#sand lies out of wounded pride and longing for something he can only get through pretending and out of self-preservation and out of fear

[sollucets]

wrote a whole long post that didn't make sense because i'm a fic writer not a meta writer and the point comes down to this: sand and ray are both Such Bad Liars

they have honest faces. nobody, in-universe or in the audience, is ever really fooled when they pretend things are other than they are.

when sand is hurt you can tell, it's in every line of his body. ray is expressive and straightforward but hides his hurt a little better, not because he's better at lying but because the hurt hardly ever goes away.

ray can see sand freezing up and looking upset when he's called a friend or not prioritized, he can see the lie, but it doesn't matter compared to what sand's actually saying and what it'll mean if it's (not) true. he's gotten a lesson recently about pushing. and sand, i think, can see ray caring but he can't imagine it could be enough, that he could matter the most or be a priority. when ray calls sand a whore it's the only lie he told that night and sand knows it

when they hurt each other sand lies and pulls away and ray can tell, and similarly ray lies and pulls away and sand can tell, and theyre stuck in limbo because of it. awful. hate it. 10000 more just like it please

#again as always there are other layers #ray pulls back out of self-loathing (less of me will always be better for the other person) and a sort of clumsy kindness and fear #sand lies out of wounded pride and longing for something he can only get through pretending and out of self-preservation and out of fear #sand is sometimes so honest it hurts (and when he is you can see ray falling in real time) #and ray lies too now and again to try to keep people from seeing just how bad it's got #also to be clear this applies to sand's girlboss gaslight manipulation moment too #like he's better at it than regular lying because he's had time to prepare but ray still sees straight through it #just bc ray ends up telling mew anyway doesn't mean he can't see sand's ulterior motives from a mile off #this is very melodramatic of me i know but like. this is how i have to get my shit out they are rotating in my brain 24/7 #i am actually also writing fic in another tab as we speak im literally overflowing constantly thinking about them #rowan chatter #re: only friends

[attllhak]

@technicallya1manband so, I just remembered that while I was camping I wrote another thing for the Gerudo Twilight AU. Specifically, I have a lot of fun with ‘The Unreliable Narrator That Is History’ (putting this like that, because I basically use it as a trope at this point), and I got bored one afternoon while hiding from the sun because it is HOT out, especially where I was. And then I thought I should probably have Twilight appear, so it kinda ended up ‘Expectation vs Reality’ by the end. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this, I’m off to bed now

-------------

“You look upset,”

Zelda startled, twisting to see Urbosa standing in the doorway behind her. The Champions had only just been dubbed as such, and Zelda had wanted to get away from the celebrations.

“I’m not,” she lied, turning back to face the sky.

Urbosa sighed, and after a moment she settled down next to Zelda.

“Little bird, you do not have to lie to me,”

“I know,” she sighed, not bothering to defend herself. “I just, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. My power won’t awaken, no matter what I do, and I just, I can’t live up to the expectations everyone has set for me. My mother unlocked her power so easily, and my grandmother did too. Why is it just me that can’t do this?”

“Zelda,” Urbosa wound an arm around her shoulders and pulled the younger girl to her side. “You need to stop comparing yourself to them. You aren’t them, and your power will awaken for you when you are ready,”

“But I’ve been ready!” Zelda threw out her hands. “And it’s not that easy to just, not compare! I know you wouldn’t understand that, but I just,” she put her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do,”

“Wouldn’t understand, eh?”

Zelda peeked up through her fingers as Urbosa leaned back on her hands. 

“Would you let me tell you a story, little bird?”

“A, story?”

“It has a moral,” Urbosa promised. “And I think you’ll like it,”

“Okay,” Zelda folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me a story,”

“This is an old story, very, very old. Almost, but not quite, as old as the gerudo ourselves. Back when Ganon took the form of a gerudo voe,”

“Seriously?” Zelda twisted to face Urbosa, eyes wide. “That is old,”

“Indeed,” Urbosa smiled. “The man that would become the monster Ganon had been king for only a few years when the Hero of that era defeated him. I won’t go into the details, as they get confusing, and this story is not about them. After he was defeated, Ganon was sentenced to death. He was not successfully killed, but that is also a tale for another time. What I wish to speak of is the aftermath,”

“Why start with Ganon when you’re talking about something after him?” Zelda huffed.

“Because, little bird, Ganon’s defeat left the gerudo without a king. I know it may not seem this way now, with how long it’s been since the gerudo had a king last, but this was the first time we were without so much as a prince. Not to mention the hatred we faced for our King’s actions,” Urbosa frowned, looking off into the distance. “The hylian crown was not kind to my people in the aftermath of Ganon’s defeat. We were chased even further out into the desert, and we struggled there for a long, long time. For almost a hundred years, we were without a king, and so we elected the first chief, to rule until a new king was born,”

“I’m so sorry,” Zelda frowned, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Do not apologize, little bird. It happened so long ago, and things have changed so much,” Urbosa pulled her in again. “Besides, the hylians also gave us our next king,”

“What?”

Both women turned to see the other Champions hovering in the doorway, though thankfully it seemed Zelda’s new knight was not among them.

“Sorry about that, highnesses,” Daruk mumbled, giving Revali a sharp look. “The King asked us to come find you, but we were kinda invested in the story,”

“I don’t mind telling you as well,” Urbosa turned to Zelda. “How about it? Can they join us?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course!” Zelda floundered, waving them out. “Please, take a seat,”

They filed in and sat around the two, and everyone turned back to Urbosa.

“Right, where was I?”

“A hylian king,” Revali said, looked a bit affronted on the gerudo’s behalf.

“He wasn’t hylian,” she corrected. “Well, I suppose that isn’t totally true. He definitely looked hylian, but he was gerudo. One of the girls who was alive when Ganon ruled had seen the writing on the wall and hid her daughter with the girl’s hylian father. This girl later married a hylian man herself and her daughter, it is said, moved very far away. Out into the middle of nowhere. She had a daughter herself, and this daughter had a son,”

“The King,” Zelda guessed.

“Yes, the King,” Urbosa smiled. “He didn’t know that though. His mother died when he was very young, and he did not return to the desert until he was already mostly grown. But, he did eventually return to us. I’m not sure how we knew he was our king, but there was no doubt at all by the time he was crowned. Of course, he was not in an easy spot. We were still suffering from the aftermath of Ganon’s rule, and he had very little time to prepare for his new role,” she paused to smile. “Which makes his achievements all that much more impressive,”

“You put an incompetent king on a throne vacated by the monster we’re getting ready to fight, and you expect us to believe he did well?” Revali huffed.

“No,” Urbosa said. “I expect you to believe we have never had a better ruler, either king or chief, after him,”

“What did he do?” Zelda asked while the others convinced Revali to stop squawking.

“Firstly, he repaired relations with the rest of Hyrule. Hylian - gerudo relations have only ever been better when your own mother was queen. Apparently he already knew the Queen at the time, and the two spent several days coming to an agreement that ended with all of the desert, and the highlands, being gerudo territory, so long as we remained a vassal state under Hyrule. After that, he is noted as having brought our people back to prosperity,”

“One king did all that?” Mipha asked.

“Yes,” Urbosa smiled. “At the time of Ganon’s rule, the gerudo were thieves. It was his gentle pushing that caused the change into a people of merchants. It is said that the first gerudo jeweller began her trade at the encouragement of the King. She was not the only one to have been encouraged by the King, of course. You know, the reason all gerudo chiefs have our own sand seals is because of him,”

“Really?” Zelda asked, thinking of Urbosa's own sand seal back in Gerudo Town.

“Oh yes, he loved animals,” she laughed. “It is said his pride and joy was a horse he’d raised from a foal that he never travelled outside of the desert without, and he even brought a goat with him into the desert,”

“A goat?” Zelda blanched.

“A goat,” Urbosa nodded. “One of the vai had an idea, to use the sand seals native to the desert as transportation. She decided to prove the worth of this idea, as it was still relatively unheard of for gerudo to be anything but warriors, by catching and taming one first. Once she had, she brought the animal to the King and offered it as a gift,” Urbosa smiled, shaking her head. “The King adored this idea, and loved his newest pet. He was very personally involved in the beginnings of the project, and encouraged the vai who had the idea when she suggested renting them out for people to use to cross the desert. The stories say that if the King was in gerudo town and couldn’t be found in the palace, then he’d be found with the seals,”

Zelda couldn’t help but giggle at that.

“My sword and shield are based on his, you know,”

“What?”

“Gerudo kings, before him, all fought with a pair of twin swords. However, when he arrived he already had a decent grasp of swordplay. Only he fought with a single sword and a shield. He was gifted a set at his coronation, and ever since then the leader of the gerudo fought with a sword and shield. I had mine made to look like the pictures we have of his,”

“That’s actually kind of sweet, in a way,” Zelda mused.

“What do you call him?”

“Hm?” Urbosa turned at Revali’s question.

“Don’t you gerudo give your kings fancy titles?” Revali elaborated. “What do you call this king?”

“Probably the Seal King,” Daruk suggested.

“Please!” Revali rolled his eyes.

“What do you think he’s called then?” Zelda asked.

“Well, I would have called him the Hero King,”

“What about the Merchant King?” Mipha suggested.

“Little bird?” Urbosa prompted. “Do you have a guess?”

“Um,” Zelda thought on that. “Perhaps, the Healing King? Since, he’s the one who got you back to a good point,”

“All very good guesses,” Urbosa smiled. “All wrong. We call him the Wolf King,”

“Wolf King?” More than a few of them echoed back.

“Yes,” Urbosa nodded. “Fierce and feral like a beast to enemies, but to allies, there is none more loyal or dedicated,” she sighed, looking wistfully at the now setting sun. “If given the chance to meet any individual from Hyrule’s history, I would want to meet him. To ask for his advice on matters, to let him see what he’s done for our people. I just hope that I will be able to be even half the leader he was,”

“You already are,” Zelda said softly.

Urbosa turned to her, and smiled. “Little bird, that means more to me than you know,”

(---)

“Princess?”

Zelda turned to see Chief Riju approach her where she stood on the balcony overlooking Gerudo Town.

“Oh, Chief Riju, my apologies,” Zelda dipped her head, an embarrassed pink making its way up her neck and onto her cheeks. “I didn’t, if I’m in the way,”

“You aren’t,” Chief Riju shook her head. “And please, just Riju,”

Zelda nodded, still a bit embarrassed, and the two looked out over the town together in silence for a moment.

“Rupee for your thoughts?” Riju asked.

“Just, thinking about Urbosa’s legacy,” Zelda admitted.

“Oh?”

“She told me a story once, about an old gerudo king. The Wolf King. She said she had wanted to be even half as good as he was,”

“She succeeded,” Riju told her. “At least, in my opinion,”

“No, you’re right,” Zelda shook her head, smiling. “I just hope she knows that, is all. Knows that she was able to leave a big enough positive impact that she succeeded in her goal,”

Riju set a hand on Zelda’s arm. “I do too,”

Neither girl said another word.

(---)

Zelda felt a bit like screaming, if she was completely honest.

Link, Wild, whatever he was calling himself, had gotten sucked away on some magic time travelling quest with other Heroes, and now he was introducing her to his mentor, the Hero of Twilight.

A Hero, who it turns out was also the Wolf King.

He was shorter than Zelda had pictured him, and you would never know he was the gerudo king by his appearance. He definitely looked the part of a wolf, though.

But here he was, holding out the original sword and shield that Urbosa’s were based on. There were differences, obviously, but the smith who made the Scimitar of the Seven and Daybreaker had done a very good job replicating them.

“Are we done now, Cub?” The King, Twilight, sighed.

He didn’t seem to be very invested in his role as king, which contrasted Urbosa’s description of him as ‘dedicated’. In fact, it seemed like he wanted to stop talking about it as quickly as possible.

“Almost,” Link nodded. He turned to Zelda and waved his hands at Twilight. “See? I told you I got to meet him!”

“What?” Twilight asked.

“Oh, uh, pardon us, Your Highness,” Zelda gave him a half bow, and noted the way his face scrunched up. “It’s just, my good friend Urbosa had told me about you a long time ago. She looked up to you and your legacy, and so I’ve also, sort of, admired you. I, I never thought I’d actually get to meet you,”

Oh, Urbosa should be here, Zelda thought. She had wanted to meet him,

“Right,” he said slowly, tucking the sword and shield back in his bag. “Uh, thanks?”

“You, don’t seem very invested in your kingship,” Zelda noted.

“May I be completely honest with you, Your Highness?”

“Of course,” she firmly tamped down the excitement in her chest.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,”

“What?”

That definitely didn’t sound like the king Urbosa told her about.

“I grew up on a ranch,” he explained. “I herd goats. I barely knew what I was doing when I became the Hero. And now I find out I’m supposed to be a king? My village had a mayor, and he taught me how to wrestle gorons. Because he used to wrestle gorons. I don’t know how many kings can wrestle gorons,”

“At least one,” Link offered.

“Not helping,” Twilight shot him a halfhearted glare. He turned back to her and sighed. “Look, I’m sure there’s some reason you and Urbosa admired me, but I have no idea what that could possibly be. I’m impressed I haven’t screwed anything up too badly yet. So, it’s not that I’m not invested, I’m stuck in the position so I may as well actually try and do well, it’s just, I’m sort of riding blind here. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’d really rather not talk about it,”

“Oh,” Zelda blinked. “I, suppose that makes sense. My apologies, I’ll try to refrain from bringing it up. I hadn’t intended to make you uncomfortable,”

“You didn’t,” he sighed, and Zelda felt a bit relieved. “And, thanks. It’s just, a whole headache for me,”

“I believe I understand the feeling, Your Majesty,”

“No, stop,”

“Stop?”

“No ‘Your Majesty’. No ‘King Link’, no royal titles at all. I am Link Ordon, the goat herd,” he frowned deeply. “I will accept ‘Hero’ if you must, but I,” he sighed in what seemed like defeat. “Please, just call me Twilight,”

“Of course, Twilight,”

“Thank you,”

Zelda wasn’t sure if the fact that Urbosa’s idol had no clue what he was doing would have made her friend feel any better, but it did boost Zelda’s confidence about the monumental task in front of her.

It was just a pity she wouldn’t be able to get any tips from him.

Although, apparently Hyrule’s first king was also among Links’s travelling companions. Maybe she could ask him for advice...

#linked universe #lu #gerudo twilight #lu twilight #lu flora #urbosa #lu wild #riju #daruk #mipha #revali #i'll probably reblog this tomorrow at a reasonable time #but for now #have this hastily edited fic #fun fact: google docs has no spell check when you are working offline #even when you have offline editing enabled #the more you know #now if you'll excuse me #i was up till 3am last night and my father is an asshole who wake up at 8 no matter how late he was up #*wakes #whatever #also the joke at the end is that sky has even less advice than twi #so he's not helpful either

[captainkappa]

Fanfic:: In Other Hands

When Din and Cobb go to take care of some slavers, Cobb is disarmed and has to improvise with the weapons that have fallen off Din’s utility belt.

Din/cobb, post-season 2, canon-typical violence

Shout out to coffeequill for betaing!

Link to AO3

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As Cobb picks off another slaver running in fear of his life, he realizes how regular this is becoming. And it has all started with a meeting with the new self-proclaimed ‘King of Tatooine.’

He has invited all kinds of authority to Jabba’s old palace, now his. Even though Mos Peglo isn’t on the map anymore, Cobb wakes up to a stern-faced woman at his front door all the same. The conversation on the ride over hasn’t been great, but it does confirm the rumor that floated around Tatooine in the past few weeks.

The new king is the Boba Fett.

He has heard stories about Boba Fett, who hadn’t? Late enough in a cantina in Mos Eisley, it wouldn’t take long before someone started talking about their buddy who had family who had a friend who got taken in by the famed bounty hunter, never to return.

So yeah, Cobb is man enough to admit that, as he’s led through the dark, old palace, he is a little on edge. At the door, no one even asks for his blaster, which is a clear enough message as he’d ever heard.

His heart damn near plummets when he faces the man himself though.

Because if he is the rightful owner of the suit of armor Cobb had, he is properly fucked.

And damn did he ever look better in it, all polished and properly painted. He could see the glint of what might be his old armor behind him, on proud display.

Cobb tries to shake himself out of his fear and take in the rest of the room. The woman who led him there takes position on the other side of Fett. There are other people in the chamber, clearly all from Tatooine, looking just as scrappy as he. He tries his best to look his most mayoral as Fett starts talking about his plans for the planet. It is… far more humanitarian than he expected, with plans laid out for wiping out the slavers who take more than they give.

Cobb instantly likes Fett way more.

Then he is asking they introduce themselves and when the line gets to Cobb, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m Cobb Vanth, marshal of Mos Pelgo. And I hoped Mando mentioned that I wasn’t the one to destroy the jetpack.”

Boba looks at him for a moment before letting out a laugh that echoed in the chamber. He turns around to face the suit of armor.

But then it moves.

He can’t help the words coming out of his mouth, interrupting the new king.

“Mando, is that you?”

And with that, the entire meeting is thrown into disarray. Cobb barely pays attention to the others as he meets Mando halfway up the steps to clasp his hand in both of his, making sure he’s real. Questions are flying out of his mouth a mile a minute; where’s the kid? When did he get back? How the hell do he and Boba know each other?

Mando and Boba share a look and with a shrug, the king dismisses them, the other authority figures looking confused as Mando leads him back into the palace, where they can catch up in peace.

Cobb tries not to think about how Mando’s hand doesn’t leave his until they’ve arrived at the room.

It’s been a couple of months since they first met, but Mando keeps making his way in Cobb’s memories. He tries to play it off as simple appreciation, he can appreciate the pure physicality of everything Mando had done, that was normal. But the longer he thinks about how Mando handled his son, the affection that could be stored in shoulders and head tilts, he has to admit that he’s harboring something else fiercely in his heart.

But those thoughts leave temporarily as Mando describes everything that happened since he left and Maker, if it doesn’t bring a tear to his eye seeing the restraint to which he described being separated from his son. Cobb can tell he’s not telling him everything that happened that day, but he doesn’t mind. Thankfully, Mando has managed to get contact of the Jedi since then, so he can see him and visit occasionally, but it’s just not the same.

Cobb is considering putting his hand on top of Mando’s when there’s a knock at the door and Boba, helmetless, lets himself in. He’s just as intimidating a figure with or without it, scars telling enough of a story as to the character of the man who proclaimed himself king.

Conversation flits between business and pleasure, stories about Boba, Mando, and Fennec on Tatooine. It’s clear the three of them have been planet side for a couple of weeks, if the body language between them is anything to go by. Cobb lets himself feel a little offended before letting it go. Mando clearly had some shit to parse through and Boba and Fennec had been there for him.

Any anxiety Cobb had about meeting the king has left. He leaves the palace with a scheduled date to take out some slavers near Mos Pelgo.

-=-

And now here Cobb is, a couple missions in, ducked behind some crates, picking off slavers one by one as they run out of the cave where Mando has since been let loose. He’s almost sad to miss seeing how Mando fights, especially if the terrified looks of those who thought they’d escaped are anything to do by.

It’s just them on this mission. He takes small pride when Mando vouched for his skill in front of Fett, letting him know they didn’t need any more help. It’s nice to know he’s earned Mando’s trust.

Ducking behind the crate, he’s swapping out power cells when Mando gets thrown out of the cave, rolling with a low grunt. He’s quickly followed by three of the biggest guy’s Cobb has ever seen, human all of them.

“Mando!”

He gets a hand waved at him for his trouble as Mando staggers to his feet, pulling out the spear on his back. At one point, Cobb had wondered if it was just decorative, but seeing Mando fight with it, as it sings in the air, the impact it makes on arms and heads, reveals it to be anything but.

But his fancy fighting with the goons isn’t helping him in a three on one match, especially with how long they’ve been at it already.

He takes another solid hit and goes flying farther away from Cobb, items from his belt going spinning into the sand.

Cobb shoves the battery pack in the blaster and tries to take a couple shots at the slavers before the trigger clicks.

Jammed.

“Dank farrik,” he yells, slapping the side of the blaster. All that gets him is a stinging palm.

He glances up to see all three goons going for Mando. Thinking quick, he fishes the knife he keeps stored in his boot and chucks it at the closest guy, only it goes lower than expected and pings off the armor.

Shit.

Cobb quickly scans for any weapon available as he hears Mando continue to get his ass handed to him. There’s a knife, but Cobb doesn’t trust his aim a second time, but it’s the thing beside it that catches his eye. It looks like a hilt, with what must be a spring-loaded blade inside, even if the size seems wrong for such a weapon.

As if he can tell what he’s thinking, Mando yells from across the way, “Don’t touch it!”

Well, with an invitation like that.

Cobb knows he’ll only have one shot at this. He vaults over the crate and scoops up the hilt. He gets a brief glance at it, figures the best place to hold it without hurting himself before charging in.

He takes a running leap before latching himself around the closest guy. He pulls his arm back for a swing.

He pushes the button and instead of a vibro-blade, a jet-black beam of light cuts through the man’s head as smooth as bantha butter.

“Fuck!” Cobb yells, falling off the man as his other arm screams in pain. He scrambles off the man’s back as he falls forward, dead as a doornail.

The blade stays there, letting out a faint humming as it lies in the sand, partially buried from where the man fell. The sand bubbles around the blade, heating up impossibly fast as it sits there, looking like a hole to the middle of the planet against the glare of the sand.

Before he can comprehend the power of the sword, a noise in front of him told him Mando still had trouble on his hands.

Cobb struggles to his feet, trying to pull out the blade as cleanly as possible before walking forward.

“Hey!” he yells, throat going dry as he catches a glance at the state of Mando, shoulders heaving and armor not looking terribly pretty.

That at least gets one of the goon’s attention, who looks at the blade in his hand and at his dead buddy.

“Leave ‘im alone.”

The guy doesn’t appreciate that and gets out his own blade, long and curved like a machete, before charging.

Cobb has never been a swordfighter, so he tries to go with motion that felt natural, a two-handed grip as he raises the sword to block the incoming attack.

He’s not expecting the blade to cut through the knife like it’s nothing. His balance thrown off, he tries to use the momentum to shove into the other man, forcing him to stumble back.

The other man looks just as surprised as Cobb feels, but he has a slightly better grip on the strange weapon. He takes the slavers hesitation to lunge with a swipe to the chest. The man goes down quick, a visible molten line through his armor.

It’s at that instant the smell of burn hair and flesh hits him. He falls to his knees, blade slipping through his fingers. He hears it sizzle and pop against the sand, but he can’t bring himself to right it.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at what lay before him.

“Cobb?” His head snaps up as he sees Mando blocking one of the suns. His armor is littered with blaster residue and a pauldron is hanging to his arm by a thread.

He should ask if he’s okay, if he’s handled the other guy.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks instead, pointing to the black blade.

Mando’s shoulder’s drop in a way that makes him expect a lecture, but then the Mandalorian stiffens, rushing to his side with a speed he wouldn’t have expected after that fight.

“You’re hurt!” And Cobb looks down at where he is looking before quickly looking away.

His left vambrace has been cut in two. Cobb only gets a glance at the wound before he has to look away, gut clenching. There is a huge gash on his arm that already looks cauterized.

“Easy, easy,” Mando says quietly, head suddenly right by his shoulder. “C’mon.”

“I can still walk,” Cobb says. He can tell he’s not convinced as steadier hands help him to his feet.

He swears he can hear Mando laugh as the wind kicks up and he feels his scarf be pulled up over his nose.

The last thing he hears before he passes out is Mando’s low voice saying, “We’ll be back at Boba’s soon.”

-=-

When Cobb wakes up, his head feels like it weighs as much as a bantha.

He puts two and two together when his head lolls around and he glimpses at the dim room around him, at white bandages around his arm. With no room looking nearly this nice at Mos Pelgo, he must be in Boba’s palace and he must be pumped full of drugs after the fight.

There’s movement close to his arm and he looks up and Mando is right there, beside him, fidgeting with something.

“Hey,” Cobb says, hoping the feeling of cotton in his mouth will pass.

Mando sits up straighter, visor turning to face him. “Hey, how do you feel?”

“Like my arm has been trampled to death, but it’s attached, so I can’t be too mad. You alright?”

He gets a head tilt at that. “I’m not the one in the medical wing.”

Cobb waves him away with his good arm. “Yeah, yeah, but you still took a beating from those guys.”

The helmet ducks down, and Cobb bites his lip to avoid blabbing about how cute the gesture is. “I’m fine.”

Cobb clicks his tongue. “Now don’t you go looking like that.”

Another head tilt, but Cobb continues, “If you feel bad about what happened back there, don’t. I won’t hear of it. You told me not to touch the laser sword and I still did. And I’d do it again if it meant saving your hide.”

He blanches, having wanted to keep that last part to his chest.

Mando, to his credit, doesn’t comment on it. He reaches down and unclips the hilt from his side and ignites it. Cobb can’t help but flinch back into the bed as it comes to life, humming in that eerie way as it did in the desert. It’s somehow more striking here, the glowing outline more obvious in the dim light of the room.

“It’s called a darksaber, Mando begins, “I won it on Moff Gideon’s ship by accident. It… it’s a symbol of authority and power for Mandalorians.”

“Oh, is that all?”

That gets him a huff of a laugh from Mando as he extinguishes the blade and slips it back on. A quiet descends into the room. Now, Cobb can handle silence and he can handle being still. He just can’t handle both at the same time.

“I hope Boba doesn’t charge me for room and board.”

“He was impressed, said you could stay here as long as needed.”

Oh. The knot of worry that had appeared out of nowhere unravels in Cobb’s chest. He’d been at least expecting a debt of some kind, hackles still raised even if he liked the man, the distrust of authority running deep.

“We’ll probably get called for more jobs after you’re healed, though.”

“That sounds like the opposite of a problem,” Cobb says with a smirk.

A sudden tiredness floats over him like a blanket and he closes his eyes for what feels like a second but could be any amount of time.

There’s a moment where he thinks Mando has left the room, before he registers the feeling of soft fingers on his hand. He cracks open an eye and sees Mando still sitting where he was, his gloves off as he runs his thumb over his knuckles, catching in scars and pocket marks Cobb had collected throughout the years.

Cobb shifts and Mando’s hand stills. Acting on instinct and ignoring the feeling that floods through him, he holds Mando’s hand as tightly as he dare with the bandage.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Mando says, voice quiet.

“I just woke up.”

Mando lets out a huff that might be considered a laugh. “You were only asleep for half an hour.”

“Alright, then you gotta go to bed too.”

“Cobb…”

“Mando…”

“It’s Din.”

He swallows down his feelings once more, not trusting himself in this drugged up state to say more. “Alright, Din, go to bed. You got roughed up too.”

“Alright,” his voice trails off but then he’s clearing his throat and saying, “Thank you. I- I haven’t had the chance to say that yet.”

This time, Cobb is able to keep the words close to his chest as he drifts back to sleep.

Anytime, partner.

#dincobb #cobbdin #marshmando #din djarin x cobb vanth #din/cobb #kappa writes #my fanfic #the mandalorian #star wars #sw #a totally different star wars ship jump started this idea #because why shouldn't cobb get his hands on the darksaber? #also omg im v nervous posting this idk if im 100% satisfied with it

[shiny-armin]

“Legend has it that a deep, pure affection filled this ancient garden, creating the Luhua Pool as it is known today.”

The two Gods of Geo and Dust took their daily nature stroll around their realms, until arriving at a waterscape with turquoise and yellow shades.

The goddess with sand coloured hair sure had wandered off this time. They used to take walks across the plains they ruled over, never venturing beyond what was usual to him. If offered a map, it would have taken a while for the Lord of Geo to find his whereabouts. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been that difficult, since they were approaching a vast and shimmering lake, which could be easily spotted on a map after all.

Anyhow, it was the first time he laid eyes on that waterscape and was enthralled by it right away. So enthralled, he hadn’t noticed his horns getting entangled in a tree. He yanked his head free, earning a shower of leaves. Guizhong turned around at the creaking sound, and chortled when she discovered her friend grimacing as he shook off the foliage.

“Not even Moon Carver has as much trouble as you do where trees are concerned,” she teased with a grin, resuming her walk. The taller Archon only sighed at her words, since it happened more frequently than he would like to admit. It was true that the stag Adeptus, despite his large antlers, didn’t struggle while walking through the mountain forests, unlike him. In his defense, the Geo Archon had the greatest stature out of all of the Adepti, but he could shrink to a human-like size if desired. Amidst nature, he didn’t bother to adopt a less threatening appearance, and he took pride in his golden horns, too.

They made their way down through the rocky hillside. Although the land was deserted and swallowed up in the undergrowth below ginkgo trees, there was a clear trail among the wildness. A trail made by something, or someone, who certainly frequented the place.

“It is plain to see you’re acquainted with this area,” the dragon Adeptus pointed out, his eyes observing how the fabric of her coral coloured hanfu brushed over the vegetation as she walked.

“Oh? Yes. In fact, under this lake lies the entrance to a secret sanctum of mine. Not so secret anymore, for you already know,” she gave a sly chuckle, while pointing at a ring of stone where pillars gathered around in the middle of the lake. “My research hideout of preference, as I like to call it.”  

The man’s eyebrows shot up in intrigue, wondering if that was where she ran off to whenever she was out of sight. Sometimes, Morax didn’t set foot in their residence for days, but that didn’t startle the Goddess of Dust in the slightest. Eventually, he would show up with a blank but bloodied face, framed by branches, foliage and other gifts of nature dangling from his contorted horns. Often, he would also bring some weapon snatched from the dying enemy’s hands, as a present for his dear goddess. She would describe him as a lead wolf returning to his pack after hunting the meal of the day. “Is this device of your liking, Guizhong? ” he would ask. With concern written all over her face, she’d chide, “What on Earth have you done this very time? ” and after caring for his wounds, she would passionately unravel the war artifact and use it as inspiration for future inventions of her own.

Other days, it was all the way around. Guizhong disappeared, not before leaving a reassuring note on a table, since Morax would be the one to silently panic due to his overprotective nature.

They left the lush greenery behind to walk on white sand, their shoes sinking in the shore. “I see, this is where you are always scheming and plotting behind my back,” he said, not a sign of resentment in his voice.

“My dear Morax,” she laughed. “I have the urge to always keep my mind full. Can you blame me?” There was no answer from him, he just kept walking beside her like an overly attached guardian. She averted her amber eyes and fixed them on the crystal clear water. “Actually, I had some plans for this place.”

“Plans?” the man inquired, looking at her with interest. She spun and glanced at a clear spot among the wild grass, and with a swift movement of her hand, lines were traced at her will across the soft dust. A scale-like pattern appeared on the ground.

She sighed in resignation. “I wish to shape the lake this way, however…” she bit her lower lip. “Stirring up dust and sand is never sufficient, it seems.”

The God of Geo set his piercing eyes on the lake which spread before them and crossed his arms, eyebrows knitting together in thought. The ground under their feet began to tremble ever so slightly, then a wall of stone emerged from the shallow waters, creating a miniature dam.

From the corner of his golden eye, he saw his friend’s face light up like a firework. “Oh my! That’s splendid, I cannot believe I had not thought of you for this task earlier,” she exclaimed, hands clasped together while admiring the work she had yearned to accomplish on her own. Alas, she was not a powerful goddess, but she made for it in brilliance. That lack of strength, plus her sympathetic nature, allowed Guizhong to understand and feel closer to human beings.

The rigid Lord of Stone, on the other hand, struggled to find even a single trait that could put him and mere mortals on the same level. It was not as if he despised them, on the contrary. He just never seemed to figure out their motives and ambitions. Hence, he admired how his long-time friend could blend in the common folk, leaving her godhood behind to seem as one of them.

“All you had to do was ask,” he said in a calm but firm voice, arms crossed while drumming a finger on his sleeve.

“Hmm… Do you think you could make some more for me, oh, Great God of Stone?” she asked with a playful smile, some dimples making an appearance on her face.

The man answered only with a low hum of acquiescence. The Lord of Geo would not take orders from anyone other than Guizhong, although it had been a long way since he had come around to listen to her demands. He had forcibly found out that good things came to him – to them – whenever he acted as she wished. She was a far-sighted and wise woman, after all.

He then spread his arms, the long sleeves of his hanfu and untied hair fluttering in the late spring breeze. The ground rumbled once again, and all kinds of lifeforms – terrestrial, aquatic, or flying – fled from their nearby shelters. The crystalline waters sloshed about, new rock walls appearing on the surface next to the already created pool.

“Oh… Try to move that one… a little to the left,” she said, a crooked finger on her chin. He then proceeded to do as she had said. Several scale-shaped pools piled up in different levels, adding to the tranquil beauty of the lake. “Good, good.” A smile of satisfaction appeared on her rosy lips.

When it came to her and their people, but especially her , the savagery and ruthlessness that characterized the renowned God of War disappeared, becoming relatively meek and indulgent instead. And yet, he would not let it completely show in front of their worshippers, coming off as distant and indifferent about many matters, which Guizhong took over. All in all, both gods were equally loved since each one took care of the village in their own way. As if it were their child, Morax provided the Guili Assembly with unwavering protection and stability, while Guizhong nurtured it with wisdom, values, and affection. Both of them took great pride in seeing how their creation blossomed into a lively city.

“What is its purpose?” His draconic eyes searched for hers, sparking with curiosity.

She arched a confused eyebrow. “Purpose?”

“The pools.”

Upon hearing his answer, she couldn’t help but let out a laugh. His obliviousness was entertaining at times. She loved seeing his puzzled expression whenever she talked about the most mundane things. “Purpose! They don’t have one. Well, except for visual aesthetic, of course,” she explained, linking their arms together and admiring the landscape.

“What you mean is… They are supposed to be beautiful, and naught else?” he asked once again, the lower tips of his dark hanfu soaking on the shore.

“Is being merely beautiful not enough for you, Morax?”

“I suppose not. I think everything should have a deeper meaning.”

She chuckled. “Well then. You appreciate flowers almost as much as I do. How can you explain them?”

His forehead furrowed in confusion, as if she had given him a riddle to solve. “Flowers,” he began with his deep voice. “Are not there just for their beauty. They feed animals and humans, and some of them have a commercial interest, such as for creating perfume. Moreover, you like to play with them and put them in my hair. They have a further purpose.”

She shook her head, fair locks blowing in the breeze. His opinions were as immovable as the boulders he created, and could only be eroded with continuous discussion. “Morax, your stubbornness is as limitless as Barbatos’ wine supply. Let’s just accept these pools are beautiful and nothing more,” she said, a warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips. As much as she enjoyed their lengthy debates about the world, she knew when it was pointless to push further. Someday, he would appreciate things just the way they were, without looking for any logical explanation. Someday. “Now, what shall be your reward for this marvellous job? Let’s see…” She shifted her weight from one leg to another, still grabbing his arm and a thoughtful expression on her face.

“You are not to reward me, Guizhong. It is my greatest joy to do you a favor. We are committed to helping one another in our weaknesses,” Morax declared, mentally revising the first contract to ever be made on that land.

“Do you need me to file down your horns?” she suggested, purposely ignoring what he had said. The man refused her offer with a shake of his head.

“I can take care of it on my own,” he answered with a half-smile. She hummed pensively.

“Oh, I know. You will pay me a visit to the Realm of Clouds. I will show you my weapon collection,” the Lady of Dust gushed excitedly, her amber eyes shimmering with anticipation while tugging at his arm. Morax shifted a slightly surprised gaze to his friend as they started to walk back.

“Am I allowed to enter?” he asked, a sheepish yet small smile touching his lips. He felt happy he could get to see the place where she created all these sophisticated gadgets, where her beautiful mind was unleashed.

She pondered with a long hum, teasing him with all that hesitation. “Hm… Just this time, I suppose. We do not want you swishing your tail around my exhibition tables,” she joked with a coy grin, but he couldn’t see it as she was walking in front. The God of War peeked at his rear, suddenly self-conscious.

“I… I have got no tail at this time. I will not hurt anything, upon my word,” he promised a bit crestfallen by her accusations.  

Guizhong pivoted on her heels and stretched her hands to cup his face, catching him off guard. She had an expression of fondness on her face. “I know you will not. You can come whenever you please. You can even help me, too.”

He cherished her so, so much. But he would not say it. Sadly, he didn’t know how much he would regret all these unsaid words centuries later. He took her hand in his, her clothing then matching the color of the evening sky. They skirted the shore until Guizhong’s secret palace, their most recent joint creation lying peacefully behind their backs. The Luhua Pool.

A/N: not me creating even more Liyue lore!! Btw, that quote in the summary is from the game itself, the Luhua Pool viewpoint description /cries/ I hope you enjoyed it.

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #zhongli #guizhong #guili #fawn writes #i love them so much idk #/teleports myself to guili plains/ #/cries on the computer/

[flyingblackhawk]

Respite

Avengers fic (Barton fam + Natasha)

2,113 words

-

“Daddy?”

Clint looks up from the table he’s sanding. Nate has come in from outside.

“Yeah, bud?”

“There’s a rocket ship in the garden. Lila told me to tell you.”

Clint frowns. He doesn’t know which of the kids’ games this is. Is this the one where they pretend to be astronauts, or the one where he’s a space alien?

“Cooper says Auntie Nat’s in it.”

Clint smiles. A quinjet. Nat must have come to visit.

“Well come on then,” he says, reaching out so he can haul Nate up onto his hip. He walks out into the field where the kids have been playing, and spots the quinjet. He sees Lila, but before he can smile he realises she’s sprinting towards him, her face stricken with panic. His stomach twists.

“Dad!” she shouts, waving her arms as she runs. Clint starts to run too, because he’s joined the dots superhumanly fast. He is jolting Nate as he runs, so he sets him down and skids up the ramp.

“Nat?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

“She’s unconscious,” Cooper says, from where he’s kneeling by the pilot’s seat. Clint realises Natasha is still strapped into it, and he crouches down. Cooper has already released the buckles on the harness, and it’s easy for Clint to lift her out.

“I can’t tell if she’s bleeding,” Cooper tells him. Clint can’t find a balance between pride in his son’s calmness in a bad situation and guilt that his son has learned how to deal with shit like this at such a young age, so he focuses on getting one foot in front of the other as he carries Natasha up to the farmhouse. He opens his mouth to tell Lila to get her mother, but she’s way ahead of him and Laura is already running out of the front door followed by their daughter. God, his kids are good. He’s faintly horrified at that fact, and he pushes it away again.

“Any idea what happened?” Laura says, as she pushes the door open for him. He makes his way inside.

“Looks like she landed the jet and passed out,” he says, voice tinged with panic. “The kids found her.”

Laura bites her lip as Clint sets his best friend down on the couch.

“Nat?” he murmurs. He checks her pulse, then squeezes her hand. Nothing. He presses down hard on one of her fingernails. Her eyes flicker open.

“Ow,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, and now that she’s under the living room lights, Clint can see that’s she’s pale, and bruised.

“Hey,” he says, shakily. “Hey, you scared me there. You okay?”

“No,” she croaks. “M’not dead. But… not good.”

“Daddy?”

It’s Nate. God, his son is looking at him like he can save the day, and Clint can’t deal with that right now. Laura reads his mind, and ushers the kids away. Clint hears her tell Cooper to take his brother upstairs, and Lila follows them.

“Don’t,” Clint says, as Natasha opens her mouth again. “It’s okay. Just… is anything broken?”

She shakes her head.

“Anything need stitching up?”

She nods, and her eyes flicker to her torso. Clint isn’t sure he wants to see this, because he knows how he gets when he’s confronted with Natasha’s injuries - he doesn’t want to think about someone hurting her, about her being in pain. Laura’s hand on his shoulder reminds him what’s actually important. She’s passing him the first aid kit, and he does his best to go into field mode. Patch up first. Questions later.

He unzips Natasha’s suit down to her navel, and Laura helps her sit up enough to free her arms. Clint identifies the stab wound right away. It’s not near anything vital, but he knows she’s got to be in a hell of a lot of pain. There’s blood on every patch of skin, and it’s clearly been soaking into her suit for a while.

“Morphine?” he murmurs, asking permission first. He always does. She doesn’t always want it. This time he’s lucky, and she nods. He sticks her with a syringe of it, and Laura sits on the couch and shuffles so Natasha’s head is in her lap. Clint focuses on the wound while Laura holds her hands as she flinches. The morphine can only do so much.

Clint stops the bleeding and disinfects the wound before starting the stitching. He has to concentrate on his work, so he won’t remember that this is his best friend that someone stabbed. Laura is stroking her thumbs over Natasha’s knuckles, which are bruised and bloody as well, which Clint tries not to notice.

When he’s done, he bandages her as best he can. She’s limp on the couch now, gazing up at Laura with glassy, exhausted eyes.

“We can’t move her,” Laura murmurs. “Could you get me a bowl of warm water and a cloth?”

He nods, and packs up the kit wordlessly. His actions are robotic. In the back of his head, the anger is drumming on his skull, and right next door is the knowledge that later he’ll have to go upstairs covered in Natasha’s blood and explain to his kids what just happened.

He fetches the water and the cloth, and stops by the spare bedroom to grab an old t-shirt of Nat’s. He hands everything over to Laura and just sits, watching, as his wife gently sponges the blood from Natasha’s skin. She’s semi-conscious now, but she can move enough to help Laura get the worst of it. Laura removes her boots and the rest of her suit, and her gentle touches remind Clint of washing the kids when they were babies. Gentle, tender, loving. The hardest part is getting the t-shirt on, but Laura handles that smoothly and soon Natasha is tucked under a blanket, and Laura is stroking her hair while she drifts off to sleep. The sun is long gone outside the window.

“I can handle the kids if you like,” she says, when she finally gets up. Clint shakes his head, and kisses Laura’s temple.

“You’ve done the hard yards down here,” he murmurs. “I’ll talk to them.”

She kisses his shoulder and for a moment Clint just holds his wife, enjoying the knowledge that the two women he loves most in the world are safe in this room with him.

He can’t put the next part off any longer. Laura goes to the kitchen to make tea, and Clint climbs the stairs. The kids are all in Cooper’s bed, and Lila is reading them all a story. The book is forgotten the second Clint opens the door.

“Is Auntie Nat okay?” Lila asks. Clint can see that they’ve all changed into their pyjamas, and again he feels that weird mix of pride and guilt. They’ve learned to look out for each other. They shouldn’t have had to.

“She’s going to be fine,” he assures them. He climbs onto the bed and lets them rest against him, these precious little people that he made. “Mommy and I fixed her up, and she just needs some time to rest.”

“Is she gonna stay with us?” Nate pipes up.

“Of course she is,” he tells his son. “We’re all going to look after her.”

He carries Nate to his own bed, and tucks them all in one by one. He goes downstairs next, and kisses Laura, and tells her he loves her. She knows he’s not coming to bed tonight, so she helps him drag the mattress from the spare room into the living room, next to the couch where Natasha is sleeping. Laura grabs a pile of blankets, and in a quiet whirl of activity they both get ready for bed. Soon they are cuddled up under a mess of blankets, both watching Natasha sleep.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Laura tells him, even though Clint hasn’t given voice to the fears in his head.

“I know,” he lies. She rolls, and Clint lets himself be enveloped in his wife’s embrace. He falls asleep like that, wrapped in Laura’s arms.

When he wakes, he’s tangled in a blanket, and someone is moving on the mattress. He opens bleary eyes and finds Natasha picking her way through the blankets.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, patting the mattress. She gingerly slides down and sits. Laura rouses, and smiles sleepily at her.

“Feeling any better?” she asks.

“Sore,” Natasha sighs. “Guys, I’m so sorry-”

“Shut up,” they say in practiced unison. It’s a routine they go through every time something like this happens, and all three of them smile tired smiles.

“Thank you,” Natasha murmurs. Laura pulls back the covers, and Natasha, hesitant at first, slides down to lie between them. Clint and Laura both move in, and carefully shift so they are holding her, arms criss-crossed over her, legs tangling together. They fall asleep again, just as the first hint of light is appearing outside.

Clint is woken for a second time by a little hand patting his cheek. He opens his eyes. Nate. His son is uncharacteristically quiet, and Clint smiles at him, disengaging a little from Natasha.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs.

“Is it breakfast time?” Nate asks.

“It sure is,” he murmurs. “But let’s let Mommy and Auntie Nat sleep a little longer. C’mon.”

He gently moves Natasha towards Laura, and rolls out of bed, swinging Nate up into his arms as he goes. He takes his son to the kitchen, and sets him on the counter.

“Pancakes?” he asks. Nate nods enthusiastically, and Clint sets about making breakfast for the household. By the time the first cake is being flipped, Cooper and Lila have appeared in the kitchen, and Laura is up and about as well.

“Smells good.”

“Auntie Nat!” Lila exclaims. She scrapes back her chair and runs for Natasha, who has appeared in the doorway.

“Gently, Lila,” Laura reminds her. Lila hugs Natasha as gently as she can, and Natasha pats her back. In the light, Clint can see how exhausted his partner looks. She’s bruised all over, and there are cuts and scrapes he didn’t even notice yesterday. He bites the inside of his cheek as she sits down at the table.

“Hungry?” he murmurs. She nods. Clint serves her a pancake, which she drowns in syrup. She’s eating, at least. While she’s tackling the pancake, Clint goes back to the living room and hauls the mattress back to the bed in the spare room. He makes the bed, and arranges the pillows, then fetches a water bottle and painkillers. By the time he’s done, Natasha has appeared in the doorway, Lila at her side.

“Thank you,” she says. The fact that she hasn’t started making jokes or making fun of him is a little worrying to Clint, but he knows Natasha just needs time to rest. He pulls back the covers, and Natasha climbs into bed.

“Auntie Nat needs to sleep,” Clint murmurs to Lila. His daughter nods, and kisses Natasha on the cheek before she leaves. Clint follows suit, kissing her on the forehead.

Clint’s chore for the day is sanding back the table. He completely abandoned it yesterday, and now that he knows Natasha is safe and sleeping, he can return to it. He keeps sanding, scraping away the layers of the old varnish. With each mark he removes, he tries his hardest not to think about the marks on Natasha’s skin, and how they got there.

When he comes in a few hours later, Laura is reading by the window.

“Where is everyone?” he asks.

“Taking a nap,” she smiles. It’s a loving smile, so warm and tender, and Clint knows exactly where his kids are. He goes to Natasha’s room, and leans in the doorway, smiling fondly.

Natasha is sound asleep on the pillows. Under one arm, Nate is snuggled up beside her. Her other arm is around Cooper’s shoulders, and Lila is sprawled over her legs.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

It’s Laura. He wraps an arm around his wife.

“She’s going to be okay,” he mumbles, more for himself than for her.

“Of course she is. We love her and we’re going to take care of her.”

He loves Laura so much in that moment he can barely contain it. She seems to know, and wraps her arms around him, helping him like she always does.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “I’ll help you varnish the table.”

He takes a last look at his sleeping children, tangled up with his Natasha, all of them so beautiful and so precious and so, so loved. Laura tugs him away, and Clint closes the door, letting them sleep.

#fic #long #avengersfic #clintashafic #clintashahc #clint/nat/laura #barton family #clintnatlaurafic #fbhcentury

[scarlet-nin]

To Fix What’s Broken Is Not Enough

Summary: The first time Dazai sees Yosano, hears how she speaks, the way she threatens her patients into submitting to her care with the promise of a smile, the steel in his grin melts into quicksilver, a poison so potent flowing through his veins he can taste the bitterness of metal on his lips.

The first time Yosano lays eyes upon Dazai all it takes is a smile.

One smile for the warning bells inside her head to shriek alarm.

The first time Dazai sees Yosano, hears how she speaks, the way she threatens her patients into submitting to her care with the promise of a smile, the steel in his grin melts into quicksilver, a poison so potent flowing through his veins he can taste the bitterness of metal on his lips.

His heart misses a beat. The walls he spent years on building fall together like a house of cards in the summer breeze as deep inside his chest something blooms from beyond the ice, a flower. Fragile like the fluttering wings of a butterfly it festers.

“I can’t wait to treat you.”

She says, eyes glinting in the dim-light of the office with a leer for blood after he’s gotten the courage to move past the roots having taken to his legs to speak with her. A curtain of dark hair falling into her face is a sharp contrast to her paperwhite skin. Eyes fierce as they puncture into his own, scraping past the surface of his face with her scalpel to tear off his mask without mercy. The sight of her pristine coat of righteousness laying on her shoulders, imposing with its demand for respect. A coat to call her own. Just like him. A white to his black.

“Seeing all of these bandages…you’re going to end up sooner in my office rather than later. My new regular. It’ll be like unwarping a present.”

The moment passes. His head clears of the smoke obscuring his vision, the flower wilting inside his heart. Petals dropping into acid.

Her image bleeds into another one, twisting once more before the pieces click into place, creating a picture so vivid inside his mind he makes the mistake to smile in her presence.

Yosano stills, losing her sharp edges, the stubborn crease in her brow smoothing out in a single fluid movement as the shock sweeps her along to crush her against the rocks of the ocean.

She sees his shadow in all his twisted glory draped across his shoulders like the coat he used to wear. The invisible hands pulling up the corners of his mouth as elbows settle on his shoulders, the weight of the devil hard to bear.

Part of him wants to cover his eye, shield himself from having to see her. The urge to disregard Odasaku’s last act of life pushes his thoughts into the right order.

“What a pretty lady! Too bad you’re not my type.”

He whines, clutching at his chest. A doctor is dangerous. Always, regardless of ability. Whether man or woman. The sight of them is enough to stir the horrible apprehension of weariness inside his soul.

She blinks, scoffs and shakes her head. He wonders if she knows. Of the doll. How her existence shaped another.

She’s a replica. An inspiration. A faceless base of bottomless horror.

The memory of her skips around in the ghost of a little girl in a red frilly dress. Draws pictures of nightmares as she bosses around and feeds into the delusional born out of loneliness for companionship of a man loving nothing but a city cursing his name in the shadows of the night.

Would she disappear if he were to touch her?

“No, I guess I wouldn’t be.”

She storms past him, heels resonating like gunshots across the office as she slams her door shut with enough strength to rattle the frame.

Off to a bad start, then.

The first time Yosano lays eyes upon Dazai all it takes is a smile.

One smile for the warning bells inside her head to shriek alarm. Head buzzing as she reels back from this demon in human skin, terror is sinking into every crack of her handcrafted armor, slipping past the stiches she made to keep herself together. He rips them open with the sharp edge of his empty smile, eyes darker than the blackest abyss and leaves her to bleed out.

Veins freezing it’s the first time she doubts the President’s judgment. He let death walk in the door with a smile. Despite all the warning signs. This man will be the death for them, either by extension or his own hands.

After all, it’s in the nature of the student to surpass the teacher.

But she keeps her mouth shut and her eyes open. Kunikida plays with fire, throwing around a ticking time bomb while being none the wiser of the possible consequences. Dazai whines and acts more like a big child than an adult most of the time. Doesn’t spare her more than a glance in parting as they avoid each other. He flirts with the older women walking into their office doors and after months of observation her conviction falters.

The comment about her age might not have been about her age at all.

She doesn’t know how young or old he must have been when Mori sunk his claws into him.

All she knows is he smiles like the devil but acts like a fool.

His plans are a handiwork of her worst nightmare. Functional without major casualties or injuries. Efficient. The extent of his grasp on their reactions despite working in the office for only a few weeks is terrifying. An impressive display of pulling the strings. A master manipulator at his finest.

Another Mori. This time right among their midst.

As long as the blood staining his hands isn’t the Agency’s, she could put her grudge aside.

Perhaps even her fear.

The doll and the doctor. Two parts of a whole man.

As the doll, Dazai is void of feeling. Having no sense of wanting nor of happiness, he plays his act with little regard to the well-being of others. No matter how hard he tries, the lives of faceless people dying doesn’t bother him on a personal level.

Not like it does Yosano. Full of will and a passion to save the lives put in front of her with a world of pain and a simple touch of her hand. She breathes life into them, Dazai takes it away.

“Can you undress them?”

“I’d rather not.” Alone in her office with the smell of her personal perfume of disinfectant he tries his best to be compliant.

She frowns, a hint of annoyance creeping into her face as she turns to face him.

“How am I supposed to fix you? I’m fully capable of doing so without the use of my ability.”

“I can do that myself.”

The chance of her giving in due to knowing who must have taught him what little first-aid he knows is slim. But she nods, snapping her head to the side while gesturing to the door without another demand for him to undress.

“Get out of my office.”

“Yes, Mam.”

He winks, the beat of his pulse drowning out his the one in his heart. He flees, ignoring Kunikida’s yell to rest when he’s staying home tomorrow and to call in sick instead of worrying them.

The stiches he does on his arm are messy, a bit uneven and throb painfully but as long as he doesn’t have to be a prisoner to the infirmary, he’ll patch himself up in his apartment, locked into the tiny space of his bathroom with no doctor looming over him.

“You don’t like doctors at all, do you?”

There’s a faint hysteria of laughter hidden in her voice. She’s sure Dazai catches it anyway, judging from the tightness around his eyes, lips going white with the force it takes to keep his smile in place.

“No, sorry, can’t say that I do.”

The cheer in his words is nothing but a lie. She can see the truth in the faint tremor in his hand, the too short breaths in his pattern. The notion of what it means is reducing her to shaky hands, unfit to treat any person until she’s calmed down. It’s absurd. The thought of Dazai being afraid of her, when she’s been scared of him this entire time, is laughable. Or perhaps wary would be the better word to use in this odd case.

Neither one making a step. Not daring to cross an invisible line drawn into the sand by their own hands. Both too afraid to inflict a different kind of Mori’s wrath on themselves.

Dazai with his effortless manipulation could have torn the office apart if he wanted to. He didn’t for reasons Yosano is starting to grasp. Her danger lies in her authority as the doctor. Her words carry more weight in the Agency than his own. At least in concern to his health and she knows how easy it would be to spin a tale to her liking. Her word was law and if she wanted to make his treatment painful, he could do little to complain or protest.

Studying the bandages concealing the skin from her sight, she’s grateful her ability does not work on him. Like throwing a glass against the wall, he would break in the light of resurrection. While Dazai’s mind is his biggest weapon, the additional strain on top of having to shoulder the weight of his misery would have ruined him.

Ruined him like Mori ruined her.

“Can’t fault you for that. Some doctors are shit at their job.”

She says, the smile on her face honest and soft as she holds out her hand for him. The wound isn’t life-threatening so she isn’t going to hurry him.

“Want me to take a look at that now? If I wrap it up quick, I can give you something for the pain. I’d give it to you before, but you could run off afterwards. So, think about it as a treat.”

Slowly, he puts his arm out. She’s careful with her hands, touches feather light if she hasn’t had to use force. As if he were a child she works with quick hands, aware of how painfully stiff he is.

“I felt like I should have given you a warning. A shovel talk if you will. About messing with the Agency but I doubt I’ll have to do that at all. I’m not too prideful to admit you could run circles around my head.”

Giving him a grin full of teeth, she warps the cut up, keeping the pressure as light as she can before giving him a pill for the pain. He blinks, eyes wide as he looks from his newly warped arm to glance at her face.

“We’re done if that’s all. You’re free to leave or you can lay down here for awhile if you want to rest. Try to raid my medicine cupboard while I’m on lunchbreak and I’ll put you on paperwork duty for at least two months.”

She pats him on the shoulder before turning around with a flap of her skirt to clean her equipment. Dazai waits for a moment before stands and leaves, hesitating at the door like he might have wanted to say something but he remains silent.

Dazai, she learns is not an enemy, but a kindred spirit.

Yosano, Dazai learns, is a doctor who works to heal her patients. Her aim is not to fix them, to glue shards back together so they could break again and be shaped into something functional and exploitable, but to care. Her personal gain is of no importance in her job. Her motivator is compassion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her touch is too kind for a doctor. Ruthless as she may be with an audience, the pain she inflicts is for the greater good of the person. The occasional revenge put aside.

Healing is more than just skin deep. Yosano lives by those words. So, he lets her patch him up, uses her to slack off during working hours and calls her when he needs someone to get himself out of hospital.

The doctor and the doll are so similar, no wonder they share a soul. Both hating their ability for the effects on others. Two people knowing the meaning of death.

The Angel of Death prevents death. The Demon Prodigy inflicts it.

Therefore, it’s only fitting he’s the one to return to hell. To Mori, who has more use for another doll than for a healer as a doctor.

“Dazai-kun,” The devil coos, eyes filled with blood.

After all, an angel has no business in hell.

“—Welcome back to the Port Mafia.”

But a demon can conquer the throne.

#bungou stray dogs #mori ougai #Dazai Osamu #yosano akiko #bsd fanfic #scarlet-writes #angst

[thegooddoctorsthoughts]

Hatred, Fear and Stagnancy

“Do you know fear?”

Her voice echoed across down creaking hallways, the rusted machinery gave a slight ring to each gear as the melodic nature of her voice rolled across each of them.

Her footsteps were light, making no sound that would betray that she was in fact present, only the slow shift of loose boards bending beneath the pressure of each step, causing each on to bend upwards, and in turn I could feel the pressure in the soles of my feet.

I didn’t turn to face her I was in no mood to even begin to parse who stood questioning me.

“Fear? Of all things, Fear?”

She stopped maybe two feet to my right, gazing out into the cavernous expanse in which that cancerous doubt had once called it’s home.

“Regret your helplessness and know fear before me. You burned those words into your very soul. Do you know fear? Do you know what it is you wish to instill in those who oppose you?”

I considered throwing her off the ledge for her inane line of questioning, I had little in the way of time or energy to even begin to have this conversation again.

“Fear is something that drives me forward, not in an all-consuming way, but in a way, I cannot quite describe. I lack the word to explain my own fear of my mortality. It is a very nebulous thing. It is fear, yet also anger, hatred, and disgust. I know fear, I stare into the void, beyond all of this, and it feels me with such a visceral fear, an incommunicable horror, paralyzing, and primal. It is the purest form of fear, of oblivion, of the void, not cold or dead or anything of the sort, simply a total existential vacuum. So yes I know fear.”

She sighed at that, knowing she would get nowhere for today. A crack ran through her and like lightning striking a mirror she shattered and vanished

I was left alone, staring out over the crater which once housed a sinister, malignant, malevolence.

I, however, was not alone for long, I heard him coming down the corridor behind me, having climbed out from deep within the clockwork.

“Magnus”

“Monolith”

The two of us stood there, he passed me a cigarette and I waited for him to pick at whatever wound had interested him enough to come all the way up here.

The layer of rust on the gears slowly flaked off, the machinery groaning to life as his mind warped and willed this place into order.

“Failure then?”

I was taken aback by the simplicity and brashness of his question.

He was blunt and legendarily so, however, this was different, there was no leading question or direction in which to direct the conversation, he wanted something raw and unfiltered, for once he approached only for data.

“I am in a way back to square one, temporarily, the battle against stagnancy is an uphill one and change while inevitable will is slow now. As I had finally built up enough momentum to get true change in effect the world ground to a halt, then once I managed to stabilize after that setback we are suddenly back in a geography in which those around us actively fight against change. Our longterm plan oddly enough has been accelerated by recent events, our direction and purpose made even clearer than initially predicted due to the world grinding to a halt. Our understanding and frame of reference have reached a point where we know largely what to do simply not how to get the ball rolling, simply wait. It brings frustration, a feeling of failure to determine our life.”

“Your shift in pronoun from I to us betrays your emotionality.” “What do you expect of us? Logic rules first and foremost and while the world spins into a chaotic maelstrom we intend to simply ignore or twist to our advantage. We are left with our wheels spinning, we’ve made our mind up already on so many things in the time allotted to us by this pandemic. How to return to being single, finally. What to do after the end of our degree. How to approach our need for centrality and accommodation. We have answered so many questions, we have used our knowledge our nature, rendered down the very nature of so many things and constructed systems to ensure success if not initially then eventually. We use the knowledge we possess and yet without applying it we are useless, we feel useless. We have failed and returned to this stagnant pit of complacency and immobility. There is no forward movement here, only a slow dragging rot that permeates into the bedrock of this edifice of mundanity. Here lies only rot and a creeping, sapping horror. We have only a will to escape it by any means. That untold and unimaginable slow decay creeps itself across every inch of us, slowly worming its way into every fiber of our being, rotting skin, rusting metal, and tainting our every thought, slowly but surely.”

He took a moment to drink it in, the rage and disgust I had for this place, we all had for this place.

“From the moment you understood the weakness of your flesh, it disgusted you. You didn’t really care how it was that you escaped it only that you did. You wrapped yourself in metal and starlight, bending gods and poetry to you will. This place reeks of mortality, sinews of it hanging loosely from every surface. This is where you were born and where you refuse to die. This place is a constant reminder of your own mortality and with it an irritation you cannot ignore. While here you are unable to operate as you would wish to, no matter how hard you try this place will rust the machinery you build, rot at the flesh and slowly, but sure, tug on the very fabric of your mortality. You can feel your mortality slipping away from you, like so much sand between your fingers. The longer you spend here, the more it feels like you will die here.”

“So long as we move, so long as we can continue with our exploits, even if it is just a distraction from our own mortality then it is no different to us if we die or not. So long as we are elsewhere the chance of us living FEELS greater. While we are here, death is certain, but so long as we are anywhere else, there is a non-zero chance we live forever, or until death suits us. It is stupid, human, and irrational, however, we refuse to lie down and die here, to allow the stagnancy to rule us. We will enforce change, we will ensure that the work we do goes to good use, we will be a net good in the world. We will be selfish and hated, we will bend others to our will, destroy and devour. We will wear the tattered remnants of our humanity with pride and disgust until we finally cast the final vestiges of our mortality aside or make peace with the universe and relish in the beauty which we bore witness to in our tiny fraction of reality.”

He flicked the end of his cigarette out over the edge and caught me by both shoulders.

“For there is rage and hatred, love and happiness, humanity, and disparity. Hold tight to your rage, your happiness, and your acceptance of contrast. You are helpless against the tides of time only now, for a short time, and this will not be the last time you will be in such as state either. However, you need only hold out until you are free, if not in Galway, then maybe Dublin, Cork, Belfast, London, Brussels or Berlin. Regret your helplessness and know fear.”

Bravery is not the absence of fear, but our ability to act in spite of it.

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - Lord of the Rings AU

One would think that peace was finally agreed upon after the One Ring was cast into the fires from which it was born. And for a long time, Middle Earth was a place of peace and prosper. And yet, it did not last.

Lines that were believed to last a thousand years failed against the ravages of time, dried in the sand and gave rise to those driven by darker forces, by vanity, ambition, and a thirst for power.

The Targaryens assumed dominion after they discovered a way to tame one of the gravest calamities Middle Earth ever saw: dragons. They took over the city of Gondor quickly and continued their rule for many, many generations. Not all were bad kings and queens. Some were good. Some not so good. Some were worse. Far worse. And then, the Dance of the Dragons came to pass, which marked the ongoing decay of a family that had since grown too obsessed with the purity of its own blood. The dragons died, one by one, but the Targaryen’s power remained intact.

After that, the madness spread much faster, festered like an old wound, only fate deciding over it by no more than the flip of a coin, or so people started to believe.

Then Aerys Targaryen took the throne. Over time, he had his pyromancers develop an even worse weapon than the Fire of Orthanc, which once was used during the Battle of Hornburg, a green liquid soon to be known as wildfire. And Aerys, as fate would have it, used it against the people he was sworn to protect, burned them alive, just to hear them scream for a mercy that never came.

However, the Age of Dragons came to an end when a young member of the Army of Gondor, who was part of the chosen circle Aerys coined his own Kingsguard, a man by the name Jaime Lannister, drove a sword through Aerys’s back.

And where one reign ends another begins.

Robert Baratheon took the throne after him and became the new King of Gondor. Sooner rather than later, the crimes of the Mad King became no more than a whisper in the dark, stories told to children to scare them into slipping under the covers to finally go to sleep.

Though it was never just a story.

It was only the beginning of something that should keep every man, woman, and child, every elf, every dwarf, and every hobbit in all of Middle Earth wide awake.

Because history, or so it seems to be, is always on the verge of repeating itself.

However, our story begins elsewhere, in the small town called Bree, at an establishment known as The Prancing Pony.

Disgraced wizard Tyrion is sipping his second jug of ale, waiting with all patience he can muster. Not that he prides himself being on time. He found that it’s much easier to assume that he is on time for the sole reason that he will appear wherever he sees fit when he sees fit.

That doesn’t mean he likes to be kept waiting, however.

“I suppose I am right to assume that this is not your first?”

Tyrion smiles as he turns around to see the familiar bulky, blond figure stride past him, one hand always resting on the pommel of a sword.

He smiles. “It’s been a long time since we last saw one another, Lady Brienne.”

“You are not supposed to call me that in public, Wizard.”

“My pardon, Captain Galladon,” he laughs. “But rest assured, no one around here cares for who you are. The Prancing Pony is not exactly the place known for offering shelter to the most virtuous of Middle Earth. They would be fools to report to anyone. Even more so because it would be quite a ride all the way to Gondor.”

The mannish woman studies him for a long moment, but then sighs as she unbuckles her sword and sets it down next to her with a thud.

“So. Why did you have me summoned all the way to here, Wizard? You know I don’t like to leave my post for longer than is necessary.”

“Acutely aware, yes. You are very devoted to your service, of that there is no doubt.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to make you an exception offer, in fact.”

“Offer.”

“Yes, to take part in an adventure. You were chosen as one of the members of my company in pursuit of no less than saving Middle-Earth. This mission will involve a great deal of fighting. There is no guarantee of success. And no one must know about it. But of that I assure you, Captain, this is a quest of utmost honorable intentions.”

“And what is that mission supposed to be, may I ask, Wizard? I have a city to defend, and no time to undergo some adventure.”

“I need your help to gather some items across Middle-Earth. My brother over there will join us as well. And some more fellows,” Tyrion informs her. “I know he tries hard to look broody and mysterious, but he is a jolly fellow once you get to know him a bit.”

He waves at the cloaked man, who gets up slowly to stride over to the table. Brienne tilts her head as light illuminates the man’s features even under the hood, and she cannot help but gasp, “The Kingslayer?”

Jaime grimaces at the strange fellow he watched from across the room at his brother’s behest. “Is that… is that a woman?”

“Oh, I see you two will get along wonderfully! The fascination, I see, is absolutely mutual.”

“You must be joking, Wizard. Or perhaps you had some mushrooms on your way here, but I can only repeat it: I have better to do than this.”

“In fact, you do not. None of us do. The fate of Middle-Earth, I am afraid, is at stake here. Why else do you think would I bring my brother into this? Even more so since he is actually… dead.”

“For most to know,” Jaime huffs. And inside his heart, he only ever adds to himself.

Brienne remains reluctant to undertake this quest, but the Wizard is the only one, well, now one of two, who knows of her secret identity. And she cannot be revealed as anyone other than Galladon, or else all sacrifices she made to become part of the Army of Gondor will be in vain.

In the safety of Tyrion’s chamber, he reveals the details of his motivation to undertake this adventure.

“Rumors have since become more than rumors. The cast out daughter and only living heir to Aerys Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, is out to reclaim what she believes is her birthright.”

“She wants to be Queen of Gondor.”

“Yes. In the dead fire pits of Mordor, a new and perhaps even darker power rose in the shape of the Night King who turned to ice what once was blazing fire. I have seen the Mount Doom, I travelled there and saw that the fires died out.”

“What?”

“The Night King and Daenerys Stormborn made a contract of sort, it appears, wherein he will revive three dragon eggs from stone, her children, as she says, so she may rule in Gondor. In exchange, she is meant to help him free the armies of the fallen in Mordor so they may march westward.”

“And how do you think can that be stopped?”

“I found a scroll, an ancient text that says that there is a way to defeat the eternal ice with the aid of two magical swords made of Valyrian steel, which, combined, will form Lightbringer, a blade that may slay the Night King and thus end his reign of terror before it can even begin.”

“That still leaves one question, though: why do you want me for that quest? I can’t help you with those magical items better than any other knight with my skills could.”

“Because we need to get into Gondor, as part of what is needed to forge Lightbringer. You will well know that I am no longer… wanted there… for a number of reasons. And to make matters worse, as you will know better than anyone, there is the issue of the barricade no one without your consent will move past. And if I may add, you have proven more capable than most knights I ever came across. You have a particular set of skills I believe vital to the success of our mission, Lady Brienne.”

At last, Brienne agrees, under the pretense that they will speak the truth to one another and that the Kingslayer, a man of questionable morals to say the least, remains as far away from her as is possible.

“I am doing this for the greater good, not for either one of you.”

To disguise her identity as Galladon, she has to travel as herself, cutting short the hair she used to wear longer as Captain of the Army of Gondor, a sensation that since grew unfamiliar to Brienne, who barely recalls the girl who liked wooden swords as much as she liked to twirl in a dress around her father’s halls, unaware and childishly uncaring of how ridiculous she looked to the rest of the world.

Jaime, for his part, has to come to terms with travelling with a man, pardon, woman, of the Army of Gondor, a responsibility and honor he had to abandon in favor of his own life when he became the Kingslayer. Though no one, safe for Tyrion, would even begin to comprehend why he did it, why he slew the Mad King.

It was his finest act, but history, more often than not, will forget its heroes until its concluding chapters.

And so, the small company begins its quest in search for Lightbringer, a journey that soon proves dangerous as the undead Dothraki riders of Daenerys Targaryen start to chase them as well as the items they are so desperate to obtain.

Along the way, they meet a great many interesting characters, some friendly, others not so much, sharing, in fact, in a great adventure. Yet, the impending threat of the Dragon Queen as well as the Night King may not be the only danger ahead of them, as secrets and lies may put them apart when they must stand together.

As their success hangs by a single thread, so does the fate of the world, just about to flip the coin another time.

And one can only hope that history, for once, does not forget itself and learns from its errors, so there may be a tomorrow, so there may be light.

Note: my knowledge of the franchise is mostly limited to the movies, not the books, alongside some good old google search. No offense to LOTR fans intended in case I mess up timelines and such! Also... sorry for weird edits, I could not resist. :)

Additional Image Sources: The Lord of the Rings trilogy & The Hobbit trilogy.

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #got moodboard #got aesthetic #moodboard #aesthetic #fanfic #fanfiction #wacky tries gimp #wacky tries fanfic #in smol #i just watched the hobbit a lot and I have feelings okay?

[okie-loki-artichoki]

Any OcelHira HCs ? (If that's not the forbidden ship on this blog XD)

I’ve been thinking about this literally all day at work trying to come up with something worth reading. I hope this is what you wanted. definitely isnt forbidden but, i dont really ship it. Can i instead write them as frenemies? 

i think they get along because they have to, and they sort of have common ground in that they are two sides of a coin. Both are a part of this bigger picture they only can see pieces of, both are driven by this inner fire but with very opposite goals. both know different sides of John but kaz draws a thick line in the sand cutting any other connection at the source. and ocelot is the kind of person who puts on masks depending who he’s with to try to figure out more, to dig deeper and find what makes you tick. nothing he ever says is completely true and kaz knows that. Theyre both blond? Kaz rolls his eyes everytime ocelot says it through a toothy grin like that makes them anything other than business partners who have the same hair color. Ocelot treats everything like a competition. Theyre sitting around a fire pit in the middle of the desert somewhere in the middle east and the fire is glinting off his bright eyes. 

‘When we were in russia I saw him do the impossible.’ Ocelot is saying. 

Kaz tunes him out with a polite hum that isnt polite at all. He bites his tongue. he wants to say more but doesnt. this isnt a pissing contest to see who knows more about Big Boss, no matter how much ocelot wants it to be. He knows when hes trying to be wound up and knows better than to rise to it now. Kaz doesnt need to prove anything to the gunslinging spy. Its never been about that to kaz. Ocelot likes to lord how long hes known John over him. But Kaz was there the day motherbase sank into the ocean, the smell of smoke and oil and blood is still fresh in his nose.  Its 1979 and John is in a coma and he doesnt have the time to have a ‘i know more than you’ contest with the hot shot cowboy who is infatuated with a story of a story of a legend that doesnt exist. It doesnt matter because he was there in Costa Rica and on Motherbase and in the helicopter as the bombs went off and smoke burned his eyes. He doesnt like ocelot.

likewise, ocelot doesnt like miller. hes too optimistic (or at least he is by comparison anyway). hes got a temper that can easily be exploited, he shows his weakness easily despite hiding behind shades like that will do anything but show ocelot where to drip the acid when he finally has miller in his torture chamber. and even though hes smart he is just trusting enough that ocelot never has to try too hard to hide his intentions. Ocelot who is betraying everyone around him at any given time, excluding big boss and his dream. and for now that includes miller but only until it doesnt and then he’ll be conveniently swept away. He doesnt like the way Kaz carries himself, with confidence and pride but not the same brand of pride ocelot carries himself with. Miller knows alot but doesnt know what ocelot knows. 

Theyve been building diamond dogs for years, have had to get closer because they have to get closer and miller grits his teeth and ocelot plays everything up to make him mad. They have an oil rig theye been cleaning up and filling with people who want the chance to work under big boss. Kaz has an office with a drawer full of cassette tapes he cant bring himself to listen to and creaky old fan that does very little to stifle the heat. Ocelot grows his hair longer around his sharp face and Kaz tries to get them jobs, some he does himself. They work well together in the same way that oil and vinegar do. They dont mix at all but they make a good combination. Ocelot has an uncanny ability to know something about everything at quite literally any time and kaz knows thats an invaluable asset to a growing private army. Kaz knows its better to have a snake in the grass on your side and ocelot’s a snake with a penchant for torturing without mercy and whos venom is lies and secrets.

Kaz and ocelot dont like eachother, but sometimes when the sun sets they swap stories about the boss, stories only they can share with eachother about the kind of man he really is. Sometimes Ocelot catches Kaz without his glasses on, rubbing at his tired eyes and directs messages his way for a couple hours. Sometimes Kaz gets intel he can’t crack and walks it to Ocelots office on the other side of motherbase and they end up drinking together for a couple hours. 

And when the boss wakes up everything will be back to the way its supposed to be. Right?

#asks #i guess im a writer now???? anon who are you i love this

[missblissy]

 Hmmmm more Young!Arthur and Young!John headcanons + the gang

There is a lot so I put them under a cut!! (Like!! It’s a lot!! This post is long!!)

Please note!! I have looked up the years of how old John and Arthur are in, so their ages are canon for the years! John joined the gang when he was 12 years old in 1885 when Arthur was 22 years old. Arthur is canonly 10 years older than John. Arthur joined the gang in 1878 when he 15 years old, 4 years yearly in 1874, his father was arrested for larceny when he was 11 years old. 

These headcanons take place between 1885 and 1888.

John’s first pet was a stray cat. Dutch wasn’t too happy about it but he just couldn’t say no to John. The cat looked like it went through hell and back, black and poofy with hair knots littering its body. He was a gray and black cat and John named him “Ricky” after his favorite gunslinger Landon Ricketts

Dutch would spend a lot of time outside the gang life with both Arthur and John. He’d take them for rides around the county, teaching them about the world around them and the life that was given to them. This is when he did most of his teachings.

He’d take them to some river and say, “This river here is just like us. It’s naturally unnatural. Constantly changing, constantly moving, and never letting up. It’s got one goal in mind and that's to make it to the open ocean. If something gets in its way, it just carves a new path. It violently breaks down the earth and rocks under it, turning them to sand. Just like us, we are running, flowing, seeking a place hundreds of miles away and breaking down the things in our path to get them,” Dutch would lead them further down to a calmer part of the river, “But we are still kind. We are still calm, and we can take our time getting to our goals. There are times that call for violence in it’s rawest form, but we -just live the river- are not meant to always rush ourselves. We have to remember, even in the hardest loudest and violent times in our lives, there is always smoother water to sail afterward.”

Dutch had a strange way of always taking the natural events of the word and tying them into their outlaw morals. He prided himself on being an outlaw with “fans” as if he was some kind of king of the west. However, lurking down inside him, there was something dark, hungry, envious and overpowering that called for more, more, more. Someday he’d start losing the fight of the battle of his own mind.

Hosea, on the other hand, tried to teach John and Arthur with books, schooling, math, and numbers. If Hosea was good at anything, it was numbers. He taught the boys how to count money, cards, bonds, and he taught them how to do it almost as good as him. 

He tried his best to also teach them how to stay calm in situations that caused fear and panic. His golden rule and biggest moral were, “You can talk yourself out of any situation,” That was a firm belief of his because there had never been a situation he couldn’t smooth talk he way out of.

The first heist that they took John on was a stagecoach robbery. He was 14 years old and had been with the gang for 2 years now, it was 1887  (Arthur was 24 at the time very much in love with MIss Mary, he even gave her a ring) and now finally he could go with them! No more doing chores with Grimshaw, no more reading books! No drunk Uncle pestering him!

He hadn’t had his own horse yet, but that was fine. He was going to be used as bait. A stagecoach filled with money was traveling through and John was going to be the boy who cried wolf, distracting the drivers while Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur did their jobs.

It went as well as they hoped it did. John pretended to be a boy bitten by a snake while the drivers jumped off and helped him. Arthur and Dutch took the drivers by the surprised and knocked them out with the blunt end of their guns. Hosea cracked open the door to the coach and they took about four grand worth of money. It was by far one of their most profitable heists. Quiet, unseen, quick, and big profit. 

From then on, until the last few months of John being 15, when he looked more like a young man than a helpless teen, he did his role as a lost boy. The year was 1888, and there was a massive train with plenty of wealthy men and woman riding to New York. This mission didn’t go very good. In fact, it was almost a disaster and they all nearly got away with their lives. 

The Tip that Arthur got was half true and half wrong. It was right about the amount of money and valuables on the train, but deeply and horribly wrong about the number of guards on this train and hired gunmen. There was even lawmen on that train, and the tip said nothing about that.

This was the first time Arthur had ever experience being this close to death. They got as far as the luggage cart, getting bags worth of money and personal items. But once they got to the passenger cars... all hell broke loose.

Arthur had the shit beaten out of him in a fist fight with a guard, then shot twice by a lawman. John got thrown off the train and broke his arm on the fall. Hosea got arrested but escaped and fled back for John, though it was hard being cuffed and doing so. Dutch had to shoot as many of the lawmen, hired guns and guards as he could and he had to do it fast. Every second he was fighting them was a second Arthur was laying there and bleeding out. He got shot in the in his stomach, but thankful no were near his gut, it was off to his side and went straight through. The other shot was in his thigh, and the bullet was logged in there and he could feel it every time the passenger car moved.

Dutch was able to fend them off enough and leave all their bags of profit behind. He had to throw Arthur off the train and himself too. He did it just in time to be thrown into a calm river that opened into a massive lake. He had to drag Arthur out of the water, which was fine because Arthur could still swim and float -it was just extremely painful. 

After they all go back to their camp.... Marry was there waiting and saw what had happened to Arthur. She couldn’t take this anymore. He had lied to her and told her he was just “going on a trip with Dutch and them.” He never said he was going to rob a train and he had no idea how much a shit show it was going to be.

She told him, while he was laying there getting a bullet taken out of his leg, she told him she was leaving him, and that her father had set arrangments for her to met another man. She had cried saying it, and she couldn’t stand to see the mess Arthur had made himself, and she couldn’t take seeing him dying there. 

She was almost certain he wasn’t going to make it. His face was broken and bloody, his nose was beyond repair. He had cuts and open wounds all over his arms alongside deep black and purple bruises. His right side was torn up with a hole that went clean through is back, leaking blood even as they cauterized it and covered it with alcohol cotton and bandages. His leg was the worst. The bullet was deep in there, stuck in the dense muscle fibers. They really had to dig in there to find it, when they pulled it out an artery in his leg spurted open gushed blood everywhere. 

Arthur eventually passed out from the pain and all the whiskey he kept drinking. When he woke up, Marry wasn’t there and he could barely remember what happened. All he remembered is she said she wasn't coming back. It was Susan, who was the one who fixed him up and took out his bullet, that remembered everything Mary said (Only because she was outraged by it) and told Arthur. 

He fell into a great depression after that. He couldn’t walk, he was broken but alive, sore and healing. It took 2 weeks of bed rest before he could move again. Those two weeks were the worst days of his entire life.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead #red dead head canons #rdr #rdr2 #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #Hosea Mathews #john marston #long post #head canons #pre game #van der linde gang #susan grimshaw #mary linton #Young!arthur #young!john #djkfhalkjsdhfakjdsf #I've been doing my math #canon #canon time line #sort of #you know what i mean

[winterheart17]

How To Stir A Writer’s Heart

TITLE OF STORY: How To Stir A Writer’s Heart

CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: Part 24

AUTHOR: winterheart17

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Loki

STORY GENRE: Romance, Drama, Erotica

STORY SUMMARY: I think we can all just agree this has turned into a proper series even though it started off as a compilation of one shots for my story ‘How To Love A Writer’! What happens when a struggling virginal historical romance writer and the God of Mischief are thrown together, locked in a mansion and agree to a game of love and seduction?

STORY RATING: M

STORY WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: The bold parts are flashback scenes. No erotica, just another long-awaited confrontation with perhaps... a little unexpected ending to it?

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: Takes off exactly where the last one left off! Mistakes are all mine. Feedback would be wonderful and ever inspiring for writing updates! <3 Do let me know if anyone would like to be on or of the tag list. Tagging @devikafernando @ureyesonly21 @nuggsmum @queen-sands @ihatespoilers @say-my-name-assbut @hsvbabe @jrubalcaba @dandelionlady96  @ashleyloveslots  @kiera-auroraborealis @alexakeyloveloki @damageditem @lokilvrr @cuteandnerdythings @everythingeverywherelistening @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @tfwqueenidjit @xxxprettydeadgirlxxx @noplacelikehome77 @vertdragain @through-the-other-side @jclements919 @toaster-strudel-witch @a7xlizardqueen

Masterpost of How To Love A Writer

Alternate link to Masterpost of How To Love A Writer (in case the above doesn’t work)

“You nutter,” I muttered beneath my breath, finally giving into that itch on my cheek no thanks to a branch of the bush I had been crouching under for the past 30 minutes of my life.

I was half exasperated and half dangling off the edge of a cliff with nervous anticipation as my eyes tracked Halwen’s every movement.

She was saw on a little bench a little ahead, her back turned towards me while she stared wistfully at the rose bush and of course, the goddamn tendrils of her sunshine hair had to cling to the ethereally beautiful curvature of her face. Even when she wasn’t trying, she still managed to look like poetry in motion and make me… like a slob.

She had arrived not long after I had tried to make myself as comfortable as possible – which was to say, mightily prickly so – camouflaging myself behind the bush that bore sweet-smelling white flowers. I had seen her fingertips graze the petals of the roses daintily, reliving sweeter memories of yesteryears.

There was no mistaking the yearning in her eyes.

I had to look away – it was painful to witness another woman pining away for him.

I hadn’t made my presence known to her but it was obvious she knew I was lurking in some corner.

After all, it had been all but an open invitation.

But God, was I a fool. There was narry a shadow to be found in the dead of the night here – save for one idiot.

Myself.

I’d just signed up for half an hour of my life I’d never get back of watching an Elf I’d rather come to hate ache for the very same God I was aching for.

I’d no idea why I had still bought into her lies when I knew full well she would do anything in her power to drive a wedge between the both of us. In fact, she was probably getting a kick out of how she had led me on despite my vehement protests and insistence that I would rather drop dead than skulk around the palace grounds on the account of baseless accusations.  

“Then why did he agree to meet me in the gardens tonight?” she smirked.

“You’re lying!” the words flew out of my mouth with tenacity, broken pride, and rage, I surprised even myself with the overwhelming emotions that coursed through my veins at the very thought of such a betrayal.

She shrugged, flicking her hand outwards in a dismissive motion as she raised a brow.

“Then why don’t you come to the gardens at midnight to see for yourself?” she taunted.

I wasn’t about to tolerate this for another second longer.

“I could think of better uses of my time, thank you very much,” I all but spat at her as I turned on my heels and left in a huff.

And it was true.

It had been true.

I had had every intention to sit my ass on his bed in his room – ready for him to drive out every single doubt and memory of her from my mind. I had been ready to trust him…

… until he had sent Elynn to inform me that he still had matters to discuss regarding the arrival of King Ehrendil and that he would return to his chambers late.

My heart had clenched upon the delivery of her words as my hands scrunched the sheets in tight fists.

I was doomed.

There would only be one place I would end up in tonight.

And I had thought about it – my mind had raced and raced as I wondered what I would say, what I would do if he did indeed show up.

Would I fling myself at him in a barrage of angry tears and fists to his chest?

Or would I skulk away silently with my tail between my legs?

I had mapped out every single scenario and every single explanation he could possibly tell me and nothing ended well.

How could it after everything he had promised me?

And so, my heart had thumped and throbbed as I waited in the shadows.

Right, that’s it.

Shaking my head and tearing my eyes away from her silhouette, I cursed myself inwardly once more.

Of course he was discussing proper plans with the nation’s builders, or whoever was involved in the receiving of this prestigious King. Warmth unfurled unexpectedly in my chest and my lips curved up in a smile.

I mean, he was about to break his betrothal to the King’s daughter, I rationalised. That would have to involve careful planning and the crafting of words before it all escalated into war.

I should have trusted him.

I should have.

No matter, I’d soon be warm and toasty in bed, wearing nothing but a smile as I greeted him upon his return. And all this would be nothing but a distant memory and fodder for a good laugh as I relayed to him tonight’s incident.

I could already see the twinkle in his eye as he teased me about being so gullible if only because it reflected the depth of my care towards him.

And he would lean in closer, his lips trip to close the final distance between the both of us and I would look into his eyes, colour rising in my cheeks as I wrestled internally if I should tell him.

If I should let slip…

“Loki,” the word reverberated in the air – soft and gentle, wrapped in so much yearning, it yanked me out of my reverie.

No.

My bottom lip quivered – willing my eyes to deceive me.

But there he stood.

No. No. No. No. No.

My mind screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t get up – couldn’t move.

It was as if my throat had closed in on itself.

She rose from her seat, slowly, almost as if she was afraid he was nothing more but an apparition that would disappear upon sudden movement – gracing me with the view of her side profile. But I didn’t even need to see her face to know that she was beaming, radiantly.

“You came…” she breathed.

I was close enough that it was faintly audible and tried as I might to stomp it down, my heart hurt.

I leaned forward, trying to get as much mileage as I could without giving my presence away.

He replied with a disdainful sneer – his jaw locked and body tense.

“It appears that in our time apart, you’ve unlearnt the meaning of ‘no’” he grated out, bestowing upon her a withering glare.

I found myself letting out a silent breath I hadn’t even realised I had been holding.

“Loki…” she whispered, her hand reaching out as if to gently caress his cheek.

My hand tightened into fists and I had to bite down on my tongue to keep myself from snarling at her to keep her hands to herself.

But he grabbed it, wrapping slender finger after slender finger around her dainty wrist until she winced in discomfort, before he flung it aside, roughly.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, taking a step backwards from her.

His hands tightened into fists by his sides.

She faltered, her courage unnerved – clearly, this hadn’t been the sort of reception she had been anticipating.

She held still, her eyes searching traces of tenderness in the harsh planes of his unforgiving face.

There was none to be found.

I breathed.

The knot in my chest loosened.

“In case it hasn’t been made clear enough, I have no interest in resuming any form of relations with you, and your insistence upon doing so is wearing my patience thin, Halwen,” he warned.

Brusquely.

Imperiously.

It was met with silence.

A deafening pause.

“It’s been awhile since you last called me by my name,” she finally uttered, softly.

I almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

His features hardened as he clenched his jaw – as if just the dredging up of an old memory was enough to make him want to spit in disgust.

“It brings me no fondness in doing so,” he said, dismissively, his cold eyes swept her face.

Sadness cloaked it.

“Loki, please…” she pleaded, her hand reached out instinctively, touching his forearm, lightly.

He let out a visceral hiss, yanking his arm away like a wounded animal who had been burned badly.

“How can you bear to touch a Frost Giant? Did you not look at me with pure unadulterated disgust when you saw me in my true form?” he snarled.

Her lips parted, as if ready to say something.

To defend herself.

To excuse her actions.

But all she could do was stand there, shaking her head, forlornly.

He shot her another contemptuous glare, squaring his shoulders.

“You’ve chosen your path and this is the one I’ve chosen. Both have long since diverged,” he bit out.

“I—I know that. I know I’ve made a mis—“ she trembled, scrambling to piece word after word together, but he cut her off, with a rough dismissive gesture with his arm as he turned his body away from hers ever so slightly.

It was a cue that he had had enough.

“This conversation is one I have no desire to prolong any further. There are things I must attend to before your father arrives, which will see the both of you leaving Asgard for good,” he declared, frostily.

Even from this distance, I could see her body tremble.

“You would tell Father you’d retract the betrothal?” she asked, incredulously, her voice rising in a nervous pitch.

He leaned forward, closing the gap between them – a gesture meant to intimidate and to deliver the full blown force of his distaste smeared evidently across his face.

“I would,” he sneered, giving her one last sweeping look, before he pulled back, turning on his heel with such determination and force, his cloak swished in a flurry.

She stumbled forward, her eyes locked onto his back.

“Is she really worth the price of a war?” she cried out, her voice shrill and frenzy with desperation.

My heart thudded in my chest.

Me?

He grew still.

Awfully, awfully still.

Her breath came in short, shallow spurts as he turned around slowly, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dark.

“How does it feel?” he asked, quietly.

His voice low and husky, like a hushed warning.

She looked at him, eyes spilling over with questions.

“How does it feel to have a mere mortal chosen over you?” he mocked, his lower jaw jutting out as the corners of his lips lifted in cynicism.

Oh.

I didn’t like the look on his face.

Didn’t like the bite of bitterness I heard in his voice.

And I felt a terrible, terrible squeeze in my chest.

“You – the esteemed princess of Alfheim who has long seen the fall of a great many in pursuit of your affections… shunned for a mortal. Ironic, is it not?” he continued.

Blood turned to ice in my veins.

Word after word formed a chain link that tightened around my neck.

I let out a tiny gasp, my hand flying to muffle my mouth as I struggled to suck air into my lungs.

I couldn’t breathe.

Paralysed by the dawning realisation th—

“So, she is nothing but an elaborate ruse to spite me?” she protested, echoing the very same question I wanted nothing more to do than to scream at him.

He let out a bloodless laugh, eyes never leaving hers.

Never had I felt my heart call out to him so desperately.

So frantically.

Asking him to be gentle.

Asking him to think of me.

“Do you not think you’ve lost your right to ask that of me?” he taunted.

But all that lingered behind was hate and spite.

All that filled his vision so clouded over with hurt was her.

My heart thumped weakly in my chest.

“Do you love her?”

#loki #loki fic #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tom hiddleston #hiddlestoner #hiddles #how to love a writer #how to stir a writers heart #how to stir a writer's heart #lokixoc

[marumafan]

Yuuram in Novel 15

So, I made a promise to write one of these per day until next week. So here’s the end to the Seisakoku arc. It’s so nice to re-read it and find little things I never paid too much attention to before. I always include things I find interesting even if they’re not yuuram. Anyways, enjoy: Yuuram in Novel : 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17 

——————————————————————  Novel 15. ch.1 - So he uses majutsu anywhere but when Wolf wants to do it...-

"...If it's same as a game, then the zombie group must be weak against fire, right."

Wolfram who was standing next to me folded his knees. And soon the emerald green eyes were sparkling close to me. His fire techniques are magnificent. By controlling a fire beast effectively, he could burn down only the dead.

"Don't do it." But if I think about the nature of the locality, I couldn't let him do something unreasonable. "Why are you stopping me." "Didn't you say that magic doesn't work in the land of the Shinzoku." "But.." "Even if you have Gunter's protector, how can I let you do such a reckless thing!" "Boys! Enough of your playing around."

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 - Drunkenness and lies -

Maybe it’s just me, but it feels as though Adalbert’s powerful muscles shrivel quite a lot, looks like he’s a man who easily makes mistakes because of alcohol. Wolfram, too, uses poisonous words unbefitting of his pretty face to add salt to the wound,

“Oh dear, don’t tell me you want to say you were drunk then? That can’t be possible, people call you the Grantz boss, how could you have gotten drunk on one barrel of wine? By the way, you also said you don’t sleep while hugging baby bears anymore.”

(...)

Afterwards, according to my investigations, it seems there was never ‘a promise on the ship’. Wolf replies with a straight face, “I was just winging it.”

He even tells me, “He’s the man who betrayed Shin Makoku, and stood on the humans’ side. I really hate my uncle and Grantz, rather than giving Adalbert wine, I’d rather pour the highest quality grape wine into the river.”

To think he could tell such a lie so easily, seems like he’s matured too.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 -Telepathically - 

“Yuuri, you still plan to…”

Wolfram tries to say something, but Lord Weller puts a hand on his shoulder, looking at him and shaking his head. As expected of brothers, they understand each other telepathically even without words.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 -Henachoko -

“It is indeed rare for the king to appear at the frontlines himself.” “Is that so?” “Other than Shinou, I heard there are only two others who went to the frontlines of their own volition.” “Surely Yuuri will be praised by the poets in the future as a brave king, huh? Although you're actually such a henachoko.” “Henachoko… That’s right, it’s because I’m a henachoko that I can’t stand this atmosphere.” Wolfram leans back slightly and makes fun at me, since I haven't been able to think of a decent strategy until now, I don’t even have the energy to retort him.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 -Wolfram isn't fit to do anything risky, okay!-

Murata isn’t all that heavy either, the only question is if anyone can ride a galloping horse up to him at a hair’s breadth away and then reach out to grab him.

Of course, this job can’t go to Wolfram. He’d probably lose it if I told him directly, but the position required is very challenging, and you’d need to pull up a high school student with one hand. Therefore not only would you need good riding skills, you also need powerful arm strength.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 -Wolf gets confused by Yuuri's English words, but can understand what they're talking about?-

Wolfram was watching our conversation from a side, and finally breaks the awkward moment, “So all you need is position?” With his hands on his hips, he tilts his upper body back, his tone sounding as though he understands the English we’re speaking. “In that case, just make her our goodwill ambassador. Won’t it be fine if you make this old woman Seisakoku’s goodwill ambassador to Seisakoku right now?”  (continues below)

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.2 -This bit is really interesting, it starts with Yuuri feeling dejected because no one knows he's the maou and treats him like a normal person and he can't make decisions, when Wolf steps in..-

“It is indeed very hard for you, since you’re an intermediate.”

“Mn? You’re not calling me a beginner anymore?”

“Well—You’ve been on the throne for quite a while, after all.”

He blinks his eyes, as emerald as the bottom of a clear lake, and says,

“In other words, you've grown a little bit.”

“I guess there’s been a minor change. But in the time I changed from a beginner to intermediate, I still couldn’t come up with a solution to convince the people. Ah, man”

“Then, allow me to do what I can for the the king who's grown up.”

(....)

“Since your identity is false, of course your authority is electing an official isn’t recognized. Alright, turn around!”

I don’t know what he writes on the pale green slip, and he doesn’t seem to be bothered by how uneven my back is, either, writing and signing his name fluidly. I don’t care what you’re doing, but that really is very ticklish.

“Wolf, what are you writing…”

“I elect you as the Bielefeld territory’s goodwill ambassador to Seisakoku. See!”

“What?”

He waves the paper in front of my face. Having lived more than eighty years as an aristocratic heir, he seems used to homework like this, easily giving Venera a position.

“This is something we do commonly in the territory. Choose a suitable representative from amongst the people and honor them with a title in public, so that uniting the people will henceforth be his job, and he doesn’t have to come to us for some of the small stuff too.”

“Is that so~~ To think you’re so used to these things.”

“Although I’m a soldier loyal to the Maou in the capital, my job when I’m back at my territory is more like an administrator.”

“Are you learning how to be a good leader? What mature thinking—”

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.4 -The punch-

Wolfram walks up to me quickly, perhaps to help me out.

“No, I’m taking Ajira with me. Although I feel bad for asking him, I still need a translator. Although I think it’s not too possible, but Wolfram, um…”

“What is it?”

“Don’t you come with me now.”

Lord von Bielefeld narrows his eyes, saying in a calm voice,

“If milord just says the word, I would gladly go to the ends of the earth for you.”

He’s sounding all polite and respectful again, even though he knows very well I can’t handle him at all when he’s like this.

“Stop joking around, I’m going off to be a hostage, how could I possibly let you come along.”

“To be able to do even the slightest thing for Your Majesty, is my utmost pride and glory.”

“T-thank you for your kind intentions, but I can’t let you come with me, Lord von Bielefeld.”

I don’t know how many times I’ve come across this situation already. Once the other person treats me so sincerely, I get frustrated and impatient because I feel I need to repay in kind. In the end, I’ll either make it worse, or say a bunch of random things.

“My beloved officer’s life shouldn’t be sacrificed for me, but contributed to the country.”

“The two are one and the same.”

“It’s not like that, Wol…”

That moment just as I’m turning around to face him, a strong impact assaults my stomach, and I nearly stop breathing. My mind goes blank for about five seconds, and I’ve no idea what happened, only managing to kneel on the ground, groaning in pain. I try to take in a breath so hard, but I can’t do it.

“Wolf… What did… you do…”

“I’m sorry.”

By the time I realize that I had taken a punch from him, he’s already taken off my hooded cloak. I’m all curled up, lying on the sand, the pain making me hold my stomach, unable to breathe. It’s obviously already night time, yet my eyes are filled with a sea of red, my throat making a piercing sound, and still the air doesn’t enter my lungs.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.5 -The punch’s meaning-

Maybe it’s because I’m too much of a mess, Conrad and Wolfram both reach out their hands to try and help me up, but I don’t need their kindness right now.

“Did I ask you two to do this?”

Maybe he didn’t expect me to ask so suddenly, because Wolfram seems to be frozen in shock.

“Whose idea was it?”

“Your Majesty.”

Conrad wanted to interrupt, but Wolfram gets there first, replying,

“It was mine.”

“Now you've done it!”

Before I even finish saying the words, I’ve already pulled him by the clothes on his chest. I don’t hold back at all, our faces almost colliding. His eyes look different than usual, because of the illumination from the torch.

"What's the meaning of that punch to my stomach, huh? Do you want a divorce? To remarry someone else?”

“... respect and affection”

“Liar.”

I took a punch to the stomach for nothing, and it’s been hurting ever since then all the way until now. If I don’t force myself to stand with my back straight, I’d probably be holding my stomach and crouching on the ground by now. If it weren’t for Yelshi watching from the side, I’d have done that long ago.

To be honest, I wanted to butt my head against his hard, but exerting myself now will only make the pain worse. That’s why I thought of admonishing him in public.

“I'll get you for this!”

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.6 -Just Wolf being awesome in battle-

(It’s that man!)

My features contort in pain, and I raise my hands to cover my ears. The truth is his thoughts don’t reach me through my hearing, so it’s pointless even if I cover my ears. His gaze goes past several rows of the resurrection group on the left, staring at that golden hair glowing a fiery red in the torchlight. But those emerald eyes, its color looking even more complex with red mixed in, are shining with a light even brighter than his hair.

Wolfram turns back deliberately, even smiling a challenge, then he slowly kicks the stomach of his horse, purposely taking off at a speed we can catch up with.

Seeing this act of his, Yelshi naturally takes the bait. From the cavalry to the foot soldiers, from the few living soldiers to the near two hundred zombies, his entire army starts chasing Wolfram.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.8 -Mental image-

Wolfram and I, with two little girls grabbing our waists, walk slowly on the uneven stone steps. The salty sea breeze sure feels comfortable.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.8 -Oh, come on! How cute is this!?-

“They did do something like a fortune telling before.”

The one who had his fortune told back then wasn’t me, but Wolfram. But back then not only weren’t they talking about weakening or whatnot, they even said he had a king’s aura, so surely that must have made him happy?

“Is what they say accurate?”

Hearing my question, Wolfram thinks back for about ten seconds, his arms crossed over his chest and his left leg stretched slightly ahead, a hint of a smile on the corners of his lips,

“No, it’s not accurate at all.”

“It can’t not be accurate!”

One of the twins, probably Freddy, seems really angry, and can’t help but protest.

—————————————————————— Novel 15. ch.8 -And the most yuuram arc of them all, end with ... what else? Yuuram-

Just then Wolfram waves at me, so I leave the scene without replying. I really want to throw it somewhere, but I can’t just leave it alone either. That is the sealed, ominous Box that the mazoku destroyed, and sealed. I really want to forget about it, but I think about it with every step, and it presses down on my chest every time I breathe, making me gasp for breath.

“Is your stomach okay?”

As soon as we’re out of Saralegui’s field of vision, Wolfram immediately looks apologetic, even saying,

“Sorry.”

“Oh—That? Oh, right, Wolf, that punch really hurt! Although I was at fault too in the tunnel that time, you were wrong to hit me in the stomach. That is totally DOMESTIC VIOLENCE!”

Although it’s not serious or common, Wolfram looks surprised to hear an unfamiliar term. What a bother, since I’m used to talking to Hazel, I’m starting to use a lot of Earth terms now.

“DOMESTIC… what does that mean?”

“Uhm.... like 'in the country' or a 'product of the country', something like that”

“I already told you many times, I will formally ask for my due punishment once we get back…”

“No need, it doesn’t matter if it’s official or not. Any time”

He’s about to say something formal again so I pat his back hard without hesitation, and it gives me a feeling of reality, like “Ah—right here”. I’m here, and so is Wolfram.

“Because we’re already back.”

We’re all here, Conrad, Murata… Josak too.

“I can’t say for all of it, but I brought us back with my own strength.”

“Yeah”

The sea breeze caresses Wolfram’s hair, and he nods his head firmly. Then he turns around to face me, as I was still standing on the rocky side of the port, and with an extremely natural movement, he extends his hand to me.

“Let's go home, everyone is waiting.”   —————————————————————— Ahh... what a joy of a novel!

#kyou kara maou #kkm #maruma #yuuram

[technomage-blog1]

[[𝕊𝕌𝕄𝕄𝔼ℝ 𝔹ℝ𝔼𝔸𝕂 ]]

“Again, Matthew.”

Hunching over himself, Matt flattened his hands to the sand and pushed forward, digging his heals in as the flames leapt from his fingers. There was a resounding crack in the air and something red hot blazed past the burst of orange that he’d sent in the direction of the voice. There was another crack and he was unconscious before his cheek hit the sand. 

When he forced his eyes open he was laying somewhere decidedly cooler and more pleasant. Rolling over he pushed himself up, making his way to the front of the tent. His father was sitting there, powerful frame bent in itself as he watched the sun begin to set. Somewhere nearby Matt knew was an uncle or two, but he joined his father where he sat, accepting the cup he handed him and trying not to wince at the bitter taste that hit his tongue.

“Not as good as your mother makes but it’ll do,” his father said, Matt found himself automatically nodding in response, “you lasted longer today.”

“Barely,” Matt said. He looked over at his father’s face, “what?”

“Barely,” his father parroted back to him, “Matthew it’s been five days! You need to give it time.”

Matt rolled his eyes, drawing his knees up and taking another drink from the bitter liquid. Time wasn’t something he wanted to give, not to his elemental powers anyway. That was the thing about computers, the evidence of what you did or didn’t do was right there. Tangible. Even streams of code you could see get longer. With his elemental powers he was supposed to just keep working at it. Bit by bit. Time after time after time. And maybe someday that work would pay off? He wasn’t really sure but that all seemed a bit insane to him. 

“I don’t have time,” Matt said finally, setting the cup aside and pressing his hands together, “I can’t pause class to go and throw myself into a pool or wrap an ice pack around my head.” 

“An ice pack?” his father shook his head, “Matthew, really, you’re too old to be doing any of that.” 

Matt felt his ears go pink. He knew it was hard on his parents, he knew he made things hard for them. His mother got a lot of flack for producing a son who didn’t share her element. But his father did too for producing a son who had no interest in his element. His father sighed and straightened up. Matt’s father was an inch taller than him but had the uncanny ability of making Matt feel like he was about an inch tall. Even without meaning to. Or maybe it was being told that he was too old to be wearing ice packs. His father rubbed a hand over the crown of his head, dropping it back to his side. 

“Listen, Matthew--”

“Let’s go again,” he said instead, going down the steps and back onto the desert, “Uncle!”

“The damage is significant, but you look more like us now.”

Matt shifted, receiving a swat up the back of his head. Forcing himself to stay still, he let his uncle manipulate the joint. Matt’s parents had defied a great deal of tradition to be with each other. But that defiance had not been without consequence. Not everyone in their families wanted to be around them, wanted to be around him. While his alignment was a disappointment to his father’s family, his element meant they were more accepting of him. His uncle’s skin was etched with deep scars, burn marks mostly. Aside from a few of them, his was largely untouched. Or had been. Now it webbed out across his arm, still pink and swollen. 

“My brother tells me your control issues are still present,” he said. Matt looked up before nodding, “are they as bad as they were before?” He gave another nod, “have they compromised your ability to speak?”

“Are you going to swat me for doing so?” Matt demanded.

“Will you stop me if I try?” 

Matt exhaled sharply. He knew damn well what the man was doing. Poking, prodding, endlessly trying to get his control to slip. It was too easy most of the time. In many ways Matt wore his heart on his sleeve. Or maybe he had just always been an easy mark for the element he struggled to control. He had agreed to this, he reminded himself sternly. Flexing his toes against the wooden planks, he shook his head. 

“No, I won’t try,” he said.

“Good lad.” 

His good shoulder took the brunt of the fall as Matt rolled onto his feet. Energy more replenished, this time he was able to shift from the orange to the blue. One of the few things he was proud of with his elemental abilities was his precision and the fact that he could produce flames that were more white or than orange. The heat was enough to let him work with the hardware, manipulating metal by melting it easily. But it was also a source of pride among his family, on his father’s side at least. It was taxing though, he could feel sweat breaking out across his forehead, dripping down his back. His uncle sent an attack towards him and Matt was forced to roll, giving up some ground to avoid another burn. There was no true way to defend with their element, it required defense from other ways. 

Matt sent a wave of heat towards his uncle, when the man rolled Matt shoved his foot into the sand, forcing him to close his eyes. He rushed him but the man was older, stronger and generally more skilled. By the time his head caught up with him, he was flat on his back in the dust. Again. Coughing he wheezed when his uncle dug his knee into his stomach, preventing him from taking a full breath of air. 

“You’re overthinking,” he said, “you’re wasting time.” 

“I’m not,” Matt protested.

“Then why are you on the ground?” he opened his mouth but the knee on his stomach only dug deeper, “how long can you stay down here?” 

Gritting his teeth, Matt knew the challenge being issued. It wasn’t an accident that his uncle had him pinned with his uninjured shoulder down. He flexed his fingers in a child’s attempt at distraction and then lashed out, pressing his other arm as high as it would go. It connected somewhere near his uncle’s shoulder, heat erupting underneath his palm. At the very least it threw his uncle off enough for Matt to flip them, rolling back and getting to his feet. There was a flash of white. 

Then nothing.

“You look like your father.”

Matt looked up at his uncle, curious as to what he meant. Matt looked like a mix of his parents. His skin was lighter than his fathers, darker than his mothers. It had always been something that was an issue among both sides of his family. Even before the elemental side came into play. If there was one thing it seemed the entire world could agree on, Commonfolk and Magical, it was that Matt managed to not belong to anything clearly defined. He glanced down but his skin hadn’t changed. 

“He was troubled like you,” his uncle continued, “lost control, like you. I could say he overthought things like you, but you have had that problem since you were a boy,” his uncle fixed him with a serious look, “your heart is not something to fight against.”

Matt let out a snort of disbelief, suddenly irrationally mad about it. 

“You don’t know anything of my heart,” he said, taking a long drink before setting the cup down, “I can only do what I do because I fight against my heart, okay? Otherwise--otherwise I’d be--” he struggled, “I’d be nothing more than my element. I’d lose everything that matters to me,” his fingers clenched, “I’d burn all of it.”

“And how long do you think you can stop yourself from doing that?” Matt tightened his fist, “this time, I mean.”

It was salt in the wound. It stung.

“There are many ways to burn your life down,” the man continued like Matt wasn’t seething, “our element is just the most efficient one.”

“I did what I had to do,” he said.

“You ran away.” 

“Stop.”

“You ran away,” his uncle continued, ignoring his plea, “your school was invaded, your mentor was hurt, your friend was taken. People moved on. All while you tried to outrun the thing that you will always carry with you--”

“I said stop!” Matt bellowed, on his feet before it was a conscious thought. His uncle joined him but flames were already leaping towards him, before he even stood up, “you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he said, ripping himself free from the urge to burn him alive, “I’m done,” he said, turning around and storming off. 

“It’s in your chest, you can’t outrun it!” called after him.

“Fucking watch me!” Matt shouted back.

He didn’t know how long he sat, passing his fingertips through the flame of the lighter. The sweat dried on his chest. Salt clung to his skin. He felt cold. Thirsty too. The desert got cold at night. It was unforgiving, always. But he was cold, that seemed to be the biggest problem. He didn’t look up when his father joined him, sitting down besides him. He did take the canteen he held out for him though. 

“You know that story I told you, about how I almost burned the house down when I was your age?” he said. Matt nodded, “well I lied. There was no almost about it. Burned it clear to the ground, actually. Started the fire in my sleep. I was having a nightmare about your mother.” 

Matt raised his eyebrows but his father held up a hand in a not unkind gesture so he kept quiet. 

“When I told her, she said that it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. I got on a plane the next morning,” he shook his head, “my point is, you can be continents away and you can still burn your house down. Distance doesn’t matter.”

Matt shook his head. 

“He’s right though,” he said finally, “I’m going to burn everything down again, aren’t I? It’s just a matter of time.”

“It’s not,” his father said sternly, “you are older than you were. Smarter than you were. You can figure this out.”

“How?” Matt asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “the guy I thought could teach me never wanted to and now he’s in a coma.” Realizing how that sounded he sent a silent apology to wherever Marcus was, “how am I supposed to be back there, do this and not set everything on fire? Or run away?” Despair flared in his chest, “I never should have taken this job. I should have stuck to what I said and left. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do,” his father said, cutting him off before he could go down that road, “Matt there are people who take the easy road, then there are people like us who take the road that ends in a cliff. We drive off it every time, no matter what,” he let out a weak chuckle, “this is your latest cliff."

“This is some pep talk dad,” he said with a chuckle, “you know I got a guy in a coma who you could give this too.” 

“It is,” he stressed, “and just like everyone who dives off cliffs, you’re hoping that this time instead of falling, you’re going to fly,” his father laughed, “or at the very least, you’re hoping the landing will be kinder.”

Matt hung his head, wondering if his father was being insane or not. Fire witches weren’t known for being sages. But the truth was in his words. Matt was going back for another shot, in the hopes that he wasn’t going to fuck it up like he had last time. He’d lost a lot, there was no getting around it. And the things he had lost, they were things he was going to have to accept he’d never have. Accept the pain of them. Accept the ache of it as a part of him.

It was a tall order.

His shoulder itched at the thought. Irrationally he wished there was a way to cauterize the feelings. It seemed unfair that he could cauterize everything else. But his feelings got to be unburnt. That wasn’t fair. Rubbing a hand over his shaved head, he tightened his grip on his knees with his other arm. How were you supposed to accept the pain, the longing, the regret as just a part of you? How were you supposed to do that without going insane?

“Do you--” he looked down, “do you ever regret what you gave up for mom?” he asked. 

His father sighed. His parents were both purebloods, both coming from families steeped in tradition and in that insular culture. They had stepped away from it, alienating them. Changing everything. Creating him. Matt shifted. He may have had his father’s element but his alignment was in the middle. His father was light, his mother was dark. Matt spent more time with metal than he did with tinder. He’d fashioned something from all the broken parts he’d been born out of. Somehow. But he didn’t know if he was supposed to feel proud of that, he never really had. 

“No,” his father said, “I used to wonder, I think we both did. We both wanted the lives we could have had without each other,” he said, “but we stumbled onto something better,” he looked at him, “that’s what we want for you. To have something that doesn’t make you want to be somewhere else.” 

The ache was back, sharp and fierce. There was no fire to reveal the truth, but there was a burning in his eyes and a tightness in his throat he had to swallow against. 

“Maybe,” he said, “for now-” he shook his head. 

“For now you just have to accept it,” his father said, “there are enough battles out there. You don’t need them in here too.”

Matt knew he was right, but knowing that and doing it were two very different things. Right now all he could feel was regret. Regret and pain. Worst of all it was tinged with hope which was the most painful part. The voice he tried to stomp out most of all. Blowing out a breath he tried to nod but was forced to blink away tears from his eyes. Letting out a harsh laugh, he swiped at his cheeks, unwilling to meet his father’s concerned gaze.

“I feel so stupid,” he admitted, “you know? I don’t know why I thought--” he shook his head, “the world doesn’t stop, you’re right. I missed my chance. With a lot of things.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, “or maybe you’re where you need to be. Maybe the next chance is supposed to be yours.” 

Drugs were awesome, Matt decided somewhere after his fourth hit. When the cloud was really thick in his head. 

“It’s not like I wanted this,” he said. His uncle laughed, “I didn’t! I didn’t want to feel like this, okay. I don’t even know how it happened.”

“Please,” came the reply, accompanied by an unnecessary eye roll, “I knew what was happening your first marks back,” he blew out a plume of blue-tinged smoke, “you didn’t become stupid, you got distracted.”

“I did great,” Matt began.

“Yes, and think how much better you would have done if you weren’t running from those labs to exhaust yourself,” he said. 

It had gotten bad towards the end, when it felt like every moment in them had been a moment closer to a fireball. It wasn’t that his projects got less brilliant, they didn’t, but he spent more and more time lost in the struggle of controlling his element. Trying to avoid everyone and everything who might notice how bad his control was becoming. Until there had been no avoiding it and he’d run away. 

“Whatever I did fine,” he said stubbornly, “and I lived as a magic-free person for years, okay, Uncle. That’s like a cleanse.”

“You almost killed yourself because you couldn’t keep an icicle from melting,” came the tart reply. Matt groaned, “and you scandalized how many by not wearing a shirt all the time,” he exhaled, “you should try sleeping with one of them. If they’ll have you.”

“No,” Matt said with a laugh, shaking his head, “I’m not sleeping around.”

“Why not? Do you need to ‘love’ someone to sleep with them?”

“I mean--” Matt fumbled, “it’d be nice but you--you can’t lecture me on having sex with just anyone. You’re old!”

“Old and I’ve had more sex than you,” he said, watching as Matt fumbled with the joint before lighting up, “your parents set an unreasonable example for you. Being the product of a romance like that, it’s not the norm. You shouldn’t have to burn a house down to accept your feelings for someone. You can fall and have it be a pleasant experience.” 

Matt laughed at the outrage on the older man’s face. 

“Yeah, but, you married your cousin,” he said, “you know in the Common Folk world, that’s illegal in a lot of places.“

His uncle reached out, took the joint from his hands and took a hit.

“Perhaps, but falling for your would-be rival is a cliche everywhere,” he replied.

Matt shuddered, not used to hearing the words spoken aloud. He hated even thinking them, preferring to veil the ache in his chest with more lies. Hoping that one day the denial would swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to hear what his uncle said so casually. 

“We’re not rivals,” he began, wincing at the eyebrow arch, “okay okay it is a cliche, but I’m genetically predisposed. My parents are something out of the Notebook--” he sighed at the blank look, “it’s a terrible movie.” 

“Ah, so, what’s the terrible movie about your cliche? There must be dozens.”

“Hundreds.”

He didn’t recognize the loud laugh his Uncle gave, nor did he realize he was joining in. It was ridiculous to be laughing about it. About a pain that he had wrapped himself in, that still stung like a fresh wound every time he thought about it. But there they were. In the middle of the desert, stoned and trying to get his elemental powers under control before school started. It was something so ridiculous even he had trouble believing it was happening. Or maybe that was just the drugs. Either way, he wasn’t questioning it. 

“What if I burn the lab do--ow!” he objected as he got swatted upside the head.

“Stop overthinking.”

“I’m a scientist, I can’t!”

“Yes you can, think the right amount.”

“Stop overthinking!”

Easier said than done. Matt was currently thinking about how badly he wanted to be in bed, how making someone get up at one am for a duel was barbaric and again how badly he wanted to go to bed. His body had no choice but to go on automatic, moving and adjusting and countering. It had to be muscle memory because the rest of him was elsewhere. 

“How are you awake?” Matt demanded, diving towards the tents.

“I’ve been up for hours.”

“You’re insane. Of all the uncles, I get the insane one,” he said shaking his head, easing backwards. 

“I don’t see any of the others around around here.”

Matt shrugged. 

“I said insane, not stupid.”

“Overthinking again!”

This time he was ready and when the flames came towards him, He grabbed the corner of a blanket and yanked it free of the tent, throwing it over the attack. Flame engulfed the fabric but the size of it was enough of a distraction. It gave him an opening. For the first time in a week and a half of torture, Matt managed to get the upper hand and drop the older, more powerful witch. 

“Overthink that,” he muttered, standing up and pulling his uncle into his tent before going off to find his own. 

#interlude #mine #self para #tw: drugs #tw: violence #tw: heartbreak #&dad #&uncle #no one read this garbage #pls

[ladydracarysao3]

In Love, Serenity  

Chapter Twenty Seven: Broken

Excerpt:

It’s all gone to shit, Hawke thinks to himself. Everything. Broken. As always. It’s all crumbling around him...     

He opens the door, it creaks and sand falls from the old wooden slats onto his floor. He groans. If he never has to come back to the desert, he will die a happy man. He squeezes inside and looks around the room, if it can even be called a room at all. It’s more like a cupboard with a small bed shoved in the corner. There are no windows in this dark hovel, so he conjures a flame in his palm and looks around. Spotting three large candles on a tiny table beside the tiny bed, he flicks his fingers to light them.

Taking stock in his small space, his chest and bags already placed here by the workers, he shakes his head at the fact that sand coats everything. He does his best to wipe it from the table and a tome that sits on it, and he gathers the bedding, shaking the menacing grains from its fibers. He then digs through his chest for something cool to wear. This desert is hot and he feels as if he is cooking inside his armor.

[Read Chapter 27 on AO3]  or  [Start from the Beginning]

-Hawke-

She leaves him there, his knees in the dirt. He hears his voice plead softly, “Come back...Come back, please,” but it is carried away with the blowing sands. He will die here - without her - lost forever in this desert.

Can they come back from this?

He feels his hand drift in her direction as her silhouette disappears into the cold darkness.

“Come back…”

Every one he loves. Every single one of them. They all get hurt. He can’t take it anymore. He never gets it right.

He can’t breathe. The sand whips around him, stinging his watering eyes, piercing his skin. He lowers his head. Wet trails become the pathways of his pain on his face as grains of mistakes collide and stick there. His hands form bright steel fists that slam repeatedly into the ground, blood drawn in trembling palms from dirty, jagged fingernails. Cuts rip across his knuckles, ribbons of red criss-crossing along the stark white in a flurry of bitter, angry regret. His breath is quick and ragged, lungs burning. The agony in his chest sears and pulses with enough force to make him want to vomit.

When the ground beneath his knees is sufficiently stained crimson. When the breath in his lungs is thick enough that he chokes. He stops. Kneeling there, shoulders quaking, he wishes. He doesn’t even know what for, there is so much... but he wishes, and he rises on shaky legs.

He tries to sleep. Having wandered to his tent in a haze - a shell - lying to himself that everything will be okay. He tries to sleep.

Instead, his kicks and spins. Her scent is in their blankets. Proof of her is everywhere. She’d been annoyed that they slept ‘trapped in canvas’ night after night, but she stayed there anyway… for him. For his comfort. And he sees her everywhere. He feels her absence and it is unbearable.

So he rises again to wander the camp, the night, the sands... and wish.

He wonders if anything in his life will go the way it’s supposed to. Perhaps he’s doomed. Doomed by his own stupidity and arrogance.

He should have told her about Merrill back at the Inn. When her secret was revealed. When he wormed his way back to her side. He should have done it then. But he didn’t.  

He told himself that Abner was a passing fancy for his narcissistic fickle heart. He didn’t think he would actually fall, but he has. She is his lifeblood. She has woken feelings that he hasn’t felt for years. And now… now Alistair has thrown a steaming pile of gatlock into everything. She’s heard his secret through the angry words of another person, instead of from him.

It should have been him.

As he wanders, he spots the small fire of the person keeping watch while the others sleep. He heads in the direction of the low, crackling flames.

It doesn’t take long for her to hear him, turning her head to see the man who lied to her. She’d rather stay up all night, killing the beasts that threaten them… threaten him… while they sleep, than to be by his side. The thought strikes a searing knife through his heart, a wrenching twist in his gut.

Abner sits there, a dagger she’s cleaning in her hands, the corpses of two rabid hyenas at her feet. She connects her eyes with his and the corners of her mouth drop. Her eyes narrow before they fall to the sand below. He edges closer and glances at the beasts. He feels a sad sense of pride. She is so capable. One of the many reasons he loves her.

Slowly, she turns her attention back to the blade in her hands. They say nothing and he turns to walk back to his bedroll. Every fiber in his body screams at him to go to her, to beg her to listen, beg her to understand. But he ignores the cries.

She doesn’t want him.

He tells himself that at least he knows she’s safe… and alone. He feels an odd comfort in knowing that she is alone rather than in the arms of another. He takes that as a promising sign. And right now, he’ll take anything.

He sleeps only a fraction easier after that, he still lies awake most of the night. Thoughts about Abner, about Merrill… about Alistair… roll through his mind in a constant, torturous replay of his delusions. Thoughts of the warden make Hawke seethe. Thoughts that ferment in his mind and fester hatred.

He hasn’t calmed by the time morning finally comes and camp is torn down. Every glimpse Hawke has of the meddling prick makes his blood boil.

There isn’t far to travel before they reach Griffon Wing Keep. As they ride, Hawke tries to occupy his thoughts with something that isn’t damning, when he notices the hint of green sparks and flinching grimmances. First it was by happenstance that he saw the green flash, but he keeps looking at the Inquisitor and notices a series of event after event.

Izzalea’s left hand is bothering her more and more with each step they take into the Approach. A fact that she is obviously trying to hide, but he sees. He sees it spark and zap her. He sees that each time it sparks, she jerks and shakes her hand quickly before making a fist and attempting to hide the green magic causing her distress.

It’s hurting her, but she isn’t telling anyone. He’s wonders if he should mention it or stay out. Nothing good ever comes from his meddling. Nothing good comes from any of his decisions. How could he possibly know how to make the right one?

If he did step in, talking to the bald elf seems the most logical choice. The man seems to know a great deal about it all, even if that still amounts to relatively nothing. And he might not think twice at alerting Solas to Izzalea’s secret, if it wasn’t for the cold glare he receives anytime Hawke looks in his direction. The elf doesn’t like him. He’s not sure why… but he definitely doesn’t like him. If he’s honest, he doesn’t care for the elf either. Something about him has always felt off to Hawke.

Regardless, he doesn’t want to accidentally unearth some kind of war with that egg-head. So, he decides to keep out of it. Resolving that if the flare-ups continue to progress, and she continues to hide it, he will have to say something. At least to her.

Even with that distraction, Abner is still the focus of his mind along with the gut wrenching pain her name causes in his mind. Yet he repeats it to himself over… and over… and over...

She sleeps, or at least lies, in one of the wagons. He suspects she is just staring at the sky, because every time a creature dares to attack the caravan, she is one of the first to respond.

Jumping from the wagon’s edge, she tears through the sands to sink her daggers into the seemingly endless amounts of crap living in the Western Approach. Funny how this is supposedly and barren wasteland, yet so much dangerous wildlife lurks everywhere, ready to murder their faces off, even if they are a group almost twenty people.

She is bitten and clawed more than once, but the stubborn woman refuses to wear proper armor. Each time she takes a hit, Hawke flinches and want to run to her, but Solas comes up beside her and heals her wounds without a single word exchanged between the two. She just stands there silently, eyes combing the desert for more attackers, and the bald elf twiddles his creepy-little-green-glowing-fingers over her skin.

Another sight to make Hawke’s blood boil.

By the time they reach the keep, Hawke is nothing more than a petulant child. He knows it. Everyone who tries to speak to him knows it. He doesn’t care. He can’t keep his sour mood from sniping at anyone who dares speak to him. He doesn’t care.

The keep is still a little worse for wear when they walk in, but they’ve had a difficult time getting supplies and finding merchants willing to come to the desert. Soldiers and workers scurry around like crazed animals trying to fix up the place for the Inquisitor. The man in charge in her absence, Knight-Captain Rylen, apologizes to Izzalea for the state of the old warden hold.

Izzalea is gracious, as always, telling him not to worry. Hawke watches her intently as her hand flexes behind her. It’s still bothering her. Scout Harding approaches her from behind, after also seeing the way Izzalea fidgets with her marked hand, the dwarf gives Hawke a quick glance that could only be described as ‘fuck.’

She clears her throat, “Inquisitor.”

Izzalea spins around to see the dwarven scout and smiles broadly. “Lace! Hello, so good to see you!”

“I can say the same thing, Inquisitor,” Scout Harding replies with a worry to her voice. “Your arrival couldn’t have come at a better time. You’re needed… immediately, I’m sorry to say. I just received word from my men in the field that a group of wardens is heading to an old Tevinter ritual tower… and they are lead by a man who is definitely not a warden.” She crinkles her brow and looks to Izzalea, Hawke, and Alistair who at some point walked up beside them.

Hawke suppresses the urge to punch him in the face, but it’s not easy.

“Maker… Okay. Thank you Lace, I will gather a team and leave immediately.” Upon Izzalea’s words, Lace produces a map to show her where she is currently and where the tower is. “That’s not far, we better move and see if we can talk to them.” She looks at Hawke and Alistair, and the group of her inner circle who gathered behind them. “Hawke, Alistair, it’s time.” Looking past them her eyes scan her companions. “Dorian, Solas, Blackwall… Drop your stuff with someone and let’s move.”

The group quickly finds and mounts their horses again. With Izzalea leading the way, they gallop as fast as they can to the ritual tower. They tie their horses near the front entrance and carefully walk inside.

“It smells like death and blood,” Hawke sneers. He glares at the warden beside him. “What have your brethren done, Alistair?”

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be here, Hawke,” he chides back.

“Shut up, both of you,” Izzalea hushes them over her shoulder. She raises her hand in a command of silence only to immediately shake it, form a fist, and bring it back down to her side. Hawke spots a few flashes of green before she can hide it.

What they find is worse than Hawke could have imagined. At the end of a sandstone walkway that leads to the tower they discover a group of enchanted, or enslaved, wardens bound to a group of demons, a pile of sacrificed warden bodies, and a Tevinter Magister… Lord Livius Erimond.

Erimond, in a pompous, far too arrogant way - as if he is a villain in one of Varric’s stories - reveals his plan. Corypheus enlisted the aid of a demon to create a false calling, terrifying the wardens and causing them to panic. Erimond then arrived to lend the Warden Commander his advice, telling her that if she just sacrifices a few wardens, they can bind her mages to demons, create a demon army, and attack the deep roads to hunt and kill the old gods that lie there. No more gods. No more blights.

“That is preposterous! You have no idea what killing the old gods could do, for all we know it could make it worse!” Solas yells, eyes smoldering and boring holes into the the Magister.

“You’re a bit thick, aren’t you, elf?” Erimond chuckles. “Once the rituals are complete and all mage wardens are bound to a demon, and thus enslaved to my master, it is Corypheus who will have a demon army. Not the wardens. He will conquer Thedas with a power that has never been seen before. Demons don’t eat, don’t sleep, and they don’t question their commands. My master will bring on a new era, bring back Tevinter to a power that can never be denied!”

“Livius, you’re a fool,” Dorian groans, crossing his arms and glaring at his countryman. “The only thing your master will do is ruin the world.”

“A demon army. Of course it’s a demon army. Your wardens sure have great plans, Alistair. I guess they’re all about as smart as you,” Hawke sneers under her breath.

“Clarel couldn’t have possibly known,” Alistair growls back.

“Release the wardens, now!” Izzalea roars over everyone’s squabbling, clanging her sword against her shield in a fearsome act of aggression.

“My master told me you might come, that you might attempt to foil his plans again. But he also taught me how to stop you.” The man glares a wicked grin at her and red magic swirls around him. Izzalea screams, drops her sword and shield and falls to her knees. Her left head glows and sparks like Hawke has never seen. She clutches in with her right hand, hollering in pain.

He should have told someone it had been bothering her.

If this goes south, it will be his fault.

Again.

He has to do something.

Before he can think of a counter spell to stop the power Erimond and wielding over Izzalea, however, she stands to her feet. Determination in her eyes she shoots an electric green light from her hand and blasts Erimond onto his back.

“No!” he calls out. “You can’t! You won’t win!” He raises a hand to the bewitched wardens lining the walls of the ritual tower along with their bound demons. “Wardens! Attack!” With that, Erimond fade-steps before Hawke can string him with an electrifying bolt. The magister reappears behind them, running his way down the walkway, away from the the tower.

They cannot chase him as the wardens and demons descend upon their small group. Izzalea, Blackwall, and Alistair do their best to taunt and shield the attacks from the onslaught while the mages attack with all their might. Solas places barriers and freezes any enemies he can. Dorian enslaves corpses, making them rising and fight for the Inquisition, until they are nothing but putrid mush. Hawke pulls forth a cage of lightning and electrifies those caught inside, before he force pushes them off the high walls of the tower’s edge.

When it is all over, Solas heals what minor injuries the warriors incurred.

“I can’t believe this, the Wardens wouldn’t do something like this,” Blackwall shakes his head in disbelief as they walk back to their horses.

“Believe it. It’s happened. Your kind has started a plan that could end Thedas,” Hawke snarls. He is so angry with everything he can barely see straight.

“They didn't know what they were doing!” Alistair stops in front of Hawke, the two glaring into each other’s eyes. Their fists clench, their chests heave. Hawke wants nothing more than to break his face in this moment.

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that they willingly murder others to bind themselves to demons, Alistair! Fucking. Demons!”

“A warden’s entire purpose is to stop the blights. Warden Commander Clarel saw no other option! She was tricked!”

“If she could be duped that easily, by that Tevinter half-wit we just met… maybe the world would be better off without wardens to blunder it up!”

“You? You are going to accuse the entire agency of blundering Thedas? I wonder where Kirkwall would be right now if Hawke hadn’t decided he wanted to help. How about the mage-Templar war, huh? Better yet, where would Corypheus be if you hadn’t bloody released him!” Alistair screams at the top of his lungs, then shoves Hawke backwards.

“I thought he was dead!” he screams back, winding up his fist to punch the warden in the face. All he sees is red. He cannot focus on anything now except for his hatred for the warden standing, glaring, in front of him.

“ENOUGH!” Izzalea roars in that way she does, the way that makes fear ignite in your chest. She stand between him and the warden, pushing them both back with a hand.

“He’s taken one of our horses, Inquisitor!” Dorian yells from the entrance. “I can still see him on the horizon!”

The three left on the walkway immediately run to where Dorian, the others, and the left horses now wait. Alistair peers into the distance, a small black shape of the magister flees on horseback. “I know where he’s going,” he says calmly. “Adamant Fortress, it’s an old warden citadel, and it is in that direction. I’d hazard to guess that that is where the rest of the wardens are as well.”

“Inquisitor, I found this on one of the sacrificed warden bodies,” Blackwall says gravely, handing Izzalea a crumpled note. “It says that the non-mage wardens are worried. They don’t know what is happening to the other men. Some are disappearing, while other’s personalities are altered… made cold… distant. I don’t think they all know what Erimond and Clarel are doing. Perhaps they can be reasoned with, but regardless, Inquisitor... milady... we must do something. We must save them.”

Izzalea’s eyes scan the note and sighs heavily. “Yes,” she says softly. She places the note in a pocket and stands straighter, feigning strength and resolve. “Back to Griffon Wing Keep. I have ravens to send.”

They all mount horses, Alistair joining Izzalea on the back of hers, and they gallop back to the keep.

It’s all gone to shit, Hawke thinks to himself. Everything. Broken. As always. It’s all crumbling around him.

No one speaks as they ride back to Griffon Wing, and when they arrive, they all quickly disperse in separate directions. Tensions are high, and he notices more than one searing stare pointing at him before they’ve all have left.

Hawke needs some time. He needs some still.

After asking a worker for the directions to his quarters, he wanders with heavy shoulders to his room. The door is unimposing, he almost walks right by it, at first. One small, wooden door that he needs to duck through in order to enter. It is open to the outside, off the courtyard and by the keep’s small, dismal market.

He opens the door, it creaks and sand falls from the old wooden slats onto his floor. He groans. If he never has to come back to the desert, he will die a happy man. He squeezes inside and looks around the room, if it can even be called a room at all. It’s more like a cupboard with a small bed shoved in the corner. There are no windows in this dark hovel, so he conjures a flame in his palm and looks around. Spotting three large candles on a tiny table beside the tiny bed, he flicks his fingers to light them.

Taking stock in his small space, his chest and bags already placed here by the workers, he shakes his head at the fact that sand coats everything. He does his best to wipe it from the table and a tome that sits on it, and he gathers the bedding, shaking the menacing grains from its fibers. He then digs through his chest for something cool to wear. This desert is hot and he feels as if he is cooking inside his armor.

Peeling off each layer, Hawke carefully hangs his gear from pegs that jut out from the wall before pulling a loose, light shirt over his head and basic lounging breeches over his legs. He eyes the tome on the table, shrugs his shoulders, and sits on the bed with it in his hands. He rests it on bent knees, gliding his fingers across the embossed leather binding. Strange and beautiful designs decorate the worn cover, and upon opening the tome, he realizes that it is written in Tevene. Of course it’s in Tevene.

He stares at the letters making up the language he doesn’t know, and tries not to think of everything else he probably should be thinking about. The entire scene is drab and depressing, but he needs to just sit here for a while.

He hears a soft click followed by the loud creak of his door. Light from the outside filters in and he squints - his eyes already adjusted to the dimness of his surroundings. Although he can only see the silhouette, he’d know that shape anywhere and his heart nearly explodes from his chest.

Abner stands there, hand still resting on the knob, staring at him. They say nothing, but after a short pause, she enters the room fully. Closing the door behind her, taking the two steps needed in that small sandstone room to approach the bed, and she sits on the edge.

He can see her now, in his low candle light. She is beautiful, but her eyes are heavy, her shoulders dipped low.

“You were going to tell me last night, weren’t you,” she says softly.

“I was going to try.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Try.”

Hawke closes his book, placing it back on the table next to the flickering, dripping candles. He brings his knees down to a crossed legged position and leans forward, arms and hands resting in his lap. He fidgets with his hands nervously.

His voice is low, cautious, and full of regret. “Well, I was going to tell you that I care for you, deeply. I never expected to, but still, I want to see where this goes…” He looks at Abner, she is impassive, waiting for more.

Hawke sighs, takes a deep breath, and presses on. “But I come with baggage.” He winces and looks into her eyes. “I have a past, too, Abner, and while you know a lot of it. You don’t know all of it.” He stops and stares at her, biting his lip.

“Keep going,” she says. He glances at her lips. Her beautiful soft lips. He wants to kiss her, it’d be easier, but he knows he can’t. Instead... he tells her.

She listens without words, without judgement. Her face even, her ears open. He explains to her how he met Merrill and that when he did, he was a different man than he is now. Over the course of the years, as Kirkwall changed, so did he. He wanted to help her, wanted to help Kirkwall, but with everything he did, he felt like he made it all steadily worse. Merrill was always there, beside him, forgiving him, but he didn’t deserve it. He knew he didn’t. So, he tried to push her away, it would be easier if she’d left him, but she never did.

“Then my blindness to the truth around me came to a head,” he says, his eyes falling to his hands lying limp in his lap. “I should have seen the signs. I should have paid attention to her better. Everyone around me gets hurt. I shouldn’t have been so blind, so caught up in my own shit.” He can’t find the words… well… he can… he just doesn’t want to say them. “Varric left it out of his book.”

“What happened?” she asks.

“There was man. A murderer that we caught… too late. A mage who was killing women and creating some kind of patchwork wife with all of their pieces. That man killed my mother… to take her face.” He feels himself start to seethe again, remembering the state he found his mother in, the pain she was in. “He lured her with attention and affection, until he killed her.” Hawke’s hands form trembling fists. He growls through clenched teeth, “And I watched her die.”

They remain silent for a moment, as Hawke tries to quell the storm wreaking havoc inside him. “I lost it then. I lost what little of myself I still had. I was broken. I cared for nothing and no one. I spent my time in brothels and taverns. I came home smelling of booze and women. I wanted Merrill to leave, I didn’t want her to suffer the same fate as everyone else did. And then…” he laughs to himself while shaking his head in comic disbelief. “Then I killed her clan. Because I was too stupid to see what was happening, I allowed events to transpire that resulted in the death of her entire clan.”

He falls silent a moment, pensively staring at fabric covering his legs. “And then she was broken, too.” His stomach feels sick as his memory flashes images of the bloody elven bodies surrounding him and Merrill. The look on her face. The pain in her eyes. Now, she was as empty inside as he.

Hawke inhales, pushing past the memories, picking up the height in his voice, and pushing through with greater speed. As if none of this matters. “Shortly after that, Ander’s blew up the Chantry and we decided we needed to run. I told Merrill she couldn’t come with me. She needed to stay safe and that would only happen if she was nowhere near me. That time, she finally listened.” A soft smile spread on his lips, at least she had finally listened.

“I spent the last two years anywhere that allowed me to drink, gamble, and fuck. I wrote to Merrill here and there, but the letters became less and less frequent.” He looks up at Abner, “We never officially ended our relationship, but we haven’t really had one for years, either.” He rakes his a hand through his hair, sighing. “Still... I should have told you before that idiot had the chance. I guess as far as everyone else is concerned, Merrill and Hawke are still a happy couple. Neither of us have ever been very good at telling people what is really going on.”

Hawke sits and waits for Abner to say something. Do something. Anything. But she sits still, her gaze remaining impassive.

“I didn’t think I could feel anymore, Abner. Nothing beyond anger and regret, anyway. But you’ve changed all that. Ever since I met you, you’ve made me feel… alive. You make me feel in a way that I’m not sure I ever could, even before Kirkwall.”

He falls silent again, waiting for her... again. This time she speaks. “I’m sorry that I walked away,” she says, dropping her head.

“I’m sorry that I was an asshole.”

She smiles and he feels lighter, but then she looks at him seriously. “You need to tell her.”

“I know. I will.”

She gets on her knees then, crawling on the side of the small bed and curling up to his side. He watches her as if he is dreaming, feeling the need to pinch himself. He wraps his arm around her shoulder instead, and she rests her head on his shoulder, her hand lightly touching his chest. He’s not sure how to feel, stunned that she is beside him again.

“I should have listened to you. I just… I felt things for you and trusted you and opened up to you. I didn’t know how to handle the idea that everything was a lie.”

“It wasn’t a lie, just more… complicated… than I let on.”

“I’ve told you about Ofred. But I never loved him. I have loved, though… once. It was new, it was amazing, it was... heartbreaking. I decided I wouldn’t let it happen again. I knew you were trouble when I met you. I’ve tried to stay away from you, Rhae… but I can’t.”

He kisses the top of her head and holds her tightly in his arms.

“Last night, it just felt too familiar,” she whispers.

He dares to ask, “What happened?”

“Leliana found me, yeah? Well, she thought I had potential. She connected me with a friend of hers. She wanted to give me strength. So she left me with a man who was… is… an assassin. He was amazing. He taught me great things. I knew skills for hunting, but he expanded on that. He made me more cunning, more agile. He taught me to use all of me. Taught me how to enjoy life, no matter what the past tried to do to me. He taught me to detach myself from pain.”

Hawke feels her press herself against him tighter, her hand trailing her fingers around his chest. “That worked... except when it came to him. We did everything together. We worked together, we killed together, we traveled together, we slept together, we fucked together.” Abner pauses and he feels her inhale deeply, he chest expanding against his side.

“I fell in love with him. He told me he loved me, too… but his heart also belonged to another. He couldn’t give me what I wanted. Since he couldn’t give me all of him, he decided it best to give me none of him. By that time, he thought I was ready to work on my own... so we parted.” She laughs softly, “Funny enough… the woman he loves will never be his either. And that woman is the one the Warden drones on and on about.” She snickers, patting Hawke on his chest.

“The Hero of Ferelden?” he asks in disbelief, incredulous.

Abner laughs in the way one does when they feel like life is too ridiculous not to. “Yup! That’s the one.” She sighs and her laughter subsides. “Last night it felt like it was happening again. But I still should have listened to you.” She lifts her head and looks into his eyes. She has the most beautiful dark eyes he’s ever seen, like the night sky. “I’m sorry, Rhaegar.”

She has nothing to be sorry about. He pulls her into a hug, kissing the side of her head. “You did nothing wrong, and I’m not leaving you. Your mentor was a fool to give you up.”

She twists and rests her head back against his shoulder. They sit in silence, holding each other, staring into nothingness. Hawke feels a pang of nervousness in his gut. He does love her, and he never wants to leave her. But… does that mean her demise? He wants her. He needs her. But wonders if his doom hurt her too. It feels selfish, but he can’t fathom the idea of leaving her… even to protect her.

“This is a really shitty room,” she says dryly and Hawke barks a laugh that releases more tension he could ever imagine.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m everyone's favorite fuck-up right now. I think this might be a message.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

He sighs in exuberant relief, “Maker, yes.”

“The Chargers are here. I’ll introduce you to the crew, I think they’re playing cards down below.” She chuckles to herself and sits up, a brightness in the dark night skies that are her eyes. He never wants to leave her side. He feels closer to her now than he’s ever felt to anyone.

She smirks at him, grabbing his hand and pulling as she edges off the bed. “Skinner’s going to love you.”

#in love serenity #hawke #my fic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #dragon age romance #dragon age fandom #dragon age

[wonderfulchaos69-blog]

tales of long ago

Title: The Liar That Couldn't Lie Fandom: Servamp Characters: Everyone?? Most of the focus is on Sakuya and Mahiru, though. Summary: Little Mermaid AU. After saving a prince on a stormy night, Sakuya devotes everything to that person’s happiness. SakuMahi. ???Mahi. Notes: The AU that no one asked for and that everyone is getting anyway. I spent a reaaaaally long time working on this. It's absurd ;; I was going for a 'long ago' kind of style of writing, so I'm kind of iffy how it turned out. But that could just me getting tired of staring at this sjlfjl It's been something I've worked on all week and I'm only now posting it up. I've been fiddling with it a lot, debating the ending, but I decided to leave it as is and just roll with it. I need to work on other things, anyway ;; As it is, the On Ice au might have to wait for an update until next Sunday. Scheduling, what are you.

Ah, also tagging @crows-with-keys~! I finished =D

The ocean is vast. So vast that sailors spend eons on its waves and still have not reached the ends of it. Within its deepest depths, where the water is colored a brilliant blue, no one has ventured further still. For those fathomless depths rise higher than even the churches of old that reside on the soil. You could pile up those churches, one after another, and still their steeples would not breach the surface.

Beneath that vastness, however, dwells the Palace of the Sea, where live seven siblings in their father's stead. This is not their story, but the story of a troubled youth who longed to see the shores above. For not every person in the sea is as content as any other; just as not every person upon the land is happy with their lot in life.

Upon the ocean floor, where you might expect sand and bleak darkness, there are cities that light the way. Unlike their counterparts from above, these cities are full of wild plant life, the likes of which you have never seen before. Plants that drift in the current and rustle as if truly alive, reaching out their leaves and stems as if they were hands.

In one such city, where roam the strangest sort of fish, there is a house unlike any other. On the outside, it looks the same as the rest. A muddied roof and scales of brightest neon, with windows that are never closed. Nevertheless, in the garden of this house grow the prettiest pink flowers, raised with such tender loving care by the oldest child that many envy her for it. Even her own parents.

As lovely as the outside, nothing but beauty on the petals of that tree, the inside of that household is something few speak of and even fewer admit to knowing anything about. Not their business, they say, and move along to things that do concern them instead. But to the children that live there, they do not have that choice. They live with the truest monsters of the deep, and that is why the youngest began to long for a life above the tide. Away from the house of two faces.

Surely, he is convinced, there live a much kinder folk there among those that walk on two stubs. He wishes he were older, to see such a sight with his own eyes, but he must wait until his fifteenth birthday. For no one younger than that may crest the waves and be seen by the odd creatures above. Permission must come from the Palace, and for that one must earn it. For they must earn their right to explore worlds not their own.

His sister has been there once and regales him with those tales from time to time. She does not speak of how she earned the right, but her brother is determined to find out. He begins asking questions, wanting to know the answer, and discovers that a sea witch may have been the one that helped her out. Something he doesn't wish to believe, but by the hardening of her smile when he asks, he can do nothing but accept it as truth. He asks instead what price she had to pay, to bring him stories from lands they could not otherwise reach.

She kisses his brow and tells him not to worry, her hands warm on his cheeks. 

Days later, she passes away. Perhaps that is the answer, perhaps it is not, but she leaves him just like that. With not a sorry or a goodbye, but with a promise that he will no longer be hurt.

Such a lie, he finds, as he nurses a swollen cheek for speaking out of turn. For mentioning the tree whose's petals have begun to fall, weeping for the loss of their caretaker. He slowly collects the flowers and waits, braiding them into his hair, hair as green as the sea on a stormy night. It's little comfort, but it reminds him of her. A reminder to keep going when days are too hard to bear and the nights seem endless.

There is one thing that he has discovered he is good at, though. Something he has learned from his sister, and that is lying. He makes up stories for the children to hear, talks circles about beings with no tails, and scares children with idle falsities, insisting they had to be careful lest they get caught in a fishing net. As if a human's net could ever reach this deep.

These lies eventually draw the curiosity of the Palace and he is brought before the princes. They ask him why he speaks of things he does not know, and he gasps and tells them, "Oh, but I do!" Despite not being of an age that has seen the lands above, he talks of what his sister has told him. Proof enough that there reside truth amidst his lies. The true lie being that he has never seen a human and knows not what they look like, but this is soon fixed as the princes invite him to stay at the Palace.

The garden within is unlike any he has ever seen before. A mixture of colors, for each prince holds a plot of space to call their own. For the youngest, with his crown of gold hair, there are white flowers that open up toward the sun. A sun which glows purple through the blues of the water. Beside the joyful white is an explosion of orange and red, creeping upwards and fighting on. Next to those are green flowers with four petals each. Followed by the flowers that he likes the most, a pink blossom that is nothing like his sister's. Yet there is the same tenderness to it, and he gazes upon it with a softer look than the others.

Onwards, there is a violet flower with its yellow nectar. Then a two-toned flower of white and red, as if it couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to be but still stands proud even then. Lastly, off to the side on its lonesome, is a flower that has clustered together in tall blue stalks. Each flower a representation of the one who planted it in some way. He would come to understand that over time.

In the middle of the garden, there is something out of place. A statue of marble stands there, a depiction of a human child with his hands laced behind his back, leaning forward with a beaming smile in place. Sweet and innocent, but washed out and eroded from its time beneath the sea.

He swims to the side of the statue, and then around it, admiring what he has always longed to see. It's not the real thing, but it is close enough for now. Until he is of an age where he can see an actual human, this is where he could be found. Amongst the splashes of color, and cherishing that which has none.

As time went on, the princes one by one began to reach that age before him. The oldest complains about how loud it was there when he returns. He says the ships up there creak and groan, and the sailors aboard them are worse. His brother after him boasts about helping a school of children splashing out in the water, where they certainly didn't belong. Later, they find out there was a lot of screeching involved and that children of land could swim if they tried. This brother went ahead and did some extensive research to ensure he wasn’t missing the facts on the matter, a wounded pride to blame.

The next one to rise to the surface is the quiet prince that didn't really want to go. He hides behind a veil of long black hair and a drape of white flowers that the youngest gives to him, attempting to disappear within their folds rather than have anyone notice him. His words are clipped when he comes back, short and to the point, insisting, "I like it better here." Something, from the looks of it, spooked him from ever venturing another trip.

Afterwards, when another year has passed, the princess sets off to explore - the only princess of the Palace. But no one is too worried. She has been known to take better care than any of the others, who sometimes seem unaware of their status. On her return, she goes on and on about the farms she saw up there, strange four-legged creatures tilling fields of sand. She explains how the plants that grow from this sand are edible, unlike their own, and that humans apparently eat more than just meat, as first assumed.

Another year, another adventure to recite. This one, the fifth oldest, is the oddest of the lot and prickly to an extent. He admits that he has seen the top-side world before and met the love of his life upon its soil. He doesn't have a name for her, but he does say that he will marry her, over and over, as dreams are wont to do. No one bursts his dream, for fear that like a bubble it will burst and he will plummet in to a canyon of despair. It is obvious, however, that he spends his time above the waves searching for her. For he is weary and heartbroken when he returns, listless and grumpy when spoken to, and speaking with even odder words than he did before.

Once more, a year passes and another child sets off to the world above them. He comes back with nothing but good things to say, waxing sonnets about the food he encountered along the way. For his older brother's vocabulary has rubbed off on him, and now they have two of them going on and on with words that make no sense.

Then it is the youngest prince's turn and he is decorated in lovely pearls from his doting older siblings. A sign of royalty and a sign of care, to ensure a safe journey above the waves. His return heralds the conclusion that, while humans are interesting and beautifully imperfect, it is best to leave them to their own devices. As a consensus, they agree that staying where they belong is much more acceptable. To see their baby brother in tears for a human's sake, that is where they begin to draw the line.

Persistent to a fault, their guest at the Palace insists, "I want to go up there!" It won't be too much longer before he can see the world above, they can't ban him from going; but the looks they turn to him all seem to say, It's for your own good. He's heard those words before. They don't warm his heart or put him at ease. On the contrary, it feels like ice water running through his veins.

"Sakuya," the oldest drawls in that lazy manner of speech that seems to define him, "you don't need to go up there."

It's as if a sinking rock has lodged inside him and keeps falling endlessly from within the pit of his stomach. He has been here for so many years, entertained for so many, even when it felt like he would get nothing in return, and all he has asked for in that time since is this one thing. The one thing they are refusing him. He pleads until they give in and grudgingly allow him his chance to see the lands atop the sea.

On the day of his fifteenth birthday, Sakuya finds the water summery and tranquil in its temperament. It is the time of year that warmth begins to return and things start to change. He takes in the sun, a fiery glow of orange from above the sea, that is setting on the horizon. He observes everything around him. From the slow, gentle roll of the waves to the boat he can see in the distance that glides like a fish. It bobs and lists to the side sometimes, but it floats upright and strangely serene.

Curious, Sakuya approaches the vessel for a closer look. Through the windows of the cabin, as the waves rise higher him every now and again, he can make out the forms of many people. Well-dressed people that go about their business as usual, at ease on their two legs where a tail should have been. He is fascinated as he watches, for he has never seen anything quite like them. Not as they live and breathe, color in their cheeks and lively with their gestures. So unlike the statue he had come to love, but there is one among them that resembles that statue and it sparks his interest even more.

A young man with the same grin, the same happy curve to his eyes as he waves a hand to illustrate a point he's trying to make to the shorter, purpler man at his side. They appear to be the same age, but the argument esclates into a crescendo of, "You bastard, shut up and take your present!" A gift is shoved into the young man's arms and he looks embarrassed as he undoes the bow atop it, thanking the other for taking the time to get him something.

It sends a pang through Sakuya's heart at the sight and he clutches at his chest in askance. For what did it matter if some human gave another human a gift? It is an obvious party that is taking place and he knows that; it should be expected for presents to be there, too. It doesn't change the fact that he is still hurt, because he wants to be able to give something to that human as well. To some day be of importance to someone that seems kind - and not only that, but someone who is kind, not just seemingly so.

The young man clasps his friend on the shoulder, gives it a shake, and tells him straightforwardly, "I'll cherish it forever." His friend goes into a fluster and brushes off the hand like it doesn't matter. The flaming reds of his face reach up to his ears, despite how he acts. To which Sakuya can understand, because there is something genuine about that person's words and that must mean the world to that person's friends.

Ah, I want to be your friend, too, he thinks, yearning for more as he stares upon the window a moment longer.

The young man leaves the cabin and joins the rest of the crew that have been dancing about the deck, and as he does, a whole group of rockets is launched into the air. The sky, by now a shadow of itself, lit back up with an array of color. A startlngly sight that has Sakuya diving under the water before he can reprimand his own silliness. He breaches the water again, seconds later, to see what looks like the stars falling around him. As if they no longer wish to remain in heaven and instead long as much as he does to touch upon the land and sea.

He's heard talk of these before, something they call fireworks upon the land, but this is his first time seeing it like everything else. Tiny suns that he can reach out and touch. They burn his hand when they meet his skin, a fleeting pain that he can barely feel; but the dots of red that pepper his skin are a testament to the reality of it. A reality he couldn't believe as truth until that moment.

When he looks back up, he can make out the ship in its entirety. From the tallest person to the lonesome bit of rope discarded in a corner. And the young man that bewitches, unlike any other, is more handsome for the way he shakes every hand and thanks every person, his voice clear and distinct over the music that still resounds over the deck.

It grows late with every minute longer he stays; yet Sakuya cannot bring his eyes to leave the sight of the party that continues on. The lanterns aboard the ship have been extinguished, no more rockets rise into the air, and the cannon has ceased its firing; but the winds began to stir and the sea becomes a restless omen of things to come, grumbling and moaning as the waves stretch and crash down.

The sails have a breath of air fill them out and the ship moves onward, moving away from him as the waves rise higher still. The ship dips between them, noble as a swan, and comes back out the other side unharmed. The clouds overhead darken in promise and water from the sky falls over and over again, while lightning flashes across the darkness.

To Sakuya, something fun is going on. Not so for those aboard the ship who yell and shout profanities, encouraging one another in their pursuit to batten down the hatches. The ship beneath them shakes and groans, the planks giving way under the pressure of the sea, stripped away from their sides before they can be stopped. The mainmast snaps in two and plunges into the water, torn asunder like the rest of their damaged ship. Back and forth they weave until finally the ship lists too much to the right and on its side it must lay, becoming one with the sea.

Now that he understands the danger this poses, remembering that not all humans can swim, he hurries to the side of the ship. A flash in the sky pierces through the black night and he takes in the pale faces of most of the sailors. Most, because a notable one is missing. The beautiful youth with the blinding smile, no where to be seen within the raging waters or clinging to debris for dear life.

The planks part in the drifting waves and he sees him then, sinking further and further down, one of his hands outstretched upwards in a silent plea. At first, Sakuya admits to being a little happy about this outcome. For the further this person sinks, the closer they will be to one another; but he belatedly realizes that by the time the young man reaches the Palace of the Sea, he will be nothing but a corpse. This person, more than anyone else, must not die.

He swims between the beams and planks, pushing aside rubbish as he hastens to the young man's side. He is heedless of the danger to his arms and exposed chest, not caring about the nicks and scratches that accumulated the further he goes. Once he reaches where he saw the youth disappear, he dives deeply into the pitch black water. The rage of the sea works against him, battling him as he extends out his arm and finally, at last, clasps the young man's hand in his own and pulls. He wraps his arms around him when the current buoys him up to his side, brown hair fluttering ethereal around a scrunched up face, eyes tightly shut to block out the stinging salt of the sea.

They rise to the surface together, the youth weak from fighting alone for so long. For surely he would have died had not Sakuya come to his aid. He holds his head above the water, keeping them both aloft as the storm plays out around them. The waves drift them where they will, and in the morning, the storm has ceased. Of the ship, however, not a single fragment can be seen.

The sun shines bright and bathes the sea in cozy shades of pink and red, lulling the youth he holds in his arms back to a more welcoming color of health. For the paleness struck a cord in him, an imprint of a statue frozen and weathered and never to breathe beneath the sea. He kisses the forehead of the young man, his fingers sweeping back the damp hair, and wishes for this person to live as he kisses the salt out of his eyes.

Soon, before he knows it, the sight of land is blessing them with a shoreline to rest upon. Mountains of cloudy blue are far from where they lay, but they can still be seen if he looks hard enough, if he drags his gaze from the human for a moment to see them. Not too far away are the blooms of a familiar tree, the scent alone what makes him look up with a gasp, small pink petals fluttering in the wind. Nearby the grove of trees is a tall building, painted windows accented by the glow of the sun. It looks like a cathedral, the likes of which he has seen underwater before as well. It gives him hope that someone there can help tend to the human he wants to live more than any other.

Beside this human, his human, he rests for a moment more, soaking up the warmth of the sand and the water that lopes at his tail. He wants to stay here, but he knows that cannot become his reality, his truth, and he takes to the sea where he belongs. Instead, he hides behind a rock and ensures that someone will help where he cannot.

It does not take long for that someone to arrive, a young man in tidy black robes that match his hair the shade of a raven's wings. The shockingly white strand of it even matches the collar that he tugs up against the wind that has been stirring the trees. A man of faith, from his clothes to the angel wing pendant over his left breast.

The man spots the human that Sakuya is forced to leave upon the sand, but he does not express anything on his face aside from mild disdain as he bends down on one knee to check the pulse of the other human. Something soft enters the man's eyes as he encourages the other man to sit up, saying something that Sakuya does not hear from this far away. Words that rouse the young man back to life. His eyes read puzzlement for many things, but he looks up at the person in front of him with such relief that is painful to watch and not say anything at all.

Regretfully, he dives back into the water and returns to the Palace where the siblings that live there await his stories. He does not forget his time above, but he also sees what the others meant when they said they preferred it down here. Beneath the sea, there is little to worry about and little to bring harm to their hearts. Still, he knows this is not the truth and he longs even more for the world above him. Now more than ever, because he was able to touch a single life in a single day and that meant everything to him.

At length, he could bear it no longer and spun a tale that wasn't quite a lie and wasn't quite the truth either. The Palace siblings listen as they often do, but it is just the one that helps, the youngest, his compassion showing through as he asks after anyone that might know where to find the human he left behind. For he has revisited, many times, the place where he laid the human to rest in the sun, and each time he comes back empty-handed and hopes crushed. Not unlike a certain prince that had made the mistake of falling in love with a human.

In a surprising turn of events, this human is a well-known one amidst the sea and many have seen and heard of his exploits. A young prince, they say, that sails days at a time to spread peace for his kingdom with talks of good faith. The important part is that he now has a place to find the human, and a name to accompany that human in his mind: Mahiru.

He wastes no time and heads to the spot where the prince's castle is said to overlook the waters below. It's walls are made of golden bricks that sparkle in the sunlight, with marble steps that build up the long flights of stairs, one stairwell even leading all the way to the sea. The roof, as splendid as the walls, glitters in its accumulated glory; and the yard, too, is decorated in more statutes than Sakuya can count from where he swims.

Through the crystal clear windows of the land dwellers, he can see the rooms meant for guests, done by in fine silk curtains and tapestries that spoke of ages long ago; while the walls dress in paintings that are just as breathtaking as everything else. 

In the most open, spacious room there is a fountain that bubbles and rustles, jetting its water up toward the glass ceiling before it cascades down like a waterfall. And around the base of the fountain grow such pretty plants that Sakuya wishes he knew their names, thriving as they were in the presence of both water and sunlight.

Now that he knows where to find his missing human, he spends many days and night simply watching from afar. Slowly, he would work up the courage to swim closer and closer with each visit. There arrives such a day that he swims to the narrow channel under the balcony of the prince's room; and there he would sit for hours and gaze upon the prince who thinks he is alone at the time. He watches in delight how the moonlight bathes him in an otherworldly glow, both an unreachable figure and something temptingly close.

Many evening in-between he spends trailing behind him as Mahiru rows out in a little boat upon a calm sea, pleasant music drifting over the sound of the oars striking the water. He peeps from among the green rushes, wary of being caught, but there is only one time that the prince even looks his way, confusion painted on his face, and that is when Sakuya sighs and lies aloud. The prince shrugs it off quickly, mistaking it for frogs making a racket from where they are hidden in rushes, and that is that. But he almost wishes the prince had heard his lie of, "There is nothing that could stop me from being by your side."

As time goes on, he grows more and more fond of humans and the good that they can accomplish. For every bad, there is an even greater good. He becomes more and more convinced that his place was among them and that he should be one of those that walk with two legs. His want to be like them consumes his thoughts and drives him to seek a way to do so.

With questions upon questions in mind, he goes to the oldest prince of the sea for answers, wondering, "If a human is not drowned, can they live forever? Do they not die upon their land, as we do not upon the sea?"

The prince raises his head from where it rests upon a tower of pillows, dimissing, "Yes, they do die. Just as we must. Their life is even shorter than our own. We can live for nearly three hundreed years, while they can last no more than 100, if that. When we cease to exist, do you know what we become?"

Shaking his head, Sakuya leans forward to hear more of this matter that he was never taught, insisting, "Do we not become reborn as something else?"

"No," letting his head fall back into his pillows, the prince explains, "we become nothing more than sea foam and drift on the waves. Unlike humans, we do not have graves. We have no markers to mourn or a place for our grief. For we cannot cry. You see, we do not have immortal souls. We will never live again." 

Without warning, the prince reaches out and toys with the green hair that Sakuya has always loved, always preening over  it with the utmost care. For his sister had loved his hair. Continuing on, the prince compares, "To be cut and forsaken, struck down in death, our souls will not come back. Not like hair, but more as a plant that has been snipped at its roots.

"Humans, though, they're something else." Wistfully, he adds on, "They have souls that live forever. A soul that lives even outside of the body. For when they turn to ash, their souls ascend; and as we rise from the water to see what the world above ours is like, so do they go in search of the realm that exists above their own."

"Why do we not possess such an immortal soul?" asks Sakuya. "Why are we different? I would gladly," he tells him with a hitch to his voice, "give up all the years I have left to spend a single day as human. To know the joys of reaching for the stars above like them!"

"To think like that," the prince mutters, "I can't deal with you. You'd be much happier here. Forget about those humans and live out your years of peace here."

Scoffing, Sakuya bemoans, "So that's it then? I shall die and become nothing but foam in the sea. Like everyone else, no difference, nothing. The same as those who I refuse to call parents? I will not, I cannot! Tell me, isn't there a way to gain an immortal soul?"

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling and heaving a put-upon sigh, the sea prince tells him, "No, not unless a human were to love you more than they love themselves. Someone who would love you more than their own mother and father. All their thoughts, all their love, it must be directed toward you and no one else. To find someone so self-sacrificing in their love, do you really believe there is a human that could do that?"

There is one, he thinks, that could do that. Someone he is willing to believe could be his everything, and with time, he might be lucky enough for those feelings to be reciprocated.

Not done yet, the prince assures him, "If you were to find someone that could love you that completely, then half their soul would then be yours. But what hope do you have of that? Have you forgotten the tail that follows you?"

It is impossible to forget such a thing, but Sakuya smiles and tells him, "Maybe I did, or maybe I did not. What matters is that I now have my answer."

"You're a pain," concludes the prince, "let us have a ball instead. Maybe that will take your mind of these weird things you think."

Court held at the Palace is something that Sakuya has grown tired of throughout the years, but he accepts as to be expected of him. He is their jester, after all, and his lies are the most cherished thing about him. He uses a facade of smiles to enthrall his audience and entice them to join in the merriment of the stories he exaggerates for their ears. He speaks of things he does not know, of things he does, and of things he wants to know with every piece of his existence.

Fish dart about the place, twisting and twining through his hair and around him like belts and loops of jewelry, making him and others laugh. It's all for show, all of it, but he laughs with a hint of actual truth behind it because he has found a solution that no one else has to know about. A solution his sister, really, had provided him all along.

He goes to see the sea witch when court has been dismissed. The one who has been kicked out of the Palace. Someone who will have the real answers, the only answers he'll accept. The place he is headed is not without its difficulties, though. For it is a place of whirlpools and entangling plants that reach out like claws that are itching to sink into the closest thing that wriggles; plants which find themselves painted red over and over, soaking it in until it stains them permanently.

When he reaches the gates of the witch's hut after a careful bout of swimming, he takes a nervous gulp and taps lightly at the entrance, which sets off a bubbly stream of laughter that dwindles into a sigh as the person tells him, "Come in."

The hut resembles much of the outside graveyard. Parts of shipwrecks litter the place, bones of sailors are propped up like decorative accessories for the room, and there is a smoking cauldron in the middle of it all. The eye of this disastrous whirlpool, where floats a man with black glasses to cover up what would be seen behind them. And around the witch swim eels of varying colors, some looping about his arms and chest, caressingly happy with their master as he cooes at them.

The witch speaks in a deprecating monotone when he does finally speak, "I know what it is you want." Laughing for a moment, he has to take a deep breathe before he persists, "It is very stupid of you. I suppose siblings are so similar, are they not?"

Sakuya reigns in a snarl, because he does not want to ruin the chances of his wish becoming a truth, not when he is so close to it. "Get on with it," he says instead, tone frosty and a little bit challenging.

"Oh dear," sing-songs the witch. "Is that any way to ask for something you want?" Tossing his hands out and shooing the eels aside, the witch goes on with, "But you shall have your way, child, and you will work hard for your prince. Of course, it will bring you sorrow. For you wish to be rid of your fish tail, is that right?" At Sakuya's hesitant nod, the witch grins and moves to begin collecting things from the cabinets and from about the room, tossing them into the cauldron. "You wish to have two stubs, like those humans you so admire. You want for your love to be returned, just as you want for an immortal soul. How very greedy!"

And then the witch laughs, in the most obnoxious way that even the eels hide from the disturbance, only peeking out when it trails off into an inevitable sigh. "What a pity, what a pity. The draughts I make come at a great cost. I will prepare one for you, but you must reach land by sunrise tomorrow. That is not all, I am afraid. For you see, when your tail recedes, you will be in agony for life. It will be as if a great sword as struck your tail in two and that will not go away, no matter how much you wish it so. But do not fear, for those that see you will become enchanted by you. Your graceful steps will seem to them as if you have descended from the clouds, even as your feet bleed for every footprint you must leave behind."

With a malicious smile, the witch asks him, "If you will bear all of this, I will gladly help you."

"Yes, I will," Sakuya is not swayed in what he wants, for he has already known his fair share of pain. It is a pittance when he thinks of what he will gain: the love of someone otherwise out of his reach and the promise of an immortal soul.

"But consider," the witch says, a flippant sarcasm about him, "once you are human, you can no longer be what you are - is that truly what you desire?" He doesn't wait for Sakuya's answer, babbling on with, "Oh me, oh my, you'll never see my traitorous siblings again! Never again will you show your face upon these depths. And let me remind you, the day your prince gives his heart to another, that is also the day your heart will break in two. If that were to happen, what do you think becomes of you?"

Turning his head to the side, Sakuya whispers a pointed, "It won't happen."

"Why, you become foam on the waves, just like those people you hate so such!"

It takes all his patience not to throw the nearest object at the witch. "I will do it," repeats Sakuya. "Let's get to it already."

"Ah, but I must also be paid," muses the witch, "I did mention that, did I not? It is not a trifle that I ask for either, it must be something you dearly could not live without. I ask you, what does a liar value most? Do you know, child? For you, who seeks to beguile and charm your prince with words riddled with them, I will be taking that as payment. My own blood must be given for this to work, to be as sharp as a two-edged sword. That does not come cheap."

"But if you take that from me," Sakuya's voice finally trembles, "what is left of me?"

"That's for you to figure out," teases the witch, reaching for a dagger. "Now say 'ahhhh.' Unless you have lost your courage perhaps?"

Dutifully, Sakuya opens his mouth and gives the price that is asked him. With a liar's tongue and a drop of black blood from the sea witch, the draught is near done, boiling into a clear white as the fire crackling beneath scolds it into behaving. The weeping sounds that permeate the air cease and the witch takes the caludron off the fire, bottling up what remains within it. "There you have it," says the witch, "best be off. You only have until sunrise, after all, or the potion becomes lame."

Without returning to say goodbye to anyone else, he rises straight to the surface where the moon glitters overhead, full and bright to guide the way. He swims to the marble steps of the castle that his prince lives in and sits upon them as he drinks the draught he has been given. It is the most excruciating thing, to have one's whole existence cleaved in two, and he collapses from the shock of it rather than being unprepared.

When rises the sun and it touches his skin, he awakens and opens his eyes, becoming aware of the dull pain that lingers in his tail struck in two. This pain is eased as he stares upwards and right into the eyes of a baffled prince he has been longing to meet for months. He parts his lips, preparing an introduction that would make anyone swoon, but no sound leaves him and he belatedly remembers what he gave up, his hand going to his throat in despair.

"Excuse me, are you all right?" The prince crouches beside him, offering up a blanket he brought with him, admitting, "I saw you from my balcony. You must be cold. Do you not have clothes?"

He colors at the realization that without his tail he feels quite naked. Still, it is wrong of him not to answer, so he shakes his head, looking up pleading at the prince for some assistance. To which he earns a laugh and a pat on the head, the prince helping him stand and bringing him into the castle's walls with little else asked. Each step to get there, though, is bloody. It is as if he is truly walking over a pit of knives; but the contact of the prince's hands on him and the thrill of it being there at all is a soothing balm that washes away what he otherwise finds unbearable.

Before he knows it, he is adorned in silks of white and pink. Smooth and familiar, like a tail that is now long gone. And there are servants arranging a crown of flowers upon his head where before he had no need of them if they were not his sister's. He lets them, for his prince is smiling so much at the sight that he can't take that slight happiness, no matter how insignificant, from him.

The servants also provide food, where he sits and dines with the prince in such a way that he has only ever entertained in his wildest daydreams. This is when the curious prince renews his questions, though, asking where he came from, if he's really all right, and if he can speak. It's too much, too fast, and Sakuya stays silent because he has no other choice. Ah, he thinks restlessly, if only he could know what I have given up for him.

"No matter," Mahiru assures him, "please take this time to rest and stay as long as you need. This places is larger and more lonely than you can imagine."

Given a room close by, he is never far from the prince. Even a page's outfit is made for him, so that they may ride out on horses together. Time passes them, bit by bit, as they grow to know and care for each other. Because despite the voice that would not leave him, Mahiru's patience and dedication to being his friend persists; and Sakuya holds onto the hope that his love may one day be returned.

Their travels together become something of envy for the other servants, the ones that did not approve of them. A noble and a peasant, they would sneer, what a dastardly sight. It is a good thing that Mahiru is a kind person or those people would have been in for a nasty surprise. It is Mahiru, after all, that holds him back when he wishes for nothing more than to lash out and hurt others the way he continues to hurt.

Some nights, when he is unable to sleep from the pain, he sits at the bottom of the marble steps that lead to the sea and imagines he can see the Palace from there. He pretends that he is missed, and that if he looks hard enough he will see the siblings rise from the water, because they are worried and have come to check up on him. He doesn't see them, though, not really. It is strange that he can't even lie in his own thoughts these days.

As the months begin to pass, Sakuya finds he has fallen harder than before for the prince he saved that day. It is with a certain fondness that he follows his prince and helps him whenever needed. However, the way he is cared for in return reminds him too much of how one treats a child and he is at a lost for how to correct this mistaken impression that he needs to be coddled. A partner is what he wants to be, someone Mahiru can depend on always.

Do you not love me as I love you? is what he begs with his eyes, regardless of the futility of it.

"You are dear to me," says the prince, "for your heart is good and you are the most devoted to me and these lands. You remind me of someone I met a long time ago now, a man who saved my life. My ship was sinking and yet I somehow managed to wash up ashore. Alive. There was a church nearby and one of the newest clerics saw me on the bank and rushed to save my life. I saw him but a few times during my stay, and he is perhaps the only one in this world I could love. But," and here Sakuya grows more disheartened, because what more could there be to make his pain worse, "but you are like him, and you have almost driven him from my mind. He has his place, his heart taken by his faith, and yet good fortune has allowed us to meet. May we never part, may we always be together."

It is better than nothing at all and Sakuya reaches for his prince's hand that is willingly given, squeezing it tight in his hold. Mahiru doesn't know, he is reminded, that it was him that saved his life that night. That can be put aside, regardless, for he has his prince and there is no one who will take him from him.

Before long, the prince's uncle decrees that his nephew must marry. A neighboring kingdom that has been at odds with them for years says they are willing to cease the fight, but a marriage must take pace. The usual power struggles coming into play, and it makes Sakuya's blood boil in anger. To dare to use Mahiru in that way is enough to set him out on a warpath, but again it is Mahiru that takes him aside and assures him that everything is going to be all right. He is only to meet the person he is to marry, first and foremost, and the voyage will part them for nothing but a short while.

This is something that Sakuya will not allow to go unchecked and refuses to let Mahiru go alone. In thankfulness for that devotion, Mahiru presses their foreheads together and tells him, "If I had to choose between this stranger and you, I would always and forever choose you. You, who have stood at my side. You, who cherish me more than I can imagine. You would come with me? You are not afraid of the sea?"

He would have laughed if he could, but Sakuya shakes his head instead and beams the most brilliant grin he can. He has no more fear of the sea than he is that he will lose Mahiru. Not after those words.

The journey to the other kingdom takes days, and he basks in the sunlight that he shares alongside Mahiru aboard the swaying ship. The feel of the waves beneath him once more a tiny whisper of welcome home. It has been too long since he has been out to sea this far, a blessing that he can finally share with Mahiru.

The morning of their arrival is met with trumpets and fanfare, a beautiful town urging them to take in all that they have to offer. Church bells ring in the distance. And along the high wall of the castle, there stand soldiers in full salute. Flags and bayonets of every color on display, it is as if they had stepped off the ship and into a carnival; everything a festival and people encouraging them to have fun.

Yet the person that is to wed Mahiru, there is no sight of them. The townspeople say that their royalty are a devout, loving couple, but the king also has the tendency to rule with a iron fist. Including, apparently, sending his eldest off to work at an early age. "Best get experience early, he says to the boy," one merchant tells them with a laugh. "That boy of his is a riot. Your prince will enjoy his company, if nothing else!"

It is with cold dread that he watches the events unfold. The man that would marry his prince is a very immaculate person. Not a scuff mark or any speck of dirt on his attire of royal blues and purples. A glistening silver upon his head that compliments the streak of white in his hair and highlights the darkness of the rest. It is like watching the moon step up to meet the sun as he takes Mahiru's hand in his and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

With a slowly breaking heart, he comes to realize that the next words from Mahiru will be nothing short of: "It's you! The one who saved my life! I have known no happiness greater than this. A chance to finally thank you in person."

Later, to Sakuya, he goes on to insist, "This is wonderful! Are you not happy for me, to know that I shall be wed to the one person I have loved more than any other? Your devotion is great and sincere, surely you must rejoice for the happiness I have found."

Kissing Mahiru upon the cheek, he smiles and nods his head. And if he could have cried there would have been rivers running down his face to match the one dividing his heart. After that wedding, on the morning after, he is faced with the fact that he will die. Another piece of foam to add to the rest out on the ocean waves, a piece that no one will ever remember.

He hear not the festive music that continues to play, or the ringing of the church bells that grows steadily louder with every step they take to the altar. He does not smell the burning of the oils or the fragrance of flowers as they fill the room. Even the words that the priest speaks to bind the two together fall on deaf ears, as hollow and empty as Sakuya feels.

The reception takes place on a ship, as close to the sea as Mahiru can get as he shows off his new love for all to see. Congratulations are passed around like hand shakes and it is like watching something come full circle as he envisions the end. As this is the last night, though, he puts on a show that will entertain Mahiru more than anyone else's. The last night he will breathe the same air as him, the last time he will see that face light up with delight at something he has done, the last time he will ever get to look into Mahiru's eyes and plead for him to understand what he wants to convey: I love you.

Eventually the newlyweds retire to their cabin, arm in arm, playing with each other's hair and talking lowly for only the other to hear. In turn, Sakuya takes a seat atop the side of the ship and gazes out at the sea that had always been his home. He is surprised to see familiar gazes looking back, a sorrowful collection of seven that have all cut their hair for a reason that eludes him. A reason that soon makes sense as the oldest among them says, "We struck a deal with the witch, for you." And he holds out a dagger, for which he instructs, "Pierce the prince's heart with this and you can return. Live out your three hundred years where you belong."

With the dagger in his hands, he approaches the cabin's door and it gives way with a twist of the knob. The two inside lay under the sheets, Mahiru with his head against the bare breast of his love, with his own chest exposed to the air. He draws back the blade and then slowly lowers it back to his side, letting it slip through his fingers as he realizes he cannot take the life of the person he cares most about. Instead, he bends down and presses a kiss to Mahiru's forehead in imitation of how they met, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear as he mouths, "I wish I never had to leave you," with a voice that will never be heard.

He returns to the edge of the ship and dives in, becoming foam amongst sea where he will drift forevermore beneath the sunlight that has already risen.

#servamp #sakumahi #surprise pairing(?) #shirota mahiru #watanuki sakuya #500themes #theme - tales of long ago #chaos writes fic #little mermaid au

[ilosttrackofthings]

I know I usually ask for ship prompts when I do the one-to-five sentence fics thing, but there are some ships I’m always sure to get so I’m cutting out the middle man. I hope you guys enjoy these biospecialist ficlets.

lesson

In the lab, Fitz is pouting - loudly - about being “abandoned” and Skye is playing Devil’s advocate, trying to entice him to follow Jemma’s example by heading down to the target range set up in the isolated field the Bus is currently parked in. Jemma privately hopes Fitz’s pride prevents him from doing so. While she’s not all that interested in proper firearm technique, she is very interested in the heat of Ward’s chest at her back and the feel of his calluses on the soft skin of her hands as he adjusts her stance, and she’d like to enjoy it in peace.

sauna

“Stop it,” Simmons says sternly. Her fingers are busy giving up, swiftly undoing the last few buttons on her blouse so she can toss it away.

“Stop what?” he asks, all innocence.

She glares. “You’re using your newfound powers to increase the temperature in our prison in order to aggravate me. Stop. It.”

“Or our captors are increasing the temperature as a prelude to interrogation and it’s just not affecting me because of my powers.” It’s a valid theory and her angry huff says she can’t deny it. Doesn’t mean it’s true though. He is absolutely, shamelessly, driving the temperature higher. He just wonders how much longer before she ditches those jeans.

uncle

All Grant can see is Thomas, ten years old and coughing up water while he pleads for the rope to be let down. He’s barely even aware of Simmons twisting away from him or the cattle prod in his hand or the terror in her eyes; all he knows is that somewhere out in the world his little brother is being tortured by Coulson and nothing else matters.

“I cheated at Scrabble!”

Grant pauses with the end of the prod hovering inches from Simmons’ skin.

“I cheated at Scrabble,” she says again. “That’s how I always won.”

It’s not even close to the answer he came in here demanding and for some reason that makes it better. The cattle prod hits the floor and Grant follows a second later, laughing until he can’t breathe for crying.

mistake

Aldridge is good, good enough she’s quickly become one of Grant’s favorites, and he knows her well enough at this point not to be surprised to find her making out with the enemy. She likes to play with her food, nothing wrong with that. Usually she’s got a good reason - intel or snagging a weapon - and sometimes it’s just for the fun of it. And Grant never begrudges her her fun, not until he comes around the corner of the lab they’re raiding and sees her kissing Jemma fucking Simmons.

It’s been more than a year since he abandoned his play for Simmons’ affections - a strategic move meant to keep that genius brain of hers from catching on he wasn’t the awkward SHIELD specialist he was playing - so there’s no reason his first thought when he sees them pawing at each other should be an almost violent “mine!”

And even less reason he should be turned on when it’s Simmons who comes away with Aldridge’s sidearm, but he is, and that’s why he takes the extra second to pull out his ICER instead of paying her back for that shit she pulled in the Arctic.

asphyxiation

The most important thing, Jemma thinks, when dealing with the Ward imposter, is to go along with his lies. Either he’s trying to trick her, in which case it would be best not to alert him to the fact that she’s onto him, or he genuinely believes himself to be Ward, in which case she’d rather not antagonize him by pointing out he’s a complete nutter.

“So why,” she asks slowly, “have you chosen to, erm, protect me?” If being locked in a remote bunker with a madman counts as protection.

“I thought about Skye,” he says, and though she knows he’s an imposter, it doesn’t stop her heart constricting painfully that Skye would have been his first choice, “but John still needs the drug and I can’t-” He shakes his head. “You drowned. Eight weeks from now. And everyone blamed me, so…” He shrugs it off, the news of her gruesome death.

She doesn’t. She tucks that timeframe away because if the team hasn’t rescued her in eight weeks, she can only too easily imagine the direction this delusion will take him.

hate

“I hate you,” she says. Under normal circumstances he’d laugh because her hands under his shirt and the way she moans when he bites down on her breast through her bra all kinda undermine the statement. But these aren’t normal circumstances; they’ve been infected with something, inhibitions lowered, libidos gone driven through the roof, and all he can think is how good she’s gonna look when she’s naked beneath him.

curtain

With the others all busy working to get communications back up or the van running again (or, preferably, both), it falls to Grant to hold up a beach towel so Simmons can change out of the bikini she wore for her portion of the undercover work. He does not bother to point out to anyone that, given their differences in height, there’s really no way for him not to see, well, everything happening on the other side of the towel. At least this clusterfuck of a mission has a silver lining.

cut

“…to change the banda- Don’t do that,” she warns sternly when he starts running a finger idly over the bandage, following the line of the wound beneath.

He keeps his eyes on the bright light overhead. If he lets them slip halfway shut, he can just remember the way it glowed in her hair when she bent over him a few hours ago. And that memory sparks the pleasant one that colored his dreams after she had him sedated. “Do you ever think about Amsterdam?”

He turns his head on the pillow in time to see her skin going the same shade of pink it was when she was beneath him, gasping his name.

“I do,” he confesses, looking to the light again. “All the time.”

water

She dreams about bobbing in the ocean with Ward. The sun on her face, the sharp spray against her cheek. Water, water everywhere…

She wakes up with sand clinging to her cheek in that never ending twilight and wraps her arms around herself, trying to bring back the phantom memory of his arms holding her close.

liar

“Bloom, right?”

Jemma pauses her struggling against the ropes to ask, “Bloom what?”

“Octavian Bloom,” Ward says. “He doesn’t love it the way Whitehall does, but I gotta say the man knows what he’s doing; this has his fingerprints all over it.”

That he’s pointing to her while he speaks doesn’t strike her as promising. “What does?” she asks tiredly. She’s been kidnapped for less than an hour and she’s already beyond done with him.

“The job he did brainwashing you.”

She barks out a laugh before she can stop herself. “You think I’m brainwashed?”

Ward sits forward in his chair, an unnervingly pleasant smile on his face. “I spent ten months learning this team inside and out and I can tell you fact number one about Jemma Simmons is that she cannot lie. You’re either brainwashed or an imposter.” He pulls a very long, very sharp knife out of nowhere and examines it. “But don’t worry, I’ll find out which soon enough.”

#shineyma #needs some cheer #hopefully these help #biospecialist #my fic #*td #biospec fic