#rich army strike again..

[hobipowers]

hobi's doing a fansign video call raffle

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

Spin off/continuation of: Jealous Conscience

CLAIM ;; Short fic. Romantic/Established Relationship. Ambessa is not a jealous woman. She knows where your loyalty lies, but she does feel the need to show you belong to her.

11.27.24 Masterlist

The room was lavish, a mixture of Piltover and Noxian pride. Silk drapes fluttered lightly in the breeze, and the golden light of dusk poured in through tall windows, casting everything in hues of gold and amber.

You stood before a large mirror, adjusting the heavy necklace Ambessa had placed around your neck earlier. Its gold links were thick, crafted with unmistakable Noxian artistry, and the emblem of her house gleamed at its center.

It was impossible to ignore the weight of it—both the physical heft and the meaning behind it.

“You’re fidgeting,” came her voice, rich and commanding, as she stepped into the room. You saw her appear behind you in the mirror.

Ambessa Medarda, clad in her usual armor of confidence and finely tailored military ornaments, strode toward you.

The room seemed to shrink under her presence, the air thickening with her energy. She moved with the precision of a general and the allure of someone who knew what kind of authority they wielded.

“I’m not used to this,” you admitted, meeting her gaze through the mirror. “It’s… heavy.” Your fingers lightly graced the gold, as if worried they'd break under fragile touch.

Her lips quirked into a knowing smile as she approached, standing behind you. Her hands, calloused from years of wielding blades and commanding armies, came to rest on your shoulders. Despite their roughness, her touch was oddly gentle.

“It’s meant to be,” she said. “Gold has weight, as does loyalty.”

Her eyes flicked to the necklace, her reflection towering over yours. Her fingers brushed the chain lightly, almost possessively, before sliding down to your collarbone.

“I don’t expect you to wear it lightly. I expect you to wear it proudly,” she added, her voice dropping to a near growl.

You turned to face her, tilting your head slightly. “You know I’m loyal to you, Ambessa. You don’t have to… cover me like this.”

Her laugh was low and rumbling, filling the room. “Oh, but I do.” She took a step closer, her hand trailing from your collarbone to your waist, where she tugged at the edge of the crimson cape draped around your shoulders. “It’s not about need. It’s about choice. My choice to show everyone exactly who you belong to.”

The cape was unmistakable—Noxian red, heavy with embroidered patterns that mimicked the war banners of her homeland. It was hers, and by wearing it, you became an extension of her power. Her territory. Her pride.

“You don’t strike me as a jealous woman,” you teased, a small smile playing on your lips.

“I’m not,” she countered quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I know where your loyalty lies. You’ve proven it time and again.” She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t remind the world of it.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and your pulse quickened. She was right—Ambessa Medarda didn’t need to be jealous. She was a force of nature, a woman who took what she wanted and made it her own. Her confidence was unshakable, her authority absolute. But her need to mark you wasn’t about insecurity. It was about dominance.

She pulled back slightly, her hand slipping under your chin to tilt your face upward, forcing you to meet her gaze. “Does it bother you?” she asked, her tone softer now, almost teasing. “Being draped in my gold, my colors, my signatures?”

You hesitated, though not because you were unsure. Rather, you wanted to savor the moment—the way her eyes studied you, the way her touch lingered, the way her presence filled every inch of the room.

“No,” you said finally, your voice steady. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Good,” she said simply. Her thumb brushed against your jawline before she stepped back, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, as if satisfied, she turned toward the small table near the window.

From it, she picked up a small vial of perfume. You recognized the scent immediately—spiced leather and sandalwood, a fragrance that clung to her skin like a second armor. She uncapped it, dabbing a small amount onto her fingers before stepping close to you again.

“Hold still,” she ordered, her voice a command and a promise.

You obeyed, standing motionless as she pressed the perfume into your pulse points—your wrists, your neck, just behind your ears. The scent enveloped you, unmistakably hers. It was a mark more intimate than the gold or the cape, one that would cling to you long after she was gone.

“There,” she said, her lips curving into a satisfied smirk. “Now, no one will question who you belong to.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your expression. “And what if I wanted to mark you?”

Ambessa chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “You already have,” she said, her voice softer now. “But the difference is, I wear your mark here.” She tapped two fingers against her chest, just over her heart,

ˢᵉᵛᵉⁿ

[thephantomsdream]

so I've been reading real published romance books and they cannot fill the void that ao3 and company do fill, but they did give me an idea. ok, lmfao, hear me out. (I've had this in my drafts for way too long, i decided to release it because why tf not)

content: alien!141, soulmates!141, abduction, intergalactic human trafficking, space shit; very vague idea of anything ever; probably made up alien names; writer is at work while dealing with annoying costumers so it's rushed and dumb.

imagine:

Good ol' you, in your house, unaware that in the deep, vast universe, trafficking also existed. Not long ago, a reptilian race found out about our warm bodies, interesting features and intelligent yet primitive brains, and started to abduct and sell men and women to rich buyers. It was good business, especially considering our side of the universe wasn't even aware of extraterrestrial life, so they couldn't even guess where they disappeared! The treaty and all intergalactic laws were vague about us. "Let them be" meaning "Let them fuckers figure their shit out, lol idk".

Well, as you can understand, the Sheh'deauz (lmfao stay with me) decided to in fact not let us be. So back to lovely you, yeah?

Home alone, playing videogames or something, when suddently you see some flashes of light out the window. It was weird considering it wasn't raining but you remained calm, as you assumed maybe a storm is approaching? Mainly, you couldn't give a shit but the moment you heard scratching and hissing outside your door, you panicked. Long story short, your house slowly started filling with an invisible gas that just made you pass out, but you did see your door opening, same weird blue-white light emanating from under it as it did, and a scaly leg entering your home as you fell on the floor.

You figured, as the genius that you were, that you were, in fact, not dreaming as you spent many hours (days? felt like days) in a cage. Very oddly technologically advanced. In another strike of genius, and of course, after seeing your kidnappers, you figured it was a spaceship and you were in some deep sci-fi shit. (maybe after laughing and asking them where are the hidden cameras. i would...)

After throwing tantrums and having the ugly multi-colored creatures mock you and hiss at you, you kinda gave up and sat by the very human bed you've been given and allowed time to pass. You were given food every so often, a toilet nearby, water at your disposal. But you feared for your life.

Well, let me tell you something. You have the luckiest misfortune of all, really. Or maybe, just maybe, things are meant to be this way. Maybe it was all meant to happen like this. Allow me to explain.

In another corner of the universe, four of the greatest warriors of the Intergalactic Army frowned at a holographic screen. A female alien, older, still beautiful, ethereal looking, skin creamy white with some lavender edges and striking blue eyes was frowning back.

"You're fucking kidding me." Their captain said (in a different language than ours but your writer here is multi-lingual, don't worry), getting closer to the screen. She just nodded, rubbing her forehead.

"Where is that again?" Asked another.

"So like—" a third one, this one with a distinct accent compared to the others, tilted his head incredulously. "They're our cousins genetically?"

"You can say so." She groaned. "The Council decided to not touch that part of the galaxy. They are being observed. Fucking hell! They were going on the right path."

"If they don't destroy their own planet before." The captain muttered, voice tired and coarse. In his many, many years lived, he's seen it happen again and again. Greed and stupidity almost whipped their race, so he's been following the Terrans close-by, as close as a mere Intergalactic Task Force Captain (stick with me lmfao) could follow.

"So what's the plan?" The tallest one asked, mask made of what others assumed was one of his most dangerous prey's skull was placed on his face.

"We give them hell." Captain commanded, Laswell nodding.

"Stay close, at the outskirts of their galaxy. We intercept any package and find their buyers."

"What do we do with our lil cousins then?"

"Eliminate any witnesses."

Shit went down really quick. You figured they were preparing for something as the guards by your cell somehow summoned some advanced looking chairs from the walls to strap themselves on and hissed at you mockingly, as they've done before. You just sat in a corner, by the bed, and wanted to cry. You were going through all stages of grief every few hours and it was getting exhausting. You were just now starting to understand how dire your situation was and how little chances you had of going home.

They turned off the main lights and a thousand scenarios crossed your mind. It was as if they were bracing for something. You frowned as you saw the guards tense as some alien hieroglyphics appeared on a holographic screen. It looked... like a countdown... You grasped the bed, trying to brace yourself for something. And good that you did because it felt as if the ship collapsed with something.

It basically shook you off to the ground, and while you'd think this was supposed to happen, you quickly realize it wasn't since the guards unstrapped themselves from the chairs and started shrieking as alarms suddently blared. After that? Seconds and it was over. Two white blasts ended them both, hitting them exactly in the middle of their ugly skulls. You did not hear any footsteps but you saw a shadow approaching your cell, so you scurried closer to your bed and now presumably magic shield that will block blasts that melt alien skulls.

The barriers from your cell unlocked, sliding to the sides and someone jumped in front of you. Someone big, dressed sleekly in black, although you could swear the edges of his frame looked transparent for a second. It was big, yet had the complexity of a human so you stayed locked in place, big scared eyes on the person pointing a big son-of-a-bitch gun at you. You heard it growl and speak something shortly, and the hairs on your whole body pricked.

World stopped for Price as he cracked another neck, just after locking eyes with the leader of this "cargo" ship. He was about to take a step forward to gently guide this person towards personal enlightenment by confessing all the information they needed, even if it would be involuntarily, when Soap spoke... well, growled just one word in their comms.

"Mate."

[mewnewew]

Trafalgar Law x Reader

It's very funny that yall immediately started loving my Law oneshot and gave me requests for Law and Sanji. Maybe I'll just shift all my Crocodile stuff on ao3 hmm. Anyway send me more requests! I love doing them!

TW: Cussing and mentions of possible violence.

You frowned, counting the money given by your last customer. There had to a mistake because the coins he gave you were odd. Something was off and for the life of you, you were hellbent on finding it. Bingo! One of the coins was.....made out of wood. What the fuck. Blinking in silent horror, you tried the other coins, you found that at least 3 more were made out of wood. Who the hell would carve coins out of wood, paint them and then fleece the shopkeepers? You groaned. What a day. What a blasted country.

"Can I get some onigiri" Came a low voice. You jumped, head swiveling to meet your newest customer and ah. It was a monk. A monk with a sword no less, but still a monk, if that basket on his head was anything to go by. He wore a with a rich purple and gold kimono.

"Ah yes! How many sir?" You said in your best "I'm friendly and my food is safe, please don't attack me or my stall for any reason" voice.

"6 only. How much?" Came the answer

"150 yen please. Anything else sir?" You asked, packing them in a leaf.

"No. Here" You took the coins offered, counted them and nodded (those coins were real, thank the gods.) You handed him the leaf.

"Please come again!" You chirped, watching him go.

Huh. Odd guy. But oh well, he paid in actual coin thankfully.

2 days later

You were about to close up, when you heard the same voice. "You closing up for the day?"

You turned, and saw the monk standing there, holding another package. Probably some more food. "Ah you're here again? Hold on, I have some left over onigiri. Thankfully you're here to take them."

You handed him the left over onigiri, and took the money he offered. "Oh. By the way, sir. Do you have more people with you?"

He paused and an awkward silence Came about. You stood there, mentally wondering if you had done a crime or something, when he answered. "....Yes"

You clapped your hands together. "Good! I have more food actually, and I don't want them to go to waste. You don't really need to pay for these."

Saying so you gave him the rest of the food, happy that it wasn't going to waste not to your own belly. You couldn't eat that much food anyway. He watched you, silently before nodding and walking away. Well, that was that.

A day later

You were running a hand through your hair, mentally wanting to strangle the men who were at your shop. They were from the palace, you knew that. However, you also knew that if you didn't give them what you wanted or if you didn't "please" them you would be screwed. However, you weren't too keen on letting them ruin your damn stall.

"Yo, neechan! We'll take all of this and-"

"Sir you need to pay for that as well. I can't just-"

"Haw?! Do you not know who we are?" One of them crowed.

"I know who you are, it's just not fair-"

"Fair?! We're from the shogun's army you bitch! Fair means nothing! In fact I'll show you how fair I can be!" Saying so he raised his hand to strike you and you grabbed a pot lid for defence.

Just as he said those things, there was a sound of a click and they disappeared for a moment, before landing up in the gutter upside down, some rocks now in the earlier place they were just standing in.

You and the surrounding crowd stared in bafflement. Looking around you saw the kimono of the monk disappear between the houses. Huh.

A week later

You were getting ready for bed, when you remembered that you had left your back door open. Huffing, you went to close it, only to hear crashing sounds. Peeking out, you saw a bunch of men and....creatures? Fighting. One man, who you were pretty sure was the new hot soba stall owner your sister had a crush on jumped up, shook a small bottle in his hand and suddenly became naked before changing into a completely black outfit. You just stood there, your mouth open in bewilderment. Eventually they left after an hour or so and you trudged back into your bed, door closed. You'd just seen a man's junk. Maybe your grandma was right on how Oden would have probably been a better ruler.

As you drifted off though, something about how one of the men had a familiar kimono stayed in your mind.

2 days after that.

You were one of the townspeople watching in shock as the palace seemed to be on fire. There was chaos everywhere. What was going on?

After the new reinstatement of the emperor.

People were celebrating, people were happy, and people were hungry. More money for you and more smiles. Things seemed to be going perfect. As you and a friend worked the stall, you noticed the monk, or rather the pirate who you wanted to thank, Trafalgar Law, walk with some of his men towards the docks. You whispered to your friend that you'd be stepping out and you left.

Catching up to him you yelled "Yo! Monk-guy!"

He paused, looking back at you. You walked close to him. "I just wanted to thank you for what you've done for the country."

He huffed, pulling his...hat? Was that a hat? Down further. "It's fine. You don't need to. Didn't explicitly do it for your country or for you"

You grinned "Fair. Thank you anyway. Also...." You took out a leaf package of onigiri "I heard that all of you pirates would leave after a while. So I wanted to thank you for that day as well"

The bear standing behind him, was that an actual bear?! Why was a bear able to speak and act like a human? Was it an oni? Gasped and pointed at them. "Onigiri! Captain! Didn't you say you loved them?"

You blinked, looking at Law again only to see a mild blush blooming on his cheeks. "Bepo!" He barked. The bear yelped and apologized.

"Ah, if you liked them that much I would have made more for you" you murmured.

The man just pulled his hat down lower, mumbling "You don't need to do that"

You smiled. "Well. These are my form of thanks, anyway."

Handing them to the grinning crew mates of his, you started to leave "Goodbye and good luck! If you have a chance, come by once again!"

You smiled to yourself. Seeing the man blush was cuter than you realised. Maybe one day you'd ask him out on a date.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

defying fate

a/n : love and deepspace au | reverse-harem | mature and explicit | MDNI — not for kids | lads boys x femreader | read at your own risk | story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous ... next

CHAPTER 2 : CONNECTIONS

Five men. All powerful enough to command an army or an organization, strong enough to subdue monsters of different kinds. All enamored and are constantly around you in different situations, different times.

You have your suspicions, not with their connections, but with each of their identities. You tried — multiple times to uncover them, but they have all managed to evade your questions, had even caught you snooping around or investigating them.

Yet you didn’t give up.

Why? Because maybe — just maybe one of them could lead you to the answers that you are seeking.

Connection 1 : White Shadows and Red Smoke

The N109 Zone reeked of scorched steel and wet ash. A city without stars, its skyline a jagged pulse of malfunctioning neon and artificial dusk.

Somehow, he ended up in the lawless zone. He knew he had to finish this quickly.

Xavier walked its broken streets like a phantom in royal armor—hood drawn, face unreadable, every step calculated, crisp. He was tracking something that didn’t belong—an anomaly that shimmered between states, barely visible to the naked eye.

A Wanderer that may potentially carry the protocore that he is looking for.

It lunged from the shadows—a jagged blur of fanged limbs and distortion. Xavier moved like water, unsheathing his blade in a silent arc that carved through the air. Sparks flared, metal screeched. The creature twisted mid-leap and vanished—only to reappear behind him.

But Xavier was already gone.

He reemerged high on a rooftop, cloak fluttering in the grit-stained wind, eyes narrowing on the horizon, sword ready to strike.

And that’s when he felt another presence.

Cool. Controlled. Watching.

A calculative gaze, coiled with amusement.

“Most people don’t stalk hunters,” Xavier said aloud, voice smooth but laced with ice.

Above him, seated with one leg draped casually over the other, Sylus looked every inch the king of ruin.

Velvet black coat, unbothered by the wind. An elegant predator dressed in luxury, lounging on a perch like the city itself bowed beneath him.

“Oh, I wasn’t stalking,” Sylus said, voice a silk drawl. “Just admiring your form. You have a way with a blade. Fluid. Lethal. Almost... pretty.”

Xavier didn’t answer. Instead, he vanished again—reappearing behind Sylus with his blade angled just under the man’s jaw.

Sylus, naturally, didn’t flinch.

“You’re a bold one,” he murmured, smiling around the cigarette. “But not reckless. Good. I hate cleaning up reckless.”

Xavier held his ground. “Who are you?”

Sylus’s smile sharpened. “Let’s say... I own this part of the world. And you’re trespassing.”

Their stand-off was interrupted by a guttural, low-frequency shriek. The Wanderer from before returned—evolved again, now larger, faster, skin rippling with corrupted energy. Its eyes locked onto both men.

Xavier pivoted without hesitation, blade raised.

Sylus dropped from the ledge like a shadow sliding off silk. He landed beside Xavier with a flourish, drawing a small, ornate weapon from inside his coat.

“Truce?” Xavier asked flatly.

Sylus arched a brow, almost amused. “Temporarily. I don’t mind dancing with a prince.”

The creature charged—and the two of them moved in sync. One, precise and royal, like an executioner from myth. The other, smooth and smiling, slipping past every blow like he was choreographing the fight itself.

When the creature fell—burning and shrieking—Xavier turned his gaze toward the stranger.

“You’re not from the Association.”

“No,” Sylus replied, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “And you’re not half as cold as you pretend to be. You hesitated when it screamed.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened.

Sylus smiled, dark and knowing. “Interesting.”

He vanished into the smoke without another word, leaving only the fading scent of rich cologne and the faint click of expensive shoes against metal.

Xavier didn’t follow, didn’t say anything else, but he remembered exactly who the man was.

And apparently, so does Sylus.

Connection 2 : Sinners and Whiskey

The bar was dim, the air heavy with smoke and the hush of unspoken things.

Zayne sat alone at the counter, his black coat folded neatly on the stool beside him. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly, his posture straight, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. He hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes. Not a twitch. Just breathing, slow and practiced — as though calming something caged.

The bartender didn’t speak to him. No one dared. Not with the way his eyes look.

Then came the soft glide of footsteps. Polished shoes on old wood. The scent of wealth and war in one breath.

Sylus slid into the seat at the opposite end of the bar, ordered himself scotch on the rocks, merely settling in like he’d chosen the exact distance necessary to observe — and to remain untouched.

He was the first to speak.

“Whiskey,” Sylus said lightly, “tends to be the choice of men who either regret what they’ve done… or plan to do it again.”

Zayne didn’t look up. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of silence tasting better with burn.”

The corners of Sylus’s mouth curved, amused. “Touché.”

He let the silence stretch a little longer, studying the man across the bar. Clean, composed, but not untouched. There was a shadow in Zayne’s shoulders — the kind only fresh blood leaves behind. Not on the body. On the conscience.

“You look like someone who just watched the curtain fall on something… ugly,” Sylus said. His voice was idle, but his eyes were sharp. “Let me guess. Not your first encounter with death — but perhaps the first time you were its cause?”

Zayne finally glanced up. Cool, unreadable. “Are you always this invasive with strangers?”

“Only the interesting ones.” Sylus offered a lazy smile. “And forgive me, but it’s hard to ignore the weight of remorse when someone wears it that well.”

Zayne didn’t answer. Just raised his glass and took a slow sip, as if that counted as a reply.

Sylus leaned in slightly, resting his arm on the bar. “Let me guess again. It was someone close. Trusted. But not enough to see the knife coming.”

Zayne’s voice was calm. “It wasn’t a knife.”

“Ah.” Sylus arched a brow, intrigued. “Your Evol, then.”

A muscle in Zayne’s jaw ticked — barely — but Sylus caught it.

“I suppose that explains the lack of panic,” Sylus murmured. “Controlled devastation. The kind that says more about a man than he’d like.”

Zayne looked at him fully now. “You talk too much.”

“I get bored easily.”

Zayne considered him in silence, the gleam of recognition starting to build behind his gaze.

“Wait,” he said, quietly. “You’re Sylus. Leader of Onychinus.”

Sylus gave a slow nod, no arrogance — just a subtle acknowledgment, like royalty tolerating applause. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think the renowned Dr. Zayne knows a small business man like me.”

“I don’t,” Zayne said. “But I remember people who shouldn’t be alive and yet somehow are.”

Sylus chuckled. “You flatter me.”

Zayne lowered his glass. “Human desires are despicable. Selfish. And more often than not, destructive.”

Sylus tilted his head. “That’s a rather grim diagnosis from someone who swore an oath to save lives.”

Zayne’s expression didn’t shift. “Some lives aren’t worth saving.”

For a moment, Sylus was still. Then he nodded once, slowly, thoughtfully.

“There it is,” he said. “The edge behind the calm.”

Zayne looked away.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Sylus went on, voice velvet-smooth. “Men trying to convince themselves that monsters only wear other people’s skin.”

“And you?” Zayne asked, dry. “You embrace it?”

Sylus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I make peace with what I am. And I don’t apologize for surviving.”

Silence.

“First time?” Sylus asked, the words dipped in sympathy no one asked for. “I hope you cleaned it up nicely.”

Zayne gave nothing away. Not outrage. Not guilt. Just a quiet sip.

But behind his eyes — something flickered.

“I see,” Sylus said. “You’re the kind who buries it. Deep. Like a surgical scar. Unseen, but never gone.”

Zayne finally said, “He was… someone,” thinking of his mentor.

Sylus went still again. No pity, no judgment. Just understanding.

“And you still did it.”

Zayne nodded once. “He left me no choice.”

“That’s always the story,” Sylus murmured. “When power makes people forget humanity.”

“Or when humanity proves it never existed in the first place,” Zayne replied quietly.

Sylus let out a soft, low chuckle. “You might not like me, Doctor. But we speak the same language.”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

“No. But you haven’t walked away either.”

Sylus stood then, as fluid as a shadow slipping from light. He placed a thick bill on the counter and straightened his coat.

“Regret, guilt, grief — carry them if you must. But don’t let them fool you into thinking they make you weak.”

Zayne didn’t move.

Sylus added, just before turning to leave, “If you still feel anything at all… it means you’re not gone yet. That’s not a curse.”

Zayne’s reply was a whisper, nearly lost in the empty space he left behind.

“Then what is it?”

Sylus paused at the door. And smirked, not arrogant, but in mere confidence of a man who knows what he is talking about.

“A reason to keep going.”

Then he was gone.

Zayne sat in silence, alone again. But somehow, it didn’t feel the same.

Connection 3 : Painted Warnings

The banquet shimmered with orchestras and opulence — chandeliers glinting like weapons, pearls clinking in champagne flutes, and liars waltzing beneath velvet lights.

Sylus arrived late, as always, but never unnoticed. His coat was a darker shade than the suits around him — obsidian tailored to whisper menace. Eyes followed him, but he paid them no mind.

He found Rafayel where he expected: by the tall arched window, framed by moonlight like a living portrait. Wine in hand, gaze half-lidded, the infamous painter looked every bit like he belonged in a museum… or a morgue.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite bounty,” Rafayel drawled as Sylus approached. “You really do know how to make a man feel desired.”

Sylus didn’t return the smile. “It wasn’t desire. It was a warning.”

Rafayel arched a brow, amused. “A public bounty? That’s hardly subtle. You do know I have enemies with more flair,” he stood poised swirling the glass of wine on his hand, thinking of the deal he had just made, contemplating if it was the right thing. Then again, he had to find a way to lure them out. Better than shaking them off his tail only to return from the shadows.

“Subtlety wouldn’t have kept you alive.” Sylus’s voice was low, clipped. “Someone wants both of us dead. And they nearly succeeded.”

Rafayel’s wine swirled slowly. “Mmm. You mean the little surprise during my last commission? How rude of them, really. I hadn't even started shading your throat.”

Sylus’s gaze sharpened. “That wasn’t art. That was a spellframe embedded in the oil. Designed to subdue me the moment you finished.”

A smile curled Rafayel’s lips, sharp and sweet. “Darling, if I were painting your demise, I’d make it unforgettable. Not outsourced.”

“I know,” Sylus said coldly. “That’s why I came to you.”

For a moment, the mirth behind Rafayel’s eyes flickered into something calculating. He lifted his glass, voice languid. “So we’re allies now?”

“Convenient ones,” Sylus replied. “You give me names. I give you protection.”

“And in the meantime?” Rafayel leaned in, voice dropping. “Do I paint your enemies or your portrait?”

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift. “That depends on your loyalty.”

They clinked glasses — a quiet agreement forged in crystal.

Rafayel chuckled under his breath. “Dragons are no fun at banquets.”

“And you take betrayal too lightly.”

“I take betrayal as inspiration.” Rafayel’s eyes gleamed. “And I never forget the faces of those who try to use me.”

“Good.” Sylus stepped back into the swirl of silks and murmurs. “Because the one using you was once an executive. Still inside Onychinus. And they think they can dispose you or me.”

Rafayel’s hand stilled on the glass.

“Let’s remind them,” Sylus said without looking back, “why they shouldn’t mess with gods.”

Connection 4 : Comrades of Skyhaven

Skyhaven air always smelled like ozone and iron — storm-split skies, freshly scorched metal. Xavier never liked the city. Too loud. Too volatile. Too crowded with emotion and desperation.

But that mission... that one was different.

Xavier stalked the upper balconies of the crumbling Skyhaven industrial district, his rifle slung silent over one shoulder, eyes scanning the fog-choked alleyways below. His comms crackled once, then—

“Yo, Prince!” came Caleb’s voice, cheery as ever. “You covering left or should I just go full commando and hope I don’t get shot in the ass?”

Xavier’s sigh was barely audible. “Focus, Lieutenant.”

“That’s not a no,” Caleb muttered, then chuckled. A heartbeat later, gunfire lit the street like a strobe.

Xavier dropped silently from the roof.

By the time he landed, Caleb had already swept through half the enemy. His coat was singed, goggles slightly cracked — but the smile on his face was intact.

“You were late,” Caleb said between shots. “I was starting to think you were giving me the solo spotlight.”

Xavier didn’t answer. He moved cleanly, firing with precision, expression unreadable. Together, they cleared the zone — coordinated, efficient. Like it wasn’t their first time. It wasn’t.

Later, crouched behind a barricade while backup arrived, Caleb offered him a protein bar with one hand and scratched his head with the other.

“Hey, so,” he said, “not that I’m dying for validation or anything, but... I totally saved your life back there.”

Xavier didn’t take the bar. “You’re not dead. That’s enough.”

Caleb grinned, tossing it to himself instead. “Man of few words. Got it.”

They sat in companionable silence, guns cooling, adrenaline fading.

It wasn’t the first mission they’d done together, and it wouldn’t be the last — not before Caleb’s promotion to Colonel, anyway.

Xavier never said it, but Caleb’s presence had a strange way of anchoring a mission. Reckless but reliable. Idiotic, until the fight began — then all instinct, muscle, and power.

He wouldn’t call him a friend. That word was too... messy.

But he was someone you could count on to make it out alive.

And in Xavier’s world, that counted for something.

Connection 5 : Ashes and Interference

The alley behind the gala was too quiet for this part of the city.

Rafayel adjusted the collar of his black suit, cane tapping against the concrete as he stared at the man blocking his exit—another pathetic attempt on his life. The assassin wore the usual face: bland, forgettable, disposable. Typical.

“You really thought tonight was the night?” Rafayel sighed. “In that suit? Could’ve at least tried to look interesting.”

The assassin lunged. Fast. Precise.

“Too slow,” Rafayel sneered at the man, hand lifted lazily, and heat spiked. A roaring pillar of flame erupted from the ground between them, forcing the attacker to stagger back with a curse.

He didn’t stop. And neither did Rafayel.

A flick of his fingers sent arcs of fire dancing toward the man’s feet—controlled, elegant, theatrical. The flames curled just short of contact.

“I’m in a tuxedo, darling. Let’s not turn this into a dry-cleaning emergency.”

But before he could end it, something tore through the air behind them.

A guttural, inhuman growl. A pulse of corrupted evol.

The assassin barely had time to turn before a hulking Wanderer slammed into him—snapping his spine in one sharp motion and tossing the body aside like it weighed nothing.

Rafayel's eyes narrowed. “And here I thought I was tonight’s headliner.”

The Wanderer turned toward him, twitching violently, jaw distending with a warped scream.

A flash of metal interrupted its lunge.

Xavier landed from above, blade slicing clean through its neck in a single, ruthless movement. The corpse hit the ground with a sickening thud. Xavier stood still, sword dripping, gaze locked on the fallen creature as if daring another to appear.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “You always show up with such subtlety?”

Xavier didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and inspected the Wanderer’s corpse, efficient as ever.

Rafayel eyed the soldier. “You brought that thing here?”

“It escaped.” Xavier straightened. “I was tracking it.”

Rafayel gave him a slow once-over. “Well, it killed my assassin. I should thank it. But since you let it out, I’m going to send you the bill.”

“I neutralized the threat,” Xavier said simply.

“Yes, by cutting off its head in front of me and ruining the mood. You have a real talent for that, hunter.”

Xavier sheathed his blade in silence.

The flames around Rafayel’s hands flickered out.

“I guess this makes us... accidental partners?” Rafayel muttered, brushing soot off his sleeve.

“No,” Xavier said. “This was an intersection.”

Rafayel rolled his eyes. “Jeez, you're so dramatic. Fine. Consider it fate, then.”

They ended up at a local dive bar—Rafayel’s pick. It smelled like gun oil and smoke, the kind of place no one asked questions.

Rafayel ordered two whiskeys. Xavier didn’t protest. That was enough.

“So,” Rafayel said, clinking their glasses with a sharp grin, “next time a fire-wielding painter and a hunter prince take down a nightmare in an alley, I expect a little more coordination.”

Xavier drank. No reply.

Rafayel smirked, taking a slow sip. “You’ll come around eventually. They always do.”

Connection 6: A Wrist and a Warning

The ER was fluorescent, sterile, and painfully quiet.

Rafayel lounged on the examination table like it was a chaise longue, wrist loosely wrapped in gauze, legs crossed, completely out of place in his designer jacket and disheveled glamor. The injury had been minor—a fall during a rooftop installation gone wrong—but the hospital insisted on a full check.

He didn’t expect to meet a man who looked like a ghost in a lab coat.

“Hold still,” Dr. Zayne Arden said, adjusting the angle of Rafayel’s wrist with clinical precision.

Rafayel blinked at him. “You say that like I’m a misbehaving dog.”

Zayne didn’t look up. “The sprain’s mild. You’ll heal.”

“Well, thank the stars,” Rafayel sighed dramatically. “But please, doctor, don’t overload me with your boundless compassion.”

Zayne finally met his eyes. Blank. Calm. Voice like glass—clean and cold.

“Take care of your wrist,” he said. “Or you won’t be able to hold a paintbrush again.”

The words sank in slower than the silence that followed.

Rafayel stilled. “You really know how to soothe an artist’s soul, don’t you?”

Zayne blinked once, unamused.

“Is this how you charm all your patients?” Rafayel continued, narrowing his eyes. “Terrify them into compliance?”

“I inform them,” Zayne said simply. “Whether or not you feel fear is your choice.”

Rafayel stared at him for a long moment, then barked a laugh. “Gods, you’re like a statue. A terrifying, perfect statue that moonlights as a grim reaper.”

He slid off the table with practiced grace, rotating his wrist slowly. “I suppose I should thank you for the honesty.”

Zayne turned away, preparing notes on a datapad.

“Also,” he added flatly, “get your eyes checked. Your prescription’s outdated.”

Rafayel paused mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“You missed the hand sanitizer twice,” Zayne said without turning. “Your depth perception is compensating. If your vision declines, you won’t notice until it’s too late.”

It wasn’t said with malice. Just fact.

A warning. Cold. Sharp. And, somehow, deeply personal.

For a long second, Rafayel stood in silence, the noise of the ER humming around them.

Then he smiled—tight, thoughtful.

“Well,” he murmured under his breath, “I guess even statues can speak truths.”

He walked out of the ER, wrist wrapped, ego bruised, and strangely unsettled.

He would never admit it, but he booked an eye exam the next day.

Connection 7 : Sparks and Steel

The emergency landing wasn’t clean—but then again, Caleb had flown worse birds into worse storms.

Lieutenant Caleb exhaled as he jumped down from the cockpit, the hull of his damaged aircraft steaming behind him. A few wary eyes peered through cracked blinds, then vanished. N109 wasn't known for hospitality.

He scanned the area, boots crunching glass and gravel, and spotted a building half-swallowed by the city’s industrial guts. Faint music leaked through the walls—something old, jazzy, and full of static. A neon sign overhead flickered erratically, figured it’s supposed to be a workshop or something.

Drawn more by instinct than reason, Caleb pushed open the heavy door.

Inside, the air was thick with engine oil and ozone. A half-dismantled vintage car sat center-stage, and beside it, a man leaned over the hood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fine watch catching the low light.

Sylus didn’t look up. He just spoke, calm and composed.

“You’re early. Or very lost.”

“Neither,” Caleb said, stepping in with a smirk. “Lieutenant Caleb. My bird’s down a few clicks out. Looking for a mechanic.”

Sylus finally glanced his way. Sharp eyes, tailored shirt under the grease-stained vest, and a demeanor too smooth for a back-alley repairman.

“You’re not from around here,” Sylus said.

Caleb chuckled. “Not planning to stay either. You always work on cars this old?”

Sylus wiped his hands and gestured at the classic convertible beside him. “This one’s not for work. It’s for peace.”

Caleb gave a low whistle. “Didn’t think N109 had room for hobbies.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sylus replied. “Machines are predictable. People… less so.”

An hour later, the two were seated on an overturned crate and a tire, beers in hand. Rain tapped against the windows like a ticking metronome. Caleb had removed his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and wiped grease from his fingers. Beside him, Sylus nursed his drink with the slow grace of a man who enjoyed expensive things, even when surrounded by rust.

“You fly,” Sylus said, gaze steady. “And you fix your own engine.”

“I drink, too,” Caleb quipped. “That a problem?”

“Quite the opposite,” Sylus replied, tapping his bottle against Caleb’s with a soft clink. “I respect people who get their hands dirty and still know how to talk gears.”

They fell into easy conversation—vintage engines, aircraft tech, music with bite. For once, there was no pretense.

Eventually, Sylus leaned back, arms over his knees. “I’ll fix your aircraft. No charge.”

Caleb arched a brow. “Just like that?”

Sylus smiled faintly. “You drink good beer and talk sense. And I like keeping interesting customers alive.”

The lieutenant let out a dry laugh. “Well, consider me a grateful customer then.”

They didn’t shake hands. Just nodded their heads to each other to bid their silent goodbyes.

And outside, N109 breathed quietly, unaware that a brief friendship had been forged—flickering like a spark beneath a hood, waiting to ignite.

Connection 8 : Old Friends, New Silences

The bar was quiet—dim lights, dark wood, the low hum of jazz looping from old speakers.

Zayne sat with his back to the wall, nursing a half-drained bottle of mineral water. Caleb dropped into the seat across from him with two beers in hand, one already opened.

“I swear,” Caleb said, sliding one toward him, “this town gets uglier every time I visit.”

Zayne didn’t reply. He never did right away.

“Still not drinking?”

“I have surgery in the morning.”

Caleb shrugged. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

They sat in easy silence—old, worn-in like the scuffs on Caleb’s boots. Childhood had made them friends. Time had turned them into rivals. Yet somehow, the beer never stopped showing up whenever one was in town.

“Have you seen her lately?” Caleb asked after a moment, his tone softening.

Zayne gave a single nod. “She’s alive, waiting for you to call.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Zayne didn’t elaborate. He never did.

Before the silence could grow too heavy, a new glass clicked onto the table—cut crystal, expensive, filled with whiskey that shimmered gold under the dim bar lights.

Sylus slid into the adjacent booth with all the nonchalance of a man who owned the night and was bored by it.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” he said dryly, swirling the whiskey. “You look like a therapy group on the verge of collapse.”

“Evening, Sylus,” Caleb greeted easily, raising his beer.

Zayne remained quiet.

Sylus didn’t seem to mind. His gaze drifted lazily across the bar before settling back on Caleb. “You still flying those antique warbirds?”

“Still flying circles around everyone else,” Caleb replied with a grin.

Sylus chuckled. “I might need a jet. Something small. Discreet. Sexy, preferably. Think you can swing by my hangar next week?”

“I’ll bring the catalog,” Caleb said, amused.

Zayne exhaled through his nose, finally speaking. “You know he’s serious.”

“I know,” Caleb said with a shrug. “I’ve seen his wallet.”

Sylus just sipped his drink, elegant and unbothered.

They lapsed into silence again. Three men, three drinks, three lives crossing like threads in a frayed tapestry. No forced talk. Just the occasional comment, a grunt, a glance. And always, somewhere between the drinks and the night’s quiet rhythm—your name would surface.

“She still gives you hell?” Caleb would ask.

Zayne would smirk faintly, barely there.

Sylus, ever amused, would hum. “You say it like that’s a bad thing.”

It wasn’t friendship—not exactly. But it was something.

Connection 9 : Ditching Formalities

Their first meeting wasn’t exactly in a place suited for small talk—thunder roared above, and turbulence shook the interior of the transport craft as Lieutenant Caleb adjusted the controls with practiced precision.

“Is it supposed to sound like the engine's arguing with god?” came a voice from the back, dry and unimpressed.

Caleb didn’t even turn around. “If you’re not dead, then it’s working fine.”

That voice, sharp and unmistakably amused, belonged to none other than Rafayel—the infamous artist with the sharpest brush in the Empire and a reputation for flamboyance and disregard.

The mission was a success. The escort reached its destination intact.

After the landing, instead of slipping into the post-operation debriefing, Rafayel sought Caleb out by the hangar.

“I need a drink,” he said, clearly exhausted by the idea of attending another glass-clinking, fake-smiling evening gala. “Come with me, Lieutenant. Consider it cultural enrichment.”

“I’ve got orders,” Caleb said flatly.

“You also have taste, I assume? Unless you’d rather talk politics with a bunch of sycophants in tailored suits?”

Somehow, Rafayel dragged him along anyway.

They still ended up at the banquet—but only because Rafayel needed to “make an appearance,” which translated to delivering a half-hearted, insincere speech while holding a glass of champagne like it offended him.

“This is the worst performance I’ve ever given,” Rafayel muttered out the side of his mouth as the polite applause died down. “And I’ve once painted blindfolded for a live crowd.”

Caleb stifled a sigh. “Then leave.”

Rafayel shot him a look. “You offering to fly me out of here?”

“No.”

A pause. Rafayel grinned. “Shame.”

The very next minute, Rafayel slipped out and of course, Caleb had to follow.

They found a rundown pub not far from the venue. The lighting was bad, the beer was cheap, and Rafayel looked far too expensive to belong—but he relaxed with a deep exhale and downed half a pint like it was water.

“You know,” Rafayel mused between sips, “you’re tolerable. For someone who probably irons his socks.”

Caleb snorted. “You collect anything besides enemies?”

“Figures,” Rafayel said, lifting an eyebrow. “You?”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other.

Rafayel leaned forward slightly. “Limited edition?”

“Signed ones when I can get them.”

Rafayel raised his glass, now a little impressed. “Lieutenant, you just earned a sliver of my respect.”

“You still owe me fuel for the ride.”

“Invoice me,” Rafayel replied with a shrug. “Just don’t use Comic Sans.”

They didn’t say it, but both knew they’d drink together again.

an : i think everyone just calls xavier 'prince' because he carries himself like one. also cause he's too majestic to be a hunter.

[teaableu]

WHAT IS YOUR EXILE AU LIKE....

I HAVE BEEN WAITING AGES FOR SOMEONE TO ASK ME THIS

Okay SO a LOT is up in the air right now because I'm doing Research as best I can between classes BUT here's what i got so far:

Lord Kogane is from a very powerful family that wants to take full control over Neo Edo. They think he's doing a poor job because the yokai are running free again and he's overall a pretty useless ruler. They step in and force him to enforce some pretty Messed Up Stuff that put all the people in danger (something to do with the Makkine tech probably). Usagi and his friends have a front row seat as to what he's up to and Usagi decides he won't let them get away with it. I haven't worked out the details but the Koganes' plans threaten the people and the yokai. BUT Usagi's not strong enough to take out the Koganes on his own.

My Usagi has a mystic power of sorts, which makes him very sensitive to spirits. All of the visions he gets through the Ki stone in the show, plus his ability to speak with Miyamoto stem from this ability. A simple way of seeing it would be like, he can see the threads of their lives. So he can read souls and connect with them, and sees ghosts when others cannot. I think the Ki stone sort of unlocked and amplified it when he connected with her. I'm still working on the details of his power but basically he can see and talk to ghosts with a little extra stuff sprinkled in

So the Ki stone encourages Usagi to seek help. Turns out the Koganes have a rich history of killing entire villages and armies that oppose them, dating (maybe) all the way back to Miyamoto's time. So he finds a couple of restless ghosts that are still waiting for vengeance and asks for their help. He strikes a deal that was supposed to help him fight Kogane while allowing the ghosts to avenge themselves their loved ones and their clans. I think he would amplify their power while they help him fight. But he doesn't realize who exactly he's making this deal with and ends up tethering his soul to very powerful VERY ANGRY ghosts that are WAY stronger than he is (I've been researching onryo and yurei for reference). They can take possession of his body, amplify his emotions to be in tune with their own, manipulate his power, and generally cause a lot of destruction. Basically, he becomes their puppet. I'm thinking it's a Venom or Little Shop of Horrors type dynamic between them. Also think of any poltergeist type film

He makes the deal and the ghosts possess him. When Usagi wakes up, he's killed Kogane (who really wasn't even the Big Bad behind the whole thing) and has to flee the city before he's caught and put to death for treason and murder. His friends are all imprisoned but he can't risk returning because he has lost control of his power and is unable to control the ghosts that are bound to his soul. The ghosts are starving for power and burning with hundreds of years of fury and anguish, and feed off of destruction (maybe the living?) It's sort of a pandora's box situation. The ghosts are just a whirlwind of chaos and use Usagi as a means to exact their wrath

I called it exile because Usagi can't return to the city without being arrested and killed for his crimes. The gang was the only one standing up to Kogane, and with his friends in prison, he's sort of stuck. He blames himself for everything that went wrong because he ran off without his friends and jumped headfirst into a situation he did not understand. He was reckless and cocky and now everyone is paying for it.

That's where EMD comes in, but the story continues after EMD season 2 as well.

Some extra notes:

- The timeline for srtuc would probably be a bit different so I can have more flexibility with the season one and season two events, since I wasn't sure when it would take place and I want there to be a pretty big time gap between Usagi leaving and returning. I also might use the Makkine invasion in the story

- I’m still working out Usagi’s backstory/past, but have pretty much decided that he has some history with the Kogane family

- I'm planning for Miyamoto to have a pretty big part in the story as well, acting as a guide for Usagi when he goes into hiding. I'm really interested in their relationship so I really want to take the chance to explore it.

- I'm thinking of adding someone as a nod to Tomoe Ame as well (descendant of her apprentice perhaps), since we got a representation of Chizu, Kitsune, and Gen in the tv show but not Tomoe (sad)

I wrote out the sparksnotes version of this here

In addition to the artwork there I have some other concept art

Blood warning under the cut

[brodygold]

Golden Army: Dragon Heist

Part 1

Brody- Bard

Daniel - Druid

Henry- Fighter

Grayden- Sorcerer

Scott- Barbarian

Ross- Rogue

The letter arrived early in the morning, its crisp parchment and ornate seal standing out amidst the usual stack of unpaid bills and mundane correspondence.

Brody sighed as he placed it on his desk, his eyes drifting to the tally of their dwindling funds. The Golden Army, a group of ambitious mercenaries, had fallen on hard times. No one seemed willing to trust a band of self-proclaimed adventurers with anything bigger than chasing rats out of cellars. Without a proper mission soon, their dream of heroics might end in eviction.

He hesitated for a moment before breaking the seal. The letter inside was written in an elegant script, the strokes of the pen suggesting someone of considerable stature.

To the Golden Army,

I am in need of capable assistance. Meet me at the Yawning Portal tavern at 1 p.m. today for the details of your mission.

Kind regards, Volothamp Geddarm

Brody read the signature again, his heart racing. THE Volothamp Geddarm—renowned traveler, storyteller, and author—needed their help? It seemed too good to be true.

“Bros!” Brody’s voice carried through their modest headquarters. “We’ve got ourselves a mission! Get your gear and be ready to leave in an hour. Percival, you’re holding down the fort.”

Percival gave a thumbs-up from his cluttered desk, though his frown suggested he’d rather be joining them.

The streets of Waterdeep buzzed with life as the Golden Army made their way to the Yawning Portal, a sprawling tavern famous for the gaping well in its center—a portal to the treacherous Undermountain. Patrons came and went, eager to test their mettle or seek fortunes below. As the group passed through the bustling entrance, the scent of ale, roasting meat, and adventure hit them all at once.

Volo was impossible to miss. He sat at a large table near the back, his vibrant plum-colored cloak draped over the chair behind him. He raised a flagon in greeting, his face lighting up as the party approached.

“Ah, my friends! Shall we share a round of drinks before we talk business?” he said, his voice rich and welcoming.

Brody shook his head, keeping his tone professional. “We appreciate the offer, but we’d rather get straight to the details, Mr. Geddarm.”

“Very well, straight to the point,” Volo said, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s about my friend—”

He was cut off by a deafening crash as the well at the center of the tavern erupted. A massive green hand emerged, gripping the edge with sickening strength. Moments later, a hulking troll hauled itself out, its twisted features illuminated by the dim tavern light. Winged, bat-like creatures with fiery red eyes swarmed from its back, scattering patrons as they shrieked and dove for cover.

Brody drew his rapier in a flash. “Formation! Grayden, Ross, and I will take the bats. Scott, Henry, and Fenrir—troll duty. Move!”

“Got it, Cap!” Scott roared, his muscles flexing as he gripped his great axe.

The fight was chaotic but practiced. Daniel, changing into his lupine form Fenrir, lunged at the troll’s leg, his massive jaws locking onto its thick, rubbery flesh. The troll howled, trying to kick him away, but Fenrir’s grip was unyielding.

Scott and Henry flanked the beast, their movements in perfect sync. Scott’s axe swung with bone-shattering force, while Henry’s shield blocked the troll’s desperate swipes as his sword struck with precision. Blood and ichor sprayed the tavern floor, but the troll’s regeneration made it a formidable opponent.

Meanwhile, Grayden and Ross took on the swarming bats. Grayden’s magic missiles darted through the air, striking with pinpoint accuracy. Ross hurled knives with deadly precision, taking down two of the creatures mid-flight. Brody, standing at the edge of the fray, played a discordant tune on his lute, disorienting the remaining bats with his bardic magic. One dropped instantly under the weight of his Vicious Mockery.

The bats vanquished, the group turned their attention to the troll. It roared in rage, swiping at the nearest attackers with reckless abandon. But before it could gain the upper hand, the barkeep, Durnan, leapt into the fray. Wielding a sword that shimmered with ancient power, he joined the Golden Army in a coordinated assault. A flurry of strikes, spells, and precision teamwork sent the troll tumbling back into the well with a guttural scream.

Durnan sheathed his blade and surveyed the room. “Free beers for everyone!” he declared to the cheers of the crowd. Turning to the Golden Army, he gave an approving nod. “You’ve got potential. Nice work.”

As the team cleaned their weapons and armor, Volo approached, his demeanor as lively as ever. “Splendid work, gentlemen! Truly, I chose well.”

Scott wiped ichor off his axe and scowled. “Maybe now you can tell us what this job is?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Volo said, waving his hand. “It’s about my friend, Floon Blagmaar. He hasn’t returned home since last night. We were at the Skewered Dragon, enjoying a few drinks, before I retired around ten. He never made it back.”

“What kind of name is Floon?” Scott muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Brody.

“Family name, I believe,” Volo replied, oblivious. “I’ll pay you each 100 gold pieces for your assistance. What do you say?”

Brody’s eyes widened. One hundred gold per person would not only cover their debts but secure their future. “We’re in.”

“Excellent!” Volo exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I’ll await your return here. Good luck, my friends.”

Brody turned to his team, determination etched on his face.

“Alright, bros, let’s go find ourselves a Floon.”

[moonselune]

I love your posts so much! I was wondering if I could request some post canon GN!mindflayertav x minthara (and whoever else you'd like to add)

I did choose just to do Minthara for this, but I did get really into it, so I hope you enjoy it!

Minthara x GN!Mindflayer!reader | Tentacles of the Dark

The Underdark bows before Minthara.

It is not an easy conquest, nor a swift one. The labyrinthine tunnels twist and turn in endless darkness, home to creatures that have never felt the warmth of the sun. The drow houses wage war amongst themselves, the duergar grasp desperately at their crumbling rule, and mindless horrors stalk the shadows, waiting for the weak to fall. Yet, Minthara carves her path through it all with unwavering precision, her enemies falling like chaff before the scythe.

And you—her most trusted consort, her Illithid lover—stand at her side.

You had feared, once, that she would see you differently after your transformation. That the warmth she held for you, as much as a drow raised in Lolth’s web could manage, would turn to something cold and calculating. That she would see you as a useful tool at best, an inconvenience at worst.

But those fears were unfounded. If anything, Minthara only loves you more fiercely.

She does not flinch from the writhing of your tentacles or the abyssal black of your eyes. She does not shy away from your hunger, nor from the power that thrums through your every word. She embraces it, revels in it, sharpens it to her advantage. In her arms, you are not a horror to be feared, nor a monster to be pitied. You are hers. Her love, her most prized weapon, her shadow in the dark.

And you conquer the Underdark together.

The war is brutal, but Minthara is relentless. Cities crumble before her armies, the banners of lesser houses torn down and trampled underfoot. In the court of the Underdark, where backstabbing is as common as breathing, none dare challenge her reign. Not while you stand at her side, a being of mind-breaking terror wrapped in the elegance of your new form.

It is not just your psionic strength that she values, nor the way your enemies fall to their knees with a single flick of your power. She values you—your mind, your cunning, your unwavering loyalty. And in turn, you devote yourself to her cause as deeply as you do to her love. And Minthara, ever the devoted lover, ensures you are well-fed.

You reach for a discarded brain on the battlefield, plucked from the corpse of some nameless soldier, only for Minthara’s gauntleted hand to strike it from your grasp.

"Absolutely not," she sneers, kicking it aside with disdain. "A peasant’s mind? Dull. Impotent. Beneath you."

You blink, tentacles twitching in bemusement.

"I was hungry," you say, watching the ruined organ roll across the ground.

Minthara exhales sharply, beckoning to one of her attendants. A scholar is dragged forward in chains, trembling beneath her gaze.

"I will not have my love tainted by the thoughts of the weak," she purrs, tilting your chin up with the sharp edge of her dagger. "Only the finest for you, my love."

The scholar barely has time to scream before you drink deep, his mind unraveling beneath your hunger. It is rich, layered—complex enough to satisfy, though it pales in comparison to the power that thrums through Minthara’s own mind. When you are finished, she is smiling in satisfaction.

"Better," she murmurs.

There are nights when the echoes of your past creep into the edges of your mind. When you wonder, briefly, what you would have been had the tadpole not rewritten you from the inside out. When you think of the mortal body you once wore, of the laughter and warmth you once held close.

But then Minthara’s hand finds yours, her grip firm, her presence grounding. She is not a woman prone to softness, not in the way others might be, but her devotion is ironclad. She does not whisper sweet nothings or coddle you with gentle reassurances. Instead, she pulls you close and reminds you, again and again, that you are hers.

She loves you in battle, where your psionic screams bring even the mightiest foes to their knees.

She loves you in court, where your mere presence bends the minds of diplomats and nobles alike, their lips spilling secrets they did not mean to share.

She loves you in private, where your many limbs and appendages trace lines down her spine, where your once-human hands now crave nothing but her.

Minthara is a conqueror, a warlord, a queen of the Underdark.

But for you?

For you, she is simply a lover.

And in the depths of the world that once sought to destroy you both, that is more than enough.

I was really worried how this would come out, I personally don't like the option to become a mindflayer and will never choose it. But I actually really liked the complexity of it and how different it was to write it. I hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[sitboi]

Bloodweave : hemophobia (or the fear of blood)

I'm sickly and my braincells are all soggy, and it took both hands and an army (my beta) to keep me from turning this story into crack fic. I hope you enjoy it regardless.

----

Read On AO3 | G | 1.7k Words

CW for gross blood bite scene, and a bit of fainting.

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Gale sleeps on his back with his neck tilted tantalizingly to the left. 

Astarion has observed him for too many nights now, creeping silently into his gaudy purple tent, and staring down at the wizard’s pulse point with the deepest hunger he’s ever known. He’s never planned to act on his impulses—to bite, to maim, to savage open every vein and drink until Gale becomes no more than a dried up husk beneath Astarion’s teeth—but as he inhales the deep rich scent of wine and honest luxury that Gale exudes, the urge grows. 

They’re deep in the underdark—too far removed from acceptable prey for far too long—and Astarion can feel his convictions wavering with each tempting breath the wizard takes. He knows the real risk is a stake to the heart, but still allows himself to lean in further; eyes locked to the smooth planes of flesh peeking above Gale’s robe. It would be so simple, so easy, just to bite down on that junction. Astarion would be careful enough, so careful that Gale may not even wake. 

He’s aware of the minutes passing, ticking them off with each grind of his indecisive teeth, and chasing Cazador’s rules around his warring thoughts. ‘Don’t drink from thinking creatures’ becomes an even crueler guideline when the only other option is a dry, slow starvation. 

He’s going to do it, he has to do it, he— 

Gale shifts slightly, hand coming up to press on his chest like something pains him, but he still doesn’t wake. 

Astarion waits for him to settle again, toying with patience he’s never had and quietly placing his palm on the ground by Gale’s head. It’s a matter of inches now—Gale gives a snuffling exhale, and Astarion is so close he can feel it pass his lips—there is no backing down. 

Smells so much better than a boar, he thinks, finally letting his control slip as the aura of Gale’s latent magic enters his nostrils. His fangs ache with it, and he can’t help the way his tongue laves against Gale’s skin as he finally sinks into it. It’s heady, warm and slow and so perfect for such a very short moment. 

Then, a nightmare erupts onto Astarion’s tongue. 

He gasps, unable to stop himself from jerking back as a black stream erupts from Gale’s open throat. Astarion has no time to consider it, as he coughs and retches around the vilest acid. It sears from his stomach to the base of his skull, and he gags twice to force it from the back of his mouth. 

Astarion had anticipated blood like brandy, zipping with aged zings of arcane energy, but Gale—who’s staring up at him now with widening, horrified eyes—tastes of poison. 

“Astarion?” Gale questions flatly, apparently void with shock. 

Astarion has to force in a breath to even answer. 

“Y-you taste disgusting!” He coughs, pressurized tears forming as he speaks, “Are you made of bloody bile?!” 

“...a vampire?” Gale blinks like he didn’t hear Astarion at all, voice still flat in the observation, but eyes finally seeming to refocus in the dim light.

“Astute observation,” Astarion wheezes, still on his knees and forcing air he doesn’t need. He watches a few drops of Gale’s blood drip from his own chin and hit the dirt below them; so pitch-dark it could be used as ink. “And great way to avoid the question, darling. So I’ll ask a different one. Are you some kind of monster?”

Gale’s face pinches—like Astarion’s words hurt worse than the torn flesh of his throat—and Astarion thinks, this is it, this is the moment he retaliates. He stiffens his shoulders, preparing for the strike, but it never comes. 

Instead, Gale’s eyes move to the mess smeared across Astarion’s mouth, and his hand flies to his own throat. He presses down like he’s attempting to staunch the already slowing bleed, then pulls away his fingers, coated in whatever ilk flows through his dark veins. 

“Oh dear,” He says, staring down at it. Gale barely looks back to Astarion, then his eyes roll upwards and the wizard crumples backward, flopping formlessly onto his bedroll. 

Astarion stills. For a horrible moment, he thinks the wizard is dead, but if he focuses he can still hear the faint pulse of his heart in his slowly rising chest. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Astarion seethes, when the situation registers fully in his overwrought brain. 

Gale has merely fainted. 

♦

Astarion mulls over his options, then turns them inside out and mulls them over again. 

Gale remains unconscious, though why is not something Astarion has pieced together. He didn’t get past the first sip of Gale’s noxious, roiling blood, and not nearly enough seeped out of the wizard afterward for a child to faint, let alone a fully grown man. 

If that’s what he is, Astarion thinks, using a cloth and a bit of water from Gale’s supplies to fully clean his face in the dark. Gale seems human enough, but it won’t be the first time someone in camp turns out to be more than they seem.

 The irony. 

And that’s the other issue, Gale knows Astarion’s secret now, and if he wakes up there’s nothing stopping him from screaming it across the camp and waking the others. By all rights, Astarion should kill him. It’s number one on his current list of considerations, and he reaches for his dagger with renewed conviction. 

Before he can hover it over Gale’s throbbing heart the wizard gasps his way back to wakefulness, bolting up in one stiff motion and nearly knocking Astarion over. He freezes, waiting—knife still trembling in his palm—for Gale to scream. 

Again, it never comes. 

Gale keeps his eyes firmly shut, moving a hand out warily and feeling the air for Astarion’s presence. Astarion is a step too far for those curious fingers to grasp him, and he moves even further as Gale finally speaks. 

“A-Astarion?” He questions again, in a whisper so low Astarion strains to hear it. “If you’re there, I need to ask something of you. Beg it really,” he pauses, hand still outstretched and covered in dried filth, “It’s quite shameful, but I promise I’ll explain…well, everything. If you’ll allow me.” 

It would be so easy to slip from the tent without a sound, but Astarion feels the weight of the air change around them and knows he can use the shift to his advantage. 

“I’m here,” he admits with reluctance, “and of course I’ll let you spill your little secrets. You’re privy to mine now, after all.” 

It’s admission—confirmation thinly veiled in a threatening tone—but he wants to see Gale’s reaction to the reminder. 

Gale winces, face turning toward Astarion’s voice with his eyes remaining closed. 

“I know, but I fear my situation might be a bit…” He trails off, and Astarion can hear his heartbeat go slightly off-pace, “I can tell you why my blood is…vile, for lack of better terms, but first I need you to clean it off of me,” he pauses again, this time with a deepening frown, “and yourself.” 

“You need me to,” Astarion says slowly, watching the wizard with narrowing eyes, “clean us off?” 

“Yes,” Gale confirms, though his voice is still shamefully quiet and wimpish, “please.”

Astarion looks down at the rag he pilfered earlier with disdain, its center a gray smear from the amount of Gale’s blood already on it. 

“Why?” He dares into the silence. 

Gale doesn’t answer immediately, biting his lip and fidgeting. 

“Why?” Astarion presses again, putting his dagger away, and reaching for the cloth. He’s already decided to obey Gale’s pleas, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear more of them. 

Gale sighs, pinching his face tighter. His hand is still outstretched, and Astarion takes it gingerly, starting to wipe his fingers as he waits for a reply. The black blood smears like ink too, Astarion scrubbing harder than necessary where it’s beginning to dry and flake away from Gale’s fingernails. 

Perhaps it’s what urges him to finally answer. 

“If I see my blood,” he says softly, “I won’t be able to explain my condition, because I’ll…” he hesitates further and Astarion sees his jaw clench as he forces himself to continue, “Well—I’ll faint, much like before.” 

Oh, Astarion files the information in the back of his mind and stifles the mild chuckle he feels bubbling in his chest. A vampire and a man afraid of blood, he thinks, what a pair they make. When he doesn’t speak aloud—silently moving from Gale’s hand to his collar and moving the cloth down cautiously—Gale continues. 

“I-I know it’s ridiculous. Especially when we seem to be in battle more often than not these days, but it’s really only…” he tilts his head back to give Astarion better access to his now much-less-tantalizing throat. “It’s really only my blood. So, as long as I stay as far back as spell casting will allow, there’s usually no reason to fret.” 

“I see,” Astarion says, because he does. He’s watched the wizard stand above them on high rocks, casting down into the fury of battle enough times to know Gale speaks the truth. He thinks there’s a few layers of reasons beyond the wizard’s embarrassment, though. “And I’m sure it’s much simpler, not having to explain why you bleed black, if you never get hit in the first place, hmm?” 

Gale snaps his eyes open to meet Astarion’s firm gaze. “Y-yes, and that.” 

Astarion folds the rag into his palm in a way that Gale won’t see it as he pulls back, a small courtesy. 

“I do expect the full tale, darling.” He says lowly, moving to sit primly on the only pillow not against Gale’s bed roll. “Even if it takes us all night.”

Gale’s swallow is audible, and Astarion tracks his shaking fingers as they reach for the neck of his robes. 

“Will we be even then?” Gale asks, clicking the clasps open slowly, revealing the deep indigo of a rather horrendous magic mark. “After we’ve shared our secrets in the dark?”

Astarion smirks, tracing the mark with new concentration from Gale’s sternum all the way to his cheekbone; hard to miss now that he’s truly looking. 

“That, my dear wizard, will be up to you.” 

----

[deliciousangelfestival]

Kiss Me If You Can || Part 2

Character: Bucky Barnes x Thief!Reader

Words Count:  1,214

Summary: What happens when Bucky meet his first love the phantom thief for the second time?

Part 1,- Part 2, Part 3,-

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Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

The first time Bucky got his heart broken was when he was in junior high school. He was playing the arcade game with Steve when he saw Y/N and her friends at the cafe.

As usual, he always watches her from afar.

Then he saw a boy close to her; a bold and brave boy approached Y/N, capturing her attention in a way Bucky had only dreamed of.

The intimate kiss on her cheek unfolded before his eyes like a scene from a cruel play. Bucky didn’t remember what happened next. He went home and cried. He didn’t leave the house for a week. Even Steve can’t get him out of his bedroom.

Bucky realized that Y/N was out of his league and needed to change to stand beside her. He always watching her walk away.

*********

Years go by, and once again, he watches her slipping away. And the most absurd thing is she became a phantom thief. It turns out he doesn’t know a thing about Y/N.

After the chaos she made at the army, they want to catch her. She became their first enemy.

Now, Bucky has another chance to catch her again. Today, his team got told they needed to guard a V.I.P. at the masquerade ball.

Because there’s a rumor the phantom thief will appear at the party, the army sends Bucky and the team to catch the thief.

Bucky didn’t tell anyone that the thief was his first love.

Y/N was right; he couldn’t imagine her inside a prison cell. He can’t let anyone else catch her beside him.

*****

The ballroom sparkled with lights as Bucky and his team guarded a VIP named Richard Harrington. Richard was a rich guy with a big attitude. He couldn't stop bragging about a super expensive diamond necklace up for auction.

"This necklace is worth more than your wildest dreams, Lieutenant. I doubt you've ever seen something this classy," Richard said with a smirk, acting like he was the most critical person in the room. He looked down on everyone, making it clear he thought he was better than them.

As he went on about the necklace, his rudeness showed. He didn't care about anyone else, treating the staff like they were beneath him.

Bucky had to keep his cool, but Richard's mean attitude set the tone for a night that promised to be full of tension and surprises.

As Bucky and his team scanned the room for the elusive phantom thief, Richard Harrington had a different idea. With a sly grin, he pointed to a woman across the room, claiming she was an important guest, and demanded Bucky to dance with her.

"This is Isabella," Richard said, gesturing toward the woman. "She's someone you should be honored to dance with, Lieutenant. Make sure you don't mess it up."

Isabella, the mysterious woman, wore a striking dress that shimmered like the night sky, her mask adding an air of secrecy to her appearance. She approached Bucky with a confident smile, defying the unspoken rules of social hierarchy.

Their dance was like a rhythm of unspoken understanding, a chemistry that flowed effortlessly. Bucky felt a sense of familiarity, a nagging feeling that lingered at the edge of his consciousness.

"Why so intense, Bucky?" 

Bucky was surprised when he recognized Y/N's voice beneath the disguise. Once again, this woman caught him off guard.

As they moved to the music, Bucky felt a knot tighten in his stomach, realizing Y/N's presence beneath the disguise.

Y/N, in the persona of Isabella, threw a playful remark his way. "Quite the dancer, Lieutenant."

Bucky, attempting nonchalance, replied, "I've had smoother partners."

She grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Maybe you need someone to keep you on your toes."

Bucky said, "I've had enough surprises for one night."

Her laughter, a melody amidst the dance, echoed in the dimly lit hall. "Why so serious, Bucky? Afraid of a little excitement?"

Bucky, masking his inner turmoil, quipped, "Just trying to survive the night."

Y/N, with a playful glint in her eye, replied, "Surviving can be overrated, Bucky. Sometimes, you just have to embrace the chaos."

Bucky, smirking, retorted, "Embrace chaos, huh? Let's see how chaotic things can get."

Y/N laughed. “Careful what you wish for, my dear Bucky.”

After she said this, the lights turned off, and everything went dark.

Y/N also slipping away from Bucky grasp.

Every guest immediately panicked, but Richard, as the host party, assured the guest that everything was alright.

The chaos erupted as the lights flickered back to life, unveiling the empty pedestal where the diamond necklace had rested. Richard erupted in fury, pointing fingers at the phantom thief.

Unfazed by the commotion, Bucky directed his team to search among the guests. The elusive thief had cleverly blended in, using the same disguise as the innocent attendees.

While the others inspected the bewildered guests, Bucky ascended to the top floor, determined to catch the culprit. As he reached the rooftop, he was met with the sight of Y/N, ready to make her daring escape.

This time, however, she wore a wingsuit, a sleek silhouette against the city lights, poised to vanish into the night.

With a smirk, she waved the stolen diamond necklace in front of Bucky, the glint of mischief evident in her eyes. "Impressed, Bucky?"

Bucky, a mixture of frustration and admiration, couldn't help but respond, "You enjoy making a spectacle of everything, don't you?"

Y/N chuckled, her fingers tracing the contours of the necklace. "At least I gave you a good chase, right?"

Clenching his fists, Bucky shot back, "This game of yours will catch up with you, sooner or later."

As Y/N turned to make her daring escape, Bucky, fueled by a sudden surge of boldness, blurted out, "Next time I catch you, you won't be leaving my bed."

The unexpected declaration left Y/N momentarily speechless, her usual quick-witted responses failing her.

Caught off guard, she stammered, "Umm, well... I guess, bye?" With a flustered glance back at Bucky, she activated her wingsuit and soared into the night, leaving Bucky on the rooftop.

Bucky scoffed as he watched Y/N disappear into the night. Despite her successful escape, a sense of satisfaction lingered within him. His unexpected declaration made him feel a small victory in catching her off guard. 

His words held a truth that echoed in his mind – the next encounter wouldn't be a game.

*****

At Y/N's hideout:

After safely landing on the ground and delivering the stolen diamond necklace to her client, Y/N returned home. Bucky's words echoed in her mind, "Next time I catch you, you won't be leaving my bed."

Embarrassment flushed through her, and her heart raced at realizing she might have pushed the boundaries too far. Y/N acknowledged that she had always seen Bucky as a younger brother, especially given his close friendship with Steve. However, something had shifted.

Sighing, Y/N muttered, "What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?"

Part 1,- Part 2, Part 3,-

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[that-bloody-witch]

L'amour et la Mort

Chapter 1

The years of King Arthur’s reign had been, so far, a largely peaceful time. Granted, the first half-decade or so after Uther’s death had been wrought with strife, remnants of his cruel regime which stained his son’s hands red. The battle of Camlann, and the defeat of Morgana, had marked a distinct shift in the balance of the world. Light began to pour where darkness had festered for a lifetime, seas too treacherous to sail once again gentled, poisoned fields were found to have nutrient-rich soil; nature itself had begun to heal. Some of the more faithful scholars, ones who still followed the Old ways, believe that this change had been paid for in blood, could have only ever been paid in blood. 

Followers of the Old Religion have held many beliefs throughout the ages, some less sensible than others. They preach that royal blood, truly royal, holds a certain weight against the natural order of things. One ruler’s death will plunge kingdoms into centuries of depravity, while another might pave the way for an age of enlightenment. After all, the weight of royal words, of royal actions, hold much more power in them than any other person’s. Where else should that strength come from, if not their blood? Camlann had soaked its fill of Pendragon strength, between Arthur and Morgana, and the world had flourished because of it. Even in the long, terrifying months of the king’s recovery, no attacks had been waged on Camelot’s borders, the other nations of Albion instead vying for favor with the young ruler. 

The first few days after Camlann were not easy for anyone in the realm. Merlin and Arthur had arrived weeks before the army returned, on a damned dragon. Only the sight of their wounded King being carried in thinly-muscled arms had kept the castle guards from striking against the creature. Several hands had tried to pry Arthur from his manservant’s grasp, none successfully, as Merlin carried his friend to Gaius’s chambers. 

“What happened,” the old man had gasped at the sight of his bloodied apprentice, seeing through the dirt and grime to the naked fear on his downturned face. He immediately motioned for the guard who had followed them to clear the workbench, knowing that the next hours would be long and uncomfortable for every party. 

“He was stabbed.” The words fell from Merlin’s chapped lips like a death sentence, eyes never leaving his King’s face. A single tear dropped onto Arthur’s cheek, trailing down his cheek as if produced from his own sorrow. Gaius raked his eyes over Arthur’s body, finding that the blood was covering too fully to see where the wound lay. He pointed a bony finger to the table, now cleared, a gesture which Merlin had never needed before. Usually, after so many years of working side-by-side, his apprentice moved almost before he even knew which direction to tell him. 

“Merlin, you must let go.” The words seemed to float by Merlin unnoticed, his focus on the King unwavering. “Merlin, I cannot help Arthur if you do not put him down.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking over the syllables like waves on a rocky shore. “I’m not sure I can keep him alive if I let go.” Gaius felt a sharp intake of breath as wide, golden eyes met his. This was much worse than he had feared. 

“You must,” he pleaded, “set him down, hold onto him if contact is needed, but I cannot work if I cannot see the damage.” The words, at last, seemed to convince Merlin into action. He took short, unsteady steps to the table, and laid his King down without letting go entirely. Arthur’s gloves had been removed, at some point, and Merlin’s first clenched around limp fingers like a prayer. At once, Gaius began ordering the guard to help remove his King’s armor, cutting his shirt off entirely so as to not disturb whatever fragile stasis Merlin had upheld this long. “What happened, my dear boy?”

“Camlann was worse than I imagined.” His voice was still shaky, but seemed to steady itself as he regaled the battle. Gaius took his tale in stride, nodding along in encouragement as he cleaned Arthur’s skin enough to see the wound’s extent. He listened as graciously as he was able, barely pausing as Merlin recounted laying waste to Morgana’s army, and the lady herself, with lightning. His apprentice spoke of a sea of bodies, of barely arriving in time to be of any use at all, of being too late to help Arthur when he was most needed. “They’re dead,” the words shattered over thin air as Merlin spoke them, seeming to finally run out of whatever strength he had pulled out of himself. 

“This wound should have killed Arthur,” Gaius whispered, feeling every year of his life in contrast to his young King. He had birthed this boy, now a man, had held his squalling, naked body as Uther mourned his wife. The only thought which seemed to rise above the cacophony in his head was a prayer, to anyone who should listen, that his old hands would not carry Arthur into death as they had life. “Merlin, what exactly have you done to keep him breathing?”

Merlin let out a heavy, unsteady sigh, scrubbing his free hand down his face roughly. “I’m not sure, really. I called for Kilgharrah after Morgana found us in the forest. He brought us to Avalon, and Freya told me to place Arthur in the lake’s waters. It took all three of us,” he swallowed against the words, trying to push past the lump which had lodged itself in his throat at the sight of Mordred’s sword embedding itself into Arthur’s stomach. “He was just barely alive when I got there. If anything had held us for even a moment longer.” Merlin’s words trailed off, a haunted look marring his face. The gold still had not bled from his eyes, and it seemed, to the old physician, that the impossible magic his boy was performing had become second nature, much like anything else regarding Arthur’s safety. “We did what we could, but he was still unstable. Freya told me that I already had the power to keep him from passing, and then I just started keeping him.” Gaius’ eyes flicked up from where he had been examining the wound, now as clean as possible with the slow trickle of blood leaking onto the table. Merlin’s eyes were locked onto the gash across Arthurs gut, glowing impossibly brighter against the fading light filtering into the room. Gaius motioned for the guard to light the room’s plethora of candles, so that he may continue to work as dusk fell. Instead, every single sconce in the room burst into flame simultaneously, Merlin’s concentration on the King remaining unbroken. The guard flinched towards the door, nodding curtly at Gaius’s instruction to wait outside in case anything was needed of him.  His eyes once again fell to the injury, widening as the candlelight threw the wound into more clarity. The skin was slowly stitching itself together, vessels and musculature repairing itself in a shocking feat of magic. 

“Merlin, my boy, how are you doing this without an enchantment?”

“I don’t know. I can’t stop.” Another gulp, another shaky exhale. “Every time I think it’s better he starts fading away.” The picture in front of Gaius suddenly sharpened into a horrific reality. The wound, as Merlin had described it, was given days ago. Even the greatest sorcerer of all time, and Gaius had seriously begun to doubt that even those words were enough to encompass all of Merlin’s abilities, could not uphold this magic for long. His mind raced, coming up with contingencies and platitudes that might convince his boy to release his hold on Arthur’s life. 

“Son,” he began, “you-”

“I can’t do this for much longer, can I?” His words, more sobs than syllables, cut off Gaius’s explanation. “I can feel it, magic was never supposed to best fate.”

“No, my boy, I would imagine not.” The words lingered in the still air, riding the chill to sink into their very bones with the grim truth. 

“He’s not gonna make it, not just with medicine.” It wasn’t a question, yet Gaius felt the need to answer anyway.

“There is a chance, Merlin. Arthur is strong, and much has already been done.”

“Not enough.”

“It could work.”

“No,” he shivered, a brutish exhale ruffling rust-stained blonde strands. “I’ve seen better odds rob men just as strong as Arthur of their lives, I cannot risk that with him.”

“You cannot go on as you are, it is too slow, you could kill yourself in the process.” Gaius’s statement seemed to shake something loose in his apprentice, a prayer angering the gods. 

“It doesn’t matter, Gaius. I am nothing without him.” He did not shout, though Gaius had expected it. His words instead came like a wave, slowly building onto themselves until they grew strong enough to sink fleets. “Camelot cannot survive if he is gone. The Once and Future King, that’s what Kilgharrah had said. Gods dammit, Gaius, that future will come to pass in my lifetime if I have to kill Death himself. He doesn’t get to die like this, not here and not now. Arthur will die at the age of eighty, warm in this castle, surrounded by heirs, and he will not leave me.” Merlin finally seemed to break at the end, raking in a harsh gasp to keep himself from devolving into senseless wails of anguish. 

A moment passed, maybe an hour, in which the only sound was Merlin’s sharp inhales and shaky exhales. Gaius knew, as much as he knew his own name, that this was something he could not sway the boy on. Merlin had always been reckless in his care for the King - Gaius had often wondered if either of them would ever pull their heads out of their arses long enough to see why - and in this, Merlin was surely unmovable. His mind raced, finally landing on a solution which seemed most likely to grant both of his boys to keep their lives. 

“Okay,” he began, golden eyes once again snapping to attention. “You’re right, this wound is still too risky to try and heal with science. Magic is the only solution.” He raised a hand as Merlin opened his mouth, to protest or add his own opinion. “Listen to me. Whatever it is you’ve been doing these last few days is too slow, and it’s not sustainable. You need to fix as much as you can, as fast as you can, and let me do the rest. It will be a slow process, depending on how much magic heals, but I cannot see another way.” 

Merlin looked back down to his King, his friend, his Arthur, and visibly tensed when he realized the plan’s validity. He nodded, not breaking his gaze, and readjusted his grip on Arthur’s hand. His voice tore out of his chest, ancient words that he had never consciously learned filling the air like a dragon’s roar. A wind stirred in the room, sending pages of notes and vials flying into the tornado that had formed around the workbench. The light from Merlin’s eyes grew too intense for Gaius to look at, and he shielded his vision as his apprentice pleaded with Magic itself to save the man in front of them. 

As instantaneously as it had been stirred into chaos, the room fell silent once again. The candles, shockingly untouched by the vicious wind, lit the mess left in magic’s wake with vivid detail. Merlin had slumped forward, unconscious, his head falling just beside Arthurs, hand still clutching the King’s. Gaius immediately moved forward to assess the damage to Arthur’s abdomen, calling for the guard to move Merlin to his cot. It was nowhere near the first time either boy had been under his care, but having them both unconscious, splayed in front of him and injured, made his chest ache in a breath-stealing way. 

He could not afford to lose his focus, working with experienced hands to fix as much of the crevice in Arthur’s flesh as humanly possible. Merlin’s magic had done a lot of good, most of the dire internal problems repaired in an instant, but the blood started to trickle in steadier streams as arteries began flowing once again. Gaius flashed a look to Merlin, not liking the deathly pallor to his ward’s skin, or the apparent stillness of his chest. 

“Guard! Wash your hands! I need your help.” The young knight squared his shoulders, peeling off his gloves and following orders deftly. Gaius instructed him to press and cauterize where it was needed most, all the while thinking how Merlin wouldn’t have needed instruction to aid the physician. Gaius stitched muscle and skin back together, pouring tonic after tonic down Arthur’s throat in an effort to replenish as much blood as possible. He whispered a quick prayer to the Old gods as he worked, begging with the skies for the survival of both his sons. After several dozen minutes, seeing that the King’s wounds would hold for the moment, he moved to check on Merlin’s ashen form.

“Merlin! My boy,” Gaius wept, finding that against every science he knew, his body had grown cold in mere minutes. No breath filled his lungs, no pulse beat in his chest. Gaius allowed one solitary, earth-shattering moment to mourn the boy in front of him, pressing his wrinkled lips to a glacial brow, before moving back to the King.  

As Gaius worked, and weeped, the kingdom held bated breath for news on their sovereign. Kilgharrah had flown back into the forest, knowing that his master would call when he was needed, and every soul which lived under the castle’s shadow had flooded the city. Time had seemed to trickle through the citadel as molasses, peasant and noble alike holding constant vigil outside the palace walls. Hours passed, dawn enrapturing the skies in a beautiful background to one of Camelot’s darkest days, before an announcement was made.

Gaius stood on the dais where Uther had condemned thousands, looking over the tear-stained faces that matched his own, and made his proclamation.

“The King was mortally wounded in the Battle of Camlann. It is thanks, only, to his manservant, and my apprentice, Merlin, that he shall survive. He remains unconscious, but the blow dealt to his stomach would have killed any lesser man before the battle’s end. Merlin protected his King until his last breath, using the magic which the gods had given him to heal as much as he could.” Gaius paused, raking his eyes over the crowd to find familiar faces, who would all hold fond memories of his boy in their hearts. “Merlin has faithfully served the throne of Camelot since his arrival in the citadel nearly ten years ago, and has given his life to ensure the survival of the Pendragon line. King Arthur will have a long recovery in front of him, but he shall live.” Cries rang out, both in joy at the news of their King’s health and misery at the loss of Merlin, and Gaius felt his own eyes moisten at the thought of his body growing colder in the physician’s cot. He could see many faces of shock at the admittance of Merlin’s magic, though Gaius supposed that riding in on the dragon had already clued most in on the worst-kept secret in Camelot. 

The long walk back to his chambers gave Gaius time to adjust to the gaping void in his chest. He knew exactly how many years he had lived, how much loss he had endured, yet never before had the old man felt old. Now, in a world without Merlin, he could feel every second of his life weighing against his back, turning his movements sharp and painful. The council would need to meet, soon, to discuss how to proceed with the nation’s rule while their King remained unconscious, but Gaius did not dwell on these thoughts for long. He exhaled as he entered his chambers, still wrecked from the aftereffects of impossible magic, and abruptly halted where he stood.

“Will he live?” The corpse had pulled a chair over to Arthur’s side, once again grasping his hand in a white-knuckled grip. Gaius felt his heart stop and start in the space of a breath, and nearly fainted at the sight. Merlin, his Merlin, was sitting up, with enough life flowing through his veins to look worried over his King’s prone form. The physician held no reservations as he raced to envelop his boy in a bone-crushing embrace. 

“Merling, oh Merlin, you’ve come back,” he cried as Merlin’s arm came to wrap around him, hesitating for a brief moment of curiosity. 

“What do you mean, Gaius? I was on the cot the entire time.” Slowly, the old man released his apprentice, searching his face with a haunted look. “What? Is Arthur going to be okay?”

“My boy, the King will make a full recovery, in time, but you.” Gaius paused, not sure how Merlin would take the news that he had been dead for ten hours. “Merlin, you died. That spell, whatever you did, you were dead for an entire night and morning.”

Blue eyes widened, so large they might have popped out, and Merlin let out a noise of shock. “That’s impossible,” he whispered. “You must be mistaken.”

“Your body was cold almost immediately, Merlin. It was as if you had given your life to Arthur. You haven’t had a pulse, nor a breath, in ten hours. You were dead.” Gaius could see the cogs turning behind Merlin’s brow, processing what this meant for him. The old man’s mind suddenly threw a memory to the forefront, of treating Merlin for the deadly serket sting which should have killed him. Their eyes widened simultaneously as the truth of the gods’ will revealed itself to them. “Surely, you don’t think-”

“Oh, I do think.” A thunderous expression crossed Merlin’s face, his fist clenching even tighter around Arthur’s as he glanced at the unconscious King. “When has anything about my life ever been normal? Why should my death be any different?” Gaius winced in sympathy, reaching to offer comfort with a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. They both fell into a contemplative silence, pondering the extent to which the gods would see their prophecies fulfilled, and watched as their King slept.

Suddenly, a chuckle burst forth from the physician’s lips, causing Merlin to shoot a wounded expression his way.

 “Are you laughing? I cannot die and you’re laughing in my face?”

“I’m sorry, my dear boy,” Gaius began, stifling the unbidden humor as much as possible and forcing a calm expression onto his face. “It does appear,” a smile cracked across his face, and he cleared his throat in a bid for sobriety. “I mean to say, that is, I might have just announced to the entire citadel that you nobly gave your life to save Arthur.”

A dumbfounded expression fell over Merlin’s face, before a sudden bout of laughter erupted, surprising both master and student. 

“I did!” They fell into hysterics, both men clutching each other until their sides ached. Merlin supposed, at some point, the court would need to be informed of his apparent immortality, but at the moment he could not care less. Arthur was safe, Gaius was strong despite his growing years, and Camelot faced no immediate danger. Surely, the coming weeks would reveal heartaches and wounds not yet scarred, but for now, as the laughter slowly died and the only father he’d ever known moved to brew tea, he was choosing to be optimistic. 

[christall77]

~❦A Dragon's Treasure❦~

M! Dragon x GN! Reader

I was gone for a long while but I hope it's still not too late to say Happy New Year! (⁠；⁠^⁠ω⁠^)

So I had this idea after I made an AI chat bot of this character so yeah, hope you guys enjoy and if you should find any mistakes feel free to tell me!

TW: Mentions of minor character deaths

Finally after days of traveling on the back of your horses, both you and your friend Adrian reach the destination of your quest. Or more so, Adrian's quest. The huge mountain is in sight, where the castle and home of the infamous dark dragon Ryunir should reside in. Including the princess the beast has stolen away from the kingdom. Every person around the land knows about the legendary maneating dragon, who hoards unfathomable amounts of gold and riches inside his castle and his hate for humanity. All stolen from kings and royals alike, but it seemed like he had a special grudge against the royals in the kingdom Adrian and you call home. The king was rightfully scared about the danger that could strike any day, so he sent an army of knights to get rid of the fire breathing lizard. Only to never hear from them again and have his precious daughter, princess Amelia get taken by the massive beast.

Many other knights have tried to save her, especially now after the king has promised his daughter's hand in marriage. Your friend being one of them. Him and the princess always acted all lovey dovey around each other even while you were there watching the whole thing unfold. So it was only a matter of time until he asked, no begged you to come with him on this quest to save her. Despite your own hesitation and second thoughts. You two have been through thick and thin, he's been there for you when you needed him and vise versa, which is the reason why you're now standing on the edge of the mountain. Having already dismounted your horse as Adrian follows.

“Are you really sure we should do this?”, your voice comes out after you gulp down the lump in your throat at the sight. Right at the edge a small wobbly bridge is the only thing that connects the ground of the mountain and castle, the dark abyss below surrounding it. Adrian gives you a comforting pat on the shoulder, the determination evident on his face. “Don't worry (y/n), we have been successful with all our quests so far. Besides, I can't sit around and have princess Amelia locked up forever!”, “That's what the other knights must've thought as well before they most likely busted into flames...”

Not wasting any more time he approaches the creaky bridge and gives the robes an experimental tug. Waving you over after deeming it save enough. The darkness below doesn't make the way any less nerve wrecking, but Adrian makes sure to have a good hold on you while carefully moving alongside with you. A sigh of relief you were holding in leaves you once making it safely to the other side, now entering the darkened castle as quietly as possible through the creaky doors. The sounds echoing through the long and high hallways in front. It definitely would take a lot of time until any of you would find the right tower or room where the princess is hidden away.

Each step has to be chosen carefully, as any sound might alert the massive dragon residing somewhere deep within the castle. The floors and walls littered with cracks and damages, evidence that this place is much older and hasn't been taken care of in ages. Adrian clutches his sword tightly in his hands beside you, looking left and right towards each different corridor. With a nod to himself he turns to you and whispers, “Maybe we should split up...”, taking a few steps forward he chooses to go straight ahead. “You guard the entrance and distract the dragon, if he finds you first and I'll search for Amelia.”

“Are you crazy?!" You whisper shout towards him as your head almost snaps back towards him, keeping your tone down, ”I get that we might cover some more space this way, but mind you there's no way it would improve our chances with the dragon! Wait- Adrian!“ Before you could protest any further he speed walks away. Leaving you alone in the middle of the halls. ”I swear if I die I'll kill him if the dragon doesn't.“ You grumble to yourself, stepping through one of the hallways closest to the left. One hand hovering over the weapon in your belt just in case as you reassure yourself internally.

It almost feels like hours wandering around but finding nothing but even more halls and even the occasional bones of previous living humans who've entered the castle, which causes shivers to run down your spine. You've probably walked around in circles now but kept yourself close to the entrance like Adrian asked you to. Eventually the soles of your feet start to bother you and you decide to take a small seat on a small staircase. Checking your equipment and hoping that Adrian has found the princess in the while you were walking around aimlessly.

”This is so stupid... Should've known he would run off by himself again. Probably to also show off and be 'the knight in shining armor' for her.“ Consumed in your own little quiet rant and thoughts, you fail to notice the dark silhouette that starts to stirr behind you from your words. A large single golden eye opening and gazing down at the small human sitting below. Only once the massive beast rises and its hot breath blows against your back do you freeze, before slowly and anxiously turning around to face the dragon. It certainly was a sight you can't deny, after all you always had a respect and fascination with dragons, but at this moment survival is more important. A deep gutteral growl rumbles in the back of its throat, followed by a fierce ear piercing roar.

Stumbling up from your seat you make a run for it, barely managing to avoid its jaws, screaming in terror as the rumbling of footsteps follow close behind. In hopes of loosing the creature you run through every hall and corridor possible, making sure to take sharp turns, but no matter what you do the dragon keeps up without trouble. Shooting fireballs at you from time to time which you barely manage to avoid thankfully. It's only once you come to a dead end do you start panicking fully, looking around for any possible way out but finding none you press yourself against the wall. Hoping that the hard surface behind somehow swallows you up and takes you away from this place as your body trembles in fear. Wings unfurled from his back in an intimidating display the dragon approaches slowly, as if savoring the fact that you're trapped and about to face your demise.

Unable to think straight your brain decides to do the unthinkable as your widened eyes take in the size of him almost filling the entire hallway you're in. Instead of drawing your weapon or getting out of there you hurriedly blurt out, ”P-Please spare me big beautiful dragon.!“ Closing both eyes tightly, you await a fireball to roast you, or sharp teeth clamping down and kill you. Yet nothing happens. Opening one of your eyes you see the dragon has stopped in front of you, he seemed caught of guard by that compliment and tilts his head as puffs of smoke leave through his nostrils.

Never in his life was the red scaled beast complimented by a human, either having faced insults, fear and anger thrown at him. So this surprises him greatly, in a pleasant way. ”You think I'm beautiful human?“ He rumbles, his voice echoing through the halls as it bounces off the walls. Seeing that it somehow stopped the dragon from attacking you quickly nod. It might've been something you said in a panic, but after taking a good look at the creature you can't deny his majestic and powerful presence.

”Y-yes. I mean it's not every day one is face to face with an amazing creature of legends like a dragon.“, Your genuine interest in his kind stirrs a strange warmth within his large scaly chest, but not the usual heat he emits, it's foreign yet pleasant. A feeling he now wants to continue experiencing out of newfound curiosity. Moving his long neck down so his head is a little closer the creature gives you an expectant look as if asking what made you say all of this. ”Tell me, what about me is so beautiful little human?“

In response you let your gaze wander over the different parts of him, pointing out everything that intrigues you. ”Well for starters I've never seen wings so huge and cool like this. It always sounded interesting to experience flying, though I could only read about it in books.“, a small nervous chuckle leaves you before you continue while the huge dragon listens intently how you compliment him more. Things like how shiny his wine red scales look, those horns that give him an even more intimidating yet regal appearance and so on and so forth.

”But I think your eyes are the most beautiful thing of you, they shine like gold..“ At this point you seem to be rambling on as if forgetting about the danger you've been in. Though the dragon doesn't mind, in fact he likes it. Your last compliment struck a chord inside, feeling the beating of his heart quicken as his pupils dilate and the subtle sound of purring reverberates through his entire being. A pleased purr leaves the dragon as his head tilts so his large eye is peering down at your smaller frame better. ”What is your name little one?", he inquires curiously. Once you introduce yourself, a small smile makes its way onto his face when he tastes your name upon his tongue.

“It suits you little one. I'm Ryunir, it's very much a pleasure meeting you.” There's a strange haze that crosses his gaze which makes you fidget underneath its intensity. Another puff of warm air blows against your frame as he inhales and exhales deeply, taking in your scent. “Thank you, I'd like to chat a little longer but uhm...”, you pause trying to find the right words to say next. “I need to find my friend again so we can leave in peace.”

The dragon frowns upon hearing the word 'leave'. Since Ryunir has set his eyes upon you, he had a feeling you didn't come here all the way alone and were either here to steal the gold or rescue the princess he took. No matter which one it was he doesn't care anymore. Stealing the princess was only to spite the king who has made Ryunir's life more miserable by sending countless knights for centuries, before (y/n) and their friend to kill him for not only his riches, but also for his scales and head. Which is why he has started to reign terror over the people of this kingdom ever since. Yes he did keep the girl away from being saved, but Ryunir never liked having her here either. But now that you're here? Your friend could rescue the royal away for all he cares, what he wants is to have you by his side for the rest of his life.

In the dragon's eyes you've become his most priced treasure, his mate. Ryunir can't believe it himself entirely as well, yet there's something inside him that tells him that you are meant to be his. Wether it's instincts or the fact that he's been lonely without any positive interactions for as long as the beast can remember for the recent few 100 of years, one thing is for sure. You've made your way into his heart and there's nothing that's going to take you away from him.

“Leave? No... Stay with me little one.”, before you could protest or say anything further the dragon leans down with a soft whine. Snatching you up by the back of your gear, like a mother cat carrying her kittens and taking you deeper into the castle. “W-Wait! No I can't stay.! Adrien!” Paying your calls for help no mind, the dragon continues with a small pep in his step. The sound of his footsteps echoing through the silent empty hallways until entering a large chamber filled with riches. Mountains upon mountains of gold, jewels and many more things that has some type of value as far as your eyes can see. Reaching his desired spot surrounded by a few pillars, Ryunir gently drops you down before coiling his tail around you in a warm and protective embrace. Lighting up the torches and chandeliers hanging upon the walls, ceiling and columns with a light breath of fire, surrounding the both of you in a more cozy atmosphere.

Holding you close to his red scaly body as he gets comfortable, curling up and nuzzling his snout against your smaller head. His entire being vibrating as he purrs affectionately. “Comfy my dear treasure?”, Ryunir rumbles softly in question. “Yes?” Your answer comes out more like a question than intended but the beast takes it nonetheless with a pleased growl. “Don't worry, I won't do anything you're not comfortable with. You're mine now and I intend to have my mate protected and satisfied no matter what."

His words are filled with honesty and utter devotion. A promise to keep you safe and under his care for as long as he lives. Tenderly brushing a few strands of hair out of your face with his claw, making sure to not hurt or scratch you with it. Despite your initial reluctance you end up enjoying his company more than anticipated. Keeping light conversations all the while showing nothing but tenderness and longing towards you. His heat emitting from his body also helps calming down your thoughts, practically melting into his coils until the both of you take a rest together and doze off.

It's only after what felt a few moments later that someone is trying to shake you awake. With a small groan your eyes meet Adrian who has a panicked look on his face, the princess hiding at the doorway of the gigantic chamber. ”(Y/n) wake up!“ He whisper shouts, making sure to not wake the beast sleeping beside you. Blinking both eyes open, startled you meet your friend's gaze. ”Oh now you're showing up? Where were you almost an hour ago?!“, flailing your hands in expiration you then let out a deep sigh after hearing your friend's apology.

”I'm sorry (y/n), but this beast has trapped me earlier but luckily I made it out. And look! I found Amelia!“ Gesturing towards the girl she gives you a quiet wave of her hand, yet she's visibly tense by the fact that the dragon is here. Adrian freezes swiftly when the dragon in question shifts but doesn't wake up just yet, instead pulling you closer towards his head despite still being asleep. ”Lets get you out of here...“, he whispers climbing up the pile of gold, as sneakily as those allow him to be until he reaches you and holds out his leather gloves hand. Grasping yours and trying to pull you out of the tight coils around your frame.

”Adrian, please stop. Just leave!“ Ushering him away in a hurry as the tail tightens around you. ”Take Amelia and go.“, Adrian pauses then shakes his head, ”I'm not leaving you here with this monster (y/n)!“ He gives you a look that tells you that he won't back down no matter what. With a final pull with both of his hands he manages to get his friend out, almost falling down the gold pile in the process, managing to catch the both of you steady just barely.

Though the quiet celebration was short lived once the eye of the beast opens, as if sensing that his mate is not within his hold anymore. His pupils turn into slits upon seeing the both of you, in particular your friend holding you close. With a furious roar he rises, the riches around you flying and getting thrown everywhere as he moves. ”Come hurry! This way!“ Princess Amelia yells out, holding the door open as Adrian pulls you along as fast as possible. Just narrowly escaping Ryunir's jaws and rushing towards the entrance with you and the princess in tow who points out the direction towards the exit she has found at a time in her own attempts to escape.

Behind you the enraged dragon roars out and wastes no time chasing after the group of three, through every hallway possible. Luckily with Amelia on their side there won't be a chance to run into any dead ends. Soon the exit is in sight and Adrian pushes the both of you forward, stopping in his tracks to face Ryunir with a determined face. Before the dragon could let out his breath of fire, your friend cuts the rope beside him which was holding the massive metal gate of the entrance up, only to have it slam down upon the dragon's scaly back. A furious and pained shriek getting forced from his being. Successfully trapping him underneath as he trashes wildly on hopes of getting out. Not wasting any more time Adrian pushes you and the princess forward onto the wobbly bridge until you finally reach the mountain once more.

Relief rushes through the other two once the group got onto their horse and gallop away, yet as you leave in tow the cries of Ryunir still can be heard in the distance. As if calling out for you to return at the loss of your presence. With a heavy heart and head held low you stay quiet for the rest of the trip back until reaching the kingdom at last heart still beating wildly from the escape.

When Adrian brought back the king's daughter he was allowed to, as promised, to be wed to Amelia, which of course he couldn't turn down. Days have gone by until the wedding finally comes around, you couldn't be happier for your friend but the events from the castle still linger in your mind. As absurd as one might think it is, you actually ended up enjoying your time with Ryunir even if it was a rough start and he tried to kill you initially. But somehow he wove himself into your heart and leaving him made you feel bad.

As you sit by the lake by yourself lost in thought Adrian approached you from behind and gives you a concerned look. ”What's wrong (y/n)? This is my wedding party, have some fun... I don't want to see my best friend down on such a beautiful day.“, squeezing your shoulder gently he tries to lighten up the mood but ends up sitting down beside you on the grass not caring if his white suit gets dirty. ”Something is bothering you...“ he points out, already knowing that it must be something that happened regarding the quest. Finally nodding your head you turn to him, ”Remember the dragon?“

Scrunching his eyebrows he nods giving you a concerned look. ”Has he hurt you?“, he questions, ”No it's not that, he seemed to like me... We actually talked and it felt nice.“ Adrian listens to your ramblings, showing his surprise and disbelief at the story you're telling him. After all, how could the dark dragon which the kingdom has feared for so long be the same you described?

All of a sudden a shadow casts overhead making the two of you blink in confusion. The roar and beating of large wings in the distance unmistakable. And speak of the devil, Ryunir has arrived. He must've freed himself somehow and now is circling the castle before diving down. Hearing screams and distressed yells from the people the both of you rush towards the chaos. Men and women running frantically to get safe as the king shouts orders towards his knights to take down the monster. Adrian joins them as you stand there for a moment to let the situation process in your head.

Ryunir lands harshly in the middle of the town, growling fiercely as his gaze fleets over the crowd of humans. Hoping to find his mate somewhere in those masses. Not caring if he steps over buildings or other structures, knocking them down in his frantic search. Picking up people with his claws that might resemble your appearance before tossing them away carelessly after seeing it's not the human he's looking for. The knights rush into the scene and start firing arrows upon arrows at the beast, only angering him further even though they barely even pierce his skin. Becoming annoyed by their attempts to kill him he lifts his head high in the air before surrounding the army with hot flames. Some manage to get out of the attack just barely yet badly wounded. Leaping into the air to move more inward of the kingdom he continues looking until a lone knight catches his attention. Recognizing Adrian immediately his nostrils flare up with smoke, seeing the one that has in his eyes, taken away his mate from him fills himnwith unbridled rage.

Seeing the anger flash across the dragon's visage your friend turns around a corner to avoid the incoming fire blast. The flames almost burning his suit. He has to find you quickly, if what you told him was true then Ryunir must be here for a special reason. Avoiding one fire ball after another, Adrian rushes towards the castle grounds towards the woods where he last saw you. With a loud roar the dark dragon climbs up one of the towers and leaps down, the force shaking the ground, sending dust all over and making Adrian stumble the powerful force of the wind throwing him against a nearby tree.

Forcing your friend against the wooden bark, Ryunir's throat starts heating up as he prepares to end the human in front of him, mouth wide open to rip him into pieces. ”Stop!“, Ryunir's jaws clamp shut just inches away, immediately turning his head towards the sound of your voice. The panic and worry on your face very much evident, you hurry over just to stand a safe distance away to keep his attention away from your friend. When he finally sees you standing there in the flesh, his wings lower and his eyes soften. His pupils dilating as he slowly steps closer, ”(y/n)...“, with an almost inaudible murmur Ryunir utters your name. Standing before you his head lowers towards you, sniffing and taking in your scent as if to make sure you're really there in front of him. Finally placing both of your hands upon his scaly snout he rumbles contently and closes his eyes, calming down against the soft caresses.

Adrian's gaze fleets between his friend and the massive dragon as he catches his breath. ”What's happening..?“, slowly he tries to force himself onto his feet with a groan, leaning against the trunk of the tree for support. The dragon immediately starts growling again turning his heated gaze back, but before any of you could say or do anything Ryunir gently lifts you off the ground just like the first time he did, sending Adrian another glare with a loud huff before spreading those massive wings and flying away.

Instead of landing at the castle like you assumed he stops at a far distance away in a clearing amidst the woods, landing safely by a lake and making sure to set you down on your two feet. ”There, you're safe now my mate.“, he announces proudly puffing out his chest, ”That bad human won't steal you away from me again.“ Ryunir wraps his tail around you and pulls you close, a pleasant warmth running through his entire body when you return the gesture.

”He's actually my friend Ryunir, he wasn't trying to steal me away. Adrian thought you would've eaten me back then in the castle.“, you clarify. For a moment his purring comes to a halt as he stares down into those eyes of yours, when he sees that you're actually being serious he averts his gaze almost like a pet that has been caught in an act. Yet he doesn't seem to be bothered by the chaos he's caused and quickly focuses back on the human before him. ”Oh well that doesn't matter. What matters is having my beloved treasure by my side again.“, without thinking he leans down and gives you a loving lick on the cheek. Seeing how stunned you are from his action he lets out an amused chuckle, curling up around your smaller frame, his head resting against yours. ”And there's nothing that will seperate us. That's a promise“

[wolffyluna]

So, in April, I am planning to write the first draft of a novel, because who is going to stop me? Me? I don't want to stop me?

But, unfortunately, it turns out that to write a novel, you have to chose a premise to write. I know. It's criminal.

Below, is a poll, and then a description of the premises under a cut. The poll is not binding, but I am interested to know what people are interested in.

Sapphic Steppe Atrocities vs Space NGOs

Alit and Ngaya faced each other into battle-- until new warriors fell from the sky, clad in armour that could block all bow shot and using weapons that fired light itself. As they flee into the wilderness, they must survive and work out wtf is happening.

Sabina-- who does not have a Greek statue avatar on twitter because social media is for people who do not get shit done-- has a world to conquer, but she, unfortunately, may need the help of the locals to do it. Oh, and upper management is on her case about resources, but you can't strike terror into a populace without resources, okay?

Future just wants a future without smallpox. Humanity has done it once before, it can do it again. She would also like distributing smallpox vaccines to involve less a) space crimes and b) crash landing on planets with hostile weather and hostile people.

Things escalate from here.

2. Siege Engineer x Cavalry General

A century ago, a prophecy was spoke into being: from the steppes would come a rule of the world.

The Great Khan is doing pretty well to reach that goal, but recently, another prophecy has come forth: all empires fall, and this one will fall quicker under the weight of metal flying through the air, propelled by contained fire.

The logical response? Invent guns first. And you know-- capture the engineers who could make one!

Iskander the temporarily named is a siege engineer, with a side interest in explosives, who survived the sack of his city for two reasons: 1. by being forced to hid in a basement when he should have been helping design the last ditch fortifications, and 2. someone ratting out where the siege engineers were hidden. He may be alive, but he is very, very kidnapped.

Bob, the even more temporarily named, is a trusted general, which has unfortunately meant he has been given this task: get one of these engineers to make a gun, or it's his neck on the chopping block with the rest of them. And the only one who knows anything about blackpowder is a fighty arsehole with a death wish. But, it's okay, he's a horse trainer: he has experience dealing with fighty arseholes with a death wish, and he can at least win an arm wrestle against this one.

3. Orc Empress x Cave Elf Assassin

Dude McOrcface was a true rags to riches story, or rather, random guy to Emperor of growing Empire story. He drew together an orc coalition, created a new orcish identity, and was on the up and up. He had multiple wives, include Axeya, Whose Name Must Be Changed, our protagonist.

And then he, rather inconveniently, died. The Empire started immediately fracturing, due to a combination of multiple plausible heirs, steppe partible inheritance, and a lot of powerful orc lords all wanting a slice of that pie.

Women aren’t meant to inherit. Axeya wasn’t even his primary wife. *She didn’t even give him an heir.* But a combination of first mover advantage, sheer ambition, and buckets of charisma, she’s grabbed a sizable portion of his army and land.

But she is now at the head of an imperial shark, that needs to keep fighting and expanding or else it will die. (and well. seeing how many enemies she’s made, so will she.) It’s fine, it’s cool: she goretusk gaslight girlbossed her way into this mess, she’ll goretusk gaslight girlboss her way out.

And okay, maybe the nearest cave elf city has sent an assassin to kill her, but it didn't work! And hey, maybe she can parlay this from an attempted assassination, into a hostage situation, into a very strategic arranged marriage. Don't know if you don't try!

[gingersnaptaff]

A Chained Queen, A Bastard's Birthright

Bringing you all some fic on this here Wednesday night! Please enjoy this oldie but a goodie that I submitted for my university coursework way back when (in 2016!!!!). I've edited it heavily, so if you've read it on Archive of Our Own it's different (and a lot more grammatically correct.) This is chronologically separate from the Gwyn book, as well as being more medieval rather than Celtic, but still. I thought you might like to see something from earlier in the process when I was figuring everything out.

So, without further ado, here you go.

He prowled towards me, his inhumanly bright blue eyes alert and filled with fire. His steps rang out through the oppressive silence, every imposing peal containing the dolour of a funeral bell. A maniacal slash of a smile contorted his face and, as he loomed closer, I recognised the rich tang of iron enveloping him, the stench of it making me recoil. Mud encrusted his bloodied armour, an amber rust cocooning him like blood-choked sand, and he lovingly set his sword down on the floor as he crouched down to see me better through the gloom.

“Do you know what it’s like?” He hissed, a small frown creasing his forehead as he spoke. “To be born a bastard? To become collared by your birthright, lashed to fate, something you have no control over? To see your father treat his knights better than his son? To see him flaunt his power over your mother, over his first love? Have any idea what that’s like, my lady? It destroys you. I’m grateful to your sister for allowing a man such as I to marry her then, Gwyn. But perhaps I should address you as sister now? Or would you prefer me to address you as ‘step-mother?’”

“You’re insane.” I hissed. A cold chill ran down my spine, making me rattle in my chains. “You can’t be Arthur’s son. H- He would have told me, I’m sure. I knew my husband. I knew your supposed father, Medrawd, you scum.”

He tossed back his head and laughed amusedly before he shook his head. “Your words do wound me, my lady. Truly. Such ineffectual strikes.” His humour leached away, replaced with a cold mask that gave his skin a winterish chill. “Yet the same cannot be said for when you wounded my wife with your fists.”

“She deserved it.” I hissed, noting the way that he gritted his teeth at my answer, and how his breathing quickened. Every muscle was taut, a coiled spring, even as he deepened his breathing to try and calm himself so as not to strike me. “By the Gods, you both did! Fach deserved every slap she got.”

“Just as your husband’s pathetic tin soldiers deserved every slash and stab of my army’s swords. Your husband squealed like a boar when he died, I’m ashamed to say. I did so hope he’d have had a regal end, similar to the one my mother told me to enact. Alas. He choked on his own blood. But, perhaps, you might do me the honour instead? I have just breached your kingdom’s defences after all and - since I have no need for a wife now that I have your sister - I’m sure your death will suffice. I am sure that Fach will be delighted. And who knows, if I’m lucky, your death might even send Myrddin out of hiding. Is he taming dragons again, I wonder? He was always so foolish in that regard. An addled magician, cloud-headed and careless.”

“Watch your tone, boy,” I said, trying to ignore the way my voice wavered. “Or I will make you.”

He barked out a laugh and I wondered then if Medrawd had noticed the tears that pooled in my eyes. Or the way that I trembled again as though I was in the throes of a sickness? Gods, I prayed with all my might that he was as unobservant as Arthur had claimed before his untimely demise.

Alas, fate, it seemed, was not so kind.

“Ah, forgive me.” Medrawd’s voice was taunting. A smirk twisted his lips, breaking open the scab at the corner of his mouth. A thin stream of blood ran down his mottled cheek as he leaned closer, his rancid breath hot on my face. “I’d forgotten that you were still the ruler of this land. Of course.” He laughed, a harsh, grating sound akin to the clamour of my chains. “I suspect that you’ll punish me just as soon as you can get out of your restraints then, hmm? Don’t worry, Gwyn, I’ll wait for you. My mother always said that I was patient - as does Fach, as it happens.”

I growled, low and warning, my hands curling into fists. Without a second thought, I hurled myself forward in a vain attempt to reprimand him, only to find myself thrown off balance by the chains that still held me in their unyielding grip. With a shriek, I stumbled with my hands outstretched, only succeeding in righting myself at the last second.

The smirk that he had worn throughout our conversation only grew as he stood up, his blue eyes twinkling in my epicaricacy. “Oh, Gwynhwyfar, such ferociousness over a mere jape!” He waggled his finger at me, tutting. “I thought such a well-born lady like yourself would have impeccable manners, hmm? Gods, what did my father ever see in you? You're nothing more than a yowling bear cub, desperately clawing at the bars of her cage.” His armour clinked, singing mockingly like caged birds, as he picked up his sword. There was an air of carefulness upon him again, one that gave an implacable smoothness to his expression, and his eyes shone with childlike curiosity. “Please, don’t trouble yourself getting up on my account. Although, I do think your chains might prevent that, don’t you?” He tittered again, his eyes suddenly darkening, his voice demanding. “But, tell me, one last thing before I depart - do you think this sword suits me?”

My brow furrowed at his question and I found myself irked by his question. “Why, Medrawd? T'is a sword. A child could craft a more remarkable one out of Rowan.”

His jaw clenched as he took a step into the torchlight. It offered up a scant glow and did little in the way of affording me light with how far away the turncoat guards had placed it from my cell, and I had to strain my eyes to see him.

And then, with one fluid motion, he held out the sword for me to observe.

I leaned forward, curiosity hot in my blood, tempered though it was by my derision. Why was he so insistent on having my opinion? What need did he have to know what I thought? So he could taunt me again? Well, let him.

Let him.

I examined the blade and crossguard, finding both to be dull, covered in the mud of a battlefield. Scrutinising it further, I found that blood encrusted the groove down the centre, and further tracks of rusty red dribbled down it, adding to its morbidity. The hilt was caked in blood also – although the circular pommel was still free of mess, enough for the raided indent of a golden bear to shine through. Raised carvings of bears and winged, clawed creatures that I could not identify adorned the top of the chipped blade, crafted out of tarnished silver.

If only I could see them up close…

I strained against my chains again, gathering just strength and momentum to push them to their breaking point to reach a finger between the prison bars. Tenderly I traced one, feeling the cool metal beneath my fingertips, the raised edges of the designs warming beneath my skin. A wingtip slowly formed, my brain etching in the lines where the silver had been chipped away. And then, a forked tail. A raised leg, a forked tongue. A roar. And slowly, agonisingly, a dragon formed.

A blood-red dragon.

With a jolt of recognition - and I knew that Medrawd could tell that I recognised the sword for he gave out a small, gleeful laugh as I did - I sprang forward, flying off the bed, my chains rattling with taunts.

A bevy of memories swam through my mind, each piercing my heart. I recalled how Arthur had laughed giddily when I’d gifted him it as a wedding present.

How he brandished it with confidence, raising it high above his head as a lad, his dark eyes shining as he vowed to defend our land.

And then, the steady weight of it in my hands as Arthur had instructed me on how to defend myself, his sturdy body warm against my back, his musk thick in my nostrils.

Its blade sparkling in the firelight as I’d cleaned in our chambers, listening to Arthur vent his frustrations, his dreams, his wants as he paced about.

And Llacheu - bright, golden Llacheu, gone before his time - his laughter bubbling in joy as Arthur taught him how to parry in the courtyard…

And now…

And now my husband and son were no more.

Tears itched my eyes. I wanted to remain calm, to be the dignified queen that I was always told to be, but I could not stop myself. Rage suffocated me, constricting my chest with all the heaviness of a boulder.

“T’is Caledfwlch,” I answered hoarsely. “And you wield it with all the inelegance of an inexperienced slinger.” At Medrawd’s affronted huff I pressed on, the chink in his demeanour emboldened me.” What, you think because Arthur did not accept you in life you can mould yourself in his image instead? Brandish his sword in the vain hope that his kingdom will be yours?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his nostrils flaring in anger as he exhaled slowly. “My question, Gwynhwyfar. You have not answered it.”

I shook my head, gritting my teeth, biting my to guess. His eyes were alight, revelling in my grief. A glossy smoothness of pride broek over his sharp features as he chortled, the noise making me silently seethe. I am ashamed to say that at that I broke down, my queenly mask all but slipping off, crashing to the floor.

“I – You bastard!” There was a tightness in my chest as I fought to control my breathing, even as it hitched hysterically. Cold, shocked tears ran down my cheeks as I was suspended there, frozen.

That he would stoop so low…

That he would desecrate Arthur’s body…

With a guttural roar, I threw myself at him, forgetting that the chains were attached to my arms as well as my feet and I stumbled again, only regaining my balance at the last second. “You-!”

“You’re hysterical, my lady,” Medrawd’s tone was a physician’s. Honeyed with a warmth that was as deceitful as he was. He stared at me the way a mother would a simpering child and I wanted to curse him in frustration.

Instead, I spat at him, positively preening at his disgusted yell, “You bitch!”

I laughed loudly, the noise echoing around my dank cell, trying to hide my smirk at his reaction. “My apologies. I'm afraid that I don’t quite know what came over me. It’s just that I thought that you might like some water to clean your sword with. Forgive me if my actions were misconstrued, my dear brother-in-law. Only, you see, my chains prevent me from giving you a bowl.”

Medrawd glared in response as he set about wiping my gift away with a muddied gauntlet. With a displeased huff, he turned to leave, gracing me with a cold silence as he strode to the dungeon door.

“Goodbye, Medrawd,” I hissed, straightening. “May my husband’s sword give you the recognition you sought, for his kingdom will not. It’ll take time. But I’m a patient woman, brother. Don't worry. I’ll wait.”

He turned on his heel, offering me an icy glare, before, at last, he extinguished the torches and left me once more, his footsteps oddly quiet.

[tosxa-h]

No Such Roses I See In Her Cheeks

cont. | @nagareboshiko

Truly there was nothing more fulfilling than the sweet smell of fresh blood. When the rich iron soaks your lungs and you are aware of what you already knew, you were the stronger of the two. Perhaps three... By Celestia, there could be an army. But Ajax knew that he was stronger than the rest... Most.

A trip to the Chasm hadn't been on the cards but given his position within the Harbingers and how they saw him, who was he to refuse when they so kindly asked him to learn a little more about this unknown scope of land? This grand canyon connecting one mass of land to another? What dangers and treasures might lurk there? Fatui had already been dispatched but their investigations long seemed dry and yielded little to nothing of much intrigue. But That Blonde Girl. The one you met in Liyue. My dear traveller had seemed interested in the area for one reason or another. She'd wiped out a fair few of those stationed there. And so word travelled fast. Delight was certainly the word that could describe Childe's feelings to the Chasm Request.

Delighted he certainly was. Travel was swift, he was eager to see Liyue once again but he was fast through the town before he got to the Chasm. Their pathetic idea of security was almost too tempting to strike down, but he decided against it to finding his one way in. And after speaking to what little of the Skirmishers were left he took in the darkness and delights that the Chasm had to offer. Eerily, it reminded him of something from long ago.

As he continued deeper into the rocky formations his boredom only grew. Nothing to fight, nothing to kill. It must have been at least a few hours and he was getting itchy.

"People were going in and not coming out huh?" He grumbled under his breath, disappointed in the lack of life. Just when he thought he should go back to the surface and get rid of all this energy, the sweet familiar clang of metal rang in his ears, echoes of grunts and bodys hitting the cold floor complimented one another. He moved before his mind could think, running down the unfamiliar paths until his eyes caught the Traveller surrounded by mounds of bodies. He didnt have the time to appreciate how stunning she looked in that moment as his dual blade appeared in his hands and he swiftly made work of two Hilichurls at once.

The fray died down, fresh blood on his shoes and sleeve. Childe whipped of the blood from his blades and allowed them to disappear into thin air. "Hey Girly-" There was a groan from the floor, a Hilichurl still breathing despite the wounds. Tartaglia stomped on his head, feeling the bones crack under his heel. It's fingers twitched before it slumped like the flesh and bones it was.

Childe reached forward, tentatively wiping the blood from her cheeks. He noted the way she flinched, but she did little else after and continued to rub the red away from her light skin. Like sanguine and snow. What a sight.

He chuckled and pulled away. "Worse? Saying you had it all under control before I came along?" She was more than capable and he respected her greatly. "Why are you even down here to begin with? Surely cant be to kill off these things?"

[josefavomjaaga]

😥 I was working long hours and took even longer to get to work (due to train strike), so I missed Marshal Ney’s birthday. I’m so sorry! I had planned to translate something special, and I hope it’s still a bit of a present even if it’s a day late.

In summer of 1809, while Soult was still licking his wounds after the disaster in Oporto, anxiously waiting for Napoleon’s judgement and trying to defend himself against all the rumours that accused him of high treason, all the while doing his best to bring Joseph and Jourdan to some action against Wellington - guess who at the same time came to Galicia to pay Michel Ney a visit? Right, Ney’s most devoted Dutch fan girl, Ida Saint-Elme! And it’s a particularly romantic part of her recollections, which were published as "Mémoires d’une Contemporaine":

Ney, who was hardly resting either, had just subdued Galicia.

Okay, Soult already wants to protest against this claim, but let’s ignore him. Please, Ida, go on:

I joined his corps at Banos, forty-eight hours before he came face to face with the English army, which the Marshal completely defeated. Already the spectacle of war, meeting the French battalions, the scent of glory, sweeter to breathe in this country than that of the orange trees that embalm it; this active life, animated entirely by emotion and spectacle, revived my imagination weary of the empty pleasures of the courts and of voluptuous Italy. I felt I was in my element: I was close to Ney, close to the heart that alone could make mine beat. I was happy just to know that he was so close to me and to tell him that we were barely a league apart. Here is the note I received in reply to mine: "Since it's your taste to have an arm or a leg less, hop on a horse and come here." As I read this short, military invitation, I jumped in the saddle and rode off. I had hardly gone a quarter of a league when I met him, and I read in his beaming face all that his note had not told me, the joy of seeing me again, which was the reward for my journey and happiness itself. I have forgotten the names of the places we passed through, but it seems to me that I have never seen a more enchanting place, a more beautiful sky, a sweeter dawn. There was something wild and proud about this rich and picturesque nature.

The road was lined with rocks like a crown. "Here is a magnificent shelter of ravines," Ney said to me, "the tree-lined slopes of which ensure their coolness; let us stop here; you must be in need of rest; we both need to open up and talk;" and here we were, with our horses' bridles slung over our arms, pushing aside the fragrant undergrowth with a vigorous hand, and looking for a retreat that could hear our confidences: it was easy to find in the ravines of Galicia; and, a few hundred paces from the road, we could believe ourselves to be entirely alone in the world. Our horses were quickly tied up, and the secluded spot a little farther on completed the safety of this meeting, so sudden and so little expected. We had been sitting for a few minutes when Ney struck the trunk of an old cedar with his foot, and said to me: "Here, Ida, here is a support for our feet, which will at least save us from a fall;" and, confident in this support so well met, we no longer feared to tread the embalmed moss which served us as a wild divan. I looked at him like one of those figures from a long dream, which the day suddenly shows and illuminates, and which we recognise with all the anxiety and all the troubles of the dream. It's him, though; it's definitely him, I said to myself; I can tell by the glory shining on his forehead, by the pressure of his powerful hand, which is as recognisable as his glory.

Thinking more of the hero than of my love, of the captain needed for his army than of the man needed for my heart, I shuddered fearfully at the thought of this isolation in a country so full of dangers, where a warrior's halt might unexpectedly be surprised by the dagger or bullet of partisans; in a country where hatred of the French name reverberates and watches from mountain to mountain. I felt guilty exposing to these perils, beneath such a great man, a life so dear and so beautiful, that informed assassins could cut it short. It was only a quick thought, but a vivid and gripping one, which, disturbing my thoughts, made me cling tightly to Ney, and as I let out this stifled whisper: "Ney, my friend, let's not stay here; let's go away." - "No, no," he replied, holding me back; "where else would we be, without witnesses to a happiness that I have rediscovered, and which needs solitude and mysterious effusion?" I looked at him with surprise at these words, but with delight, for I was as happy as I was astonished to have remained so dear to him. Never had Ney's face seemed more expressive, never had his looks been more eloquent, never had his words been more intoxicating.

If this was a modern-day AU, this would be the perfect moment for Ney’s phone to ring and for one infuriated Soult to ask why the F he was not receiving any news from Ney’s troops in Galicia. As it was, Ida’s little tête-à-tête with her one-and-only Ney could continue.

At the sight of the security imprinted on the warrior's features, I regained a similar security; there are those moments when everything you feel gives way to everything you inspire. Oh, what inexpressible delights this happiness given by a great man was! Our hearts, separated by such a long time and such long distances, seemed never to have parted, and tasted the pleasure of a similar conviction and an equal sharing of emotions. A new fear came to suspend the enchantment and give it, as it were, all the price of a victory. The reverse side of the ravine which had received us sloped down very rapidly; the trunk of the tree which supported the effort of our feet, a solid yet powerless support, suddenly gave way and broke at the very moment when, immersed as we both were in the rapture of an intimate conversation […]

Listen, it was a conversation, okay? They were only chatting! Intimately chatting!

[…], we had forgotten even the possibility of such a peril, from which Ney's presence of mind and prodigious strength alone saved us: With one hand he seized the branches of the bush that had sheltered us; with the other he pressed and held me violently against him; and, thanks to this struggle, we were able to regain our breath, escape the precipice, and manage to get back to our horses.

I really do not want to know how his aides would have tried to explain the fact that their marshal had fallen into the abyss and to his death while having an intimate conversation. Or why his pants were still up on the cliff...

But if any of the artists out there are looking for inspiration...

Speaking of Ney’s aides, one of them, Levavasseur, in his memoirs has this to say about Ida’s apperance in Spain:

It was at Banos that I saw a French woman arrive on horseback and ask for Marshal Ney. It was the woman who has since called herself la Contemporaine. This woman soon disappeared; what she says about the Marshal in her memoirs is pure invention.

Levavasseur: Don’t you believe what that woman wrote about Ney, she’s a total liar! Besides, she was only with us for a very short time…

But the funniest thing is his casual report on why Ida probably had to leave again so quickly: Ney was already occupied otherwise.

During this trip, the marshal took a tender interest in the duchess; one of my comrades had declared himself the knight of the eldest daughter, and I myself protected the youngest […]

I can’t help but think that the interest the general staff of this army corps was showing to all things female was overly excessive even by French standards… - Wait, what’s that? Oh, another missed phone call for Marshal Ney. Marshal Soult wants to discuss priorities in war times...