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lancedoncrimsonwings · 1 month ago

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Love this analysis @vaquinhadecogumelinhos and that sketch is gorgeous!

Daniel Sharman talked about the fact he did ballet to help inform his movements as the Weeping Monk, along with Muay Thai!

Both in the book and in the show, Lancelot is described as lean, yet he's still strong enough to kick people off their feet...

(Best gif I could find, not quite it but ah well!)

... and is able to use a longsword/bastard sword to deliver a killing blow to TWO Trinity Guard in ONE strike- which takes a heckuva lot of strength to do, so he's clearly deceptively strong for his size.

He's tall- and taller than he often tries to seem, as he has a habit of hunching and tensing down when around Carden- as if he's trying to make himself appear smaller.

He's flexible enough to do the incredibly acrobatic Samurai-esque sword-fighting style (which appears to be a mix of multiple fighting styles) and we'll ignore the fact he seems to limp in the scenes you do see him walk during Cursed because Daniel Sharman broke his ankle whilst filming.

He clearly spends a great deal of time stretching to keep his mobility (whether he's hypermobile or not, though I suspect he is) as to have so much strength behind his attacks WITH such a high level of flexibility requires practice and consistent training.

Despite his height and evident strength, he's not overly muscular, but he is athletic and acrobatic; an ideal build for a dancer in general.

To add it all together, I completely agree, Ballet is where it's at for Lancelot at the very least. He may even (As Daniel Sharman did) actually use Ballet in order to remain fighting fit.

It would also make sense to me if Ballet was a cultural dance for Ash Folk too, and that Lancelot could be subconsciously expressing that as he fights.

It's repeatedly stated that The Weeping Monk uses the way he moves during battle as an outlet for his emotions, having little opportunity to express them otherwise, and is outright forced to hide them around the Paladins.

His battle, much like dance, is an expression.

Just watch him fight- you tell me battle ISN'T a dance to him!

One that sometimes involves unwilling dance partners named Goliath, apparently.

10/10 Loving this concept.

(Also I'm living for this Lancelot and Squirrel interaction oh my GODS!)

I did dance headcanon and i am absolutely happy about it.

Yes you didn't read wrong. I was peacefully doing a ballerina drawn during one of my classes, and i remember that ballet dance was patented by the french. More specifically Louis XIV. And it's okay that ballet actually originated in Italy, but I'll politely leave that in the corner. With all due respect.

there is the unfinished drawning if you're interested:

Now, who else is french? Exacly. Lancelot du Lac. But i didn't wanted to do a cultural dance for Lancelot and the Ashfolk and leave Gawain, Squirrel, Pym, Nimue and the Skyfolk aside. They're a big, dysfunctional, but happy, family. So i decided to make a cultural dance for both of them and i'm going to explain why in this post. Which probably will be quite long.

The ashfolk and Ballet.

As i have said before, i know that ballet is not originally french, but italic. If you didn't know about this before, yes, ballet origins are italic. The dance came to France when Catherine de Medici married whit the King Henry II of France. but it was only patented by Louis XIV, the Sun King, years later, and it became popular among high society.

And i do know france have a lot more of cultural dances like: Cancan, quadrilha, gavotte, minuet and more. But reading each of them to try to fit it and not be stuck in the stereotype, i realized that, no, none of them actually mached whit Lancelot personality. And not just Lancelot. His family was incribably cristhian in the legends, and strict too, so the other dances didn't fit what i was looking for. So that's why i chosed ballet as the ashfolk cultural dance.

Lancelot/The Ashfolk and Ballet.

Now, when i talk about Lancelot in the weeping monk adaptation, the first thinga that came to my mind are his past abuse and his melancholy. Obviously how absolutely pretty he is too, but that's not the point. And whit the past abuse and scenes like: When Carden slaps him in the face because he asked for mercy for Squirrel; We see how he is constantly expected and forced to be rigid and up to standard one hundred percent of the time. Which, depending on which perid we see, matches whit how ballerinas were treated.

Most people from outside see the ballet houses - As we call from where i'm from - by the pictures and shows, but also by those overexaggerated pictures from internet where we see the ballerinas's foot and bodys badly hurted by the sneakers and the injuries caused. And a lot of people believe that ballet is like dance moms, I don't know if that's the correct name of the show, but that actually doesn't happen. I'm not saying it never happens, but it's not how you see or think. It's not just delicacy and elegance, but it's also not just demands and frequent pressure. As a former child dancer, I know that there is a lot of pressure on dancers, even children, and depending on which house you're from, you can end up having an abusive house where you are excessively demanded and overstandard.

Having explained that. Ballet is an elegant and graceful dance, but it takes time, strength and a lot of dedication. And of course, with many expectations about perfection and rigid routines and trains. Which matches Lancelot's personality perfectly. "Perfect" steps with elegance and lots of training and effort. The difference is that if Lancelot had had a ballet house, he would have ended up in an abusive one with obvious problems but which no one dares to comment on.

Lancelot doesn't talk much in the show or in the legends, and the ballet is not a play with words, but rather one where a story is told through music and movement, which is perfect for our darling who barely speaks.

Ballerinas at first don't wear pointe shoes, their feet were flat on the floor like in any other dance, but over time it was added to make the ballerinas look bigger and elegant, and Lancelot also fits into this, along with most French people.

Ballerinas' bodies are thin and yet very strong, and by the looks of Lancelot's as well. You can't look at my face and say that that man eats three meals a day healthily, that's a lie that not even the devil can forgive.

Ballet is known mainly for its elegant jumps, endless pirouettes and, as my little sister calls it and I think it's incredibly cute, "kicks in the air" - which would be the splits and opening the legs in pirouettes. Lancelot has a similar fighting style, with lots of kicks, somersaults and spins. What I particularly like to think of as an adaptation of his cultural dance to a fight. so he has at least something from home nearby every day, even if not in the best way.

Ballet pieces were formerly known for paying homage to Greek myths, love, nature and life. Which refers to the fey nature and how Lancelot became known for his love for Guinevere in the legends.

Everything mentioned is a way of explaining why Lancelot suits ballet better than the other dances I studied, even if I tried to avoid stating the obvious.

The ashfolk and ballet culture

Now listen to me carefully. Yes, bale is a very delicate dance that needs rehearsals and that wouldn't make sense in something like: Simple dance at a cultural celebration because the music was nice. But this can get solved.

For this type of occasion, I like to think that the relaxed ballet dance on lighter cultural occasions where they simply want to dance, could be in the style of Marianela Nuñez's dance in Don Quixote in 2013 in the first act, just more relaxed and with more improvised movements.

Their clothes would also be less elegant and more focused on comfort due to heightened senses. And of course, because they have a type of connection with fire, the clothes would be vibrant and with more handmade details attached to the clothes.

But when it was for the plays and presentatios they would use what we usually see in the ballet shows, but more adapted to their time and conditions.

Lancelot and ballet presentations i see him doing

Lancelot in the weeping monk have this melancholy attached to him. When you talk about the weeping monk the fist thing you'll say about him is: "He's depressed." And there is just so much presentations knowed for their melancholy and saddnes and death as their signature mark too! The most famous is Swan Lake, but i can also see him doing ballet plays like: Giselle, Sylvia and The Corsair, etc.

He would totaly do the black swan and you won't convince me the contrary; The act two of Giselle is totally him; I won't mention Corsair and Sylvia cause i cannot put into words what i'm feeling about both plays righ now, i'm still in the overcoming phase, but if you waavth it you'll get what i'm saying.

Scene time!

Squirrel was eagerly telling Lancelot about the cholheita ritual they would do next spring, telling him every detail about their dance and how Nimue, Pym and Gawain were excited about it and how incredible they would look prancing the gods in their traditional clothes.

The little one spoke like a rattlesnake without stopping to breathe, and Lancelot, as always, listened to everything without any problems with the one-sided conversation. At one point in the conversation, Squirrel changes the topic to how he would love to see other spring celebrations and other people's dances. And then came the inevitable question:

"Hey, what's your cultural dance? Do you dance?" Squirrel asks looking at him with those big curious eyes.

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to rigidly deny and end what he knew was coming in the bud, but the boy spoke so eagerly and with so much enthusiasm about the subject that he didn't have the heart to lie to him at that moment. He sighs and accepting his fate for the next few hours, responds. "Yes. In my village we danced ballet. I danced my share of times while I could."

"Ballet? like that delicate and elegant dance that makes you stretch to the maximum, full of jumps and things like that?" He asks with those eager eyes and fingers clenching in anticipation.

"Yes, that same one. I was a ballerina."

"That's so cool! You not only dance, you dance ballet!" Squirrel speaks excitedly, almost jumping from where he was sitting. Excitement was written everywhere on his body. "Oh oh, can you do that thing where you stretch your leg up there?! eh.. I forgot the name, but you know what it is."

Lancelot smiles at the boy's imminent excitement, almost enough to smell it. This was going to be a long evening.

Additions.

I thought about talking about the cultural dance I chose for the skyfolk too, but this post is already too far away so I'll leave it for another post. The dance is not very well known, but you will agree with me when you read the next post.

If you've read this far, congratulations, you're a champion. Thank you for your time and patience.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

#Thank you for the tag OP I read every word #the weeping monk #cursed netflix #lancelot #lancelot the weeping monk #weeping monk

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owmyeyeballs · 1 year ago

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Batstarion Fic

I had to. Batstarion is too adorable for words. He's still a spawn in this fic, because I say so. Tav is Silence, my tiefling monk, and she's so done with her adorable weird vampire

It’s probably nothing. Of course it’s nothing. He’ll show up any minute. He’s fine, everything will be fine… Silence had been pacing so long, she wondered she hadn’t worn out the Elfsong’s shiny floorboards. Astarion was missing. Astarion had been missing for hours. Usually at this time of day he would be lounging at her side, reading a book and cradling a glass of wine. Ordinarily Silence wouldn’t have worried quite so much, but since the death of Cazador, Astarion had been a mess. Joyous one minute, on the verge of weeping the next, and through it all, extremely reluctant to leave Silence’s side.

He probably just needed some space. He’s probably just gone to track down some prey. He’s probably totally fine, and hasn’t fallen victim to a vengeful spawn, or a Bhaal-crazed murderer, or…

The door opened, and Silence turned in worried expectation, only to find Wyll regarding her sympathetically.

“Still no sign of our favourite bloodsucker, I take it?”

“Nothing. I should be out looking for him.”

Wyll came to stand by her, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“You should be with the rest of us at the bar, relaxing. Astarion’s a grown man. There’s no sense worrying until we know for sure we have cause.”

“He’s barely been out of my sight since Cazador, and this city is dangerous, and…”

“And Astarion has two hundred years of experience navigating those dangers. I tell you what, if he’s still gone in another hour, I’ll join you, and we’ll go looking for him together. But until then, try to relax. I know Astarion’s been a little out of sorts since taking down Cazador. But so have you.”

Silence opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. In truth, Wyll was right. After coming so very close to losing her lover, she had barely relaxed once.

“… You may have a point.”

Wyll smiled warmly, and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Try to relax. If you won’t join us downstairs, at least sit down for a while up here. Even with your light feet, we can hear you pacing your way through the floorboards!”

As he left her to rejoin the others, Silence took his advice, collapsing on her bed. The absence of Astarion laying beside her, holding her close, did little to ease her worries. Without the vampire to hug, she clutched a pillow to her chest instead.

“Where are you, Stars…”

Her eyes drifting aimlessly across the elegantly furnished room, until they came to rest on her alchemy bag. A thought darted across her mind, and she leapt to her feet once more, taking the bag and rifling through the contents, until at last her hand closed on the bottle she wanted.

“I mightn’t be able to sniff you out, but I know who can!”

Scratch had settled quite happily into the Elfsong, and had already become a familiar presence at the bar, delighting in being petted and fed treats by patrons in various stages of inebriation. Seeing Silence, his tail began to wag, and he loped across the room to meet her. The taste of the animal speaking potion still lingering on her tongue, Silence knelt to scratch behind his ears.

“Hope you’re keeping well, Mistress! You haven’t joined us tonight! You’re missing out! There’s been singing!”

“I’m well enough, but worried,” Silence replied. “And I think you might be able to help me. Do you think you can track someone for me?”

Scratch tilted his head, the wagging of his tail slowing a little.

“I think so… But is it Astarion you want me to track? That… Might be a problem.”

Silence felt her heart begin to race in fear.

“Why? What’s happened? Do you know something?”

“He’s alright, Mistress. Well, I think he’ll be alright. But he made me promise not to tell!”

Silence frowned.

“Not to tell me what? Please, Scratch. I’ve been worried sick!”

Scratch let out a low whine, and tilted his head again.

“I don’t know… He said he’d bite me if I told! But… He likes you so much. I don’t think he’d like you to be worried… That makes telling you alright, doesn’t it?”

“I think so! And don’t worry, I won’t let him bite!”

Scratch let out a sigh, his tail wagging once more.

“If you go back to your room, Mistress, I’ll bring him to you there.”

Giving Scratch one last pat, Silence rose to her feet, halfway between relieved and worried.

What in nine Hells have you gotten up to, Stars?

Silence didn’t have long to wait before finding out. She had barely settled back onto her bed when she heard Scratch’s claws clicking merrily on the floorboards, and her lover’s voice raised in indignation.

“If you don’t drop me at once, you filthy hound, I’ll visit you tonight and drain every last drop of blood from you! Do you hear me? You miserable fleabag, I mean it!”

Scratch came bounding into the room, something white in his mouth. Something winged and flapping angrily, and yelling in Astarion’s voice as it was dropped at Silence’s feet. A bat. A white, fluffy, red-eyed bat.

“At last! Ugh, I’m covered in your slobber, you beast! I ought to…”

Red eyes looked up at Silence, and blinked.

“Ah. Darling. I… Suppose I ought to explain.”

Silence knelt, and scooped the bat – Astarion? – up off the floor. He flapped his wings clumsily, trying to get his balance, and clawed feet gripped at her hands. Torn between laughing and shouting in disbelief, she stroked her thumb over soft, fluffy white fur.

“You’re a bat.”

Astarion heaved a sigh, and shot a glare at Scratch.

“I’ll deal with you later, mongrel. Now, shoo!”

“Ignore him, Scratch. But you can go back and have fun with the others.”

Tail wagging and tongue lolling out happily, Scratch left. Astarion gave an annoyed huff and folded his wings. Or, attempted to. His control over them seemed to be somewhat lacking.

“Well. I suppose an explanation is in order. I found a book, you see. When we were looting Cazador’s palace. A book on vampires, and vampire spawn. Turns out the bastard was keeping even more from us than I realised!”

He waved a wing angrily, nearly falling from Silence’s hands. She quickly sat down on the bed, and set Astarion down on a cushion.

“Turns out I’m capable of more than I realised. All of us spawn are. Apparently Cazador didn’t want us to get any ideas… According to what I’ve read, I ought to be able to turn to mist, to walk upside down on ceilings, to… Well, to turn into a bat. It took some experimenting, but I figured it out! Only…”

Silence bit her lip to keep a laugh from bursting out.

“Only you can’t work out how to turn back?”

Astarion groaned, burying his head in his wing in embarrassment.

“More than that, I can’t even figure out how to make this useless form fly! I’m stuck as a winged rat, scrabbling around on the ground… Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly been stepped on? And the kitchen cats tried to make a meal of me! I had to beg that damned mutt for protection! And… Are you laughing? Is this funny to you?”

Unable to hold in in any longer, Silence let out a snort of laughter, and only laughed harder as the little white bat gave her what he clearly imagined to be a ferocious glare.

“I’ve been worried about you, you precious bastard! And all the time you were a cute little bat!”

She scooped him up again and pressed a kiss to his furry head, holding him up and taking in the long, twitching ears, the leaf-like nose, the sharp little teeth he revealed as he shouted.

“Will you take this seriously? Imagine what the others are going to say! The sheer indignity will kill me!”

“That’s what you get for skulking around and playing with powers you don’t know how to use! Now, where’s this book? We’ll see if we can’t find a way to change you back.”

“Outside, on one of the tables out the back. Assuming no one’s stolen it, that is. Wait, you’re not leaving me here? What if the cats come back?”

Silence, paused, halfway through placing Astarion down on the bed again. He flapped his wings in indignation, and she sighed and placed him on her shoulder instead.

“There. Stop getting yourself in a flap – literally. Those wing claws are sharp!”

At last, with Astarion settled on her shoulder, Silence made her way downstairs, where the tavern rang with cheerful singing. Astarion let out a slight groan.

“Let’s get out of here, quickly. This form has sensitive ears, and that drunken caterwauling is making my head throb!”

Silence tried her best to avoid the rest of the party as she made her way to the door, but with no luck. Spotting her, Gale cried out.

“Ah, there you are! Joining us at last? Come on, pull up a chair, pour a glass! Hello… What have you got there?”

“Oh gods...” Astarion groaned, as Gale approached, looking curiously. “He’ll be insufferable…”

“Well, aren’t you a chatty little fellow?” Gale asked, reaching out to stroke the bat’s head. Astarion snapped at him. “And bitey! Reminds me of Astarion. Any luck tracking him down?”

“Don’t you dare tell him!” Astarion hissed. “I’ll die of embarrassment!”

Gale couldn’t understand, Silence realised. Not without the animal-speaking potion. Although… Her eyes darted to the bar, where Halsin stood close by. Sure enough, the druid was smiling, having clearly understood.

“It seems our pale friend is in something of a predicament! How have you managed that, Astarion?”

“Astarion?” Gale frowned, and looked around the bar. At long last, his eyes returned to the bat currently fuming on Silence’s shoulder. “He isn’t… Is he?”

Well, there was no avoiding it now. One by one, the others turned their attention to Astarion, who hid his face in his wings.

“That’s Astarion?” Karlach cried, leaping from her seat and coming to pet his fur. “He’s so cute! And soft! Aren’t you just precious?”

“Certainly an interesting development,” Wyll remarked. “Could be useful for scouting ahead, or getting to places we can’t…”

“Have you figured out your wings yet?” Halsin asked. “Many druids struggle with flight when they first take a winged form. I can offer some advice, should you need it?”

Astarion flapped his wings angrily, brushing away Karlach’s hands and nearly falling from Silence’s shoulder in the process.

“Unhand me! Gods above, get me out of here!”

“Aww, listen to the cute little squeaks!” Karlach exclaimed. “Is he having a little tantrum?”

“He’s… a little overwhelmed. We’re going to go back upstairs and try to figure things out. See you all later!”

The book, thankfully, was where Astarion had said it would be. An ancient volume, full of loose and torn pages, which Silence briefly flicked through curiously. Arcane diagrams, bizarre illustrations, archaic text…

“You can browse it upstairs! Hurry, I can hear the cats coming back!”

“Alright, calm down. Relax, I’m not going to let you be a cat’s dinner.”

Making a brief detour past the bar for a bottle of wine, Silence hurried back upstairs, and settled onto her bed, the book in front of her, Astarion settling himself onto her lap. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she tried not to laugh as he clumsily attempted to open the cover with his wings, and failed, a giggle bursting out.

“Will you stop laughing? Do you have any idea how hard these wretched things are to control? They feel as if they ought to work like hands, but they don’t! I can’t pick anything up, I can’t turn pages… I can’t even scratch my nose!”

“You’ll figure it out in time, I’m sure. In the meantime…”

Silence gently scratched at the delicate, leaflike nose with one fingertip. Then, unable to resist the soft fur, turned her attention to the fur around his ears. Astarion closed his eyes, letting out a little sigh.

“Well… that I could get used to…”

With one hand now dedicated to bat-scratching, Silence opened the book with the other.

“Right, where were you up to?”

“There’s a page marked with a ribbon. Turn to that one.”

Silence obliged, turning to a page covered with illustrations of bats. Cruel-looking things, not at all like the fluffy white creature in her lap. Seemingly content in his lover’s lap, satisfied that his problem could soon be solved, and rather enjoying having his ears scratched, Astarion yawned, showing off those sharp little fangs again.

“Now, then. If you’d be so good as to turn the pages when I tell you…”

Peace settled over the room. Silence could make little sense of the archaic style of writing, but Astarion seemed to be puzzling it out. She sipped her wine, humming idly, the bat’s fur so very soft under her fingers…

“I wonder… Would you mind?”

Astarion flapped a wing clumsily at the glass in her hand.

“Seriously?”

“What? Perhaps things taste different in this form! It has to come with some perks!”

Silence gave a snort of laughter, but lowered the glass to Astarion’s level all the same, watching him lean over the rim.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Ugh! Gods, if anything, it tastes worse!”

The white fur around his mouth was now stained red, and he clumsily tried to wipe it with his wings. Silence rolled her eyes, and drained the glass herself.

“Now, if you’re done experimenting, ready for me to turn the page?”

How much time passed, Silence couldn’t say. After a while, it occurred to her that she was no longer being asked to turn pages, and the tiny body in her lap was making a rather curious sound.

“Stars? Are you… purring?”

“Hm?” Astarion twitched an ear in her direction, his eyes closed. “I… I suppose I am.”

He yawned again, and the purring resumed. Marking the page, Silence closed the book and set it aside. Gently picking Astarion up, she lay down and settled him on her chest, high enough that he could nuzzle into her neck.

“You seem comfortable, and I’m tired. We can read more in the morning.”

When Silence woke, it was to a familiar figure in bed beside her, arms wrapped around her waist, nose nuzzled into her neck. Letting out a sigh of relief, she stroked a hand through Astarion’s white curls, and scratched lightly at a pointed ear. Not as twitchy and delicate as his bat ears, but still adorable. He gave a sleepy hum of pleasure, and held her tighter.

“Well, last night was interesting. You figured out how to turn back.”

“Not consciously, but it seems the form wears off when I sleep. I think I’ll do some further reading before trying that again.”

“That sounds wise,” Silence agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Though, for what it’s worth, you do make an adorable bat.”

#bg3 fic #astarion #batstarion

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years ago

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AEIWAM - Some details about whats going on with Komamura. IIRC canon said he was a werewolf, are you doing anything with him?

Me: What IS Komamura's backstory? Me: *reads backstory and eventual canon fate of Komamura* Me: Hm. Me: That's thematically weird and depressing. Me: I'll just ignore that :)

---

So in An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy, there's ALL KINDS of animal-people and supernatural creatures of varying degrees of anthropomorphic states in the Soul Society! Wolf people! Yokai! Centaurs But Bad! Snake people (sneople)! Mothmen! Whatever the fuck The Philosopher Wax is! Hell, Zaraki Kenpachi was raised by eagles! More nonhuman persons than you can shake a stick at!

They just stay away from the humans because The Humans are TERRIBLE.

...Not as terrible as my immediate family though, The Young Wolf is willing to gamble. he has to leave his home suddenly, in the middle of the night, frightened and injured. Family feuds are bad enough, but a drought year for a large group of apex carnivores and great-grandmother dying and creating a power vacuum? I'm lucky I got out alive! He reasons, tightening the bandages and wincing.

It doesn't look so bad. he lies to himself, looking at his reflection in the where he had finally collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss the previous night and somehow woke up alive this morning. Great-Grandfather did me a favor, trying to bite me in half like that- a tail would just make it even harder to blend in with the humans!

...Clothes would help more though. He sighs.

One man's trash is another's treasure, and that has never been more true than in the case of wolves that want to live with humans. The Young Wolf nearly weeps with joy when he finds the dump- barely-rotted animal carcasses to eat! broken wood for a fire! and clothes! Big enough to fit him! Alright that's definitely a bloodstain with a big, sort of sword-slash-shaped hole in the middle, but nothing a dunk in the river won't solve!

...Or not. Well, at least being covered in mud is less suspicious than being covered in blood? How does this thing even go on anyway? The garment is so confusing, he almost doesn't hear the humans who came to dump something until they are nearly upon him, and realizing they'll panic if they see his face, he grabs a broken basket and jams it over his head.

"Hey!" one of the humans calls out, seeing the movement. "What're you?" An old man peers around the pile at him, curious.

The Young Wolf sputters- he's heard tales of humans before, but this is the first human he's ever actually seen- The stories tell of their strange dark eyes and flattened faces how their fur is so fine they're nearly bald all over, and this man fits the description perfectly. An old woman- he guesses this one is a Woman, because what little fur she has is longer- she appears behind him, equally curious, then smacks the man under the ear.

"You dummy!" She snaps. "That's a monk!"

"Big damn monk!" The man laughs- indeed, even though he's one of the smallest of his people and not even grown, The Young Wolf towers over him- but still, he extends his open hand. Like the stories say, his claws are blunt and pale and the pads of his paws are soft. "What's yer name, venerable?"

"He can't answer that, he's a monk!" the woman snaps, exasperated. "They got- whatchyamacallit- Vows of Silence!"

"Oh, right!" the old man laughs. "Well, wouldn't matter if you could talk anyhow- my Old Lady's deaf as a post and I'm dumb as a rock! Come on, this is no place for a holy man!" he waved.

"Our home is up this way- it isn't much, but it's better than sleeping in Garbage! You stay with us and I'll fix that ratty old robe right up!" She said, grabbing him by the hand-

Ba-San looks down at his hand- it feels strange in hers, but it's not the fine gray fur covering his fingers or the rough pads on his palm or the dark nails that taper to claws.

It's that the hand is bleeding, scraped and cut and one of his nails missing like it had been torn off in a fight.

Ba-San is so old that everyone has forgotten her name and they just call her Ba-San, even her husband (who is so old that everyone has forgotten his name and calls him Jii-san, even his wife), and she didn't get this ancient by being an idiot. She glances up at the broken basket she knows got thrown in here by her neighbor not a week ago and sees the large golden eyes inside, staring down at her.

She's also old enough to know what a frightened child looks like, no matter how tall or what species he is.

She makes a show of squinting at his hand. "Why, your nails are FILTHY! You can wash up at the well out back too." She pats his hand.

"Of course! That's right!" Jii-san laughs. "Like I said- I got gravel for brains! He can sleep in Sajin's bed- Sajin is our Boy, but he's long since left home. It'll be good to have a young person around again!" he says, taking the boy's other hand.

He follows, stumbling awkwardly in the badly-tied robe and like he's been injured, but if he leaves paw-prints behind him, they don't remark upon it. - After about a month, the boy has something to confess. And something to ask.

Ba-San and Jii-San have been kind to him- they let him into their home and fed him and Ba-San didn't fix his robe so much as make an entirely new one "appropriate for a Monk", and Jii-san found a pair of old work gloves for him "so you can do your Good Works without losing another nail". Ba-San always gives him her soup-bones "I don't have the teeth to chew them anymore" and Jii-san always moves over so they can both sleep in the sun-patch that appears in the middle of their home every afternoon.

He's tried to repay them how he can- he's tall enough to fix the holes in the roof of their one-room shack standing flat-footed on the floor, and he carries water from the well every day to wash the stone steps outside and re-painted the red gate out front and every morning he makes them breakfast to wake them up and every night he rubs their tired necks and shoulders.

"Mmm-rr." he tries at breakfast, and they both look up, but it's hard enough practicing human words in the woods behind the shack to the birds, let alone now, at the table with the two people he cares most about in the world.

"You say something, Venerable?" Jii-san asks. "Don't worry- I won't tattle to the abbot on you-" he teases.

"Shush!" Ba-san barks at him. "What is it?"

He sighs, and tries again, focusing on the sounds. "mMnoddamunk."

The two elders stare blankly at him.

"Ahm nodda munk." he tries again, enunciating better. "Ahm nodda yumn eethrr."

The two look at each other, then turn back to him and place a hand on each of his.

"...Sorta figur'd the first when you didn't recognize the shrine." Nods Jii-san. "-But that's alright. You take good care of us."

"...Sort of figured the second when I saw your hand on the day we met." Nods Ba-San. "-But that's alright. You're a good person, which is a very different thing than being a Good Human."

The Boy stares at them, stunned, then cringes, embarrassed. Of course! They're old, not stupid. "Aiyee- r-r-r MN! Aiyee LLied." he apologizes, stumbling over the difficult consonant in the middle, determined to conquer it.

"I didn't hear any lies, did you, Jii-san?" asks Ba-san.

"I didn't hear nothin' and my ears even work!" he grins, ears perking up.

The Boy sighs, still exasperated with their antics but mostly relieved.

...Then something Jii-san said caught up with him, and he frowns.

"Aiyee- Aye haffa..." Another tricky consonant. "Aye needa assk ssmmng." he changed tracks. L was enough of a battle for one day, Q and his frustrating wife U could wait.

"Whadday wanna know, Venerable?" Jii-san asked, and Ba-san frowned, turning her ear out behind their home, already suspecting his questions.

He held up two fingers and they nodded, waiting. He'd gotten very good at numbers and pointing already, and until today, that had carried the conversation. "sssHrrine?" he asked.

Jii-san frowned. "...what's your second question?"

"th-Therre'ss ah- Grrrave?" he pointed out behind the shrine, to where a stone stood, with what he now recognized as marks signifying a name carved into it. "wHo?"

Ba-San and Jii-san looked at each other, distraught for some time before Ba-San finally turned back to him, both hands on his.

"...Venerable," She finally spoke. "You had to run away from home in a hurry, didn't you?"

The boy nods.

"-And Jii-san and I were the first people you met that weren't you family, right?" She continues.

He nods again. She purses her lips, agitated.

"Jii-San." She finally speaks. "I think we ought to show him Sajin."

Jii-san sighs and nods, agreeing with her, and stands up. At the back of the house, there is a little cabinet with two boxes they never open, and something covered by a black cloth. Jii-san opens the cabinet and takes out the thing covered by the black cloth, pulling the cloth aside and bringing the thing to the table. It's a flat rectangle, and on it is a drawing of a very strange creature.

It's face is almost perfectly circular, and it's body covered in clothes, like how Humans dress, including a funny hat. What the boy can see of the creature is perfectly smooth and hairless and the same color as not-quite-ripe peaches. It has a long mane of straight dark gray hair growing from the top of its head, and a beard a bit like a billy-goat's

"This is Sajin," Says Jii-san, voice wavering a bit. "He wasn't our son- you can tell, we're not related by blood- but he was Our Boy. He took care of us, like you do now."

"He was Our Boy." nods Ba-San, on the verge of tears. "Then he was Our Man. And then he was Our Old Man, and then-" She stopped, and began to cry in earnest. "-And then he left home, and we buried his body out behind the shrine, and marked his grave, as Humans do."

The boy continued to stare at Sajin's portrait. "...Sajin." he whispered, and the name didn't fight him at all. "...Ihff- if Sajin iss Yumann-?" he looked up at his friends. "Whattrrre You?"

Ba-San beckons him and Jii-san back to the cabinet, and puts her hand on one of The Boxes They Never Open. Jii-San puts his hand on the other, and together, the open the lids just a tiny bit for The Boy to see inside.

He gasps and steps back in horror- the things in the boxes are very much like the skulls he's seen of his people before, but the noses are all smooshed like they didn't grow right, and the eyes are too large and- -And they're just the right size each to belong to Ba-San and Jii-San.

"We are Koma, Guardian Dogs, and this is our shrine." Says Jii-san, closing the lid on his box as Ba-san closed hers, and placing the drawing of Sajin back on the shelf above them. "We wear clothes and speak like humans because we once took Names, a very long time ago, and thus we are People and we act like People." He explained.

"Nnames?" the boy asks.

"A Name is... a sort of contract, that the humans made up." Says Ba-San, locking the cabinet back up. "Humans can live together in such huge packs and crowded cities because they have Rules- you're not allowed to kill other people except in self-defense. You're not allowed to take food someone else caught. Nobody is allowed to kill a child for any reason, things like that. If you take a Name, it's like saying- 'I am this Person! And I agree to abide by the rules of being a person!', and you have to follow the rules, but everyone else has to follow the rules for you too, because you have a Name. So Humans can live very close to each other, because they all have an understanding that nobody is going to violate those rules."

"It's not just humans that can take names- long ago, some wolves decided to take names, and those wolves became Dogs, that live with humans. They were our ancestors, and like our ancestors, we took Names, and we obeyed the rules, and for that, we were fed and allowed to sleep inside and given soup-bones and let to sleep in the sun-patch, but most of all, we were Loved." Said Jii-san.

"-And just the same, we Loved Sajin. He was Our Boy. And We were His Dogs." Said Ba-san, bursting into tears again. Jii-san held her, tears running down his face as well.

Ba-san cried into Jii-san's shoulder for a long time, and The Boy Who Was A Wolf That Wanted To Live Among The Humans sat in silence, thinking.

"...Cour-could Aye- take a nName?" He asks, slowly.

"You'd have to take two, and learn all the rules-" Nodded Jii-san. "But yes. Anyone who can talk can take a name. And you've been talking my tail off!" he wagged.

"Two?" the boy asked. He didn't need to use his fingers this time.

"Humans have two names- one is the name of that specific human, and one is the name of their family or the place they came from or what they did, as a sort of... Introduction. Humans are very big on introducing themselves and all their friends- though I suppose it makes sense, what with them having names to introduce themselves with."

"You can be a Komamura!" Jii-san said, wagging excitedly. "Ba-san and Jii-san are Koma, and we are your Ba-San and Jii-San, so you must be part of our family, so that makes you Mura, a relative- so you're a Koma-mura!" he nodded.

"Humans also give their children names of revered ancestors, to honor the ancestor, and protect the child." Added Ba-san. "You do Sajin's chores, you sleep in Sajin's bed, you take care of Sajin's Dogs... You must be Sajin!"

"That's your name, if you want it- Komamura Sajin!" Said Jii-san. The Boy stared at them for a long time, completely still, until they realized that, for the first time since they'd known him, the scarred nub on his backside was wagging too.

"Thank you." Said Sajin, tears streaming down his face too. --

Many months later, a Monk* leaves the little shrine to Ba-san and Jii-san at the edge of the dump. He leaves his home in no particular rush- if anything, he's lingering- in the middle of a bright morning, hale and with joy in his heart. He waves to his Ba-san and Jii-san as he heads down the road, promising to come back and visit.

"Look at that." says Ba-San. "Our Boy is leaving home again."

"I know," Says Jii-san. "-but this time it'll be alright."

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #Bleach #bleach fanfiction #sajin komamura #komamura #The Dog Does Not Die!#except for the dogs that are kind of already Dead #but they're alright #I promise

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 years ago

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Cross to Bear

Summary: A certain monk catches the attention of a woman that Uhtred and his men are gracious enough to rescue. Based on this request. Warnings: Brief mentions of cancer, illness, death, abuse and alcoholism. Slight angst. Eventual smut. Word count: ~3.4k

She is sixteen when her mother passes away from the lump in her breast. She cannot grieve. There is no one left to shield her or her younger sister from the beatings that their father is eager to dish out each evening when he stumbles home from the tavern, drunk and stinking of ale. They make the decision to leave, taking their chances out in the world.

The life of a vagrant is hard, but the exhilaration that is found in freedom is simply unmatched. On bad days, she is forced to share her body with strange men in exchange for coin to ensure her and her sister have enough to eat. On good days, they pick wildflowers in the warmth of the sunshine, and at night tell stories as they cuddle up together beneath the stars. They never remain in a single place for long, always moving, always searching for somewhere to call home.

She is eighteen when her sister develops a fever. She soaks rags in a stream to cool the scorching heat of her skin, allows her to drain their waterskin dry without complaint, and rubs her back as the persistent coughing denies her sleep. Within three days her sister is too weak to travel any further. They have been sheltering in dense woodland and are at least a day’s walk from the nearest town, so she cannot go to get help, she cannot risk leaving her alone in the open for so long. She has no choice but to sit and watch her deteriorate, providing what little comfort she can. By the next morning she is gone.

Upon waking to the feel of her sister cold beside her, she finally allows herself to weep. The ache in her chest that she has held at bay for the last two years finally breaches forth, blooming painfully through the expanse of her heart. She cries for the loss of her mother, for the loss of the only friend she had in her sibling and for how utterly lost she feels. Long after her tears have subsided she remains hunched over the body, consumed by her grief.

“If it is fever you must burn the body.”

She has no idea how much time has passed as she has laid there mourning, but the voice startles her out of her stupor and she looks up to see four men on horseback looming over her. She hadn’t even heard them approach.

They look to be mercenaries, all of them wear light armor and carry swords. The man that has addressed her has long dark hair and is brutish looking. One of his travel companions is bearded and surly, while another has a half shaved head; the Mjölnir around his neck indicates he is a Pagan. Ordinarily, she would be fearful in the face of such intimidating looking men, and assume they mean her harm, however, there is something about the fourth man that eases her mind and assures her she is in no danger. He has soft blue eyes and a kind face that wears an expression that suggests he is more afraid of her than she is of him.

“I-I cannot. I am alone.” She confesses, her voice hoarse from her earlier sobs.

“Then you will allow us to help you.” The long haired man insists, climbing down from his horse.

She learns their names are Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric and Osferth. They carry her sister’s body to a clearing and she stands solemnly, numbness settling over her, as she watches it burn.

“Who was she to you?” Finan enquires gently.

“My sister, my only friend, all that I had left.” She doesn’t attempt to hide her despair, she does not have the strength.

“We should say a prayer.” Osferth offers, his voice soft and full of sympathy.

She has never been particularly religious. What kind of a God would allow her to endure all she has been through and think it just? But she finds comfort in his orison, joining in with the “amen” that he finishes with.

“What will you do now?” Finan asks her.

“Truly, I do not know. I have nowhere to go and no one to go with.”

“You can join us.” Uhtred steps forward, eyeing the rest of the group as they all nod their affirmation.

“I have nothing to offer you.” She says, her cheeks flush with shame.

“Neither do we.” Quips Sihtric with a wry smile.

“Then it’s settled.” Finan decides, clapping Osferth on the back. “Baby Monk, she rides with you, you’re scrawny enough that your horse can carry both of you without any trouble.”

When Osferth discovers that she has never ridden on horseback before, he suggests that she rides up front with him behind her, so he can ensure she doesn’t slip off.

He helps her into the saddle and then climbs on after her. Her heart hammers in her chest as he puts his arms around her waist to take hold of the reins. She can feel his leather breastplate pressed against her back. Being in such close proximity to him causes her breathing to quicken and she stays rigid as they set off at a leisurely trot, afraid that he may feel the reaction she is having to him.

“My lady, please relax, or this will be an uncomfortable journey for you.” He tells her, though his voice is hesitant with shyness.

She blushes scarlet with embarrassment, mortified that he has noticed her unease. She does as he says though, settling back against him. His presence is calming, the warmth of him against her coupled with the gentle undulation from the horse soothes her.

A few moments pass in silence before Osferth speaks. “What happened to you?”

“It is a long story.” She sighs.

“It is a long journey.” He counters. She can hear the faintest of smiles in his voice.

She tells him of her mother, her father, of her and her sister leaving home and all they had endured on their travels. She recounts her sister’s fever, of watching her fade, everything up to the point that she had met him.

He listens, allowing her to speak without interruption. When she finishes he is quiet for a moment longer.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lady. I pray better days may find you.” He says eventually.

She sighs, eager to focus the attention on anything other than herself. “And what of you? Do you have a family?”

“There is not much to tell.” He admits. “I was a monk. Now I serve Lord Uhtred.”

She detects a sadness in his tone, there is definitely more to his story, but she dares not press him further as he is clearly uncomfortable speaking of it. She feels foolish for allowing herself to entertain her attraction to him; of course he is a man of God, he’d never be interested in her.

They ride on wordlessly, eventually coming to a stop once the sun begins to set. They set up camp and she is touched by the effort that the four men go to to ensure she has the shelter of a tent and a bedroll to sleep on.

However, she feels too confined as she lays under the canopy, so used to being able to stare up at the night sky, pointing out each of the stars with her sister. She misses her.

Dragging her bedroll out into the open, she places it close to the dying embers of their fire and lays down.

“My lady, what are you doing?” She hears Osferth whisper in the darkness.

“I am not used to not being able to see the sky.” She responds.

When he says nothing, she allows herself to drift off to sleep, feeling the safest she ever has.

Her eyes flutter open as dawn breaks and she is immediately met by the sight of Osferth seated by the burned out fire pit, looking exhausted.

She pulls herself up slightly, rubbing her eyes. “Osferth? You are an early riser.”

He smiles uncomfortably. “Truthfully, my lady, I have not been to bed.”

“Why not?”

“I did not wish to leave you out here by yourself, it’s not safe. I watched over you while you slept.”

Her heart flutters at his admission, an involuntary smile spreading its way across her features, which he returns with a genuine one of his own.

As the weeks pass, she and Osferth become comfortable travel companions. She spends her days leaning into his chest as they travel by horse. They share a waterskin, their fingers brushing ever so lightly as they pass it back and forth. She is unable to help the tingles that dance across her skin at each of his touches.

Their evenings are spent sitting around a fire, their knees grazing as they sit side by side, exchanging shy smiles and stories. He gives up the use of his tent, laying his bedroll out in the open too - a means for him to rest, but also ensure she is kept safe.

The first time that the group shares ale together, dread gnaws at her stomach. She has witnessed the effects that it had on her father, and does not know how she will cope with that when up against four men instead of just one. To her surprise and delight the mood becomes lighter and jovial as the amber liquid is passed around. She happily accepts and drinks her fill when Osferth passes it to her. He laughs when she grimaces at the taste.

She knows she is falling for him and there is nothing she can do to stop it. She is certain he feels the same way though, there can be no other explanation for how he looks at her, how he treats her.

That is until they stop for a few days in a town. She hurriedly follows Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric, as Osferth rushes over to them, pleading for help.

“He’s mine!”

“No, he’s mine, you bitch!”

“Filthy whore!”

She watches in shock as the two women exchange insults, slapping at each other, until Finan and Uhtred eventually pry them apart.

He has fucked both of these women. Both of them.

“Why do they fight over you?” Uhtred asks Osferth, holding back a red haired woman, who struggles wildly against him.

“I-I’ve no idea, Lord!” He stammers, before swiftly walking away.

But she knows why, and her heart sinks. She turns away, blinking back tears as she chastises herself for being so foolish. She had misinterpreted his friendliness for romantic interest and is now left feeling hurt as a result of her own delusions.

She swipes angrily at her eyes, swearing to herself that she will pull away from him after this, no longer allowing herself to entertain the girlish fantasy that they could ever be more than friends.

His behavior towards her goes unchanged though. He still holds her close as they share a saddle, still allows his fingers to linger against her own whenever they share water or ale, he sleeps outside each night with her, though always on separate bed rolls kept a respectable distance apart. It eats away at her, makes her ache, to endure such closeness and know it will never be anything more. Yet she endures it, knowing the only alternative is to return to a life alone.

It is a warm afternoon as she stands knee deep in the river, bathing. The water is refreshing against her bare skin and, for a moment, her troubles seem far away, running off of her in much the same way that the rivulets of moisture slide down her body.

She turns and catches sight of Osferth on the edge of the treeline, watching her. She has no idea how long he has been standing there for, but he freezes when he sees he has been caught.

While she is a novice when it comes to matters of the heart, she is certain the look in his eye is one of desire. Deciding to be bold, she steps out of the water and back onto the bank, not bothering to retrieve her discarded clothing. If her feelings truly were requited then this was the best way to find out.

She walks towards him, closing the gap between them. She can see his breathing is unsteady as he takes in the sight of her, he is trembling slightly. Leaning up on tiptoes, she presses the lightest of kisses to his lips, and her heart swells as, for the briefest of moments, he reciprocates.

As quickly as his lips meet hers, he is jerking away. “No, my Lady!”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Backing quickly away from him, the familiar sting of rejection piercing her heart once more, she grabs her clothes and runs from him, before he has the chance to say anything else. Tears stream freely down her cheeks, this time she does not try to wipe them away. This is the second time she has allowed herself to be drawn in by Osferth, only to endure heartache.

He has now made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in her and she decides it is in her best interests to pull away from him entirely.

She forces herself to sleep inside her tent, becoming used to textile above her head, instead of the glittering stars. She sits as far from him as possible at every opportunity. There are no more shared waterskins, their knees no longer touch. If the rest of the group notice the shift in dynamic then they choose not to say anything. She rides with Sihtric, sitting snugly behind him in his saddle, ignoring the pleading looks of sadness from Osferth each day when she climbs onto another man’s horse and not his.

He is just missing her companionship, she decides, he will get over it when they arrive at the next town and he finds another woman to warm his bed. She hardens her heart, allows her sadness to devolve into anger and continues to keep him at arm’s length.

The day they arrive in Coccham, they spend the day at an alehouse. Uhtred has managed to acquire the only two available rooms upstairs for the evening, so they will have the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed for tonight. She is almost giddy with excitement at the prospect.

When they have drunk their fill, they head up the rickety wooden staircase. Sihtric and Finan file into one room, with Uhtred following close behind. He stops in the doorway, turning to her and Osferth.

“Looks like this room is full now. The pair of you can share that one.” He nods towards the door opposite, before closing his own.

Her face blanches. Bastard. He has done this on purpose.

She sighs, pushing past Osferth and stalking into the room. A small double bed takes up most of the space in the narrow confines.

“Oh, fucking perfect.” She spits, rolling her eyes.

Osferth offers an apologetic smile. “I can sleep on the floor, my Lady, I don’t mind.”

She rounds on him, her anger flaring. “I’m surprised you haven’t found another whore’s bed to share for the evening!”

His eyes widen in shock. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You fucked those other women, Osferth!” She shouts, and before she can stop it, her voice is cracking as the dam bursts and she starts to cry. “You’ll put your cock into anyone but me it seems…”

His face softens and he moves to comfort her, but she is quick to push him away. “What’s so wrong with me?!”

He looks guiltily at her. “There is nothing wrong with you, my Lady, I think you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen actually…”

“But you rejected me! When I tried to kiss you, you rejected me.”

He shakes his head, closing the gap between them and gently grabbing her by the shoulders. This time she doesn’t push him away. “You didn’t give me time to speak.” He explains, looking into her eyes with sincerity. “I wasn’t rejecting you. You deserve better than to be humped against a tree. If you’re to be my woman then I want our first time together to be special.”

She sniffles, her tears subsiding, replaced by confusion. “Your woman? If that is what you wanted then why did you lay with those other women in the last town?”

He sighs, averting his gaze, shame etched across his angular features. “That is not something I’m proud of, my lady. I have wanted you for so long, and been so pent up, I needed a release. I never told you of my feelings because I didn’t think I stood a chance. You are so wonderful and I-I am Osferth. I am simply Osferth.”

Her heart beats wildly against her ribs as she listens to him, staring up at him doe-eyed, unable to resist the grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, you are Osferth.” She whispers, leaning up towards him.

When their lips meet he does not pull away. He wraps his arms around her, his mouth moves hungrily against hers in a kiss that is full of need and desperation. They pull at each other’s clothing, months’ worth of built up longing propelling their movements.

When they are both finally naked, Osferth guides her to lay back on the bend and she drinks in the sight of him appreciatively. While he is tall and slender, he is not as skinny as she’d expected him to be, well developed muscles add a broadness to his chest and shoulders. His erection sits hard, thick and heavy at the apex of his slim thighs and she bites back a moan at the sight of it, arousal pooling hot between her legs.

“You really are beautiful.” He murmurs, his gaze flickering over her form as she lays beneath him. “Will you let me show you just how much I desire you, my Lady? I wish for there to be no doubt in your mind.”

She nods, biting her lip in anticipation, waiting to see what he will do.

His hands trace over every curve of her as moves slowly backwards down the bed, stopping once his face is level with her cunt. Spreading her thighs he inhales sharply at the sight of just how wet she is for him.

There is no preamble, and she gasps, arching her back when she feels the flat of his tongue move through her folds.

He whimpers softly at the taste of her, the sound vibrating through her core, his grip on her thighs tightening as laps greedily at her, occasionally dragging the tip to her pearl, causing her legs to tremble.

She cants her hips against his face, noticing how he ruts against the bed as he devours her, his moans of pleasure intermingle with hers and the sloppy sounds of his lips and tongue moving in earnest against her centre.

As he sucks harshly against the apex of her sex she begins to feel the pressure of her climax building deep within her, her breaths becoming short and shallow. Osferth’s grip on her is almost bruising as the movement of his thrusts against the bed speed up.

With a final swirl against her bud, she falls apart against his mouth, clenching and writhing as he keeps his mouth firmly against her as she cries out in ecstasy, white hot sparks of pleasure rendering her boneless and light headed.

She closes her thighs around his head as he emits a guttural groan against her oversensitive cunny, his own pelvis stuttering against the mattress.

He appears dazed as he finally looks up at her, eyes hazy and chin shiny with her slick. She is certain she must look similarly bedraggled with how hard he has caused her to peak.

“We may have to wait a moment before we do anything else.” He confesses sheepishly, sitting up and looking down at the blankets where he’d been laying.

Her gaze follows his line of sight and she sees the mess he has made, a large patch of the bed now sticky with his release.

“You’re lucky we have the whole night then.” She giggles.

He moves to lay beside her, pulling her against him. “Yes, very lucky.”

Read on AO3

More Osferth fics

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baezen · 3 months ago

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kinktober masterlist

18+ only | main masterlist | list

1. TOUCH – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which Ryan's putty in your hands PROMPT: handjobs

2. PIERCE – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE SUMMARY: in which Ryan's hiding something PROMPT: piercing

3. CAUGHT – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which Ryan's not going to let you get away so easily PROMPT: public sex

4. GOLDEN – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which you're a urinal PROMPT: watersports

5. GAG – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which you're just a hole PROMPT: deepthroat

6. GLORY – UNSPECIFIED MALE CHARACTER SUMMARY: in which you take advantage of a faceless cock PROMPT: glory hole

7. PEG – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: in which Isaac is just a hole PROMPT: pegging

8. CAME A LOT – THE WEEPING MONK SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: edging

9. PET – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: pet play

10. SEATED – KELLY LORD SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: lap dance

11. POINT – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: knife play

12. GASP – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: breath play

13. ROLEPLAY – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: role play

14. PARTY – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: gangbang

15. RUT – PETER HALE SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: abo heats/ruts

16. MILK – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: lactation

17. SQUIRT – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which you're a mess PROMPT: squirting

18. RING – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: cock ring

19. PUPPET – SUMMARY: in which you're worn like a puppet PROMPT: fisting

20. WATCH – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: cuckholding

21. BANG – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: gun play

22. THICK – RIP WHEELER SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: thigh riding

23. BREED – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: breeding kink

24. SOLO – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: in which Isaac can't stop thinking about you PROMPT: masturbation, toys

25. HORN-Y – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: monsterfucking

26. COOL – SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: ice play

27. ANGRY – PETER HALE SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: rough sex

28. CALL – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: phone sex

29. BRAND – RYAN [YELLOWSTONE] SUMMARY: in which you are forever marked as Ryan's property PROMPT: branding

30. PWINCESS – ISAAC LAHEY SUMMARY: in which Isaac feels cute wearing his jewelled princess plug PROMPT: buttplugs

31. MASK – UNSPECIFIED MALE CHARACTER SUMMARY: tbc PROMPT: consensual non-consent, masked sex, anonymous sex

#kinktober #kinktober 24 #kinktober 2024 #ryan #ryan yellowstone #yellowstonetv #peter hale #ian bohen #teen wolf #isaac lahey #daniel sharman

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everlastingdreams · 15 days ago

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The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 29

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: Shattered

Notes: /

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter: 29/47

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As the hours passed riding through the forest, Gawain and Lancelot explained how they met. The sellswords had taken Percival onto the carriage that had brought you to Morrowstead as well, but they had pushed him out of the carriage in a random village. Lancelot had searched for hours and found him in the presence of the Green Knight who had been searching for Percival for quite some time. At first the meeting between the men had not been very comfortable, but after Percival told about everything that had happened the knight gave Lancelot a slice of his trust that had been earned by saving the boy. Not one word you spoke, finding comfort in hearing the three of them speak instead.

Gawain was discussing a plan with Lancelot. “Gramaire should still be safe for us. It will take us perhaps a day or two to reach it. We should avoid the common roads for now, the Trinity Guard will be searching for us all.”

Lancelot nodded. “We ride until evening now. Then find us a place to rest.”

They looked in your direction but you avoided meeting their eyes, some peace and quiet was all you needed to process what had happened and they could tell.

Gawain turned his eyes back to Lancelot. “You must understand, Lancelot, that when we do arrive in Gramaire my friends will not react well to your arrival. I will speak for your good intentions, but I make no promises. Until now you have only shown them to fear you, you’ve killed our people. What you do with the chance I give you will be what defines you now. Will you be our greatest enemy, or our greatest warrior?”

Lancelot swallowed hard and was quiet for a few seconds. “I swore to Percival that I would help the Fey, it is a vow I intend to keep.”

Gawain sounded uncertain, but hopeful, “Good. Now all we must hope for is that my friends will believe it when I tell them that.”

Lancelot knew how small the odds were. “If I am shunned away, then I will be content if only Percival and her will have sanctuary there.”

For the first time in hours, you spoke, “If you think you can just abandon me, you’re mistaken.”

Lancelot turned to look at you over his shoulder. “The possibility of them welcoming me is small, or dare I say non-existent. But there is no reason for you to be send away, it would be-”

It came out sharper than you intended, because you were feeling tired, “Stop it, Lancelot. I choose not to stay in a place where you are not welcome.”

Gawain send Lancelot a curious look, which the Ash Man pretended not to see. The knight couldn’t help but notice how the former Weeping Monk was so quick to surrender to you.

The knight got too curious to hold back the question burning in him. “Lancelot told me that you were half-Fey, Ash Folk, is that true?”

You gave a nod. “My father, Aldith, was Manblood. My mother, Iridessa, was Ash Folk. I didn’t know of my Fey heritage until I fell as a child and saw the marks beneath my eyes appear in a puddle of rain.”

Gawain was quick to understand the situation you had been in. “Did you hide it?”

“I had to.” you said. “You’ve seen what happened when Aldith knew of what I am.”

Gawain spoke to Lancelot. “Father Carden wanted her because she was, like you, Ash Folk?”

“Yes. She is the only one I have seen since I was a boy.” Lancelot said.

The knight hummed. “That fire in the forest. Was that you or her? You know what that was, do you not?”

“I know.” Lancelot fidgeted with the reins. “I believe I caused the fire.”

“You did.” you blurted out.

The Ash Man shook his head a little at the comment. “I had no control over it. It never happened before. I thought only she could create Fey Fire.”

“Can you do it again?” Percival was enthusiastic about it.

You let your thoughts slip out quietly. “Someone may have to hit me again for that…”

Lancelot’s fidgeting got worse, so he placed a hand on the pommel of his sword instead.

“Your connection to the Hidden strengthened when you sought help in helping her.” Gawain stated at seeing Lancelot’s reaction.

The Ash Man appeared a bit self-conscious. “I heard them reach out for me. I just did not expect for the fire to happen, it ran through my veins and into existence.”

“The Old Gods will aid the Fey.” Gawain said. “What baffles me is that they seem to be strongly connected to you and her.”

“They helped Nimue!” Percival pointed out.

Gawain tensed up, his expression of sorrow alarmed the boy who had looked back at him just then. The knight knew that what he had heard about Nimue would break the boy’s heart, much like it had broken his own.

~“Percival… I have something difficult to tell you.”~

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Hours had passed and only one time during the whole ride had you taken a pause to eat some fruits that Gawain had with him in his horse’s saddlebag. During that long pause, Gawain took Percival aside and told the boy that his friend, Nimue, had not survived an attack by the waterfall at Uther’s camp. You sat with the boy as he went through very different stages of grief. Disbelief, anger, but the worst was the sorrow that came upon him. The boy spilled his heart out, speaking of Nimue the Fey queen who was branded the Wolf-Blood Witch by the Church and how she had fought so hard to protect the Fey. Lancelot was able to hear who this girl was that he had been commanded to find and kill, a girl and not the monster or witch they claimed her to be. A girl who was brave and kind, a girl who had wielded the Sword of Power to protect her people. Trading her life for safe passage for the Fey, away from these lands. After hearing all Percival and Gawain said about her, you found yourself mourning her too.

Lancelot was uncomfortable, ridden with guilt. Gawain could tell and had taken him aside to talk, but you could not hear what was said between them. Whatever had been said between them, it must have helped Lancelot handle what troubled him. It took hours before Percival was calm enough again to continue traveling, his eyes were red from crying and his nose still often dripped. The boy was very quiet during the next hours that had passed.

When the evening sun could barely be seen through the dark clouds, and rain threatened to soak your clothes, the search for shelter for the night began and it was Gawain who spotted a cave. The entrance of it was large enough for the horses to enter as well, the cave was not very deep, but it was enough to keep the horses and yourselves out of the rain.

Gawain searched and found a thick branch to use as a torch to take into the cave, he held it out to Lancelot. “Could you light it?”

Lancelot shook his head. “I have no control over-”

“You have a flint.” Gawain clarified.

Once Lancelot had lit the torch with the flint, Gawain headed into the cave. The three of you followed with the horses. The entrance was wide and perfect for the horses to shelter in, then the cave narrowed to the size where a person could still pass through. That short dark path led into an larger open space. Lancelot used his sword to make a small hole into the ground for Gawain to stick the torch in. The flame of the torch gave the cave a warm and cozy feeling. Percival plopped down against the rock wall near the torch, hugging his knees to his chest while watching the fire. You went to sit beside the boy but feared saying the wrong thing in the attempt to console him, you let your actions speak for themselves and rubbed over his back in a soothing manner.

Percival took in a deep breath. “I don’t want to miss her, I want her to be alive again.”

You swallowed hard. “I know, Percival. It does not feel right or fair, and it isn’t. Nimue sounded like she was an impressive woman.”

The boy nodded. “She was my friend…”

Tears began to brim in his eyes again and you wrapped your arms around him, letting him lean into the embrace. Lancelot and Gawain saw the boy engulfed in grief, their eyes filled with sorrow at the sight. Minutes passed before Percival’s tears stopped flowing, the strong emotions were tiring him out. He still sat against the wall, but now he had put his head down on your shoulder to rest. Gawain and Lancelot had taken seat at the opposite side of the torch, hoping to get some rest tonight.

“Do you believe this cave is something the paladins would easily find?” Gawain voiced his concern out loud to Lancelot.

For Lancelot, the answer was simple. “No. And I know quite certain that they are not eager to search the woods in the rain at night. Nights of rain always made them reluctant to perform their duties. Father had to reprimand them often because of it.”

“Do you think Father Carden wants you back?” Percival suddenly asked.

“I do not know.” Lancelot said. “Perhaps.”

The boy clearly worried about it, the death of his friend had wounded him. “I don’t want him to take you away.”

Lancelot was quick to reassure the boy, understanding where this fear was coming from in the boy’s grief. “He will not.”

Gawain had a certain look in his eyes that Lancelot had managed to see before the knight could hide it.

He believed that the knight did not trust that he would not go back to Father Carden. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Gawain had a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes and he shook his head.

Lancelot disliked the blatant lie. He tilted his head in the direction of you and Percival, clearly insulted. “Do you believe I will return to Father? That I would betray them?”

Gawain had been more than a little reluctant to even speak of what he knew about the priest to him. “Father Carden is death, Lancelot…I am sorry. He died in Uther’s camp when he attacked it with the paladins.”

Your eyes snapped to Lancelot, watching how his expression changed to doubt. But when Gawain dropped his gaze to the ground in sympathy, Lancelot knew the knight was speaking the truth and he tensed up completely. The eyes of the Ash Man were void of life, a certain hollowness had taken over in them. Gawain tried to explain to him what had happened, how Father Carden had intended to murder Nimue but the odds had turned against him. Lancelot shot up to his feet whilst Gawain was mid-sentence, he moved through the narrow passageway in the cave that led to where the horses were. You were already up on your feet after seeing the reaction and fixed your eyes on his shadowy form, he had gone to Goliath and took something out of the saddle bag. He almost stormed out of the cave. You ran after him and hoped it’s wasn’t what you thought it was.

The rain washed out the moon’s light. By the time you had spotted him marching between the trees you had to run to reach him. Did he even notice that you had followed him out of the cave? It didn’t appear to be the case. How he was able to walk so fast without slipping on the muddy ground was a mystery to you, you slipped a few times and were barely able to prevent a fall.

“Lancelot! Wait!” you shouted out while using a tree to regain your footing.

“Go back!” his reply was as fierce and rough as the thunder that followed seconds after it. He didn’t even look behind him to see if you had listened.

There was not a chance, not one damn possibility, that you were going to ignore that he had just walked out with the scourge that was wrapped in that rag. You finally reached him and nearly slipped again on the ground. But this time you were able to grab a hold on his arm to keep yourself steady and to keep him from trying to avoid the confrontation. You tried to grab the scourge from his hand, your fingers held on to the rag around it when he moved it back to signal for you not to take it from him.

His tone was sharp, bordering on anger, “Go back to the cave!”

When he tried to move, you grabbed a firm hold on the leather of the jerkin at his chest. “You promised me you wouldn’t use it anymore!”

Immediately he began to pry your fingers from the leather, even trying to force your wrists away. But you held on, knowing that if you let go he would return bleeding.

“Let go!” his voice rang loud into your ears.

You hated how you flinched, and raised your voice to match his, “I would rather bleed to stop you, than see you bleed again!” It had halted him. “I won’t let you do this to yourself, I will get that scourge out of your hands even if it means getting my wrists broken for it!”

His hand had been around your wrist, trying to get you to loosen your grip. His eyes fell to how he was holding it, his hold loosened. He shook his head, unable to voice what he was feeling and experiencing.

Again you reached for the scourge, the rag was soaked from the rain. “I beg you, don’t.”

He kept his gaze on the grass but let you pluck the scourge from his fingers, and you threw it into a bush. Now that you were more confident that he would not submit himself to flagellation, you gently brushed your hands along his arms in slow movements.

“Just breathe.” you hoped it was calming him, even if just a little.

He stood motionless, his eyes a million worlds away as they blinked only when a drop of rain hit them. There was no eye-contact, he did not want for you to see the sheer agony that had filled his eyes. You kneaded at his arms softly, soothing the tense muscles in them while stepping closer. Slowly, you closed the distance and brought your arms around him. Doing so made you aware of how much he was trembling, he was overcome by grief, it felt like trying to keep a thunderstorm from breaking out of it’s bounds.

You spoke against his shoulder. “Allow me to help you, tell me how and I will. I wish I could spare you from this pain.”

He felt his chest tighten and release, over and over again. The scent of you filling his lungs, colliding with his grief, the power it had over his being was unmeasurable.

You heard him inhale, slow and deep, and knew he was taking in your scent. Just hearing him try and calm himself by breathing better was a relief.

“Please…” he spoke so quietly and brought an arm around your form to keep you close.

You knew that what he did not say was ‘help’, ‘please, help’. Asking for aid when being in one’s most vulnerable state was not easy, and certainly not for him. After years of having to hide his suffering, showing it was a frightening ordeal.

You rubbed a hand over his back in soothing circles, feeling how he touched his head to the side of yours. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That reassurance made him bring you in closer, making the embrace an intimate affair neither had expected.

“What he has done to me… I…” He took a deep breath, his voice broke, “It’s not right… I shouldn’t…”

He was mourning a man, a Father, who was seen as a monster to the Fey and all those who were unfortunate enough to have opposed him. It felt wrong, so very wrong, and selfish to weep for Father in the arms of a Fey. He was alone in bearing this grief, no one could understand and he could not expect it of them. And it was what made it unbearable.

You would not let him deny himself the chance to grieve. “You loved him, grieving him is what you must do, you have a right to grieve as much as anyone else.”

His emotions were merciless waves crashing into each other, constantly overtaking one another. The only certain thing that stood as a beacon between them was you and the comfort you brought him. And when he dared to meet your eyes, he could no longer go without the sight of them, no one had ever looked at him in such a manner before. With pure compassion, and the clear will to see into his thoughts, your eyes remained on his.

Seeing the heavens in his eyes rain down their sorrow was something you never wished to see again. You reached up and cupped his cheek, wiping some tears from where they ran over his ashen ones. “I am so sorry, Lancelot. You don’t deserve this pain.”

“I do.” He blamed himself for this. By leaving Father’s side he had not been there to prevent his death.

It was the worst thing to hear. “Don’t. Please, don’t. I know you believe that to be true, but it’s not. I know it’s not.”

He lifted his head back, trying to see the sky through the rain, he had not stopped shaking since he had stepped out of the cave. After a few seconds of letting the rain wash away the evidence of his suffering, he dropped his gaze unto you again. There were tears brimming in the corner of your eyes, and you were losing the fight against them, seeing him suffer like this was cutting into your heart.

You made your tone stronger, filling it with conviction. “You served him loyally, faithfully, you gave him everything. You don’t deserve this suffering. You never did.”

He suddenly cupped your cheek in the palm of his hand, a small startled gasp escaped you at the unexpected action. Reading his eyes was impossible, there was so much happening inside of them all at once. There was a soft light caress of his knuckles along the side of your chin. His hand glided down to the side of your neck, and it was that which gave him the control to do what he did next.

You blinked, that was all, and he had brought his lips to yours to steal a brief meeting between them. It happened so fast that it took you completely off-guard. The aim of it was impressive, there was no rough collision, you had landed into the clouds that were his lips. The meeting was brief and forward, his mouth parted from yours again. Rain dripped from his face and onto yours, his gaze was still locked in on your lips. You were trying to say something, to bring out any form of words but struggled to do so. He tilted his head to inhale your scent just below your ear, while your mind was slow to process what was happening. Then he brought his lips to yours again, letting them linger. You were too stunned by it to move at all. His lips were soft and light against your own. You did not push him away, fearing he would seek to punish himself with the scourge after all. The kiss was not anticipated, nor was the feeling that went from your head to your toes in response to it. And even with your previous experience, it still felt so very new and unlike anything else felt before. You felt the kiss throughout your whole body, your head was airy, your legs unsteady.

This was against the vow he had always wished to uphold, it wasn’t like him to do this. You knew that it was him reacting to the grief, finding something to bury it with if even just for a brief moment. You couldn’t let him do this, reciprocating would be taking advantage of his suffering state of mind. And that lack of response was what ultimately made him stop and break away, even if it was just an inch. He was trying so hard to read your eyes but you doubted he could see much beyond the grief now.

By cupping his face in your hands and putting your thumbs upon his lips, you kept your own free from them, a clear signal. “You don’t want this, Lancelot. I fear you are not thinking clear now.”

He kept a hand on the side of your neck, stroking his thumb along the bottom of your jaw, shaking his head very shallowly. You released your hold on his face.

“Forgive me…” His breath shook violently. His thumb stroked where your marks would be if they showed themselves. He rested his forehead against yours. “Please, forgive me…”

He would not survive it if his impulsive action had ruined it all again. Why could he not control himself better? Why did he keep making these mistakes? Why could he not do better? Why?

You hushed his concern, voice as sweet as possible, he was troubled enough as it was, “It’s alright, there is nothing to forgive.”

His fingers were still cradling your head like it was precious to him, he spoke against your temple, “I will never harm you. I’d never…”. He shook his head, disappointed in himself.

“I know.” You nodded. “I trust you.” Your hand came up to rest near where his heart was. “Come back to the cave with me, you’ll catch a cold in this weather. Please…”

He shook his head again. Was he embarrassed, or simply too overcome by it all that he could not think clearly?

You took his hand in yours. “I’m taking you with me.” It was a bold thing to say and try, but when you began to slowly walk, he let himself be taken along. It wasn’t until the entrance of the cave came into sight that he made you halt, you could see two shadowy figures waiting in the cave for you to return.

He pulled at your hand to bring you closer. “What I did, how I behaved towards you-”

There was no need for an apology. “Don’t. I know you’d never mean to cause me harm. I understand why it happened.” You pulled at his hand as well. “Now come with me. Out of this rain, Ash Man.”

That light demanding tone worked wonders on him, almost did he smile. You held his hand firmly, walking him into the cave were Percival and Gawain were waiting. Percival looked at Lancelot only once and flung his arms around the stunned man. Nothing was said between them as Lancelot brought a hand to the back of Percival’s head in a protective manner, nothing needed to be said. The grief was silent, like a poison invading their veins and the only way to survive it was to share it.

“I am sorry, Lancelot. I should have told you earlier, but I did not know how.” Gawain was somewhat uneasy. “You have my deepest sympathy.”

Lancelot only nodded, he was rubbing over Percival’s shoulder blade as if it was instinctive. It was surprising to see how well he did with children, even Gawain had not expected to see it.

Something caught Gawain’s attention when looking at you. “Are you bleeding?”

You frowned, then noticed the stain at the bottom of your sleeve. “I… I think so.”

Percival turned to look, as did Lancelot. You took of your wet jacket and handed it to Gawain to hold, blood had stained your sleeve a little but most of it had just run down to your wrist.

“One of the stitches on my arm may have torn.” You rolled up the sleeve to see.

Gawain went to the saddlebag of his horse. “I have what you need to bandage it.”

“Do you always travel so prepared?” you wondered out loud.

“I find it important to travel without having to be concerned if I’d bleed out from a cut.” Gawain deadpanned. He took out some rags, needle and thread, then looked at Lancelot. “You and the boy should rest. I’ll help her with her arm.”

Lancelot was not given the chance to protest, Gawain simply took you gently by the arm and led you towards the space where the torch still burned. It’s flames offered the well-needed light to work on your arm, and as you sat by the fire and let Gawain help you, Lancelot put his cloak down by the fire to dry. Percival sat down against the wall again, and Lancelot took place right beside him.

“You smell like a wet dog.” Percival blurted out to him.

Silence dropped in the cave, it lasted for two counts before Lancelot chuckled. The boy’s blunt remark was an oddly welcome distraction, even you and Gawain had stifled a quiet chuckle.

“Shall I sit further away?” Lancelot asked the boy, not sounding very serious about it.

“No.” Percival said and pulled out his knife from where it was hidden in the pocket of his jacket, the boy began to fidget with the knife a little to entertain himself.

You stared at Percival. “Percival… is that the knife that I put into that sellsword’s eye?”

Percival shrugged his shoulders. “What? I pulled it out and wiped it off. It’s my knife.”

Lancelot arched a brow, processing what he was hearing. Even Gawain had stopped in the midst of wrapping a fresh bandage around your arm.

“You pulled it from his eye?” Lancelot found himself asking.

“Yes.” Percival said.

“And what did that do to his eye?” Lancelot could not stop himself from wondering out loud, envisioning the possible gruesome outcome of the boy’s decision.

Percival winced at the memory and avoided looking at him. No one said a word, all were envisioning what must have happened.

Gawain cleared his throat. “All done. Try not to use that arm too much until the wound is closed again.” He rolled down your sleeve and patted your shoulder comfortingly. “You did well, not a single complaint.”

Lancelot watched the interaction in silence, you became aware of it quite fast because the Hidden’s whispers were drawing your attention his way instead of Gawain’s. One brief glance, one could claim it as ‘accidental’, and you had noticed it. Perhaps it was him still trying to determine whether or not to trust the knight, or perhaps the reason for his watchful eyes was of a different sort… perhaps that kiss did come from a place within him that he was sworn to forsake.

You placed your jacket near the torch, hoping that it would dry a bit in the night from the warmth the flames brought into the cave, then went to sit against the wall to sleep.

Gawain took place against the wall as well to rest for the night. “At dawn, we continue our journey. We should be at Gramaire the day after.” He saw Lancelot tense up. “Do not be afraid, Ash Man, I will be there to welcome you. And you have two more Feys who will speak of your refound goodwill towards the Fey.”

Lancelot nodded, looking down at Percival who was leaning against him and drifting of to sleep. “We shall see.”

The Green Knight had more faith in the matter than he did. After all his crimes against the Fey, he held not much hope to be forgiven or welcomed. The only welcome he expected was a blade through his chest.

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You had fallen asleep faster than you thought possible, the events of the previous night had tired all those present in the cave. Minutes before dawn, you were gently nudged awake by Lancelot.

“I need to speak with you.” he whispered, not willing to wake the others.

You mumbled something incoherent, but it clearly showed how reluctant you were to leave the hard ground you called a bed. That lasted until you vaguely heard him say ‘please’. You got up from the ground, still drowsy from sleep, and followed him towards the entrance of the cave. The rain had stopped and it was palpably warmer, he stopped just where the cave still covered the ground, his restless hands were folded together behind his back. You stopped at his side, waiting for him to speak.

He took a deep breath. “About last night…”

Was this what was still troubling him? You hoped it had not been a part of what must have kept him from resting properly, he looked tired. “We do not have to talk about it.”

He thought differently, this was a matter that could not wait and risk festering. “We do. I prefer for us to speak of it and make certain that all is well between us.”

“All is well.” you said.

“I kissed you.” He turned to face you, his expression serious. “I had hoped we could speak without reservation as we did in the inn.”

You clasped your hands together to ease that sudden nervousness in you, he could be very forward and sometimes you envied it. “I don’t really know what to say about what happened.”

“I have upset you?” his eyes narrowed just a little, as if he hoped to read the answer in yours.

By taking a deep breath, you tried to be forward about it too. “No. The only thing that did upset me was seeing you storm off with that scourge.”

He seemed to accept that answer after studying your expression. “I must confess that I am grateful for how you have handled my…” He tried to find the right way to describe the state he had been in, “Madness.”

“Lancelot.” You shook your head at how harsh he was to himself. “It is not madness, you are grieving.”

Remorse was tearing into him. “What I did last night borders on madness.”

You hoped to finally make him understand that you were not angry or upset by jesting about it, “Are you saying that kissing me is a sign of madness?”

“I-… no, of course not-…” he stammered apologetically.

You could no longer hide your grin and looked towards the trees, biting the inside of your cheek to scold yourself for it.

He let out a deep sigh at realizing you were toying with his mind, mumbling, “You are maddening.”

“Says the one married to me.” you fired back.

It caused him to smile, a genuine small smile that reached his eyes and he snapped them to the trees. “I have not told Gawain of our marital status.”

“Why not?” you wondered.

“I thought you would prefer that I did not.” he said. “You have always let it be known that this arrangement was not by your will, I wish to give you the freedom to choose to ignore it’s existence or not.”

You hummed pensively. “Thank you… that was considerate.”

He gave a nod. “But I stand by what I said of how I will treat this arrangement. If there is anything you need, I will provide it, whether it be safety or other matters.” His eyes locked on you, another nod. “I am here for you. At your side.”

It felt like too much to accept, but this was how he was raised, to be devoted to those important to him. And after living with people who couldn’t care less about you, it was a welcome difference. You reached out and took his hand in yours with a light hold.

He took a step closer. “I once believed that it was my fate to die by the blade that would threaten to strike Father, that it was my duty to sacrifice my life for his. I do not know who or what I am now, not yet.” He swallowed hard, bringing a hand over yours. “I chose this path, I betrayed Father, of that I am guilty. What plagues me, is that even with this knowledge, I would still choose this path.”

You gave his hand a squeeze. “Often the right choice, is the hardest to make. And you made the right one.”

He nodded, believing it to be true. “I know I did. This…” he moved your interlocked hands up a little, “-proves that I have. You and Percival have been more than courteous to me, you’ve accepted me whilst the world sees me as a monster.”

“You are no monster.” you reassured him. “Monsters do not have a conscience.”

He hummed quietly, seeming to accept your view on this.

You remembered something. “Hey uhm, back at the inn you told me you wanted to speak to me about a personal matter. Do you recall? I’m here to listen.”

“I cannot recall.” he answered evasively. “It is not important.”

Your eyes squinted at him, a cheeky smile danced on your lips. “If you cannot recall, then how do you know it’s not important?”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on your hands. A sound from inside the cave alerted you that someone else was starting to wake. By the lack of much noise, you figured it had to be Gawain. You released your hold on Lancelot’s hand but he simply took hold of yours to keep the connection.

“You have truly forgiven me for last night?” he quietly asked.

“I have. And consider yourself fortunate that that often arrogant mouth of yours is quick to learn such a sinful skill.” You gave a playful smirk, teasing him, “I did not expect that of you.”

Was that a compliment? He had already forgotten the insult laced into it.

That cheeky comment had made him flustered. “I-”

“Were you able to rest last night?” You reached out, placing a hand on his upper arm.

“Not much.” he admitted.

Absentmindedly you kneaded at his arm. “Do you fear you must hide your grief?”

He gave a small nod. “I must.”

“Not from me.” You rubbed his arm.

The way you spoke so gentle now, so soft and sweet, almost quiet enough to be whispering. The moment felt serene to him, offering him more rest in his mind than sleep had done.

Slowly he reached out to cup your neck, and even slower he leaned in, as if you were a bird ready to take flight at an unexpected movement from him. You sensed his intent. He halted a second, waited, then put his lips to your temple. The kiss was one thing, but he lingered. You blinked rapidly, feeling a surge of restlessness warm your chest, a fluttering that caused you to smile. The feeling was overwhelming and you turned your head down and to the side, the shy smile on your lips was enough for him to see that he had done no harm or wrong with it.

You dared to look at him through your lashes, aware how flustered you had to look. “What was that for?”

Other than seeing that rare timid smile that caused your eyes to glister and caused his heart’s pace to quicken?

Slowly he straightened his back again, folding his hands behind it. “For the grace you have shown me once more.”

You still felt the rush going through your chest. “You are my husband, of course I will try to help you carry these burdens.”

His expression changed instantly and you realized why. You had not addressed him in such a way since you fled the paladin camp. He did not comment on it, a smile formed on his lips as he looked to the ground.

You stammered, “I… I mean…”

Gawain walked up, yawning. “Good morrow. Preparing for the journey?”

You send Lancelot a look, then returned to where Percival was still asleep to go and wake him. Gawain had to speak Lancelot’s name twice before the Ash Man remembered he was even standing there.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream

@coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies @stclairesplace @katjusja @isla-bell-blog @beebeerockknot @sahvlren @lancedoncrimsonwings @weird123abc @elizabeth-holland24 @kissingandromeda @timeshiptraveler

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story. Using this old list from the previous fic.

#the weeping monk #weeping monk x you #lancelot x reader #weeping monk x reader #cursed #cursed netflix #weeping monk #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #lancelot

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lancedoncrimsonwings · 9 months ago

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Rewatching Cursed (again) and damn I forgot how much Merlin whump there is I mean

Dude straight up ain't having a good time at ALL

I actually started watching Cursed purely for Gustaf Skarsgård because Floki, then realised Dan Sharman was in it and promptly died. Obviously The Weeping Monk became my obsession but we still fuckin love Merlin too.

And all the whump in general is just *chefs kiss*. We get a little bit of lady whump too, which I also love (just never see much of it), particularly Nimue.

Amusingly enough, I came in as a Nimlot (Lancelot/The Weeping Monk x Nimue) shipper, and I still DO like that ship, even actively still read Nimlot fics, buuuttt when I got to THAT torture tent conversation?

Then Lancewain became and solidly remains my fave.

Ok now to get back to my regular scheduled The Weeping Monk and Gawain

#whump #lancelot #the weeping monk #daniel sharman #cursed netflix #lancewain #cursed #gawain #merlin #merlin cursed #gustaf skarsgård #merlin whump #whump gifs #none of these gifs are mine #but to the people who made these gifs: I love you I love you I love you

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quitealotofsodapop · 7 months ago

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thinking about the posts about Guanyin being able to summon the spirit's of Wukong's mother for him/the stone monkeys being ghosts on ffm and I went looking and couldn't find anything already talking about this, so...

wouldn't it be awesome if something similar could be done with the Slow boiled! Pilgrims?

like, the noodle gang find a way to project their og incarnations so that Wukong can introduce the family who helped him so much to his newborn Yuebei, the infant they fought to protect as an egg. I feel like Wukong always wishes that Yuebei could have met the pilgrims, I'm sure he'd get emotional at seeing them again and getting to introducing them.

imagine at first it was just a nice thing for Wukong, but as everyone's hugging and wiping tears any emotional talk gets cut off by a baby starting to cry in another room.Wukong rushes out to find the source of the crying, and the pilgrims put the pieces together pretty quickly.

*Wukong coming back into the room with a softly cooing bundle of blankets in his arms* Ao Lie: *happy gasp* AAAAA! YOU HAD YOUR BABY!! Tripataka, like a proud dad watching their kid go through a milestone: oh my! congratulations Wukong. Sha Wujing: *sobbing at how cute baby is* Zhu Bajie: *trying to seem stoic, is also crying over the cuteness*

Wukong's crying all over again at the opportunity to show off his baby to his old friends.

I actually do have a post like this! Here!

The Noodle Gang would surprise Wukong with a visit from his old squad by using meditation skills they learned from Guanyin herself (or if not her previous disciple Red Son). Very little build up and Boom! The spirits of the OG Pilgrims are in the room. Wukong would sob with joy at seeing them again.

I love your dialogue too! The Pilgrims would be so delighted to finally meet the baby they protected for so long. Especially Ao Lie - who'd immediately start crying at the tiny black fluffball in his bro's arms.

Yuebei is *pretty confused* while all these people are here, but perks up when she recognises their voices from her time as an Egg. First person she reaches out to is the (trying to be stoic) Zhu Bajie- remembering his brash tone the most other than her own parent. This makes the big pig man start weeping like a baby.

The baby is also trying her best to grab the spirits, fascinated by their glowing, translucent forms. She makes a frustrated chirp when her tiny hand passes through Tripitaka's robes. This gets a round of laughter from the Pilgrims, as the monk uses his divine power to finally place a kiss on the baby's forehead.

A certain elephant in the room is brought up;

Sha Wujing: "Brother - did she really try eating the Samadhi Fire all the way back then?" Wukong: "Yep! Felt like she was trying to burst out of me." Zhu Bajie: "Ouch. No wonder you slipped." Ao Lie, cooing at Yuebei: "Aww! Was she craving something spicy?" Wukong: "Sort of. See, the egg naturally craved a large amount of Dao so it could develop further - and she mistook the Samadhi Fire as a type of energy she could absorb." Tripitaka: "It's lucky that she didn't. Lest you would have had another Red Child on our hands." Wukong: "Ha! Yeah... 'course she ended up eating the Bone Demon instead." The Pilgrims, a mix of shock and amazement: "What?!" "Goodness!" Ao Lie, still cooing at the baby: "Oh ho ho! After something as spicy as the Samadhi Fire, you wanted to pay safe huh? Bet that mean Bone Demon tasted like a big bland popsicle!" Yuebei: (*burp!*) Zhu Bajie, laughing uncontrollably: "Thats your answer!" The Whole Room: (*joyful laughter!*)

The Noodle Gang have to train themselves to summon the Pilgrims, and even so have to train to keep them around for more than a complete minutes at a time. Its like having a Magic meter. But they try their best to make sure Wukong has as much time with his Pilgrim brothers as possible!

#slow boiled stone egg au #stone matriarch au #sun wukong #lmk yuebei xing #lmk tripitaka #lmk ao lie #lmk zhu bajie #lmk sha wujing #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid

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uhhlifeig · 3 months ago

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Spirit - October 20 - word count: 417 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus Lupin stood onstage, arms crossed and looking every bit like the grumpy old man he was playing.

“Alright, let’s go over the Christmas Present scene again,” McGonagall called from the back of the room, her voice echoing through the empty theater. “Sirius, can you try and stay on script this time?”

Sirius grinned widely. “Of course. I’ve got it this time. No problem.”

Remus shot him a sideways glance. The noiret had said the same thing the last three times.

They reset, Remus as Scrooge, and Sirius as the Spirit of Christmas Present. The rest of the cast lingered near the stage wings, waiting for their cues- or, more accurately, waiting for Sirius to improvise the scene for the fourth time.

“And… begin!” McGonagall called from her seat.

Sirius stepped forward. “COME, EBENEZER SCROOGE! Come and… uhh, come and party with me. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present- uhh, look upon me and weep?”

Remus sighed. “You’re kidding me. Sirius, your line is ‘Come and know me better, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Look upon me. You have never seen the likes of me before?’’”

Sirius snapped his fingers. “Right! Right. Got it.”

From the wings, James, lounging casually on a folding chair from their last production, chuckled. “How come Remus knows your lines better than you do, Pads? Seems kinda counter-intuitive, if you ask me.”

The rest of the cast stifled their laughter, but Remus pressed on.

“Never,” he continued, ignoring Sirius’s grin.

Sirius beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s where you’re wrong, Ebenezer. You… uh… you’ve never… known my brethren… better?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “It’s ‘Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family?’”

Sirius snapped his fingers again. “Yes! That’s the one! ‘Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family?’”

Remus sighed. “I am afraid I have not. Have you many brothers, spirit?”

Sirius stepped closer. “I have…uh…one. And, er this is… uh…” He glanced around the stage, looking for inspiration. “This is a very nice table we’ve got here.”

James nearly fell off his chair, roaring with laughter. “He’s really nailing it this time.”

Marlene, sitting next to him, shook her head, her face lit up with amusement. “This is gold.”

Remus suddenly had the urge to slam his head into a wall. “Sirius. Please. It’s more than 1800.”

Sirius blinked, as if remembering something important. “Ah, yes! More than 1800! Right! I knew that.”

This rehearsal was going to last forever.

(lines from A Christmas Carol, adapted by Ed Monk)

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pharawee · 1 year ago

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I've been seeing some confusion about what it is that Phaya and Tharn have done in their past lives to deserve punishment now - or in what possible way they have wronged others and are now "reaping bad karma".

I've also seen the theory that the venerable Luang Por might be the reincarnation of the naga that wanted to be a monk... which is actually a really touching possibilty because the story about the naga monk does exist. You can find in in the Vinaya (Mv.I.63.1) but here is a condensed version:

... Once a Naga, a powerful serpent who can take the form of a human being, was mistakenly ordained as a monk. Shortly after, when asleep in his hut, the naga returned to the shape of a huge snake. The monk who shared the hut was somewhat alarmed when he woke up to see a great snake sleeping next to him! The Lord Buddha summoned the naga and told him he may not remain as a monk, at which the utterly disconsolate snake began to weep. The snake was given the Five Precepts as the means to attaining a human existence in his next life when he can then be a monk. Then out of compassion for the sad snake, the Lord Buddha said that from then on all candidates for the monkhood be called 'Naga' as a consolation. They are still called 'Naga' to this day.

*by Ajahn Brahm

So if the naga by following the Five Precepts is reborn as a human being he can then be a monk. 🥺🙏

As for Phaya and Tharn's karma - it's not so much that they've done something morally wrong. It's more that by their intentional actions they have wronged Chalothorn and this is what leads to the consequences we've seen. It makes more sense if you don't view karma as a direct result or as punishment/judgement, but rather as a cause and effect that's not really for us to understand.

I also think it's more important here that Chalothorn's continuous intentional actions are the cause of his own downfall (and that of Phaya and Tharn), while the venerable Luang Por states: "Remember, your [Phaya and Tharn's] good deeds and merits will always protect you."

#jane watches stuff #the sign #the sign bl #i'm only a beginner in buddhism and i still have a lot to learn but i thought i'd try and explain #i think what it comes down to is the cultural difference of understanding existence as action and judgement vs cause and effect #but the story of the naga monk is one of my favourites #i first heard about it in pee nak of all things lmao #but i found is super touching

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spicybeefnoodles · 7 months ago

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while my guitar gently weeps pt.1

a/n: specifically the song version by regina spektor from kubo and the two strings. um anyway, an alternative title is that kung lao becomes my punching back for 3k words.

summary: kung lao is stuck in second place

warnings: self-deprecation/self-hatred, blood, panic attack

If only he tried hard enough. If only he had trained harder. If only this. If only that. If if if. Kung Lao sliced the head of the dummy off, his bladed hat digging into the skin of his palm as he breathed heavily. What was wrong with him? Why was he not good enough? Was it because he was too arrogant? Was it because he was him? Created this way by Lord Liu Kang. Destined to always fail? He clenched his hands, staring at the beheaded dummy as his thoughts overtook him once again.

“Kung Lao!”

Raiden’s voice broke him out of his stupor, as well as the touch of Raiden’s hand ripping his hat out of his reach and throwing it onto the floor. The champion’s hand hurriedly covered the hand Kung Lao was using to hold his hat, and he realized that there was blood spilling from the edges and onto the ground, staining the dirt. Raiden was already chastising him, hurrying him off to the infirmary while speaking to him in a gentle voice that he should be more careful or his hands would end up with too many scars.

Raiden. His friend. The Champion. The village farmer. The humble one. The favorite. Kung Lao drew his hand back away from Raiden’s warmth, muttering underneath his breath that he could make his own way to the medical wing, he was competent enough to do that at the very least. The monk stalked off, slamming the door open to the medical room enough that the piece of thin wood rattled and splintered as it slid open. Another mistake. Because he couldn’t control his ego or his anger or himself. How typical. Of course. Another thing to add onto Kung Lao’s mistakes.

He ignored the splintered wood and stepped into the medical wing, using his undamaged hand to rummage through the dressers and find the bandages and salve himself. Kung Lao nearly tore through the dressers, a scowl and furrowed eyebrows appearing on his face as tears burned at the edges of his eyes at the fact he was unable to find the bandages himself. Where the hell were they?

“Lao. Please calm down.” It was that annoyingly soft and honeyed voice of Raiden. Again. Of course he followed Kung Lao here. Using that stupid pet name of his.

Kung Lao turned around and found Raiden much closer than he had initially thought holding a jar of salve and bandages in one hand and a clean wet cloth in his other, and the monk had to suppress the urge to scream and cry because of course, of course, Kung Lao was also incapable at doing something so simple but Raiden was there to help, always always always. The monk slumped down onto the bed, noticing the blood staining Raiden’s sleeves, his blood, and the way his blood had created a trail leading directly to him, staining the ground and the wood and wherever else he had walked in his hurry to the medical room. Stain on the academy.

Raiden took his injured palm, carefully wiping away at the excess blood with a clean cloth in the medical wing he had found. The champion then took to applying a salve, warning Kung Lao that it would sting, and then wrapping the bandages neatly and tightly. And perfectly. The wound did sting, and it festered in Kung Lao’s heart as he watched Raiden smile up at him from his crouched position. He was sure the wound would leak puss, turn black and grow along his body until every fiber of his being hated Raiden. Or until his body rot with how much it hurt and burned and ached with something that had grown from a defective root in his heart.

But then, the champion leaned in close, his eyes so warm and loving and soft, and he pressed a kiss to the palm of Kung Lao’s injured hand.

“Go and rest Kung Lao. You seem troubled. I will take care of the rest today.” And with that, Raiden left Kung Lao in the med bay, making sure to watch his feet to avoid stepping on the blood. He was off to probably find something to clean the blood and pick up Kung Lao’s slack and bad attitude today. The monk stared down at the bandages on his hand, clenching his fist to make the sting burn. Kung Lao could never hate Raiden. No, he really couldn’t. He was so kind. And sweet. And…perfect.

He had stained Raiden again with his blood. On his sleeves. Was that all he was? A stain? Meant to be washed away or something not wanted or something to be disguised as something else? Kung Lao pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath and willing the tears to dissipate. He would get better. Kung Lao would get better. He had to. He always did.

The monk stood up from the cot and walked out, trying to make sure he also didn’t step on the stains he made, and he walked away, traveling by the rooms and the hallways filled with the other trainees to make it back to his bed. Pursing his lips and bringing his hands together, Kung Lao ignored the whispers and the stares of the others as he walked. He knew that they were talking about him: they always were. Kung Lao with Raiden? What a joke. The champion should be with the princess. Raiden? Champion, Perfect. Gentle. Soft. Caring. Beautiful. Kung Lao? Second place. Angry. Arrogant. Loud. Obnoxious. Gluttonous.

Damn it.

He opened the door carefully to the room, trying not to break another door again, and he kicked off his shoes. He looked down at the floor where they were scattered.

Raiden’s shoes were perfectly placed at the door. Aligned straight and spaced perfectly and cleaned to perfection.

Kung Lao bent down and arranged his shoes to match Raiden’s and then looked up. The bed was unmade, the laundry sat in the corner, the curtains were undrawn. All Kung Lao’s doing. He always woke up later than Raiden. Always was the last one to leave the room. Always the first one to enter and bury himself into the sheets and fall asleep just as fast. Always neat when he woke up in the morning.

He could feel tears pricking at his eyes again. Of course he was going to cry. Why wouldn’t he? Shit. Kung Lao looked down at his fingers, finding himself picking at the skin around his nail bed and that he had dug too deep, causing himself to bleed once more. When had he started up that habit again? He let his hands fall to his sides and stared at the room again.

Messy. Disorganized. Imperfect.

Of course.

Kung Lao picked up his pajamas, throwing them into the laundry basket, and then lifted it up to bring it to the laundry room. He would help. He could be useful. He was.

Walking to the laundry room, he kept his pace slow and steady, keeping quiet and just watching the scenery pass by. He could do this. It was okay. Raiden had taught him how to do the laundry in the machines. Easy enough.

He parked by the washers, seeming out of place with how everything felt so ancient here in the White Lotus Academy, but it certainly beat handwashing all the clothing. Kung Lao started throwing the laundry in, dirty cloth after dirty cloth. Laundry detergent was next, and the monk moved to the closet to find some, opening the door and letting it shut behind him as he searched for it. As he found an opened bottle, one that Raiden had showed him before to use specifically because it was clear and wouldn’t stain the clothing, he could hear the voices of others through the door. And then he heard his name and a snort.

Oh, they were talking about him again.

He shouldn’t listen. Shouldn’t be pressing his ear to the door. Shouldn’t be listening to a single word they were saying about him. Except he was doing exactly that, injured hand on the doorknob as he heard what they were saying about him.

“I don’t know why Raiden doesn’t break up with him. Kung Lao is so emotional and has outbursts all the time.” The first voice said.

“Oh yeah, it’s so weird. And like, isn’t Raiden from a rich farming family?” A second voice chimed in.

“He is! My family is friends with his family. He’s rich rich.” “Isn’t Kung Lao, like, poor?”

“I heard he was abandoned, and that he lived on the streets as a child until someone finally took pity on the child.”

“I heard that he is rich and that his parents spoiled him to no end, so now he’s like this.”

“Really? He does kind of act like a pompous asshole.”

“I know right?”

“And, have you ever seen him eat? It’s almost horrifying to watch.”

“I know! It’s like watching a pig. It’s almost disgusting how much he can shovel into his mouth.”

“And also, his attitude is insufferable.”

“Honestly!”

“Hey, the two of you! Out into the training fields. Now!” It was Raiden’s voice, muffled but angry through the wood piece. The sound of their footsteps is dull through the door, and he can hear Raiden muttering something quietly.

Everything felt muffled and heavy and all too much. And his throat hurt. And his eyes burned. And his hand stung.

The door opened, and Kung Lao found Raiden standing in front of him through blurry vision, the bottle of laundry detergent had fallen to the ground at some point, his hand was bleeding through the bandages. Raiden was speaking. He was shaking the monk by his shoulders. Kung Lao couldn’t hear. It all hurt so much. Why did it hurt so much?

He couldn’t do this. No, it was so suffocating and hot and painful and bright and loud and it hurt and hurt and hurthurthurthurthurt-

There was something suffocating him, pressing down on his chest and squeezing the air out of his lungs. His clothes were itchy, and he could feel every thread rubbing his skin raw as he tried to draw in breath. Someone was touching him, holding him, killing him, and Kung Lao lashed his hand out, eyes squeezing shut as he took in raspy breaths. But they wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop holding onto his hand, and Kung Lao screamed and tried to pull it away again.

Finally the person dropped his hand, and Kung Lao curled in on himself, hot tears scalding his skin as they rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto his uniform. He could feel something dripping down his hand and onto his pants, soaking through the material, staining it, staining him, because he was a stain, a stain and nothing more. And why was he drowning suddenly, unable to come up for air. His screams trapped in a bubble but sinking below to the floor and buried in the darkness.

He was Kung Lao. He was built for this, made for this. He’s been through worse. Taught from a young age to embrace the pain. Trained to hide the hurt and discomfort as he got older.

He was Kung Lao. Great and strong and powerful. He made it through hell and back. From Outworld back to Earth.

He was Kung Lao. A farmer who helped provide for his community.

He was Kung Lao. A fighter. A winner.

He was Kung Lao. A blood stain that wouldn’t go away.

He was Kung Lao

He wasn’t Raiden.

He would never be Raiden.

He was just-

“Kung Lao.”

The monk flinched at the sound of his name. It wasn’t natural. Didn’t sound human. It ripped him out of himself, forcing his body to calm down and his breathing to slow. He felt like a puppet on strings, like someone was controlling him and he could only helplessly watch.

Kung Lao opened his eyes. When had he kneeled down on the floor, head in his legs and arms wrapped tightly around him?

Looking up, it was Liu Kang. Of course. Fingers glowing and tugging at something attached to the monk before the golden strands disappeared into the air.

“Lao. Are you okay?” Liu Kang kneeled down and held his hand out, calling him a nickname like the monk was an old friend, a lover.

“Don’t call me that.” Kung Lao muttered.

“What?” Liu Kang tilted his head in confusion.

“Don’t call me Lao. I’m not your anything. Just-” Kung Lao smacked away the god’s hand and stood up on his own, wincing as pain shot through his legs, numb from crouching for so long. He clenched his jaw and pushed past Liu Kang, finding a relieved looking Raiden with red eyes and tear tracks. Kung Lao turned his head to the side and flinched away from Raiden’s hand coming up to hold his, and a look of horror overcame Raiden’s face.

He should be holding Raiden close, telling him everything rather than keeping it bottled in. He should be comforting his partner and saying it wasn’t his fault that he flinched. He should be here. But he was running, running even though his legs burned and his lungs screamed and his hand stung. And there he was, at the edge of the academy, staring off into the distance at the mountains that had surrounded him his entire life.

“Kung Lao.” Liu Kang was behind him, warm as a fire and just as deadly as one. The monk didn’t look back.

“Please, what is wrong? Let me know what troubles your mind. Not as your god but as a mentor…a friend.” The god sounds so unsure, so unsteady, so human. Kung Lao didn’t say anything, lip trembling as he fought back his tears. He would not cry. He would not be weak.

There was only a silence that envelops the two of them, and neither of them speak for a while. Kung Lao just bites his lip, trying not to tremble and shake, and he clenches his fists as he tries to control himself again.

“Before…before I was a god. I was a human.” Liu Kang started and moved to stand next to Kung Lao. “I had a friend. A lover. We did everything together. We ate together, trained together, loved together. And…we also entered the tournament together.”

Kung Lao could hear the strain in the god’s voice, the slight wobble and pain, and he finally turns to see Liu Kang crying, eyes red and wet stains on his sleeves.

“He became the champion. And he died. And I was not there…I miss him.” Liu Kang stared directly at Kung Lao.

“I was angry, anxious, afraid because the one constant in my life had disappeared, and I made a rash decision that hurt many.” The god paused, taking in a deep breath before placing a cautious hand on Kung Lao’s shoulder. “I do not want that to happen to you. Please, tell me what is happening.”

Kung Lao kept quiet, staring at this god who was once human, who had cried and laughed and loved and bled. A human thrusted into a position he didn’t understand. Someone who had stains on his hands.

“Why was I not good enough?” It was just a whisper, one easily carried away by the wind, but Liu Kang heard it all the same. The god pursed his lips.

“I didn’t want you to die again.”

Oh. He was…

Kung Lao shrugged off Liu Kang’s hand from his shoulder. So, he wasn’t champion because his god didn’t want him to die. It should’ve warmed his heart that a god favored him so much, but instead he felt burned. Because he was selfish and dangled an opportunity in front of Kung Lao that he could never reach. Because he had decided his own happiness was worth sacrificing his. Because he had put Raiden in harm’s way.

“Get out.”

“What?” Liu Kang sounded haunted.

“Get out!” Kung Lao gritted out the sound, anger building in him. “I don’t want to see you here again! I’m not your friend. I never was. I’m not him. You took away any chance I ever had at winning and still dangled the prize in front of me. And-and-and if being champion was so dangerous why did you make Raiden champion? You could’ve killed him as well. You-you pompous, asshole, ridiculous-”

Liu Kang flinched back at the words, hands drawing back into his body, and he looked pained. Kung Lao couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop every word that came out of his mouth as he insulted and picked apart Liu Kang. It felt like something was eating from the inside, tearing at his organs and ripping them to shreds and whispering all those hateful things that came spilling out of his mouth like black oil. He can feel something shift in his mind as hs insults pour from him, spew out onto the ground and stain and kill the earth

“You're a terrible mentor. A terrible friend. A terrible lover.” Kung Lao jammed a finger into Liu Kang’s chest, seething and nearly growling out the words. “I hate you! I hate you Kung Lao!”

The god stood still as Kung Lao breathed heavily, closing his eyes when he realized what he had said. Of course.

“I’m going inside. I want you gone when I come back out here tomorrow.” Kung Lao turned around and walked back into the compound and stared down at his injured hand. The bandages were soaked in his blood and needed to be changed again.

#noodle’s writings #mortal kombat #mk #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat fanfiction #mk fanfic #kung lao #kung lao mk1 #mk1 kung lao #kung lao x raiden #railao #liulao #kung lao x liu kang

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