#the audible GASP I let out whe I saw it

[gothgamergfs]

HELLO! Have you seen the new art? The new akorinko art?

IF YOURE REFERRING TO THEIR “BAND LIFE WITH…” ART YES AND I

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

The Dance of Fire and Water, Part Two: Water

In which Cullen and Lydia burn for each other. Read Part One here, or see the whole thing on A03. NSFW below the cut.

“You still burn.”

His voice should have still been relatively unfamiliar to her. She had only heard it a few times by the fire as they danced, and even then, it was underlain with the sound of bells, drums, laughter and chatter. His voice shouldn’t have sounded like coming home. But she was home.

Her first question had been answered, the question she had on her mind since the night before, in the Inquisition’s camp: Would he come?  She had it on her mind as well when she stowed away, Cassandra surprisingly being the champion of inexplicable romantic connections and telling her she would cover for her. Lydia decided to champion Cassandra in return, telling her she should see Rylen, when she could.

“It’s like a story, isn’t it?” Cassandra asked Lydia. And Lydia agreed, and reminded herself, she would not question anything anymore.

Still, her second question was still on her mind: Am I crazy?

Cullen, as if reading her mind, smiled. She decided she didn’t care if she was. After everything she had done, she had earned the right to be a little crazy.

In the midst of the dance the previous night, she could not study him as intently as she may have perhaps liked. Instead she felt his energy and power, felt how he moved under the earth, smelled his oakmoss and elderflower, and something else, that was distinctly man. She also could discover, last night in her haze, her body’s inherent reaction to his. How easily their energies, her fire, his fire, molded together. How easily their bodies fit together. She studied him then, because she was able, and because she wanted to. Unlike the other Avvar she had seen, he didn’t have any tattoos, and he kept his hair shorter. It was also decidedly curlier, though that was more likely nature’s choice than it was his own. He wore a brown woolen shirt, with matching breeches and furred boots. The day before, he was dressed for travel, today he was dressed purely for comfort. She wore much the same thing, breeches and a tunic, though hers was white. She had also taken her shoes off, once she reached the glen. If she could go without them, she would. One of her many idiosyncrasies others found amusing. If Cullen found it odd, he didn’t say anything, though it occurred to her he might find many things about her that were strange, what with her lowlander sensibilities. Then again, she didn’t think she could be called a typical lowlander woman. Usually, lowlander women didn’t run off to have tristes with Avvar clansmen.

Though it hardly mattered. Being normal wasn’t ever something she coveted.

She continued gazing at him, pondering him, as he gazed and pondered her in turn. She pondered his scar, thought briefly about how she would feel it underneath her tongue if he kissed her, and then thought of it no more, lest he saw her blush.

Too late. She could feel the bloom, and her hands sprung to her cheeks. “Cullen,” she said, her hands running through her dark and loose waves. “I..."

“Tell me.” He sat down next to her, taking a strand of hair in his fingers, so he may play with it. “Do you still burn?”

They were a breath away from a kiss. Briefly she imagined it again—her placing her hands on either side of his face and pressing her lips to his in a kiss. Avvar, as she was informed, viewed kissing and exchanging breath as an exchange of souls. Such a simple thing it was, merely a press of lips to another. Yet it was everything, at the same time. A person’s hopes, and past. Their future. Everything in their soul. It was fitting, and perfect. She wanted it.

“Cullen,” she said, barely audible, contemplating what his everything would entail. “What I feel with you is…special.” Special, she said. It didn’t quite fit or match, but what other word could she use? “Truly. But…”

“You do not want me.”

“No!” She assured. “I do. It’s crazy, that’s all. But I have found,” she bit her lip, peered closer. “The craziest things I have wanted are the best.”

Their foreheads touched, their energies touched. “How do you want?” he murmured.

Everywhere. Everything.

She didn’t say it, however. Words became muddled and tongue tied, even more so when Cullen’s palm, rough from years of labor caressed her jaw. She was spinning and lightheaded, but it ended all too soon. He removed his hand suddenly, averting his gaze and turning a light shade of red. It was such a contradiction to see it, this man, strong and proud—blush and become almost ashamed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Cullen?”

“I feel unworthy, to touch,” he admitted. “Lydia. Inquisitor.”

“Lowlander,” she muttered playfully, inching closer, letting him know without words, he was more than worthy. He was perfect.

“Perfect,” he muttered, as if reading her thoughts. digits ghosting her cheeks, feather light. “And I—”

There it was, that doubt again. So she took his hands in hers, allowed their palms to meet. Calloused hands, yet strong. So different from the hands of the men Josephine would often introduce her to. Soft, betraying the fact that they had not lived. Cullen had lived, and if she studied the canvas of his palms and fingers, she would see the entirety of the life he had lived. His struggles, his pain. His everything.

“I’m not perfect, you know” she told him. “I’ve done things, things I may not be proud of. But I’ve also—"

“Survived.”

“Survived,” she agreed. “To be here with you.”

Just as she studied his hands, he too studied hers. Traced the lines on her palm with his fingers, caressed her digits. The mark faintly glowed underneath the fingerless glove she always wore, a glove that had become her savior since she had fallen out of the fade. It had protected her from prying eyes and invasive gazes, and she had become so used to it that it had become her second skin.

Cullen searched her eyes for approval and permission. He didn’t even need to ask. “You are not unworthy,” she whispered, and she peeled off her glove, and let it fall to the ground. And Cullen kissed her mark, kissed every one of her fingers, bestowing a tenderness she had never known a man to possess. He kissed her hands, held it , and worshipped it. Made it his prelude and beginning, to other things.

“I will not give you anything you do not as for. I will only give you what you want,” he promised.

“To know you,” she said, almost immediately, closing her eyes as his lips pressed to her neck, making her keen. “Let me know you. In every single way.”

He laid her down gently against the grass, hovered over her. “Well lass,” he mumbled, kissing the parts of her collar that her tunic left uncovered, his insecurities melting away. They dissipated and he turned confident and loving, and she felt as though his kisses would always burn into her skin. “I am Avvar,” he continued.

“How…” she began, but gasped when his bearded face skimmed lightly over the tops of her breasts. It was something she had never contemplated before, a man’s beard against her skin, though she knew something would always feel incomplete if in her times that would come after this, there was not that delicious prickle. But that was fooling herself. She knew something would always be incomplete, if she didn’t have Cullen.

“Yes lass?” he asked, holding her waist in his hands, allowing his palms to linger and bearded face to nestle against her. Neither kissing nor grasping, just being.

“How can you speak Common so well?” she asked, her fingers drifting to the curl of his hair.

He chuckled, enjoying the feel, and compelling her to knead the pads of her fingers against his scalp. “I was twelve years old, in Honnleath,” he said. “There was an attack. Bandits. I don’t desire to tell you. But my mother and father were killed. My siblings and I were the only ones that survived. The Avvar found us, took us in.” He glanced at her, touched his scar. A souvenir, from that day.

She sighed. “Cullen,” she whispered, biting her lip as a kiss was left on the top of her breast. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was the past. I miss them, yes. Think of what I could have become. But I became a part of a family again. We all did. And I’m here now.”

“With me?”

He eased further on top of her, cradled her face in his hands. “With you.”

Maker. He was beautiful. “Cullen…”

“Lass,” he muttered. The weight of him on her body perfect, the feel of his hardness against her, a fire, a question, and something she didn’t fully understand. For she may have known the basics of it after all, from books. Knew how it operated. Feeling it, however, was something else entirely. It was wonderful, knowing she was the one that made him feel this fire. Breathtaking.

“Your eyes,” he continued, lips against her eyelids. “They are water.”

“Water?” she repeated, lips aching, wanting to feel the kiss he had yet to bestow. “Is that so?”

“I’ve been drowning in them, since we met. Drowning in the sea.”

I will only give you what you ask, he said. Maker, she wanted his kiss. All she had to do was ask. “Cullen…”

“Cliodna,” he mumbled, breath caressing her neck.

“Cli…who?”

He chuckled. “When I was a boy, my mother read me a book, about the priestess Cliodna. Eyes were blue, like the sea. Men were said to drown in her eyes. You remind me of her, since I first saw you. But that’s not all, about you,” he quickly assured. “I was told about you. Your strength. Your courage. How you have survived.”

“I wonder, about that,” she admitted. “I’m not the same person I was, since this whole thing began.”

“It wouldn’t be right if you were,” he said her, taking her wrists, placing them over her head so he further blanketed her body. She moved and adjusted, angled her head, so she may surrender herself to him. “Journeys. They change you.”

“You have changed me.”

His smile was radiant. “As you have changed me, Lydia.”

Her name on his lips was music. Perfect.

“This is crazy,” she said again, in a brief moment of mental clarity, a moment that was lost again, when she gazed into his eyes again. Honey and amber. Oakmoss and elderflower, the smell of his skin far more intoxicating than wine. Heady, masculine, and strong. Body atop hers. Fire burning bright.

“Lydia. Tell me what you want,” he said. “I will only give what you want.”

“You.”

His hand was at the seam of her tunic. “Whose hands have touched you?” he asked. “Since this all began.”

“No one,” she confessed.

“Do you want my hands?”

“Maker…yes.”

She hardly invoked the Maker, her beliefs in him never a constant. Sometimes, usually in the moments of despair were when she believed in him the most, for who else could bring such sorrow? Yet when Cullen heard her invoke his name, he was quizzical. Amused even. “The Maker…” he repeated.

She wondered if he still believed, or even if he ever did. Asking him, he merely replied that it didn’t matter what he believed in, because this moment was happening. “I wonder,” he began. “Did you even imagine my hands on you, when you were protecting us all?”

“No,” she confessed. “But I want it. I want your hands on my body Cullen,” she begged, willing to do anything for him.

He dipped down, lips ghosting over hers. “And…my mouth?”

“I want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Ah. Lydia,” Not quite kisses were on her forehead, her cheeks. “Let me worship you.”

Her body had been begging and aching since the moment she arrived in the glen. She felt her want as if it was in a bottle, and the longer he was atop her, and the longer he left kisses in every place save the place she wanted most, the more fear she had that the bottle would shatter. She was long past wanting gentle, the way she always assumed she would want her first time with someone. She wanted it hard. Rough, his body slamming into hers again and again. Hands grasping hips and leaving marks. Turning her over, fucking her. Primal and raw.

“What if I don’t wish to be worshipped?” she asked. “What if I want you to take me, unrestrained?”

“You say as though this is our only time together.” He leaned in. “Later, lass,” he promised.

The promises laced in his words set her aflame. “I don’t think I want it later,” she confessed, all the same.

“There’s not a single way I don’t want you.” He tenderly smoothed her hair away. “Please,” he muttered. “Let me kiss every part of you.”

She surrendered. “Cullen. Have me how you want me. Slow, fast. Just touch me, please.”

He could tease her, taunt her, deceive or desert, and nothing would be enough. A lifetime with him would not leave her satisfied. But today, he could begin.

“Let me be yours,” he asked of her. His thumb outlined her lips, beginning it all. Her lips parted, and he kissed her.

The kiss did not seek to arouse or stir the fire within, though her mouth was slightly parted, her tongue just barely seeking an entrance. Merely, the kiss sought to begin and prelude more. Even so, when he parted, she sought his lips again. It surprised him, she realized, but he smiled, and kissed her again. It was just as soft as before, but he still just as desperate. If the first kiss was a beginning, this was a continuation, a worship that he promised as his lips nipped and captured. His kiss hurt her, she realized. Hurt because she realized that so much of her life was spent without knowing it, and so much of her life would be spent knowing, but not being able to have it. He could kiss her for an eternity, and still it would not be enough.

Cullen, Avvar man that she did not know before yesterday, and somehow shared her soul with. Cullen, a man by all rights, she shouldn’t even have met. Cullen, who she would have everywhere.

Litter my skin with your mouth. Mark me for all the world to see who I belong to, Lydia’s wandering hands begged and compelled, skimming down his hair as he kissed and lavished her neck, running his tongue along her pulse point, where her heart lay beating underneath his mouth. Posses me, but never leave me satisfied. Leave me always wanting more of you.

She outstretched her arms, and he answered by removing her tunic. She did not want to play the game of having him remove each article of her clothing one by one. She wanted to lay naked before him, show him her body. How strange it was, to want his eyes on her body, with all it’s marks and scars, and stomach that still showed the hint of the sedentary life she had lived in the Circle. She always thought she would feel awkward and embarrassed the first time a man laid his eyes on her naked body, and her small breasts, wide hips and darker arms and legs from the obvious sun exposure other parts of her didn’t receive. In her ridiculous imaginings when her first fancy, Asher, was still in her life, she imagined herself the scared and awkward girl that would cover her breasts when her Circle robe was discarded. It was a foolish image she carried with her to the Inquisition when she met no one else, but when Cullen looked at her then, those imaginings became long forgotten. She wanted his eyes on her body, wanted his eyes to drink her in, no matter how perfect or imperfect it was. All those brief moments in pretty dresses, where she looked at herself and thought she was beautiful, was nothing like this. In those times, she had thought she was beautiful. Cullen looked at her, and she felt it.

His eyes didn’t only drink her in. His gaze swept over her naked body, lust written and ingrained. He didn’t even need to touch her, and she knew that this would be enough to satisfy him. This was a gift to him, a gift he would cherish. She was his religion. His worship, and his adoration.

“Touch me,” she commanded.

His hand was on her thigh, stroking. Close to her sex, already pooling. When he leaned over her body, his clothed chest brushed against her, allowing her to briefly imagine peeling his clothes away, until they were both bare. Maker…to feel his bare skin…

“Where do you want me to touch?” he asked, whispering in her ear.

“Everywhere.”

“Turn over.”

She had laid a blanket haphazardly beneath her before Cullen arrived, and she felt the softness of the furs over her breasts and stomach as she did what he asked and turned herself over. The image of him taking her like that flashed through her mind, and she even braced herself for the pain before feeling the surprising, yet not at all unwelcome feeling of his rough hands on her back. He kissed and grasped flesh, alternating between feather light kisses and teeth nipping, running his tongue over the spots he lavished afterward to soothe it. His hands drifted underneath, brushing nipples just so, but not enough, that she had to wiggle against the blanket to give herself some relief. He chuckled at that, kissing her lower back, and squeezing her plump rear.

“No one has touched you at all?” he asked.

“One man, but we never…not like this, and…” Lydia began, before burying memories away. “I don’t want to remember,” she said. “Please. I just want the now. I just want you.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Allow me to…make up, then?”

“I don’t want you to make up for anything. I just want us to be together,” she said. “Forget everything. Please Cullen.”

His body draped over hers, he whispered in her ear. “Say my name again.”

“Cullen,” she muttered, feeling the music of it.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Make love to me.”

She felt the smile play across his lips. “Turn over.”

On her back, his eyes never left hers as he palmed her breasts, lightly pinching her rosy nipples into peaks. How perfectly they fit his hands, and as he encircled a nipple with his mouth, she bit back moans and cries.

It amused him. His ministrations stopped, albeit briefly. “Don’t restrain yourself lass,” he said. “I want to hear you. Let me hear you.”

He wanted to know he was the man that elicited these moans from her. She further pooled, and her fingers itched to rub at her clit. “Don’t stop,” she ordered him.

“Of course.”

Her belly held a bit of softness, but he kissed it all the same, running his tongue down old stretch marks from her younger days. He held onto her waist as he left not one part of her untouched by his hungry mouth and worshiping hands. There were so many sensations. The sun, bathing her in light as Cullen touched and kissed her body. The man on top of her, and what his mouth could do. His beard, chafing her skin. The warmth that continued to pool in her center, and the ache. Wonder at what part of her he would worship next, and her reaction to it. She had pleasured herself before, used her own hand more times than she could count, but those times had always been brief. Hardly did she try to prolong her orgasm, or explore her body to see what she liked and what aroused her. She discovered as Cullen explored and discovered, loving everything he did to her. Every kiss, every touch.

She became disappointed, however, when he gave the briefest of kisses to the coarse hair between her thighs. He all but ignored it, continuing a path down her thigh. She made the discovery then that he was quite enamored by her legs, cupping supple flesh and sinewy thighs, nipping and allowing teeth to graze over ankles and slopes of calves. She found it strange that he was so enamored, but the strangeness of it mattered naught as light nails racked down and kneaded her long legs, eliciting cries of delight and words of praise for what he was doing. He traveled down one leg, attentive to every part, and then up the other, giving it the same attention, before resting himself in between them.

She smirked. Placed one of her legs over his shoulder. He grabbed the other and placed it over his shoulder as well. She shivered when stubble caressed her inner thighs.

“Cullen…” she muttered, knotting his hair.

“I want to taste you,” he said. “Has a man…?”

She shook her head. “Be the first. Please.”

“Will you let me be the last?”

She would have done anything in that moment, for him to end it all and encircle her clit with his mouth. But Maker, she wanted that too, as much as he. Her first, her last. “Yes.”

He breathed her in, the musk and salt. He licked her inner thighs, wet from arousal. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your mouth. Cullen. Please. Please. Please, I—ahhhh.”

Her hips bucked, and her unholy moans, unrestrained and loud, filled the glen and made him keen and eager, further pressing his mouth into her. He laved and lapped at her clit, experimented with different patterns to find what she liked the most. But Maker, she loved it all. Loved the circles he drew with the tip of his tongue, loved it when he sucked, and loved it when he moved down to her slit, utterly drenched for him. He lapped at her slit and used his fingers on her clit, rubbing this way and that way and drawing circles. For the briefest moment she lifted herself up and watched him, and she regretted that she ever didn’t look. She regretted that she couldn’t be an outsider looking in, watching him use his skilled, perfect mouth on her clit, his golden head buried between her thighs, and herself flushed and rosy and screaming his name, and coming. For she did come then, his finger tentatively pushing inside, and her legs clamping around his head. And it was perfect, and real, and being with him was the sanest thing she ever done.

“Kiss me now,” she said, breathless, and he answered her fervent plea, his clothed frame on her naked body grinding into her. They kissed and her taste was salty on his tongue, their foreheads pressed together. They exchanged breaths, and they kissed, and still Lydia wanted more. Lydia wanted all of him.

“When we kiss, breath the same air, we exchange souls,” Cullen muttered. “Everything. Or, it is what the Avvar say.”

“I had heard,” she said, breathless. “I think too, we exchanged a bit more than that.”

He laughed against her. “It seems so.”

“It’s still beautiful.” She caressed his hair, wrapping her legs around his waist, “Cullen. I want—"

“Oh lass. I wanted to give you something. Pleasure you. You don’t need to...if you don't want...”

“It’s what I want.”

“Who has taken care of you?” he asked her suddenly, but still softly. “Have you always been alone, while you were off, saving everyone? This is enough.”

“Maybe for now. Not tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything to that, and she kissed his forehead, and his cheeks. Every part of his face that she could kiss. “Cullen,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want this to end,” he admitted.

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You must go back though.”

“Yes," she admitted, but that was later. This was the now. "Stay with me a while," she said. "Be with me now.”

They knew eventually the Inquisition would come looking for her, and eventually Cullen would have to return to his clan. But for that moment, they were a man and a woman, remaining in the glen, blissful. It didn’t matter that they were different, didn’t matter that they had come from different places, or that one day, they would have to part.

She thought about it, for the briefest moment, how she would have to part from him. Return to Skyhold, and continue on with her life. Unless…

Anything was possible.

But she didn’t want to think of any of that now. Instead, merely, she wanted to simply remain in this hazy bliss. For just a little while longer, she wanted to just be Lydia. Lydia, with Cullen.

Lydia, standing on a precipice, ready to fall. Or perhaps she had already fallen.

“This won’t end lass, I promise,” Cullen said, and she believed. "Tomorrow. Come back to me."

"I'll always come back," she said, making a promise of her own. A promise, she knew, she would be a slave to. So wonderfully so.

[metronomeihear]

Visiting Men (Nurarihyon no Mago x Yu Yu Hakusho crossover idea)

It began with a crash.

Something large hit the tree in their garden, loud and sudden in its appearance. It crashed through several branches before landing at the base of the tree.

Shiori, having been cleaning the room next to the backyard, was the first to arrive at the thing’s side. She gasped when she saw that the thing that had crashed through the tree was in fact a man. A man whose skin was covered in scratched from the tree, and had a large stab wound through his abdomen. Shiori immediately tried to pick him up and carry him into the house, heedless of the blood staining her clothing. The moment Kurama--Shuuichi to Shiori--arrived, he hesitated for but a moment before helping her.

This man had youki.

They laid him upon the couch and retrieved the medical kit. Kurama tended to the man’s wounds while Shiori called the hospital.

“There is a man here, he’d heavily injured. He looks like he’s… been stabbed? He’s unconscious and I’m- I’m worried about him. There’s a lot of blood.”

There was a groan from the man, quiet enough that Shiori couldn’t hear it but Kurama could. Kurama leaned closer, breathing in the scent of Yamabuki blossoms. It clung to him, but wasn’t his own scent. Where had that scent come from? It was extremely recent…

He opened his eyes to reveal pools of molten gold, brighter than even Kurama’s in his Yoko form. “Whe-?”

“You’re in my home. He found you bleeding in our backyard,” Kurama whispered. “You’re yokai, correct?” The man stiffened, eyes narrowed. “Mother is human,” Kurama continued. “She knows nothing of our world. She’s calling the hospital--a human place of healing--now. If you don’t want to go there, then I suggest you leave quickly.”

The man smiled and closed his eyes. He seemed to let out a breath, before shifting. He lost his otherworldly air, his long mane of hair vanished until there was only a long, low ponytail left. When he opened his eyes again, they were brown rather than liquid gold.

“The hospital sounds good,” he said, voice barely audible even to Kurama’s enhanced ears. “They won’t notice anything otherworldly now.”

Then he let out a rather pained sound, one loud enough to catch Shiori’s attention, and that cut off any further interaction between the man and Kurama.

Shiori fussed over the man, tending him in any way she could. Meanwhile, Kurama ran doing things his mother had asked of him. All the while, he thought.

That guise was so clearly human. Completely and utterly human.

How?

It was as if he had human blood--but that was impossible, wasn’t it? The only ones capable of leaving the barrier between Makai and Ningenkai are the weakest yokai and those far too injured to do any harm-like Kurama. The only yokai capable of breeding with humans are among the strongest of yokai, those of similar strength to Kurama before he had nearly died and taken on a human form, and there was no way for any of them to have passed through the barrier. Was it possible one had found a way through? Or was there another explanation? Was this yokai older than the barrier? That was a possibility. Perhaps he lived in Makai and had only managed to cross over because of his injuries, not unlike what Kurama had done. But that explanation didn’t sit right with Kurama. Something still left off.

The paramedics arrived and the strange yokai was taken off to the hospital. After he was gone, Shiori and Kurama went about cleaning up. There was blood all over the couch and the floor, as well as first aid supplies scattered about the living room table.

The next day, they received word that the mysterious man had vanished.

Three weeks later was the next time Kurama came across the mysterious yokai who had crash landed in his backyard. He lay in the branch of a tree in one of the parks, looking out to the lake. He looked like a yokai once more, long gravity defying hair and startling eyes and all. He looked peaceful, especially as he quietly sipped sake from a small red cup.

He seemed to notice Kurama watching him, and looked over to see who it was. Upon seeing it was Kurama, he smiled, nodded his head, and lifted his sake cup in greeting.

“Join me?”

Kurama frowned and glanced around. There were people in the park, but they were far and few between and none of them seemed to take any notice of the two yokai by the lake. Taking this into consideration, Kurama nodded and made his way onto a branch near the strange yokai. He took a seat and leaned against the bark of the tree, relaxing at the feel of the wood behind him and the soft sound of the plant song filling his ears.

The strange yokai--Kurama really should get a name from him--offered Kurama an empty sake cup. Kurama took it and watched as the strange yokai poured some into the cup.

“A thanks,” the yokai said, one eye closed and his mouth settled into a lazy smirk. “For your help the other day.”

Kurama hummed and sipped, enjoying the feeling of alcohol sliding down his throat. The sake was a bit sweet, but it still tasted all together pleasant. “What is your name?” Kurama asked.

“I am Nura Rihan. And yourself?”

“I am called Kurama.”

“Kurama, huh?” Rihan sighed and shook his head, eyes distant as he stared out to the water. The surface of the lake was still, the water quietly lapping at the shore. A breeze blew past them, ruffling their hair, and rippling the surface of the lake.

“How did you get here from the Makai?” Kurama asked. It had been something he had pondered often.

“I didn’t,” Rihan answered. “If fact, until two weeks ago, I was unaware of the existence of Makai. Or Reikai. I didn’t know of either of them.” At Kurama’s sharp look, Rihan smirked. “Strange, isn’t it? And no one here seems to have heard of my family either. The Nura Clan. No one has heard so much as whispers of it here.” Rihan let out a long, low sigh. “I am beginning to think I managed to jump realities. That, or this entire place is one elaborate illusion. Who knows?”

“Jumped realities?” Kurama parroted, thinking over the implications of it. He paused. “Why would people have heard of your family?”

Rihan hummed. “At home, there isn’t a yokai who hasn’t heard of the Nura Clan or its heads. It is a clan that has existed for near a thousand years. Four hundred years ago, it became the most powerful clan in the world. My father, Nurarihyon, defeated the previous Lord of Pandemonium and took the title for himself. ‘Master of all Spirits’ they called him. I took over that post as well. There are few who do not know of the Nura Clan’s power. And yet… Here…”

“That is quite the conundrum.”

“So it is.”

...

In which Nura Rihan ends up in the world of yyh with no explanation of how he got there. He makes the best of it.