I was trying to save some of the blades -” 

“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -” 

You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.” 

The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.” 

“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.” 

“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.” 

He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”

“Sometimes work can take a backseat.” 

You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd -  the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-” 

He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink. 

But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful. 

There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home. 

“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns. 

“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore. 

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately,  Then his face slackens into a childish pout. 

“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?” 

Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.” 

“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject. 

You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck. 

“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”

Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book. 

“Don’t you have to work?” 

“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair. 

“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly. 

He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree. 

“Well, how’s work?” 

He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”

“Aren’t you?” 

“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -” 

“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?” 

“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.” 

“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully. 

“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.” 

“Me?” 

Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -” 

“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?” 

His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.” 

The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches. 

“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap. 

“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.” 

A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”, 

“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure. 

There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest. 

(i like you)

(i’m sorry)

You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves. 

“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?” 

He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart. 

Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.  

“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” he asks quietly. 

“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.” 

With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.” 

You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him. 

He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding  in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.  

“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”

You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way. 

You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding. 

It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.  

“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” 

As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat. 

“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.” 

He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.” 

You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin. 

“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply. 

You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.  

The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped. 

As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you. 

“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?” 

A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place. 

This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -” 

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”  

“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.” 

He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -” 

“Just  - just stop, Soshiro.” 

You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof - 

Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin. 

“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you. 

The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too. 

“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -” 

“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?” 

“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -” 

“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -” 

Your head swims. “I don’t -” 

“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.” 

You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands. 

In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.  

There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both. 

But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.” 

Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves. 

“I think I do”, you say softly.  

Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon. 

a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>

squeal at me pls! muacks always <3

[luna-lovegreat]

So... Warriors

It is obvious by now he's not ok. He's irritable and tense.

I've had thoughts and ideas on this for awhile, so I think now's a good time to speak them. Very important detail at the end.

There are some really big and some small things adding to his stress

The drama with the sword. Wild went against the agreed plan, and lashed out in anger fear for twilights injury. From things Jojo said, Wars is mad about it for a while.

I have said this in other posts, but based on things Jojo has said and some details, I do not think Wild likes wars. He has not really gotten close to him, which adds on to the negativity between them

But Wars... is a captain. This journey is different, and he's doing amazing at setting aside expectations of how to work with rank. But that is still a clear stressor- to him that was unacceptable in battle

^this is one big thing we watched go wrong and has clearly been upsetting since

Another thing is

Wars has been taking on too much. We've seen him break up a fight at the inn, comfort Time (time!), and tell him he'd take care of the others.

Twice he said "let them", and "let him be"-making others have space they needed. He asked Four what was wrong and followed up with helping with smithing.

^^These are all small things. None of these are huge- practically tiny tasks. But they add up- all the attention to others feeling but not his own

... and

Wars has not smiled. Yes, he smiled, but it was not his smile. Since Twilight went injured to the inn, there has only been smiles in a way expected, but not much beyond when he found out his friend wasn't dead. (And when he helped Four at the blacksmiths)

In the updates, I have seen others saying how cool/pretty he looked. Which he did! But emotion wise, I only thought he looked angry. Even when teasing Twilight...

^Not his smile

But here's the biggest thing that I believe is bothering him...

I've wanted to point this out for awhile. The thing is, Wars was really hurt when he found out Twilight didn't tell him about Wolfie

It's small details. A few sentences and facial expressions. But they add up over the chapter, and I don't think he felt trusted or trusting when he found out

He tried to find out who else knew

And why he was one who didn't

*read the blurred words:

"No one said anything to me, I'm just left out of the loop. Who else knows? Just us?"

Wolfie being secret wasn't necessarily about trust, but wars took it personally. He really didn't understand or want to accept that Twilight would have told some of the others but not him...

Wars is distinctly closer to the ones his age, who the younger ones often turn to. And as someone who's been through war, who bonds closest with those he feels he works with best?

Twilight having a major secret he didn't share with Wars, but did with others,

Felt like a knife to the (back?) chest.

And it hurt him

Look at his face when saying "we couldn't do a thing for him". He's looking away, directly after asking four and wild if they knew. I don't think he felt trusted. Or trusting. From thinking someone wasn't who he thought he was, and maybe was closer to others...

^^this is what I think is perhaps the biggest stressor- yet most unnoticeable

Wars never spoke to anyone about his feelings. He pushed it aside and went and helped.

This is ok. Between people so close, anything can be worked out. This is very revealing of how much Wars cares about twilight and the others

As far as Warriors pushing aside his needs and focusing on others... it's hard.

But I can confidently say this: Warriors would never want to not help all he could, when the others needed him

Here's this screenshot that makes me laugh (and somehow sky is just chill with this?)

Wars: oh my god my friend just came back from a wolf what the Hylia who can I even trust I'm having an invisible crisis

Sky: oh yay the sword helped he's back :)

Twilight: I'm fine *currently dying*

Wars is stressed right now. He's taken on too much, he's probably still mad at Champion, and... he feels betrayed (god wars should never have to feel betrayed) and untrusted

Like literally everyone ever others, wars deals with his hurt. Sometimes he can't deal with it alone, and sometimes he can. It will all work out, and I love how much he loves his brothers.

But nothing, I repeat nothing

Will be ok

IF HE DOESNT START WEARING THE DAMN SCARF SOON CMON WE HAVENT SEEN IT IN LIKE TEN UPDATES

PUT ON YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT SCARF CMON MAN

Ok I'm calm <3

.

Art and comic by Jojo @linkeduniverse :D

[tenderleavesbob]

Wild stiffened when he heard a footstep crunch the leaves behind him. He breathed shallowly through his teeth and hunched his shoulders. He stared at the Goddess statue in front of him and didn't look when Warriors knelt beside him.

They knelt in front of the statue together, their breaths puffing white in the air. Wild waited for Warriors's scorn. Maybe a dismissive statement or Warriors asking why he was praying to Hylia instead of doing something productive. He had heard it all so far.

"Did you know some eras are unfamiliar with Hylia?" Warriors asked.

Wild hadn't heard that one yet. He looked away from the Goddess statue. "What?"

Warriors studied the statue. The Rito loved adorning it with flowers. Dead flowers and leaves covered the ground at the statue's feet. "This is one of the few eras where only Hylia is known. In Time's era, only the Golden Three are known: Farore, Din, and Nayru."

Wild had heard several of the others reference those names. He always wondered if they were related to the dragons. He was pretty sure they were related, at least.

Warriors's face was expressionless as he looked at the Goddess statue. She was quiet right then. Could Warriors hear Her? Could the others? Was Hylia known in Warriors's era? Wild had never thought to ask before. He couldn't guess from Warriors's face now.

Wild was gathering the courage to ask when Warriors pushed himself to his feet and brushed invisible dirt off his legs. "I came to fetch you for help with dinner. Time and Hyrule were talking about making some sort of acorn dish."

That was worth a prayer or three to Hylia. Wild quickly bowed to her and murmured a thanks before jumping to his feet. "Is anything on fire yet?"

"Four was running interference. I think we're safe for a couple more minutes."

Wild nodded but didn't run toward the cooking area just yet. He lingered and watched Warriors stare at the statue, face still blank. Next time they were in Warriors's era, Wild promised to himself that he would pay more attention to certain details. Maybe he could offer Warriors a listening ear like Warriors offered him so many times.

Warriors turned and looked surprised that Wild was still there. Wild grinned at him and extended a hand. With a small smile of his own, Warriors grabbed it and let Wild drag him behind.

When Wild looked back, the Goddess statue glowed, subtly lighting their steps.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

An Invisible Thread | Illyrian Warrior!Bucky x Fae!Reader | Oneshot - 5k

After the war with Hybern your village is left defenceless. Despite only having picked up a sword to play with your brothers, you’re sent into the wilds of your island to track down the monster that has been stealing from the farms. 

But the monster is also on the move, and it won’t just be your limited skills as a hunter that are required to tame it or just your village that's pushing you to find it.

Warnings: the biggest warning here is Illyrian!Bucky, 18+ for language maybe, nothing scary here. Injuries, whump, hurt/comfort, some fluff, ACOTAR themes including fated mates/mating bonds. Rated W for whump and F for fluffy

Created for @buckybarnesevents Alternate Juniverse with all four prompts - fae, hunter, nurse and monster.

A/N: No ACOTAR knowledge required apart from Illyrian’s have big bat like wings and are hot as fuck. 

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

You stood at the edge of the village, one hand on the pommel of your father’s sword and the other tucked into the fur lined pocket of your cape. 

After the war with Hybern the village’s protector’s had been depleted and, though you’d never shied away from practising with the bow and sword alongside your brothers, you had never imagined that you would become your communities only hope of protection. More suited to healing wounds than causing them, you shied away from the responsibility as much as you could. Spending your time replenishing your stocks of herbs and ointments and checking on the older residents of the village. 

Honestly, you hadn’t imagined there’d be any need for you to protect anyone. But then, isolated as you were on the Western Isles, you’d never thought that war could touch you either in your community of lesser fae. You’d never been bothered before, content to live quietly and ask for nothing. Yet here you were, back to the decimated houses and cottages of your villages, poised to leave them to hunt a monster. 

If the rumours were true, though, rumours of a beast running amok in the wild forest along the coast, then you had no choice. 

With a final look back at the squat white washed cottage where you’d left your mother, you set out towards your destiny. 

Across the island, by the shore, a towering figure bent to drink from the ice meltwater trickling into the sea beyond. 

Blood dripped from their open mouth and they howled as the salt water mixed with the fresh. They raised themselves again and slunk back into the shadows of the forest, following the waterline. 

—

As you trudged you recounted the tale the farmers had told at the inn the night before. A huge beast, black as night, had been spotted raiding their barn. The island was small enough that everyone knew each other, every sheep and cow and ploughed furrow was accounted for by name and the farmers shared the large barn that stood guard over the far end of the open fields. No stranger could have arrived without them knowing, no stranger could have tied their boat without the fishermen being alert. 

But this thing was no man, it was a beast, a fury, sent to torment them and the assembled village had turned to you. 

If it truly was a beast, something that could fly and steal cattle and destroy crops as the farmers claimed then you had no clue how you would slay such a thing. Your sword was heavy and sharp, but your skills were still basic no matter how you tried, this was not your calling. Your bow was taught and your arrows true, but practising with your brothers was a jest. 

After the weeks and months without them, perhaps it would be a blessing to sacrifice yourself for the village as they had. To be relieved of the torment of their passing. 

Sighing you pulled a hard biscuit from your pack and continued on into the dense trees that occupied one side of the island. You could remember far enough back to when the forest took over almost the whole island, your brothers and father clearing a space for the now well tilled farmland that insulated the village from the wildness beyond. The forest and the farm lived together side by side, each animal and plant having its own sacred place within the system. Each farmer conscious of keeping the wheel moving each season. 

No one had ever feared the forest as they did now. 

Your first night amid the trees past uneventfully, used to spending most of your time outside the creatures of the night didn’t scare you, neither did they fear you, choosing to approach your fireside. You weren’t entirely convinced of their being a beast within the forest either, no beast liked to cross the salt sea from the mainland, even if they could escape the Prison, there would be little for a monster here. You told yourself over and over, as sleep took you, that any monster would head to the middle, and not to the Isles. 

It seemed more likely that there was something trapped in the trees. Nevertheless you made sure to set traps around the clearing before finally laying down to sleep. 

There was a light in the forest, smoke pluming briefly before dying down into soft trails of grey that mixed with the iron sky, fading into the stars as the moon rose. Tempted by the smell it approached, its gait unsteady in the soft ground, weighed down by its own body, blood still spilling into the dry leaves. 

Closer, closer,  heaving its mighty body along the ridge of rocks that crawled across the middle of the island. It had been this way before, it had taken vegetables and savoured the earthy taste of them, raw and unwashed against its tongue. It had slipped into the barn and stolen a pail of fresh milk, still warm and buttery. 

Perhaps the smoke meant more food. But its body was tired, it groaned and slumped against a tree, wrapping into itself, a darkness thicker and colder than the world around. 

In the morning you kicked dirt over the small fire, putting out the flame. The forest was still yours to protect, even if it did harbour a threat. 

You’d sharpened your sword before sleeping, leaving it unsheathed by your side. Every arrow in your quiver had new fletching, the ash carefully crafted from the few small trees the village grew at its centre, a protection against any further cruelty coming to your shores. 

The forest was alive in the brisk early morning air, the sky pink and lilac through the canopy, rising with the mist like a slumbering dragon, stretching and yawning into a bright spring day. 

As you ventured deeper you found the ground already disturbed. When you were younger you may have doubted yourself, wondering if the tracks were your own. But you could navigate well enough now, the sun high above you leaning into the west of the island, its heat peaking. 

Whatever it was that had stumbled through here had done so some days ago, dragging itself if the scars in the soft soil were true. It was larger than you as well, larger by at least a foot. You trained your eyes up into the trees and sure enough there were broken branches there too. 

At a trot you ran between the trees, following the path of broken twigs and scored earth. There was something else, something in the air by each tree, metallic, like iron. Blood, you could almost taste it it was so strong. But it wasn’t until the seventh tree that you saw it, marked high on the bark, as if this tall beast had propped themself against it, a red smear. And underneath there were a few bones, feathers and leftover vegetables.

If this was a beast, it was a beast that didn’t like carrot tops.

It grew tired again. Sooner than last time. It looked into the sky, its eyesight blurring, as it made its way back to the cave it had begun to call home. Inside its howls were louder, but at least the rain couldn’t find a way in, at least the air was warm and the ground soft. 

It lay down and closed its eyes. 

The sky turned darker, thick clouds billowing overhead, the muggy heat of an oncoming storm weighing you down. It was too far to return to your village, you’d never make it before the rain started and you knew what could happen if the lightning struck the trees, so a camp in the forest was out of the question. 

At this rate you could make the other coast before the sunset and you knew there would be shelter there in the rocky outcrops before the dunes crept into the island. With a sigh you hefted your pack higher and began the uneasy walk through the rougher terrain. 

The rain began to fall just as you crested over the cliff top. A fisherman had advised you of the safest ways across this portion of the island but your feet still slipped on the shale as you made your way down the rocky face. You’d spotted the cave while the sun was still high. With a view down the banks of rock and sand it gave you a good look out, close enough to the woods for shelter but open enough to watch the weather change. On closer inspection there was a significant plateau in front of the cave, perhaps enough to start a small fire to heat the stone inside and cook something hot if you were lucky. 

Slowly you inched closer, sword drawn in case something wild was also sleeping inside. You hadn’t seen the blood trail for some time but you had a lingering sense of something that had you tightening your grip on the handle. It tugged at you, tempting you closer and making your heart beat wildly. 

Once inside the lip of the cave you dropped your pack and pulled out a box of tinder and some twigs you’d collected along the way, stacking up the kindling into a small fire. But without the light from the sun it was hard to even find a spark. With a sigh you abandoned your plans for heat and decided to set out your blanket and try to sleep instead, hopefully that strange feeling would pass while you dreamt and you could wake up refreshed and ready to search anew. 

The raindrops were heavier now, fat and cold and insistent, driving you deeper into the cave in search of a dry space where the wind couldn’t blow the weather inside.

As your eyes adjusted to the dusky darkness you began to pick out details of the cave, the jagged rocks on the other side, the low rock just right for resting your sword and bow on and, at the back, something large. The darkness seemed to move differently there, a different shade of black that sucked the light from the rest of the cave. Whatever it was, it was huge but still. 

Slowly you reached for your dagger, too frightened to lunge for your sword in case it made the darkness move too. But it stayed still. Carefully, you moved your feet over the rocky ground, your toes light and body ready to fight. 

The darkness didn’t move, but it did make a noise, a deep grumble and for a moment you wondered whether it was the darkness inside or the darkness outside that had startled you. 

Then it moved, slow and deliberate, the darkness expanded and flared outwards, turning towards you and despite everything your brother’s had taught you, despite your own mind begging you to stay silent - you screamed. 

It hurt, it hurt everywhere and all of the time. Its body ached, its stomach felt concave from lack of food and its head pounded from dehydration. The storm was close, the wind spoke to it through the rustle of the trees and the feel of the salt air, it spoke to it and told it to sleep, that the storm would pass but it should sleep. It shifted, stretching its aching body -

And then there was a scream. 

You lurched back, scrambling for your sword as you fell, grasping for anything that would protect you from the monster that continued to grow before your eyes. Up and up it stood filling the entire back of the cave, its body unfurling and its wings spreading into the rock above. The tip of one unholy claw scratched at the cave roof and you screamed again, turning to run from it, to take your chances in the rain rather than stay a moment with this beast. But it had other ideas, reaching for you with one huge arm it grabbed you and held you, the other came up to cover your mouth, its hand so large its thumb pressed against your nose. 

Not a monster. A male. With hands and arms, tanned and windburnt from days in the forest. 

“Please, stop screaming.” It growled again and you went silent but you didn’t still, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to free yourself. “Please,” it said again, and it was almost sad, pleading. So you stopped. 

He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering, his muscles burning with the effort of his movement. Steadily he lowered you to the floor, careful to avoid the rocks that might trip or scratch you, and then let himself slide down the cave wall until he was once more huddled on the floor. 

“Please, don’t scream - my head.” He bent to lay his forehead against his knees, “the storm, lightning in the trees, don’t.”

He was so weak, so worried, so tired, he allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the sound of you moving. 

“Don’t.” He repeated and your footsteps moved again, closer, little rocks skudding under your boots, and then a small palm on the back of his neck. 

“You have a fever.” Your voice was gentle, now that the screaming had stopped, and your touch a relief, so cold, so soothing. “Rest.” 

Now that he wasn’t towering over you, there was something vulnerable and sad about the so-called monster. His voice stuttered as he begged you for quiet and, against your better judgement, you allowed the sound of rain rushing over the lip of the rock and into the sea to fill the space, echoing into the cavern like a heartbeat. 

Lightning flashed, lighting up half of his face in clammy, pale light. You took a step towards him, still wary, still conscious of the stories told to you by your brothers, and you touched his neck where his hair had fallen away in long strands about his face. His skin was clammy too and cold to the touch, but he shivered nevertheless. 

“You have a fever.” You said, matter of fact, “rest.” 

He nodded and all but fell sideways into the blanket roll tucked against one side of the cave. 

“You too.” He grunted, and for the first time you assessed your own damp clothes and the way you’d begun to shiver. Quickly you stripped out of your waxed cape and boots, placing them carefully in a dry spot. Your shirt and vest were dry, protected by the cape, but the long trousers you’d worn were soaked through. 

Peering at the male you made sure his breathing was steady and even before you removed your trousers and slipped between your folded blanket in just your shirt and cotton bloomers.

Sleep did not come easily for the male. He kept to his side of the cave but his fever made him grunt and shout in his sleep, his arms and hands lashing out along with his thrashing body. So you didn’t sleep, you observed him instead. Waiting for dawn to break the storm. 

Even in the moonlight he was still big, tall and broad, his muscles showing even through the dark leather and ripped linen of his clothes. And he was winged. The source of the fear and confusion for your neighbours, as well as yourself. Airborne he must have looked as majestic as he was terrifying. An Illyrian warrior, so far from home, circling the village. No wonder those who had glimpsed him had been afraid. 

Now those enormous wings were tucked around him, glowing a deep red every time the lightning crashed across the sky, tiny veins picked out around the edges as well as a large gash in his left wing. It lay almost limp on the ground while the right was tucked in tight to his side. It looked painful and blood oozed slowly from the delicate membrane but only slowly. The cut to his side looked much worse. 

The sun was almost back now, a wan light filtering into the cave and allowing you to survey the Illyrian more closely, especially the cuts and bruises that littered his body. 

At some point, he had removed part of his leather armour, discarding it to one side where the dark blue siphon blinked with light whenever he groaned. Without the protection of the armour and siphon, his side was entirely revealed through the matching cut in his shirt. It was deep and already looked swollen at the edges - infected, you were sure, probably the cause of the clammy fever. 

Despite yourself you allowed your tired eyes to rove over his body, the gaps in his shirt revealing the details of his toned chest, the swirling black ink running from his left arm, up over his shoulders and then down between his pecs and towards the v of his abdomen where the ink disappeared among a smattering of hair. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. He was an injured male, an Illyrian warrior, a revered race bound to protect your people. You were certainly not supposed to be drooling after him while he slept. 

You swallowed heavily and tried to concentrate on his needs, rather than your own. 

Daring to look again you followed the tattoos back up towards his face, long dark hair still tangled at his shoulders, a stubbled beard covered his chin, his lips tilting into a smile because - oh -  his eyes were open, bright summer sky blue, and tracking your every move. 

“Hello,” he croaked and watched as you shuffled back against the wall. 

He closed his eyes again, as if even having them open was painful. 

“Hello,” you whispered, keeping a keen eye trained on him. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, his head still pounded. “Can you pass me the canteen from my pack?” Without looking he gestured behind him. 

“Yes.” 

He listened to the sound of you moving and then the cool metal of the canteen touched his fingers. You introduced yourself but as soon as he started to move you hurried back to your side of the cave.

Slowly, so as not to frighten you, he sat up and took a long swig before offering it to you. 

You looked tired, wrecked, but not injured. You were back under your own blanket and he noticed the too-big trousers you’d been wearing were now carefully arranged on a rock to dry. Bucky hummed to himself, that was why you’d scurried back when he’d opened his eyes. 

Your eyes flicked to the trousers too, and then back to him. “They were wet, I didn’t want to catch a chill.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, putting a hand to his side. 

“You’re hurt, and sick, you were feverish.” 

“I was, I probably still am.” He agreed looking you over with the same interest that he’d found in your eyes. 

You were a very pleasant sight after so many nights alone, a wildness to your bonny face and full body. Even hidden under the folds of your shirt he could tell that you would be soft and warm to hold. With a groan he closed his eyes again. To be held and cared for by a female, to smell the spring breeze in your hair, to taste the salt of the sea on your skin. Maybe he was halfway to the afterlife and an angel had been sent to rescue him. 

“Thank the cauldron and the mother.” He sighed happily, swaying sideways and passing out. 

The Illyrian had watched you with eyes that toed the line between hungry and hopeful. His bold gaze made you feel warm again, heat sitting heavy in your stomach, and then he mumbled something and slid to the side. 

Thankfully his arm stopped him from bumping his head, but looking at his now glazed eyes he had definitely fainted. 

Without thinking you sprang into action, rolling him carefully so that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke or swallow his tongue. His skin was cold again, but sweaty, sticking the strands of his hair to his forehead in curls. 

He needed help, quickly, but you had nothing of any great use in your bag. There was the canteen of water and some food in his own pack and a flask with what smelt like whisky in the side pocket. You withdrew the mess tin from your own pack and tried to make a fire again, hoping to boil enough clean water to be able to clean and dress his wounds. But the damp air and howling wind blew wet dirt over your kindling. 

Instead you tugged a strip of linen from the end of your shirt, trying to find the cleanest corner first and ripping higher until the long tails no longer brushed over your thighs but sat as high has your belly button, revealing your midriff to the chill air. Goosebumps raised over your arms, but you didn’t hesitate, tipping some of the whisky onto the cloth and gently dabbing at the gash to his side. There were splinters still protruding from the edges, which you pulled out as quickly as you could. 

Ash, an arrow, perhaps, or a long lance fired into the sky, judging by the way the gash lined up with the tear in Bucky’s wing. Bruises bloomed under his tattoos like flowers, colouring in the gaps of the patterns. He’d fallen, then, after the hit. Probably outside of the village. 

“Why didn’t you ask for help.” You muttered under your breath, placing a square of whisky soaked cloth over the wound and pressing down. 

“Because I was already ashamed.” Came the pained whisper. 

“Why would you be ashamed?” With a tug on his arm you helped him sit, passing a long length of cloth around his back, bandaging the makeshift plaster into place. 

With your arms around him you had no choice but to lean in close, your face below his, his breath fanning over your cheek. He held one end in place, leaning drowsily into you while you tied a tight knot on his right, well away from the injury. His left hand, clearly weakened by his fall, sat lightly on your hip, keeping you steady. 

“I let my battalion down, my friends down,I couldn’t fight.” His eyes closed again but his hands didn’t move, their hold surprisingly delicate until he began to slump to the side again, dragging you with him. “I was injured and, I’m not really sure why, but I flew here. It felt like the right thing to do, like the Mother was guiding me, so I let her.”

With a huff you tried to wiggle away, but his hand tightened. 

“I’m so cold, please stay.” His breath tickled your neck where he’d pressed his face into your collar bone and you couldn’t deny him. The tugging sensation in your chest was back and the thought of staying with him made you want to release it in a long contented purr.

Curling beside him you let his hand settle on your now bare waist, his broad palm on your back a relief from the cold air gusting through the entrance of the cave. 

Bucky’s breathing slowed to an even beat, his body relaxing into his dreams and you fell with him, pulled tighter against his chest, the smell of the whisky washed over you and his wing curled in, cocooning you in his embrace. 

You woke to find yourself surprisingly well rested. The storm, having blown itself out battering the beach and forest, had made way for a bright morning. Bucky’s hand was still at your waist, but you’d moved in your sleep you were now facing away from him, his fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt and tickling your ribs. From his steady breaths you assumed he was still asleep and allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the closeness of his body, the way his wing curved over you both, filtering the light into a pink glow and blocking the boisterous breeze now coming in off the sea. 

There was something right about the way he held you, comforting and close. Despite knowing you should rise, you simply couldn’t, as if that invisible rope that had led you in now kept you beside him. In his sleep he dragged you closer, his hand splaying higher on your stomach, his thumb pressing the underside of your breast. In response, your nipples pebbled and you promised yourself it was just the cold air, just the breeze and the morning chill and nothing to do with the wonderful pressure of the male’s body behind you. Nothing to do with his rich scent of whisky and peat and possibility. 

He hummed in his sleep again, nuzzling the back of your neck and then, suddenly, he was awake. His hand was gone and your chest felt cold without his touch. The sound of his wing claws catching on the jagged roof had you whipping your head around and staring into his eyes. 

“I’d say I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.” A flirtatious smile played at the corner of his lips and you returned it. 

“Pretty warm under the wings,” you agreed, looking at the expanse of tense skin and complex structure that curled over you both, now flared out along the walls of the cave, and then, as quickly as the butterflies had taken flight in your stomach, they fell like lead weights.“Your wing, it’s not healing.” 

You reached out and ran a finger close to the gash. Bucky sucked in air and bit his bottom lip, his top lip curling over his teeth and eyes crinkling in pain. 

“Please - don’t touch me there.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No - yes - it’s - just don’t touch me there.” Bucky grit his teeth and shuffled uncomfortably, placing a large hand over his lap and using the other to guide your hand away gently. 

“I could try and heal it - if you let me touch. Like I did with your side.” 

Bucky looked down at the bandage around his middle as if it was a surprise, perhaps he really didn’t remember. Leaving his wing, you reached out and touched his forehead instead. He felt a little cold, you both did, but not clammy. The fever had broken. 

“Can I check your bandage?” 

He nodded, sitting up and pulling his ragged shirt up with one hand. Slowly you untied the knot and removed the linen, it was clean on the top layers at least and the bottom ones showed the blood slowing. His healing had kicked in, once the ash had been removed, and the previously angry and infected gash was now a pink cut, knitting together slowly. 

“It looks a lot better.” 

You sat back on your heels, unable to look away from the cut in his wing. It too had started healing, but it would be a while before it was closed. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, sincerely. “I’ve been out here a while and - I should have sought help sooner.” 

“I’m sure it’s not easy, last night you said you didn’t want to let your battalion down.” 

Bucky flushed, his nose and cheeks going rosy and you watched as the colour disappeared down his neck and under his collar. 

“I understand, it’s hard to be brave sometimes, you want people to trust you and know that you’re doing your best.” 

He hummed in agreement again, “and is that why you’re out here?” He raised an eyebrow, lounging back against the cave wall. The movement made his stomach tighten and you watched the muscles flex under his shirt, trying to recall a time when you’d seen any other male like this, when anyone at all had made you feel so hot all over. 

“I was sent to hunt a monster.” 

“A monster?” 

“It’s been stealing vegetables and eggs, a pail of milk as well. Scaring the farmers.” You looked out towards the brightening sky and then back towards him with a grin. “He’s not so scary though.” 

Bucky returned your smile, his eyes softening as he reached out to guide your gaze back to his own, “I’m glad I didn’t scare you too much.” 

“Only a little.” You laughed. 

Despite the gash in Bucky’s side healing over the next few days, he still remained in the cave during the few warm hours the afternoon afforded. His wings lay heavily behind him, the muscles weak and aching from his time spent dragging them around the woods and his injured wing searing with pain when he tried to extend it. 

With some help he made it to the cave entrance and watched as you picked your way around the storm swept beach in the distance. You’d been kind and gentle, despite your initial fear, despite the clumsy way he’d tried to get closer to you. And his heart swelled, hoping he could hold you in his arms again when the sun got low. 

Each night he'd asked you to stay next to him, and each night you'd agreed. But he was no fool, you pitied him and that would only last for so long until you refused. So he treasured every moment like a precious gift. 

It’d been a long time since a female had looked his way, weeks spent dragging himself around the woodland, months spent fighting Hybern on their borders, years spent training in isolation at Windhaven. All to miss this, the feel of the salt wind in his hair and the sun on his healing wings, to miss the feel of a gentle, feminine touch and the way his body responded, singing with happiness at the warmth of your body and scent of your hair. He ached to have you near again, just to know you were safe and cared for. Something in his chest pulled, as if his heart had truly skipped a beat and he closed his eyes against the delicious pain only to open them and see you again, your eyes locked on his, the driftwood you’d collected scattered around your feet, shock on your features. 

In a heartbeat you were climbing back towards him, running over the sand and up the dunes, scaling the rocky cliff face with strong, knowing leaps, and then you were in his arms, knocking him backwards with the strength of your embrace. 

“Bucky?” His name was half question and half exaltation on your lips and that feeling tugged at him again until his arms closed around your back, a hand on the nape of your neck drawing you closer. 

“Kiss me-” it was neither question nor demand, simply a statement of what you both so clearly needed. 

His lips were chapped when they brushed against yours, but warm nevertheless, he tasted of the sweet berries you’d found this morning on the edge of the woods and this close, your nose brushing against his, he smelt divine, perfect, the whisky on the bandages and the deep, musky, scent that was all his own. 

His uninjured wing curled around your back, folding you in a bubble of warmth where there was only you and Bucky and whatever this new thing was between you. You felt that tug again, the same deep feeling that you’d felt so often, and you pulled back enough to rest your forehead against his own. Bucky didn’t let you remove yourself too far, nudging your nose with his and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheek and jaw. 

“Bucky -” you sighed again and this time he answered, as sure and confident as the strong arms that tugged you against his body. 

“Yes, my mate?” 

[drpoisonoaky]

This is what I think it would happen if Katara and Azula were telling people they’re dating:

.

.

.

—————————[Aang]—————————

Aang:

Azula: I think we broke him.

Aang:

Azula: I mean I killed him once but two times seems excessive.

Katara: I don’t think he needs that reminder right-

Aang: MONKEY FEATHERS WHAT WHY WHY HER OMG KATARA WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU SHE KILLED ME YOU WERE THERE AND-

Azula: I think I’m going to make some tea while he’s letting it out.

Katara: Bring some cookies.

Azula: Sure.

————————— [Sokka] —————————

Sokka [stepping closer to azula’s face]: Mmm.

Azula: What?

Sokka: What are your intentions with my sister?

Katara: Sokka please.

Sokka: Shh, I’m not asking you.

Azula: Sure.

Azula: She helps me to be a better person every day. She taught me how to love and how to love right even though I fuck it up on a regular basis. I want to be with her for as long as she wants me there. She’s strong, smart, caring and beautiful among other things. I just love her.

Katara [on the verge of tears]: ‘Zula

Sokka [crying]: That was…

Azula: Or maybe I’m a psycho and I want to destroy your tribe from the inside pretending I’m in love with the chief’s daughter.

Sokka: And there she goes.

Katara: She’s working on it.

————————— [Suki] —————————

Suki: She put me in prison.

Katara: I know.

Suki: She made our life a living hell.

Katara: She has changed.

Suki: People don’t change.

Katara: She was a traumatized, unstable and unloved child at that time. Believed me she changed.

Azula: Auch.

Katara: Sorry sweetheart.

Suki: …well I guess it’s your call after all.

Katara: Thank you.

Suki: Just one little thing… [looks at Azula] before you put me in that prison did you try to flirt with me?

Azula:

Katara: Azula?

Azula:

Suki: OMG how did you get Katara like that was so bad you had 0 skills

Katara: AZULA

————————— [Ty lee] —————————

Ty lee: Wait wait wait

Azula: For what?

Ty lee: Nonono wait wait wait

Azula: Are you having a stroke?

Katara: Maybe she is homophobic.

Azula: She’s a kyoshi warrior.

Ty lee: No but wait wait wait.

Azula: Agni

Katara:

Ty lee: YOU LIKE GIRLS THAT WAS AN OPTION AND YOU NEVER SAID SOMETHING FUCKING BASTARD YOU KNOW THE MASSIVE CRUSH I HAD ON YOU GROWING UP I TH-[and she kept screaming for a while]

Azula: We make the soft ones yell at us it must be some kind of achievement.

Katara: My turn to make the tea.

————————— [Toph] —————————

Toph: Congrats.

Katara: And that’s it?

Toph: What do you want me to say?

Katara: We don’t usually get a positive reaction at first.

Toph: I’m better than most people but I must say it’s kinda weird that you’re fucking a purple platypus bear.

Katara: What the hell are you talki-

Azula: And that’s why she’s the only one of your friends I respect.

Katara: You’re both so freaking weird.

Toph: Don’t be ableist.

Katara: I AM NOT-

————————— [Zuko] —————————

Zuko: Katara I get why Azula is messing with me but you teaming up with her? c’mon

Katara: It is not a prank.

Azula: Why wouldn’t she team up with me? I make great plans, I conquered Ba Sing Se and I had made legendary pranks.

Zuko: Katara it’s not funny.

Katara: Zuko we’re not joking.

Azula: Do you remember the time I made you think you were a big turtle duck?

Zuko: Katara please.

Katara: Zuko.

Azula: Oh oh or that other time when I pretended I couldn’t see you so I made you think you were invisible and you went into the kitchen naked to steal sweets.

Katara: Wait he did that?

Azula: What can I say? I’m good at pranks, babe.

Zuko: STOP ALL OF THAT.

————————— [Mai] —————————

Mai: You told Zuko?

Azula: Yes.

Mai: And he thought you were joking?

Katara: Yup.

Mai: Ty lee?

Azula: Also yes.

Mai: So between them who is the one who keeps screaming? My bet is on Ty, but Zuko can really get that high pitch.

Katara: Zuko is still in denial and saying that it’s a prank.

Azula: And Ty lee is the one who keeps screaming how much I love woman and why nobody tell her sooner.

Mai: She was unbearable about her crush on you until she join the kyoshi warriors. Now I think she’s dating one of them but I guess she needs to let it out the repressed years somehow.

Azula: I don’t blame her I know i’m gorgeous.

Katara: And very humble.

Azula: You didn’t deny it.

Mai: If you keep flirting here I want to say that I have a new knife I want to test.

—————— [Zuko (Second try)] ——————

Zuko: ‘Zula drop it already. Someone was screaming for a while and my head hurts.

Azula: Zuzu I’m not fucking joking.

Zuko: Yes, you are.

Azula: And they said I’m the stubborn one.

Katara: You know what fuck it.

[Katara takes azula by the collar of her shirt and kisses her hard]

Katara: DO YOU BELIEVE US NOW?!

Zuko: I know Azula would go far for a prank but I didn’t think you would roll with it. Still, I don’t believe you.

Katara: For Agni’s sake.

Azula [looking at Katara]: so… what are your thoughts of public sex to prove a point?

Katara: Azula remind me why I love you cause I’m about to kill you and your brother.

[siphoklansan]

Introducing…𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

mentioned: Lilia Vanrouge, Anan Atthakornmetha, Charin Kamolnath

꧁𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐤𝗼𝐫𝐧𝗺𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚꧂

มธุรา อัฐกรเมธา 𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪

“Exiled to the deep, where the nagas reside; never to return again.”

Height : 197 cm.

Birthday : 9th of May

Age : 700+

Homeland : East of Scalding Sands (Attidaya)

Best Subject : None.

Club : None.

Talents : Ancient Magic, Fighting

Hobby : Taking care of his pet naga (Nham)

Dislikes : royalty

Favorite Food : Miang kham (เมี่ยงคำ)

Least Favorite Food : Unseasoned, plain food.

꧁𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜꧂

- 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐫𝗺𝐲: The ability to manipulate a large amount of individuals (specifically an army) at once to turn viciously attack their own. This ability can only be activated when Mathura uses a special flute. The drawback to this ability is unknown, possibly minor fatigue.

- 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧: Warriors are adorned with talisman (tattoos) , giving wearers resistance to black magic and blot. And also some resistance to normal physical damage (ex. a normal blade, a bullet)

- 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠: A skill obtained from battles near and/or in the sea, Mathura is able to breathe underwater.

꧁𝐅𝐮𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝗼𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚꧂

- Mathura is based on the Ramakien character Maiyarap (ไมยราพ)! Maiyarap is a violent yaksha with light purple skin, and is a dangerous warrior who later on died by the hands of Hanuman.

- It took me painful hours to come up with his Unique Magic name, and I even had help from my sister😭 So the name is not the best, I know </3

- Maiyarap had two abilities, one is to make an entire army to fall asleep by his flute, and second is to turn invisible👁️👁️. I wanted something along those lines for Mathura, but I realized that the original ability is similar to Malleus’s.

- I really, really like the name “Maiyarap” and initially wanted to use that name but I decided not to because Mathura is based on him, not a carbon copy of him.

- The rose carving on his earring symbolizes the flowers on a dancer’s crown (ชฎา), which also means that Mathura does dancing in his free time!

- Mathura’s purple hair is purely based on the fact that Maiyarap had purple skin✨

- Unfortunately, Mathura is usually in the deep sea so he is technically considered an NPC. But I can promise that there will be appearances of him in my big project (regarding the mysterious oc of mine 👀)

- Not so fun fact, I redrew him 3-4 times. Those were not happy times at all. I suddenly forgot how to draw old men and I struggled SO bad.

- Mathura is dressed like the uncle next door (for those SEA fans out there, yes he’s only clad in a towel wrapped around his hips) but tbh his age would make him more like a great great great great great great great grandpa next door-

꧁𝐀𝐛𝗼𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐚꧂

- Mathura Atthakornmetha was the general of Attidaya (East of Scalding Sands) for centuries until he was exiled to the deep sea due to treason.

- The deep sea in Attidaya is home to sea dragons known as naga, and Mathura has made one his own pet named Nham!

- As his surname suggests, he is Anan’s uncle! However, they have only met on several occasions, and Anan was still a child in those times.

- Charin knows Mathura very well, since Mathura was his mentor back in the deep sea. They cut ties as soon as word got around that Charin was getting fighting lessons from a criminal though, yikes😟

- Mathura was a very strict and ruthless mentor at that time, and he’s guilty of it ever since Charin left. He couldn’t help but think that maybe he should’ve been more gentle with the merman, since he was such a young boy :(

- The huge gash on his chest was caused by none other than Anan’s father right before the verdict that leads to Mathura’s exile.

- Mathura is a very…unhinged and vulgar type of guy. He’s incredibly blunt too, will tell you straight on about what he thinks and feels. He’s not the type to sugarcoat his words, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel bad about it afterwards…..on rare occasions.

- Mathura sucks, and I mean SUCKS at naming things. Never let this man name your pet cuz bro named his own pet naga Nham, which literally means WATER.

- “Well, she’s in the water and she’s a sea dragon, so?” <— his words

- Speaking about his pet naga, he babies her so much. He would clean her scales as a hobby. He just loves taking of a sea dragon that can swallow him hole🥰 would use a baby voice to talk to her too-

- You might be thinking that Mathura probably respect women like Anan and Charin. You’re not wrong, but he also won’t hold back with women unlike those two. A woman’s gonna fight him? Bring it on honey cuz he ain’t holding back too💪👹

- Bro’s the type to have a resting bitch face and is ACTUALLY a bitch, too.

- Yes, he knows Lilia.

- But there’s still a possibility for you to befriend him…though it might take a long time to break down this ex-generals walls, he’s quite lonely. He’ll give you a chance- if you’re worthy enough, of course.

I know I usually post my OCs on followers milestone events, BUT as the majority of you guys voted to see the next OC, I shall deliver✨ He’s not the typical twst oc but this is all I got😞 I’ll make comic on him soon but for now, thank you all so much for sticking around my blog despite my hiatus and supporting me along the way💖🫶 I love you all so much /pla<333

[trivanvanile]

Given the theory that they are power gamers, I will attempt to line up the Rat Grinders with their subclasses. I do think it’s likely Brennan has given them PHB subclasses, but if he didn’t I’ll throw a full access guess. Also while I personally think a couple are multiclassed, I’m going to write those off as headcanon because I just think they are fun.

KittenCruncher Backstabber- I do not think she’s an arcane trickster, but I do think shes a PHB subclass, and given her… incident, and her near invisibility around school, I think she’s an Assassin. If she’s outside the PHB, probably an inquisitive rogue, to really foil Riz

Rueben Hopclap- I truly do not think about this little emo gnome. College of Lore. If not, Whispers or Eloquence maybe?

Mary Anne- For a character I know nothing about with a class I know the least about, maybe just a Totem Warrior, with her stuffies making up her totems. If outside the PHB, I could see Storm Herald.

Buddy Dawn- Maybe controversial, as Kristen was a Life Cleric, but I think Buddy is a Light Cleric, as he talks about the light of Helio and Sol a lot, and people often regard Life as one of the worse domains. I don’t know if Brennan would use any of the potential others, but maybe Zeal, from the Amonkhet books, simply because of the blend of Light and War cleric.

Ivy Umbra - Battlemaster. It’s the de-facto Fighter subclass that just does so much. I personally think Maneuvers should be base and battlemaster should be better at it. As a Battlemaster Archer, she’d be able to lock up a lot of the Bad Kids with an action surge turn. Could be an Arcane Archer.

Oisin Hakinvar - I know people are saying Conjuration cause hot tatted dragon born to hold concentration, and its possible, but after seeing a theory that Oisin is the actual leader of the Rat Grinders, I want to go a bit darker. Necromancer. Its the Min-Max wizard subclass for sure, and i’ve curved a few players for trying to build an undead army before a fight. If he’s neither of these, then I’m gonna go with War Magic.

[lucianalight]

Odin's Family Dynamic - Part 7

It's been days and I still can't stop thinking about What If 2x07. So I decided to write my thoughts down. While I did mention Hela in previous parts of this series, there wasn't enough material to do a complete analysis of her role in the family. But with this episode we have a more complete picture. Reading Parts 1, 2 and 5 might be necessary for a better understanding of this analysis.

Part 1- Odin: The Narcissistic Parent

Part 2- Thor and Loki: Golden Child and Scapegoat

Part 3- Frigga: The Enabling Parent

Part 4 - Can Loki Trust Thor?

Part 5 - Did Odin Love Loki?

Part 6 - Is Loki a Narcissist?

Hela: Golden Child Turned Invisible

In a relation to this series, I was asked what would happen to the golden child without a scapegoat. The answer is the dynamics of a dysfunctional family with a narcissistic parent are not set in stone. The roles the narcissist assign to members of their family can change based on the needs and desires of the narcissist parent. And sometimes a person can have multiple roles or change roles. Usually the only child of a narcissistic parent is given the role of the golden child by default, but they're also prone to having multiple roles.

We see Hela as a happy kid who loves her pet wolf and can't even stand seeing him chained. It is interesting that her first reaction is protesting his imprisonment not that Odin stopped her playing with Fenrir. The scene shows that she cares about others and doesn't want to harm anyone. But Odin seeks to control and tame anything that might be a threat to him, and as he chains Fenrir, he chains Hela too. He grooms her to be a fighter, to never pass on a chance to end a life, to be his executioner and consider that a great honor. He couldn't do that if Hela remained as sweet and caring as she was when she was a kid. And Hela reveling in the love and attention stayed his golden child.

Until Odin decided to stop at the nine realms. Now it's never mentioned why Odin suddenly made that decision. It definitely wasn't because of the goodness of his heart. He still sought powers he deemed others unworthy of with the excuse of "protecting peace". But what caused him to stop his conquests? The answer might be his "new girlfriend who is a dreadful woman" according to Hela and one of the people Hela has a quarrel with.

But why Hela doesn't like Frigga? They have two different personalities for start. While Frigga is a fierce warrior, she doesn't enjoy fighting or war. Definitely not the way Odin, Hela and Thor do(one of many similarities Loki has with Frigga). Also from TR we know Hela was aware of having a sibling but never met them. So her banishment happened when Frigga was pregnant. Stopping the wars and protecting peace might have been Frigga's condition for marrying Odin. It is also possible that Odin pitted Hela and Frigga against each other through triangulation, a manipulation method to provide him narcissistic supply.

"Basically, the game involves two or more people who get pitted against each other and usually they don’t even realize what’s happening. They’re just aware of the conflict between each other and there’s always this conflict. Maybe they can’t figure out what’s going on or where the conflict is coming from. Or maybe it’s very clearly this parent or this other person. Essentially the narcissist does this because they want you to turn on each other while having the loyalty of you both."[1]

The prospect of having another child could be the reason why Odin banished Hela without a second thought. But that's not all. Narcissists don't see their children as people with their own thoughts, feelings and needs but rather as an extension of themselves. The golden child is the positive extension of narcissist but only until they act exactly as their parent wants.

"Narcissists will turn on the golden child when the golden child stops being a source of validation, admiration, and reassurance. Even though narcissists give the golden child many opportunities, privileges, and resources that the other family members don’t get, they still view the golden child as expendable."[2]

That's because the "love" the narcissist parent has for their child is conditional. And if the golden child do anything that contradicts the narcissist's sense of self, they become the negative extension of narcissist and therefore will be treated as a scapegoat. Which happened to Hela. She was banished and imprisoned and forgotten for more than a millennium. Odin turned her literally and figuratively invisible to the world, because she was a reminder of his shameful past and his failures. No surprise that she went mad. She was treated like a tool and discarded as soon as her usefulness ran out. She didn't have any place in Odin's new future.

WI Hela on the other hand got the chance to know herself and choose her own path when she realized what she wanted all along was freedom from Odin's control. Which is a theme that repeats both with Thor's arc in TDW and Loki's arc. Because what Odin did to his children for all their lives and every punishment he sentenced them to, was ultimately for controlling them.

Sources:

[1]Scapegoat & Golden Child | How and why narcissists assign these roles (and not just in the family!) 

[2]Does the Narcissist Ever Turn on the Golden Child?

[cat-mentality]

Tw: Blood, violence, death. All that good shit.

This is what nobody tells you about the aftermath of a fight: Adrenaline takes a while to leave your system, even when the threat is gone it is still buzzing inside of you.

The silence feels like an invisible weight setting on your shoulders, the echoes of the battle still ring inside of your ears, you can almost taste the vibrations of the swords hitting their targets.

This is what nobody tells you about the aftermath of a battle: Blood dries fast. It starts with the edges and makes its way to the center, the process much quicker than most people believe it to be, staining everything.

The smell of blood is overpowering as it clings to every surface you can see, as it dries on your clothes, your weapons, your hands, your mouth. You know, in a part of your mind you are not truly paying attention to, that you will have to throw away those clothes- Blood doesn't leave them as easy as it does armour.

This is a lie they tell you about the aftermath of a slaughter: It's poetic. There is no poetry in this, the blood drying on the white walls is not artful, it's just blood splashed without care, the sounds of the dying don't sound like music, they sound like pain, like regret, like begging.

The victors are not heroes standing proudly side by side, they are warriors shaking with left over adrenaline, whimpering in pain as they hold their wounds, eyes haunted.

This is what they don't want to admit to you in the aftermath of a massacre: It feels good.

You are standing in the middle of a Federation office as the world buzzes around you, as people talk and walk, as time keeps ticking away. Your hands are painted red with dried blood, you don't know if the blood on your armor belongs to you or to any of the bodies on the floor. You don't care. Blood paints your face like a mask, you know you must look like a demon, like a monster.

Good.

They are the ones who made you into one. It's fitting that it's the last thing they see.

It is still alive. Barely but still, a part of you is actually impressed about It's resistance and endurance. The white fur is barely recognizable under the blood, this blood is still fresh, still vivid red and wet as it leaks from the wounds, the eyes are as emotionless as they have always been.

You wonder if It can even feel pain.

You hope It does.

An arm is thrown, almost carelessly, over your shoulders and you tense, hand gripping the sword tighter but you recognize the person easily enough. Your shoulders are still tense, but you don't attack.

"Good fight"

Etoiles' smile looks out of place in the situation, the cheer on his voice foreign. There is a wound still closing on his forehead, his hair is painted red with blood you are half sure doesn't belong to him, his scythe is carelessly thrown over his shoulder already gleaming as if cleaning it was the first thing he did, his armor is in much better state than your own.

You just nod back, still staring at It. Etoiles hums, not bothered by your tense posture or your dismissive gesture, his shoulders in contrast are relaxed, his expression peaceful.

It's a sharp contrast to what it was moments before. The grin as sharp as steel, the eyes so dark they could as well be voids, the laughter that could be heard over the screams and the swords.

He looks at It and tilts his head to the side, curious but not overly so. Etoiles is a fighter at heart, you don't think he could understand your urge, your desire, to stare at It, he would have ended it as soon as he could, he doesn't understand but he respects your needs.

There is another presence arriving next to Etoiles and he turns to grin at the newcomer who, again, just gives him a grim nod back, eyes fixed on It, his weapon still in hand.

You are surprised by the dark satisfaction shinning in Philza's eyes but maybe you shouldn't. It's easy to forget that the friendly and calm man atop off the wall has a past as drenched in blood as yours, probably even more as the whispers of death cling to him like a second skin, they never said an angel of death had to be merciful after all. You wonder who he was before, no common man would take to planning this as easily as he did, no common man would walk among the slaughter as if there was nothing amiss, no common man would ignore the blood so easily.

You recognize someone welcoming back a part of their past.

Almost on their own accord your eyes drift to the rest of the room, cataloging who is still here.

Baghera is the furthest away, her weapon nowhere to be seen as she crouches on the ground to speak to terrified figures, hands clean as she holds them up in a non threatening position.

Your own hands clench on your sword fighting the instinct to go to her, to stand guard at her side because you don't trust them. Those workers, those survivors who she insisted on protecting, on forgiving, when they dropped their weapons and begged, you don't trust them to not put a sword to her back, a knife to her gut, to repay her kindness with pain and betrayal.

You don't understand her need to save them, but you respect it.

You only relax when you make eye contact with Forever. He is just a few steps behind her and he has his sword in hand even if his posture is as non threatening as it can be, he looks between you two and nods just once, determined, and you nod back.

He has tried to clean the blood from his face, perhaps to look less frightening to the workers, but there is only so much you can do about it. You have to turn away because you hate how blank his eyes look, you hate how haunted his expression is.

Some people are just not made for the bloodshed.

Others, you suppose, are far too used to it.

You never saw Fit's face as blank as it is now. He is more statue than man as he leans against one of the blood soaked walls, posture tense as if he expects an attack at any moment, eyes anywhere but here. This man is a survivor, you realize tilting your head to the side, this is a man who has had to suffer and made others suffer before.

You almost smile when Pac approaches him. You would if you thought your lips could remember how to move to that position, as your friend leans against him without words, taking a bloodied hand on his own, equally as red.

Fit relaxes, just the tiniest bit, and squeezes the hand back.

They will be okay. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not for a long time, but as long as they have each other you know they will heal.

Your eyes look for your beloved next.

Roier is already looking at you and you have to break eye contact first. You don't know what he is seeing but you know it can't be good.

No one likes to see a monster.

No one can love a monster.

It was good having him by your side. You hope he knows your heart, as cursed and dark as it may be, will always belong to him.

You focus on his hand instead, in the way blood has dried all over it, the way he didn't bother to wipe it off. They are protectively on Jaiden's shoulders as she is kneeling on the floor crying so hard her whole body is shaking.

Osito Bimbo's head is laid on her lap as she tenderly brushes the fur of his forehead, her tears falling on him non stop. There is a dark crimson circle on his chest, a straight hole where once a heart used to beat, gravity is making the blood sweep out of the hole on his chest and into her lap but she doesn't care.

You don't know who killed him.

You hope, for her sake, that it was quick.

Foolish is sitting cross legged on the floor next to Jaiden and as usual you cannot for the life of you understand what is going through his mind. As if feeling your eyes on him he turns his attention away from Jaiden to look at you, the grin that he sends in your direction is as bright as the sun, his eyes mischievous as he stares at It and then back at you in something that is both a question and a challenge.

It's a bit uncanny how natural the blood soaking him looks. Red blood, not a drop of his own.

The only sound in the room is Tubbo.

The kid is crying, his sobs come from somewhere inside of his chest, painful to hear in their heartbreak.

Fred's body is laying in his lap as well, Tubbo's hands are still uselessly pressing against the wound on his side that has long since stopped bleeding. Pierre's work you know, and a part of you think it was deserved even as Tubbo cries and cries over someone he thought loved him back.

He will realize the truth one day, you hope, he will realize that WA02 made a choice. He will realize that in the end his loyalty, or his fear you will never know, spoke louder and he chose the losing side.

It's a pity that Tubbo has to suffer but you will not mourn someone responsible for causing pain to your family.

Another touch brings your attention back.

Bagi is at your side, staring at you with familiar unfamiliar eyes. As she once promised she is as drenched in blood as you, it clings to her with the same natural way it does to you, you have no doubts that in this moment you two truly look like twins.

She looks at It like it's a piece of garbage on the floor, mouth twisted in disgust and her eyes are hard, determined. She isn't enjoying it, not like you, but you understand she doesn't see a problem either.

"End this." She tells you "It has to be you."

A part of you doesn't want to. A part of you want to just stay here and watch as It slowly and painfully dies, as life leaves It's body with each drop of blood, wants to heal It just to inflict the same fate over and over again.

Death sounds too merciful.

But Bagi is looking at you and as you look at Philza he also nods just once, Etoiles pats you in the shoulder and pushes you forward just a bit. You press your lips together, taking a deep breath.

You take your knife.

It makes no sound as you slashes It's throat.

It doesn't make you feel better, but it also doesn't make you worse so you take it as a victory.

Mike arrives seconds later, eyes still haunted as they have been since his return, but his smile is calculating, delighted and you are glad that at least you can give him that. He hands you the control of the explosives almost vibrating with excitement.

You all leave together, in deep silence.

Roier helps Jaiden carry Osito's body, Fit helps Tubbo carry Fred's body.

As you stand outside you look at Bagi.

You offer her the control of the explosives and you think you remember the smile she gives you, the way her eyes crinkle on the sides.

You hold her hand as the Federation burns. Roier joins you on the other side, squeezing your hand like a life line.

It's the warmest you have felt in a very long time.

[youphoriaot7]

The desert is quiet. The moon shines high in the sky above, dragging itself from one end to the other. It never seems to set these days; every cycle feeling longer and longer, as if it's being held back by some invisible force. Every minute of darkness extending into a moment of danger; every second that the moon stays arisen is a second that's easier to die.

You are alone.

When you came to the sands, you had allies. The fraud wrapped in tones of the forest at your side, leading you from landmark to landmark. The soldier the color of greenery on your communicator, his messages comforting yet not at the same time. Your long-lost sister, her hat and coat long since shredded to tatters, supposedly waiting for your arrival. Your beloved, promising to make his way over.

Your sister was the first to fall. You arrive at the location the fraud told you about, and you see his look of confusion as she doesn't appear as you crest the hill. Before you can advise against it, he is slipping over the dunes, heading down to check out the situation.

He is the next to go. Suddenly, you're completely alone, clutching a sword in one hand and a communicator in the other. There is nothing to do but wait for your other allies.

You shoot off a couple of messages, each one steadily more frantic than the last. The warrior replies with his time of arrival, and it feels too long for you to wait. Your beloved, on the other hand, never responds.

You have to leave. You know this. The demon that plagues these sands is not one anyone should encounter alone; you know this better than most. You've seen it happen to others many a time before. You refuse to let yourself become one of the many bodies you've seen lifelessly strewn across the battlefields as of late.

After a few more moments of stalling, there's nothing to be done. The fraud and the woman have vanished. The warrior and the man are late. The demon is nowhere to be seen. It's time to leave. You turn over your shoulder��

—and he is standing there, dark as the night sky behind him, the only color betraying his appearance being his eyes of pure star white and the smears of blood across his cloak. The blue stains that have seeped into his hood after weeks of oblivity are nothing more than faded spots, barely visible in the glow of the moonlight.

He smiles, and a chill runs down your spine.

He asks you how you've been. Tells you it's good to see your face, that it's been too long—though it's only been four days, by your count, maybe five. Who truly knows, when the days run into nights run into longer nights run into eternity?

It's the most tense conversation you've had throughout your whole time on the island. Both of you are itching just below the surface, fingers twitching at simply the thought of digging into the other. Your teammates have been preaching peace all day, but you remember the way the demon forsake your souls on the first day in this new location. He was merciless, and you can be the same.

Yet you both hold back. Why? You may never know.

To the demon, perhaps you simply weren't worth it. Perhaps it would've been too much effort, so close to the end of the day. Perhaps he was afraid of you, more than he cared to let on, although his posture didn't betray that fact. Perhaps he cared too much to kill you, although you highly doubted that. Perhaps he simply did not care.

For you? The time isn't right. You can't take him alone. You know that better than anyone. You simply grip your sword's hilt tighter and politely finish the conversation.

The demon's eyes follow you as he lets you leave, watching and cataloging every hill you climb. You studiously make sure to take the path away from your base. Just because he avoided moving quicker than a wink there doesn't mean he will in the future. Had he wanted to, his blade could have been impaled between your ribs faster than you could even take a breath. But he didn't. And he won't be so merciful again.

You leave, and you don't look back. Once upon a time, you knew this demon well, and he knew you better than you knew yourself. Now, you still don't know yourself, and you don't know him, either. It's too dangerous. Too risky.

No sense in throwing yourself into a fight you know you'll lose.

[acourtofthought]

Elriels: Elain not looking good in black isn't important! It doesn't mean she doesn't belong in the Night Court. People in the Night Court wear other colors, so it's not like she'd have to wear it all the time. Mor mainly wears red, does that mean she doesn't belong in the Night Court?

Me: Though those are valid points, the fact remains that black is still a primary, defining color of the Night Court, it's symbolic and the fact that Elain doesn't look good in it could be symbolic as well. Honestly, I've seen some theories about Mor leaving Night, and I think they sound pretty plausible, so maybe she won't end up there either, and her wearing red all the time is a sublet hint to that on top of her wearing it to feel empowered.

Also, Elriels: They purposefully put Elain in black because if she looked too pretty, Eris would have flirted with her instead of Nesta!

Also, me: So, Elain not looking good in black is important then? Also, isn't it canon that in Autumn, the mating bond is taken very seriously? I mean, aren't they the orgin of blood duels? Eris might not respect his brother, but given he is from Autumn, doesn't it make sense to believe that he would at least respect a mating bond?

There is simply no arguing with someone who refuses to see reason because they accept no possibility but their ship. But don't we still try? 😂😂😂

Yes, people in the NC wear other colors but there has been a recurring theme throughout the series of what Night Court Black and Illyrian leathers represent. In ACOWAR, we have a scene where Lucien is wearing Illyrian leathers because he had nothing else to wear yet when Tamlin looks at him he turns away. Feyre says, "He might as well have been wearing Night Court black. It was an effort to keep my mouth shut, to not explain that Lucien didn't have any other clothes with him, and that they weren't a sign of his allegiance." It is spelled out for us. NIGHT COURT BLACK IS A SIGN OF ALLEGIANCE. A sign of belonging. In the same book we have Nesta not think twice about putting on the leathers and strapping a dagger to her while Elain turns crimson and rejects the dagger Cassian offers her. Only accepting TT after Feyre reassures her she won't need to use it. In SF, we have Eris standing proud in NC black. We have Feyre looking like a goddess of ole in NC black. Nesta in NC black threatens to bring Cassian to his knees. Yes, these characters wear many colors but their ability to embody NC black which is symbolic of putting on their masks and fitting into even the darkest parts of the NC? That is the author telling us who belongs and who doesn't. Compare that to Elain, who no matter how much she's trying to fit in, it's not working. NC Black, no matter how much she claims she's part of the court....it's all sucking the life from her. She doesn't belong there and a majority of the fandom knows it. Elain is trying to convince herself that she can be like them, trying to convince them she can be (Rhys mentions that maybe she's been afraid to show who she really is for fear of disappointing them and her trying to act like she belongs when she knows she doesn't would be that exact thing, her worrying that the truth would disappoint them) but the author hasn't been hammering home how different she is just so she can be the same as her sisters. Neither Feyre nor Nesta are referred to as quiet dreamers who are full of light. They are not referred to as gentle and kind. Don't get me wrong, they're clearly badass warriors but they're a bit dark at times, a bit vengeful, delighting in revenge. As far as Mor, we get that nifty little scene in ACOFAS telling us how she'd been cooped up within the borders of the NC for too long. How Rhys could see the invisible noose tightening around her neck with every day spent there. In ACOSF, we get a nice little scene there saying how the darkness of the Hewn City still lurks around her like Azriel's shadows. So their argument that Mor wears red yet she fits in with the NC doesn't have the legs they think it does. And for Eris, who is canonically written as showing remorse over his relationship with Lucien, who we're told there is more to the story in terms of the part he played in Jesminda's death, how he defied his fathers orders, I think it's safe to say Elain was never going to be someone they could actually use in order to lure Eris. He would never do that to his brother not to mention he wanted Nesta for her power and that's fact. He saw the power flashing in her eyes, knew she could play the political games and that's what he was drawn to. Considering Elain's powers were dormant in SF it wouldn't matter if Elain was at her most beautiful, there's nothing that she could offer to him that could help him in taking his father day.

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

Invisible Strings Pt. II - Gwynriel One-Shot

word count: 4.4k

warnings: swear words, sexual innuendo

As it turned out, living in hell was a lot more comfortable than she thought. At least in a strictly physical sense.

Gwyn went about her usual routines in the safety and warmth of the house, only surfacing once a day for training. You’d think the priestesses wouldn’t go as hard as usual, with their pestering instructors being absent, but something about the fact that they currently fought very real battles served as a kick in the ass. They were diligent and thorough; even adding exercises and runs as they went. Gwyn knew her friends and colleagues were just as nervous as her, had just as much energy to spare. So, they went to work.

It was all calculated, really. Gwyn tried hard all day, working both her mind and body into a state of absolute exhaustion – because she knew that night was unavoidable. And night meant too much peace and quiet. It also didn’t help that the mere thought of it was so deeply entangled with thoughts of Azriel that sunsets were like a stab to the heart.

The only thing that helped, even if it was just for a day or two, were his messages.

Two weeks after he was gone Clotho visited Gwyn in the alcove where she set up work for the day, a crumpled piece of paper in hand and a conspirator’s smile barely visible underneath her low hood. Gwyn was reprimanded by her superior for the loud shriek she let loose when she understood. He kept his first promise, at least.

The message was brief, to the point, and seemingly scribbled in a haste. But he had thought of her, in the middle of absolute chaos. So she sat there for a while, the paper pressed to her chest and staring into nothing. It spoke of numbers and strategy, but held the sentiment of ‘all will be well’. And that was enough for now.

Each morning, Gwyn was the first to arrive at the big spread sheet that was plastered to a wall in the center of the library, right by the entrance. On it, Clotho (and any other official bearing news, Gwyn included) updated the ins-and-outs of this conflict. Each morning, she surveyed the malicious piece of paper, scanning frantically for death tolls, victories, and sometimes, a direct reference to her Shadowsinger.

And so, the days simply went on, with March turning into April, and April making way for the mild May days. As the morning air around them got increasingly warm, Azriel’s messages got increasingly short.

The latest one read:

“Gwyn,

Cassian: mildly hurt (leg, will heal eventually)

Nesta: furious at Cassian

Shadows: missing their favorite

Me: absolutely done with the people around me, will have to find a cave soon for some quiet

Yours, Az”

It brought the first real smile to her face after weeks of sadness. But she also knew (from the handy paper), that a certain notorious warrior with the ability to command shadows caused quite the ruckus during the lastest battle, which was fought right at the border of autumn and summer territory. It didn’t mention exactly what happened, just implied “considerable damage done after an outburst of power”. Gwyn had hoped for Azriel to clear some things up with his message, but he’ll simply have to tell her when he was back.

It turned out, she didn’t have to wait that long.

From time to time, even Cassian and Nesta sent word, assuring her of their relative well-being and the course of this conflict. It was Cassian who, scribbled at the very end of the message, informed her of exactly why her Shadowsinger went berserk that one time.

“… and Gwynie, Az saved out asses today. I’ve never seen him do something like it. It was like he released a blast from his Siphons and Shadows together. I’m not kidding, it evaporated the whole right flank of Autumn. Sent the rest screaming for their mommies. After, when I asked him about it, he just shrugged and mumbled something along the lines of ‘it got caught in the little shit’s uniform and he nearly ripped it’. Maybe you can make something of it.”

But it couldn’t have been. It was just a bracelet, after all.

On May 7th, victory was announced. The news didn’t even make it on paper, it was simply called out by one priestess after another, until shouts of euphoria and relief echoed through the mountain. This morning, Gwyn trained like she never did before. And with a bigger smile on her face than a squat should ever elicit.

They won. And they were coming home.

---

A few days later, as Gwyn readied herself for sleep, she felt something.

It started in her chest, and she briefly wondered if she should see a healer, but the uneasiness made way for warmth after a few minutes. Warmth then turned into a tingling feeling, spreading out through her arms and legs. Then, a pull.

When she reassured herself she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, and sleeping like this was off the table anyways, she decided to move around. The priestess threw on her dressing gown over her nightdress, and started to climb some stairs. Working out some extra energy.

Until she noticed the pulling and tugging in her chest got worse every time she was at the bottom of said stairs, and slightly lighter when she reached the top. Another step into the hall of the House proper relieved her of more pressure. And another. She was starting to freak out again, when she suddenly noticed a very real tug on her wrist.

Gwyn looked down. At the whisp of Shadows wrapping soothingly around her and pulling her further into the corridor.

She wasn’t proud to admit that it took her a ridiculous amount of time to realize. But when she did, the fireworks starting in her body made her jump into action. 

Walking turned into racing, the walls beside her blurring. But the tears escaping her might have had something to do with that too. She rounded corner after corner, climbed up a thousand flights of stairs, like she knew where she was going. Her heart knew anyways, she figured. And then, she saw him.

Azriel was sat on the armchair of his room, door left open like he couldn’t be bothered to close it, his eyes closed with exhaustion. Gwyn briefly took him in, trying to get her breathing to calm. His coloring was all off, even though he must have been outside often. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to have lost a bit of weight too. The male looked like he needed a holiday desperately. Even back in safety, his fists were clenched as they rested on his lap.

But he didn’t loose his wings, or an arm, or a leg, or his life. He sat there, in one piece, just like the night she barged into his room crying.

A moment which simply begged for a repeat.

“Azriel?”, she rasped out. All other words escaped her.

And him too, it seemed, as his head lifted to take her in. He moved slowly, deliberately, like he fought his strength for every inch gained. So, Gwyn helped.

In the middle of his room, they clashed together so hard it stole Gwyn’s breath away. Azriel hugged her unbelievably close, his arms and wings and Shadows coming around her body and engulfing her in his scent. The priestess hugged him back just as tightly, not caring that she was only in very thin layers of clothing, or that she was crying again. Because this was her Azriel.

Still hugging, Gwyn heard him mumble something into her hair. She couldn’t hear initially over the beating of her heart, but then-

“What in the Mother’s name are you being ‘sorry’ for?”, she leaned back only slightly (like hell would she leave his arms) so she could see his face, take in his gaunt features and familiar amber eyes.

Azriel entangled one of his hands from behind her and held it open between them, palms facing up. Where her bracelet found its last resting place, it seemed.

“I was flying and winnowing home in leaps, and during the last flight – I don’t know how – I felt it sliding off my arm. Caught it midair, but I don’t know if I can fix it.”, he explained with so much sadness it made her heart squeeze painfully in her chest. The strands were almost translucent, shredded beyond repair. And Gwyn smiled at its magic.

For lack of better words, it had worked like a charm.

Gwyn felt more tears sliding down her face in pure happiness. The bracelet must have ripped as soon as the wish held within was fulfilled. As soon as Azriel was flying home, safely and healthily.

“It doesn’t matter, Az. I’ll make you a new one. Or we’ll make it together.”, Gwyn was still in awe at the tiny piece of string, and the male standing in front of her. She stood on her tiptoes, both hands coming to each side of his face, and pressed her forehead against his. “Thank you for staying alive, Azzy.”

The Shadowsinger hugged her closer, one hand coming to the nape of her neck. “Thank you for keeping me alive.”

Neither of them had the time and energy to acknowledge what they both felt, clear as day, as it glowed and pulsed in their chests. They simply didn’t care, for there were bigger miracles in the world. Well, Gwyn didn’t. Azriel seemed to be too exhausted to notice anyways.

“Shadowsinger?”, Gwyn mumbled after a while.

“Mh?”

“You smell a bit.”

Azriel snorted. “Surprising, since I’ve just come from war and raced against time to be here earlier than everyone else. But next time, I’ll just bathe instead of seeing you right away. No problem.”

Gwyn smiled. “No. Next time, I’ll come with you, remember?”

“Right. I’ll tell Rhys to piss off some important people so you can have your war. But tomorrow.”, Azriel smiled at her, his hand coming up to caress her cheek. He fell quiet while his eyes continued to roam her face, soaking up her smile.

What he said next needed to be recorded in history for the best change of subject to ever exist.

“I’m in love with you.”, Azriel confessed.

He seemed a bit taken aback by it himself, for his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Gods, that should have come out a bit more … cohesively.”

Gwyn was staring at him, mouth agape but already stretching back into a smile. “It was cohesive enough I’d say.” The butterflies in her stomach at least understood perfectly.

“I- fuck“, Azriel finally let go of her, stepping back to the edge of his bed and sitting down with exhaustion. He was clearly annoyed at himself, and the combination of anger, confusion and sleep-deprivation made him look like an overgrown bat that was just woken up from a nap. It was adorable, and Gwyn wanted it painted.

“I planned to tell you this in a really romantic, beautiful way. Planned it every waking minute I spent there and wasn’t preoccupied. Gwyn, you were on my mind constantly, looking over my shoulder – and apparently also guarding my back. And I wanted to do this in a way that felt grander. Like in the novels you like so much.”

She practically felt him mentally scolding himself.

“You- I-“, he took a deep breath. “The thought of not having told you when I should have haunted me. It kept me going week after week, because I just wasn’t about to die before telling you. That you are my home, and my best friend. And for a few months now, I have started to think of you differently than before. The more I wanted it to go, the stronger it got.”

The priestess had hoped, of course, but hearing him say it gave her enough material to daydream for the rest of her life. Gwyn involuntarily inched closer to him until she was in touching range again, brushing her hand through his longer-than-usual locks and massaging his scalp.

“I think I knew. Or some part of me did anyways, when we said goodbye that night in March.”, she confessed, her voice as soothing as the patterns she drew with her fingers. “You really rather faced war than just confessing this the moment we parted, huh?”

Azriel signed. “Don’t remind me of my shortcomings, please, not tonight anyways. Swords are a little more straight forward to me than words of affection.”

The Shadowsinger’s hands came up to hold onto Gwyn’s waist, pulling her downwards so she sank onto his lap, her own arms draped over his broad shoulders. Apparently, neither of them was capable to be physically separated right now. She sat on rock hard muscle and leather, and yet, nothing has felt more comfortable in her whole life.

“We can work on that.”, she promised, “Put it right on the list, next to ‘make a new intimidatingly-male-colored bracelet’.”

“We can?”, he asked – voice so low it sounded almost … unsure?

Gwyn furrowed her brows, finding his gaze again to assure herself that he was still alive and not sliding into unconsciousness while she talked about bracelets. The hope and anxiety she was met with gave her heart a squeeze.

And she realized she hadn’t said it back.

“Oh Gods.”, Gwyn broke out into giggles, “Az, I’m sorry. You need some vital information to understand.”

She cupped his face again – it fit so perfectly in her palms – and pressed a soft, loving kiss on his lips. After a moment of shock Azriel responded, moving his mouth over her own in gentle, careful movements. It was her first kiss after Sangravah, and it felt exhilarating.

“I love you, too.”, she mumbled, her mouth still so close to his it brushed his skin with every word. “And only now that you’re back I feel like I can breathe again. You make me want to be brave and strong – even voluntarily go into war. You are my best friend, too. But at the same time so much more than that.”

Azriel’s face, previously neutral in expression, finally crumpled with emotion when he felt the truth in her words. That she wasn’t about to take them back or reject him.

“May I kiss you again, love?”

Gwyn smiled. It was all her body was able to do now. “Most definitely.”

---

Never had Gwyn seen a person that devoured that much food within so little time. It was actually impressive, and there was probably some kind of money to be won with that talent.

Her and Azriel were seated at the gigantic dining table in the house, serving themselves with the large breakfast the house provided in celebration of Az returning. And even though Gwyn ate perfectly normal these past weeks, she decided to treat herself too. Because a second helping of syrup-covered pancakes never hurt nobody, and she did go through a lot of mental tension.

Azriel was on his third or fourth plate by now, mixing sweet with savory and already looking so much better than last night as he filled her in on the fascinating and heartbreaking details of what happened. Gwyn doing the same with updates from the house and library.

Despite that fact that the priestess never felt more at ease with another person than Azriel, safe for her late twin, it was like they had reached another level of familiarity this morning. Oh, Gwyn was still giddy just looking at the male and the way he made holding a fork look swoon-worthy, but they might as well have been together for a decade. No anxious fidgeting, no desperate search for topics to talk about.

The fact that they officially spent their first night together might have helped.

It was all very innocent, to be fair. They simply refused to let go of one another, and so Azriel suggested she stay with him. Gwyn agreed, for purely practical reasons of course. And after the Shadowsinger had his much-deserved dinner and bath, they found each other again under the soft cover of the duvet. The blush that stole itself into Gwyn’s cheeks had nothing to do with the hot tea as she remembered it.

“What are you thinking about?”, Azriel’s voice held a dangerous teasing edge to it.

Gwyn took a sip from her cup, biding her time and hoping the color would miraculously drain from her face again if she tried hard enough. In front of her, the Shadowsinger raised an eyebrow. She felt like a kid being caught with her hand in a bag of candy.

The priestess set her cup down with pointed care and readjusted herself on her seat. “I’ve been wondering when Cassian and Nesta might arrive. Hopefully today.”

Definitely not her best diversion.

“Oh? And you were blushing because…?”. When Az caught a lie, he was as relentless as a hound on a scent.

“Well, I’m happy. For obvious reasons.”, her tone was way off, too defensive and high-pitched to have sounded normal. Gwyn blamed his beautiful lips for throwing her off her game. And the fact that she got an unlimited number of kisses from them now.

She wouldn’t come out of this easily. So, she might as well go down swinging. Because teasing your significant other was one of the benefits of becoming an official girlfriend. “I’m just so excited to see Cass again. Train with him. I’ve missed him so much.”

Gwyn added a sigh for good measure.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed at her. But whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a loud shriek.

Both of them were out of their seats in a heartbeat, Shadows flying out in every direction to scout.

“Balcony.”, Az mumbled, a dagger poised in hand and already on his way to the massive glass doors to their side. Gwyn followed him on silent feet.

But before his hands touched the handle, he relaxed his posture and let out a startled laugh. A Shadow curling around his ear must have given him a closer idea of their ‘threat’.

Landing on the balcony before them were Cassian and Nesta, wearing ridiculously large grins on their faces and looking a bit worse for wear.

Gwyn pushed past Az, out of the doors and flung herself in Nesta’s arms before she touched the ground. 

“You’re back!”, she whisper-cried into her hair while her best friend squeezed her in return. Those remained the only coherent words she uttered in her direction. They proceeded to communicate in a series of squeals and unintelligible sounds. But the sentiment was conveyed.

After that, the morning continued in a flurry of hugs, random outbursts of happiness and endless topics to talk about.

Their favorite, much to Azriel’s chagrin: Gwyn’s relationship status. Because according to Cassian, ‘nothing about this war was as bad as having to endure Azriel’s constant sulking’ and it ‘finally paying off’. Az seemed a bit taken aback that it didn’t remain their little secret for a while, but endured the good-natured teasing like a true hero.

Which, actually, seemed to be the general consensus of his behavior.

“That fucking battle, let me tell you.”, Cassian managed to get out in-between mouthfuls of food, “One second, we’re all in deep shit. Next, the whole right flank – incinerated. Nothing but darkness all around. And I just thought: ‘What the hell, who else in this army can wield that kind of power?’. Turns out”, Cassian clapped Azriel on the shoulder affectionately, “Az here did that all by himself.”

‘Az here’ looked ready to bolt into a far-off mountain village.

“How did you figure out to do that anyways? And why has that brilliant idea not come to you during the multiple wars we already fought?”, Cas asked.

Azriel just shrugged, clearly not comfortable with the question, which caused Cassian to roll his eyes at him. “Gwyn, any ideas what to make of it?”

Gwyn of course had an idea, but she also new Az didn’t really want to talk about it yet. So she answered carefully, “Maybe it was a burst of emotion. Your Shadows seem to react to that sometimes.”

“I got a bit angry.”, Azriel confirmed in a low, almost gentle voice. The explanation was clearly aimed at Gwyn, but it was Cass who answered.

“A bit angry my ass. He cut the guy’s head clean off his shoulders and then released a blast of power that had Rhys do a double take from the other side of the field.”

Cassian shook his head, and that was that. The conversation then turned to way more comfortable topics, and as soon as Cassian finished eating, Nesta flashed him ‘the eyes’. Both were out of their seats within seconds, not even bothering with an explanation.

Not that either Azriel or Gwyn needed one as they exchanged a long-suffering look.

“Can I interest you in a flight?”, he asked, already making his way to the balcony. His eyes sparkled with mirth and happiness, and Gwyn had never been more in love.

“Well, yes, you can.”, she pranced over to him, lacing her fingers with his and letting him take the lead to the railing. She always wanted to fly with him. “One more thing, before I lay my life into your hands.”

“They are very capable hands. But sure, go ahead.”, the Shadowsinger smirked at her in such an openly flirty way it made Gwyn blush. But she powered through.

“Soo. The angry tantrum you threw. You think it had anything to do with the bracelet almost ripping?”, she asked, the truth in her words confirmed as she took in his shocked reaction. Well, if you counted a slight widening of his eyes as outright shock.

“How on earth did you guess that?”, he replied, pulling her closer by the waist. “You’re too smart for your own good, Berdara.”

Gwyn giggled in triumph. She would not rat out Cassian and the hint from his message, not if it meant that Azriel thought her to be psychic. “It made sense. With you seeming so crestfallen as it ripped.”

The atmosphere changed after she said that, his playful attitude turning somber.

“It was a difficult few days. We lost a good chunk of our army, some valuable assets too, and both my brothers turned to their respective partners for solace while I stayed by the campfire.”, he spoke the words very matter-of-fact, but they hit Gwyn nonetheless. She could picture it, how he had to stay in the cold darkness without the comfort of a loved one.

“I’m not saying you should have come with me. To this day, I’m thankful you decided to stay.”, he quickly added, “Usually, this kind of misplaced jealousy would leave me hopeless and angry. But I felt your bracelet around my wrist, so instead I started to remember you. The thoughts of you, your smile, your gorgeous freckles – it felt like you were physically present. All my hope and dreams anchored to the bracelet. It spurred me on, because I wanted to win this war so you could live in peace. And it reminded me not to lose my temper and strike without thinking, so that I might return and have the courage to admit my feelings to you.”

“But that one time, I let anger take over. Because it nearly ripped. And it felt like I was about to lose that one tether I still had to you. The thought made me mad with rage.”

Gwyn stared at him in awe. At the male, who had saved her home yet again, and who’s unyielding loyalty made her heart race.

“We definitely have to work on your anger management.”

Azriel snorted, but nodded his agreement. He leaned down to carefully brush his lips against hers, the silent question answered by the priestess as she rose to her tiptoes to deepen the kiss. She was certain she’d never get enough of this.

“I’m so proud of you, Az. For getting through his, fighting for me and your family, for coming back to me. I love you.”

Being able to say it so freely now was a groundbreaking experience. Especially when it ultimately led to the great Shadowsinger blushing.

“Back to the topic of anger management though-”, Azriel said as he moved to scoop Gwyn off the floor, ready to take flight, “What was that again you said about Cassian earlier?”

Gwyn’s arms looped around his neck, holding on for dear life even though they were still firmly grounded. Her teasing would come to bite her in the ass now, it seemed. “Umm, I think it was that I hoped him and Nesta would return today. And ‘yay’, it came true.”

Lying by omission wasn’t too bad, right?

Azriel nodded pensively. “I seem to remember. But after that, I just recall feeling like I was stabbed in the heart.”

Gwyn had to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning. This playful side of him was her new favorite thing. “Weird. Heartburn?”

“You might be right.”, he answered slowly. Their eyes caught for a second. Then, Azriel stepped onto the railing, Gwyn still tightly cradled in his arms. He turned his back to the precipice, and the grin that graced his features felt simultaneously joyous and dangerous. “Must have been heartburn.”

He let himself fall backwards, laughing out freely as Gwyn shrieked with excitement. The drop lasted only for a second, before Azriel turned and caught them with the spread of his mighty wings. They lurched upwards again, sailing on a breeze towards the city of Velaris.

“I sincerely hope you are deaf on one ear now!”, Gwyn laughed. She was barely able to form the words from the wide smile that seemed to be permanently plastered to her face when she was with him. Even though her stomach remained somewhere on the balcony, she already loved flying.

“And I sincerely hope you think twice before you tease me.”, he answered in mock seriousness. He added a quick kiss to her cheek for good measure, just in case she misunderstood him. “You being with me now– it means you have to spare me from heartbreak like that.”

“I never took you for someone who likes to be coddled.”, Gwyn shot back.

“Ohh, you clearly don’t know what you got yourself into.”, Azriel drawled, banking right to fly over the outskirts of Velaris.

Gwyn thought to herself that she was more than happy to figure it out.

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

What if I'm far from home? Oh, brother, I will hear you call What if I lose it all? Oh, sister, I will help you out

O'ravi and her brothers over the years, and the journey that takes her where they could never follow

lore/context under the cut :>

Pre-ARR (first two pictures): Ravi was close to her brothers when they were young, but they grew apart over time for a laundry list of reasons. Morha, the long-haired one, is neurotypical where Rhafa (the rdm) and Ravi are not; he also tends to be the more responsible rules-following type. Very "we have a Duty(TM)" type attitude, and when Ravi "failed" what was expected of her or resented her lot in life, it irked him. He didn't understand how awful it was to be invisible, overlooked, and quietly ostracized among your own family, which is what Ravi had to suffer for years. When Ravi decided to leave home, they had a huge fight about it, and poor Rhafa was caught in the middle—he didn't feel like he belonged, either, and in his heart he wanted to follow his beloved sister into the unknown, but his status quo existence in Morha's shadow was safer, so he stayed behind. He worked up the courage to leave for Limsa Lominsa a couple years later, leaving Morha alone with their tribe in the Sagolii.

ARR patches (3rd and 4th pictures): O'ravi reunites with Rhafa for the first time since she left home.

Pre-ShB (5th and 6th): After hearing how the Warrior of Light fell at the Ghimlyt Dark, Morha makes the trip to Mor Dhona. Their reunion is uneasy—they've been estranged for a number of years now—and maybe it's the exhaustion from the unending slaughter and war or maybe it's the apathy that comes with being at rock bottom, but she doesn't turn him away.

Shadowbringers (8 and 9): O'ravi faces Emet-Selch in the Tempest, knowing that whether she wins or loses, she will die there. Meanwhile, her brothers pore over their copies of the letter she sent as a last goodbye. (Lyrics are from Fare Thee Well, Northumberland by The Cottars.)

Post-ShB (10-16): Obviously, O'ravi didn't die when she thought she would. Some time after she returns to the Source, with Tataru's help she arranges a meeting with her brothers under the guise of someone wanting to hire them for a job. The complicated mess of feelings can wait til later—for now, they're just happy to have her back.

[breezingwing]

Have you ever thought about taking control back from your Dark Templar girlfriend?

Dont you ever think that maybe she deserves a taste of her own medicine after teasing you for so long?

Not that you mind her surprising you with her invisibility powers. All of it, the random hugs, the way she pounces on you, the way she uses you when she wants - you got quite comfortable with that already.

So one evening, when she brought you down to the floor as she likes to do, undressing you and pinning you so that she, completely invisible, would be able to ride your cock as usual, you had a surprise prepared for her.

You felt her body with your hands as she rode you, seeing your cock twitching inside her, shiny from how well it's lubed up inside her pussy. Of course, your hands felt no clothing - she knew how hot it was to be naked around you, hidden by her psionic power from your perception. She walked around like that even when she wasn't fucking you, at times.

Of course, it was like a game to her - teasing you with faint outlines of her naked form - but you were about to make her lose that game. And your plan was so simple, too.

Your arms simply caressed her as she rode you. You looked her in the eyes (where you thought her eyes would be), and you spoke, softly:

"You're amazing at this, honey~~ Have I not told you how much i love you?"

And it works! You instantly see a faint outline of her as her movement stutters for a bit. You hear echoes of her thoughts resonating from her mind: "…Loves me? Loves me??" Her psionic powers were always strong, after all.

Her movement stops and she just sits on top of you, your cock still deep inside her. Her form slowly coming into the focus of your eyes, as the flustered girl is losing composure to maintain the psionic invisibility.

She's covering her face in embarrassment, while you bask in the glory of your victory - and how hot your Protoss girlfriend is. She's fully visible now, and you cant tear your eyes away from her breasts.

As she slowly look up at you and realizes that you can see her clearly, fully exposed, and sitting deep on your cock, the warrior you're used to (not) seeing in front of you becomes a stuttering mess, and you capitalize on it, pushing her to the floor and pinning her by her hands. You ram your cock deep inside her, and follow up with a dozen, nonstop compliments - all about her looks, of course.

As you realize from her cute noises that the girl spreading her legs before you can not even form a coherent thought anymore, your deliberate movements inside her cunt turn into a mindless, energetic breeding that your girl deserved oh-so-very-much.