#Warriors. Approving: I know this. And I love you (feeling unspecified).

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Day 6

Mask(s)

Soft and sweet with just a hint of melancholic because 1.I'm tired and probably need a nap father than coffee, 2.I actually managed to make a pretty good mocha and the Anchorage LOZ animatic came onto my playlist before writing this and it kind of influenced my mood, and 3. I'm saving the usual Majora's Mask flare of angst for another prompt because I was having way too much fun dissecting the tragedy of the Hero of Time before sleep deprivation snatched the idea away which is usually my sign to pass the heck out and save the second option for when I have more energy lol.

For the Warriors fans, also Warriors is a disaster of an older sibling but we adore and appreciate him for it in this household, as always can be implied romantic or platonic between him and reader.

You were all but pinned down to the ground, brought down more effectively and unable to find the strength to get up.

Well, not literally, there were no enemies nearby, the chaos at camp had long since died down and there wasn’t anything much to do now that night had fallen, the heavens deigning to put all of it’s glittering jewels on display.

Were it any other day you’d probably focus more on appreciating it in full, the fire was crackling merrily, you were safe and had a full stomach and even with the ever present threat of the Shadow possibly deciding to ambush you all while most of your guards were down, you had your boys with you and the crisp autumn petrichor was a balm on your soul, weary from the journey.

Maybe it would be fine to rest for a little while.

And then the small figure clinging to you flinched, burrowing closer and holding onto your tunic like a lifeline. And awareness came to you like a smack over the head with a log, your fingers gently carding through blond locks as you hum gently. Weighting options and just how quietly you could move without bothering the precious Sprite at your side.

You had guessed Time had been a sweet kid, and you still wanted to lodge a formal complaint with the gods for writing such cruel fate for him because the man couldn’t catch a break and you’re not the only one to take it personally. But he was killing you here, this is how you die, with an adorable but oh so heartbreakingly sad little boy having fallen asleep leaning against you after telling you all sorts of stories about his extensive mask collection.

(You don’t know wether you want to cry, scream or laugh, Mask was so, so young. It breaks your heart, just a little.

Really, the deities of Hyrule must adore tragedies. Bastards.)

Sighing, you decide to compromise, gently keeping the Kokiri boy right where he is, fast asleep and with barely any nightmares as you hum and card your fingers through the spun gold strands, you brush your fingers through the last masks he fell asleep mid through telling the story of how he’d acquired. If you were careful surely you’d be able to reach his pack on his side so he wouldn’t worry later.

A pair of brown boots invade your vision, Warriors crouches down. You think you spot a flash of surprise on his eyes as he spots Mask napping on you, and then fond amusement of a big brother you knew he directed often towards Wind, tone low, “Well would you look at that, out like a light. It’s a rare honor for him to trust anyone like this.”

You chuckle a bit, shaking your head, “I can tell, he’s a good kid. I’ve barely met him for a day and I’d already take on an army for him.”

“Welcome to my world.”, comes Warriors dry response, though you both knew he was a hundred percent serious, his own mask quickly falling away as he gently picked up the Deku Sprout Mask to put it back in the small sprite’s pouch, hiding it’s confused, fearful sadness from your gaze (and it’s an effort, not to twitch, as your rage towards Majora gained even more kindling to burn) as the soldier handled it with the due solemnity of being one of the few Mask would allow to even touch the masks without his immediate supervision, “... I never thought I’d see him again, as...”

“I know.” Your tone was quiet, as you carefully picked your choice of words.

If there’s one thing you knew about any Link, is that they’re all really good elder brother’s and that they are too hard on themselves. Warriors specially, Mask and Wind were his everything, there wouldn’t be words that could describe how gutted he was, after confirming his suspicions with you, regretting not saying anything against Mask joining the battle field back then, loathing himself for not convincing him or Lana into letting him stay in spite of his bad feeling that as soon as the young hero of time passed through that portal he was unlikely to ever meet him again.

... You settle for something simple, instead, reaching a hand to softly pat his head, taking care not to mess his hair too much, “You did good, Wars, it’s not your fault. Mask also knows you did your best.”

He still, sighing, the mask falling away as he guides your hand to his lips, quietly thankful (really, like big brother like little brother, your wonderful, silly, caring boys. You make a point to cheerfully bat away the butterflies in your stomach, ), “... Feels hard to believe that, some times. Thank you.”

You hum, after putting the Zora mask away, Warriors takes Mask’s other side, pulls you closer and breathes.

(Just in case, he lies to himself.)

You quietly listen to his stories about his little brother, and Warriors is content.

#linked universe x reader #linked universe warriors x reader #will I ever post the original story I was gonna use for this prompt? #who knows certainly not my sleep deprived self lol #more implied than romantic if you ask me but frankly that's about what I expected when Warriors decided to show up on this prompt #man is the most charming of the Chain but you can't tell me he would know where to begin with any sort of romantic feelings #so lots of unspoken understanding happens here instead so it's up to interpretation lol #Reader: I've had Mask for a day and a half but if anything happened to him I'd murder everyone in Hyrule and then myself. #Warriors. Approving: I know this. And I love you (feeling unspecified). #The Rest of the Chain: And we support you #Is Warriors wanting to be close in reference to the Kohga prompt? #Does he just want Mask and Reader close because he is smart enough to infer what happens to him #Does he just want them there because like all Links he has several abandonment issues? #Who knows! I just know that he is rife with trauma tokens so you all can spin the wheel and decide #Mask is probably Warriors biggest regret and I am going to shake people about it if not stopped #You can't tell me that he wouldn't have wanted to take him in once he learned he was an orphan traveling all alone with his pony in the WoA #All Links are big sibling coded just on different wavelengths #The WoA was just Wars accidentally picking up several feral strays while a war happened in the back #ex Mask Wind Tetra Skull Kid and Linkle #summer writes linktober 2023 #summer writes

[crystalbahamut]

play by night

FFXIV Write Day 5: Extra Credit (Legacy)

Summary: As the Warrior of Light, you think you know what future generations will think of you– if they even do. But perhaps you don’t see the full picture.

Author’s note: Today is pick your own prompt day and I had the hardest time of this one by far, but the word ‘legacy’ has been bouncing around in my head for a few weeks now, so I gave it my best shot.

Warnings: Depression, Shadowbringers spoilers, Facet of Crafting questline spoilers, unspecified WoL, multi-talented WoL, musician WoL, 2nd person, slight WoL/Exarch but mostly WoL & Exarch (I think) (this one is going to be hard to tag on AO3 oof)

Words: 1,221

---

“That was lovely.”

You look up from your lute and see the Crystal Exarch standing by you. Not for the first time you wonder how he always manages to step so softly that he’s constantly coming across you unawares. It’s more than just being quiet; your…profession, should you call it that…means that you’re often conscious of how someone’s presence feels, and you can generally tell when someone is about to get close, as your shoulder blades draw in and your back goes straight whether the stranger is a barmaid or an assassin.

Except for the Exarch, who somehow has more patience than the former and is far more dangerous than the latter. You’re supposed to be his one last hope for the world; it probably doesn’t speak well of you that this one man can always catch you off your guard.

“Good evening Exarch.” You look around to make sure you’re alone. “I hope you aren’t here about a noise complaint.”

His lips actually part for his smile. How surprisingly expressive. “Not at all.” He gestures at the grass next to you. “May I join you?”

You open your arm wide over all the space he could possibly sit, and he chooses a respectable distance from you, remaining close without being overly so. “I was out for a walk,” he says as he settles. “Even with the eternal light blurring the lines between sleeping and waking, this area can be quite peaceful.”

“When someone isn’t making a racket,” you say with an attempt to line your tone with humor, and move to set your instrument aside.

The Exarch, though, looks deadly serious when he places a hand over the strings to stop you. “My friend, if you do not feel comfortable that I can hear you play then I will slip back into the night and never be seen again. Pray, do not stop on my account.”

You tilt your head to one side and, despite your mood, smile ever so slightly. “You know, for such a normally straightforward man, you can be quite dramatic.”

He smiles again. And again, it is more natural than the closed mouth enigmatic expression you’re used to seeing. “I prefer…‘enthusiastic.’” He nods his head in approval as you take your lute back and start strumming absently. “And perhaps it is due to the usual incompatibility of our schedules, but…I have never seen you so relaxed, and I would not take that from you.”

You pick at the strings, making notes too sharp and brash, trying to find the right balance of quiet between making no sound and too much sound. “I rarely get any time to myself. Only when others are asleep can I take a moment to breathe.”

The Exarch opens his mouth and you are quick to silence him. “Don’t say it.”

He frowns so hard he nearly pouts. “You have no idea what I was going to say.”

“As the Warrior of Light I have a preternatural ability to sense apologies before they happen.”

“Call me an unbeliever, but I think you may be having me on.”

“There’s one way to tell.” You look at him with more scrutiny. “What were you going to say?”

He purses his lips and for that moment you can’t believe he’s a century-old wizard leading the last free city of Norvrandt. He looks too much like a petulant child. “I was going to say, that is…regretful…and you have my sympathies.”

“You’re a decent liar. I almost believe you.”

His smile is slight again. Time passes pleasantly, or it would, if you could drag your mind from the depths it currently dangles over. Unfortunately you’re in a mood tonight that cannot be swayed by pleasant sounds or pleasant company.

“I heard you helped Miss Thiuna fix Master Harig’s lute,” the Exarch says softly. “Thank you. ‘Tis been a long time since I have heard his music played. It does my heart good to see his apprentices carry on his legacy.”

His legacy. You strum absently as you think on that. You wonder what your legacy will be, at the end of everything. Is it enough to be known as a warrior, when there is so much about you no one else will ever learn? Would anyone else be as surprised as the Exarch to know you can strum a chord or two? Or will that be completely forgotten? Will the only memory of you be the one that stinks of blood and fear and death?

The Exarch says your name. “Hmm?”

“Are you all right?” he asks and leans in closer.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” You pluck at a string. “It seems like a pleasant legacy, is all.” Pluck. “He must have been a good man.”

“He was,” the Exarch says. “My friend, I realize this may seem a touch…hypocritical, however, if aught troubles you, I would offer my ear to hear it.” He smiles conspiratorially. “You can at least be certain my confidence is assured.”

You smile at the joke that can only be partly considered so. He has a point, and your thoughts don’t go too deep. “It must be nice,” you say. “To be remembered for what you can create, rather than your ability to destroy.”

His smile turns wistful. “Would that any of us could choose such a fine legacy,” he says. “Alas, that is to be decided by those we leave behind and how they feel about what we have done.”

“It is a useless worry,” you agree. “And yet…I can’t stop thinking about it. What mine is now. What it will be. A lot of fighting, probably.”

“Perhaps,” the Exarch says. “Perhaps tales of your battles will make it through the ages. Perhaps they will inspire others to find strength of their own– whether that means fighting sin eaters…or simply surviving to the next day.”

You look at him. He is facing the sky now and all you can see is the profile of his lower face lit by the moon. “Perhaps people will tell of your willingness to help your fellows and set out on their own daring quests, or offer to help their elderly neighbors carry something heavy. Perhaps they will tell tales of your sublime artistry and create masterpieces of their own…or simply start a new hobby they aren’t very good at but that they enjoy immensely.” He looks at you again. “Perhaps all of these things can be true. Because no one can dictate how great or miniscule their legacy is, because people will take it and make it so it suits them. And most of the time it isn’t all that grand. Sometimes it is just the small day to day. And I daresay that is enough. For all of us.”

There’s a lump in your throat that takes some effort to swallow. “I don’t know,” you say, unable to raise your voice. “That sounds pretty grand to me.”

His smile grows again. You set the instrument aside and scoot a little closer to him, and then a little closer still, and when you’re nearly pressed up against his side he finally slides his arm across your shoulders. You sigh in contentment. “Thank you…Exarch.”

“Any time, my multi-talented, artistic, battle-hardened minstrel,” he says, and you laugh.

Perhaps yours won’t be such a limited legacy after all.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite prompt 5: extra credit #ffxiv fanfic #shadowbringers spoilers #the crystal exarch #warrior of light #wolexarch #wol x exarch

[ike-sol]

memento mori [part 1]

Summary: With his illness progressing, Shingen has made peace with his inevitable death. Yukimura has not. Characters: Ikemen Sengoku: Shingen Takeda, Yukimura Sanada (platonic! father/son relationship). Mentioned Yukimura x unspecified woman (could be MC or not) Genre: Hurt/comfort Content warning: Terminal illness (lung cancer) Word count: 2,090 Or read on Ao3!

~*~

“I’m coming in-” Yukimura announced just half a second before sliding open the door.

“Yuki, what did I tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotta wait. Sorry. But at least I said something.”

He came inside, closing the door behind him, and placed a bamboo box on the table. Shingen, who had been lying in his futon, slowly propped himself up on his elbows, and smiled at the young man. The sweet scent of still-hot steamed buns wafted through the air, a most wonderful aroma.

“Red bean paste buns?”

“Yeah. I got the last batch.”

Yukimura came to his side, kneeling down besides him, and helped him sit up, before taking his place at the opposite side of the table. He lifted the lid off of the bamboo box, revealing six perfect sweet buns, and Shingen reached out for one with a shaky hand. It was still warm, and oh-so-soft.

“Thank you, Yuki.”

“Sure.” He smiled, but didn’t take a bun for himself.

Then- all six were for Shingen? He hummed in approval, though the unease ate at the periphery of his soul. He was halfway through the sweet when that awful tickle started in his throat, and rapidly grew into an all-consuming pain. And- gods! He dropped the bun as a coughing fit overcame him.

Shingen felt like his chest was on fire. That burning, squeezing sensation, as though some wicked kitsune had placed rocks upon rocks on his chest. A desperate need for air that he could not attain, no matter how quickly he breathed, how he gasped for it in between those awful, suffocating coughs. The metallic taste in his mouth was pungent, and no matter how many times it happened, he could never get used to the taste of blood.

Shingen knew these attacks well by now, how they overcame him at full force, and though it was localised in his chest, they spread to everywhere in his body, until he became light headed from the lack of air. He was used to them, yes, but each passing attack seemed to be stronger than the last, and a dark part of him wondered - was this it?

“My lord-”

Yukimura was instantly by his side, an arm around his back, and eyebrows creased with worry. Shingen waved a hand in a motion as if to signal he was alright, even as the violent cough racked his body. He tried to take deep breaths, but it was too difficult, far too difficult, when his chest spasmed with a terrible lack of air.

Finally, it quieted. Now breathing deeply, Shingen felt the painful irritation in his throat, but at least that was better than the brutal coughs. He reached out with a shaky hand for the box of ointment he always kept by his bedside, but Yukimura beat him to it, and picked it up instead.

“Lie down. I’ll apply it.”

Shingen nodded his thanks, too weak to speak at the moment, and lied down obediently on the futon, still breathing deeply.

He always wore his kimono loosely, to show off his chest with a flirtful ambience. Even now, with his muscles wasting away, no longer the same handsome man, the habit remained. But he no longer had the courage to look at himself in the mirror. The thin frame and sunken eyes, hollowed cheekbones… He couldn’t bear the sight of himself. He hoped dearly, that once he passed, Yukimura would remember him as handsome as he was in his health, rather than the sickly ghost of a man he was now, in what were surely his last days of illness. Of life.

Yukimura pulled apart the collar of his kimono further, to expose his chest fully. Opened the wooden box, intricately carved out of maplewood by Shingen himself, so many years ago. The ointment felt cool on his skin as Yukimura applied it to his chest, his actions a little clumsy, but kind. So very kind. He hated the look of worry on the young man’s face, and attempted to chase it away with a light-hearted comment.

“Thank you. But I’d much rather have a beautiful woman do it, in your stead.”

“Ha-ha.” Yukimura rolled his eyes. “You’re always thinking about women.”

“And you don’t think about them enough.”

Silence. He set the box of ointment aside, and began to rub the medicine into Shingen’s skin. It would take a while for it to work, but it helped to open his airways. Far from a cure, but- at least it made breathing easier. At least it made the symptoms more bearable.

“You know, I really wanted to see you settled down before I-”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“Yuki.” He said gently. “I want to talk about it. We can’t pretend it’s not going to happen.”

Yukimura did not speak. His lips pressed together into a firm line, and his eyes avoided his. Shingen didn’t miss how his eyes glazed over with a sheen - too proud to let the tears fall, but unable to restrain them. Instead, he picked up the half-eaten sweet bun, and placed it back in the basket. Shingen hated that he could do nothing.

He wished he’d died in battle.

This was not a warrior’s death, to wither away at a sickbed. His clothes swallowed him more with every passing day as his muscles wasted away. Hollowed eyes and cheeks and trembling hands. Most days, he couldn’t even make it out into the garden on his own. This weakness, this helplessness, was far more painful than the vice in his chest.

He hated how the others looked at him. How Kenshin never asked him to fight anymore, even though he’d once promised to take his life before the illness did. How Sasuke was coincidentally always there to hold him up when a coughing fit overcame him in the hallway and thrust him off balance. How Yukimura stopped rationing his sweets, and let him eat as much as he liked.

He knew the end was coming. He knew that everyone else knew, too. Still, he wished that things could remain as they always were. What he would have given to drink into the night at a pre-battle feast, and then to lose his life to a sword the following day! Sudden, surprising, and quick. And not like this sickness that dragged on forever and took everyone down with him.

“I’m still here. Don’t mourn for me yet, Yuki.”

Shingen propped himself up on his elbows, and immediately Yukimura helped him up into a sitting position. He leaned against the wall. “Come here.”

Yukimura carefully sat down besides him. Leaned his head against his shoulder as if he were made of glass. Shingen wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and Yukimura turned his face away. He couldn’t see the tears, but he heard his breathing shallow.

The boy he’d taken in all those years had grown into a formidable man. Strong and reliable and painfully honest, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He’d grown into everything Shingen had ever hoped for - except, perhaps, for his uncouth tongue. How he’d not learned to speak around the fairer sex with Shingen as an example was a mystery - it must have boiled down to sheer stubborness rather than incompetence. Or so he hoped, at least.

But right now, curled up against him like this, Yukimura was once again a boy in his eyes. He remembered when he first spoke to him, all those years ago. The troublemaker running around town, catching bugs and swinging his wooden sword until it broke. Who never cried over scraped knees or an empty stomach, and stopped the other kids from tormenting puppies.

The boy was like a son to him. He wasn’t sure whether he’d been a good father figure, but- he loved him with all he had. He’d tried to impart all his wisdom and care onto him, though who knew whether it had been enough.

“I hate that I’m going to leave you.” Shingen said quietly. “I’m glad you have Sasuke. And Kenshin, and Yoshimoto.”

Yukimura didn’t respond. His gaze fell on the floor, on his fingers, as he laced them together. Finally, he spoke up, just as quietly.

“There is someone, you know.”

“Hm?”

“A girl.”

He smiled. “Why didn’t you say so before? Tell me about her.”

“I knew you’d make a big deal out of it-”

“What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

“Wha- I- hell if I know.”

“Yuki-”

He blushed deeply, to the very tips of his ears, and nodded. “...Yeah. Really pretty.”

Shingen closed his eyes. “Good. I hope you told her that. You need to make her feel like the most beautiful woman alive.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s…” Yukimura smiled as he thought over what to say. “She’s really sweet, and fun. And she hangs off my arm, and she likes Muramasa, and her hair’s always messy. And once she starts laughing, she can’t stop, sometimes over the stupidest things.”

The love in Yukimura’s expression was almost overwhelming. He’d never seen it on the boy before, not like this, and it filled Shingen with an immeasurable warmth. He was glad he got to see it on him before the end of his life.

“She sounds wonderful. Perfect for you.” Shingen smiled. “I wish I could meet her.”

“...She’s in Azuchi.”

“I figured. I’m glad - the hairpins worked.”

“Yeah. Guess you were right about that.”

Shingen chuckled. “You should’ve listened to me more often.”

“I- we kissed. At the festival. I really… really like her.” He admitted, red-faced. “I was going to- to tell her who I really am. And ask her to come here. With me.”

The urgent letter must have stolen him back to Echigo before he could do so, and Shingen felt a pang of guilt for that. His condition hadn’t worsened so much as to justify Yukimura dropping everything to come see him again, though Sasuke thought differently, and insisted on letting him know.

Perhaps Sasuke was right. Perhaps this was the final chance to say goodbye. He had to leave Yukimura with pleasant memories, to at least slightly weigh against the pain he’d inevitably be left with.

“I’m glad. You found the person you like. Maybe I can still meet her.”

“Yeah.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I… I dunno. For a while.”

Shingen knew what that meant, what words Yukimura didn’t want to use. He would not force them out of him - it was nice enough knowing that he’d be here, for the last of his days. There was no one he’d rather be with during this time.

He pressed a gentle kiss against the top of his head. “Thank you.”

He felt Yukimura breathe in shakily again, as if to steady himself. Silence, for a moment.  “I’m going to miss you. So much.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Yukimura leaned his head against his chest and grasped his hand. It was warm, in comparison to his. Rough from all those years of training, fighting, but- strong. So much stronger than his. So much more alive.

“You’ve grown into a wonderful man. ...I love you, Yuki.”

He heard him suck in a breath, like a gasp. A strangled sort of sound, and he felt his shoulders shake - just a little - against him.

“Me, too.” He whispered. “I love you.”

Shingen leaned down with another gentle kiss, this time against his forehead. Like a comfort, he hoped, and not quite yet a goodbye. They sat like that, in silence, for a while. Shingen rubbed Yukimura’s back gently, pretending not to notice his quiet crying, to salvage his pride.

When he quieted and righted himself, a long while had passed. Yukimura turned his face away again, and wiped his tears and nose unceremoniously with his sleeve. His eyes were still red, but he was calm. Good, Shingen thought. The boy had to let it out sometime.

“Yuki,” He smiled. He wouldn’t push the emotional issue any further, if the boy didn’t want it. Perhaps this was enough for now. “Pass me my sweet buns?”

He laughed airly - still shaky - as if in disbelief, and relented. “Fine. Here.”

He moved the table closer to them, and returned to his position by Shingen’s side, so that their shoulders were touching. He held out the bamboo box, and Shingen picked up the half-eaten bun he’d dropped before. It was still warm, and tasted just as nice as it did before. A fond look at his surrogate son.

“Tell me more about your lady.”

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen shingen #ikesen yukimura #ikemen sengoku shingen #ikemen sengoku yukimura #im posting this again because tumblr is being stupid and not showing it up in the tags #tumblr pls have mercy on me