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needfantasticstories · 6 months

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Read here below:

Summary:

Legend is not happy with the Yiga who captured him.

Notes:

Trigger Warnings: Canon-typical violence Spiders Cursing/foul language

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Furious

They had teleported. Even as the Yiga blademasters wrestled Legend’s hands behind him, the veteran found muddy ground replaced with solid, reliable stone underfoot. Supplanting the damp forest was a musty cavern full of crates and vender’s stalls.

“Astor needs the vials! Hurry up with him!” yelled a reedy voice outside the circle of giant red soldiers crushing him.

With the benefit of solid ground, Legend planted his feet and wrenched his arm forward enough to break loose and shove a hand into his bag. Before they could stop him, the veteran’s fingers closed on a well-worn, familiar handle.

Legend ignited the brilliant red gem.

The swarm of Yiga reeled back as he swung the flaming rod. He aimed fiery orbs that rocketed into the nearest one’s mask. The Yiga had reached for their blades too late; the reek of singed hair and burnt flesh remained in the wake of their retreat.

They gave him room to breathe, room to think, to look.

“ HYRULE !” Legend shouted, and the word echoed in the cave amid shouts and grunts as they lunged for him again. But he fired volley after volley, pressing them forward and carefully scanning the room. Tapestries with the inverted Sheikah eye in red and black glared down at him, but he found no sign of Hyrule nor the pale white demon here. But he did find a hoard of bananas: in boxes, on market-like stalls, and in barrels.

Puffs of smoke around the room revealed a wave of six scrawny footsoldiers along the walls and atop crates, aiming scythes and a pair of drawn bows in his direction. Their clothes were muddy and torn, some bleeding from wounds his brothers had given them.

The archers fired.

Legend rolled and dodged the shots, rising again with a shout and a fresh wave of fire from his weapon. “WHERE DID YOU TAKE HIM?” Legend roared, panting, sweeping his fire rod across the Yiga soldiers like a scythe. Alone within the enemy’s stronghold, he found no reason to hold back. He could handle the heat, his rings already pulsing with protective magic. Dark scorch marks painted the walls, and high-pitched screams reverberated as orbs hit their targets.

Waves of heat radiated over the back of Legend’s hands as he aimed and released, but it was gentle compared to the scorching gales he invoked on them.

“Stop, you idiot!” one footsoldier shouted as she fumbled to lose an arrow. She missed him entirely when, with a squeal, she dove to avoid a fireball. She jumped back up, crouched low, and panted, “Yield… and I’ll… make sure… that you…will see him!” Her voice was mockingly kind, a honey laced with poison.

Legend responded without words, and she danced away to dodge a fiery end, disappearing to the smell of burnt hair. He sent a matching attack to the other archer, who dropped his bow as he shrieked and vanished.

“You’re going to die here if you keep this up!” yelled a deep-voiced blademaster as he hurled forward to strike Legend, but the veteran adventurer leapt high, feet far above the blade’s path, and sent an attack of his own toward the man, forcing him away. They did not know about his rings that would keep him safe from the heat. They didn’t know he’d already sworn to burn this whole place down—for Hyrule, for Wild, for his own satisfaction—it would be wiped from the map.

They were starting to keep out of range, but they’d also blocked the door. Hyrule could be in there.

Another pair of bulky soldiers slammed their palms to the ground, and Legend felt the earth rumble. From the impact points sped circles of burning red light, the air above whistling up from the heat. Magic , tapping into the powers of Din, he guessed. They rushed at him. Legend leapt aside, but the glowing heat followed. Heat scorched his legs, despite his numerous protective enchantments, as he was forced to run, his boots moving him beyond the soldiers that lurched to catch him.

Behind him, the red glows finally burst, pebbles pelting his back. Legend turned only to see another pair of the red spells giving chase, their creators laughing.

Legend grinned at the Blademasters and made a rude gesture, letting the lights come closer. At the last moment, he flipped backward and let the lights pass under him. They burrowed under a pillar of stacked banana crates.

The crates exploded.

The Yiga shrieked and wailed in horror.

This could keep them busy.

Legend dodged between shrieking Yiga soldiers as they rushed to put out the fire. Aided by the pegasus boots, he sent blast after blast of fire into the other crates and barrels, and scorched the bunches lying on the tables.

Like a nest of ants, the Yiga scrambled in vain to put out the flames as the whole supply caught fire. More importantly, they left a clear path to the doorway. Scorched bananas landed in the frame, and without thinking Legend scooped them into his bag. He sent back a few more blasts, just in case, as he left the room only to collapse against the stone hallway.

He could not afford to rest long, not until he found Rule. Soldiers could appear at any moment. But sweat dripped from his face, his hands shook, and the places where his magic usually pooled ached with an emptiness as sharp as hunger.

Legend hadn’t eaten in hours. He reached for a potion when his hand brushed something warm. He grabbed it too only to find one blackened banana. Shrugging, he ate it quickly, the flesh surprisingly soft and sweet. He’d eaten bananas before, but not like this one. Far more strength than he was expecting fueled him, even replenishing a small portion of his magic. He retreated into the shadows cast by the door, hoping no one saw him beyond the blaze within.

He sipped half of his last magic potion as he scrounged in his pack again. He needed to hide, and fast. And just a moment to rest. Ravio’s bracelet? No paintings here, and he didn’t have a direction. Ice rod? No... His cape! He’d discovered it within a tomb underneath the graveyard just outside Hyrule Castle, long ago. He avoided using it often since it drained his magic quickly; it was difficult enough keeping reserves up before meeting Hyrule, but the fire rod drained him already, despite the thrill of the fight.

Legend pulled out the heavy garment, dark red with gold trim. He threw it on and hurried into a far corner of the hall, magic fueling the cape. His body faded out of sight. And just in time. Shouts erupted as red lights revealed new soldiers in the hall. Legend pressed into the corner as a half dozen soldiers hurried past into the blazing room.

“Where is he?” the newcomers demanded. Each voice fought to be heard over the others. “Put that out!”—“The whole place is burning!”---“Sooga is going to kill us!” “He ran that way!”--“Where’s the other one?”---“The Demon Lord said –-”

They don’t know where Rule is? His successor had been limp and unconscious when he last saw him, a sight the veteran wished he could forget. His successor wasn’t brawny or one to pick fights, but he was scrappy, determined,and powerful in magic. And they couldn’t find him! He escaped! For all his confidence in the kid, he could have cried in relief. Sure, the kid could take down a lynel, and could make anything into a weapon. But they both needed to get out of here fast, and the kid might not know he had an ally in here. But how to tell him?

“We need the mage!” one shrieked loudly as he streaked past Legend down the echoing hall.

Mage? Could that be the pale demon?

“Go! Find them! Now!” a deeper voice roared from inside, drowning out the rest of the yelling.

Soldiers ran from the room. Legend followed, then passed by on his boots, looking for the soldier who mentioned the mage.

The cape and pegasus boots were draining what little magic he’d recovered with worrying speed, but he could hold on a bit longer. He had to. Catching up to the soldier who’d run for the mage, he followed close. It was as good a clue as any. He memorized the switchbacking tunnels as he chased after the soldier. How big is this place? They ran for what Legend could only assume was several miles, though it was probably just exhaustion dulling his senses. They passed room after room in quick succession: storerooms, living quarters, mess halls, a smith’s forge.

At last, the soldier ran through a set of double doors.

Yiga fighters scrambled everywhere. With all the yelling and commotion inside, Rule had to be inside! Legend hurried to follow.

But the commotion within was not Hyrule. Instead, he entered a foreboding armory: racks of blades and bows covered the left half; three giant, spiked balls too big for a hinox to carry provided the centerpieces dead ahead, a painted, glowing red eye on the largest glared at him, as if alive; ot the right, towers of ghostly white masks filled the wall. Fresh fighters scrambled to arm themselves and receive orders.

Legend stuck to the wall and carefully tracked the soldier he’d been following. The figure dashed past the other Yiga, hurrying behind the dais with the spiked spheres.

Legend followed quickly, catching bits of banter: colorful complaints over and over that neither the Heroes called Legend nor Hyrule could be found.

How do they know us? How does Ghirahim know about Hyrule’s curse? Why take me too?

With a muffled grunt of pain, Legend hid behind the giant metal ball just as his magic ran out. His chest ached, and his blood felt cold and slow, but he forced his eyes to take in the narrow, secluded area in the back of the armory. He was visible now, but the soldier leading him to the mage was already halfway through a hidden doorway.

Legend ducked low, and followed.

The Veteran caught the door before it closed. He shoved it open just enough to slip inside, noting how the torch nearby slid down as he did.

A massive table stood in the center, surrounded by stiff-back but elegantly carved chairs. A symbol had been scratched out and recarved on each – an eye poorly covering the triforce.

A war room. Schematics and charts and maps covered the wall, from strange looking helmets decorated with lightning bolts to designs for flying platforms (manned by what he guessed were bokos), to poorly drawn maps of Wild’s Hyrule.

Including a map of the caves.

Another door on the far wall stood ajar. “Your Eminence?” a voice called from inside.

Legend snatched the map and ducked under the table. It wasn’t the safest place, but it would have to do.

A grumble preceded the soldier’s return from the mysterious room beyond. He passed Legend’s hiding place, muttering, “where in the shadow realms is he? Sooga is going to kill us!” as he returned to the armory.

The mage wasn’t in the room? Perfect. Legend rolled out and forged ahead, eating another banana as he went.

Licking his fingers, he entered a large study and immediately gagged. It reeked of foul body odor and wet dog hair and rotten fruit. He covered his nose and mouth, and looked around. Shelves overburdened with books lined the walls, the tomes crammed mercilessly and coated in dust, veiled in cobwebs. One book lay open with obvious care on the central table, perched atop an elegantly carved stand and flanked by tall glass oil lamps, glowing orange.

His stomach growled. Two bananas wasn’t nearly enough.

Fumbling in his bag, the veteran snatched the last banana and glared at it as he peeled. Stupid Yiga and their inexcusably delicious fruit. It refreshed him more than he cared to admit. Unfortunately, it still did little for his dwindling reserves of magic. Between the firerod, boots, and cape, he barely had enough magic left to hide for a few seconds, and his quick glance at the map revealed a sprawling dungeon complex.

Moving carefully around the crowded table, Legend looked around for something useful. It was quiet enough he could hear the rustle of his clothes, completely immune to the chaos and shouting two rooms away. A silencing spell? The room pulsed with enchantments, spells, and curses, their auras tangling and mixing to the point that he could not identify most of them. Each had a sort of flavor or sense to them, but one dominated the rest: a sense of endless hunger mixed with anger, glowing magenta and tasting like wine and ashes. It was hard to pin down, but it made his throat burn.

On a shelf beside a crowded desk stood a battalion of bottled potions in rows. Legend hurried to read the labels. He blew dust off of the corks and fluted shoulders, and then smiled. Healing, stamina, magic, and electricity resistance. Legend uncorked a green one and smelled it. Dancing Din! A Magic potion!

He dumped the whole stock into his pouch save the one he’d smelled, which he guzzled, the liquid tickling his dry throat. It tasted like spring sunshine in a bottle. It soothed and filled and spread from throat to chest to arms and legs to toes and fingers. His boots hummed with power, as did the firerod sheathed on his hip. Legend smiled and sighed at the tingle of magic racing down his veins.

This was going to work. He had enough potions to search the caves for days. Weeks! No one would see him, and nothing would stop him.

Legend grabbed the whole stock of healing potions and, after removing a bit of firewood he had been storing for Wild, he had plenty of room for all of them. Legend dumped the whole supply in his pouch. With a satisfied grin, he replaced his cape and disappeared once more.

Legend pushed back the bookstand and set the pilfered cave map on the table. The layout was strange, with zigging, zagging, and curving halls, but he could see the layout. He’d need to search every room, and leave a trail to make sure Rulie could find him as he went.

Course now set, Legend glanced again at the massive book.

Browned pages, cracked with age, showed a heavily stylized ink drawing, angular and ugly: a tripod lashing dominated the page: three logs tied securely into a triangular structure. A Hylian in a pale tunic dangled by the wrists under it. Dark red ink trailed down the arms and chest and dripped into a wide stone basin. Red ink flowed down a channel within the basin into a large clay pot. A beastly, tusked shadow sat inside it.

Shit shit shit shit!

Legend slammed the book closed and shoved it in his bag. He had to get Rulie out of here. Now . Who the hell was this mage?

Cape and fire rod at the ready, Legend left two bombs on the floor atop the firewood, and ran back the way he came. He barely closed the door to the war room when the explosion shook the cave.

Soldiers in the armory shouted in response. He hurried along the wall to avoid detection.

He paused beside the door as a group of footsolders ran into the armory.

“They blew it up!” one shouted, his voice high-pitched with incredulity.

“Where the hell are they!”

“Damned heroes!”

“I’m gonna gut every last one of them when he’s finished with them!” The others yelled in agreement, surveying the damage from the side while others ran to put out the flames.

And Legend knew that, given a chance, they would. He stopped feeding magic to the cape.

The Yiga soldiers startled when they saw him, then crouched and raised their weapons.

“Where is the Hero of Hyrule?” Legend demanded.

“We’ve got one!” a soldier shouted into the hall behind Legend. The Veteran grinned. Good. Let them come.

“Surrender, Hylian filth!” one laughed. “You’re outmatched! There’s no escape!”

“WHERE? IS? HE?” Legend demanded again, voice echoing down the hall as he adjusted the grip on his fire rod.

The five soldiers moved fast, but not one reached him.

Legend left the blazing room behind, and no longer bothered with the cape. Hyrule can find me better this way. I’ll mark a trail for him.

As if in a trance, he slashed and burned hallway traps, footsoldiers, blademasters, stockpiles, and weapons racks. Scorches, ash, and embers trailed in his wake. Passing an underwater canal and a hoard of bokoblins hiding there, he cleared every room he found, sweating and panting, but he downed one of the stolen potions and forged on. Yiga popped away almost as soon as they appeared.

He blazed through a sort of court, empty but for a few sleepers rudely awakened. He let them vanish.

There was a crease in the wall behind them, marking a hidden passage. He used his power bracelets, their hum familiar and soothing, and he shoved the wall open.

Snow and sand drifted in on the wind. It was strangely dark.

“HYRULE!” He screamed, and immediately regretted it.

He took it in rapidly: Sand. Snow. Webs. Skultulas.

The spiders stopped their slow creeping and turned to face him. A multitude of eyes locked onto the hero. They began chittering and clacking.

Fuck! He wasn’t expecting that.

He sent out a barrage of fireballs, then slammed the door on them and leaned against it, just to be sure it stayed put. He breathed hard, his body begging for rest and his legs trembling, his mind reeling at the new enemy.

This was not on the map.

Notes:

Writers block was HORRIBLE, so thank you HotCheetoHatred for your patience, and Estelian for your amazing art that broke me out of it. I have been DYING to get this chapter out ever since I wrote it. It feels great to finally set it free! I hope you enjoyed the update! There's so much more to come!

(@la-sera I updated the fic! I hope it entertains!)

#linked universe #linked universe fanfic #skipwrites #lu legend #yiga #I may have been craving fire-roasted bananas as I wrote this...#I need Legend to light things on fire for reasons I do no understand #nor do I question

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ginandoldlace · 1 month

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Nowhere says “the Establishment” quite like St James's Square. Built by Henry Jermyn after the 1660 Restoration, rebuilt by the Georgians and periodically hacked at ever since, St Jim’s (as Eliza Doolittle might have put it) was home to peers, prime ministers and panjandrums of every stripe; today though, the square is 100% commercial/institutional, with the usual deadening effect.

No. 4 is a survivor from 1725; once home to the Waldorf Astors, it was the headquarters of de Gaulle’s Free French during WW2, and was taken over by the old In and Out club when they vacated their Piccadilly mansion.

No. 3 was owned by the Devonshires and the Palmerstons, and remodelled in 1818 by Sir John Soane. And demolished in 1930, the heyday for smashing up Soane. The replacement, a neo-Georgian office block by Alfred & David Ospalek, has some pleasing stone relief panels by Newbury A Trent depicting cries of London. They hardly make up for the loss though.

And if you think that was vandalism, Nos. 1-2 on the corner of Charles II Street was Ossulton House, from 1753. Until the Westminster Bank acquired the site and, in 1950, demolished it and built themselves an office block. Which in turn has gone, to be replaced by the current gem, which is as pure an example of the City of Westminster’s preferred contextual building style as to make you want to scream…

Scream away. No. 8 follows the same recipe. Look how discreetly it blends its modern credentials with these Georgians. The original no. 8 was Josiah Wedgwood’s showroom in the C18, but you can’t stop the tide of change. Indeed, for most of the C20, no one bothered trying, it seems…

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prozac-shaped-urn · 20 days

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Donna Murphy's Hottest Roles Ranked

I ranked these from 1-5 for her screen and stage roles instead of just straight up ranking all of her roles because WOW that would take an eon or three.

Screen

Rosie Octavius (Spider-Man 2)

Dr. Ruby Stern (What About Joan)

Jane Green* (Mercy Street)

Ruth Geddy (Trust Me)

Caroline Schermerhorn Astor** (The Gilded Age)

Stage

Phyllis Rogers Stone (Follies)

Dolly Gallagher Levi (Hello Dolly!)

Ruth Sherwood (Wonderful Town)

Fosca*** (Passion)

Edwin Drood (The Mystery of Edwin Drood)

And two honorable mentions for each category:

Marie (Dark Horse)

She just..... does something to me. I can't explain it very well but she's basically my kink. Everything about that character is right up my fuckin alley. You know how some people have latex fetishes n shit? Mine is cardigans and frumpy blouses and well... *gestures to Marie*

Princess Puffer (The Mystery of Edwin Drood)

I promise I'm not taking the piss out of Princess Puffer! I'd unironically smash.

*Honestly? Jane and Lina are pretty even, but Jane gets a higher placement for the Deep South accent.

**Lina Astor is a professional cunt and I respect her for it which is why she's on the list instead of Kathleen Walker of Higher Ground. Donna in a platinum blonde wig is just *drools*

***Fosca is BEAUTIFUL and no one can convince me otherwise.

For @voltives so you don't have to nurse a coronary embolism on top of an allergic reaction but also get to enjoy Donna's hotness.

#her as edwin drood should be explicitly evident #i should not have to explain myself on that front #anyone have any other actresses' roles you want me to rank?#donna murphy #irl post

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isefyres · 4 months

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𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔢𝔯𝔞:

CONQUEST ERA. aegon i targaryen, rhaenys targaryen, obsidia celtigar, torrhen stark, brandon snow, thorea stark.

JAEHERYS ERA. alaric stark, alyssa targaryen, baelon targaryen, viserra targaryen, saera targaryen, alarra stark.

DANCE ERA. laena velaryon, jacaerys velaryon, rhaena targaryen, serafia celtigar, kermit tully. floris baratheon, cassandra baratheon, heleana targaryen, criston cole, aemond targaryen, daeron targaryen. viserys i targaryen, rhea royce, lea tyrell, aliandra martell, lyandra saan.

POST DANCE ERA. viserys ii targaryen, jaehaera targaryen, myrmadora haen.

REBELLION ERA. rhaegar targaryen, ser arthur dayne, ashara dayne, elia martell, ned stark, catelyn tully.

MAIN ERA. osney kettleblack, balerion blackfyre, orysa baratheon, cersei lannister, tywin lannister, joanna swyft, laena longwaters, gendry baratheon, shireen baratheon, alynne connington, jon connington, vera dondarrion, rolland storm, shyra errol, daven lannister, addam mallister, elyra brax, jeyne westerling, joy hill, edmure tully, barbara bracken, eleanor mooton, liane vance, bethany blackwood, astor sunderly, gyselle goodbrother, wallace waynwood, myranda royce, lyn corbay, mya stone, bryanna coldwater, harrold hardyng, jennis templeton, catelyn stark, jeyne poole, mara mormont, jorah mormont, wylla manderly, alys karstark, beth cassel, brandon cassel, freyia knott, sigorn of thenn, howland reed, ellaria sand, edric dayne, gwayne dayne, addam whitehead, quira qorgyle, trystane martell, harmen uller, jeyne fowler, willas tyrell, elinor tyrell, desmora redwyne, megga tyrell, eleana vyrwel, bayard norcross, taena merryweather, tommen costayne, irri, doreah, lysandro orthys, narcyssa orthys, ezzara, sariah, cahira, malakai veltheos,

bold: most likely to respond faster and high need to write. italics: testing or wanting more interactions. nothing: can go either way.

*note: jacaerys velaryon, willas tyrell and maybe ashara dayne will get single blogs possible but they remain here. you can request things from solo blogs here or on my discord: caliofhousestark

#「 ✷ 」 » out of character. / ━━ ˋ the game of thronesˎˊ˗#「 ✷ 」 » starters. / ━━ ˋ request of entryˎˊ˗

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stories-from-the-shaded-moon · 3 months

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Alone, He Stands

Shock of the Dark

I’m making Bonds of the Knights part of a series now, I guess🤷🏽‍♂️

@isasan347 :)

His stomach hurt. He coughed with the sudden impact. His sword might have stabbed him if not for its sheath.

He was sharpening his sword, chatting with the Smithy, when a single droplet of water shined on his blade. His lips pulled back into a scowl. Only a minute or two later, the downpour took out their fire. His head hung low as he groaned, putting his sword back in his sheath.

He fought his hat back on, hoping it would protect his hair from frizzing out. He internally felt bad for the Rancher. That pelt of his was very easy to tangle and mat.

Wild and Warriors rushed to start braiding Hyrule’s hair. The Traveler’s hair wasn’t much better than the pelt with frizzing up. If too much water got into it while it was out, it would turn into the afro of hell.

And that was when the illuminated purple clouded his vision. Another portal, the Veteran knew.

He stood up from his tree stump and started helping Four and Wind pack their things. Legend went through the portal second, after the Champion and Old Man.

Stepping into the portal was like stepping off of a cliff. When his first foot crossed the barrier, looking for something to plant itself on, it never found it. He tipped forward, his eyes widening as all he saw was black.

Now he was here, his chin aching with the recoil. His groan rang loud. He gathered that this was a closed room, rather than an open forest.

“Old Man?” He looked up, searching for a glare of metal. “Champion?” He searched for the blue the Slate gave off. He found neither.

“I’m afraid you’re alone.” The voice was raspy, but loud enough for Legend to find the owner. In their hand was some magenta orb with two gears turning around it. The gear that rotated horizontally lit up bright purple in some bits.

The orb illuminated his pale face that hid under a hood. Though, what really caught the Veteran’s eye was the golden eye with a slit pupil on his forehead.

He had seen eyes like that. They were in the picture display in the Champion’s Slate. He called them Malice Eyes or Eyes of Ganon.

He reached back for his sword, his senses going off. They separated him. Maybe everyone was separated. To be separated was to be hunted.

He gritted his teeth as he stood, his knees screaming in protest. The man sat in a stone chair way too far for him to be able to sneak him. His medallions might not be a wise idea. This was an enclosed area, one that might easily collapse if more stress was put on the supports.

He found himself groaning again, his eyes meeting the golden Eye of Ganon. The man hummed. “I’m glad you accepted my challenge, Hero of Legend. I am Astor, the prophet tasked with destroying you! How about we make this quick, I don’t like wasting time. Surely you understand.” A grin morphed onto his sickly face.

A mix of purple and black emerged from the orb Astor held and splattered onto the ground. Legend’s eyes never left the goop, his breath catching in his throat. “What the…”

“Rise, my minion! Destroy him!” And rose it did.

It kept its purple and black pattern, but it was creating a shape. Its hair slightly puffy, its shoulders thin, its shirt long, and its legs still knobby with young age.

Legend could almost see the lobster embroidery embedded on its chest.

If the Veteran wasn’t sneering hard before, he sure was now. His hand gripped his sword tightly like his life depended on it.

As it dashed at him, the sorcerer laughed, his cackle so broken Legend felt it in his bones.

He steadied himself, planting his feet at the ready.

It isn’t him. He knew that with how the eyes glowed pink and had missing pupils. It isn’t him. He knew by the way his skin was just purple and black that seemed to swirl. It isn’t him. He knew in the way that, as the thing that posed as his little brother, ran at him like he wanted to kill him.

It isn’t him.

He blocked its swing, but it was stronger than it appeared. It was then that the Veteran realized that he had stashed most of his magic bracelets and rings into his bag to make sure they didn’t rust from the rain.

But he did have something, and he was going to use it to its extreme.

Legend pushed the malice Sailor back and dashed to the side. He made it far enough away in seconds to drop his bag. After all, while it was on him, it was weighing him down.

As the faux Sailor ran at him, the Veteran bolted behind him. Before it could truly react, his blade met its shoulder. Relief flashed over him for only a second before a stinging pain was felt in his stomach. He was thrown back, his sword falling out of his grasp.

He keeled over, the dinner that Wild prepared spilled from his lips. He coughed and looked back at his opponent. Its leg was behind it, the sole of its boot flat in the air.

It…kicked me?

He thought that it cooked up some quick spell, but it didn’t. It just…kicked him. He needed his power bracelets now.

He had speed over it with his Pegasus boots, but it hit like he imagined Mrs. Malon would if she was fighting for her life.

Legend rolled out of the way as it punched the ground, creating a series of cracks on the floor. The Veteran hopped to his feet and sped off towards his bag, stopping only for a second for his sword.

“What’s wrong? Running away already? We have so much more time to spend together!”

Legend sneered at the sorcerer’s words, keeping an eye on the space between him and Wind’s malice clone. “It’s more like preparing to properly whoop ass,” he responded through his teeth.

He put on every bracelet and ring that he could before jumping back into action, three goals in his mind.

Kill whatever the hell this thing is, destroy that orb and the sorcerer, and protect my shit.

The faux Sailor morphed its sword into a giant hammer. It had a lot of area on its blunt end. On it, though it was the same swirling purple and black, Legend saw that it was a skull.

Wind had mentioned a weapon called the Skull Hammer.

The hammer had to slow it down, right? It couldn’t be the same speed. But even with Legend’s speed, it demonstrated that it would not falter.

If he took even one hit from that, a good bit of his bones would break. He might even be rendered immobile, paralyzed even.

“Fuck this,” Legend said, his throat on fire. He had to keep moving or it could mean death. At least he was better armed now.

It ran at him, hammer at the ready. He dashed away and heard an audible groan come from its form as it turned.

Legend scoffed as he raised his sword above his head. “Let’s see how much you like fire!” He brought the sword down and fire surrounded him in pillars. A breath caught in his throat as he saw the hammer coming down on him.

The hammer didn’t even hit the ground before it dispersed. The flames ceased, Legend’s sneer faded.

Kill whatever the hell that thing is. Check.

Destroy that orb and the sorcerer.

He bolted to the stone chair the sorcerer sat in and just barely missed the smirk that was on his face.

Bright blue flashed behind him. But before he could turn, his body began to spasm as he screamed.

#the shady lad writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #Alone He Stands #lu legend #linked universe legend #linkeduniverse legend #age of calamity #age of calamity astor #hw aoc #astor aoc #aoc astor #Separated They Fall

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mossy-rot · 10 months

Text

The Smell of Rotting Gardenias

Cross-posted to AO3, my piece for @captain-astors for the tokyo ghoul pair up!

Drip, drip, drip.

Hide stared at the flowers before him, watching the dew slide off the petals, drop by drop.

Drip, drip, drip.

A ladybug crawled up the stem, slowly. His fingers raised to his face, brushing over the thick bandages with featherlight touch.

Drip, drip, drip.

Images of a damp, cold sewer came to mind. Blurred images of his feet on the concrete, of his hand on a man’s shoulder, of the drool that slid down lips and chin.

Drip, drip, drip.

The ladybug is caught by one of the drops, dragging it down, against its struggle. His fingers clench in the bandages.

Drip, drip, drip.

He remembers his words. He remembers hunger. He remembers pain.

Drip, drip.

A hand reaches into his vision, pale and slender, stopping the ladybug’s descent. It’s freed of its watery prison, now using tiny limbs to wipe away the liquid.

“Poor thing,” a voice murmurs, soft and raspy but not without a lilt that spoke of extravagance. They set the bug on top of the flower, a petal without dew, and watched it scurry away.

Hide lifts his head to see the owner of the voice, letting his eyes settle on him.

As expected from his hand, the man was slender- with a paled pallor to his skin that screamed of sickness, if the way his hospital-sanctioned clothes hung loose on his figure hadn’t said enough. Despite this, his hair- vibrant as a damn marker in its purple color- was still neatly combed, styled to perfection.

Strange, to be so well preened in a hospital courtyard. He felt- well, what was left of his mouth- twitch up into an amused smile.

He leaned over to his side of the stone bench, picking up his notepad. Scribbling a quick note onto the page, he tore it off, offering it up to the man.

The stranger startled at first, looking down at the paper with surprise, before reading the message.

“Save bugs here often?”

It’s a silly question, but he enjoys the way the man’s face crinkles with confusion.

“Oh, no, I’m..” His eyes wander, before he coughs into his fist. “I’m new here. This is my first day out in the courtyard.”

Hide’s eyebrows raise, and his pencil goes right back to the page.

He flips the notebook around, letting him read the message. “Welcome to the garden, I guess. It’s better than inside for sure. I’m Hide.” After he’s sure he read the note, he puts the book down and extends his hand.

“Oh- well, you’re certainly right about that.” He takes Hide’s hand in a gentle handshake. “My name is Shuu.”

Shuu gives a small smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, and sits beside Hide.

The silence they fell into couldn’t be described as comfortable, but he took what he could get. It beat someone trying to talk his ear off. The only noises present were the soft chirping of birds, the occasional bustle of people walking past, and the like.

Shuu barely so much as spared him a glance as they sat together, observing the ladybug he had rescued feast upon some stray aphids. Then again, Shuu didn’t seem to actually be looking at much- staring far past the meager garden, boring a hole into the flora with empty eyes.

As Hide expected, the man went just as he came; quietly, with little to say and the shuffle of someone only present by obligation.

Which is why when it happened a second time, Hide found himself intrigued.

Hide had developed what he liked to call a routine during his time in the hospital. The regular rounds of check-ups, bland meals every few hours, and his time out in the gardens- the only time he got to enjoy, to the best of his ability. The outside was, at bare minimum, free of sterile halls and the tired song of heart monitors.

To have a new addition to this routine was… interesting.

As the day before, he had huddled himself up on his usual spot- a cold, rough bench that got just enough sun to be tolerable- watching bugs skitter by.

He didn’t have time to get lost in his thoughts today, though, as by the time his mind began to wander into all those little dark corners, the space next to him was filled.

The glint of vibrant purple in the corner of his vision was enough to let him know who had taken the spot. It wasn’t unwelcome, really, just unexpected.

He wrote a quick note, sliding it over to the man. “Welcome back.”

Despite not glancing back over, he saw the hint of a smile in his peripheral vision.

Like the day before, they sat together in silence, observing the area around them, basking in the warm sunlight. He noticed that some of the plants had begun to wilt- the roses, maybe? He wasn’t sure what they were called.

He wondered if Shuu noticed, too.

Of course, he was still in the hospital. It was only a matter of time before they had to call him back into his little personal hell.

A woman, nice enough but surrounded by an aura of exhaustion that you felt bad simply by being there, walked up to him. “Alright, Hide. It’s time for your favorite part of the day,” she spoke, her words pressed through a sieve of corporate safe vocal inflections. He heaved a quiet sigh, near inaudible through the layers of gauze, as he lifted himself to his feet.

He didn’t acknowledge the soft ‘oh,’ of disappointment he heard, but he did manage to give a half-hearted wave as he was guided back into the building.

Check-ups went as they always did- poking and prodding here, a nasty jab of a needle there. At the very least, they didn’t make him look in the mirror this time.

By the time he manages to zone back in, the doctor seems to be on an entirely different subject. His facial reconstruction.

“We can’t guarantee the success of a voice box for you, but for the time being, it could be a good option. Then, you would be able to talk without the difficulty of your mouth in its current state.” The doctor said- what were they talking about before?- after handing him a stack of papers. He could assume they were.. some sort of waiver? He didn’t want to think about it right now.

He wasn’t allowed back outside that day. He could merely yearn for the spring chill from the confines of a room much colder than the free air, buzzing with fluorescent light.

He wondered if the news was right, about the Eye Patch ghoul being missing. About perhaps even being dead. He wondered if people would celebrate, if that was the case, or if people would move along with their day, as if nothing had changed.

He wondered if the ghoul missed him. He wondered if he thought about his taste, if he felt regret. He wondered if the pain was worth it. And as the night grew close, the sun dipping behind the horizon as it welcomed the stars, he touched his bandages with not an answer to speak of.

It happened again, again, again. But the seventh time it had happened, he was thankful.

Fresh air could only do so much, really. Not when you have all your secrets bundled up in a nice, tight rubber band ball, awaiting the one little slice that will make it go pop . It was a dangerous game, but it was one he didn’t mind playing.

Breaks were nice now and again, though.

As usual- a word which felt all too domestic- Shuu had saddled up next to Hide. With a glance, he could tell that something had changed. Gone were his hospital clothes, now replaced with a colorful cardigan and white dress pants, a white button down underneath. They still refused to fit right.

It wasn’t until one of the cracked, browned petals fell off did Shuu speak.

“They didn’t water it enough.” Was the statement, one utterly bizarre to have unprompted. Hide stared at him, meeting his eyes. He didn’t hold the contact for long.

“The soil needs to be damp all the time. Look at that,” He motioned toward the flowerbed, to the dry dirt beneath the plants. “They really should take better care of their gardens. Hell, I could do it- pardon my language, but honestly. What good are dead gardenias?”

It was the most he had ever heard the man speak in the few days he’s known him, and it made a terrible swirl of joy in his chest.

A dry, cracked noise that vaguely resembled a laugh escaped his throat. Picking up his notepad, he scribbled a note.

“Strong opinions on the flowers, huh?”

Shuu turned, surprised, as if he thought he had been talking to himself the whole time. He cleared his throat, messing with a thread on his pants. “Of course. Anyone who’s spent even a minute taking care of plants would know that.” He said, like it was common knowledge.

Hide slid him another note. “You seem to be really into this. Do you garden?”

He figured it was a dumb question, but found that he was more surprised than anything when Shuu shook his head. “It was never my job, but oh, we did have such a lovely garden in my younger years. I spent hours out there, learning all the meanings of the flowers..” His eyes looked to be a bit unfocused, a contented smile on his face at the memory.

“I still remember most of them. The white gardenia, for example,” Hide watched him lean forward, to gently cradle one of the flowers between his fingers. “means purity, peace and harmony. It makes sense, doesn’t it? With how soft the petals are and how sweet the scent is.”

It was as if the mere sight of a dying plant was enough to break the floodgates, like he had been waiting to spill all his plant-based knowledge onto Hide from the moment they had met.

He couldn’t say that he minded, though.

But it appeared that Shuu had forgotten Hide’s condition, so being met with silence made him pause, shifting awkwardly as he fell quiet. Hide picked up his notepad again, hesitantly writing his next words, before sliding the book to Shuu. “Tell me more?”

And just like that, the light had flickered on again, and Shuu began another ramble. For once in this awful place, he could forget the night’s approach, to be lost in flower meanings and floral history.

But, as it always did, the time to return to their rooms arrived. Opting to do this before needing to be retrieved by a nurse, Hide stood, making a gesture for Shuu to follow.

With great hesitance, he did.

The first few steps were fine, taken in casual stride without a hint of difficulty.

The next, Hide was watching Shuu’s knees buckle beneath him as he began his descent to the ground. For both of their sake, he was glad he was fast- able to frantically throw his arms around the man before he met the cement.

He was heavy in his arms, of course, but he could still feel the harsh press of bones against him, somehow could feel the lack of weight more than anything else. Something in his stomach twisted as he watched Shuu’s expression, his eyes wide, sliding slowly from one thing to another, his mouth dropped slightly open.

Sounds, sorry attempts at jumbled words, crawled from his throat in a horrific manner that drew Shuu back to reality.

“Oh.” He murmured, his grip becoming tight on his arms. “I.. I’m sorry. I felt fine, I swear, I..” He trailed off, attempting to get his legs to work underneath him. “I suppose I really should be going back to my room now.”

Hide wasn’t able to say anything as a nurse trotted over, panicked, and stole Shuu from his arms. He couldn’t say anything when Shuu stared back at him, eyes apologetic.

He didn’t see Shuu for a few days after that.

Despite waiting at their spot- did people start avoiding this bench now? It seemed like it- there was never any show of the man, nor did he ever encounter him in the white hallways of the hospital.

When Shuu finally did reappear, he was back in his hospital attire, his face gaunt, but with a new addition: a wheelchair.

“They didn’t want me having another incident,” He said before Hide could so much as pick up his pen, a quiet venom in his voice. “It’s like they think I can’t do anything. I’ve been getting out here just fine, haven’t I?”

Hide furrowed his brow. He hadn’t expected him to be so… biting, after what happened.

While Shuu marinated in his pout, Hide rolled his pen between his fingers. He was curious, but was it insensitive to ask?

Taking the plunge, he wrote his question and slid it to him. “Why are you here? What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Shuu’s eyes widened, his lips pressing into a thin line. Hide heard him swallow.

“I.. lost someone, and.. my body doesn’t take well to my grief.” He turned away, unable to see the ache in Hide’s eyes. “I’d rather not discuss.” His tone held something more, locked away under layer after layer. It felt familiar in a way that made Hide’s stomach twist in knots.

They spent the rest of the visit in silence, and Hide yearned for words of flowers.

Days trickle down, turning to weeks. It takes a few days for Shuu to start speaking properly again, to which Hide could assume his depression had swallowed him up once more.

It was a rainy day when they did begin to talk again, cooped up in the cafeteria.

Hide tapped away on an empty pudding cup, feeling the cool air conditioning against his exposed neck and mouth. It was quite a bit after lunch, so thankfully the room remained mostly empty- with the exception of the two of them.

Raindrops streamed down the windows in uneven paths, pooling at the concrete sill. Shuu’s reflection was obscured and distorted beside his.

He turned his head to glance at the man, feeling his hair brush his shoulder- damn his hair for growing so fast. He knew that the dye was fading at this point, but only now did he consider the fact that they probably wouldn’t let him redye it until after his-

His surgery. His real surgery was approaching. His stomach did a flip just considering it. Suddenly, hair dye didn’t matter so much. He rubbed a lock of it between his fingers, hoping to will away the swirling anxiety. What did push away the anxiety wasn’t his own actions, however.

It was the touch of Shuu’s hand, brushing unruly bangs from his face.

In an instant, his vision snapped up, eyes wide. Shuu wasn’t looking at his face- just a bit above, at the dark roots of his hair.

“Health and hope,” He mumbled under his breath, before drawing his hand back. Hide tilted his head, brow furrowed. Blinking, Shuu’s actions seemed to have caught up with him. “Ah- that’s- pardon me.” Shying away, he rested his hands on his lap. “Your hair reminds me of a sunflower, is all.”

A page landed on Shuu’s hands. “Is that what they mean? Health and hope?”

Nodding, he looked back up. “They also mean resilience, and good luck. It’s.. fitting, to you, I think.”

Hide blinked, staring at Shuu with confusion. “With your injury, I mean, it- it’s not something people live through every day.” He absentmindedly touched his face, as if he thought his skin had changed to match Hide’s. “That, and, well.. It’s been nice, the past weeks. You’ve made it bearable.”

Oh.

Something in Hide’s chest stirred. Something familiar, too familiar to the point it made him ill.

He rubbed the back of his neck, giving a dry laugh as he wrote a quick ‘thank you’ on his notebook. He hoped that the terror didn’t show on his face.

But it seemed not to, as Shuu turned his attention back to the window, watching the lighting crash in the distance.

The thought of… this , made his head spin. It was brand new, an uncharted, messy situation that could go wrong in any number of ways. But it hadn’t- not yet anyway.

The one comfort he could take was that it couldn’t possibly end any worse than Kaneki.

And so, swallowing back the fear, he pressed his pen to the page, his anxieties pouring out into the cheap ink.

“You remind me of a morning glory.”

The words baffled Shuu, if his expression was anything to go off of. “How so?” He asked, tilting his head, bangs falling around his face.

“They do that thing where they close up until the sun comes out. You kinda do that. You’re all quiet and closed off until you get to talk about something you like, and then you’re the most charismatic guy in the world.”

He scribbled down an additional note at the bottom, in smaller text.

“And they’re purple.”

He watched as Shuu’s eyes lit up in a new array of emotions, before they crinkled as he began to laugh, a wide smile breaching his face.

It was so full of utter joy , joy Hide hadn’t gotten to witness up until now, that his whole being ached with the need to see him smile again. Not that he was going to acknowledge that at this moment. For now, he joined Shuu in his glee, laughing lightly.

After a moment, the man cooled down from his fit, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, oh Hide, mon chéri. You’re a delight, and more right than you could ever know.”

The words were vague, but Hide couldn’t be bothered to care right now.

Their conversations carried on, day after day, but it felt different. Like he had unlocked a new level to Shuu’s personality, after wading through the sickly depression that wracked him.

Not to say that there weren’t days like that, of course. There were some where Hide didn’t see him at all, others where he didn’t say a word, to merely sit beside him in mutual comfort.

The time had made them grow close, of course. So, it wasn’t a wonder when Hide began to notice Shuu’s fluctuating health.

Dips in his stability, going from needing a wheelchair, to being able to trot around the courtyard freely, to nearly collapsing again. The way the pallor on his skin would vanish in a night, replaced with a flush of healthy pink.

The way he never saw him eat, even once. How this only happened after visits from his father, or his family’s servants.

He wasn’t stupid. He had already learned the signs the hard way.

He just wasn’t sure if he was ready to deal with all of this again.

But before he could deal with that, he had more pressing matters- his facial reconstruction.

Despite all his stress- which Shuu had spent a great deal of time soothing him through- his surgery went fine. It felt strange to have a voice box, like something was blocking his throat but not at all at the same time, to hear his voice through a speaker.

The face he saw in the mirror was a vague echo of his own, but it was recognizable in an uncanny sort of way. He was just happy to have a decent portion of his skin back.

In testing it, he found that he tripped over certain words, having difficulty with words that required having lips to sound out. No matter, he’d find a way around it until that could happen. Call him a fool, but he was excited to show his friend the results.

So excited, in fact, that he had snuck out of his room.

The moon hung high in the sky, illuminating his path through the halls as he tiptoed his way around. It was quiet at this hour, perfect to slip away into without notice.

As he arrived at the room, he took in a breath. A part of him felt guilt for going to wake Shuu at this time, knowing that he was most likely dead asleep. Another simply hopped around like a child, thrilled at the aspect of showing off his ability to speak. Regardless of his internal conflict, his hand landed on the doorknob, creaking the door open.

Drip, drip, drip.

The scent hit him first. Thick, coppery, unforgettable. The kind of scent that filled your head, that fogged up the whole room and choked anything else out. And the scene, oh, the scene .

Drip, drip, drip.

Shuu sat on the floor beside his bed, his white sleeves kept pristine as they were rolled to the elbow. His hands were stained, glistening with red under the moonlight. His face was rather clean, surprisingly, but his pale pink lips now donned a painful shade of crimson. The same shade as his eyes, now surrounded by a swallowing black that made them stand out all the more, even in his dazed, starved gaze.

Drip, drip, drip.

Hide wasn’t shocked, if he was being honest. He wasn’t even scared.

Drip, drip.

He was just tired.

Crimson met brown, and widened in horror.

Time didn’t stop, nor did it slow down. They simply both fell still, letting the sight of each other soak in as the clock ticked away.

There was remorse and pleading in his manner, a fear so primal that Hide hardly recognized him, an emotion so vivid in his own memories that it made him feel a thousand times heavier.

Hide held himself, a hand gripped on the doorknob, the other around his own waist, as though one wrong move would have him pierced against the door. In fact, it likely would.

It was just his luck, wasn’t it? He’d eaten his words now, and he was left with the stomachache.

But somewhere, buried in the desperate, empty recedes of a damaged heart, he wanted to try again. Foolish as it was, he yearned for the choice.

And so, he took it.

He released the doorknob, taking a cautious few steps forward. Shuu startled, shifting to stand at an instant, before Hide raised his hands slowly.

“Shuu, it’s okay.”

His voice crackled a bit, dry and unstable in its inflection, but it was enough to halt Shuu where he stood, his eyes flashed a fleeting spark of excitement before being consumed by a wave of shock.

“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

He smiled, as best as he could. Memories fought to bubble to the surface, the sound of fighting above, echoes through concrete. But he swallowed them down, closing the distance to sit down on the hospital bed. He patted the seat beside him.

Licking his lips- Hide didn’t bother to watch as they were cleaned of blood- Shuu sat down, like a guilty child, refusing to meet Hide’s eyes.

Hide rested a hand on his.

“Did I ever tell you about my best friend?”

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imasradiantasthesun · 4 months

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Hey!!!

I’m interested in your thoughts: how many living Victors do you think each District has at the time of the QQ reaping?

omg hi!! thank you so much for the ask, i love talking about the victors!! iirc there were 59 victors still alive shortly before the quell, so here's what i think:

1: 11 total, 8 living: Jasper Montgomery (2nd, dec.); Ruby Red Bird (6th); Mirage Dubois (17th); Luxe Cloud (22nd); Jade Crawford (30th); Onyx O'Hara (42nd); Amber Nova Astor-Moon (51st); Quartz Whitegrass (59th); Cashmere Davenport (63rd); Gloss Davenport (64th); Crystal Chanel Michaels (66th)

2: 14 total, 11 living: Rex Barnes (1st, dec.); Atticus Nader (4th, dec.); Diana Roseman (8th, dec.); Florence Malina (19th); Ace Robinson (27th); Violet Rashid (28th); Valerie Banks (36th); Brutus Kumar (40th); Emmeline (Lyme) Lin (46th); Leo Kalinin (52nd); Sebastian Kim (56th); Enobaria Moore (62nd); Augustus Braun (67th); Julian Stone (72nd)

3: 5 total, 4 living: Edie Faris (13th, dec.); Sofie Park (26th); Beetee Latier (33rd); Wiress Payne (48th); Gage Patel (54th)

4: 10 total, 9 living: Tomi Ando (5th, dec.); Magdalena (Mags) Flanagan (11th); Caspian Zhang (15th); Siobhan Sullivan (24th); Dylan Kahale (32nd); Estrella Williams (39th); Pearl Davis (49th); Halia Kane (55th); Finnick Odair (65th); Anemone (Annie) Cresta (70th)

5: 4 total, 3 living: Dacie Quinn (16th, dec.); Porter Millicent Tripp (38th); Wyatt Medina (44th); Vander Allen (61st)

6: 3 total, 2 living: Basma Ford (23rd, dec.); Adrienne Mercedes Hughes (43rd); Miles Horowitz (60th)

7: 5 total, 3 living: Phyll Thomas (9th, dec.); Olive Sato (20th, dec.); Grover Hits Back (41st); Blight Hackman (58th); Johanna Mason (71st)

8: 4 total, 4 living: Woof Dimatteo (12th); April Webber (21st); Sasha Travin (35th); Cecelia Balan (57th)

9: 5 total, 4 living: Malt Waters (7th); Robin Blue Ryan (25th, dec.); Maisie Olson (34th); Erika Miller (53rd); Isaac Mesteth (68th)

10: 4 total, 3 living: Vina Garza (18th); Aubrey Flores (29th, dec.); Paxton Bernal (47th); Bel Cuervo (73rd)

11: 6 total, 5 living: Cane Harrison (3rd, dec.); Honeydew Hayes (14th); Seeder Chapman (31st); Harvey McLean (37th); Chaff Santana (45th); Clementine Jones (69th)

12: 4 total, 3 living: Lucy Gray Baird (10th, dec.); Haymitch Abernathy (50th); Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark (74th)

i think that the majority of the deceased victors passed away from old age, with the exception of a few (general TW because this gets dark):

Dacie Quinn (D5, 16th Games): died of cancer at the age of 53 (56 ADD)

Olive Sato (D7, 20th Games): died in childbirth at age 40 (42 ADD)

Basma Ford (D6, 23rd Games): died from a morphling overdose at age 27 (32 ADD)

Robin Blue Ryan (D9, 25th Games): murdered at age 37 (44 ADD) (imo he was a very unpopular victor in D9 because a) he was voted in, and b) as D9's first actual mentor, he didn't do very well, bringing home only one tribute in the 19 years he mentored)

Aubrey Flores (D10, 29th Games): drowned in his bathtub while drunk at age 40 (53 ADD)

Onyx O'Hara (D1, 42nd Games): died by suicide at age 26 (50 ADD)

anyways... thank you SO much for the ask, i'd love to hear what you think :3

#the hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #haymitch abernathy #lucy gray baird #tbosas #finnick odair #johanna mason #beetee latier #victors #asks #my post.

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fragmentedlegends · 2 months

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Tossing this up since it’s relevant—I’ve gotten a few asks about Kohga and Astor that I just never really got around to answering/essentially got covered in an answered ask already clarifying that they aren’t together, they’re fuck buddies.

Now if you are enjoying reading along and you’re feeling them as a toxic ship, my friend, enjoy. Truthfully, I’m always open to the possibilities of shipping with any combination of muses (within the boundaries of my rules) because you never know, but the thing to remember is that it wouldn’t change anything.

My Astor is the still same man who killed his little brother for power and secrets, even though he had years of developing an attachment and deep love for him. Astor puts Astor first, that is the choice he always makes, and love in any form doesn’t change that.

It’s a shame, because Astor really is handed a second chance on a silver platter where he could have been part of a community, could have developed bonds, could have done all these things and still not had to really change all that much—but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to change at all, even a little, and doesn’t really see the value of bonds or community beyond a stepping stone to his goals. He views Kohga’s big attachment to the Clan as one of the big things that hold him back, and from his point of view, Kohga’s the one who has it wrong.

Astor often hates Kohga and finds him annoying, but there might also be moments that he enjoys Kohga’s company, might laugh with him, might enjoy sex with him, might even acknowledge or respect his intellect and abilities, and all of that is very genuine—but it still changes nothing.

No matter what Kohga is to him—a comrade to keep complacent, a fuck buddy, a drinking companion, an accidental husband, a blood feud enemy, or even a wildly unexpected and unhealthy partner—Astor’s ultimate priority will always remain himself, and any instance in which he appears to be putting someone else above him is merely a sacrificial move on the chess board. He can spare a few pawns now and then—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still intend to win.

TLDR— Astor and Kohga aren’t in a relationship and even if they were, they would be a toxic relationship and Astor would still be an asshole who kills his whole clan so long as it best serves his goals lol

#charm of a bastard (astor)#Choking on Blood and Tears (Astor and Kohga)

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luminescentlyricist · 4 months

Text

🎠 Petals, Sticks And Stones 🎠

While the idea for the Sparkslide Circus troupe, Carrie and Homura belong to me, Kazuki and Dahlia actually belong to @c4ndystarz and @maimai020104 respectively! Go give them the incredible amount of love they deserve.

The pounding in Carrie Astor’s chest was unavoidable. She’d awoken with that pain for many nights in a row, gasping for air like she’d been choking. But there were things to do as morning broke, so it usually culminated in her simply rolling back over in her bed to get what little rest she could. This time, though, she sat up. Fingers curling loosely to grip the sheets, she hauled her tired body further upwards to rest against the headboard. A groan of protest parted her lips, as was normal for that early in the morning, but she doubted the show would wait for her to get her beauty sleep. And even if it did, on a rare occasion indeed, there were people who expected more from her than laziness. Although she hadn’t been assigned a specific role in the Sparkslide Circus’ troupe, doing whatever was needed to fill in the gaps between all manner of excuses, the variety instilled in her a hunger to continue moving forward.

It was this hunger that kept her awake at all hours of the night, tossing and turning until the sheets tangled around her legs and she had to sit up to fix them. She craned her head to look out the window, crinkling her nose in distaste at the thin beam of morning light beginning to invade her peaceful darkness. Still eager to avoid whatever laborious tasks Homura - the troupe’s Ringmaster and her father, no less - had in store, the young woman groaned louder. Her throat was sore from the last night’s performances, as she’d been kept up talking with a few of the other members before being taken aside by him and given an earful of additional tasks.

The work wasn’t thankless.

Her thoughts shifted towards her friends in the troupe as she fumbled about for a stray glass of water on her nightstand, narrowly avoiding knocking it over a small music box she kept there. Taking a long and grateful sip, the performer found herself reminiscing about the origins of the trinket. It had been a gift from one Kazuki Rosario, the troupe’s own self-professed ‘master’ aerialist and first companion to Carrie when she’d begun her own forays into the world beneath the stage-lights. She’d had to patch it up many a time, of course, owing to her disastrous strokes of misfortune, but they never seemed to mind when she repetitively apologised. If anything, the meetings were only an excuse for them to bond in what little leisure time they were given. No matter what, he seemed to tease a smile out of her.

She would’ve wished to meet with him, then, but looking at the sorry state of the music box reminded her of just how irritable he could get early in the day. It wasn’t their fault. Nobody truly got enough sleep in the troupe, and that wasn’t even on her father’s list of concerns. He only wanted to present something good to the people, no matter what expenses and stresses were piled onto his loyal performers. Kaz had been an active member in shows for as long as Carrie’s memory stretched, however poor, though they were both similar in age to one another. Neither of them got any special treatment, despite the many years they’d worked together - and Carrie’s inevitable closeness to the forefront of the show.

Swinging her legs a few more times, the only thing left to do was greet the day that hadn’t yet arrived. Now, with mind racing, she looked at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock was definitely earlier than she would’ve liked to be up and moving, but was just late enough to leave little room for boredom. If she wasn’t already planning something, people could tell her things to be done. Or, of course, she could invade any number of the other tents that she’d been given a key to. Supplies always needed replenishing in the communal prop tent, no matter the number of resourceful clowns who only worried about their own. Thus, she stood up, immediately swaying in protest.

“Good grief. You’re not going to die from a few chores, Miss Carrie.”

With a croaking voice the woman scolded herself, turning back to neaten the sheets of the bed and grimacing at the comparatively loud shifting of the mattress. Everything was grating for a time, just until she could put the music box on and soothe herself with the melody. Though it often stuttered and the handle was nearly falling off, a touch of paint (on top of some luck with tinkering) would do its job. The tune it produced was akin to a lullaby, something soft that urged one almost to sleep. For Carrie, it was a reminder of the shows that Kaz was in. The ways the silk and hoops moved in synchrony with her friend’s body was just as captivating, and she recognised it as one of their own tracks. Usually, there were musical sets already in place, but rules never mattered too much to Kaz.

Boy, they’d had to fight her father to get that permission…

A small smile rested on her face as she worked, deciding not to touch the box for the time being. Things that were precious were few and far between, and she feared each handle-crank would be the one to stop the music for good. Instead, Carrie pulled on her shoes and fumbled tying the laces in the dark, guided only by the mocking sliver of light from her stubborn curtains. It wasn’t easy in the best days, due to certain dexterity issues she’d always had. Far more humiliating, however, would be anything falling off in the middle of a show. The thought alone made her shudder as she straightened, swinging her right leg a few times and sighing in relief. That one was a prosthetic, owing to an accident in her early childhood that remained in her mind as little more than a blur of pain and darkness.

Though they were sure their parents wouldn’t refuse to tell them if they asked for clarification on the subject, it made her nervous anyway. Happiness was preferable in their family, in their lives, and to jeopardise that would only consume Carrie with gnawing guilt. It was just one of many things she’d learnt to make herself blend in. No privileges were consciously given to her as an Astor, and she intended to keep it that way. Her dear friend would have even less time to stay and talk, to brighten the skies when her muscles ached, and that wasn’t something she was willing to trade away for a ripple of hope on the horizon.

She opened the curtains for later, hoping that the weather would hold and not present too much of a damper on the mood. It was harder for her to bring people happiness when it didn’t have a reason to personally exist. No matter how many tricks she employed, sadness was the easiest thing for an audience to spot under the glaring lights. The various friends that she walked alongside helped fend back the misery, and it was more than she could ever ask for.

Shaking herself back to reality, the performer busied herself with leaving the tent that served as her lodgings. Though each appeared to be a miniaturised red-and-white circus tent, the walls were solid and structure akin to any other room. Her eyes continued to sweep around anxiously like she hadn’t seen the interior a million times over. A small vase sat on the desk, housing three small blooms. One was a spider-lily that she’d plucked from a miscellaneous show’s congratulatory gifts, finding the colour and design striking. The last two were given to her on seperate occasions. Homura had handed her the strangely wilting dahlia just the day prior, an infuriatingly sly expression that she’d wanted to slap off his face along with it. He’d mentioned that there was a new arrival coming soon, and she’d need the reminder. Of course he had to be cryptic and obnoxious, despite a genuine attempt to do something nice for her.

The other was a rose.

Kazuki had given her many roses, and it’d become a lasting symbol of their bond. It was a shame that Carrie didn’t have a green thumb, but she did the best she could remembering to water them. Many were even de-thorned, to the best of the aerialist’s ability, and he’d announce his arrival with a string of muttered curses more often than not. The oft-necessary first-aid kit in one’s cupboard was an asset to both performers. Her fingers paused in the air reaching for the flower, and she had to remind herself that time wouldn’t pause for her silly whims. It would be safer to leave it out of the buzz and rush of preparations. So she exited the tent with a notable drag in her step, leaving soothing thoughts of rosy fields and sunlight behind along with it.

Of course it was beginning to rain. The light that streamed into her tent had been cold and grey, though she’d not taken any notice of it because of her prior squinting protest. She’d forgotten to bring an umbrella, but that was something trivial. Judging by the steady emergence of people into the main area, it was time to work, and preparations for shows didn’t stop because of the sun’s refusal to shine. It was a pain, seeing as Carrie herself had reservations about being vulnerable in bad weather, but she was only a cog in the entertainment machine. Things wouldn’t work as smoothly without her. With this in mind, she looked toward the only different tent in the vicinity (save for the titular Big Top) and made a note to avoid it for the time being.

Homura insisted on being the centre of everything whenever possible, sly and ‘quiet’ though he was, and it really got on her nerves. Of course he worked in the shadows, puppeteering the lives of the people he claimed to love, but the spotlight was ultimately his - not even his family’s. For this reason, his tent was a measure bigger than the others, draped in navy and gold to contrast those around it. Carrie didn’t want to disturb him when she could continue silently, as she was his personal favourite errand-runner. It was as if she had no more purpose to him than another prop, and fitted well with his hobbies in the art of hypnotism. Unlike other shows, Carrie’d always thought that her father’s participants weren’t quite as willing.

It meant that not even she was safe, and his influences reached farther than the stage. He was never bragging outwardly, no, though the possibility of having her agency taken with a moment’s notice made a shiver course through her body. So she kept her head down and ran herself ragged to make things as perfect as possible, if only to avoid whatever was in store if she stepped out of line. He forced himself to be calm and collected, but those closest to him knew it was just one of many masks he put on for the public. The ruse could drop when the curtains fell.

The young woman continued toward the Big Top, trying her best to convince herself that the shaking of her legs was only due to the cold. There was a commotion there, with many performers beginning to congregate around the fabric entranceway. Her walking then faltered. It was far too early to deal with such a thing when her voice wasn’t even cooperating. So she changed course, deciding to take her time getting to the supply tent. Though her right hand was uncooperative most days, she wanted to try juggling more. However backwards it seemed, she was sure that training herself to her limits would help new horizons open. She denied the foolishness of these thoughts, especially because her father was happy enough to encourage anything that would make ‘his’ shows more interesting.

Setting down the bag she’d grabbed prior, Carrie begun taking stock of items available. There were walls stacked with teetering piles, some housing equipment she found comfortable and others far beyond her reach. There were more people crowded into the tent, but she paid them no mind. Even after years of being around the circus, the sheer magnitude of tricks and toys they had available tended to make her tune out everything else in captivation. Smoothing her hands over a layered mass of aerial silks, she debated taking some of them and meeting Kazuki for practice.

The thought was comforting, but she needed to start pushing herself if she was going to make her father happy. He’d told her she wasn’t up to par, and the only way to fix that… He left it to her imagination, which was an unkind thing to do. She thought badly of herself more often than not. After choosing a set of juggling balls emblazoned with various insect shapes and putting them into her bag, she barely had enough time to turn around before a figure called out to her. She was too engrossed to hear what they’d said, nor decipher who it’d been until a hand grabbed her shoulder to shake her away. Strands of pink and blue dyed hair framed the aerialist’s perpetually smiling face as Carrie faced them, though the expression fell into concern seeing her irritated.

“Carrie-“

She shook Kazuki’s touch and attention both away, wordless in her rejection, continuing to walk out of the tent with not a single thought in mind until it finally dawned on her just how rude she’d been. Beginning to turn around to seek his familiar fairy-floss hair in the crowd, she instead stepped on a crag of the pavement before she could find her footing. Roughly falling down, she exclaimed, attempting to brace herself and having one of her habitually-worn gloves slip off. Before she could right herself and begin gathering the juggling balls, an unfamiliar pair of hands stretched down into her vision.

Grateful for the help, Carrie took the performer’s hands into her own and hauled herself upright, bending over to pick up some of the supplies before they escaped her grasp in the increasing throng of people. She paused upon seeing the blades on their belt, however, and the grateful smile that’d bent her lips upward prior wavered. Great. Just what we need - more people doing dangerous acts. Straightening, it came to mind that the figure before her must have been Sparkslide Circus’ new arrival. Before she could speak, however, she was caught up in the subject of her wonder again. Judging by the handles’ sculpt, the knives were crafted specifically for throwing. Carrie was tempted to ask the new arrival whether she could handle the skill, too, but caught her shaking hands in her field of vision too soon.

Absolutely not.

In the suspended moment, Dahlia - the knife-thrower - had taken note of the missing glove, holding it out to Carrie. The other used it to hide a variety of cuts and wounds, the most interesting of which was a still-healing scar running the length of her palm. This was nothing of concern, being one of many such injuries owing to a life of performance coupled with horrendous bad luck. But it managed to capture Dahlia’s attention, for better or worse. While they didn’t want to invade and ask Carrie where they’d sustained the injury, they walked silently alongside the girl as she’d begun to leave. After a moment, Carrie turned toward Dahlia, gesturing vaguely to the Big Top gleaming behind them.

“Sorry about that. The name’s Carrie. The Ringmaster let me know yesterday that there was a new arrival coming to the troupe, but didn’t bother specifying when. He never gives enough attention to the things that actually matter. Thank you for your help.”

Dahlia’s expression was far more gentle than expected, seeing how sharp her skills were bound to be. While Homura didn’t shy away from training those he thought were worth the time, it was oddly rarer still for him to take already-trained members into the ranks. It was riskier, too, being a hypnotist, for him to let anyone slip from his grasp. But he was overconfident. He believed he could pick apart the mind of anyone who came his way, and Carrie only hoped that was a lie. Dahlia only smiled, hesitating before speaking as if planning her words. The other hadn’t wanted to be overwhelming, but their awkward first meeting had thrown a curveball into the typical conversational process.

“Dahlia. You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

Carrie’d chosen to simply nod, the performer’s name ringing in their ears for a moment longer. So that was why their father had given them the flower… though she didn’t think of it as a simply nice gesture in the first place, it would’ve been better for her to be told directly.

“Of course. I’m more used to falling over than your usual person, if anything needs to be said. Do you know why the Big Top is so crowded?”

There was another pause, during which Dahlia’s eyes swept across the girl in front of them and fully took in who she was seeing. She’d not been informed that the Ringmaster of the troupe had any family, but was able to tell there was something odd going on with her. Someone with so many careless injuries didn’t meet the expectations she’d seen from the imposing man, so the only avenue she could reason with was that Carrie had obtained some sort of special permission to be there. It was obvious from their earlier words they were part of the performing members, after all, and not just any member of the crowd.

This didn’t culminate in any judgement - just simple curiosity, the likes of which made their eyes light up as she responded.

“The Ringmaster told me, yesterday upon my arrival on the grounds, that there was going to be a sort of introductory gathering in the Big Top some time the next morning. No other details, as you might guess, but I can’t say I’m surprised that he would want to make a spectacle out of everything possible. As much as I can’t say it within earshot, he seems terribly self-absorbed.”

There was laughter in Dahlia’s words, posing a comfort to Carrie although she didn’t have the courage to mention it. Some of the tension that’d been in her shoulders from the fall (and meeting a stranger in such an embarrassing state) melted away as she took a moment to talk and gain her bearings. Luckily, none of the juggling balls had strayed too far, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to risk using them again.

“He hasn’t shown himself in the Big Top yet, as far as I can tell, so I was going to check if one of the practice tents were set up and keep myself occupied. I’m sure you have your own things to do, Carrie, so I’ll-”

I’ll leave you to it.

The knife-thrower’s words were interrupted by the sound of an exclamation, then a loud and very familiar voice swearing. This made Carrie’s attention pull away from Dahlia, if momentarily, and she frowned deeply.

“On the other hand, I might accompany you. Nothing good can come from someone that raucous.”

Dahlia noted, more than willing to follow her new acquaintance if it meant getting to the source of the fun. She matched Carrie’s pace as they begun to run toward the prop tent, appearing to seek out who exactly had sworn.

The performer’s eyes were wide, panicked, footfalls heavy against the uneven grass where the tents were pitched. There was no time. She needed to find Kaz before they got hurt, and she had a feeling they already would be. But the tent was silent. Too silent. She glanced back to the knife-thrower, instinctively grabbing their hand for support, one gloved finger coming up to make a shushing motion against her own lips. She couldn’t risk their being found, but she knew better than to take a single step further into the entrance of the tent. It was something of a protective instinct, stemming from all the times she’d been in front of her father’s wrath.

Evidently, Homura’s plans had changed and he saw no need to notify anyone of the shift. What he said went, and the same rung true if he never talked at all. All the world was his stage, and his alone. He had one hand clamped over his eye, tight enough so that none of the storage tent’s dim illumination was reaching through it. Though Kaz stood back from the Ringmaster, Homura's commanding presence seemed to darken the whole room. On his face there usually sat a large medical eyepatch, strings fraying but otherwise well-kept. This was the only exception to formality he’d ever make in appearance, preferring the large patch over something more stereotypical and pirate-like. It did nothing to lessen how intimidating he was.

Carrie, meanwhile, had wrestled her attention away from the admittedly disturbing scene enough to debate asking Dahlia for a favour. Though it was far too soon for her to be in debt to a fellow performer - someone she couldn’t really escape from - she saw no other option. Maybe, if they could create a diversion, she could free Kaz from whatever conflict they’d unwillingly stepped into. Maybe it would just be safer for her to back out and away, running before the altercation even concerned her. She’d be branded a fool to desert the two, even if it were the better personal choice. She was making the situation much bigger in her head than it had any right to be, yet it was driven by the need to protect someone dear to her.

So she turned to Dahlia, voice little more than a harsh whisper, before loosening her hold. She didn’t want to let go just yet, however, breathing becoming ragged and nervous. They were aiming to be a comfort to the knife-thrower, yes, but to glean comfort in return as well. She took one more step past the doorway, leaving Dahlia standing behind as if guarding her. But there wasn’t time.

Before Carrie could act, there was a flash. Bright. Blinding.

Yes, Rosario, blinding.

The movements of the once-fluid aerialist became staggered. Stiff, inorganic and conveying none of their usual personality. Not suspended, as any dancer would be through the air, but frozen. Trapped.

This sight was something familiar to Carrie, and the young woman’s breath caught in her throat. Why? Why would her father risk it? For something so petty, so inconsequential, he’d become unforgivable. It was not the first time that he’d used his hypnotism in such a way, leaving performers vulnerable and empty-minded, but the fear never ceased to grip his daughter every time she saw it. Her hands became clammy with sweat as she stood numbly, eyes darting around to find any reason for the outburst. And it was there, simply, lying on the floor.

Kazuki had made a fatal mistake.

He wasn’t dead, but might as well have been. The medical patch that the Ringmaster wore had fallen during the two's scuffle earlier, which Carrie hadn’t been around to witness, and she guessed that Kaz had taken it off or caused the bands to somehow snap. She held faith in her friend that he wouldn’t have done something to spite his superior willingly, though Homura’s thinly-veiled insecurities were as fragile as the metaphorical strings now lodged in Kazuki’s shoulders. So he struck out before he thought, more often than not, and it cost him relationships forged organically.

He’d just smile and bear it. So long as people agreed with him, there was no point in having ‘companions’ for any other purpose. ‘Puppets’ were enough.

Feeling Dahlia’s grip loosen around her left hand, Carrie only held it tighter. It took her a precious few seconds more to react properly, but she attempted to pull the knife-thrower away from the prop tent’s opening. They were transfixed, smile left upon their lips, and so she tried again - an anxious tug from the wrist, expression warping into worry as they resisted without response. Even this refused to work, but if there was one thing Homura agreed upon it was that his daughter was stubborn. So he watched her tap the performer’s shoulders, urgency surely almost leaving bruises, but it was all futile. She held tighter to their hand, hoping the warmth would do something. Anything.

Focus had shifted, and he was simply waiting for her to realise.

The Big Top had fallen silent.

Heads began to crane in the other direction. A million eyes, crowd and performer alike, all glaring straight toward Carrie. She couldn’t see the majority of their faces, but the ones she did know were making her nervous. Even Dahlia’s ice-blue gaze was harder than before. Vacant and unyielding to the effort she’d put into trying to save them. Just how much time Homura had spent under the guise of preparation accomplishing something so terrifying was beyond her, but she could barely think. Twisting her wrist to break her hold on Dahlia, she winced as a crack rung out. Though she hoped nothing was broken, the all-consuming stiffness in the knife-thrower’s body wasn’t natural.

Homura watched this all transpire with a sly smile, knowing well that the stage would be his once more. He bent over at the waist and swiped the medical patch off the floor, deftly tying it to his face and sighing in relief. The darkness comforted him, even if it made his depth perception a lot worse. Craning his neck to look at the motionless aerialist, the soft expression he wore hardened into something more menacing. Sure, he was smiling, but he may as well have had shark teeth. There was nothing genuine about the expression. Kazuki remained still, the only indication of their being awake lying in the steady rise and fall of their chest.

With a wave of Homura’s hand, a nonchalant forward motion, Kazuki fell into step behind the hypnotist. The two left the prop tent, with the smaller swamped in his superior’s shadow. As the man approached his daughter, the greeting was interrupted by Dahlia’s own movement. This too was stilted, nearly stumbling forward, but the ground was smooth enough so that she didn’t fall. Before joining Kaz behind their Ringmaster, she shot Carrie a smile. It was no comfort to the girl, suspended in disbelief and fear as she was. The blades were dull compared to the intimidation hidden in their expression. Still, they took two knives out of their belt and twirled them around in gloved fingers, carelessness shown like they were no more than toys.

But Dahlia and Homura both knew the damage they could do.

“Well… look what a predicament we’re in, Carrie.”

Homura taunted his daughter openly, spreading his arms wide to frame the emerging crowds that had gathered behind him. His tone was soft and alluring to any other, but she knew what it hid. Venom, spat, and harshness beyond measure. It’d hurt his public image, yes, but he’d never been so kind behind the curtains drawn. Control was the only thing he desired. She was his child above anything else, and held that position of influence regardless of any petty trickery.

“Will you join the show?”

In reality, Carrie knew she had no choice. The crowds loomed forward behind her, closing in and pushing her further toward the Ringmaster. A mass of bodies, unidentifiable but brought together by a singular goal.

One mind.

The girl couldn’t muster the courage to respond, even though keeping silent often did more harm than good around him. Instead, she tried to reach out toward where she thought her companions were waiting, however hard it became to see individuals in the swarm of crowd and performer alike. When Homura raised an eyebrow in silent judgement of this action, she faltered, cringing habitually away from the criticism and withdrawing her reach. He took a singular step further toward his daughter, breaking the line of tension between them.

It was in this moment of fearful instinct and clarity that her resolve gave out, and she turned tail. Running through the oppressive crush of bodies, there was nothing she could think about other than finding relief from the hammering in her chest. Usually, Carrie would’ve been able to talk to him at the very least, but she was one performer against the whole circus. The fact that their blank stares were all seeming to judge her was bad enough, and that was something she was sure he knew well. She raised her left arm to shield her eyes from the lashing arms all fighting to grab her, caring little for the injuries that she’d have to deal with later. There wouldn’t be a later if her father got his way.

The crowd never stopped their pursuit, but the only other way to make them stop was to face their Ringmaster.

She wasn’t about to do that.

Two sets of hands grabbed at her shoulders as she ran toward her tent, one’s scarring familiar and one cloaked in gloves. They didn’t even try to pull her back, even as her pounding steps reached the border of her tent. Twisting to release the harsh grips, she staggered into her room and slid the door closed behind her, falling finally onto the floor and heaving in a choking sob. For a second or two, she debated locking the door, but the howling of noise began to fade away. Whether it was because she was falling asleep or unconscious, she couldn’t tell, but she didn’t particularly care. All that mattered was that the Ringmaster had left her alone.

She wanted badly to crawl into her bed right then and there, but with lucidity came overwhelming pain. Wearily, just as she had that morning, she thought to check the clock.

Half-lidded and tear-filled eyes swept up towards her desk again, just in time to see the petals fall.

#luminescent lyricist writes #✨ shimmering shorts ✨#:]

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