#How To Calculate Arc Flash

[gaykarstaagforever]

YouTube has this thing now called YouTube Playables (great name as usual, guys; it's not a children's snack pack), that are basically in-app "Flash games"-style things that are just enough game to keep you watching ads.

The ones of these that aren't direct ripoffs of owned IP (very specifically Zuma) are barebones exercises in that bog-standard FTP addictive mobile gaming loop we all know and hate but also LOVE, minus the in-app purchases (for the time being). Like, shallow systems that are fun for exactly 30 minutes, then get stupidly hard so you'll pay to win, though you can't do that yet, so...kind of pointless.

...I still spent FOUR HOURS playing these, because they tapped into my primitive lizard brain's desire to try and master an utterly meaningless task and then feel undooly smug about it.

I didn't get any ads, because I'm a stooge that pays real money to Google every month for this, because once you go adless, you CANNOT go back. Which kind of negates the whole point of these, as addictive time-wasters that keep you glued to the platform and its commercials? But I already pay for YouTube and STILL got caught in these, so I suppose everything is going according to YouTube's plan either way, and I need meaningful human relationships.

But THAT isn't going to happen any time soon! So let me waste another evening on these by reviewing some crap garbage games for idiots that no one cares about, on Tumblr dot com!

1. Totemia: Cursed Marbles

It's Zuma. That's it. With a couple minor tweaks that make it harder and more annoying.

Just license Zuma, YouTube. I think you can afford the, what, $25 that would cost atm?

2. Sword Play

An on-rails sword slashing game (you don't control the movement, just the slashing), and you kill plastic doll guys before they kill you.

At some point they get projectiles that move really fast, that you can only destroy via specific directional QTEs that don't register properly half the time, because this is all relative finger smearing across the screen.

It was fun before that. The guys fall apart specific to how you slash them. That's something.

3. Dessert DIY

This one sucks. You're just picking from very limited options, then doing specific motions to trigger animations that create desserts that don't even look much like the promo art. People request different things, but early game all they ask for is "whatever you want to make" and "do one out of poop with bugs on it to make someone I hate throw up."

And then there's an animation of someone accepting what is obviously poop with bugs on it from their sworn enemy, they eat it anyway, then vomit.

The only fun part about this is the shameless inclusion of NPCs that look like celebrities, specifically Billie Eilish, Kanye West, and Donald Trump.

If you want to make a poop ice cream cone with bugs on it and feed it to Trump until he vomits all over his desk, this is the game for you. Otherwise, this is meh even for one of these meh games.

4. Bowmasters

Dueling Angry Birds, but you have no control of the camera and it focuses on you so you have to trial-and-error the degree of angle and throwing force to figure out how to hit and kill your opponent before they hit and kill you.

There are many colorful pop culture-inspired combatants to unlock, with a huge variety of projectiles of different weights, sizes, and behaviors. This is the most "very nearly a real, good game" one of these.

...Except that the level progression forces you to do Bonus Rounds, and one of those is "knock fruit off the head of an opponent without hitting them, and you have to do this like 5 times in a row, and we move you further away from them another 30 yards every round, and you have to use a wildly different unique projectile every round, and you get 3 chances, and that includes if you miss entirely."

It is basically impossible to do this, because your ever-changing location makes calculating arcs and force, with the ever-changing projectiles, impossible, in this limited amount of attempts. It turns into grinding it out until RNG randomly makes you win.

Which is a shame, because otherwise, this is fun. But you WILL get stuck on a stupid fruit round and stop playing this.

5. Mob Control

You have a cannon that launches blue guys. The NPC opponent does red. You both are trying to bumrush the other's base, taking advantage of buttons and switches and bonus gates that speed you up or slow you down and multiply your number of guys. Guys annihilate each-other when they run into each-other, so you need to overwhelm Red before they overwhelm you.

It's fun until it gets so fast that it becomes a chore to manage where precisely to launch guys specifically to annihilate other guys.

6. Merge Master

This goddamn game. This was 3.5 hours of my 4 hour playtime.

You have a grid board, with you at the bottom and an opponent at the top. You both have an army of warriors and dinosaurs, and a team HP bar. You click go, the warriors fire projectiles and the dinosaurs melee the nearest enemy, and last man standing wins.

Before each round, you can arrange the placement of your army, and use money you won from the last rounds to buy more warriors and dinosaurs. But the kicker is, you can combine like warriors and dinosaurs to make more powerful units, which you keep at the end of every round. They don't gain XP or anything, but as you make more money, you can buy more 1st-level units (that's all you can buy), and gradually combine them and then combine the combinations, and on and on and on, making incredibly powerful new units. And you need a mix of low-level and high-level units to have enough melee dinosaurs and projectile-throwers to overwhelm high-level enemy units, or draw fire away from your own, against the ever-changing enemy army each round.

It's a process of slowly adding more units and combining them to make stronger and stronger units, and as many of them as you can get, accounting for the limited board space. Also the price of units rises exponentially each round, so you may have 1 trillion gold, but at this point a new 1st-level dinosaur costs 245 billion.

I couldn't stop with this. It just got me. I wanted to see new exciting high-level warriors and dinosaurs, and see how fast I could take the other army down. There's more than zero strategy at work here, and battles can vary substantially from round to round, depending on what mix of units the enemy brings to the board.

It's still a rudimentary Flash-esque game, and very much akin to those shitty mobile boss rush games that raid our shadow legends. But it's not PTW yet, and the graphics are a charming and distorted replica of early 2000s 3D games, like Age of Mythology or GTA 3. It felt like something, for awhile.

It isn't, and I wasted valuable battery charge on this stupid shit. But I was having fun. And sometimes, that's enough.

...And posting about it here. It's something to talk about that isn't the world eating itself.

And we all need that sometimes.

[vexwerewolf]

Should I read homestuck

tl;dr: no

actual answer: yes, but with some extremely important caveats.

Firstly, because Adobe shitcanned Flash, you can now no longer experience Homestuck in the form it was intended upon release... unless you download the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. This act of unbelievable, nay, saintly generosity by Homestuck's most dedicated fans allows you to experience Homestuck as it was intended - as close as is humanly possible.

"As close as is humanly possible" is the key phrase here. One indelible part of the original Homestuck experience was UPDATE! Homestuck would sometimes go weeks or even months (and later, years) between updates. I wasn't on Tumblr back in the day, but at the peak of Homestuck, even if you knew nothing else about it, you'd know when an update dropped because Tumblr's net traffic would increase something like three to fourfold. People would go apeshit bananas about whatever new revelations the Huss would drop on us.

You also need to realise that Homestuck is a product of its time and while its takes on sexuality and gender identity was pretty progressive (for its time), Huss did use the r-slur a bunch.

While we're on the subject of the author, Andrew Hussie (of whom my current understanding is that they have not changed name but go by they/them nowadays) is, in the most diplomatic possible terms, a very unique person. They are, at times, a visionary storyteller with genuinely fascinating ideas. At other times, they come off as kinda spiteful towards their readers.

Without meaning to dip into spoilers, some story beats seem (in my opinion) almost intentionally calculated to upset, irritate or mock certain fans. It never rises to the sheer vicious contempt that Steven Moffat had towards Sherlock's fanbase, but it does leave a bad taste in my mouth whenever I go back.

Additionally, and this is where a sort of birds-eye-view spoiler is unavoidable, the story suffers from the Game of Thrones pitfall of repeatedly increasing its own complexity by adding new plot threads without resolving existing ones, eventually leading to fatigue on the part of both the reader and the author. The arcs of a lot of characters just straight up get abandoned, while a couple of characters take an unnecessarily large amount of screen time.

There's one character in particular that the author openly states within the narrative (the author exists within the world of the story. It's... a whole thing) that they favour, and whose behaviour the story is warped to accommodate. You'll know exactly who I'm talking about almost the moment they show up.

Another reason I say that it's not really possible to read Homestuck as it was originally intended is because a lot of the shit that happens in it fits into the zeitgeist of the internet at the time any individual update was written. There's a whole section in the late middle third that is inextricably and very specifically tied to how it was like to use Tumblr in 2012.

Additionally, a lot of things have soured with time. There was the whole Hiveswap debacle (it was first announced in 2012. We got the first act in 2017. We got the second act in 2020. We do not even know if the third act will ever come out.). There were the legal threats. There were the Epilogues and Homestuck 2, which were... how do I put this? Not universally liked. There's been nearly a decade of discourse since Homestuck ended, and a lot of things haven't grown better with age.

All of that being said.

You should read it.

I cannot express to you just how big an impact Homestuck has had on internet culture. Even people who claim to hate Homestuck unconsciously use slang that it invented. Its unique ideas on storytelling, character design and narrative chronology have, in both subtle and unsubtle ways, changed the way millennials and Gen Z tell stories.

A lot of people were inspired to tell stories because of Homestuck - one example I always give to Lancer players is that Kill Six Billion Demons started as a comic on the MSPA forums (before it was homestuck.com, it was MS Paint Adventures), so Homestuck is in an indirect but demonstrable way responsible for the existence of Lancer. The sunglasses that Gideon Nav from the Locked Tomb wears have been explicitly stated by Tamsyn Muir to be Dave Strider's. Toby Fox made music for Homestuck, and worked on large parts of Undertale while living in Andrew Hussie's basement.

We also know someone in the Bluey creative team is a Homestuck, because...

There are subtle but direct references in Bojack Horseman, Hazbin Hotel, Steven Universe, Adventure Time - and those are just the ones that it's easy to prove! In a more general sense, I think there's a lot of cartoon series, movies, games, etc. that would either be very different or wouldn't exist if Homestuck hadn't happened.

It's certainly influenced my work.

I think, being very cautious to manage your expectations, that you should read Homestuck. At the very least, a lot of things people say on Tumblr will start to make, if not sense, a different kind of nonsense.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Spice & Secrets Chapter 2

Masterlist

Pairing: Constantine Corrino x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Betrayal of Duty vs. Love, Angst, Yearning, Power Dynamics, Politics, reader is a bene gesserit, first time, drinking, fighting, semi-public sex, smut

Word of the Richese boy's death reached the Bene Gesserit faster than anyone else, as always. The funeral took place the following day, with the boy’s body draped in gold covers as the families of House Corrino and House Richese gathered to bury him.

That evening, you made your way through the palace alongside Sister Hera. As you walked, you exchanged a subtle hand signal, and the two of you split paths, moving in opposite directions.

You continued down the hall, passing several rooms before stopping at a familiar door at the end of the corridor.

You knocked.

A minute passed before the door creaked open to reveal Constantine. His bedhead was disheveled, and he rubbed at his eyes. His gaze softened when he realized it was you. "Flower, what are you doing here?" he asked, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

You didn’t miss the way he positioned himself against the door, like he was hiding something.

"A child was killed on palace grounds,” you said, with a serious tone. “And the killer has not been caught. I’m here to check in on you-”

The door behind him opened abruptly, and a woman stepped out, her dress hastily arranged, her hair a mess. She paused, her eyes meeting yours for longer than was necessary.

Recognition dawned as you realized she was the sister of the boy who had been killed.

Your mouth dropped open slightly, and your gaze darted between her and Constantine. His expression was a mix of discomfort and guilt.

"Never mind," you spoke coolly, bowing slightly to mask your disgust. "I see all is as usual with you."

You turned on your heel and walked away. He didn’t follow.

You landed hard on the mat, your breath catching as Sister Hera’s blade pressed lightly against your throat.

"I yield," you groaned, accepting her extended hand to help you up.

"You seem distracted," said Hera, wiping her brow with a cloth.

"... I need to speak to Mother Superior," you admitted. "I had a vision yesterday," you said quietly. "My skin was burning. I was dying. And they found that poor boy today."

"You felt what he felt?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"Something must have triggered it." Her tone was tinged with amazement. "What were you doing when it happened?"

Golden hooded eyes, his parted lips, his touch against your skin flashed in your mind.

"I was on patrol," you lied.

Footsteps echoed, drawing both of your attentions to the entrance as the imperial bastard prince appeared, his presence commanding even in the dim light.

"I was hoping to find you here," he said, his gaze fixed on you.

Hera gave you a look before excusing herself.

You turned to him, your expression guarded.

He opened his mouth to speak, but when you held out your blade, he paused. Then he understood. Shrugging off his vest, he approached you on the mat, taking the weapon from your hand.

You activated your suit, and so did he.

"En garde." you said, assuming a defensive stance.

You advanced first, your blade moving in precise arcs. Constantine deflected each strike with ease, his movements calculated and smooth. When you got too close, he countered, bringing his blade to your throat.

You looked down at the weapon at your pulse, then back up at him. You were evenly matched, and his widened eyes told you he realized the same.

"What you saw this morning. That wasn’t right." he said, his voice low.

"You’re the Emperor’s son," you replied flatly. “Why do you care what I think?"

"You know why."

"Well, you’re lucky. It so happens that I don’t care. What you choose to do in your free time is none of my concern."

"I almost believe you." He grinned.

"That boy hasn't even buried for a full day before you took his sister to your bed." Your voice was sharp, tinged with judgment.

"She was waiting for me," he said defensively. "I was drunk, heartbroken, and she was... interested. We didn’t exchange a single word before then."

"Words aren’t necessary. A look is all it takes from you, Corrino."

He raised his chin, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Yes, I see now how much you don’t care."

Damn it. You’d given him power over you. Frustrated, you decided to show him who he was dealing with. Advancing with deliberate steps, you broke through the barrier of his suit, grabbing his arm and sweeping his legs out from under him.

Constantine’s eyes widened in shock as he hit the ground but quickly rolled back to his feet.

You stood taller, your chin raised. Once, you would have relied on him for protection. Now, you were trained and skilled in the Weirding Way. The stakes had changed, and his surprise only fueled your satisfaction.

"Is this what our fights will be like when we’re married?" he huffed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I can’t wait."

Your voice was edged with rage. "You really think we’ll last? Or will you go with the first woman who waits for you in your room a day after were together?"

"We were together?" he shot back, his brow arched. "Or were you in the tenth dimensions exploring the astral plain... pardon me if I took your mid-climax departure as a clear rejection."

"That vision I had was a gift. One I unlocked by being with you!" You argued.

His eyes narrowed in confusion.

"I wanted to speak to you yesterday," you said, your voice quieter now, "to ask if you felt... different."

The silence grew heavy between you.

"You fought well," you said at last, saluting him.

He returned the gesture, understanding the conversation was over. Leaving his blade and armor by the door, he walked out without another word.

Constantine sat at a dimly lit bar surrounded by his friends. The conversation, which had begun lightheartedly three whiffs ago, had shifted to politics with the passing of Dennis's spice container for the third time.

"The recent drop in spice prices. Some say it’s sabotage targeting your father’s spice workers. What do you make of it, Costa?" His friend, Dennis, asked.

Constantine sipped his drink. "Harkonnen desperation. When a house as weak as them resorts to violence, it’s less about strategy and more about survival.”

"And what of the Fremen?"

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "What of them?"

"You don’t think they’re behind these attacks?"

Constantine shrugged. "As far as I know, they’re a weak minority on Arrakis. Nothing to worry our pretty little minds about."

Colin smirked behind his glass. "Rumor has it the Emperor’s next move involves a new Empress."

Dennis laughed dryly. "A time-honored tradition, isn’t it? When diplomacy falters, there’s always the marriage bed." Nudging Constantine with a sly grin he said. "Speaking of, Flower’s back. How convenient."

"Wouldn’t that be something?" Colin mocked. "The Emperor leaving you his sloppy seconds."

Constantine turned to him with a faint smirk. "Perhaps if you concerned yourself with your aim as much as you do imperial affairs, you’d be a decent shot."

Colin offered him a fake chuckle. group laughed uneasily, the tension palpable.

Fueled by alcohol and a bruised ego, Colin stood up, swaying slightly. "Fellas, the night is young, the stars are clear, and the weather is perfect! The amphitheater is calling out our name."

The amphitheater was a grand arena reserved for gladiator fights. It was their clandestine playground.

When they trained with their sword masters, the boys seldom experienced any real pain or risk. But here, in the dead of night, they would pretend to be gladiators, feeding their desire for raw, brutal, and carnal behavior.

The friends exchanged uncertain glances.

Constantine, still eyeing Collin, took a long swig from the bottle, then stood. "Why not?"

The amphitheater was illuminated by the moonlight casting shadows over the sandy floor. Colin and Constantine discarded their shirts, stepping into the center. No weapons allowed.

They saluted each other, reciting an old gladiator chant, their voices saying the well-known phrase in unison.

Colin attacked first. Constantine dodged, but his movements were clumsy, his reflexes dulled by alcohol.

Their friends murmured nervously, they made for the stage. Constantine raised a hand, stopping them. "It’s between me and him," he declared.

The fight intensified. Constantine’s concertration faltered, and Colin’s fist struck his cheek. Constantine tasted blood.

The arena's unease grew, their laughter replaced by anxious whispers.

You read in your quarters when a vision struck you.

Flashes of pain. The rough feeling of sand. The pillars of the amphitheater. The taste of blood. The crowd’s unease. Colin standing over you, fists raised.

The vision vanished as quickly as it came. You stumbled to your feet, heart racing, and ran out the door.

Constantine was on the ground, dazed and bleeding. Colin stood over him, blade poised to strike. When had he brought it?

"Drop the knife!"

The voice boomed through the amphitheater, ghostly and commanding.

Colin’s blade clattered to the ground, landing at his side.

Disoriented, Constantine turned, as you descended the stairs. Your nightgown clung to you, sheer fabric glinting in the moonlight.

"Oh no," Colin muttered, his face paling as he caught sight of you.

You hurried to Constantine’s side, dropping to your knees and pulling him into a fierce embrace. "Are you hurt?" you demanded, your hands frantically searching for wounds.

"I’m fine," Constantine mumbled. "Flower, he wasn’t going to-"

You rounded on his friends, your voice ringing with supernatural authority. "Go home. Forget this night ever happened."

Their faces slackened, their eyes glazed. Without a word, they turned and walked away.

Constantine struggled to his feet, swaying slightly.

You glared at him. "Every day, I worry about you. Did you know that? Every thought is 'Is he safe? Is he hurt?' Meanwhile, here you are, throwing your life away over a stupid game!"

He didn't speak.

You held your palm to your forehead. "You’re the Emperor's only male heir. A gifted strategist, a capable fighter, a talented musician. Why don’t you see the vakue of your life?"

"Because it’s all for nothing!" Constantine shouted, his voice cracking. "I will never inherit the throne!"

"And I’ll never be free of the Sisterhood," you shot back. "We’re both trapped, Constantine. But you have the power to make something of yourself. You have everything I don’t. Freedom, wealth, power-"

"You're wrong." He interrupts. "I dont want the benefits of being a bastard. I want a purpose. I studied our politics, I worked for them, and I secured relations for years, but she's going to be the one on the throne. And what else, I can’t be with the one person I truly desire."

His bitterness was fueled by alcohol and his unrequited love. "You’re so loyal to your precious Sisterhood. So willing to give them everything. But have they ever thought about you?"

You kept your composure, "They’ve given me a purpose. Something beyond what you can even comprehend.”

Constantine narrowed his eyes, his tone turning cutting. "What? Some prophecy that will be realized thousands of years from now when we will all be dead? You don’t even see it, do you? They’re grooming you! Like they groomed my mother. To be nothing more than... than a ‘toy,’ for some rich pervert. Do you think the men they send you to will care about you at all?"

"I know the risks, Costa." Still you faltered, clearly affected by his words but refusing to let him see it. "It's a necessary evil."

His voice grows softer, laced with anger and anguish. "You’d rather throw yourself at a sisterhood that trained you to conceive children... than let someone who actually gives a shit about you show you what it means to feel wanted. To feel loved.”

Your face burned, equal parts anger and humiliation.

Constantine stepped abruptly, crowding your space. "Tell me I’m wrong," he growled. "Tell me you haven’t thought about that night. About what it felt like to let go. To trust someone. To trust me." His hands rose to griped your arms.

The tension was thick. Your nipples pebbled against the thin material of your nightgown. And the heated gaze he gave you fueled something within you. Something exciting, something powerful was happenning to you.

"I have," you gasped, unable to meet his gaze. You zeroed in on one focal point - his lips. Beautiful, cut from his fight.

A moment later, they were pressing against yours. He pushed you against the wall, lifting you into his arms. He angled his lips on yours, molding your bodies together. His bare chest brushing against your sensitive nipples.

With his free hand, his finger grasped your hair and pulled, baring your neck and collarbones to him. The string holding the front of your nightgown was loosening with each movement. And then his lips traveled down your throat, kissing, licking, and biting, his curls tickled your neck, and you couldn't control the sounds you made.

He raised you up higher against the wall so that your chest was in front of his face. You looked at the hunger in his eyes as he licked his lips before taking your nipple in his warm mouth. Your back arched off the wall as your hand rose to grasp his hair, bringing him closer to you. Silently begging for more, more.

He switched to your other nipple, leaving the first one cold and sensitive in the night air. His hand reached beneath your skirt to cup your sex, his fonger sliding into you easily.

"Costa!" You cried against him. The stimulation on your sex and nipples was too much, not to mention the fact that the two of you were in a public space right now. It was currently empty, but that didn't mean you were alone.

Your training forced you to push away, masking your vulnerability, as you smoothed down your nightgown and turned back with a calm expression. "Dont say such things when you’re drunk, Constantine."

Constantine’s bitter laugh echoed through the empty amphitheater. Then he paused.

Something shifted in Constantine’s gaze. A clarity, sharp and dangerous.

"You’re right," he said softly, almost to himself. "I’m the Emperor’s only male heir. A strategist. A warrior."

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. “I can have anything I want.”

You nodded, misunderstanding him. “Exactly. You just need to decide what it is you truly want.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Constantine’s face. I want everything, he thought.

And you. You would be his, too.

[inky-writing]

Chapter 1: From Afar

Cato Hadley x reader

Warnings: fighting, blood, weapons, dictatorship...

Word count: 966

Masterlist

The sun hung low in the sky over District 2, casting a golden glow over the large training arena where the finest young people sharpened their skills. The smell of sweat and steel filled the air, an almost intoxicating reminder of the district’s pride in its warriors.

Cato Hadley stood near the edge of the arena, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched the trainees spar in pairs. His sharp blue eyes scanned the scene, but they always seemed to find their way back to one person: Y/N.

She was a force to be reckoned with, her sword flashing like lightning as she danced around her opponent. The other girl, a strong and beefy fighter in her own right, barely had time to raise her weapon before Y/N disarmed her with a well-timed feint and a brutal strike to her wrist. The clatter of the sword hitting the floor echoed through the arena, followed by the sound of the girl’s knees hitting the mat. Y/N didn’t stop there. With a fluid motion, she pointed the tip of her blade at her opponent’s throat, her stance poised and lethal.

"Enough!" barked their instructor, his voice carrying across the room.

Y/N stepped back, lowering her sword, though the intensity in her eyes didn’t waver. Her opponent groaned, clutching her wrist as two medics hurried over to escort her to the infirmary. Y/N’s face softened slightly as she watched the girl leave, but she didn’t apologize. That wasn’t the way of District 2.

Cato’s jaw tightened as he watched her. She was… incredible. He had always known Y/N was special, from the moment they had met as kids. She had outmatched every opponent she faced, and over the years, she had only grown stronger, sharper, deadlier. Even now, at sixteen, she was better with a sword than he was, though he would never admit it out loud. It wasn’t just her skill that drew him to her, though. It was the fire in her, the determination in every move she made, the way she carried herself as though nothing in the world could break her.

But she was more than just a fighter to him. She was Y/N. His Y/N, though he’d never dared to say the words out loud.

Clove’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You’re staring again," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

Cato scowled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I’m not staring."

"Oh, please," Clove said, rolling her eyes. "You’ve been watching her like a hawk all day. It’s a wonder how she doesn’t notice."

"She’s my…" Cato hesitated, searching for the right word. "She’s my friend. I’m just… making sure she’s focused."

Clove raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Cato ignored her, turning his attention back to the arena just in time to see Y/N sparring with a new opponent. This time, it was a boy their age, one of the strongest trainees. He rushed at her with a roar, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Y/N sidestepped effortlessly, her movements precise and calculated. Within seconds, she had disarmed him, sending his sword flying across the room. She followed up with a swift kick to his chest, knocking him flat on his back. The match was over before it had even begun.

The other trainees erupted into cheers and applause, though there was an undercurrent of unease in the room. No one wanted to face Y/N in the arena, not even the boys. She was simply too good.

Y/N turned, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Cato. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them. Her lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile before she turned away, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Cato felt his heart skip a beat. Damn it.

"You should just tell her," Clove said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall next to him.

"Tell her what?" Cato asked, though he already knew what she meant.

"That you’re in love with her, smarty pants," Clove said, smirking. "It’s not like it’s a secret."

Cato shook his head, his expression hardening. "It doesn’t matter. She… she deserves better."

Clove’s smirk faded, replaced by a rare look of seriousness. "You’re an idiot, you know that? She’s crazy about you. Everyone can see it. Well, everyone except you, apparently."

Before Cato could respond, Y/N approached them, her sword resting against her shoulder. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing," Cato said quickly, his voice a little too sharp.

Clove snorted. "We were just talking about how you’re going to end up in the infirmary one day if you keep sparring like that. You’re going to run out of opponents at this rate."

Y/N laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Maybe I’ll start sparring with you instead."

Clove raised her hands in mock surrender. "I’ll pass, thanks. I like my limbs intact."

Y/N turned her attention to Cato, her smile softening. "What about you? Care for a match?"

Cato hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "Maybe later."

Y/N’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, as though she could see right through him, before she nodded. "Suit yourself."

As she walked away, Cato felt a pang of regret. He wanted to tell her, to say all the things he had been holding back for years. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The Reaping was only a week away, and if either of them was chosen…

He clenched his fists, pushing the thought away. For now, he would watch her from the sidelines, silently rooting for her, silently loving her. It was all he could do.

Next chapter >>>

[devdozes]

♦ Oh the everlasting windblade! (Pt 2)

PART TWO GIGGLES IS HERE

Part 1 is here!!

The silence between you and Blade stretched like a drawn bowstring, the tension thick enough to cut. The wind stirred, rustling the leaves overhead as the moon peeked through the shifting canopy.

His crimson eyes never wavered from yours, their sharpness cutting through the night like the very sword he wielded. His grip on his blade was relaxed yet calculated—waiting, watching.

You, however, weren’t one to sit still. With a tilt of your head, you grinned, your fingers grazing the smooth curve of your bow.

“Since we’re both here on the eve of the Crimson Moon… how about a little warm-up?” Your voice carried a teasing lilt, but beneath it was a challenge, a spark of something genuine.

Blade’s eyes flickered—subtle amusement? Or perhaps just intrigue. Either way, he said nothing, but you caught the faintest shift in his posture, the way his stance adjusted ever so slightly. It wasn’t outright acceptance, but it wasn’t refusal either.

A smirk tugged at your lips. That was all the confirmation you needed.

Without another word, you moved. Your body twisted, your feet pushing off the earth as you sprang backward, swiftly nocking an arrow to your bow. The tension of the string thrummed against your fingertips as you took aim, the wind shifting just as you loosed your shot.

Blade was fast.

Before your arrow could reach him, he sidestepped, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. The gleam of steel caught the moonlight as he deflected your arrow midair, sending it flying off into the trees with a sharp clang.

Your heart kicked up in exhilaration.

“Oh?” You grinned, leaping onto the nearest tree branch, perching with ease. “You didn’t even try dodging? Confident, aren’t we?”

Blade still didn’t speak. But he moved.

With a single, powerful step, he vanished.

Your breath hitched as a sharp gust of wind roared past you, his presence flickering for just a second before he reappeared at the base of the tree. His blade gleamed red in the moonlight, droplets of his own blood flicking from its edge as he raised it once more.

Fast. Too fast.

You barely had time to react before he struck.

With a sharp intake of breath, you pushed off the branch just as his sword carved through where you had been a moment ago. You flipped midair, twisting as you loosed another arrow—this time, aiming straight for his feet.

Blade clicked his tongue, twisting his blade downward to deflect the shot. The arrow bounced off, but the force of your attack kicked up a burst of dirt and leaves around him, obscuring his vision for just a split second.

You landed a few paces away, steadying yourself. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you felt alive, energy thrumming through your veins.

Blade slowly emerged from the dust, his red-ribboned hair swaying behind him. His expression was unreadable, but his crimson eyes held something different now—a glint of interest.

“You fight with precision,” he finally murmured, lifting his blade to rest against his shoulder.

You twirled your bow in your hands, grinning. “You fight with blood. Not exactly fair, is it?”

His gaze flickered down to the thin cuts on his hand, where his technique had drawn just enough blood to fuel his attacks. He didn’t respond to your comment, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

“You’re reckless,” he said instead.

“And you’re dramatic.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the rustling leaves and your quiet, challenging smirk.

Then, Blade exhaled, his grip on his sword shifting ever so slightly.

“…Again.”

Your grin widened. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The night air crackled with energy, the quiet hum of the forest drowned out by the clash of steel and the sharp whistle of arrows cutting through the wind. Blade moved like a phantom, his sword slicing through the darkness with deadly precision. His crimson eyes followed your every movement—calculating, unwavering.

You danced between the trees, your steps light, nimble. Each arrow you loosed was aimed to force him to move, to test the limits of his infamous technique. But Blade didn’t falter. He met every attack head-on, his blade a storm of fluid, unrelenting strikes.

Wind howled with every swing, stirring the leaves into a frenzy. His blood-fueled technique was something monstrous—every cut he inflicted upon himself only made his strikes faster, sharper. And yet, despite the sheer force behind his attacks, you didn’t back down.

Your arrows kept him on his toes, forcing him to defend, to adjust, to react.

Blade hadn’t expected this.

At first, he thought you were simply another arrogant archer with decent skill. But your precision… your adaptability… the way you anticipated his movements—it was exhilarating.

No one had made him think like this in a fight for a long time.

Another arrow shot toward him, this time aimed at the delicate space between his sword swings. A well-timed distraction.

Blade grunted, deflecting it just in time, but the moment he did, you were already moving.

With a sharp pivot, you ducked low, using the terrain to your advantage. A swift roll across the dirt and you were behind him, an arrow already drawn.

Blade twisted, eyes flashing. His instincts screamed for him to strike—but something held him back.

He hesitated.

It was brief, almost imperceptible, but in that instant, you loosed your shot.

The arrow skimmed past his cheek, grazing his skin before embedding itself in the tree behind him.

Silence fell between you.

Your breaths came fast and uneven, your fingers still tight around your bow. Blade’s grip on his sword remained firm, but his heart pounded—not with exertion, but something else.

Something unsettling.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to strike down his opponent.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. A grin tugged at the corner of your lips, though your eyes gleamed with something more than just amusement.

“A tie?” you offered, voice light, teasing.

Blade exhaled slowly.

He had spent years sharpening his technique, bathing in blood, carving his name into legend as the Merciless Bloodbather. And yet here you were—laughing, grinning—as if you hadn’t just gone toe-to-toe with him in a battle most would have fled from.

He should have been annoyed.

But instead, he felt something foreign twist in his chest.

Intrigue.

And perhaps, just the faintest flicker of admiration.

“…A tie,” he murmured at last. His voice was quiet, edged with something unreadable.

You smiled, lowering your bow. “Not bad, Merciless Bloodbather.”

Blade scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he sheathed his sword. “You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough.”

Silence stretched between you again. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering tension.

Blade should have turned and walked away. Should have left without another word, as he always did.

But his eyes lingered on you just a moment longer.

The night of the Crimson Moon arrived, casting an eerie red glow over the Luofu. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of steel, sweat, and earth mingling as the greatest swordsmen gathered in the heart of the Jade Forest.

It was tradition. The night before had been for training, sharpening one’s edge, pushing the body and soul beyond their limits. But tonight was for battle.

Blade stood at the center of the clearing, his black hanfu shifting with the wind, his long navy hair with crimson tips flowing behind him like a storm waiting to be unleashed. His crimson eyes reflected the blood moon above, sharp and unwavering.

The first challenger lunged.

A flurry of steel—two swords meeting in a deadly dance. Blade did not falter, did not hesitate. His blade met his opponent’s with brutal efficiency, deflecting the strike before twisting his body with inhuman speed. A single step, a downward slash—his sword cut through the air with the force of the wind itself.

The challenger barely had time to react. The sheer impact sent him skidding across the dirt, his sword trembling in his hands. Blade did not spare him another glance.

Another fighter rushed in. Then another.

A coordinated attack. They thought numbers would be enough to overwhelm him.

Fools.

Blade moved like a shadow, weaving between blades as if he could read their movements before they even struck. He parried a strike to his left, pivoted, then countered with a lightning-fast upward slash that sent sparks flying into the air. The wind howled with his movements, a storm gathering around him as if the very elements bent to his will.

His blade found flesh. A deep cut along one opponent’s arm—non-lethal, but enough to incapacitate.

Another strike. A clash of swords. The sound of metal grinding against metal filled the air, but Blade did not falter. His crimson eyes locked onto his next opponent, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

He did not fight with hesitation. He did not waste energy on unnecessary movements.

Every step, every swing, every drop of blood spilled was calculated, precise.

A strike from behind—he twisted, raising his sword just in time to deflect a downward slash. With a sharp exhale, he kicked forward, sending the attacker stumbling back.

The wind stirred violently around him.

Another deep breath.

A single, shallow cut along his own palm.

Crimson dripped onto his blade, and the moment it did, the very air around him seemed to shift.

A terrifying aura pulsed from his body.

The onlookers felt it immediately—the shift in the battlefield, the suffocating pressure of his presence. It was as if the very forest had stilled, as if the world itself held its breath in the wake of his technique.

Then he moved.

Faster. Sharper. A whirlwind of blood and steel.

One swordsman fell. Then another. Each of them bested before they could even react, their bodies hitting the ground as Blade stood at the center, untouched, unmoving. His blade gleamed under the crimson moon, painted with the remnants of the battle.

Silence.

Then a hushed murmur among the remaining fighters. Some hesitated now, gripping their weapons with uncertainty.

They had heard the legends. They had feared the stories.

But tonight, they saw why he was called the Merciless Bloodbather.

Blade exhaled, his breath steady, controlled. His crimson eyes flickered toward the remaining warriors.

But before another fighter could step forward, a leaf, caught in the evening wind, fluttered down toward Blade. His sharp instincts nearly had him slicing through it, but something about its slow descent made him pause. It drifted toward him, swaying lightly before settling into his open palm.

His brows furrowed. Something was written on it.

"You look like you haven’t slept in ten years. Do you even blink?"

Blade blinked.

Silence.

Then his crimson eyes lifted from the ridiculous message, scanning the crowd with sharp precision. Someone had sent this. Someone had the audacity. His gaze swept over the spectators—calculating, searching, as if his very presence demanded the culprit to reveal themselves.

And then, he found you.

Standing there, grinning like a fox, you lifted a hand and waved at him with innocent delight. The way your eyes sparkled, filled with genuine amusement and mischief, made it clear that you were the culprit. Pretty.

Blade’s brows furrowed, his expression turning into a cold, unimpressed side-eye. He exhaled through his nose, feigning irritation, acting as though your presence was an unwanted nuisance.

But deep inside, so faint it barely existed—

He was smiling.

Why? He was simply a weapon, an emotionless Blade. So, Why?

He didn't know. And that unsettled him.

It wasn’t often that something—or someone—managed to pull his mind away from the battlefield. His thoughts were always steel-sharp, honed like his sword, focused only on his blade and the enemies that stood before him. Yet now, in the aftermath of combat, his mind wavered.

The sight of you—radiant and utterly unfazed by his reputation—lingered longer than it should have.

He could have ignored it. Should have.

But the smirk in your eyes, the way your presence felt like a breeze cutting through his storm, unsettled something in him.

And the worst part?

He didn't hate it. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The battle concluded. Warriors fell to the ground, some groaning in exhaustion, others in surrender. Blade remained standing, his blade stained yet steady, his title once again reaffirmed: the strongest swordsman in all of Luofu. The crowd murmured in awe, some stepping forward to acknowledge his victory, others too fearful to approach.

As he turned to leave the battlefield, the last thing he expected was a sudden movement behind him.

Boo!

A familiar voice, playful and teasing.

Blade didn’t even flinch.

He turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes catching the sight of you standing there, arms crossed, a smug grin on your lips. Your attempt to scare him had failed spectacularly.

"Hmph." He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, but his sharp gaze lingered on you for a beat too long.

"Tch." He turned away, his hanfu billowing as he walked past you. "Foolish."

But if you had been standing a little closer, if you had been paying attention to the smallest details, you might have caught something else.

The slightest twitch of his lips.

The almost imperceptible softness in his gaze. “Oi, are you a living corpse?” Your voice carried easily through the crowd, light and teasing. You weaved through the remaining swordsmen, completely unfazed by their lingering awe and exhaustion, and stopped right before him. Arms crossed, a playful glint in your eyes. “You didn’t even blink while beating the contestants up, man.”

Blade exhaled through his nose, wiping the edge of his blade before sliding it back into its sheath. “Okay. Thanks.”

You snorted. “That’s it? Just ‘okay’?” You tilted your head, amused. “Not even a little celebration?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning your face as if you were something to be studied. You had that same energy as before—restless, teasing, yet grounded in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. You had seen his fights, his ruthlessness, the way he cut through opponents like slicing through air. And yet, you stood here, smiling like he hadn’t just lived up to his title as the Merciless Bloodbather.

It was irritating.

It was… intriguing.

“I don’t celebrate victories,” he finally said, turning slightly, as if dismissing you.

But you didn’t leave.

Instead, you hummed, rocking on your heels. “That’s boring.”

Blade frowned. “It is unnecessary.”

“Mm, no. It’s boring.” You grinned, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “If I were you, I’d be drinking some nice wine right now, basking in the glory of my undefeated status. Maybe even getting a free meal out of it.”

He side-eyed you. “Then it is fortunate that you are not me.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Wow. So cruel.” Then, after a pause, your grin softened. “But really. You fought well.”

Blade stiffened at the sincerity in your voice. He was used to praise—reverence, fear, admiration coated in trembling words. But the way you said it felt different. Genuine. As if you were acknowledging more than just his skill, more than just his brutality.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

So, he did what he always did—he ignored it.

“You are distracting me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

Blade opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning slightly. What was it, exactly, that you were distracting him from? The battle was over. His duty was complete. And yet, here he stood, lingering when he should have already walked away.

Blade walked through the dimly lit paths of the Luofu, the lingering echoes of battle still fresh in his mind. The wind carried the scent of disturbed earth and lingering traces of sweat and steel, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Specifically, they were stuck on you.

You, who had barged into his life a while ago, had been approaching him every single day for the past 2 months now. You, with your teasing grins, your playful antics, your relentless curiosity. You, who had the audacity to shoot an arrow near his head just to get his attention.

And now, here you were, walking beside him, yapping away about a book that, apparently, had aggravated you so much that you needed to share your suffering with him.

“And I swear, the protagonist was making the dumbest decisions ever. Like, there’s a perfectly good escape route, right? But no, they just have to take the most dangerous, most convoluted path possible. Like—do they enjoy suffering? Do they crave pain? Because I sure felt like I was suffering just reading it.” You huffed, folding your arms across your chest as you kicked a stray pebble down the path.

Blade exhaled through his nose, barely sparing you a glance. “Then why finish it?”

You gasped, scandalized. “Because I needed to know if it got better. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The ending made even less sense.” You groaned dramatically, throwing your head back. “The villain just—dies. Poof. Gone. Not even a proper fight, just a single stab, and they’re done. It’s like the author got tired and just wanted to wrap things up.”

Blade hummed, uninterested on the surface but secretly taking in every animated expression that crossed your face. The way your brows furrowed, the way your lips curled in irritation, the way your eyes gleamed with passion despite your complaints.

He didn’t know why he was so intrigued by you.

Maybe it was because you were unlike anyone else he had met. You weren’t afraid of him. You didn’t cower at his title, didn’t tremble in fear at the mere mention of his name. Instead, you sought him out, treated him like he was just some guy instead of the “Merciless Bloodbather.”

It was unsettling.

It was also… strangely refreshing.

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Blade finally said, watching as your mouth fell open in exaggerated offense.

“A waste of—! Listen here, Mister ‘I Stare Dramatically into the Distance like a Brooding Warrior,’ just because you don’t care about storytelling doesn’t mean I can’t rant about it.”

Blade resisted the urge to smirk. Barely. Instead, he settled for a flat, “Hn.”

You groaned. “You are impossible.”

A moment of silence settled between you two as the night air wrapped around you both. Then, without thinking, Blade found himself saying, “Tell me more about it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Wait. Really?”

He internally cursed himself but gave a short nod.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across your lips. “Wow. Could it be? The great Blade is actually interested in my nonsense?”

Blade side-eyed you, unimpressed. “I take it back.”

“No, no! You can’t! You already said it. Too late.” You grinned, stepping closer to him, walking backward so you could look him in the eye. “Looks like you’re stuck listening to me for a while longer.”

The two of you had wandered into the Jade Forest, your footsteps barely making a sound on the moss-covered ground. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, and for a while, there was nothing but the sound of rustling leaves and the distant chirping of night insects.

"You know," you mused, twirling an arrow between your fingers. "I could take you down in a fight if I wanted to." Blade side-eyed you, unimpressed.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You may have your whole 'Merciless Bloodbather' thing going on," you teased, nocking an arrow lazily onto your bowstring. "But what good is all that flashy swordsmanship if you can't even reach me?"

Blade hummed, amused but unconvinced. Without another word, he shifted into a fighting stance, sword resting easily in his hand. You grinned, drawing your bowstring back, feeling the tension build in your fingertips. The two of you had done this before—sparring was nothing new.

Then— SHIIING!

A blade sliced through the air, so fast it was barely a blur. You and Blade instinctively jerked apart, a sharp gust of wind whipping between you as a sword buried itself deep into the earth where you'd been standing just a second ago.

Your blood ran cold. Multiple figures emerged from the shadows of the trees, dressed in dark robes, their faces obscured by masks. Assassins. There were at least six of them. Maybe more.

Blade moved first, his sword already drawn, eyes sharp and calculating. But you weren’t standing still either. In one fluid motion, you leaped back, scaling a tree with practiced ease before perching on a thick branch, bow drawn.

"Tch," Blade muttered. "Coward." "Strategist," you corrected, firing an arrow straight through the shoulder of one of the assassins who had lunged at Blade.

The attacker let out a grunt of pain, stumbling before Blade swiftly cut him down. The other assassins wasted no time, moving with lethal precision. Two rushed Blade at once, their blades flashing under the moonlight, while another leaped toward you, dagger raised.

You twisted at the last second, the blade grazing your arm as you flipped off the branch, landing smoothly on the ground. Without missing a beat, you loosed another arrow straight into his thigh, sending him crashing down with a pained shout.

Blade moved like a storm—fast, relentless, deadly. His sword carved through the air, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get too close. But you weren’t just standing by either. Each time an assassin tried to get the drop on him, your arrows found their mark, keeping the battle from becoming overwhelming.

Yet, something wasn’t right. These assassins weren’t ordinary. They were testing you. Watching. Calculating. "Blade," you called out, realizing it too late. "They're stalling us—" Before you could finish, a sharp whistle filled the air—

More were coming. And this time, they were after you.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The fight intensified. More assassins emerged from the shadows of the trees, their movements swift, their swords glinting under the crimson moonlight. You barely had time to breathe between shots, each arrow fired with precision, each movement calculated—but they just kept coming.

Blade fought like a storm, his sword a relentless force cutting through the waves of enemies. Blood spattered across the ground, painting the moss in deep crimson. His movements were ruthless, precise, and yet—effortless. As if he was born to do nothing but this.

You, on the other hand, were fluid, weaving through the battlefield with agility only an archer could master. Every step, every jump, every twist of your body was done with practiced grace, as if dancing between death itself.

Then— A glint of steel.

You heard the shift in the wind before you saw it—a blade aimed straight for Blade’s unguarded back. Instinct screamed at you before you could think. "Move.!" You lunged, twisting your body mid-air, shoving Blade aside just as the assassin’s sword carved through flesh—

Your flesh.

A sharp, burning pain flared across your side as the blade sliced through the fabric of your robes, cutting deep. The force of the impact sent you stumbling, but you barely registered the pain. Your grip tightened on your bow, and in the next breath, you twisted, notching an arrow and driving it straight through the attacker’s chest. Blade had barely turned when he saw the blood staining your side. His eyes darkened.

For a moment, the world around him blurred. The assassins were nothing but insects—vermin who had dared to lay a hand on you. And he was about to exterminate them. With one swift motion, he surged forward, his sword slicing through the remaining assassins like paper. His strikes were no longer just precise—they were brutal.

His blade bit deeper, his movements sharper, his intent colder. But you—oblivious as ever—were still fighting. Still moving, still dodging, still shooting arrows like nothing had happened. It was infuriating.

"Are you seriously still fighting?" Blade snapped, his voice sharper than his sword as he cut down the last assassin in one ruthless swing.

You barely glanced at him, panting slightly. "What—did you expect me to do? Sit back and croak?" "You’re bleeding," he said, his crimson eyes flashing as he took a step closer. You blinked, glancing down at your side—oh. That was...a lot of blood. "Ah. Fuck," you muttered.

Blade let out a sharp breath, pressing his fingers to his temple as if you were the real headache here. "Sit. Down." "But—" "Now." The command in his tone sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

For the first time since the battle started, you hesitated.

The moment the last assassin fell, Blade turned to you, his gaze immediately locking onto the wound staining your robes deep red. His grip on his sword tightened.

He had lost people before. Many. Too many. And every time, the blood had spilled like this—soaking into the earth, into his hands, leaving nothing but ghosts behind. He refused to let it happen again.

"You’re an idiot," he muttered under his breath as he strode towards you. You blinked up at him, still kneeling on the ground, one hand pressed against your bleeding side. "Excuse me?"

Blade ignored you. He crouched, setting his sword aside as he reached for you. The sight of your blood, hot against your fingers, made something ugly stir in his chest. His hands, scarred and calloused from years of battle, were surprisingly gentle as they moved yours away from the wound. You flinched slightly at the pressure, and he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"It hurts," you admitted, voice quieter than usual.

His stomach twisted. Of course it did. He didn't speak as he tore the cloth from the sleeve of his hanfu, pressing it firmly against the wound.

You hissed at the sudden pain, your body tensing. Blade’s eyes flickered to your face.

You looked...small like this. Vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. You were always so full of life, teasing, talking—moving. But now, beneath his hands, you were still. Wounded. Mortal. He hated it. He hated it so fucking much.

"Hold still," he murmured, his voice losing its usual sharpness. Your gaze flicked to him, confusion flickering in your eyes. Maybe it was because he wasn't pushing you away.

Maybe because, for the first time, he wasn’t meeting your teasing with a glare. He didn't know what expression he was making. He only knew that his hands refused to tremble.

"You’re being soft," you mumbled.

Blade huffed, tightening the cloth against your wound just enough to make you wince. "I'm making sure you don’t die. That’s different." You let out a strained chuckle. "Sure."

Silence settled between you.

The pain must have started catching up to you, because you leaned forward slightly, resting some of your weight against him. Blade froze. You were warm. Too warm. Too alive. His heart clenched.

This feeling—this awful, clawing fear—he hadn’t felt it in years. It felt like losing something before he even had the chance to hold it. Blade swallowed down the feeling, forcing his focus back on your wound. He had to stop the bleeding first. Still, his voice softened—just slightly—when he spoke again.

"Don’t do that again."

You tilted your head, peering up at him. "Do what?" "Throw yourself into a sword for me."

You blinked. Then, to his absolute irritation, you grinned.

"No promises :)"

Blade shut his eyes, exhaling sharply. You were going to drive him insane.

But at least, this time, he didn't lose. At least, this time, you were there.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your grin didn’t fade, even as exhaustion weighed on your features. Even as blood stained your robes and the ache in your side deepened.

Blade should’ve been irritated. Should’ve shoved your face away and told you to stop smiling like a fool when you were clearly in pain.

But instead—his hand moved on its own.

His palm, scarred and calloused from years of wielding his sword, cupped your cheek with a gentleness that felt foreign even to him.

Your breath hitched.

For the first time since meeting you, you were the one who froze.

His thumb brushed over your skin, rough against the softness of your cheek. Your warmth seeped into his palm, grounding, unbearable. Your pulse—alive, steady—beat against his touch.

Blade didn’t understand why his own heartbeat felt too loud.

Your eyes searched his, wide and unguarded. He could see the exact moment you noticed—how, despite his ever-present scowl, despite his sharp edges and brutal techniques—he was looking at you with something other than indifference.

Something he didn’t want to name.

The silence stretched between you, thick with an emotion neither of you spoke aloud. The distant wind stirred the trees, and yet, here, in this moment, everything felt still.

Then, as if the tension had never existed, you suddenly quirked a brow.

"Are you gonna kiss me or—?"

Blade’s eye twitched. His hand dropped from your face instantly. Without a word, he scooped you up, ignoring your yelp of protest as he easily lifted you into his arms.

"Wait—HEY, I was joking—!"

"You talk too much," he muttered, shifting you against his chest.

You grumbled, clearly displeased, but you didn’t fight it. Your body relaxed against him, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

"You know, for someone who’s supposedly heartless, you sure carry me like a lovesick fool."

Blade resisted the urge to drop you. Instead, he tightened his grip and turned toward the path leading back to your home. The night stretched before him, crimson moonlight casting its glow through the trees.

He had won the tournament. He had fought against assassins. And yet—

The only battle he felt he was truly losing… Was the one against you.

The walk back to your home was silent, save for the occasional rustling of the trees around you. Blade felt your soft breaths against his chest, each one slowly steadier than the last as you leaned into him, your weight resting against his hold. You’d been quiet ever since he’d carried you, but Blade could feel the tension crackling in the air between you, thick enough to suffocate him.

He didn’t need to look at you to know you were trying to make sense of him.

He barely understood himself anymore.

His heart didn’t calm, not even when he finally reached the safety of your door. He didn’t know what possessed him to be so gentle when he set you down on the soft cushions of the room, but the instinct was there, the need to make sure you weren’t in any more pain.

You were bleeding, wounded, and it made his mind snap.

He could still see the flash of a blade near your side, how you had moved so recklessly to protect him, to keep fighting through the pain.

His hand, as rough as it was, still lingered on your skin as he began treating your wound. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, and deep down, Blade didn’t trust anyone else to get this close to you.

His movements were meticulous, too careful for someone who had only ever known battle. The medicine was cold as it touched your wound, but Blade didn’t notice how his gaze stayed glued to you.

You flinched slightly as he applied the salve, and his fingers brushed too close to the curve of your waist. "You're so damn stubborn" he murmured, his voice low and tinged with irritation—not at you, but at himself.

"You could’ve been killed." "I’m fine," you said, your voice teasing despite the pain. "You don’t have to act like you care. You’re so good at pretending to be cold and grumpy, Blade."

His hand paused on your side. He wanted to snap at you. Tell you that he didn’t pretend. He was cold.

But then, his gaze met yours—your eyes, wide and too knowing, glimmering with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher.

For a fleeting second, he saw something in your eyes, something that made the air between you crackle with tension. It was subtle. Fleeting. But it was there.

You were looking at him differently now.

He took a breath, his fingers brushing over the bandage he had applied, his touch so careful it nearly felt like a betrayal. You swallowed. And then—

The air shifted.

You leaned in just slightly, and Blade’s hand, still hovering over your side, tightened. His gaze dropped to your lips without him meaning to. You weren’t close enough to kiss yet.

But he felt it—the heat of your breath, the weight of your stare.

Then, it happened. The world seemed to tilt, his breath catching in his throat, and for the briefest of moments, he felt like he could lean in, just a little bit further, and… But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not now Before either of you could react, there was a sharp knock at the door.

A voice called from outside, disrupting the moment entirely. "Miss? Is everything all right in there?" Blade’s heart hammered in his chest.

You pulled away from him suddenly, straightening your back, the space between you widening with a chill. You blinked rapidly, as if trying to dispel whatever was happening just a moment ago.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you called back, your voice much more casual than it had been. “Just, uh, taking care of some wounds. Go away!”

You turned back to Blade, but now the playful smirk was gone. There was still a flicker of something unreadable in your expression—something Blade could almost recognize, but not quite.

He stood abruptly, his posture stiff, his fingers now cold where they had once lingered against your skin.

"I’ll be back later."

Without another word, Blade turned sharply toward the door, hand resting on the handle, and then he froze.

For the briefest of moments, he glanced back at you. You were watching him—gazing with such intensity, your face half-lit by the glow of the lamp beside you.

His breath caught again, and something heavy settled in his chest. And then he softly closes the door, contemplating what the fuck just happened. His legs felt shaky, his heart was pounding like crazy and his chest ached.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was almost like… You were pulling him in.

And Aeons, that worked.

He wanted to be near you again. He needs to be near you again, your scent, your smile, your hair, your eyes, your lips-

Oh Aeons.

[somepsychopomp]

well. I've tricked myself into shipping Ares/Telemachus now, so I'm gonna make it a problem for everyone else.

imagine Ares post-Ithaca saga, where he got to watch Odysseus (and his son) slaughter 108 screaming, crying men in their own home. That's super cruel and warlike and hot! Sadly, Ody seems to be really smitten with his wife. Now, Ares can transform himself into a copy of Penelope, but he doesn't think he can pull off her mannerisms well enough to trick the little king into sleeping with him.

So plan B. He's gonna court Odysseus' son (who he denies once calling pathetic and weak).

Since trickery isn't really Ares' style, he thinks the much better option is to ride over the ocean in his chariot of charred metal and flames, pulled by his infernal horses with their golden reins in his hand, dressed in full armor as he breaches Ithaca.

Ares finds Telemachus at the most perfect time possible, when the prince is far away from anyone else. What a coincidence! (He def didn't bribe Hermes to give up Telemachus' current location.)

Telemachus screeches as a giant man in a magic chariot pulls up to the fresh mountain spring where he was once bathing in peace. Now, Telemachus just went through his whole training arc with Athena and is in the woods on a hunting trip, so he's more than able to defend himself.

Just as he thinks Ares is about to attack, he lunges out of the water and reaches for his bow and arrows.

A coward's weapon? Ares wonders, sneering beneath his polished helm. Then he sees the spear next to them and he sighs quietly with relief.

"Who are you?" Telemachus demands, nude and sparkling in the sunlight, the beads of water on his skin shining like pearls. He's also aiming his arrow at Ares' forehead.

Cute, Ares thinks. The boy has the build of a young warrior- strong but slender limbs, a narrow waist, some soft wispy curls at his lower abdomen.

He would look even better in my arms.

"Peace!" Ares calls out, though it somewhat sickens him to do so. He removes his helm and offers the young prince a smile, "I've not come here to cause bloodshed. It seems there's been enough of that already."

Telemachus lowers his bow, still suspicious but undoubtedly curious.

Ares deigns to match the prince in dress, his armor dissolving into flames around his body before fading all at once, revealing his flawless, nude form in all its glory. Telemachus' face flashes bright pink, his gaze averting as if he were a little maiden.

Ares cups his face and forces their eyes to meet.

"I saw the way you slew the men laying waste to your home. Not terrible work," Ares says, his voice a low and rough purr like the rolling of chariot wheels across a battlefield, "But you lacked ferocity, and that led to your capture."

Just as it was doing now.

Ares' other hand touches Telemachus' bow, wrenching away the offending instrument, for it could hardly be considered a weapon at all, and takes the prince's hand in his own. Ares kisses the heel of his palm, appreciating the gritty touch of callouses, and offers Telemachus another smile.

"I could show you otherwise," Ares offered.

Telemachus, his face still bright red, gives him a strange look. Too late, Ares realizes that the prince isn't staring at him, but something behind him.

He cries out in pain as something sharp stabs him in the side. He lets go of Telemachus, wheeling around to find the King of Ithaca himself. And unlike his son, Odysseus is fully dressed. (A shame.)

"What do you think you're doing with my boy?" he asks, his voice cold, his eyes calculating. Odysseus hefts the spear, the pointed end glistening with ichor.

Ares is beyond frustrated, but knows the chances of courting the prince have vanished by this point. Now, he wouldn't say no to having his way with Odysseus. Ares did have a fondness for savage warriors, and was admittedly impressed with how a mortal man managed to catch him by surprise.

But it seems that today simply will not be the day he gets to play with the little wolf or his father.

Trying to salvage the last of his composure, Ares leaves them and returns to Olympus where he roars for Hermes. His little brother shows up, kicking his feet with glee.

"Run into trouble again, Ares?" Hermes asks.

Ares grabs hold of Hermes by his chiton, "Why didn't you tell me the prince wasn't alone?"

An eye roll. "You never asked!"

Typical. Ares will lick his wounds before going to Aphrodite. If anyone could offer him counsel here, it would be his lover.

[dioslesbianwife]

OMG I had a idea can I please have 9risotto Nero with a female gyro Zeppeli and finding out her family bloodline has a lot history of executioners and was thought about her family and how to be a doctor

How they meet I don't know but you can choose.

How would he react to her spin technique and the steel balls she mastered whoud he try and hire her or keep her away from the fighting and her being there doctor she might be a professional but still sleeps with a teddy and doesn't care

Her gold grill saying go!go! Zeppeli and her loving to sing and joke the contrast between them whoud be fun

His squad is like his family he protects so them being surprised ther boss has a girlfriend and them staying in her family owned land she inherited because she knows how badly the la squadra team gets treated by the boss I can imagine it has horse can't forget Valkyrie the horse 🐴

Thank you for your amazing writing you are amazing 💕

sure! and thank you <333 i hope you enjoy and ty for requesting!

He doesn’t notice you at first- just the glint of steel flashing across the battlefield.

You were supposed to be neutral. A medic hired by nobody, tolerated by everyone, as long as you stitched up bodies fast enough for them to keep bleeding again.

But then he saw what you did with your fingers.

A quiet flick of the wrist. A gliding arc of your shoulder. A ball that spun tightly through the air.

And then? A man fell, not because you killed him- but because his weapon fell from his hand and his femur cracked in half under the precise impact of a spinning sphere. You’d done it casually, expression calm, fingers still wet with someone else's blood.

"You're not just a doctor," he muttered, unseen in the trees above.

La Squadra met you officially three days later, after Risotto bled too much from a shot meant for Illuso. He’d refused treatment. Until you stepped through the clearing, dragging a satchel of medical tools and calling over your shoulder- 

“Valkyrie! Watch out for the mine traps, sweetie!”

The horse trotted through with no care in the world.

You knelt beside the capo with zero fear. Your gold grill flashed as you grinned and whistled an off-key tune.

"Hold still, Metal Daddy. You're not dying on my watch."

“...Zeppeli,” Risotto said under his breath, eyeing your steel balls hanging from your belt.

“Bingo!” you chirped, wiggling your fingers. “Execution runs in the family, but I took the Hippocratic route. Sort of.”

They thought he’d kill you.

He didn’t.

You’re the light in the overcast hell La Squadra lives in.

You treat every wound with expert fingers, joke while applying stitches, and hum showtunes while prepping painkillers. Even Risotto watches you with a kind of calculated awe- he can't understand how you can be this soft and still carry the weight of executioner’s blood in your veins.

You sleep with a teddy bear in your arms and no one dares judge you. Not even Formaggio, who once found you napping next to Risotto with your head on his chest and the bear in your arms.

Your family estate becomes their safehouse. Expansive fields, strong fences, and no snitches. 

“Dark history,” you said, slapping a “No dying allowed!” sticker on the old blade.

Risotto watches you cook for his squad. Watches you laugh with Prosciutto and rub Valkyrie’s flank when she gets restless. Watches you spin a steel ball from one finger to the next while singing Volare in a raspy voice.

He watches a lot.

“Why are you looking at me like I’m made of uranium?” you ask once, peeking over your shoulder.

He answers, slowly: “You’re dangerous in ways that confuse me.”

You flash your grill and wink.

One night, you wake to find him watching over the squad from the barn roof.

You crawl up beside him, teddy in hand, blanket dragging behind you. He says nothing as you settle beside him, leaning into his shoulder.

"They're not weapons, you know," you murmur.

He glances down. “They’ve only ever been that.”

You nod. “I get it. My family were executioners. My blood says I should have killed a hundred by now. But I don’t think blood makes the rules. We do.”

The silence lingers.

“You really love us?” Melone teases, watching you lean over Risotto’s shoulder during breakfast, tracing his scars with medical curiosity.

You grin, cheeks full of toast. “Sure do. My boys. My mess.”

Risotto doesn’t flinch. But he does lean closer. He never has to say the word love. His actions whisper it for him.

[saturnsorbits]

You wake up slowly and then all at once. 

Outside the wind howls. The thin silk of your curtains billow into the room running from an open breeze, their thick arms reaching across the wooden floors to lash out at the edges of your bed posts. Moonlight follows. Stretching, her radiance scatters itself across your bedsheets - the evidence of her caress obvious in the slashes of silver that temper the shadows. 

You blink. With your vision still blurred through sleep and exhaustion, the room takes shape inch by inch. There’s an ache in your pelvis. The evidence of your consummation, but as you shift you’re introduced to the real reason for the blossom of pain. 

Bakugo is leaning over you, wearing his shadow like a cloak. His chest is bare, the proof of your fucking obvious in brilliant red scratches that bracket his ribs; only now, there’s no softness in his features. Where he once held tenderness, is a dagger - one that’s pressed to your throat close enough to bare a pearl of blood from your skin. He grins. ‘Sorry, Princess.’ 

He doesn’t look sorry.

In fact it’s triumph you see on his face now. Sharp teeth chew at his lip as while his eyes glitter, expensive jewels in the hollows of his skull. 

Chewing on the betrayal that calcifies in your gut, you swallow. 

‘Don’t scream, my love. They’ll only think you taken care of.’ He winks. 

You wish to slap him. Stretching your shoulders, you reach up and behind you until your hands can slip beneath the pillow under your head. There, hidden in padding is your insurance. Your fingers search, curling around the hilt of a small knife. It’s barely a child’s plaything, less than four inches in length including the hilt, but unlike some, you’re not hindered by the size of your weapon. 

Letting your lips part, you let out a sob. If you focused, you bet you’d even be able to manage a tear. ‘Katsuki… I - I don’t understand… Why?’ 

Bakugo cocks his head, calculating. 

You double down. ‘I thought… You, you loved -.’ 

A furrow creases the skin between his eyebrows. He clicks his tongue. ‘Oh, Sweetheart. If you believed that you’re more stupid than I thought. This was a marriage of convenience, my convenience, but convenience nonetheless.’ 

His sentiment burrows, nestling deep inside the chambers of your heart where it’s sure to cause future harm. Still, you don’t let it show. 

Instead, you swing your arm in a low arc, lodging the blade of your knife into the meat of his thigh. ‘I hope it hurts.’ You hiss as he topples over and lands harsh on the floor, his hands wrapping the wound that spills crimson across the wood.

Bakugo yells as pain sears through his leg. You’ve missed the artery, thankfully, but that doesn’t stop the possibility of him bleeding out. Tearing a strip from the bed clothes, he binds his thigh and ties it off tight before twisting for his dagger. 

‘Looking for this?’ Stood in the middle of the room, you flip the dagger in hand. 

‘You bitch.’ 

You laugh, if he’d thought you were an easy mark - he was wrong, hours of training had made sure of that. ‘That wasn’t how you felt when you were begging for a taste of me.’ You cross the room in a flash and kick him hard in the chest, forcing him onto his back. 

He winces, holding himself up on his elbows as the heel of your foot digs into his sternum. Something heavy rolls through his stomach, something that makes him feel sick and excited all at once. 

Naked, you bare yourself to him with a smile before pressing your weight down to watch him squirm. ‘Now, husband… I think it best you start talking before I start taking slices from other parts of your body.’ 

[sapphicseasapphire]

ok, so, this has been bugging me for a bit today, but, what was Sky's reaction to when he first met Warriors? like there's got to be a strong emotion there given that Fi is also a sword spirit.

so yeah, I'm just wondering what you have planed for that.

.

.

.

.

(also great artwork it's absolutely stunning and looks really yummy)

((dont question it))

SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS, I HAD TO DRAW IT.

(Lore under the cut. Sorry, I have a lot to say about this haha)

Sky’s reaction when he first meets Warriors? Awe.

They find Wars last- or, well, they find his sword. The others are notably confused because they were looking for the hero. The temple that they were led to is completely empty except for a single sword atop a pedestal. Surely their lead was wrong- this can’t be it. Maybe this is the hero’s blade? And he will return to the temple? Or is this just the wrong spot entirely?

While the others are arguing with each other about what to do next, Sky steps up to the blade. It’s… a lot fancier than the ones that the heroes are accustomed to. Gems are inlaid into the guard, fabric is woven around the grip in a familiar pattern. There are diamonds that run down the blade and a piece of blue fabric is tied around the ring of the pommel. This level of decoration is not usually suited for a sword to be wielded in battle. In fact, the only sword that he’s known to be this beautiful and but also effective is currently strapped at his side. As Sky walks closer, he can see the blade glow unnaturally, and his voice echoes through the temple:

“It’s a Sword Spirit,” he’d say, reaching out to the blade but not touching. Not yet.

There’s a mix of emotions when Sky looks upon the blade. He’s relieved, for he had feared that Sword Spirits had been forgotten entirely. His heart aches at the cold weight of Fi at his side, empty and quiet where she used to be full of life. It’s good, he thinks, to see a new sword shine so bright. He’s a little afraid, he’d admit, since he has unsavory memories of a different Sword Spirit. Phantom hands at his shoulders, tongue at his ear, black blades arcing in the air.

Still, Sky can’t repress the way his heart leaps in excitement, a smile at his lips, even as his hand falters in the air. Another Sword Spirit, here, right in front of him. Another opportunity to make things right, to fix things. Oh, how he misses Fi.

“This is the hero we’re looking for.”

And the others would approach, their curiosity piqued by the reverent tone of Sky’s voice. (Note that Sky had just joined them about two-ish days ago? He was the second to last to meet the Chain, the last being Wars).

No one else has met a Sword Spirit before, not even Wild or Time (who, at this point, everyone thinks is a spirit), so they’re all a bit hesitant to accept Sky’s words at face value. Sky explains that he’s met Sword Spirits before, that the Master Sword herself is a spirit. Puzzle pieces click into place but they still need more convincing. They’ll believe that Sky’s correct: that the sword in the pedestal is indeed a Sword Spirit, but they don’t agree that it’s the hero that they’re looking for.

At least, not until the spirit bursts from his sword in a flash of white light, floating in the air as Fi had done so long ago. The eight heroes stand, eyes wide, before the glowing metallic figure. Sky could cry in at the joy he feels as the spirit utters his first words to them:

“Hello, Masters.”

. . .

• Sky inherently trusts everything that Wars says because he trusted Fi. Fi didn’t lie, she was always helpful, and she told him exactly what he needed to hear every single time, even if he didn’t like it. She was calculating and intelligent and Sky (well… Link) could not have survived on the Surface without her. He trusted her with his life. Sky has no reason to think that Wars would ever lie to him, either. Especially in the early days, when he’s more robotic and less human. And so, he trusts Wars to always be honest.

• This will totally definitely 100% not be a problem guys, I promise. Wars would never lie to Sky about something dangerous. And it totally would never result in Sky getting hurt. And it’s definitely not why Wars looks so upset in the sketches I did yesterday. You can trust me. I promise.

• Sky and Wars talk a lot about Fi. Wars is curious about her, since he’s met her before in his own era and doesn’t know what happened to her. So Sky would explain that she went to sleep after his first adventure, and Wars would stare at him blankly.

“Sword Spirits do not necessitate sleep, Master.”

“I-” Sky would look away, something terribly vulnerable in his eyes. His voice would be sad and quiet as he continued: “I know.”

• I know I’ve talked about this before, but Sky is the most knowledgeable about Wars. He understands. And so his interactions with Wars are a lot easier for the Sword Spirit than with the others. The others don’t like being called “Master.” They don’t like the matter-of-fact way he talks, how he calculates every sentence before speaking it, how he uses percentages and simulations to back up his arguments. (How he always wins arguments). And Sky doesn’t necessarily like these things either, but he’s always patient. Always gentle. He allows Wars to call him “Master” because he understands how much Wars needs it. When Wars goes off on tangents and describes every bit of data he can think of, Sky sits and listens and they talk and it’s just so easy. Sky is probably Wars’ favorite, just for that.

• The REASON that Sky is so supportive of Wars goes back to the one thing that drives him through literally everything in his life: guilt. He said goodbye to Fi much too soon. She was just starting to open up, to feel and express her emotions, when their time ran out. He never got to know the person she’d end up to be, and he’s not making that same mistake again with Warriors.

I think I’ve talked about this before? How when Sword Spirits are young, they talk robotically and don’t express themselves, but as they mature and are around more people, they kind of adopt their traits and become a more well rounded person? Fi, for example was only around for what? A few months? Ghirahim had thousands of years to develop. That’s the difference between “According to your social customs, I should provide you with my personal designation. Fi is the name I was given,” and “You may call me Ghirahim. In truth, I very much prefer to be indulged with my full title: Lord Ghirahim. But I'm not fussy."

Sky wants to see Wars grow in the way that he never got to see Fi. He wants to know Wars. Not just as a spirit, but as a friend.

[fictionalrelapse]

twenty-eight days #1 | riorgail

Fandom: The Empyrean AU

Rating: M

Tags & Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, drug addiction, alcohol abuse

Chapter Summary: Twenty-eight days to live. Twenty-eight days to disappear. Violet boards The Empyrean Sea with a suitcase that isn't packed for a return journey. Xaden is on the run from his problems and is ready to do anything to forget.

Full chapter on AO3, snippet below!

...Golden rays of sunshine peek through the cloud cover, sending rivulets of light over the crowd of people. Xaden skirts the edge until he’s parallel from the group of girls, leaning against a wall. They’re sitting in a clump, as women do, on the loungers around the pool, already obviously inebriated. One of the blondes looks up as though she can feel his gaze. 

Smoldering eye contact. A calculated sip of his drink. Cross the ankles, hand in a pocket. Smirk. 

She smiles nervously and whispers to her girlfriends, but she’s already preening her hair and glancing back every few minutes.

The formula never fails. 

Xaden keeps the smirk and pulls back, surveying the crowd again, making sure he flashes the tatted side of his neck. He’s heady with confidence and liquid courage, sowing seeds for future one-night stands.

And then he sees her.

She’s not far from him. Sitting alone at a table with her legs crossed, buried in a notebook she’s scrawling in. The crowd’s given her a wide berth – despite the woman’s small stature, her energy is commanding the air. Electric. 

Her brunette hair is braided loosely, cascading over her shoulder. A shock of silvery-white hair curls around from the top of her forehead to the end of the braid like a waterfall. Her loose-fitting white dress whips in the breeze, highlighting her curves in a way that draws his eyes in. Like a moth to a flame. 

And when she sets the pen down and glances up, their eyes connect, and he forgets whatever depraved thoughts he was about to have. 

Shit .

It’s as though Xaden has come face-to-face with a mirror. Her gaze is stormy but hollow; seeing, but in another world. The crushing weight of something arcing through those hazel tones. So much like his own. So much like… those of his comrades. He would recognize it anywhere. 

It’s haunted.

But there’s more to it than that. Her face is so… familiar . 

Vaguely, he’s aware of the blonde approaching, and the other woman has already returned to her book. They speak, but he’s not thinking about what he’s saying. Then they’re at the bar, drinks in hand, moving closer. When she traces up his arm to his shoulder, his other hand meets the blonde’s waist as though the dance has been rehearsed. And when the woman’s lips crash into his own, he can almost wipe those devastating hazel irises from his mind. 

Almost.

Read the full chapter on AO3.

A/N: don't mind me just putting my pookies in situations. gonna try for weekly updates with this one, depends on how much time i have to edit and tweak what i've already half-ass written. <3 if you read all of this know that i love you heh.

[poppitron360]

Jason knelt by the memorial. He kept his face solemn and stony, the way he was taught by Lupa to hide his emotions. Never cry. Never show weakness. He laid the flowers across the base of the tombstone, the red and orange petals rustling ever so slightly in the breeze. He took a deep breath, and silently willed his body to stop shaking. He reached out, and traced the indentation of the name and date with his fingers, the tips slightly grazing the rough stone. The light from the candles shone in the bronze lettering, making it glow a fiery orange.

Leonidas Javier Valdez

July 7th 1998 - August 1st 2014

A true hero.

Jason felt the air shift around him as someone knelt next to him. He didn’t look at the person, instead he looked down at the concrete base of the memorial. On the floor by his knee, Piper’s hand crept closer across the stone. She was reaching out for comfort, Jason could see. But he couldn’t take it. If he let himself need her, then he’d break, and that would be weak. He looked back up at the gravestone.

“I-I can’t believe it’s been ten years…” He croaked, trying to string enough words to fill the trembling silence.

“I know,” Piper said, softly.

“He’d be twenty-six now.”

“I know.”

“Did- did you know his real name was Leonidas? before…” he gestured to the headstone.

Piper smiled weakly, “No, I didn’t. He kept that one from us.”

They turned back to the glowing bronze markings on the stone.

“Y’know…” Jason mused, “I think he’d really hate that epitaph. “A true hero” like what does that even mean?”

“It’s way too serious for him,” Piper agreed, “He’d want something funny, lighthearted. Maybe a bad pun, or a cheesy joke.”

“”Leonidas Javier Valdez- Inventor of the Valdezinator, Repair Boy, Taco-miser Extraordinaire!!”” Jason announced, waving his arm in an arc across the sky to deliver his point. Then he looked down, sadly. “He really was a hero, though… He saved so many lives that day. But… I don’t think that’s how he’d want to be remembered.”

“He’d think it was hilarious that they put that on there,” Piper said, “Painting him out to be this big martyr. He’d constantly tease us about it. Oh gods, we’d never hear the end of it.”

They laughed a little. Jason watched as Piper reached out a brushed a small clump of moss off of the stone.

“You’re getting a bit grubby there, bud,” She whispered, “Oh Leo, always covered in dirt and grime…”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

It was all Jason could do to keep breathing. Every day, for the last ten years, ever since Leo’s death, Jason hadn’t been living, he’d just been carrying on. He’d lost everything that day. But he had to keep going. He could not stop, could not break.

Leo was not here as a whole anymore, Jason knew that. But in the hush of the midsummer evening, Jason could see that parts of him were everywhere. He saw it in the candles. Their heat like the warmth of Leo’s skin. The dancing, restless flames like those busy eyes, constantly moving, scanning, making calculations. Jason listened to the crackle and pop of the burning wicks, and he could almost hear his shrill, raspy laugh. The shadows the candles cast were dark and inky, like motor oil and soot that covered Leo’s calloused skin. Around them, the flowers placed against the memorial rippled in the soft breeze, and Jason could see the bounce of a stray curl, the wind in his hair as Festus soared. The creak of the tree branches were the boards on the deck of the Argo, Leo atop the crow’s nest, looking out at the world. The beat of Jason’s heart was the thrum of the engine, Leo’s rhythmic tapping out in morse code to quiet the pistons. A bird chattered in the trees, and Jason could hear Leo cursing in rapid-fire Spanish, frustrated at another clogged toilet or broken mast. It was like the world was flashing Jason that infectious, cheshire-cat grin. All of these parts made up Leo. Jason could feel them. He was here. He was with them. The three of them were together again after all.

Jason watched the sparks from the candlelight dance into the sky, and he felt Leo’s spirit around them.

“Oh, Leo…” Jason spoke to the candles. He spoke to the flower petals. He spoke to the trees, “Stay with me… please.”

Piper put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Do you think he’s in Elysium?” She asked, “We never found a body, never got to do the proper burial rights…”

“We can hope,” Jason replied, “But wherever he is… I think he’s happy.”

Jason closed his eyes, and listened to Leo’s whispers in the air, “I wait for you…”

Held back by the barriers of life and death, Jason waited too. He kept carrying on, waiting for him to reach the end of the road. Waiting out his life, before he could re-unite with his best friend again. His everything.

But Leo had died so that Jason could keep living. Jason was gonna use that gift to do as much good as he can, be the person everyone needed him to be. But when it came to an end, Jason knew he’d be content.

“I will wait for you, Leo…” Jason whispered, almost inaudibly. He hoped Piper wouldn’t hear. “I will wait, I promise. I swear it on the Riven Styx. I will keep breathing, keep going, keep waiting. It won’t be long now.”

Warm summer winds grazed Jason’s cheek. It was like he could feel Leo’s hands cupping his face. “I wait, Jason.”

“Are you in Elysium?” Jason asked to the sky, “Are you happy?”

To Jason’s horror, the voice took on a bitter, more saddened tone. “I wait for you.”

He suppressed a sob. He had to keep it together. Ten years hadn’t made it easier, but Jason had to try. He couldn’t let himself break. He had to keep going. He had to keep breathing. He had to keep waiting. For Leo.

Piper put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. They both looked up at the night sky. Ten years ago today, a fiery explosion had flashed across that patch of the heavens. A boy atop a bronze dragon had given his life to save the world below.

He was only sixteen…

“Hey,” Came a voice behind them. Jason turned, and saw Hazel and Frank climbing up the small hill.

“Glad we could make it,” Frank said, a little breathless from the climb, “Percy and Annabeth are coming, they’re just parking the car.”

Hazel knelt the other side of Jason, Frank next to her. She lay her own flowers on the pile. Frank brought out a candle, and lit it, placing it carefully amongst the others.

“Hey, Leo…” Hazel greeted the headstone, fondly. She gave it a friendly wave.

Frank sat cross-legged. “Good to see you, bud,” He whispered.

The four of them sat around the place in silence. Soon, Percy and Annabeth came and joined them. Percy put his arms around Jason and Piper’s shoulders, and squeezed them, tight. Piper put hers around Annabeth, so they sat in a line, linked. Hazel wrapped her arm around Frank. Frank reached a meaty hand out and placed it on the top of the grave. He held it there, gripping the stone. Jason took the message, and linked arms with Hazel.

They bathed in the heat of the candles. They listened to rustle of the leaves and the creak of the branches and the chattering of the birds. Jason knew they felt, just as he did, the spirit of Leo all around them. The warmth. The laugh. The restless energy. They heard him whisper, and giggle, and tap out a message. They held him in their circle of arms, felt his soul join with them.

“I wait for you all… one day, we could be re-united for realsies. I will enjoy this moment until then.”

Jason let out one, strangled sob. “I will wait for that day, Leo.”

But for now, he was here. The seven of them, together again, for one night.

————————

Happy Leo’s death day, everyone!!!

Enjoy a “What if Leo had actually died” AU- ft. much Valgrace.

@lavenderfairiez @keefessketchbook @sleepyycapybara @imnoturfriend-im-a-swiftie13 @euryvices @ottpopfic @123letsgobestie @kaleidoskuls

[witchezandwonderz]

Threads of Destiny- Part Four

Ongoing, multipart series.

Part One Part Two Part Three

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Aethelstan x Reader

"Do you have fighting experience? I assumed that you would have been taught some things at least." Uhtred's loud voice called out as he busied himself, walking around the outside area and sharpening his sword as he did so. The sun had just begun to rise, causing the whole immediate area to glow with an orange tinge. It was surprisingly warm for the time of the morning.

Katye shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed at the question. "I did when I was younger, Uhtred. But I was held like a prisoner for so long. One of my fathers friends would sneak in occasionally to teach me, but then he was killed." She admitted, attempting to give her fighting skills some credit, at least.

Uhtred paused in his pacing, the loud sound of his sword being sharpened coming to an abrupt stop. He turned to look at her, his eyes thoughtful, the only sound surrounding them being the obnoxiously loud chirping of birds.

He sighed and raised his hand, scratching the back of his messy hair. "That is better than nothing." He finally said, Katye could tell that he left words unspoken. He lowered his hand again, placing it on the hilt of his sword and resting the metal on the ground. "A daughter of Ragnar should know how to fight." He paused, a look of guilt flashing in his eyes "And when he could not teach you, I should have been there."

Katye flashed him an awkward smile. "You did not know of my existence, lord."

Uhtred's eyes softened, and his mouth opened with the intention of speaking. Katye looked at him expectantly, but he instead thought against his words and instead closed his mouth and picked his sword back up.

"No time to waste, let us see what you remember." Uhtred said, his tone displaying certainty. He picked up a second training sword and tossed it toward her. Katye caught it instinctively, the familiar weight of the weapon stirring something within her.

Uhtred advanced without warning, his blade coming down in a swift, deliberate arc. Katye reacted instantly, bringing her weapon up to block. The impact sent a jolt through her arms, but her footing held steady. Without hesitation, she sidestepped and twisted, using the momentum to push his blade away and bring her own toward his side.

Uhtred parried, a glint of surprise in his eyes. “Good,” he grunted. “Better than I expected. Again.”

This time, Katye didn’t wait for him to strike. She stepped forward with purpose, feinting a low swing before pivoting and aiming high. Uhtred barely blocked her in time, their weapons locking as they pushed against each other.

“You’ve got your father’s cunning,” Uhtred said, his voice almost amused as he broke the lock and stepped back. But Katye didn’t let up. She pressed forward, using the opening to aim a calculated thrust toward his shoulder. Uhtred deflected it, but not without effort.

“Not just cunning,” Katye replied, a spark of confidence lighting in her chest. “I remember his tactics, too.”

Uhtred’s grin widened, pride gleaming in his expression as their blades met again. Katye was relentless now, her movements fluid, her strikes deliberate. It was as if the years of captivity had been peeled away, leaving behind the instinct her father had once instilled in her. She wasn’t fighting just to survive—she was fighting to win.

Unbeknownst to them, Aethelstan approached from the edge of the yard, his footsteps slowing as his eyes locked onto Katye. He had woken and panicked when he had seen that she was not there, but then remembered that Uhtred had told her to be up early for training. He had business to discuss with Uhtred, so although also looking for her, was on his way to speak with his lord. But the sight of Katye commanding the fight held him firmly in place. He felt like a child in awe, analysing her every movement. Every moment within every day that he had known her, she seemed to do something that held his attention- she was truly remarkable.

"I thought you said you couldn't fight!" Aethelstan called out. Katye, who now stood glugging water turned her attention to him, almost dropping the flask at the sight of him. His dark curls framed his face, and the sunlight highlighted the colours in his eyes, making him even more attractive than usual, which Katye had thought impossible.

"I never said that I couldn't fight, I just said I haven't practiced for a while" Katye stammered, lowering the flask.

Aethelstan had reached the edge of the yard now, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. "well yes, but" he said, his smile sheepish, "you certainly did not tell me how good you must have been as a child." His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, his admiration clear. "That was… incredible."

Katye felt warmth rising to her cheeks and quickly looked away, pretending to busy herself with putting the flask back on the barrel. "It was just sparring," she said, trying to sound casual.

Aethelstan laughed, placing one hand on her shoulder. "Yeah right. Give yourself some credit."

He realised that his hand had been resting on her shoulder for a moment too long, and so he very quickly took it away. Katye's eyes widened at the surprise of her body jerking from the motion.

“Sorry!” Aethelstan blurted, his face turning a deep shade of red as he awkwardly waved his hands in the air, as if trying to undo the moment. “I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t trying to push you or—”

“It’s fine!” Katye interjected, her voice a pitch higher than usual as she turned to face him, shaking her head emphatically. Her own cheeks were burning now, the heat creeping up her neck. “You just startled me, that’s all.

Uhtred, ever the observer, leaned his sword against the post and crossed his arms, his grin widening. “Oh, this is good,” he said, his voice loud enough to make both Katye and Aethelstan look in his direction. “Look at you two-stumbling over your own tongues like children. It’s painful to watch.”

Aethelstan immediately began to defend himself. "I am not stumbling over my words, it was an accident." He said firmly, glaring his eyes at Uhtred who watched him with a clear expression of amusement painted on his face.

Uhtred turned his attention to Katye. "Well, I suppose you are the first woman that he has tried to court, so it is normal to be nervous." He said nonchalantly- Aethelstan looked horrified at the words. Katye, however, found it hilarious and couldn't stifle her laughter, but her cheeks were burning crimson nonetheless.

"I am not trying to court her!" He defended, offending Katye in the process. Once the words tumbled out of his mouth, he turned to her, panic in his eyes. "No, I did not mean that, I am. Or not. I don't know." He stumbled, and then firmly turned to Uhtred. "Could you please go." Aethelstan pleaded, his jaw tightening as he spoke. Uhtred burst into laughter, nodded his head and then howled again before muttering 'truly amazing' and making his way out of the clearing.

"You mustn't get so stressed, Aethelstan, I can imagine that it is not good for you." Katye said, calming herself down from her fits of giggles and using her finger to pat her eyes dry. "I apologise for laughing that was just a phenomenally ridiculous situation."

His lips curved into a smile. "ridiculous does not even begin to describe that." He moaned, raising a hand to his face and covering it briefly before rubbing his eyes and looking back up at her.

Katye stepped closer to him. "You know, you really are very handsome." She smiled, analysing his face. "Possibly the most handsome man I have ever seen, in fact."

Aethelstan's breath hitched, and his mouth opened slightly- shocked by her words. "Really?" He grinned. She smiled broadly back at him. "Why would I say that if I did not mean it?" She responded, jokingly rolling her eyes at him.

"Well. Thank you." He breathed awkwardly, his eyes flickering to the ground and then back at her. "I must say, you are possibly the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen, hence why I have been so captivated by you since the moment we met."

Katye’s eyes widened slightly at his admission, the sincerity in his voice making her heart skip a beat. For a moment, she was at a loss for words, something rare for her. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks but forced herself to keep her composure.

"Captivated?" she repeated, her lips curling into a teasing smile as she took another step closer, closing the gap between them. "That’s quite the word."

Aethelstan laughed softly, reaching forward and gently finding her hand. "I cannot explain it, it is simply a feeling." He said, the volume of his voice slightly lower.

Katye breathed a laugh and tilted her head, a playful expression on her face. "I know the feeling, you do not need to explain it." She held onto his hand, curling her fingers around his.

Something shifted in his expression at her words—relief, hope, and a spark of courage. He stepped closer, his free hand brushing against her cheek as he looked down at her. His thumb grazed her skin, and his gaze flicked to her lips before returning to her eyes.

"Just kiss me." She whispered, her voice low- almost pleading.

That was all he needed. Aethelstan leaned in, closing the remaining distance between them as his lips met hers. The kiss was tender but filled with all the unspoken feelings that had been building between them. Katye’s hand slid up the back of his neck to find his hair, her fingers tugging lightly at his curls as she kissed him back, her heart pounding in her chest.

Aethelstan hummed happily as he pulled away, pecking her on the lips a few more times before stepping back slightly.

"I know that we have not known each other for very long." He said softly. "But I have never connected with anyone in this way. And I think I may always be captivated by you." He breathed, nervously avoiding eye contact, fearing rejection despite Katye's obvious reciprocated feelings.

Katye once again, closed the gap between them, raising her hand to cup Aethelstan's face and placing a peck on his cheek. "I feel the same." She smiled. Consequently, Aethelstan's lips curved into a smile, and he let out a small sigh of assumed relief.

The two were pulled away from their distractions when a loud voice bellowed. "Aethelstan, I need to speak with you." Both Katye and Aethelstan's heads snapped towards the direction of the voice. Their eyes fixed upon Sihtric as he sprinted towards them.

"What has happened?" Aethelstan asked, his eyes flashing with concern. Sihtric breathed heavy, clearly having run a far distance. "It is Stiorra. Brida and her people have attacked Eoferwic." He breathed, both Katye and Aethelstan's eyes widened, for they knew the negative impact that this would have.

"Brida is on a war path, Sihtric. She cannot, under any circumstance find out that I am here." Katye spoke, clearly and firmly- it was communicated as a command if anything. Sihtric nodded. "Yes, fine." Before flashing her a small smile and then turning his attention to Aethelstan once again. "Uhtred wants you to stay here, to protect both Katye and yourself." He instructed. Prior to meeting Katye, Aethelstan would have argued wanting to go with them, but in this circumstance, he was grateful. Sihtric turned to leave, walked a few steps and turn halted, and turned back around. "I forgot to say, Father Pyrlig has not been seen. Keep an eye out." before walking away, not giving him a chance to answer.

"Do you think she knows I am here?" Katye asked, panic laced throughout her words. Aethelstan turned to look at her, and saw that she had already begun pacing up and down, her brow furrowed in thought. He shook his head no, but it was wasted as she was not even looking at him. Aethelstan leant forwards and grabbed her hand, encouraging her to stop. "No, she has many grudges against Uhtred. Calm down."

Katye stopped at his touch, and looked up at him, panic still clear within her eyes. "Aethelstan, you do not understand. Brida is like a hound, she will hunt me down until she finds me."

Aethelstan nodded, surprisingly calmly. "I know, but for now she is focused in Eoferwic and we have time to discuss what we will do." His tone firm, but composed. He leaned down slightly, lightly kissing her forehead. She allowed her eyes to flutter shut briefly at the warm embrace.

"Yes, you are right." Katye breathed, attempting to calm herself down. Aethelstan put his arm around her and rubbed her shoulder, for the sun had down gone in and the temperature had once again dropped. "Come on, let's get warm and drunk."

[iloveoutlinesiswear]

For the first time asks!!! First time they were affectionate in front of other people??

(Note: a plot bunny bit me and once again the synopsis of Commands and Incriminations will have to change. There are a plethora of moments that I thought of. I couldn't pick one. So here are two. There will be a third later.)

Alive

(Fluff plus a dead chaos marine and a touch of Heinrix angst)

The vast carcass toppled with an awful majesty, Abelard's chain sword lodged in his throat, grinding against cartilage and rubber. The beast hit the deck, the noise resounding over the battlefield. And lay still.

Lathed in sweat, gasping for breath, Heinrix van Calox stood, force sword in hand. His iron arm sloughed shards of metal as his concentration wavered. Adrenaline drained away, leaving him shaking and cold. Watching the corpse, he took a tentative step forward.

How were they still alive?

They were still alive.

Experimentally, Abelard nudged the Chaos Marine with his shotgun, looking for the slightest bit of movement.

Nothing happened.

"Thank the God-Emperor," he exclaimed, letting his sword dip.

Idira whooped and swore in a half dozen languages as Abelard wrenched his chain sword free of the marine's gullet. Thick blood arced as Abelard shook his blade free.

A burst of airy laughter jolted him, alien to the smoke choked battle field. Then a flash of movement and he turned, half expecting another foe.

Karroleen seb Montreux ahn Bacque von Valancius, mistress of the Light in the Void, ruler of worlds, Rogue Trader, leaped into him with a full bodied jump.

Dropping his pistol, he grabbed her around her waist with his arm, his hand pressed flat against her back. Wrapping her arms around his sweaty neck, she all but molded to him. Her untamable curls tickling his temple, her breath warm on the shell of his ear and neck. Her soft cheek pressed against his, smooth and warm.

A light perfume cracked through the stench of burning promethium. Richly floral like Cabrian magnolias, heady without being overly sweet, cut through with vanilla and wood, emboldened with a muskinees he couldn't place.

God-Emperor, he should not even be touching her.

And here she was, in his arms, laughing in raw unadulterated joy.

"We're alive!" she breathed, looking into his face.

Her smile was electric. Not the slightly tight gesture of appropriate amusement, not the false expression of polite tolerance, nor even the tightly controlled enjoyment of good company. But a genuine effusive smile, that gave her dimples in her cheeks and made her eyes dance.

Her mask was off.

Time stopped.

Her smile shifted, softening into something shy, sensual, open. Her lips eased into a pout, slightly upturned at the corners. The light did not leave her eyes. Her gaze swallowed him.

Time slowed to a crawl, everything else vanishing.

She saw him, studying him, her gaze all but touching him. Lingering on his gray eyes, his dark hair, then dropping briefly to his mouth before looking him in the eyes again.

Then she leaned closer, her arms tightening around his neck.

"Thank you, Master van Calox," she whispered.

He continued to stare. Her thick brown mane long since broken free of her updo, the smudge of dirt over her delicate right brow, the flush in her pale cheeks. The rise and fall of her breathing, her body heat soaking his skin, the arch of her spine under his palm.

Her dark eyes looking at him through thick lashes, eyes that barely seemed to reflect any light at all.

Her flush deepened.

"Of course," he murmured. "Glad to be of service."

Something he long thought dead stirred restlessly.

Sentiment. Empathy. Affinity.

Desire.

The voice of his master broke in, calm, calculating and shaming. Heinrix, put her down. You know what you are. Remember the way she looked at you in the Cynobium. You are disgusting. A blood soaked tool.

He couldn't quite breathe.

A jolt ran through the landing area as the planet shuddered, bringing them back to themselves.

The mask slipped back on, sealing her away like the doors of a vault.

He set her back onto her feet as she smoothed her coat, letting out a prim little cough.

"We need to go," she said.

"Right," he said dumbly.

They turned and sprinted toward a random shuttle, even as the platform began to tilt. Without dignity, they hurled themselves into the harnesses as Abelard rushed to cockpit. A few moments later, the shuttle lurched into the air and hurtled away from the planet.

And Heinrix could not quite focus, even as he lashed himself into a seat. Once secure, he bit the tip of one fingertip, tasting the leather, trying to figure out what to do next. Even as they hurtled toward the Light in the Void.

What would she do? Given what he had seen of her decision making, he had a sinking feeling.

Yet, her perfume lingered.

***

As the others sprinted out of the shuttle, Idira Tlass froze on the shuttle ramp. Around them, the Light in the Void shuddered, tossed about by the alien pulses rippling from Rykad. The ship yawed, heaving to, desperately trying to hold position in a system ripping itself apart.

A whisper, loud as a teenager with a secret crush, murmured in her ear.

She cocked her head, her eyes widened and then she howled with laughter. Tottering, she leaned on her staff, almost bent double. She laughed until she was out of breath, until her stomach hurt.

"Witch, what is it now?" Argenta hissed, grasping her bolter, walking back toward her.

But even she couldn't dampen Idira's mirth.

"Oh, my whispers are funny today," she replied, chuckling.

Argenta's glare could have set water on fire.

"What are you talking about?" Argenta said.

"They say the Ice Man has met his match," she said. "Oh, he is in trouble."

And she laughed all the way to the bridge.

Breaking

During the Siege of Euphrates 2, Karroleen and Heinrix kept apart. Now that it's over, they start getting familiar with each other again.

(Making out, wall sex, accidental witnesses, Heinrix being his usual angsty self)

The celebration had been going beautifully until their fingers touched over a plate of Janusian peaches. Just a brush of Karroleen's fine fingers over his bare knuckles, so incidental even Abelard didn't notice it, sitting on Karroleen's other side.

It was over.

The connection Heinrix had been trying to stifle during the siege of Euphrates 2 roared deep in his loins like the engine of a land raider. Insistent, bellowing, willing to stop at nothing to find release.

Next to him, Karroleen gasped, blushing, her breathing turning to a ragged gasp. She squirmed against her chair, her thighs tightening together, her skirts rustling with the movement.

Her brown eyes flicked around, checking the mood of the celebration. Then fixed Heinrix with a yearning he could feel in the pit of his stomach. Desire found a higher screaming pitch.

Set up in the officer's lounge and stretching into the mess hall, the party Karroleen was throwing to celebrate her victory on Euphrates 2 was nothing less than lavish. Real wood tables weighted with food straight from Janus, roast grox, birds of every kind, delicate fish, pies, tarts. It was endless. As was her tendency, every deck was represented. The retinue closest, bridge officers, upper deckers, middle decks and unusually, the clan leaders from the lower decks.

"Lord Ulfar!" Karroleen shouted. "Tell us a tale."

Ulfar started as the entire room turned their eyes on him. He stood off to the side, his vast stature keeping him from the tables. Not that it kept him from eating, given the half empty platter in his hand. His brothers had long since excused themselves, leaving him alone among them.

And all focused on the Angel before them.

He glanced at her. Something twinkled in his eye, a knowing that Heinrix didn't like. His lip curled in a smirk, revealing a fang.

"So, do you want a tale from Armageddon?!" Ulfar said, turning to the crowd, "Or perhaps from the Crusades of Barxus the Vile? Or even a tale of Lemun Russ himself eh?"

The crowd roared, pounding the tables, shouting their choices, and then fell silent, enraptured as the Space Wolf began his tale.

Soon, the hall was enthralled in a combination of religious ecstacy and rapt anticipation. Gasps, groans, and muttering provided a counterpoint as the Space Wolf wove his tale.

Once the crowd was thoroughly engrossed, Karroleen nudged him with her knee.

Smoothly as he could, given his pitched state, Heinrix left the table and exited toward the back, filtering through the clusters of guests with ease.

No one wanted to touch him, favored of the Rogue Trader or not.

Soon, he was out in the abandoned officer's deck, alone and waiting and throbbing. The place, usually so busy, was deserted. Deep into the night shift, no one was here. Behind him, the party carried on.

Which thank the Throne, because he was a mess, bereft of any dignity, brought low by his inpulses, hiding in a dim alcove like a hormone enslaved boy.

The glow of her arousal suddenly shifted, floating toward him. A rush of desire rolled through him, very different from his own. Pulsing from a deep place in his body he didn't have. Feeding him in turn. Needy, eager to receive, to build.

Her light steps echoed, quickened and suddenly, she was flinging herself into his arms. Their lips met, bruising and desperate. He tasted the peaches, her lipstick, the rich sauces. She pressed her tongue into his mouth and he moaned. For long minutes, they locked together, tasting each other at long last after weeks of denial.

God-Emperor, he had missed this.

Finally, She broke the kiss, their lips slowly parting with a notable sound. Her eyes remained closed for a moment, before opening them, looking at him, searching his face.

"I-" he managed to gasp out, quivering with longing. "I need you."

"This way," she said, pulling him from the shadowy little alcove down the carpeted hall.

Somewhere between here, and wherever there was, they became entangled again, his hands roaming over her slim body, her arms pulling him to her, her lips against his, their steps drunken and stumbling.

The scent of her curly hair, soft with exquisite oils, her perfume floral and rich, undercut with musk, fine wood and that warm note at the end. Soft leather. A touch of gun powder. She was with him again.

As he had desired her to be. As he wanted her to be forever.

They staggered round the central atrium, oblivious in their desire.

Finally, she pulled him into another alcove. He pinned her against the bulkhead with a kiss, his hands entangled in her hair. Even as she fumbled with something on the wall, he ran his hands down over her sides to her hips. Her hips pushed against his grip, her center thick with her slick.

Then she gave up finding what it was and buried her fingers in his hair.

"I want you," she whispered. "Please."

"Here?" he said, suddenly aware of the open space, of the eyes potentially watching them.

She hesitated. Her pleasure hummed, her heart hammering. But then she looked at him and that determination came into her eyes, that he had seen more and more often.

"I do not care," she said, her vice quivering. "You're here with me. Let me have you. As much as I can."

Angry. Fearful. She was afraid. Afraid that he was leaving. That she was no longer needed in his master's grand design. That he no longer could be with her. That he could put her aside.

Calcazar. Damn him.

He would have this one thing. He would show her how badly he needed her.

Clamping his hands on her buttocks, he hefted her easily, pinning her against the wall with his weight. Wrapping her legs around his waist, her clothed slit met the rock hard erection bulging in his pants.

He all but yelped, his touch starved cock pulsing with need. Drops of spend soaked into his briefs.

"Heinrix," she whispered hoarsely.

Her hands flew downwards, lifting his jacket tails, hurriedly undoing his belt with a clink. Her cheeks flushed, her movements tight with need, her focus did not waver.

"I thought of you all the time," she said, "every minute of every day. It was torture not being able to-"

She wrenched each button of his fly free, opened his trousers and exposed his stiff cock. With a soft little moan, she grasped his shaft, rubbing the sensitive underside with her palm.

He lifted her skirts with a growl, hefting the fabric around her waist. Hurriedly she hooked the panties of her thumb, sliding them to the side.

Her hips rolled in desperation and he pressed his hardness against her slick, shuddering. Then he slid into her, choking back a shout.

Instantly, her pleasure flared, pulsing through her. She began to groan in time with it, softly, quietly, deep from within her throat. It grew rapidly, every stroke from him pushing her toward the edge. Every rock of her hips made him dance.

"Yes, you always know," she gasped, her head dropping back, her back arching. "How to. How to. Yes!"

Her orgasm hit her after just a few strokes, blossoming outward. She cried out, shockingly loud in the silent atrium and he smothered the sound with his mouth. She shook, jerking against him, moaning against his lips. Straining with him, her body clenching around him.

Heinrix came undone. He did not shatter or falter. His will never even came into it. His body simply chased after her, following blindly. A heavy jerking orgasm almost took him to his knees, pumping her full of thick spend in groaning brainless pleasure.

Then they froze.

His face flushed crimson as they both came to from the high. Embarrassment crashed through him as he realized what happened.

He was a man, not an idiot boy and here he was. A complete mess. Now, they still had to go through the bridge to reach her quarters or through the atrium to his own chamber. Both of them soaked, disheveled and reeking of sex.

What was wrong with him? He was Heinrix van Calox, a member of the Holy Ordos, the representative of the Emperor's Will. And he was supposed to be looking out for her, ensuring her reign was stable, ensuring she did not slide into depravity. He was supposed to keep her from scandal, from rumor, from vice.

He was supposed to be doing a lot of things. He was supposed to be different. Different from the rest of the grasping suitors. Different from all the people who would use her.

Didn't she deserve better than simple bestial need from him? Didn't she deserve more? She did, a devotion he could not give her. His duty did not allow it. Did it not?

Here he was, leading her on. Leaving her exposed. Leaving himself exposed. Literally.

Damn him.

Slick dripped down, soaking his open trousers, air cooling on his sensitive skin. Pressing himself close to her, hiding his softening cock in her skirts, he felt more utterly and completely naked than he ever had before. In danger. Endangering her.

Shame filled him. He was an idiot. A useless idiot. What had he done? Why had he-

Then her hand touched his face, breaking him free of his spiraling thoughts. And she smiled at him, and it was like a sun breaking through a storm.

"I've got you," she said, wrapping an arm around his neck, her breath warm on his ear. "You're here with me on my ship. You're safe. You'll always be safe here with me."

Her hand went to her vox bead.

"Jocasta," she said softly. "Could you take care of...a matter of discretion for me? The officer's atrium. Ensure my privacy. If you would be so kind."

A firm murmur.

"Thank you, Jocasta," she said.

Never had she given Jocasta orders. For a long time, Karroleen had been terrified of her chief enforcer. That she had gone to her and not Abelard. There would be no loose ends and he wouldn't have to deal with Abelard's disapproval.

"Thank you," he said.

She smiled, and kissed his lips softly.

With her other hand, she finally found what she was looking for, pulling on a hidden catch.

A door, perfectly disguised, opened in the wall, revealing a dark somewhat dank hallway, free of the gilt, wood and carpeting of the officers deck. A purely utilitarian space, it reeked of plasma and oil. A servant's entrance.

Of course, there was another entrance. She really had thrown him, hadn't she?

Yes, she had, and that was fine. Better than fine.

Without another thought, he tumbled into the dark with her. And the door shut behind them.

***

Frozen in terror, hidden in the cramped space behind a statue of the God-Emperor, junior officers Litzte and Olam stood with each other, shaking. Breathing as quietly as they could, the two women desperately waited for her Ladyship and the Interrogator to leave. Hoping that they weren't seen or heard.

Overhearing them as they undeniably fucked each other into oblivion. Those two. The Ice Man and Her Ladyship. The Interrogator and the Rogue Trader.

What a stupid time to decide to take a break and go sneak some food from the tables.

A murmured conversation. Then a door clanked open. Relief rushed through them as the door hissed shut with a clunk of finality.

For a long moment, the two friends stood, the whole overheard encounter still present. Until the ongoing silence convinced them they were alone.

"Was that?" Olam squeaked.

"Yeah," Litzte hissed back, her eyes big as dinner plates.

"And that was?" Olam whispered.

"Yeah," Litzte said.

For a long moment, they both looked at each other. And then one then the other started to laugh in the hysterical manner of the post terrified.

Olam stepped out, fanning herself with a hand, her dark skin gleaming in the warm light of the atrium. Litzte, pale and slim, ruffled her red hair, still shaking from the adrenaline.

"We are going out an airlock if he ever finds out we know," Olam said.

Litzte took a deep breath. "He'll know we were here. He's a spy."

"We will keep our mouths shut," she said, flicking her black braids behind her ears. "If we pretend they weren't here, maybe they'll pretend we weren't here. Her Ladyship is merciful, even if he isn't. If someone asks, we saw nothing."

Litzte nodded, ready to let it go. But then, a memory popped into her head of a bet she'd made almost a year ago as a joke to tweak lieutenant Morice's nose, the main bookie of the officer's deck.

Twenty geld on the man least likely to ever crack through the Rogue Trader's facade.

A very important bet given the circumstances.

"Go on, I need to find someone," she said.

Olam held back. "I'm going back to my station and forgetting this ever happened."

She departed and Litzte hesitated. Lieutenant Morice would want to know that the biggest betting pool on the ship had just been solved.

And it was an awful lot of geld. Months of pay. A years worth of pay.

She walked toward the party, as if she had permission. Through the atrium as if nothing had happened.

This was going to be a good day.

A heavy hand crashed onto her shoulder and jerked her around. And she was face to face with the second most terrifying person on the ship.

Jocasta, the enforcer chief glared at her with eyes like stone, her face not even moving. Her hand gripped the baton at her waist, her thumb rubbing the pommel.

"Chief Jocasta," she whimpered.

Jocasta slapped her across the mouth, splitting her lip.

"I won't say anything," she whispered.

"No, you won't," Jocasta said. "If only you'd just followed petty officer Olam."

Litzte was not seen on the upper decks again.

[diaz911]

Not gonna write this whole fic cause I don't have enough show context yet but here's how I want to see the whole wedding arc ending.

*Chimney has been saved from whatever happened at the bachelor party, Eddie goes to visit him*

"I'm glad you're okay man," Eddie said, knocking his hand against Chim's shoulder. "You better heal up fast." "Oh I'm gonna be just fine. So, how are you and Buck?" Chimney asked, leaning back in his hospital bed and raising his eyebrow in a mischievous manner that Eddie couldn't quite interpret. Eddie shrugged. "We're fine. I mean, we both had a hell of a hangover but nothing compared to you." Chimney shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I didn't mean physically." Eddie's brow furrowed, his eyes darting in confusion. He had no idea what Chim was talking about. "I don't ... good I guess?" Chimney watched Eddie's expression carefully, calculating something until his eyes went wide with realization. "Oh my god you don't remember," Chimney whispered, mostly to himself, then leaned forward and gripped Eddie's shirt hard, pulling him forward. "You don't remember???" "I guess not. Most of the night's a blank. What should I remember? Oh god did we do something ...?" Before Eddie could say "stupid" a memory flashed in front of him. Shadows and soft lighting. A dark corner of the bar. Laughing. Fingers splayed across a stubbled cheek. A spark of a birthmark. Mouths crashing together. Eddie's fingers clutched against the railing of the bed for dear life. Suddenly he was panting, gasping. "Oh my god," he muttered, eyes wide. "Oh shit. Buck kissed me." Chimney laughed. Eddie looked up and Chim shook his head disapprovingly. "Nooooooo," he said, drawing the word out in a reprimand. "What?" Eddie blinked and more came back. Shadows and soft lighting. A dark corner of the bar. Laughing. Fingers splayed across a stubbled cheek. A spark of a birthmark. God he looks beautiful. Eddie leaning forward. Cupping Buck's cheek. Mouths crashing together. Eddie swallowed. "I kissed Buck." "Bingo."

[moonselune]

hello again! Hope your inbox isn’t too full. When you get to this, take your time btw, can we have a lil scene where gith!bard!dancer!tav and laezel head off to the tears w/ voss and orpheus and they like “hes a weird ass motherfucker—he’s dancing? What a dumb—oh my god he’s slaughtering—HOLY SHIT HES GUTTING—*SON OF A BITCH HES MASSACRRING*”

Aw I love this

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel x Gith!Bard!Dancer!reader | Look at him go

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The battlefield ahead would be unlike any other, a treacherous space teeming with Githyanki soldiers loyal to Vlaakith. Lae'zel was focused, her eyes alight with determination. By her side, you, her lover, prepared for the coming fight in your own unique way.

Kith'rak Voss and Prince Orpheus, both seasoned warriors, stood nearby, their expressions hardening as they took stock of the battlefield. They had already voiced their doubts about you considering your background as a bard and a dancer. They found your presence and profession strange for a warrior. You could almost hear their thoughts: A dancer? What use could he possibly be in battle?

As you all graced the battlefield on the legendary Tears of Selûne, you took a deep breath and began your routine. Music emanated from your lute, enchanted to play melodies that bolstered the spirits of your allies. You moved with grace, each step a precise and practiced motion that seemed to defy the urgency of war. Voss glanced at Orpheus, a skeptical look in his eyes.

"Is he… dancing?" Voss muttered, incredulous. Orpheus' brow furrowed, but he remained silent, waiting to see what would unfold.

Lae'zel stood by your side, her faith in you unwavering. She knew the depth of your skill, both in music and combat. As you danced, your movements began to change, growing sharper, more deliberate. The Githyanki soldiers approached, their weapons drawn, ready to cut down any who opposed them.

In an instant, your dance transformed. With a flourish, you spun, drawing hidden blades from your attire. The transition from dancer to warrior was seamless, almost mesmerizing. Your blades flashed in the light, and the first soldier fell, his throat slit before he even realized what had happened.

Voss's eyes widened. "What the—"

"Focus!" Lae'zel barked, slicing through another enemy, her movements perfectly synchronized with yours.

You continued your deadly dance, each step a calculated strike, each spin a lethal flourish. Your blades moved in a blur, cutting down enemies with a precision that left Voss and Orpheus speechless. The battlefield became your stage, the enemy soldiers your unwitting partners in this gruesome ballet.

Orpheus, finally shaken from his stupor, shouted orders to his troops. "Form ranks! Cover them!"

But you needed no cover. You moved through the ranks of the enemy like a phantom, your dance both mesmerizing and terrifying. The soldiers hesitated, their confidence wavering as they faced this unexpected whirlwind of death.

"He's… slaughtering them," Voss said, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief. "How is this possible?"

Lae'zel, amidst her own brutal combat, glanced at you with pride. "He is a bard, a dancer, and a warrior. Underestimate him at your peril."

Your blades continued their deadly arc, and soon the battlefield was littered with the bodies of your foes. The remaining soldiers, seeing the carnage, began to retreat, their morale shattered. You paused, catching your breath, the music of your lute still playing a haunting, victorious melody.

Voss approached, his expression a mix of respect and astonishment. "I've never seen anything like that. You… you truly are remarkable."

You sheathed your blades and gave a small, respectful bow, your eyes meeting Lae'zel's. She stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"We are victorious," she said, her voice filled with pride and affection. "Thanks to you."

Orpheus nodded, still processing what he had just witnessed. "Your skills are… unparalleled. We owe this victory to you, bard."

You smiled, knowing that you had earned their respect, which meant you couldn't help but add "And dancer, I didn't do all those years of schooling just to be called 'bard'"

Lae'zel elbowed you in the side, perhaps you had gone a bit far in testing their acceptance but you couldn't help but smile, oh this was going to be a fun revolution.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you all enjoyed this ! Semi sleep deprived whilst writing this so any errors please lmk xx - Seluney xoxo

[margindoodles2407]

muahahaha you get. more wips

@seeking-elsewhither I'm just gonna. Tag you

“They’re gonna kriffing kill each other someday,” he grumbles, as Hunter drags the sniper and the ARC away for what he assumes will be the galaxy’s sternest dressing-down. Cross flashes some rude gesture behind his back, to spite Fives one last time- and Fives, in turn, looks about three seconds away from completely bashing his face in, regardless of Hunter’s mediating.

“Well, I don’t exactly find it surprising,” Tech pipes up, “considering how similar they are.”

“Similar?” Echo sputters back. “You think Fives and Crosshair are similar?”

“Yes. It’s not exactly a hard parallel to draw.” Tech puts down the machinery he’s fiddling with to look Echo in the face, and begins counting on his fingers. “They’re both stubborn as all the Sith hells. They’re each paradoxically both calculated and impulsive. They have short and fiery tempers, they’re loyal to a fault, and they both have a complicated relationship with authority. I am of the opinion they’d be best friends, if Fives’s moral compass wasn’t always pointed due north and Crosshair wasn’t- well.” He tips his head to the side and makes a face. “Crosshair.”