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dragonselfship · 7 months

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sapphire roses.

selfshiptober day 5: flowers.

▬▬ ship: lucian x senna x seren (s/i)

▬▬ warnings: none!

▬▬ author’s note: it's been like... well over a year since i've written for both of these guys at once. that's scary. i needed to change that.

▬▬ tag list: @dragonselfship @dudefrommywesterns @minkymeatshop @wanderers-wife @fallen-for-them

▬▬ reblogs always appreciated! ♡

Perhaps one of the oldest lessons to ever cement itself into Seren’s mind is the sacrality of nature. It's a balanced creature that will give if you give, and take back what you steal tenfold. One must never cause unnecessary disturbances to the land; do not hunt more than you can eat, do not prune and pick the lush gardens which do not grow for you, do not poison or destroy the precious all-mother or her children. The First Lands are both caretaker and butcher, a welcoming home for some and a graveyard for many.

Seren has roamed these forests for centuries, and in this time, she has been nothing but reverent. She has grown cold and callused toward most living things, but the all-mother? Never. Nature is her home, her temple, the womb which she blossomed from.

She has given selflessly, only taking measured sips in return. While she did live off the land for many, many years, she also fearlessly defended that same land from the humans that infiltrated and ravaged it; there is a very good reason the citizens of Kumangra utter fearful tales about a furred, man-eating beast that stalked the coastal forests.

So, as Seren stands in those very same forests all these years later, smoothing over the soft petals of the famed sapphire roses with a calloused thumb, she wonders what difference just two flowers would make.

Slender fingers curl around the first pale, thorny stem, tugging it free from the frost-kissed bush. She then repeats the action with a second. Both flowers, cradled delicately between her palms, glitter in the moonbeams which filter through the canopy above.

“Thank you, Ighilya.” A gentle invocation spoken into the crisp night air. If you must take, the least you can do is be polite about it.

That is where Seren’s midnight rendezvous ends. With the two flowers resting gently in her satchel, she begins her trek back to Kumangra. As she emerges from the undergrowth and joins the other late-night travelers on the path into the town, the irony of her situation becomes all the more clear to her. She once slaughtered a man—a poacher, pompous and foolish, who thought himself to be larger than life—behind the inn she currently holds a room in. She wonders in passing if the settlers here still fear her. Do they still spin tales about her? Would it be possible for anyone to recognize her? She pulls the velvety cloak (Senna’s cloak, graciously lended to her to as protection from the evening chill) closer to her body as she hurries down the path.

The innkeeper pays her little mind. He’s worn, she can tell; he cares naught for pleasantries or expositions, he simply wants his coin and to be left alone besides. Despite his nonchalance, Seren has trouble detaching herself from his energy. As a matter of fact, she’s having trouble detaching herself from anything that’s happening inside this inn tonight. She passes a dozen locked doors, each of which emits its own unique string of feelings and misplaced thoughts—a small glimpse into what rules within.

She’s used to getting these little glimpses (it’s not like she can entirely shut them out, anyways) but usually, she can at least control how much attention she lends to each of them. Right now, she feels overwhelmed, which is odd for a night that was going so well. Perhaps she shouldn’t have worked herself up over thoughts of hunters.

Then, she feels it, warm like sunbeams and sweet like honey; two familiar presences emitting from just behind the door ahead. The feeling envelopes her like a welcoming embrace. Without hesitation, she reaches for the rusty doorknob and twists.

Their room is a small, odd-looking snuggery that’s architecture isn’t quite Ionian but still couldn’t be called anything else. The beds are comfortable enough and the building is very quiet.

Lucian and Senna are still wide awake, just as Seren expected. They were both doing their own things before she entered (Lucian was polishing the intricate metalwork of his guns, Senna was removing her bulky jewelry and setting it neatly on the bedside table in preparation for attempting sleep) but when the door opens, their gazes snap over to her, and everything else forgotten.

“Seren,” Senna speaks first. “You’re back.”

Seren smiles in reply. “Told you I wouldn’t be gone long.”

“That sure as hell felt like a long time,” Lucian’s voice is gruff and tired. His indignant front does not phase her; she can tell that it’s a cover-up for genuine worry.

“Awe. Good to know you still care about me.” She taunts, and Lucian lets out a short huff.

Seren joins the pair of them on the bed they share, placing her satchel in her lap and resting her palms on it. Her tail curls around her body, tucked neatly against her side.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I didn’t get attacked,” Seren says. “Not by animals or humans. Didn’t get lost, either.”

She references the countless times she’s gone out for walks whilst they are staying in foreign territories. The amount of times she’s almost died in Demacian forests is confounding.

“That’s only because this is your home,” Senna responds, prompting Seren to chuckle.

“I suppose you’re right.” It is also because she was the hunter in these woods for many years, but yes, she’ll allow them to go with that.

A brief pause, and then, Lucian speaks. “Your bag smells like roses.”

Roses, yes. It does. Seren had almost forgotten about the sapphire roses she’d stolen from the forest. She has gotten so used to their aroma that she hadn’t even noticed the way it fills the room. She must’ve turned many heads during her walk back.

“Yeah,” Senna concurs. “What is that?”

“Oh. I got you guys something.” Seren opens her satchel and reaches in, gingerly plucking the cerulean-petaled roses from their resting place. Both of her partners lean over her shoulders, watching intently, captivated by the prospect of a gift.

“One for you,” the first flower is placed gently into Senna’s outstretched hand. Deft fingers curl around its thorny stem. Emerald green eyes glisten with delight. She brings it up to her nose and inhales its ambrosial scent.

“And one for you.” The second flower is offered up to Lucian. For a brief moment, he just stares at it, quietly examining its beauty. Then, almost timidly, he reaches for the stem as well, taking it from Seren’s grasp. His other hand comes up to stroke its silken, iridescent petals.

A proud grin pulls at the corners of Seren’s mouth. They’re both pleased with their gifts, she knows it. She feels it.

“Wow. These are beautiful.” Senna says after a moment, voice raw with wonder.

Lucian continues her line of thought. “And you just… found these growin’ out in the woods?”

Seren nods in reply. “Yeah. They’re sapphire roses. They grow wild in the forests around here. They’re heavily sought after by merchants and flower collectors due to their unique scent. People usually pick them until there’s no more left to be had. It’s a wonder that I found these.”

Seren tuts disapprovingly. Her face still rests near the flower. “That’s terrible.”

“Isn’t it?” Seren is suddenly filled with vigor; she still harbors her hatred toward those goddamn merchants and collectors, even all these years later. “I used to have to chase them out of the woods, when I was staying around here.”

Senna chuckles, giving Seren a look. “You used to chase people out of the woods?”

Yeah. And hurt them real bad, sometimes. They always deserved it. “I’m scary.” Seren shrugs.

“She’s scary.” Lucian concures. The topic is left there.

“These are beautiful, Seren.” Senna places her flower gently atop her lap. Her (now free) hand comes to rest on Seren’s arm. She wears a kind, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Seren feels her face getting hot. “Yeah, of course.”

Lucian doesn’t say very much. He simply leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Seren’s head. “You’re a sweetheart, thinkin’ of us like that.”

Seren laughs shyly, casting her gaze downward. “I mean, of course. You’re– Yeah… I think about you guys a lot.”

#SEREN TAG 💥#your writing is fucking spectacular #like genuinely poetic #and delightfully written #its borderline fuckin prose

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dragonselfship · 7 months

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"If you don't want to share F/os with other shippers then you're immature" haha hell yeah I am idc he's mine TRIPLE DARTFROG POISON ATTACK

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dragonselfship · 7 months

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a love i'd cross oceans for.

selfshiptober day 1: first kiss.

▬▬ ship: khotun x lane (s/i)

▬▬ warnings: none!

▬▬ author’s note: i love this man so much it makes me look fucking stupid.

▬▬ reblogs always appreciated! ♡

Tonight, the Khan rides North to conquer Toyotama, leaving Castle Kaneda—and the Jito—to rot.

Lane is still unsure of what role she plays in this.

She spent the day watching the Mongols rangel their supplies and load up their horses. She listens to them talk amongst themselves; although she does not understand them, their tones, relaxed and placated, are familiar to her. With each passing day, they seem less like monsters and more like men.

Usually, she’ll spend her days at Khotun’s side, following him like a shadow. However, on this day, she made a point of avoiding him. She’s plagued with apprehension, as she isn’t entirely sure if she’s going with him, or if she’s one of the countless assets he’s leaving behind.

At first, she thought she’d be content with the latter. She’d be able to return to her old ways, wandering aimlessly around the land and compiling her findings in journals. Lonely, peaceful, and free. However, when she really, truly thinks about it—him being all the way at Castle Shimura, and her being stuck here, squandering alongside men she barely trusts, let alone understands—her heart aches and her stomach twists into knots.

She wants to go with him, she wants that more than anything, and the enormity of that want frightens her. If she’ll follow him North, into the snowy mountains that divide Toyotama and Kamiagata, where else will she follow him? To the mainland, to China, back to Mongolia? She can’t follow him forever. Well, perhaps she could, but what a terrifying commitment that would be.

Moreover, why couldn’t it have been anyone else? Perhaps a noble samurai, or a wayward artist just like herself. Why would she be willing to follow Khotun Khan, of all damn people, to the ends of the Earth?

Such a terrible predicament she has found herself in.

Dusk blankets the land in fog and darkness. The sun slips behind the horizon line, and the Mongols are ready to ride North. Lane stands near the open gate that separates the courtyard from the stables. Her gaze flits back and forth, observing the Mongols as they pass through, clad in armor and furs, weapons sheathed and bound to their bodies. Some glance at her, and some smile, but most regard her like a ghost and slip past her as if she isn’t there at all.

Including Khotun.

When she sees him approaching, a hulking silhouette masked in elegant armor, her face grows warm and her heart catches in her throat.

She watches him expectantly, but he does not stop for her. He does not even look at her.

She feels her heart sink into the pits of her stomach. In the hollow of her chest, she feels her ribcage constrict, closing in on itself. She feels pain and a profound sense of sorrow.

She watches him descend into his stables. He watches him tend to his horse (his favorite horse, a cream-colored mare; if there’s one thing Lane has learned from their time together, it’s his love of animals), she listens to him address his men in Mongolian, not understanding a word he’s saying, but noting how much gruffer his voice is when he’s not speaking Japanese. All of these things, entirely separate from his warlord persona, she will remember forever.

To be loved is to be changed, is a saying she once heard. To be loved is to be known just as much as it is to know. To love is to be haunted by memories from a time long past. To love, and to be loved, is to be damned.

But was this, whatever this was, truly love? It hasn’t felt like love until right now. The pain in her chest is something very akin to love.

Sorrow turns to bitterness, and Lane bites down on her tongue as she turns her head away from the stables. You may stay with my empire for as long as you’d like, she recalls him saying once, many weeks ago. Feels like it’s been a lifetime, since that night. Still, she did not specify if she may stay by his side, which permits her to conclude that yes, she is an asset.

An asset that will stay here, it seems.

Then, a voice. Gruff, deep, and familiar. “Lane?”

A jolt of surprise cracks through her like lightening. She hadn’t even heard him approach.

After nearly chokes in her own spit, she, hesitantly, lifts her gaze to meet the man before her. His eyes are partially obscured by the shadow of his helmet, rendering his expression unreadable. She imagines that he’s scowling at her.

“Uhm,” she clears her throat. “Hello.”

She tries to sound casual, not too nervous, but she failing quite miserably, she thinks.

Yet, Khotun continues. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

She blinks in surprise. Yes, she thought she was, and she’d really, really love to. She’d love nothing more. “Well… yes. I suppose. I just wasn’t quite sure if you wanted me to.”

Khotun huffs, almost seeming revolted by the statement. He tips his head back slightly with a sharp intake of breath, and the dim light of the setting sun illuminates his eyes. He decidedly isn’t scowling. In fact, he doesn’t look upset in the slightest.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” He questions, though it seems to be rhetorical. “I told you that you may stay with my empire for as long as you wish.”

“I know that,” Lane sputters anxiously. “But I thought, well, I don’t know. You’re looking for soldiers, not shadows. Didn’t think you’d view me as a very useful… asset.”

Khotun give a short, half-suppressed laugh. “You are not an asset, Lane. Be honest with yourself.”

Honestly, if she isn’t an asset, what else could she be? A companion? That sounds foolish. And yet, when she finally brings herself to meet his gaze again, she notes the warmth in his eyes and the subtle upkick of his lips. He seems happy, genuinely happy, to be in her presence.

He always seems like this when she’s around him, actually.

How had she not noticed that before?

Lane smiles, a dry, nervous chuckle escaping her clenched throat. “Alright, alright. Fine.” She relents.

“Then please, come.” He tells her. “Unless, there is something you’re apprehensive about?”

Suddenly, she’s on the defense, raising her palms placatingly as she shakes her head. “No, no,” she says. “I swear it isn’t anything like that. I suppose I’m just…”

A pause. She’s staring at his face, searching for subtle changes in his expression, for the tiniest hint of displeasure. Anything to justify the way she’s feeling, something that’ll allow her to harden her resolve and shrink away from him without feeling guilty.

Alas, she finds no such thing.

“I suppose I’m a little confused.” She says at last. “If I’m not useful to your conquest, why keep me around?”

There is a brief moment of awestruck hesitation before Khotun laughs outright. Its such a sweet, tantalizing sound, and it almost makes Lane forget that he’s laughing at her.

“I have a heart, you know.” He responds warmly.

Lane feels a sudden rush of heat rise to her face, and a smile comes unbidden to her lips. “So I’ve learned.”

The pair shares yet another string of half-suppressed chuckles before quiet falls over them once more, a peaceful duvet that goes uninterrupted by their fellow soldiers and nature both. She’s quick to notice how isolated they suddenly are; the crowds on either side have cleared, and now, it’s just them. Alone, hushed, peaceful, far away from prying eyes and chattering voices.

She stares at his face for longer than she’d intended to, growing lost in his stormy brown eyes and handsome complexion. She notes all of the little details of his appearance, from his neatly trimmed beard, to the healing scar that staggers across his cheek, to the faint, knowing smile that dances across his lips when he looks at her.

She wants to kiss him.

Hell! She’s fucking staring at him. Embarrassment washes over her like a tidal wave. She snaps out of her odd trance, and her gaze snaps up to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can manage, unable to bite down the smile in her voice.

Khotun responds with a huff of laughter. “Don’t be.”

He both looks and sounds so gentle and endeared. It makes her heart ache and her stomach twist into knots.

She finds herself overwhelmed by nerves and excitement both. Every subtle insinuation and looming prospect are of duel nature; she is horrified by what he may be feeling for this man, but at the same time, she craves him. Craves, craves, craves… it’s a craving that is sickening in its intensity, like an ever-growing hungry that gnaws at her flesh from the inside. She desires so much and so mightily that it hurts, oh, it hurts.

She wants to kiss him.

Oh, to hell with it. To fucking hell with it.

She leans up, pressing a soft kiss, tender and lovely, to the Khan’s lips. It’s quick, far too quick for him to react, but it is as real as the air they share; she would do it a thousand times more, whilst she also dreads the thought of the gesture ever being returned.

Is it dread, or is it perhaps love in a nasty coat? She rather not know.

“We should get going,” her words come out hurried and slurred-together; a blatant display of nerves, as if the blush that’s creeping onto her pale face wasn’t blatant enough.

The Khan’s reply is delayed by only a few moments, but to Lane, it feels like an eternity. “Yes. Gather your things, and be quick about it. We’re tight on time.”

Lane hardly dares to glance up at him before departing, but when she does, she finds that he’s smiling even wider than before. The sight makes her feel sick. She gives him a quick half-nod before turning on her heals and taking quick paces toward the castle.

She hates this. Everything about this. She hates him. It echoes in her mind like a mantra, reminding her of where she should stand on such a matter (revolted by his mere presence upon this land, seizing her first opportunity to escape his grasp and never looking back) but she knows that it’s all a farce. She adores him, craves him like she craves food or water, and will follow him anywhere, even on a bloody conquest.

Lane, you fool! She reprimands herself vigorously, but it does nothing to bring down the smile on her face.

#this is the cutest shit ive read in my LIIIIIIIIIFE #i love your writing so much #holy moly #ITS SO GOOD!!!!!!!! AND DESCRIPTIVE #SEREN TAG 💥

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dragonselfship · 7 months

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So if anyone was wondering… This is literally what I look like whenever my f/o cups my face in their hands:

(Pro/Comshippers fuck off! This post ain’t for you!)

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dragonselfship · 7 months

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some doodles of the yokai au i've been thinking about for a while. khotun is an oni, and my s/i is a kitsune :)

(reblogs always okay / tags: @minkymeatshop, @dudefrommywesterns, @ghostingwings, fill out this to be added!)

#OMG YOU DIDNT SHOW ME THE SECOND DOODLE #AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW #WAWWAAWAWWGG #LANE IS SUCH A LITTLE SCRIMPLY #THE SCRUNPIST!!!!!!#i love your art so much #your ARRTTTGgg eats it #SEREN TAG 💥

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dragonselfship · 8 months

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#swarm ; the girls 🪰#broodmother ; alcina 💄

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dragonselfship · 9 months

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twerks my way into your ask box. 41

SI SENOR! we’ve got 41 - while one is sick. this is great because as of the time i am writing this i feel like i’m dying.

Iyo finds her delirious and fever sick, tucked away in the back of the tea house somewhere or other, drifting in and out of a dream.

Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy as she lifts her gaze to look at Iyo. She’s standing before her, a demonic apparition of a woman; a stark contrast to the mundane visage of this realm.

Even in her exhausted state, Lane desperately wants to speak. She wants to ask her how—and furthermore, why—she tracked her all the way to the mortal realm. On a similar note, she wants to ask her if she’s okay; mortals don’t take very kindly to those who are unlike them, hence why Iyo takes great care to avoid them. But when Lane opens her mouth, she realizes her voice is gone. The best she can do is mumble incoherently as she reaches out for the onibaba.

"Hush," Iyo breaths, catching Lane's hands in her own. Her voice is deep and resounding, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. To Lane, is a comforting and familiar sound. She uses what little strength she has to lean forward into Iyo's comforting embrace. She wraps her pale, boney arms around Lane's shivering form, drawing her in, holding her close and protectively.

After a long period of silence, Iyo speaks again. "I told you to stay in my domain until you are well," she says. "Why did you come here?"

Lane draws in a deep, centering breath, willing away the nausea just long enough to speak. "Needed fresh air. Thought tea might do me some good." She chuckles weakly. "It didn't."

Iyo lets out a disapproving sigh. She rises to her feet, bringing Lane with her, who is practically boneless. She hoists her up into her arms in one swift motion, cradling her like she is much smaller than she actually is. She finds herself surrendering to Iyo's inhuman strength, curling into her as she carries her, tired and broken through the teahouse.

The moment she makes herself at home in Iyo's grasp, Lane finds it hard to keep her eyes open. However, before she inevitably drifts off again, her gaze sweeps the moonlit teahouse.

A massacre is what she sees. Bodies line every wall, innocent peasants slain by blade and dark magic both. The scent of blood hangs heavy in the air. The longer Lane sits with it, the more she realizes how close it sits to her nose, like it's clinging to her—or Iyo. With a sigh, Lane turns her nose into Iyo's bloodstained clothes and shuts her eyes.

Sensing the shift in her lover's demeanor, Iyo squeezes Lane a little tighter, leaning down to press a reassuring kiss to the crown of her forehead.

Lane emits a satisfied hum, relaxing into her as she carries her out of the teahouse, and toward whatever gate she must've crawled through to get here.

#THIS IS EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING #SEREN TAG 💥#I LOVE IT LIKE GENUINELY I CANT WORDS BUT I LOVE IT #she kills EVERYONE #but is so sweet to you

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