#these are ancient... there's art from last year too... not saying which

[pyrotechnotomy]

want to post more oc art but everything is old and ugly...

[ceoofyearning]

I only pray, don’t fall away from me

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: The world feels like it’s falling apart around you, but Azriel finally comes home and helps you hold all the pieces together.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt and Comfort, depressive themes & thoughts, anxiety, nightmares, mentions of a minor character death (not the mc/reader) || please mind the tags.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: this week was though so here’s a bit of a hurt & comfort fic; hope your days are kind to you guys xoxo

Links: Fic Masterlist | My Art

You’re so damn tired.

The last few weeks have been difficult, to say the least. The healing house has been filled to the brim with the wounded and sick. Altercations with Beron’s soldiers by the border have been increasing at an alarming rate, while countless spies from the continent have been winnowed in after being caught by Koschei’s contingent forces. You can’t even begin to imagine the state of the civilians that might’ve been caught in the crossfire. 

There is tension in the air with the threat of the inevitable war looming on the horizon. It doesn’t help that the winter chill, in all of its foreboding fury, has come to ravage the lands and its people. You love your work as a healer, you really do. Some days, the thought of the good you do, the people you help, is enough to keep you going. But too often, it feels like a thankless job that leaves you drained to the core. 

In your free time, you’ve been parsing through ancient texts in search of information on Death Gods and anything that could be used against Koschei. His looming threat is a cloud of dread that hangs over everyone, especially Rhys. The least you could do is to help carry the burden. It’s not like you could sleep, anyway. These days it is as though your mind adamantly refuses to let you rest. At the very least, the task keeps you distracted when you’re stuck alone in your apartment. 

Ever since Azriel had been sent to the continent for a reconnaissance mission nearly a month ago, the apartment you share has started to feel a little too big, too desolate. Before you knew it, the white walls had been transmuted from your home into what felt like the bars of a cage. 

The two of you haven't been apart for so long since the mating bond snapped. You didn’t think you'd feel his absence as acutely as you did, but it felt like the loss of a limb where the wound refused to heal and you were already bleeding out. His part of the bond is blacked out completely, a devouring void where Azriel’s comforting presence should have been. It’s for your own safety, he said. But you can’t help it. You’re plagued with worry, with imagined hurts and tragedies, amplifying the brewing conflict in your mind. 

It is easier to catch yourself when Azriel is near. When the thoughts begin to swirl like a hurricane around you - winds whipping, oceans rising - it feels like Azriel’s arms are the only safe harbor you can rely on. But Azriel isn’t here now. 

What frustrates you most is that you’ve been better recently. You’ve been good. You ate your meals, slept reasonably, even had a goddamned routine set up. You guzzled down your tonics in hopes of smoothing out the edges of your frayed mind, that perhaps it could lend you some semblance of normalcy. But no. Weeks of being haunted by nightmares, of overextending yourself, of loss and suffering seeping under your skin day by day have taken its toll. 

You are just too damn tired. 

A child died, barely over thirteen years old. She was bastard-born, which meant she had nothing to her name other than the rags on her back and her birthright to suffer generational oppression and cruelty. This is the worst winter the Night Court has had in centuries, and she didn’t even have a decent roof over her head. Needless to say, she hadn’t been in the best health. But despite that, the moment her cycle had come, the men forced her to go through the clipping. In her struggle, the imbeciles accidentally nicked a vital artery. Normally, her Illyrian healing would’ve granted her a strong chance for survival, but she had been so sick, her body weakened by hours spent in the frigid cold. 

By the time you had been summoned to heal her, she no longer had the strength to recover. Numbness washed over you at the image of her unseeing eyes, the same shade as Azriel’s in the right light, trained toward the vast empty sky. You have a feeling it isn’t a sight you’d forget any time soon. 

You don’t know how long it’s been. The room is shrouded with a thick blanket of darkness, the only respite coming from the dwindling candlelight by your bedside. Only silence exists within these four walls, interrupted by the occasional patter of water leaking from the kitchen sink. You burrow deeper into the sheets, inhaling the trace of Azriel’s scent that still lingered like it would somehow quell this ache inside you. 

Despite spending most of the day bedbound, you’ve barely had any sleep. There is no respite to be found in the dreaming, only nightmares lying in wait. It seems your mind has a knack of bringing your worst fears. Azriel bruised, bloodied and utterly alone, lost, somewhere in the vastness of the continent, hazel eyes - his, then hers, then his again - glazing over, crimson seeping into the arid ground below. 

For the last few weeks, you’ve gathered your grief and worry like rocks to wear around your neck. Your body is heavy, the phantom weight sinking and settling within the marrow of your bones, refusing to leave. It feels like you could stay in this bed forever until you dissipate into nothing but sand, smoke and thought.

You managed to send out a request for the texts Rhys needed translated, but not much else. You’re thankful he directly portalled them on your worktable because you don’t think you could brave the journey to the library today. You don’t think you could do much of anything today, in all honesty. 

So there you lay, bundled up in a collection of blankets, at least three inches of cotton and down that never seem enough to warm you. A book rests in your hands, yet your eyes remain unfocused, not truly seeing the words.

You run your thumb over the crisp paper, knowledge older than you, older than this city and yet you couldn't even bring yourself to focus long enough to dissect their true meaning. Your will is liquid in your hands, slipping through the cracks in between your fingers. Accidentally, you tug too hard on a page and it tears easily beneath your touch. If you had your wits about you, you would’ve been horrified by what you’ve just done. But as you are now, it is difficult to care. 

That’s what you feel like at this moment, you realize. These past few weeks have left you feeling spent, worn out, paper thin. Absently, you stretch out your hand towards the candlelight, close enough to feel the warmth lick against your cool skin. The flame casts a brilliant silhouette around your shadowed hand. It’s a wonder why golden light doesn’t seep right through. 

That’s how Azriel finds you.

The front door of your apartment creeks open, letting in a flood of muted morning light. Your first instinct is to retreat beneath the covers to shield yourself. Azriel calls your name in the silence, worry permeating each syllable. No doubt, he is cataloging the mess your shared space had become in your unintentional neglect. 

You say nothing, wondering if you could just close your eyes and pretend to be asleep, anything to escape his scrutiny. A breath of relief escapes him when he finds you in bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits beside you. 

The urge to curl tighter around yourself is strong. But he repeats your name and, as though he had cast a spell, you unspool before him, your muscles unwinding, one fiber at a time. 

“Can I touch you?” He asks, voice painfully soft.

“Okay,” you croak out from beneath the blankets. 

Azriel gradually draws the sheets away from your body, giving you ample time to protest if you’d like. Then, he rests his hand on your shoulder. Unbidden, a shiver runs down your spine, followed by a stuttered breath. You don’t realize how much you missed his touch until his textured hand begins its soothing path up and down your back, his heat sinking into your skin. 

Shame washes over you despite the bone-deep comfort you find upon his gentle ministrations. You don’t want him to see you this way. Azriel deserves better, the voices in your head insist. He deserves a mate whose mind does not devour itself at every given opportunity, a mate who does not quake beneath the weight of the world and the idea of their own immortal existence.

As though detecting your train of thought, his shadows leave their preferred perch on his shoulders to pool around you instead. Tendrils of darkness brush away the tears on your face, while some thread through your hair like a gentle breeze. 

On the other hand, Azriel urges you to rest your head on his lap. He begins to run his hand through your hair, uncaring of how greasy and tangled it has become. Eventually, his voice pierces the silence, injecting warmth into the distance between you. He hums a tune you do not recognize, but you can't help but cling to each winding note like a lifeline. Azriel has always had a beautiful voice - depthless, silken and soothing. It feels like a privilege to hear the song that he normally reserves for his shadows.

You must’ve been a pitiful sight to behold, and yet Azriel never looks at you like you are. He always treats you like something to cherish, something to love, like you’re someone he’s spent lifetimes desperately waiting for and you’ve been entirely worth the wait. A traitorous part of you feels like you’ll never deserve it, this love.

Azriel must sense the hurricane of emotions waging a one-sided war in your head, despite the mental shields you adamantly keep up. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t brush off your worry with empty words and false promises. Instead, he simply says, “I love you.” 

He speaks it as though it is a fact like one would say that the sky is blue, and the grass is green, and the world would keep on turning in peteruity, orbiting the sun the same way you’ll continue to orbit around each other. His chapped lips ghost over your temple, murmuring your name like a plea, a prayer. 

“More than anything in this world,” he adds as he pulls you into his embrace. 

Your body is pliant for him, arms winding around his neck like that is where they’re meant to be. His arms wrap around your waist to hold you impossibly closer. Webbed wings stretch to curl around the two of you, creating a cocoon of darkness that keeps the rest of the world at bay. With your head resting on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding in chorus with yours. 

“I love you too,” you reply after a long stretch of silence. “But sometimes I wish you could’ve had a better mate.” 

“There is no one better,” Azriel insists. “There is only you, my love; through light, through darkness, through whichever end. Only you.” And you feel the truth of his words as surely as the twinned beating of your hearts. Sometimes it’s hard to convince your traitorous mind that you could have this, that someone could love you so deeply despite having seen you at your worst. Azriel presses another kiss against your cheek, and despite yourself, you begin to believe his words.

You don’t know how long Azriel holds you like that, but it finally feels like a stretch of eternity you could bear.

“What can I do to help, love?” Azriel prompts, cupping your face in the cradle of his scarred palms - their texture, a familiar comfort. 

You turn over his question in your head for a few moments, savoring his scent, the sensation of his skin against your own. A part of you is tempted to ask him to lay beside you for the rest of the day, for a week, for an entire lifetime. You know Azriel would if you asked it of him. But beyond this room, the world continues its elliptical path around the sun and time still ticks on regardless of how disconnected you feel from your own reality. 

“A bath,” is all you manage to say.

Azriel nods, before reluctantly peeling himself from you. “Have you eaten?” 

“‘M not hungry,” you mumble as you sink back into the sheets, sighing as the comforter swallows you up. In truth, you can’t remember when your last meal had been. Hunger didn’t seem so pressing in the last few days.

“That’s not what I asked.” Azriel’s tone leaves no room for argument or negotiation. 

“No,” you finally answer, although with much trepidation. “Not yet.” 

He hums, clearly displeased, but says nothing else. You can already imagine the frown that must be stretching across his face. But it seems Azriel’s presence alone is enough to quieten your mind, at least for now. You must’ve been dead tired because it doesn’t take long for the rhythmic sound of Azriel's familiar footfalls to lull you into dreamless sleep.

"Love," Azriel whispers, his hand hovering over your shoulder, rousing you from your shallow slumber. You blink languidly until molten eyes come into focus. The candlelight flickers, and shadows dance across his face. Azriel’s normally sharp features are softened by the tenderness in his expression. You’ll never tire of waking to the sight of him. 

With a groan, you half-roll half-stumble out of bed. Azriel stays an arm’s length away in case you need him, but he’s careful not to crowd you. His shadows have no such reservations, however. The dark tendrils fretfully twine around your arms, making you smile. You thank them quietly, and for a moment, they seem to dance with delight. Regardless of your initial unsteadiness, you manage to pad all the way to the bathroom.

Upon crossing the threshold, the sweet scent of jasmine immediately overtakes your senses. The tub has already been filled up, steam rising from the sun-covered surface. You begin to unbutton your tunic, clumsy fingers tumbling through your first few attempts. Azriel steadies your hands with his firm grip, his shadows gently circling your wrists. 

“May I?” He asks, gesturing to your tunic, and you nod, not wanting to think anymore. His movements are precise, almost clinical, while he undoes the first five buttons, before bunching the garment in his hands and pulling it over your head entirely. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh once exposed to the cold air. Azriel is careful to keep his gaze on your face, even as you step out of your undergarments. 

Azriel only betrays his composure when he traces your cheekbone, like he can’t quite help himself. From this distance, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. For a moment, the two of you only stare at each other. The bond glows bright between you, the golden thread gleaming as though it hadn't spent the last few weeks completely stretched thin. 

But then, Azriel withdraws, tilting his head to the steaming tub. Obediently, you step into the water’s warm embrace, the heat nearly stinging your skin. Logically, however, you know it’s only because you’ve allowed yourself to stay in the cold for too long. 

A relieved sigh escapes you as you sink further into the tub. One of his shadows rushes to pillow your heavy head as it rests on the tub’s rim. You thank the sweet little thing, and swirls of black sway back and forth like a dog wagging its tail. Meanwhile, Azriel takes his place by the head of the tub, sitting back on his heels. 

“I’d like to wash your hair,” he says and you're touched by the earnest quality his voice takes. 

“Okay,” you breathe. You’ve never been good at denying Azriel anything, nor did you want to. The more the ice beneath your skin thaws, the more you find that you want him near. 

Azriel begins by running his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as he pours warm water over your head. With a pop of a bottle, the floral scent of shampoo fills the air. He lathers the substance on your head, his touch tender even as his fingers work through the knots in the strands, untangling them with care. 

After a while, he rinses off the suds and coats his hands with oil. He begins combing his fingers through your hair, starting from the ends and working his way up. The rhythmic motion of his fingers is calming as he draws circles against your scalp. You find yourself melting into the moment, feeling utterly content for the first time in what feels like a very long time. 

Once done, Azriel grabs a small towel and asks, “Do you want help washing?”

You shake your head, wanting to do this for yourself, at least. Understanding flashes in his eyes, and he spares you a soft smile. With that, Azriel leaves the towel by the tub and politely excuses himself from the room. With the door left slightly ajar, you could still hear him move around the apartment followed by the lyrical clinking of silverware against ceramic.

It takes you a few minutes to gather the energy to lather yourself with soap, and a few more to finally rise from the bath. But once the grime is off your skin, you feel a bit of the weight wash off with it too. You feel a bit more like yourself.

After drying off, you tug on the silk robe Azriel has left for you, securing it loosely around your waist. Upon exiting, you spy him by the dining table, scooping a generous serving of soup into a bowl. The mouthwatering aroma of rich broth wafts through the room, and you realize just how hungry you are when your stomach growls in protest. You approach him from behind, making sure that each step is audible.

Azriel continues to set up the table, but you can tell he’s aware of your presence from the way his shoulders seem to relax. The sudden urge to have him close is palpable, an instinct so deeply ingrained into your being. So,  gradually, you wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face on his back. You take a deep inhale, breathing him in - a lungful of moontime mist and cedarwood smoke. 

“I’m glad you’re home,” you murmur against Azriel’s back, your voice muffled by his shirt. 

“I’m glad to be home,” he whispers. His hands abandon their task in favor of twining his fingers with your own. 

Azriel turns to face you and holds your face in his hands. Beneath the swathes of sunlight, his eyes are alight with golden flame, flecks of green scattered over his irises like an afterthought. There is nothing but love in his gaze, nothing but acceptance. 

“Thank you,” you say, tilting your head so the words could kiss his lips, not quite touching but close. “For being here, for loving me, for choosing me, everyday.” 

“I will always choose you,” he vows, before planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Today,” another peck on the tip of your nose; “Tomorrow,” one more on your cheek; “And all the days after,” he finishes with a chaste caress on your lips.

Then, he rests his forehead on yours, your bodies slotted against each other like a lock and its predestined key. In Azriel’s presence, you find it easier to breathe, easier to simply be. For the first time in a long time, your mind is clear and your heart beats in a calm, languid pace that matches his own.

“I’d like to kiss you,” you request, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. Azriel’s gaze is searching, scouring for any hint of anything short of absolute certainty. Perhaps you should tell him that in this world of constant change and chaos, he’s the only one you’re certain of.

Azriel must be satisfied with what he finds written across your features because he replies, “So kiss me then,” the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips.

You’re surprised to find that it’s easy to return the playful expression. Your rise to the tips of your toes while your fingers thread through his raven black hair. When your lips touch, it is as though the world breathes a sigh of relief. Reality realigns and everything outside the two of you and your shared breaths turns inconsequential. He moves against you with practiced ease, like the natural ebb and flow of the tide.

An eternity of this, you think, doesn’t seem so daunting after all. 

AN: i’m not sure if that was too much but thank you for reading 💙 As always, i’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts

English isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk thru dm! 💙

Also, I just wanted to yap about the Az fics im in the process of writing:

1. Vampire!Azriel x Reader (Working tittle: Ashes in my wake)

I just love the idea of cannibalism (or yk, blood drinking) as a metaphor for love in literature so here we are. ( @/annikin-im-panicin this is ur influence) This one is a bit of a dark fic (nothing too crazy tho, I think), so i’m not sure how it’ll be received. But the idea has been haunting me for yonks so I just had to write it.

2. Tattoo Artist!Azriel x Lucien’s Best Friend!Reader (Working tittle: Drink dry the river Lethe)

This one is a multichapter fic (maybe 4-7 chapters, we’ll see) so it might take me a while before I start posting, but i’ve mostly finished writing the first (very smutty) and second (very angsty) chapter. I ‘m not entirely sure what direction to bring this yet but maybe you guys can help me decide?

Unrelated to Az, but i’ve been brainworming a poly dark-ish innocent!reader x Feysand fic, and a slightly less dark and more sappy(?) poly warrior!reader x royal!nessian fic. I’m so excited to start these but my pile of wips is giving me the stink eye 😂

[cryptotheism]

Cant totally agree there honestly. Yes jung was totally far more of an occultist than a man of science, but saying the psychological reading of alchemy isnt there is a bit dubious to me. For instance the chymical wedding of crc are basically entirely focused on alchemy as self improvement and make it fairly clear physical matter or immortality is not the goal

From day six, after all but three alchemists are deceived from participating in the real final stage of the great work - “Here we had leisure to look a while at our companions through certain crevices made in the floor. They were now very busy at a furnace, and each had to blow up the fire himself with a pipe, and they stood blowing about it like this, as if they were wondrously preferred before us in this.”

And shortly later: “Now it was also time for the Virgin to see how other artists behaved themselves. They were well pleased because, as the Virgin afterwards informed me, they were to work in gold, which is indeed a piece of this art, but not the most principal, most necessary, and best. They had indeed too a part of these ashes, so that they imagined nothing other than that the whole bird was provided for the sake of gold, and that life must thereby be restored to the deceased.”

And in day seven, as the order is given their vows- “(5) That you shall not be willing to live longer than God will have you do. At this last article we could not choose but laugh, and it may well have been placed after the rest only for a conceit.”

The rest of the text makes it fairly clear that it is concerned with an inner journey/self improvement/understanding the nature of the self. For instance there isnt any subtlety made about ‘the virgin’ being the protagonists feminine reflection.

So its certainly there. Does jung carelessly knock everything else off the table to focus on it? Perhaps, but still.

THE PSYCHOLOGICAL READING OF ALCHEMY DOESNT TAKE SHAPE UNTIL PARACELSUS IN THE 17TH CENTURY.

Chymical Wedding is a result of the post-paracelcian shift. It is clearly intended to have a personal spiritual reading akin to how Jung reads it. I would go so far as to say Jungian psychology barely diverges from the theory of the self put forth in Chymical Wedding. It's dope. It's one of my favorite occult texts of all time.

JUNG was not just applying the psychological reading to Chymical Wedding. He was applying it to fucking ZOSIMOS. Who was writing in fucking 300 AD. He read Chymical Wedding, and retroactively applied his reading to the previous 1600 years of alchemical history, making the case that ALL alchemical texts were actually just ancient psychological textbooks. Which his bullshit.

[somereaderinblue]

You've mentioned that Odysseus is dolled up during his time in Troy, so I offer to you that he goes from wearing Penelope's colors/colors in line with her palette to Telemachus (maybe through blankets) and him wearing Paris's colors, like say they start out in blue and eventually they go to reds and violets or whatever color you envision for Paris. He could also be shaved, considering the ancient Greece connotation of youth and lack of power and submission that come from being beardless, just another slap in the face for Odysseus's social standing. Maybe he even goes barefoot most of the time, since iirc ancient Greeks didn't wear shoes at home and well obviously the bedchamber in the Trojan palace is Odysseus's home now.

Also maybe beautiful golden coil bracelets that look like snakes which depending on how they come to be could either mean that a) even after all that Paris is putting him through, Odysseus is still plotting and scheming and fighting and an active danger to Paris or b) the gilded snake bracelets are a representation of what he's seen as: an ornament that hangs from Paris's arm and contributes to nothing. :)

(sorry if this is too much lol I love costume design)

No need for apologies. As someone who's into character design, I love hearing your thought process behind your suggestions! The snake bracelets are my fav detail & one I'm definitely gonna try to incorporate in my own art (once I actually start drawing it asajkdhab).

And yes, I too had imagined Odysseus to be clean-shaven for the same reasons as you mentioned! But also because: (WARNING: SLIGHT SPOILERS UP AHEAD & IMPLIED/REFERENCED NON-CON)

-you know the horror of going to a party, getting black out drunk or worse, roofied, then waking up next to a total stranger in a foreign place with a fresh, raw tattoo on your body? Like, I know in movies this is sometimes used for comedy but personally (& realistically), I find this terrifying.

That's what Odysseus has to grapple with. As mentioned in previous asks, he was drugged/hypnotized during the entire trip, the 'wedding' & the 'consummation'. Then when he's lucid, it's bad enough that Paris has raped him (& that this won't be the last time), when he looks in the mirror, he has to see a physical reminder of his new powerlessness & Paris' ownership.

Plus, keep in mind that Odysseus was 13 when he became king. He probably not only wanted but needed to grow a beard asap to look more 'manly' so others would take him seriously. So yeah, all those years of care & effort, gone, just like that.

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

Still Not Over You

Request: For the fictober challenge can you do Qimir x reader with "I’d like to mean it when I say I’m over you. But that’s still not true." thank you. Requested by anon.

Warning: angst.

Word count: 1.7 K

You had been sent on a mission by your former master to retrieve an ancient scripture believed to be vital to the Jedi Order. You had been given coordinates to a sector in the Unknown Regions and were instructed to investigate nearby planets for any sign of the relic.

You weren’t sure where to begin, but you felt a pull toward a watery planet- Ahch-To.

The area where you landed seemed uninhabited, yet there was something eerie in the air, something dark. 

You continued forward, your senses heightened as a creeping tension grew around you. 

Suddenly, you felt something hot and bright red near your neck.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” a voice demanded from behind.

In a swift motion, you managed to reach and ignite your lightsaber, twisting out of reach as you stepped back from the threat. Without thinking, you attacked. The figure moved quickly, and you could make out that he was a male, cloaked in a black cape and a helmet of some sort. 

Your clash of sabers lit the surroundings, but he was quick, too quick. He gained the upper hand and with a flick of his wrist, used the Force to choke you, holding you suspended in the air. You gasped, your fingers clawing at your throat as you struggled.

“Y/n?” his voice cracked slightly, and you could sense the surprise in his tone.

Barely able to speak, you rasped “Who are you? And who trained you in the art?” 

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly released his grip. His lightsaber was still on as he removed his helmet.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw the man behind the mask- your old friend, the man you once loved, the man you thought you’d never see again. 

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your chest tightening with the weight of his presence “You” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Yes, it’s me” he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips. How dare he smile after everything? Like nothing had ever happened? Like he hadn't ripped your heart out and disappeared. 

You swallowed hard, trying to gather yourself  “It’s been years” you said, deactivating your lightsaber. You knew he’d never hurt you- at least not physically. He followed suit, powering down his lightsaber.

“It has. How have you been?” He even had the audacity to ask so casually.

His tone struck a nerve, so casual and indifferent. You had spent years thinking about him, yearning for one last moment, one last touch. But you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that “I’m great. I’m not a padawan anymore” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

He gave you the same infuriatingly soft smile again “I can see that. You have improved since the last time I saw you” his voice was proud, but you didn’t want his approval.

You raised a brow, unable to resist the retort “Ah, so you do remember me?”.

“Of course. I’d never forget you”.

Lies. Every word was a lie. You wouldn’t fall for it this time.

He stepped closer, his gaze softening “As much as it’s good to see you, I have to ask, why are you here, Y/n?”.

Your heart fluttered at the way he said your name. It always made you weak, but not this time. You weren’t going to give in. You’re stronger than this “Jedi business, which is none of your business anymore” you said, the edge in your voice clear.

He feigned hurt, placing a hand dramatically over his heart “you wound me”.

You rolled your eyes “What are you doing here anyway?”

His lips curled into that smirk you’d always loved and hated “Personal business”. Oh, what you’d do to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Then I guess I’ll get going” you said coldly, turning to leave.

Before you could take a step, his hand gently wrapped around your writs “Wait, please. Don’t go” his eyes softened again, those beautiful seductive eyes that always saw straight through you. You cursed yourself for hesitating. How could you say no to him? 

“Why?” you whispered, your voice betraying your emotions “You left me” the words slipped out before you could stop them. 

His grip loosened, and his expression changed- guilt flashed in his eyes.

“It’s- I- I’m sorry” he stammered “Where are my manners? You just got here, and I haven’t even invited you to my home”.

You snatched your wrist away, suddenly very aware that he was still holding onto you. “So you actually live here?”

“I do” he said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Now, please let me show you around. There’s still much I want to say to you”. You sighed but relented, nodding once.

He led you through the rocky terrain to a cave- or his home. To your surprise, the indie was warm and cozy.

“Can I get you something?” he asked, his tone unsure as the silence between you grew heavier.

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Qimir, get to the point. Why did you really bring me here?”.

He glanced away, trying to gather his thoughts. “I told you. I wanted to give you a proper welcome and show you my home”.

You raised an eyebrow “Now that I’ve seen it, you said there’s much you wanted to tell me. So…?”.

He hesitated, sadness flickering in his eyes. “Is that really why you agreed to come? Just to hear what I have to say?”

“Yes, that’s the only reason I came” you lied, knowing the words would cut him. Good, let him suffer the way he made you suffer.

His face fell, but he quickly masked the hurt “We had-”.

You knew where he was going with this, so you interrupted sharply “There’s no we. Not anymore. You’re practically like a stranger to me”.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. Your breath hitched as he neared, and you could feel your heart racing. “Do you really think of me that way?”

You swallowed hard, but your voice remained firm. You didn’t want him getting any closer. You knew the minute he touched you, you’d lose control. “I do” you lied.

He sighed softly, nodding “Fair enough. We haven’t seen each other in a long time”.

Your composure cracked “Fair enough? You abandoned me!” again the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“Abandoned you? Do you have any idea what I have been through?” his eyes flashed with frustration.

“How could I? You left without saying a word. I thought you were dead”.

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair “It had to be this way. The Jedi had to believe I was dead”.

You crossed your arms, glaring at him “So you didn't trust me to keep your secret, is that it?”

“That’s not it, but you are a Jedi. I couldn’t risk it”.

“We broke the rules together for Kriff’s sake. I never hid anything from you. I trusted with my whole heart and you what? Couldn’t risk telling me you were leaving? That you faked your death?” this time you took a step toward him, anger fueling you.

His voice softened, regret clouding his features “I’m sorry, alright”.

“Why didn’t you take me with you?” your voice was calmer now. Knowing the truth will determine what you do next.

“I couldn’t. I knew how much you wanted to become a Jedi Knight and I couldn’t take that away from you” his eyes softened.

You shook your head, pain settling deep in your chest “You could’ve given me a choice, instead of making it for me!”.

He sighed deeply, his eyes downcast “No. That's exactly why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d be faced with an impossible choice, that you’d eventually abandon the order for me and I couldn’t let you sacrifice your future for me. I couldn’t let you give up everything for me”.

“Excuses, excuses” you shook your head not wanting to hear more of this. It made your heart ache more. You knew what he was saying was the truth. Damn him, he knew you to the core.

“Well then, I should get going” you turned to leave before your tears started to slip, but once again his hand caught your wrist.

“Wait, please. Just- I… still care about you” his voice cracked, his tone filled with vulnerability.

You pulled your wrist free, your voice breaking as you spoke. “It’s a little too late for that. You said it yourself I belong to the Order while you- you’re dead. Don’t worry, seeing you again alive and well won’t change that. You shall remain dead to me, too”.

“That’s not what I-...so you moved on? You have no feelings for me anymore?” his eyes searched yours, his voice trembling.

“I’d like to mean it when I say I’m over you. But that’s still not true.” your body betrayed you and tears escaped before you could stop them.

Qimir gently wiped them away with his thumb. He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours “I am so sorry for everything” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin.

Your heart ached as you whispered “You have to let me go, Qimir. You have to make that choice again”.

He closed his eyes as he took in your scent, his hand cupping your cheek “I can’t. Seeing you again, it’s too hard”.

You shook your head, your hand tracing the lines of his face “You have to. If you still love me, you’ll do what’s right for me. You did it before, you can do it again. If you keep holding me like this, I’ll never be able to leave”.

He sighed heavily before finally pulling back, his eyes full of sadness “I don’t want you to” he paused for a moment, taking you in before gathering his strength “but you’re right. I have to let you go. You’re a Jedi. What happened between us in the past can’t happen again. The galaxy needs you more than I do. And the path I’m going down is not for the pure hearted. You must go now, finish your mission” his fingertips lingered on your skin before he stepped away. You closed your eyes, not wanting the moment to end, but knowing it had to.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

So I did Classical Studies in secondary school which was a fairly obscure subject, there were only nine of us in the class and we were all super into it.

Just for context here I’m talking about the class I was in from first to third year, between the ages of 13 and 16 for people with different education systems. We read the Iliad as part of course and it was really dense and when I tell you none of us could hear the word simile today without flashbacks to notating pages after pages of Homer comparing the way people walked to lions……

Anyway, it was a nightmare to read but we loved it.

We came out of those three years having forgotten most of the history of the Roman Empire but we all knew that Paris was a little bitch good for nothing but his looks, Achilles and Patroclus were definitely gay, Achilles was also a little bitch but we love him for it, Hector and Andromache deserved better and, most importantly, Agamemnon was a complete and utter douchebag who deserved everything he got and Clytemnestra was absolutely right to stab him to death in a bathtub, seriously fuck that guy.

We were so invested in this subject that we finished the curriculum early two years in a row and each year our teacher decided that we could put on a play related to the subject to fill out the last two months or so.

Naturally we settled on Troy Story 1 and Troy Story 2 detailing the Birth of Paris through to Achilles returning Hector’s body to Priam in two 40 minute instalments.

Absolutely no one of the forty people who wandered in by accident to witness our work of art understood a single second of what was going on or why we were all restrained laughter at what was basically eighty minutes of obscure classics in jokes. It was glorious. I recently found the script and I wanted to share the chaos.

Highlights included:

Jesse’s Girl playing over Helen and Paris’ introduction while she’s married to Menelaus.

So much unnecessary use of the word bro. Just so much.

Zeus and Hera narrating while passive aggressively bickering for every second of it. The gods constantly saying ‘do you want to get involved in some human drama’ to rope each other in

The extreme dramatic build up to the use of the word dog

Agamemnon speaks like a frat boy the whole time, like the biggest douche ever.

Achilles lifting Hectors body and dragging it around in slo mo while we are the champions plays

Achilles watching the war from his blanket burrito while eating popcorn out of his helmet

The shepherd who found Paris on a mountainside holding him up while the Lion King music played over it

Achilles’ trashy blonde wig. I cannot stress enough how trashy and blonde this wig was. Also Achilles was deliberately cast as the shortest girl in the class (5’ 3).

Odysseus and Diomedes night mission had mission impossible music playing over it as we parkoured across the stage and peaked out behind curtains. They also have dialogue in which they constantly want to stab something

Paris never appears in the sequel but is dissed constantly

We couldn’t do any actual Patrochilles cause Catholic school but we settled for prolonged eye contact to My Heart Will Go On and long pauses after dramatic references to My Closest Companion

Achilles: I need my best bro friend! My life soulmate! My favourite cook!

Achilles in the tent with headphones on listening to All By Myself with mascara streaming down his face after Patroclus died

The facts that Agamemnon killed his daughter and Zeus and Hera are siblings is constantly just kind of dropped in with no context

Everyone’s costumes were mostly just lab coats tied over our shoulders with shared armour from the one girl that apparently had a closet full of Ancient Greek style plastic swords, helmets and breastplates.

We spent an entire class making a giant pink tv frame out of cardboard, paper and way too much sellotape for one joke that wasn’t even that funny. We named it Daniel.

Briseis was an American Girl doll.

The gods yelling at each other to try and pick teams and resulting in a slap fight with an announcement that it lasted 3 hours.

Thetis yelling encouragement from the side lines and calling Achilles her little crib lizard for some reason also she’s reading Song of Achilles in one of her scenes

[twasmayfield]

my funny valentine.

description: so it's the late 1950s and everything's going well for you. a loving husband, two kids, and an apartment that looked like it came out of some catalog. but when your husband suddenly left, you somehow found your way into doing comedy.

warnings: afab reader, the marvelous mrs maisel au, a bit ooc of bradley and natasha, swearing, mentions of kids, my bad attempt at jokes, mentions of an affair/cheating, idk your (ex) husband kinda sucks, lmk if i missed anything else.

a/n: this kinda got away from me, whoops. erm mrs. maisel au !! one off fic (unless you want more), see more at waiting room !!

Ever since you were a child, you’ve always planned ahead.

When you were six, you knew deep in your heart that you wanted to major in Art History like your mother. At age thirteen, you found your signature haircut and hell broke loose if your haircuts down the line didn’t look like it. And on the day after your fourteenth birthday, you sat your parents down and told them that you wanted to attend a private, famous college upstate—the kind politicians sent their daughters to for etiquette training, or to find a husband. You did both.

You met your husband, Victor, at some party you couldn’t even remember now. You were seeing some tall, blond guy that went by ‘Chad’ or ‘Tom’ or any name that sounded like a frat boy, and hung off his arm with a bright, but tolerated, smile like a trophy wife while he ignored you and talked football strategies to guys who looked like they would’ve loved to be anywhere but here. And your husband swept you off your feet, pulling you away from the human embodiment of a hyena if it found itself wearing a suit, walking down Wall Street.

Victor took you to see shows, art galleries, and the occasional sneak outs after curfew to drink at bars. The kind of activities where you’d switch things around a bit if your mother asked what the two of you did. One time, he took you to some guy named Bradley Bradshaw’s comedy routine. “People call him ‘Rooster,’” he’d say, almost going on a spiel while you wondered if you did well on your last quiz.

The guy they called ‘Rooster’ was funny. In a ‘deadpan, airing out everything that happened in my life’ kind of way. He talked about the Navy, his godfather, that one time he crashed his said godfather’s motorcycle purely out of spite. Victor laughed at every joke and you smiled behind your glass.

The two of you got engaged during your last year, married a few months after graduation, your son born soon after, and your daughter a year or two later. “Three before thirty,” was drilled into your head like it was an ancient script passed down by every woman you knew and your mother—which was funny because she only ever had two kids; you and your brother.

Ah your brother. He was the booksmart and analytical one of the family—practically your father’s twin. The one who found himself working for the military straight out of college, either crunching numbers or doing some high-tech shenanigans—you loved him, but you couldn’t be assed to ask what his job actually was. You and your mother often dissociated yourselves when the conversation around the dinner table turned into a chatter of schematics and blueprints.

Charlie was three, soon to turn four in the coming months. He looked more and more like his father each passing day and you hoped he didn’t inherit Victor’s odd limp when the weather got cold. The boy never stayed still, always cried in the mornings when he’s being handed off to your mother for babysitting, and he bit people when and if they took too long. But he was mostly a happy child when placed in front of the television with his usual bowl of cereal and milk, watching the reruns of some puppet show.

Isabelle was on the halfway mark to being a year old. Round, chubby cheeks that made her look like an angelic cherub. She was a cherub—just not when you wanted her to be. And especially not on the nights when she was sick. Your mother kept telling you that her head’s starting to look like a bowling ball; you told her that she’ll grow into it. You wished that that would satisfy her enough, but you wandered in on her measuring the baby’s head with tape one morning and you walked back out quietly, not wanting to get a headache so early in the morning.

Your husband wanted to be a comedian.

That’s what he dreamed of every hour of the day while he worked at a company that only hired him because of his dad. And you supported him through multiple late nights a week with warm lasagna in a Pyrex held tightly between your hands while you sweet talked the owner into changing his slot so he wouldn’t be stuck waiting until midnight when the crowd’s all drunk and tired out.

What a happy, fun family dynamic.

The night was hectic.

The usual guy who was in charge of the bar disappeared off to God knows where, leaving someone named Natasha to man the entire cafe from behind the bar. The warm lasagna and your attempts at sweet talk didn’t seem to sway her into changing the slot, causing your husband to groan while the newcomer on the stage started his rendition of crudely playing the bagpipes. And by the time Victor’s turn rolled around, the crowd was half dead and half barely paying attention to whoever was on stage now. And he fumbled. Bad. Absolutely bombed his set. Even the guy who was asleep in a booth at the back knew it. At least that’s what he told you anyway, you just jolted down notes like you always did.

Victor complained about the barely noticeable holes in his sweater, his late time slot for the night, and kept going on about how the audience was basically dead during his set on the car ride back home. He complained and complained and complained to the point where the cab driver looked over in the mirror while you ignored the look and half tuned out your husband’s complaints, scribbling down the jokes that should’ve landed in a tiny notebook that you carried around during nights when he did his routines.

“You told me to do that joke.” He called out from the bedroom.

You scrunched up your face in front of the bathroom mirror, fixing the last hair roller into your hair. “I told you to rework it a bit.”

“Well, I did,”

“No, you didn’t. You basically copied word for word from our conversation from the cab.” You walked out of the bathroom, seeing him stuff his clothes into a suitcase. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t look up, zipping the suitcase shut. “I have to go.”

“I have to leave.” He finally looked up, seeing you stare at him in confusion in your nightgown with your head full of hair rollers. “You. I have to leave you.”

“That’s my suitcase.” You pointed out in a fit of confusion. “You’re leaving me with my suitcase?”

“Wait, really?” Victor looked over the laying suitcase on the bed, looking back at you. “I’m—I’m not happy.”

“And I am?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not good at things like this.”

You almost bitterly laughed, “things like what? Leaving me?”

“I’m not happy,” he sighed out, hand gesturing to the bedroom. “I’m not happy with this.”

“We can change the wallpaper if that’s what you want, you don’t have to leave.” Your voice turned soft, almost pleading.

“I’ve been having an affair.” A beat. A pause. A moment to gather back in the air that was knocked out of you. “I thought it was just a phase, but it’s been going on for a few months now…”

Your voice was calm, but you couldn’t tell if that was because you were so surprised by the news or something else. “With who?”

“Margaret.”

“Your secretary? I gave you two kids, and you’re leaving me for a girl who couldn’t figure out how to use a sharpener?”

“It’s not about her. And it was a new sharpener!”

“All she had to do was push!”

The argument that lasted a whole five minutes was barely an argument; more like two debate champions trying to squash one another. Ping-ponging between topics that finally cracked and spilled open, you watched as your husband of five years left the home you two promised to spend together until death. With your fucking suitcase.

Rain rolled in outside, the droplets hitting the windows hard as the dark sky crackled with thunder. You would have chuckled—maybe even laughed—at the irony of the dark and gloomy weather mirroring how you were feeling if you weren’t still hung up over the fact that you just found out that your husband had been cheating on you with a co-worker and left you alone all in the same night.

Wine bottle to your mouth, your eyes looking over at the shelf full of plates and glassware, trying to figure what used to be on the now empty shelf in the middle.

Your fucking Pyrex.

Your mother often told you that the subway at night was scary.

She was right, of course, but in the current state of things, even the scariest thugs of New York City somehow scooted away from you in the almost barren carriage. You wanted to tell them that you weren’t like this. That you were a prim and proper housewife from the Upper West Side. That this was just a very bad night that you never once thought was going to happen. But instead of opening your mouth and saying anything and everything you wanted to say to save the public’s opinion of you, you just chugged the remaining wine that was left in the bottle.

The rain stopped when you arrived at the cafe you spent most nights at, jolting down jokes your husband made that either hit with the audience or didn’t. You sluggishly walked down the stairs, droplets of rain running off your fingertips. You had one mission and it was to get your Pyrex back and leave. Of course that was hard considering that the waitress who was working there looked bored and barely cared. The conversation was cut short as soon as she’d gotten exasperated with your insistence of telling her to check the back that she left to check it out for the glass container that you were clearly attached to.

“So this is it, huh?” You said absentmindedly as you somehow stumbled onto the stage in your fit of drunken haze. With your back to the crowd, your eyes wandered to the multitude of different colored flyers stuck on the wall. “This is what you were working towards, Victor?” You almost scoffed at the absurdity. Was he funny? Sure, but that was before you found out he was doing someone else’s routine a few weeks back. Some famous guy’s act, but the name was currently lost on your tongue and you didn’t make any efforts to think about it right now.

“Who’s Victor?” A voice asked from the crowd, murmurs following after.

You turned, startled as you winced when your eyes caught the spotlight, hand moving to your face to block it out. “Victor’s my husband,”

“We can’t hear you!” Another voice yelled out.

“Oh sorry,” you started, taking the microphone from its stand, straightening the cable out before you could continue. “Victor’s my husband. Well ex-husband now, I guess.”

The crowd below grew with unease, some of the patrons looking at you with confusion and distaste. You couldn’t blame them really—you would have wrinkled your nose at someone too if they were currently as wet and disheveled as you were. The remnants of droplets from the rain outside dripped from the tips of your hair, your very expensive coat practically falling off your shoulders, revealing your sheer nightgown underneath—clearly you didn’t plan on going out tonight.

“So my husband left today,” you started, taking the microphone from its stand, straightening the cable out before you could finish your thought. “I just found out that he was cheating on me—” you added, “with his secretary.”

Some guy at the back let out a loud cheer. “Thanks. Thank you very much.”

“Now, usually, I wouldn’t be so… Well, I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now, but I do know that I would feel a little bit better if the secretary he cheated on me with knew how to use a pencil sharpener.” You sighed. “I visited his office a few days ago, and I just watched in amazement as she poked and prodded the damn machine like it was something dystopian—surely they teach you how to use pencil sharpeners in college, right?”

“And—and,” you continued on, pacing around the small stage as you waved your hand in the air, “he took my suitcase.”

An awkward cough. An amused snort. A small laugh.

The crowd below warming up to whatever crisis you were starting to unravel out on the sticky beer slicked floor they called a stage. You sat yourself down on the stool, running a hand through your hair. “Not his big manly suitcase that he used whenever we went on vacation—my suitcase. The small pink carryon suitcase that could—maybe—fit five dresses and two pairs of heels,” you counted off your fingers, “and a hard hat if I really tried.”

“And what do I know about being the perfect wife? I’ve only given him two beautiful children—sure our son is back in his biting phase, and our daughter’s head looks more and more like a bowling ball each passing day—I kept our home clean, and had warm meals ready on the dinner table when he got back from work. I supported him when he tried pursuing this somehow unattainable dream of being a comic. But what do I know? All you men confuse me.” You gestured to your unfortunate outfit, voice dry. “Usually, this is considered being overdressed for a night out in the Village, but my mother would die of shock if she saw me dressed like this.”

You paused, blinking slowly. “Sorry, I’m a bit drunk right now. Everything I had counted on is gone. And this room just feels like a waiting room for purgatory.”

Natasha walked out from the back, wiping her hands clean on a rag and noticed you spiraling on stage. A look of intrigue and fascination on her face while you continued on your rant. You got back up, pacing on stage.

“I loved him.” The women in the audience looked at you, their eyes somehow full of wonder.

“And I showed him I loved him.” The men in the audience let out loud cheers.

“Let me tell you, I was a great wife. I was fun!” You stuck the microphone back on its stand, hands now on your hips. “I planned theme nights. I dressed in costumes. Okay, sure my French accent could use some work—my mother never taught me French, okay?—but that’s not a reason to leave, right?”

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m losing him to Margaret Welch. Margaret fucking Welch!” Natasha, now amused, leaned against the bar. “That’s her name, by the way.” You let out a tired huff, “I’m going crazy now. I’m gonna be known as the crazy divorcee from the Upper West Side.”

Bradley sidled up beside Natasha, “who’s that?”

“You know that one aspiring comic guy’s wife? The one with the lasagna?”

“That’s her?”

“Apparently.” Natasha looked around. “You should pull her off before she gets in trouble.”

Bradley flashed her a smile. “As you wish.”

The small yank on your arm was subtle and you made no move to tug yourself away from the person’s grip—oh hey, he looked familiar. The adrenaline and energy that once filled your body now depleted entirely, and you let yourself be pulled down to the stage and to the bar where you plopped down on a stool, tired.

“Nice set,” Natasha said, pushing a glass towards you.

You knocked your head back, swallowing the liquid. “Sorry, I’m not a comic.”

Bradley sat beside you. “You sure? ‘Cause you definitely got the chops.”

You snorted, pushing yourself off the bar and back to standing. “Definitely not. This was just an unfortunate mistake.”

You made your way back to the door before you turned back. “You have my Pyrex?”

Bradley and Natasha stared at each other in confusion. The waitress that went in the back to search for the damn thing disappeared. And your entire body was close to turning into lead.

“Never mind.” You shook your head and waved it off, pulling on your coat.

Bradley and Natasha watched as you walked out, turning to look at each other when you disappeared from their view. Without even saying a word, they both knew what the other was thinking.

You were going to be a star.

[lady-otori]

Bird Nesting Amongst Blossoms // SasuSaku // First Half

Hi, lovelies! 🌸🖤✨

I've written a two part Historical Fantasy AU featuring tengu!Sasuke and cherryblossom!Sakura 💖 I hope you enjoy~

Bird Nesting Amongst Blossoms

Read me over on Ao3 💘

“Sasuke-sama,” the tengu calls tentatively. “Sasuke-sama, won’t you come down from there?”

It’s a young one, his wings mere suggestions poking through the back of his robes. He can’t fly yet, Sasuke thinks, peering down through the branches of his perch to where his fledgling cousin stands. In any case, the Uchiha tengu avoid this tree, a fact proven by the way the boy hops from foot to foot like the family’s pet crows. They say the tree is cursed; Sasuke knows better.

“No,” Sasuke replies, turning his face back to the sun.

“Please?” asks the boy. 

There’s something in his voice other than the usual deference. Sighing, Sasuke unfurls his black wings - big, big enough to tangle in the bare twigs surrounding him - and jumps down between the branches, coming to a stop within the tree’s sacred barrier. He regards the tengu boy silently, hands hidden in his robes for warmth. 

“My brother?” Sasuke asks. 

“Your father,” the boy says with a grimace, forgetting himself.

Such is the way of life at the top of Konoha’s highest mountain. Itachi rules the Uchiha clan through love. Their father rules it through obedience. Sasuke lets the slip go: the boy is not even ten years old, and Sasuke isn’t in the habit of shooting the messenger. He steps over the thick rope of the barrier and makes his way towards the main house, tousling his cousin’s hair as he passes. He misses the way the boy’s face lights up with delight, but not the words that drift towards him on a rustling wind. 

“Sasuke, Sasuke, will you come back soon?”

“Always,” Sasuke whispers into his feather fan, knowing the tree will hear him speak. 

But first: his father.  🌸🖤🌸🖤

The tree is older than the Uchiha compound. Older than the Uchiha clan entirely; and when Sasuke was five, the wandering hermit Jiraiya told him that it was older than the mountains of Konoha themselves. 

In general, his family’s attitude towards the tree swings between reverence and avoidance, depending on who is in charge. Fugaku doesn’t much like the thought of anything more powerful than him, so for the last two hundred years it has sat and endured the avoidance of a people who once played amongst its branches. 

So it’s nothing new that his father sits and berates Sasuke for being found by the cherry tree once again. What is new, however, is the news that he’s being sent to the Uzumaki clan until further notice. To reduce that blasted cherry’s influence, or something along those lines, but Sasuke stopped listening after hearing that he’s to be sent away. 

“I cannot stand those kitsune bastards,” Sasuke says without thinking. “I’ll go travelling again, instead.”

Perhaps his father hides a smile beneath his impressive eyebrows; either way, the older tengu shakes his head, ruffling his wings for effect. They’re in the formal audience chamber, which is a terrible sign. His mother is missing, too, which Sasuke knows is bad news. 

“You should have stopped speaking to the tree when I asked you, son.”

“But it’s…”

Sasuke stops himself, because he’s not naive enough to call an ancient tree his friend. But it’s something close, and he’ll miss the afternoons spent high above his family’s land, cradled in welcoming wooden arms. It has been many years since he mastered the whole of the Uchiha arts, and as the younger son he has few responsibilities to take up his time. There’s a boredom to his long life, and the tree has a thousand untold stories. 

“When do I leave?” Sasuke asks instead, hiding his frown behind his hand, clad in black silk robes. 

“The family have sent their heir to accompany you down the mountain,” his father says, toneless. “Your mother is packing your things now.”

Sasuke doesn’t dislike the Uzumaki heir, per se, but Naruto is a different breed from him, outgoing and vociferous even for a fox. This will be a long and gruelling visit, he knows. 

Just as he knows why his father has given him no notice of when to return. How convenient it would be for the Uchiha, to have a loyal son stationed at the foot of their lands.

“Very well,” Sasuke murmurs, bowing his head to his knees. 

His red tengu mask brushes the polished wooden floor, and there’s a moment where he considers dashing it from around his neck. But then the door opens and Uzumaki Naruto bowls in unannounced, greeting the Uchiha head with such irreverence that the older man actually recoils. 

Unnoticed, Sasuke manages to keep his composure one last time, long enough to whisper a farewell into the floorboards: venerable old things made from the boughs of his not-quite-friend.

“Come back soon,” the tree replies. 

Sasuke doesn’t answer, because what does soon look like to one who has lived a thousand years? 🌸🖤🌸🖤

The first few seasons down the mountain pass quickly, even to a tengu’s eyes. The Uzumaki kitsune are everything the Uchiha tengu are not: quick to fall out, quicker to fall in with one another. To his utter chagrin, Sasuke thrives. 

Forbidden from flying to the mountaintop by a stern missive from his father, Sasuke spends his evenings - when he’s thoroughly tired from the rambunctious Uzumaki life - sitting on the porch of his small house and watching the tree from afar. They’re too far to converse, but his secret pleasure is to watch the tree cycle through flower, leaf and fall, and his dreams are full of memories of days spent nestled against its trunk. 

So caught up in this reminiscence is Sasuke that he completely misses the arrival of The Girl. Appearing unannounced from Shikkotsu and yet being granted a place within the family head’s household, her arrival sets the entire Uzumaki complex astir with who she could possibly be. 

Sasuke is the only young yōkai in the neighbourhood not to become immediately infatuated with her, a fact which causes Naruto much amusement. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t spoken to her yet,” says Naruto, drinking his sake with the usual reckless abandon. “She’s beautiful.”

Sasuke smirks. “I’m not interested in beauty.”

It’s true: as the younger son of the Uchiha, he’s had decades to rove around the wondrous places of the world and drink in the sight of beauty both preternatural and immortal. It all pales in comparison to a solitary thousand year old cherry blossom. 

Naruto makes a dismissive gesture. “Rather, I’m surprised because she’s called Sakura, like your favourite thing.”

“So? I’ve met a hundred cherry trees and not been moved.”

“Have you seen her yet?”

Sasuke shrugs a no. He’s busy teaching during the day, wrangling the kitsune cubs into a semblance of decorum, and in the evenings he’s busy training to keep his edge sharp. The whereabouts of a mysterious girl hold little interest for him, Sakura or not. At his response Naruto grins like a fox, all teeth. 

“You’ll see,” the Uzumaki heir says. “You’ll most definitely see.” 🌸🖤🌸🖤

Ever the contrarian, Sasuke spends the next season trying his very best not to meet this Sakura. It’s not difficult: his schedule is very rigid, and even his drinking sessions are carefully slotted into his days.

Oh, he sees her from afar, sure; the complex is big but he is bound to it by his father’s word, and there are no other people with pink hair amongst the blonde-and-red Uzumaki. He is unmoved by her beauty, as it is not striking from a distance. 

In fact, he doesn’t think much of her at all, until spring rolls around, and the Uchiha cherry blossom puts out no flowers. Flying as high in the sky as he dares, Sasuke sees that it’s completely bare, without even the hint of a bud.

The matter is serious enough to the clan that Sasuke’s brother Itachi makes a rare trip down the mountain. The Uchiha pretend not to see the tree, but a thousand years of protection are hard to ignore.

“What do you think could be wrong?” Itachi asks.

“I can’t tell from here,” Sasuke replies, striding back and forth across his garden. “Did Father say I could return home to take a closer look?”

The other tengu’s grimace tells Sasuke all he needs to know. No, Uchiha Fugaku has not given leave for his younger son to return to the roost. From this distance Sasuke is as clueless as the rest of the Uchiha, and twice as worried. 

“I’m sorry,” Itachi says, spreading his hands in apology. “Mother and I are trying, but-”

“But Father is as immovable as the mountain itself,” Sasuke finishes. It’s a well-known proverb amongst their family. “In any case, please… keep me informed.”

Itachi nods, poking Sasuke’s forehead affectionately before taking off. It’s hard not to feel jealous of his elder brother, Sasuke thinks, watching the Uchiha heir’s black wings blot out the sun. Born to a blessed position and rising to the challenge, Itachi is the kind of man that other yōkai dream of following. His presence is so large that Sasuke must make do with a reputation for defying their father, and being enamoured with an ill-favoured old tree in the courtyard. 

It hurts and helps in equal measure that Sasuke loves him greatly. 

Itachi’s visit distracts Sasuke from his sadness until it’s time to return home from the main hall of the Uzumaki complex (nothing but the best for the Uchiha heir), where he spots a thatch of pink hair disappearing around the corner. 

“It’s her,” Sasuke mutters under his breath, annoyed at the pink-haired interloper despite himself. 

It is not The Girl’s fault that his tree is beleaguered, and yet he finds himself hurrying to catch up with her all the same. He doesn’t know why, only that his ill-temper needs an outlet, and this new face is beloved enough that one detractor would barely make a dent in her happiness. Rustling his wings as they catch on his robes, Sasuke rounds the corner only to find Sakura sprawled on the floor, her hand grasping one slippered ankle. 

It is hard to be angry at someone who has fallen to the ground, but Sasuke gives it a shot. 

“What’s this?” he says sharply, wincing as she looks up from her foot to meet his gaze. 

His voice is brusque, and his mask is foreboding. It’s no surprise that her round lips tremble and a tear rolls down her cheek. But this is not what Sasuke notices as Sakura looks at him for the first time since her arrival at the Uzumaki complex. 

What he notices, instead, is this: eyes as green as leaves in summer, and hair that is not pink thatch but rather blushing blossoms, curling and delicate. A kanzashi in her hair that is shaped like a steady branch, made of polished dark wood. Her celestial scarf, cherry-red and floating as though borne on a mountaintop wind. 

And finally, her expression, which is indignant through her tears. 

“Aren’t you going to help me stand?” she says, with all the pique of an imperial princess. 

Sasuke jolts back to the present, clawing his attention back from the gentle rustling of her hair. He feels himself blushing under his mask. 

“No,” he says abruptly, turning on his heel. 

He hears her hiss at his back, the sound of it razor-sharp against his spine. 

Well, Sasuke thinks, trying to walk as though he is unaffected, Itachi always was the one known as a gentleman. 

“Come back!” she demands, but he is already committed to leaving, and her words do not spark the memory that they should. 🌸🖤🌸🖤

That night, as Sasuke lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, he thinks back to The Girl (he refuses to call her anything else) and how she’d looked in the corridor, her angry surprise at his lack of assistance. 

The next night, it’s how her hair had curled over her cheek. The night after that, he cannot stop thinking about the girl’s celestial scarf, deep and fruited red. The rest of the week is lost in her pale green gaze.

“This cannot go on,” Sasuke murmurs after a fortnight has been laid at The Girl’s feet. 

Even then, it takes him another week to find her. He is busy, he reasons, and tengu love routine. When he does chance upon Sakura, she is sitting under the ancient maple by the kitchens, her head tipped back against its trunk. It looks for all the world as though they are conversing, though her lips are pressed tight shut.

“What’s this?” she says as he stops before her, looking down past the red nose of his mask.

The mimicry is not lost on Sasuke. He chooses to ignore it, sitting with the grace of someone who has spent lifetimes learning how to move like liquid. They say nothing for a while, long enough that the sun creeps downward and their stalemate loses its teeth, becoming companionable instead. The kitchen busies for the evening meal before Sakura opens her eyes. 

“What’s this?” she repeats. 

“Where did you come from?” Sasuke asks, ignoring her question. “Do you have anything to do with that?”

He points to the left, where his thousand year cherry grasps the rays of the evening sun. The Girl does not look, not even for an instant. 

“I’m from the Shikkotsu Forest,” she says, smiling with all her sharp, pointed teeth. 

“There are no girls like you there,” Sasuke retorts. 

Shikkotsu is a damp, dark place, a rainforest of drowning marshes and secret springs. She does not, he knows with the instincts of his long life, belong in such a place. He doubts very much whether she has ever even ventured to it. At his response, Sakura only laughs. 

“And what kind of girl am I?” she asks. “A celestial maiden, come down from the heavens? Am I an oni, sent to tempt young yōkai from the righteous path? Or I could be the slug princess, perhaps.”

She is making fun, Sasuke realises, of the young men who have followed her around since she arrived, of their speculation and their gossiping ways. And she is making light of him, too, for his behaviour on their first meeting. It ruffles his feathers, so to speak.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminds her. 

“You did not ask the right one,” Sakura replies, tipping her head back against the maple.

She says nothing else, not even when he gets to his feet. Her hands rest on the ground, and if not for his keen senses he would say that The Girl is asleep. Her disinterest galls him in a way Sasuke does not want to understand. Is he really the same as the rabble of the Uzumaki, to be so interested in a girl of not-quite-otherworldly beauty? Surely not. Adjusting his robes, Sasuke unfurls his wings in a luxurious stretch, blocking the last of the sun. 

He’s vindicated when she opens her eyes, frowning at the sudden darkness. 

“I’ll see you later,” he mutters.

“Come back soon,” Sakura replies, her voice slow and drowsy and familiar. 

Because Sasuke is too preoccupied with taking off in a way that’ll cause the budding maple leaves to fall on Sakura’s head, he misses her words until that night, when they drift into his dreams. As it has a thousand times before, a whispering voice speaks into his ear, hoping he’ll visit again soon. That it has more stories, should he wish to hear them.

Only this time, instead of bearing him deeper into sleep, the whispering voice of his friend sounds like The Girl’s voice, and it makes Sasuke sit up in a sweat, black hair stuck to his forehead. His robes are in disarray, his wings caught under him as they haven’t been since childhood. 

“Wait,” he barks aloud in the quiet of his bedroom, “it’s you?” And somewhere in the depths of the Uzumaki compound, a dry laugh echoes through the halls. It’s loud, and disturbing, and irritated, like the bare branches of a thousand-year cherry tree that should be in full bloom.

🌸🖤🌸🖤

[messyyythoughts]

princess from afar.

gladiator 2 marcus acacius x female!princess reader.

author’s note: this idea came to me like a holy vision after watching like 100 gladiator 2 trailer edits of Pedro Pascal. god save us all when that movie is finally out. it will be feral girl hours!!! also MAYBE SPOILERS??? idk be careful x

small disclaimer: so... I haven’t had the pleasure of watching the first Gladiator movie, my apologies beforehand if anything is inaccurate lore-wise! I tried to go off what I knew of Ancient Rome and take inspiration from the movie and the sequel coming out later this year. I hope you all enjoy!

summary: you are a princess from far away visiting Rome under its new Emperors. the Roman General catches your eye, and you catch his.

warnings: gladiator-like violence.

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Your visit to Rome under its new twin Emperors has been eventful. 

Your father and brothers were too occupied in your homelands to go themselves, leaving you as the sole candidate. Your father assured you plenty of times prior to departure that you were a perfect choice. Well-versed in languages and histories, practised in the arts and skills of diplomacy. You already had everything you needed to make it a successful visit, and establish a favourable relationship with Rome. Initially you had been nervous, understandably, your country’s standing with the most powerful empire on the planet came down to this visit, it weighed on your shoulders. But, upon arrival, the entire court of Rome, its government and its Emperors were inexplicably fascinated with you. Whether it was your beauty, which they had never witnessed before, or your personality or talents you could not say. Upon realising the hold you had over your hosts, you played everything to your advantage.

Dinner parties, festivals, meetings, trips into the city, you did it all with a smile and impeccable appearance. You had been accompanied by some of your loyal ladies, of course, who worked their magic each and every morning to ensure a flawless appearance greeted the court of Rome. You were mastering the art of diplomacy and playing your part, it was perfect. Then came the Colosseum. You were personally invited by one of the twin Emperors, Geta, to sit by his side and watch battles of all manner take place. Intrigued, as you did not have such a thing back home, you agreed. At first, you were shocked by the barbarity of it all, but upon seeing the joy it brought the crowds of spectators and the purpose it gave the fighters… you understood that it was another moving part of Rome and her empire. So, you applauded and followed the Emperor’s lead, which he loved. He was constantly seeking your company and favour, you felt yourself walking a dangerous line of a marriage proposal should you entice him too much. Such a thing would delight your father, but you weren’t so keen on your safety if you ever married the Emperor. There was just something about these types of men that made you keep your guard up.

After a few of these battles in the Colosseum, you grew to understand the addictiveness of watching and betting and waiting to see who came out on top. Some days wild beasts were released, other days it was man against fellow man. You saw enough blood and grime and hurt to last you a lifetime, but smiled through all of it when the Emperor glanced at you, grinning wildly. You had grown used to the intricacies of the glorious gladiator battles, and attended even when Geta had not personally sought you out to extend the invitation, as he now simply expected your presence at his side. It was on one of the Colosseum days that your visit would become even more intriguing.

You arrived that day fresh-faced, hair immaturely arranged, dress clean and jewellery gleaming in the sun. You had bathed in rose petals the night before and the smell danced around you as you greeted the Emperor and took your seat next to him. He kissed your hand, making eye contact with you before turning his attention to the Colosseum. The crowds were filling their seats, rows and rows of them all packed in trying to get a favourable view of the promised entrainment. A set of heavy footsteps behind made you turn your head, and you saw a man in white and gold, a sword at his hip, enter the Emperor’s box. You stood, a feeling deep down telling you that this man was important, as he approached. You had not noticed the spare seat next to the Emperor today, you should’ve known someone else was coming. The wide-shouldered, bronze-skinned man could’ve easily been mistaken for one of Rome’s Gods, you thought, watching him greet the Emperor. Then, the Emperor gestured to you.

“The beautiful Princess from afar, General Acacius. Isn’t she a sight to behold?” The Emperor’s eyes roved up and down your dress, and you feigned embarrassment. The General took your hand and kissed it, bowing respectfully as he did.

“Princess, forgive me. I was not informed of royalty accompanying the Emperor today. Do you mind if I join you both today for the entertainment?” You smiled prettily, eyes on his.

“Please, General, I am but a guest, you are Rome’s commander. Be welcome.” He nodded, taking his seat on the other side of Emperor Geta after you had sat yourself. Your hand was tingling with excitement from where he’d held and kissed it. For such a large, muscled man, he had a gentle touch. And he was so well dressed, rivalling yourself in his white and gold. He had golden leaves woven into his hair, brunette but speckled with grey. His beard was neat, trimmed. Your eyes lingered on his nose, a masterpiece carved by the Roman Gods themselves, surely. Your breath caught in your chest and you remembered yourself, fixing your attention on the Colosseum before you.

Though you tried to not give the handsome General too much attention, you felt his eyes lingering on you all the same.

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The fights were over, the crowds appeased, the sand of the Colosseum soaked with patches of blood and a few bodies. Geta had grown bored of the day and declared a feast to be held in the evening, all should attend. He swept away, guards following, and left you in the box bowing at his exit. The General’s warm eyes met yours when Geta was gone and he half-smiled.

“I suppose you shall be in attendance tonight, Princess from afar?” He asked, one hand on his sword, the other resting atop it.

“Of course, General. Will I see you there? You must be a busy man.” You replied, walking out of the box, holding your skirts up to take the steps.

“I will make my best efforts to attend, your Grace.” He bowed as you left, watching you go. He couldn’t fathom your existence, such beauty all in one person, such grace and softness. How could any man send you this far away on your lonesome? He gripped his sword hilt before relaxing and following you up the steps.

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You took to napping that late afternoon, then gossiped away with your ladies. They had just finished embroidering a gown that your father had sent along as a gift, and insisted that you wear it to please the Emperor tonight. They knew all of the goings on within the Emperor's palace, and for that you were thankful. They took out your hair, and agreed that a looser style would suit the intimacy of the evening feast. Precious gemstones were pinned into your hair, a reminder of your status as a Princess. The gown was arranged and fastened, you wore light slippers on your feet. Once the ladies had decided on appropriate jewellery and makeup, they finished by spritzing you with fresh rose water and then escorted you to the feast themselves. They, sadly, would not be joining you but would instead be waiting for you upon your return. You thanked them for their efforts, and they waved you into the dining hall, where the court was drinking and conversing in the candlelight as the feast was brought out.

Emperor Geta spotted you immediately. You obliged him and joined him in conversation with many different nobles and members of the court, though your Italian was good, sometimes you found some words did not quite translate in your head. You nodded instead and glanced at Geta with a radiant smile and a polite laugh if appropriate. You excused yourself for food and a wine refresh, glad for a moment alone where your brain could rest from translating entire sentences. Your smile dropped for just a moment and you wandered out to a balcony for real fresh air. Elbows leaning on the immaculate stone, you sipped your wine, staring out at the night sky and wondering if your family were awake or asleep back home. Were they thinking of you? You were thinking of them, always. When would it be time to go home? You put your goblet down and sighed, realising that you had put off these homesick thoughts by throwing yourself into life here in Rome.

“Princess,” You straightened up at the sound of someone’s voice approaching from the dining hall, then smiled in slight embarrassment when you saw the General carefully making his way out onto the balcony. “Peace and quiet at last.” He smiled, taking a place next to you on the balcony. He held no wine and carried no sword this time. He had changed into less golden attire, but it still made him look like a God disguised as a human.

“General Acacius, a pleasure to see you tonight.” You curtseyed and he bowed deeply, then took your hand and kissed the back lightly. His brown eyes caught you watching him with wonder on your face. “You are well versed in the ways of nobility and court, I am pleasantly surprised.” You said, trying to fill the air between you both. There was something about how he watched you so calmly, coolly, it set your insides alight.

“When you find yourself surrounded by certain types, you adapt.” He replied, leaning on the balcony with one arm, facing you.

“Not so different from a battlefield, I suppose?” You sipped your wine, eyes meeting his. He shook his head.

“Life is a battlefield, Princess, for everyone. Do you not find all of this a constant battle?” He glanced at the rowdy dining hall. You turned and made sure Geta wasn’t staring daggers at you, but he was nowhere to be seen. The crowd had grown somehow, and the feast was almost gone. You considered it all for a moment, before answering.

“I do see how one could view it as a battlefield, but I would not see myself as a warrior.” The General’s eyes widened, he grinned.

“I see you as a warrior, Princess, a valuable warrior. Do not diminish yourself, you may not be wielding a sword above your head, but your mind is just as sharp. I have heard stories of your visit so far, they love you. I fear you will never leave.” Though he meant it as humour, the thought of never leaving made you feel sick.

“Do you think I will ever go home?” You asked, suddenly desperate to hear someone say it. He searched your face, standing tall.

“Of course. You have a family awaiting your return, do you not?” The General’s hands folded before him. You nodded. “Who awaits you in your faraway land, Princess?” He asked, softly. You smiled at the stars.

“My father and brothers, General. You would enjoy them, if they ever visit.” The General stepped closer, admiring your little smile as you spoke of your family. His big hands took your wine from you and set it down. “He won’t keep me here will he?” You asked in a whisper, almost too scared to say it aloud. General Acacius studied your features for a heartbeat, then another. He could see the sadness hidden deep in your eyes, something many had never noticed in your time here. He saw the falter of your smile at the corner of your lips, even if for a moment. He had only met you hours before, but he found himself growing fond of you, the idea of you staying, but he knew it would only deepen your sadness.

“No, he is obsessive at times, but he will let you go. Your father would cross the seas for you, would he not, if you did not return?” You nodded and a little tear escaped your tired eyes. You wiped at it quickly, taking your wine from the General with a smile. You finished it and sighed.

“I think I shall retire for the evening, we are due back in the Colosseum tomorrow, are we not?” He stepped back, giving you space, and bowed. You curtseyed back, and he watched you reenter the dining hall. You slipped through the high energy crowd, making small apologies and nodding politely when they noticed you. Acacius wished he had told you to call him Marcus, he would tell you tomorrow, at the Colosseum.

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You took the long way back to your rooms, meandering around corners and admiring the architecture. You had so much to tell your father and brothers when you got back, you were hoping you remembered it all. Maybe writing it down somewhere would help empty your mind of all these thoughts of home? You saw your room at last, and slipped off your satin sippers. Picking them up, you heard a scuffle down the hallway. It was all darkness beyond your door, shadows seemed to move up there… No, it was the wine talking. You slowly stood, shoes in hand, hand to your head. Maybe forgoing wine in the future would be wise. You lay one hand on the door to open it, but felt the floor go out from under you, your weight was flung over and you were resting on someone’s shoulder. They started to run away from your door, so you screamed. You dropped your slippers as your kidnapper turned a corner, you heard your door open and your ladies' voices.

“Help me!” You called out again, before pairs of light, fast footsteps began following your screams. You struggled to free yourself from the grip of the person carrying you, they were turning corners and taking passageways you had never seen before. You kept screaming, but your ladies couldn’t catch up. They lost you, calling out your name and crying. You were thrown from the shoulder of your kidnapper to the floor, it was dark and dim down here in the bowels of the Emperor’s palace, the night air was cool. You felt your elbows gaze against tiles. Your kidnapper bent down, forcing a rag over your face, you struggled, nails digging into their wrist but with one inhale you lost all control of yourself and went dark.

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Sunlight streaming in on your face woke you up. It was bright, hot, you felt dry and sick. Pushing yourself up, you saw that you were chained in a cell, and could hear crowds roaring outside. Your head rolled, but finally steadied itself against the stone wall behind you. Your eyes were adjusting to daylight, you felt awful. You had just begun to recall the events of the night before when the sound of your cell unlocking and the appearance of a gladiator caught your attention.

“Good afternoon Princess. Ready for your grand entrance?” He smirked, hauling you up by your shoulder and forcing you to walk out of the cell. He steered you through small passageways, dimly lit except for stray rays of sunlight, you passed other cells with men chained up in corners. Your heart dropped, you were underneath the Colosseum. Was this the Emperor’s doing? Had he ordered you kidnapped for leaving the feast early without his permission? Had the General feigned friendliness only to arrange your kidnapping last night? You came to a room where all light was blocked by a gate, weapons were carelessly discarded, armour too. “Drink this, we can’t have you giving a bad performance for your Emperor.” Water was tipped down your throat, it spilt over your lips and down your neck, onto your dress.

“Did he order this?” You demanded, finding your voice. The gladiator’s eyes were dark, evil. He looked you up and down before speaking.

“No, it’s our little surprise to him, so put on a good show for us, Princess.” He approached the gate and banged with his fist three times, you heard the sound of hinges creaking, and sunlight filled the room. The gladiator hauled you up the slope and out into the very Colosseum you had been presiding over yesterday. The crowds were cheering wildly, unaware of who had just entered their arena. The gate slammed shut behind you, and you turned around, banging on it with chained fists.

“I have no quarrel with yourselves, or the Emperor, let me out of here at once!” You shouted, back to the gate. No voice came from the other side, your heart sank again. Hands chained and head on a swivel, you ran out to the centre of the Colosseum, hoping, praying that the Emperor would recognise you and order you saved.

You saw Geta stand, leaning over the Emperor’s box, then he started shouting. Movement in his box gave you a glimmer of hope that someone was coming to get you out of here alive. But then, the gates behind you opened again, and a stream of armoured men ran out, banging their armour and showing off their weapons. The crowd went berserk. You fell to your knees, realising your fate, and kept your eyes trained on the Emperor’s box. You thought of your father’s face when he was told the news by a prim and powdered envoy from Rome that his daughter had been slaughtered in the Colosseum. You prayed for good lives for your brothers, that they raise strong families that look after your homeland. The tears had started and you couldn’t stop them. You were hauled from your knees, your dress ripping and forced to stand.

“The Princess from afar will die for your entertainment today!” One of the gladiators yelled, displaying you to the crowds. Their cheers died down, and a ripple of confusion passed through them. You were released, and encircled by a half a dozen armoured gladiators with bloodthirsty expressions on their grimy, unshaven faces.

“You gain nothing from my murder, gladiator.” You spat, the anger beginning to take over. They laughed and brandished weapons of all manner. Swords, nets, daggers, tridents. “How can any of you stand there and murder a defenceless, chained woman, in full armour with sharp weapons in your hands? Have you no honour, no bravery? You fear a woman so greatly she must be killed in chains and unarmed? Cowards, all of you, a disgrace to your brothers!” You yelled, hoping that the words would buy you time. A few of the gladiators seemed uneasy as you spoke. Then, one strode forward, grabbed your chains and used his sword to shatter the link. Still cuffed, but now free to move your hands, he backed away, eyes on yours. “There is one brave enough to approach amongst you, at least.” You shook your hands and let the chains fall to your bare feet, burning in the sand.

A beat of hesitation from the others passed, before one gave in and ran at you, roaring. He held a long sword above his head, clad in armour, taller and broader than you. All you could see was one of your brothers charging at you with their wood practice swords as children, pretending to spear you rather than save you. You stood there, ready to greet death without the satisfaction of screaming or wailing, but at the very last moment you threw yourself aside and he missed. The crowd went up in a frenzy. His sword struck the sand and he looked over his shoulder at you, eyes tearing into yours.

Maybe you had decided not to die here.

He ran again, and you did the same, but you knew these gladiators were wise in strategy and learned their opponents' ways fast. He started swinging his sword at you, giving you little time to move out of the way, he caught your upper arms or dress where you were too slow, drawing thin lines of blood across your skin. Seeing the red made him hungry for more, and he did not relent in his attacks. You used the metal cuffs on your wrists to stop his sword taking your head off of your neck, and he grunted in anger, stepping back. The crowd were in uproar. He twirled his sword in his hand, idly, thinking as he surveyed you. You spotted a shorter sword sheathed on his hip, it would be madness to try and take it, he’d surely kill you at that distance, but you needed a weapon. You stood no chance of making it out alive or surviving until rescue if you had no weapon, you could only dodge and weave for so long, the other gladiators would be fiercer, more brutal, they were building up their stamina minute by minute.

The long sword narrowly grazed your side, you cried out and pressed a hand to your dress. It was torn open, bloodied already. Your hand came away red, your eyes widened. The gladiator’s shoulders were rolling, he wanted to land another hit. You had an idea, a wild one, but it would get you close to the short sword. You had to do it just right, you moved slower, hand pressed to your injured side. He swung again, missing, a second time, missing again. The third time you let him catch you again, and you went to your knees, crying out. The crowd booed, outraged. He grinned, ecstatic at the thought he was the first to face you and have you down on your knees injured, he approached, sword wet with your blood. His hand grabbed your chin, lifting it up to face him, you started up the tears again. “Just make it quick, you brute.” You hissed, panting. He grinned like a devil, lifting up his long sword, but as he went to swing down, you had his short sword unsheathed and drove it upwards to a gap where his chest armour didn’t cover his abdomen.

A wet sound, he stumbled, dropped the sword, took bumbling steps backwards. His face was a picture of shock, he fell dramatically onto his back, blood rushing from his new wound. You picked up the long sword, its weight foreign in your hand, and backed away from the body. The other gladiators all looked at one another in silence. The crowd, however, were anything but. You stood, eyeing up the five remaining gladiators. They watched their brother die and squirm, before looking back to you. Though they did seem reluctant to be the next to face you, they all closed in, weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Then the gate behind you opened, the one under the Emperor’s box. They all paused, and you half-turned to watch.

General Acacius came striding out, armoured up, sword in hand, the expression on his face was one carved from marble by the Roman Gods of war and death. His anger rolled across the Colosseum, his muscles strained as he stalked towards you and the five gladiators. He said nothing as he reached you, he did not spare you a glance, he made a straight-cut line for the remaining gladiators.

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Despite the fact you were openly bleeding from several cuts, your dress was a mess and you were devoid of your sunny smile, General Acacius was focused solely on the gladiators. You watched as the once reluctant men now fired themselves up with the promise of a real fight. But before you could run to the open gates, they encircled you and the General together, forcing you to back away from your escape route. The General surveyed the gladiators with a disgusted expression, and then it all happened at once.

All five gladiators charged, two at you, three at the General. While you had no doubts about the General’s capability to survive, you seriously doubted yours. You had no time to get any words out before one of the two was upon you, bringing a trident down, you raised your long sword with two hands and barely held him off, nearly going down to one knee with the effort. He backed away, the sharp prongs of the trident begging to be buried into flesh. Mouth dry, you watched the two gladiators exchange a look before the one wielding a long sword charged, you met him, not blow for blow but enough to keep him off of you. The General had already downed one of his gladiators and was onto the second and third. The crowd were cheering, chanting, stampeding in their seats. The trident flew past your head, landing in the General’s field of battle. Without hesitation, he picked it up, threw it back and met his attacker swiftly with his sword, never missing a beat. The trident had pinned the gladiator who owned it down, lodged in his arm, he struggled against the prongs. You felt sick.

The long sword came down at you again, you threw yourself out of the way, too tired to meet it with your own sword again. Your arms bled and ached from the weight of this weapon, you did not possess the same muscles as these men. You were not trained in the art of war, fighting other humans, or wielding weapons. Your brothers had tried to train you as children but your father had quickly intervened and warned them that you had no use for such things, as they would always be there to protect you. You wished dearly now that you had continued attending your brothers’ training sessions against your father’s orders. The sword narrowly missed your chest, you were shaking with the effort to breathe and move and fight all at the same time. You weren’t even sure your heart was still beating.

Your sword met his again, he was getting bored, tired of playing nice. You had to meet his blows to protect yourself, as tiring as it was. Your eyes scoured his armour for weak spots, a glimpse of vulnerable flesh… nothing. You took a few quick steps back, gaining distance, and time to think. Then the General downed his third gladiator, and turned to spot you warding off yours. The General advanced, sword slick with blood, but not before the gladiator rushed you and knocked you off your feet. He was atop you, sword poised to go through your chest, but not before you drove yours through his neck. The angle had given you the advantage, just. He rolled off of you, clutching at his neck, gargling on his own blood. He drowned before you, red spilling from his mouth and neck. His hands were covered in his own hot sticky blood, his eyes open as he died. You stood, covered in his blood, and watched as the General finished off the final gladiator who was pinned beneath his own trident like a fish.

You threw your sword aside, disgusted, horrified, on the verge of tears. General Acacius sheathed his own sword and ran to you. Without a word, he had you up in his arms, his nose in your hair.

“Are you hurt, Princess?” He asked, his voice low. You could barely make it out over the crowd’s collective cheering and celebrating.

“A little, General.” You said, clinging to his armour. He held you tight, making for the gate.

: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛

The Roman court and government were in an absolute outrage at your kidnap and torture in the Colosseum. Both of the Emperors ordered the gladiators and slaves brought before them to find the one behind it, but you were too sick to care. Whoever had been behind it had got their way, you were thoroughly shamed and defeated. You had survived, but at what cost?

The General took you straight to the physician. He stayed guarding the room as your wounds were cleaned, packed and dressed. Your beautiful embroidered dress was cut away, to be thrown on the fire. It was soaked in gladiator blood. You watched the General pace the room, hand gripping his sword, jaw set. It took time for the physician to do his work, but he was finally satisfied and allowed you to rest. The General, however, did not leave when the old physician did. He let you settle before speaking to you. You sat yourself up in the bed, thin sheets over your battered body. You had accumulated some nasty bruises from throwing yourself out of harm’s way.

“Princess…” He said softly, kneeling at your bedside. You looked at him with tear-stained eyes and a weak smile. “I will find who did this, they will pay. We will have their heads.” He said this with his head bowed, as if in prayer. You leaned down to him, your fingers lifting his chin. Your eyes met.

“You saved my life, Acacius, that is enough.” His eyes took you in, he thought of you as a star robbed of its starlight. A rose shaken free of its petals.

“Please call me Marcus, Princess.” You breathed deeply for a moment and nodded.

“Marcus, do not let your bloodlust cloud your judgement. I am alive, and I am grateful for that. I will return home when I am well.” His hands took yours, and he traced the back of them for a moment. The words hung in the air, unseen, unheard.

“Will you ever return to Rome?” He asked, holding your fingers out.

“I do not know, when my father hears of this… I could not say if I will be permitted to return one day, Marcus.” Your untidy hair fell in your face, finally freeing itself of its gemstone pins from the night before. Marcus reached up, gingerly placing the hair behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, as if he was scared you would shatter at any moment. He said nothing as he memorised the lines on the palm of your hand, red and sore from the long sword’s handle and weight. You sank further into the bed, watching him, his face. You wanted to paint it and frame it in your bedchambers at home, so you would never forget what he looked like.

He then placed the softest kiss on the back of your hand, then your wrist. Your body lit up like a bonfire, like the moon and stars on a dark night, and he looked up at you.

“If you do not return, will you let me remember you?” He asked, taking in the faded scent of rose from your wrist. It was washed away by sweat and blood and hot water now, but he knew it lingered, lest it be his imagination.

“I would want you to remember me, as I will remember you.” You replied eventually, he appeared relieved at this, and suddenly raised himself up to your bed, inches above you. He paused, eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes, your hair. “Do it, I will not regret it.” You whispered, eyes on his lips. With all of the care in Rome, he gave you your first and last kiss, he touched your hair, the side of your face. When he pulled away, he looked down, eyes avoiding yours. “When I go, will you see me?” You asked, voice tight.

“I would not miss it for the world, Princess from afar.” He quickly kissed your head, your wild hair, before withdrawing from your bed and taking himself out of your room.

: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛

You would see him once more when you departed for home with your ladies. Emperor Geta made a grand show of escorting you to the docks and seeing you board your ship bound for your homeland. It had been such a long time, it felt, since you had seen your father and brothers. Geta was sending you with heaps of gifts and treasures for your family, partly as a show of your efforts, and partly as an apology for your kidnap. When the General approached to say his goodbye, kissing your hand firmly with eyes closed, he slipped you something, which you hid down the front of your dress and didn’t open until the ship was sailing.

In your hands now lay a simple gold chain with the retrieved gemstones from your hairpins dangling from it. You smiled to yourself and slipped the necklace on, closing your eyes and wondering if one day you would return to Rome and see him again.

: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛: ̗̀➛

messyyythoughts © 2024 do not translate without my permission, give credit if you repost, support and feedback always welcomed <3

[cod-thoughts]

silly ghostprice headcanons?

I HAVE A LIST IN MY NOTES!!! rest is under the cut its uhhh quite long 0_0 i have some silly headcanons for every character i write and for every relationship i write too its my favourite way to find a characters voice!! Thinking about all the things that arent really in character but could be lol. This was a joy thank youuuu

Ghost

Ghost has the craziest sweet tooth ever and any time someone hints at him having a sweet tooth he denies it vehemently.

Animals, particularly cats, seem to gravitate toward Ghost, which he pretends to hate but secretly loves. Soap once caught him petting a stray cat and called him Snow White for a week after.

Despite his stoic demeanour, Ghost is a master of deadpan humour and silent pranks. He once moved Soap’s entire kit three floors down and acted like he had no idea what happened.

Ghost says unintentionally funny things in his dry, deadpan way, and the team is never sure if he’s joking. Soap once laughed so hard he cried, and Ghost just blinked at him.

Ghost has the same pair of boots he’s worn for years, meticulously cleaned and maintained. Once caught Soap trying them on as a joke and nearly disowned him.

Ghost keeps a little potted cactus in his bunk. He named it “Spike” and gets genuinely annoyed if anyone even looks at it funny.

Price

Has an absurd number of backup hats. Once lost his hat during a mission, and Soap joked that Price was more upset about the hat than the firefight.

Price has an incredibly detailed routine for making tea. If anyone interrupts it, he’ll grumble about it for days.

His idea of “relaxing” is reading military strategy books or going fishing alone in the middle of nowhere.

Price has a knack for showing up exactly when he’s needed, even if it’s just to interrupt Soap and Ghost arguing over who gets the last biscuit.

Price once tried to sketch out a mission plan on the fly, and it looked so bad that Soap framed it as “modern art.”

Price always brings back something odd from missions if he can—like a carved wooden owl or a tiny snow globe. His desk looks like a charity shop exploded on it.

Couple Antics

Price's snoring is so loud sometimes that the team jokes it could scare off enemies. Ghost wears earplugs when they’re sharing quarters if its that bad.

Ghost always wears dark, tactical clothing, while Price’s off-duty wardrobe is full of mismatched jumpers and ancient jeans. Ghost pretends to be embarrassed, but secretly loves how comfortable Price looks.

They have a knack for understanding each other without words. It’s mostly handy in the field, but Soap insists it’s creepy how they finish each other’s sentences off-duty.

They play card games during downtime, and it gets competitive fast. Price accuses Ghost of cheating because he always wins, while Ghost just shrugs and says, “You’re predictable, old man.”

Price is a tea purist, but Ghost introduced him to iced coffee, which he secretly loves. Price drinks it when no one’s looking, and Ghost never lets him live it down.

They can’t exercise in the same room without turning it into a competition. Who can do more push-ups, who can run faster—it always ends with them both sore and laughing.

Price insists he never gets lost, but Ghost always calls him out when they’re wandering in circles. Price claims it’s “strategic reconnaissance.”

When they’re on a black op together, they give each other silly code names. Price once called Ghost “Shadow Biscuit,” and Ghost has never forgiven him.

They tried to take a cute couple selfie once, and it ended up with Price’s hat covering half his face and Ghost standing like he was posing for a mugshot. It’s the only picture of them together, and Soap and Gaz both keep it on their phones. (its blackmail but it also makes the sergeants happy to know that their CO's are happy)

Ghost constantly steals Price’s jumpers and shirts because they’re “comfy.” Price complains but secretly likes seeing Ghost walk around the house in his slightly too small clothes, belly peaking out the bottom.

Price loves fishing, but Ghost has zero patience for it. He’ll sit there, dead silent in his mask, but the second he catches something, he starts narrating it like it’s an epic battle with a sea monster. Price is half-amused, half-exasperated. (i really want to write this one it sounds like a really fun one and also Ghost would make a good DM i think :O)

Price always insists on carrying the heavy bags or doing the dangerous tasks, which Ghost finds ridiculous. Ghost once let him carry all the shopping bags just to prove a point, but Price still claimed it was “no trouble.”

[theoutcastedartist]

Hello! My friends and I discovered your Shadow Light AU tonight and I just have to tell you that we are INSTANTLY obsessed with this! We love it so much!! I personally have been screaming about how tired Sonic looks (my poor boy) and what is the significance of the 17??? 👀👀👀

I don't know if you still plan on returning to this AU, but we'll be very happy if you do! (I saw the asks where you said you'd gotten into LMK which, valid. Me and a few of my friends love LMK too!) Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful day!

(Also your art style is absolutely AMAZING. Tails looks absolutely adorable and I love the way you draw Sonic!!)

hello! Sorry it took so long to FINALLY answer this XD

Haven't really checked my inbox in a minute imma be real. But I'm very glad to hear you and your friends have been liking the AU (despite it having been in an indefinite hiatus lmaooo) the AU **MIGHT** be coming back if my current returned interest in sonic stays for long enough. If I do decide to bring it back I'll make a post officially announcing it.

and yeah my AU boom!sonic is a very sleep deprived little guy.

The significance of "17", if I remember correctly (it's been a minute since I've thought of the more intricate details of this AU) for sonic is that he was Dr. Thorndyke's 17th (and last) attempt at Project Light (who is a scientific experiment created with the goal of harnessing the powers of one of the Halves of Solaris, known as Iblis the Flame)

Project Shadow on the other hand, is the one and only of himself (the ultimate lifeform) whose original creation under Gerald Robotnik was, like Project Light, meant to harness the powers of one of the two halves of Solaris, his being Mephiles the dark.

The Bio lizard and the Chaos clones were part of a failed abandoned project of trying to harness the God powers of recreating Chaos themselves.

Iblis and Mephiles are some of the gods the Ancients worshipped before the collapse of their old civilization, the two are quite literally halves of a bigger God (Solaris, who does not have a design in the AU yet).

It's important to remember in this AU that despite the two being created within the same facility/on ARK, they are not related by blood at all.

Shadow still retains his black arms DNA (with a twist) and was created by Gerald and his team,

Sonic's DNA is that of one of the preserved remains of one of the royal children from the collapse of the Ancients, and he was created by Thorndyke and his team

(and he and Gerald had very... Clashing views on the ethics/morals of how they treated their respective creations.)

Dr. Thorndyke was not a nice man, from the few interactions shadow and maria had with him. He was a very secretive man when it came to any version of Project Light. They didn't even meet our Project Light - ver. 17 (who we all know as Sonic) until 3 years before shit hit the fan - to say the least.

Shadow, while being in stasis for 50 yrs had his memories slightly tampered with, while he remembers most of ARK, he does not remember sonic (but feels unusually drawn to him for some unexplainable reason) and Sonic had been accidentally sent 50yrs into the future instead, but unlike shadow he has lost all of his memories on ARK - poor blue couldn't even remember his own name (dubbed 'Little Light' by Maria) and was largely mute until he met Tails and Co. His name "Sonic" technically came from Eggman, constantly referring to him as a "SuperSONIC nuisance" lmao

But yeah thanks for sending this ask! Even if it's been a minute ToT

[inthiseverymoment]

silhouettes emerging: chapter i

“a Wide-Eyed Melancholic, Knowing and Unknown”

the interview begins.

iwtv oc, this chapter ~1.4k

backstory time babyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

i always found the typical formatting of multi-paragraph monologues to be a bit odd, but there def won't be as many of those once we dive into the flashbacks in proper. next chapter, i promise-for now, gotta set this story up

enjoy!!

prologue fic masterlist chapter ii

Twenty Twenty-Three (The Next Day), New York City, United States of America

“You okay?”

She didn’t hear him. Unblinking, she found herself staring at the journalist’s laptop. The book surely didn’t include everything; there must be so much more in there, and the desire to know overwhelmed her-

“Earth to the soprano?”

“...Right.”

“Louis burned my laptop after what happened in Dubai. So the one in front of us isn’t ‘the’ one, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

They were in his apartment for the full interview, away from the prying ears of the city, and Isabelle was beginning to wonder whether the impulse to tell her story was indeed as good as she’d thought. It was a remnant of her human life, the self-righteousness that many called naive, the instinct to always get the truth out no matter the cost, to be included.

But her time at the Théâtre des Vampires was something she largely looked back on with shame, a shame that had grown even darker when she’d learned everything behind the horrors that had happened there once she had disappeared.

Do I really want my name on this?

I saved myself, I got out, but didn’t do anything to actually stop them once I was gone.

Despite the near-century of vampirism under her belt, her frozen state of early-twenties idealism still perpetually burned in constant guilt.

“I’ve thought a lot about Louis since your book, actually,” she said, remembering the conversation at hand. “Calling himself the ‘reticent vampire’, refusing to drain humans at the beginning, every grasp to hang onto humanity. I know how that feels.”

Daniel only nodded as he set up the microphone, and after a moment of semi-awkward silence Isabelle spoke again.

“I did like the part where Lestat killed the tenor.”

“I’ll tell him for you.”

She wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

It must have been easier for Louis and Armand-they always had the upper hand.

Being around so few vampires for so long, as she had generally isolated herself from them after leaving the Théâtre in a desperate attempt to live as human a life as possible, it was easy to almost forget the depth of her powers. Although she and Daniel had the same ancient blood within them, she had been around for quite a while longer, and she swore to herself to remember all that she held.

Daniel sat across from her and, on her nod, hit his space bar.

“I’m here with the vampire Isabelle de la Rue, who has a few corrections against the increasingly unreliable account of the vampire Armand. Namely, that he had, indeed, made another vampire prior to our last years’ interview, who now…sits in front of me.”

He blinked, as if still getting used to that idea himself.

“Ms. de la Rue, how long have you been dead?”

“Nice opening question,” she smiled.

“Hasn’t failed me yet.”

Then, with a polite laugh and something of a hum-

If I can face myself enough to say it all out loud, I suppose that’s the first step.

She took a breath.

Here we go.

“I was born in 1914. A typical story: small-town girl, only child, cloying upbringing, the arts as escapism. I was one of very, very few kids in my area growing up, and those who were there never liked me much. Too sensitive, they said, which of course only made me even more so. I liked school, because it was the one place I could be absolutely certain I was doing the right thing and no one could tell me otherwise. To be the only one who solved an equation or understood Shakespeare almost made up for watching them make plans with each other right in front of me. I didn’t know what I had done wrong there, and no one bothered to tell me; looking back, it probably had to do with wanting it too much. My parents and the adults in the neighborhood saw my struggle as being above my peers, especially when I started to sing and play the piano. But I didn’t want their ‘isolated gifted girl’ pity. I wanted to find people like me.”

“A desire for community so great that it left you vulnerable to a murder coven.”

“We’ll get to that,” came her half-shaking laugh. “I grew up, and grew extremely tired of the labels. Besides my writing, I didn’t have much of a chance to figure things out beyond what my family and the town put on me; I was only seen for what I could do, not who I was.

“And, contrary to popular belief, I always knew who I was.

“I needed to get out.”

“And Paris was ‘out’?”

“Eventually. Once my parents realized that no ‘polite young man’ from our town would look at me long enough to take me off their hands, they allowed me to go off and try my fortune as a performer, and I was gone before I could finish the word goodbye.

“In all that loneliness of childhood, my hope lay in tales of the great salons of 1920s Paris, where artists and thinkers would come together to create. That idea of a room draped in burgundy and pearls, wine and quotes flowing, relationships forming and breaking and healing all within a few hours, perfume and jazz in the air mingling with the light of endless stars-that romanticized ideal was all I had. A place where I could imagine not having to worry about what was right, a place to live in each moment. That was what I wanted.

“I wasn’t entirely surprised at the disillusionment that followed. At each theater or music club where I did manage to get an audition, I would come at it with the utmost hope, ready to make a home out of each dusty chair and creaky floorboard, but there was always something keeping me from it. Too tall, too eager, couldn’t kick high enough-that’s all par for the industry-but there was often a lot more going on. A leading lady that I had taken a few dance classes with spread rumors that I was an escaped thief, got her manager and her many friends to believe it, and there went my hope of artistic community. One director-clearly abusive, judging by the haunted eyes of the chorus girls I saw in passing-said he didn’t hire uglies with a mouth on them so he wouldn’t hire me, that people paid to see the girls shut up and look pretty. The most powerful theatre producing team of the time told me they couldn't figure out what to do with me-which is fine-but what stuck with me for decades was being told that they thought I hadn't figured myself out either.

"Racist producers I refused to work with, places steeped in favoritism where an outsider couldn’t even get a foot in the door, one place that apparently just didn't want redheads on their stage-simply put, I could not find a job.”

“You were a starving artist.”

“Precisely. And without even the friend group to make a La Bohème.”

“So your very last option…”

She nodded.

“And back then, the Théâtre wasn’t exactly the way it had become by the time Louis and Claudia got there. When the victim was killed, the other vampires didn’t immediately appear all at once and swarm, they’d have their fill offstage; for the initial draining, it was going for more of an intimate moment, just Santiago and whoever it was and a single violin. The stories got kitschier over time-audiences didn’t want to think at the theater quite as much during the war, but beforehand, most of the plays were actually quite lovely.”

“Lovely save for the nightly murder,” Daniel deadpanned. “A wonder that someone so caught up in morals, so desperate to be ‘absolutely certain of doing the right thing’, would wind up there of all places.”

She wasn’t sure how she looked at him then, something between a glare and a plea, but it must have had some kind of effect.

“And I’m about to hear the real story?” he continued after a moment.

Near-solemnly, she let out a breath.

Isabelle was aware that both she and Daniel knew what it was to be frozen in amber, to be caught in an entrancing web of both fabricated deceit and real sympathy. She wanted him to know that she would tell the truth.

She wanted him to know that she was not the same as her maker.

She also wanted to prove that to herself.

“I promise.”

[blazescompendium]

Blaze's Compendium Entry #8:Explaining the Origin of ShikiOuji

Note: This post was originally published in April 2024. However, since it is a complete research and dive into this monster, I figured out i could just repost it as a Compendium entry.

As always:

Warning: Faith and religion are important real life topics, that tackles the culture and way of life of millions of real life people. It is a cultural expression, and must be respected by all means. Here, we use a video-game ( some times) and other media series only to ignite the flame of learning about the matter, using its art when well depicted, but we do this with all due respect to the cultures we talk here, grounded by real life sources, cultures and people. And i mean this with respect. Hope you all enjoy.

I am sure that, if you played any Megaten game in the last 20 years or so, you ended up seeing this paper dude. His name is always stated as Shiki-Ouji, and he once shared the same design with the Demon called Shikigami.

The weird thing is that when researching Shikigami on my studies, I never found anything about this one so i put some detective work to find out about the origins of Shikiouji, the (yet another) dude who often repels physical damage in Megaten.

The creature is described in many of the series compendium as a powerful Shikigami, that only the most powerful Onmyoji could summon, and they have a vicious temperament.

When we talk about Shikigami, the first thing that comes to mind are paper dolls. This is no surprise, since Shikigami are summons Onmyoji binds to paper dolls or talismans, so they could interact with the physical world. This is also because paper is a very easy material to destroy, if things go south. Onmyoji are the equivalent of western sorcerer, that followed the Onmyōdō, a esoteric cosmology. It started in the 6th century in Japan as a divination practice, and evolved from there. I won't go into detail, because this is meant to be a short post. But materials about this practice are abundant on the internet.

The main concept concerning us here is the Shikigami. These are basically some kind of familiar, a spirit or demon if you want, the sorcerer could conjure to protect him or do his biding. The Cultural Alliance Brazil- Japan, which i already mentioned in other posts, states that:

''Shikigami can be Oni or demons, that should serve and protect an Onmyoji. Your abilities would be determined by the abilities of his master.

A Shikigami could assume the form of small animals, birds, etc... One Shikigami from a powerful Onmyoji could possess and control one animal. But only a real powerful Shikigami could possess a person.

When an Onmyoji is fighting another Onmyoji, they employ the use of their Shikigami. Some Onmyoji could spot the enemy Shikigami beforehand, and try to convert it to his side with magical powers. In this game, the converted Shikigami would come back to the old master, and attack with double the force. This pratice was called Shikigami Gaeshi.

Abe no Seimei is said to be the most powerful Onmyoji to ever exist. Some rumors say he had twelve Shikigami, while regular Onmyoji would rarely have more than one Shikigami at the same time.''

So, that is a rough definition of what a Shikigami is.

But, when researching this creature you would not be able to regularly find Shiki-ouji. The fastest method for him to appear, was the English Wikipedia article about Shikigami, which weirdly had this part about Shiki-ouji, but offered no source to it:

Having the kanji to Shikiouji, and some keywords, i found someone at Tumblr who asked the same question 6 years ago, in Eirikr's blog.

From there, Eirikr offered a link to a blog post writing about Izanagi Ryu Shikoku. Ryu Shikoku is an ancient folk religion and pratices from the Kochi prefecture. It is still practiced in the area to this day!

In this belief system there is the tradition of the Shiki-kui masks. Which.. bear a very uncanny resemblance to our paper guy, subject to this post:

These masks would be hang above the place the ceremonies of the Izanagi Ryu take place. They would have magical powers that could repel evil spirits, and non believers from coming to the ceremony and disturbing it. They would also serve as talismans, or paper dolls, in a simmilar vein the regular Shikigami pop image you have in mind.

Since they are used to summon spirits, bind them, and as talismans, these creatures can be, technically called a Shikigami.

With this knowledge in hands, i went to the Japanese web. And sure enough, i found this site: The Nippon Foundation Library. It has an article detailing the paper talismans used by Izanagi No Ryu Onmyoji, and their meanings, powers, and also explained a bit about Shiki-Ouji!

Here is what they have to say: (Please be warned that i do not speak Japanese, and used machine translation. Any corrections are Welcome!)

Shikē Ōji is a spiritual entity invoked by the taisa during prayers for the sick and the "toriwake" ritual to expel evil spirits causing illness or calamity. Its birth is described as abnormal, and due to its excessively violent power, it has no place to reside. Usually, it is sunk in the pond of Tendō-nanta, and summoned only when needed to guard ceremonies, to pray as the guardian deity of ceremonies, or as a prayer deity of Jumon no hakase. There seem to be several types of Shikē Ōji depending on their purpose, such as Takata no Ōji for toriwake, Gotai no Ōji for prayers for the sick, and Ōtaka-shiki for insect prayers. Additionally, talismans such as Sangoku Arashiki, Chimura San Ōji, and Sakago no Ōji are handed down, and it is inferred that they were used according to the content of the prayers, although many details of their usage are unknown.

Using the powerful Shikē Ōji against humans becomes a curse. In Kochi Prefecture, "hitting a ceremony" is widely used to curse people. Many people use this term without understanding its original meaning. "Hitting a ceremony" refers to attacking someone using Shikē Ōji. While Shikē Ōji can benefit people if used for good, it can harm them if used for evil. Talismans of Shikē Ōji, possessing such terrifying power, often have several incisions on them, each containing twelve notches, giving them a rough impression. However, unlike talismans found in mountains and rivers, they do not seem to have incisions for eyes or mouths. In this regard, they are closer to the cutting style of talismans for house gods and sacred gods. Here, one can sense the emphasis on the powerful nature of Shikē Ōji's talismans while also distinguishing them from strange monsters.

So, as you can see there is some key information about the creature here. But the most important ones:

1- It is bind to a talisman, just like other Shikigami. The text here explains it is a paper talisman with notches, just like regular ones used in religious ceremonies.

2-It has a powerful and violent nature, just like the compendium often indicates in Megaten games. It seems hard to tame and use properly without getting hurt.

3-Shiki-Ouji can be powerful and violent, but it seems they dislike being used to hurt people. Instead, they are better employed to use their magic to other deeds. However if you still use them in that regard, they will most likely curse you.

4-Their talismans have twelve notches, no incision for eyes and mouth due to their aggressive nature. This would help to control their interaction with the material world.

I am sure that, if we follow this trail we will find many more sources. Going by key words i found in this text, i found many other sites and books, but since i have no time now to fall a rabbit hole, nor do i speak Japanese... That is it, i think this is a satisfactory answer to where this Megaten Demon came from!

The real forms of Shiki-Ouji

The last thing in want to talk about, is Shiki-Ouji real appearance. Since we have a seemingly wrong impression of they in Megaten, since Kaneko took some artistic freedoms.

First and foremost: From the few things i studies about Shikigami, we know they do not have a real physical form. The paper talismans are just a way to give them physical form. But it was incredibly hard to find a Shiki-Ouji talisman, which was weird because it was so distinguishable. The main reason being that: Shiki-Ouji seems not to be believed to be easy or safe to summon, and also their talismans would be destroyed asap after use.

But with the description i got, it would be this one that matches it the most:

No eyes, or mouth. Twelve Notches, six from each side, and some incisions. Very similar to a regular talisman found in other types of ceremony. Just as the text suggested.

I got this picture from this book:

Tosa, Monobe Village: Shapes of the Gods

Monoba being the village where most of these rituals came from. The book is from 1999, and contains many pictures of actual talismans.

You can see that, aside from the head shape, Kaneko took some freedom with this design. The sources state that Shikiouji talismans should not have a face, nor limbs, since it was too powerful, and should have 12 notches. For some reason, Kaneko drew it in a human-like form, but the face still resembled the Shiki-kui masks. The earlier design of the demon was even more closely resembling the masks:

Shiki-ouji earlier design from Devil Summoner (1996). It was later repurposed as the demon Shikigami. It is almost an exact match to this talisman. I can not however identify the original source.

Shiki-Ouji current design by itself could have been based on this one talisman in specific, at least some parts of it like the head with horned-shaped appendages:

By the looks of it, its face could turn inside out, just like the Megaten Demon can do.

It was sourced by the National Museum of Japanese History, but the post went down. The low quality image of the talisman can still be seen on google, but the link is dead, unfortunately. It seems that this item is still in possession of the Museum in Japan. Kaneko could have seen it in pictures, or in person. This one seems NOT to be displaying a Shiki-Ouji thought.

Maybe the Kaneko take is that Shiki-Ouji was summoned with limbs, and facial features and became much more stronger as a result? We may never know...

And finally there is also an occult book that i found in Amazon Japan that is called: Exploring Izanagi No Ryu: ShikiOuji.

It is supposedly a manual on how to practice Izanagi no Ryu, and magics. I could not find the book online, just the summary. But it mentioned nothing about Shiki-Ouji. Probably has some sort of tutorial to summon it, in fact i was able to find many of those tutorials on the Japanese web.

Now, that is it. I think this puts to rest a little bit of mystery involving the origins of this specific demon. Kaneko sure took some freedoms, but it is still one of the more popular and recognizable characters in the series.

Final considerations:

This most likely is the answer to its origin, but i am not some sort of owner of all truths, so feel free to correct me in anything i said wrong. I am still an amateur scholar, and even if i do know a lot about mythology and ancient religions because i read many books and study a lot of hours of my days, i am by no means a specialist in Japanese Mythology specifically, specially Shikigami practices. The reason is that, i find it very difficult and time consuming to research Japanese sources, since i do not speak Japanese. I will one day, try my best since there are a lot of good Yokai to cover in future Scientific Papers.

I can, however, guarantee that i did my best possible effort in a deep search!

And i have spent a lot of time looking through pictures of Shikigami talismans, and i found some really cute. Like this one. What a whimsical little fella...

[molkolsdal]

This Band Thought Their Biggest Hurdle Was the Patriarchy. It’s Actually the Internet.

By Safina Nabi

October 25, 2021

In almost every way, the tiny village of Ganasthan seems cut off. The closest big city, Srinagar, is a two-hour drive away. The main road that snakes through it is so narrow that most people are forced to walk two to three miles to get home. 

Surrounded by tall pine trees that are hundreds of years old, most villagers busy themselves with the yellow paddy fields ready to be harvested, but the all-women band Yemberzal are practicing their distinctly traditional Sufiyana music at home and recording their sessions on their mobile phones.

They’re at a band member’s home made of mud, brick and wood – a traditional house no longer found in other parts of Indian-administered Kashmir. Despite being remote and traditional, the village has been connected to the rest of the world through mobile phones for years.

That is, until the internet blackouts that have driven the region of 12 million people into isolation. 

“It’s been so long that we haven’t seen or performed on a stage. If you see other parts of the world, there are online music concerts, classes, but in Kashmir, nothing happens,“ said 22 year-old Gulshan Lateef, a member of Yemberzal, which last performed in 2019. 

In August 2019, the Indian government revoked a 1948 UN resolution that gave Jammu and Kashmir autonomy as the only Muslim-majority state in India, and started one of the longest internet bans in history. It was restored in February of 2020, but internet outages have been frequent and unpredictable since then. A recent spate of violence prompted the government to cut the internet in the region yet again. This writer too had to ultimately resort to social messaging to submit this story when it proved too difficult to use email or other cloud sharing platforms.

Lateef and Irfana Yousuf, another 22-year-old Sufi musician, grew up with the internet easily accessible on their families’ mobile phones. 

As soon as Yousuf was introduced to the basics of Sufiyana Mausiqi by her father, she knew she wanted to keep the dying art form alive by connecting with audiences on the internet. But first she had to formally learn the classic Islamic mystical music genre that is almost exclusively dominated by men, has unique instruments and is on the verge of extinction in Kashmir.

Experts say there are only four master teachers or ustads left in Kashmir who teach this ancient genre that is believed to have been born in the 15th century. Yusuf enrolled in a music course at the University of Kashmir in Srinagar to learn from one of them.

Her mission is to revive the dying genre of devotional music by preserving it and reviving its audiences through social media.

Read More

[seat-safety-switch]

Most small towns have a museum. Sure, they might not be ornate, enormous buildings filled with art. Once you pass a certain amount of people there's going to be some kind of hoard of historical items. We just naturally want to be able to tell future folks that we were here, that the things we did mattered, and here's where we came from, as evidenced by this old plaque, and a blurry photograph of the lady who got mysteriously murdered on this very night exactly 100 years ago.

One thing that almost all of them are lacking is a suit of armour. See, suits of armour are a big thing in museums in cartoons. Whenever you see Scooby-Doo investigating someone stealing t-rex bones, those crazy teens always somehow manage to end up over in Late English Medieval History and hide in a suit of armour. This is probably because suits of armour are fun for cartoonists to draw, and extremely time consuming for local, small-town cranks to fabricate.

Me, I live in a big city, and that means the museum has some very strict standards for what it accepts into its collection. Items have to be "historically significant," or at least not some random garbage that I welded together. They've got a suit of armour. It doesn't come from here: the museum has it because the queen gave us one when she visited. It's part of our history, sure, but only by accident, in the same way that you can't throw away an ugly vase from your mother-in-law because she expects to see it every time she visits on Thanksgiving.

A couple miles outside of the city limits, though, is a small town that I frequently visit. There's many reasons: it's close to affordable rural junkyards, the people are generally friendly to random folks showing up and pretending to have been invited to the barbecue, and the sheriffs are too busy ripping by on the highway to stop in and write exhaust tickets. Their museum fucking sucks, though. It absolutely rots. For starters, it's more of a "drinking hall" than a museum. Any mementoes of the town's last couple of centuries are just loosely nailed to the wall, without even an explanatory label stuck into the picture frame explaining who these ancient folks are. They needed a docent.

All this is to say that it really wasn't that hard to weld together a suit of armour. I had a lot of leftover bicycle fenders from the big internet company that went bankrupt. Burying the suit of armour, waiting a few weeks, and then digging it up was way more work, especially since I had to work silently so as not to arouse the suspicions (and indirect fire) of the good townspeople I was about to scam. Scam them I did, however. If you're in the area, come on down to the local museum. You can tell which one it is by the old, leaking Plymouth parked out front, in the "reserved for docent" 24/7 parking space.

[splendsay]

TLOU Oneshot // Joel x F!Reader

The Long Way Home

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader (You) WC: 5,740 Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Explicit language, some suggestive language Themes/Tropes: Second Chances, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Fluff & Angst, "It was always you" Excerpt:

Time is funny.

That which will pass, no matter what happens. What choices you make. 

It has a way of making you feel as young as you always were and older than you've ever been -- all at once. 

In a world where a functioning bathroom isn't a guarantee, neither is a mirror. You don't entirely mind. You don't often feel ready to face what others see. And the woman who looks back at you each time you do manage to find one is a little different than the last. 

Time and change are old friends, or so the saying goes. Swinging, hand-in-hand, on a tire strung up on an ancient tree, some branches dry and barren, others bestrewn in fluffy pink blooms, others still covered in a mix of leaves -- verdant hues fading into deep, rich ruby. 

It's a gift, to get older. At least, that's what you were always told. 

Some days you see it. Some days you don't.

Some days you stand with one foot in either puddle.

Like today.

It's been an age since you saw him last. Nearly three decades. You'd known him another two before that. In another life. A different century. Millennium.

Texas is a big place, but it always felt small to you. Claustrophobic. Felt like you'd grown up knowing every single person in Austin. 

None better than the Miller brothers. 

You grew up next door. And though both boys had been several years ahead of you in school, they were always good to you. Walked with you to the bus stop every morning. Helped you learn how to ride your bike without training wheels. Caught fireflies with you in the summertime. 

Joel had been your de facto babysitter any time your mom worked late. Or just...never came home. She never asked him to. Certainly never paid him. He just sort of -- showed up. Him and Tommy together, usually. Made you instant mac and cheese for dinner. Let you watch cartoons after you finished your homework. Braided your hair before bed. Read you stories. 

He'd been a kid too. But he'd always made you feel safe. Cared for. And you adored him for it. For as long as you can remember, you'd thought the world of him. Your personal sanctuary, in human form.

As years passed, those feelings evolved. Grew from childlike admiration to genuine friendship to -- a love that little else could touch. An attraction that no matter what you did or whose arms you threw yourself into, you couldn't shake. Couldn't bury. Couldn't forget.

Last you can recall seeing him was the day you left for art school, bags slung over your shoulders, teeth bared in a crooked, anticipative grin. He was the only one to see you off. By then, your mom was somewhere knee deep in a well of gin.  

He had given you a long, steadying hug. Offered to drive you to the bus station while Sarah clung to your leg and begged you not to go. She'd still been a little thing. Just starting school. No older than six. 

It had broken your heart to leave her. To leave them both. 

Crushed it into tiny, unsalvageable pieces. 

You think about it all the time. What things might've been like if you had stayed. 

Joel asked you to. The night before. In between messy, feverish kisses and crisp, silken sheets -- a fleeting moment. Desperate. Ardent. Finally breathing your feelings for him to life. Like taking pen to paper. 

He'd sunk to his knees, his voice wavering on a plea -- one you'd spent countless nights longing for. 

And you still walked away. You told him no.

The word had tasted bitter in your mouth. It wasn't one you wielded often, at least not then. Felt like it was killing you as it ripped from your mouth. Like a saw blade, tearing your throat in two.

No.

But the only thing bigger than your love for Joel Miller had been your need to get the fuck out of Austin. To figure out who you were and what you wanted and how the world worked. Twenty-two and too spirited for your own good. Too driven and too proud. Hardheaded. You'd needed to go. 

And so you had. 

You had been proud of yourself for half a second -- for choosing your dream. But you spent a lot longer regretting it. Every day, really. Those first ten months in Savannah were spent crying yourself to sleep, crying in the arms of your chagrined roommate, crying into cups of blue-gray paint water. 

You had told him, in that quiet, solemn car ride, that you'd come back. Swore up and down you'd come home.

But he never called. Never wrote to you. 

Of course, you'd asked him not to. Afraid you wouldn't be able to resist him if he did. But it broke your little dreamer's heart that he didn't try harder. Didn't fight harder.

You'd taken it as a sign. You were all about signs back then.

So you stayed away. If he could move on, so could you. Or, at least, that's what you told yourself. 

But, when the outbreak happened, Joel and Sarah had been your first thought. You were still in Savannah, a few years out of school, teaching art to first graders, trying in your off time to hack it as a painter. Another teacher had a meltdown in the middle of the hall during lunch. Attacked a kid. When you'd called the school's resource officer, she'd ripped the guy's throat out. 

That had been the beginning of the end. 

And what a very long end it turned out to be. 

You'd immediately fled back to Texas. So stupidly sure you'd find him. You'd find him and cling to him -- survive whatever the fuck this was together. 

But you never could. 

Dust on the wind. 

A second ago, you walked through Jackson's saloon door, not entirely sure what to expect. You know Tommy will be here, his wife told you as much. But she'd also said Joel had returned the other day with his little kid in tow. Your skin had gone cold at that. Joel. His little kid.

Sarah wasn't little. Not anymore. 

The mix of emotions has you feeling bereft. Agony and hope and remorse. You shake them off -- shut your mind to them. As best you can. You think of simple things. Tranquil things. Clean bed linens. A starless night sky. Water running along a smooth riverbed.

Quiet. Blank. Clean. 

But, it's interesting how, even with that quiet mind -- no expectations in place -- you can still be blindsided. 

Somehow -- you don't know how -- you remember him well enough that you recognize him from behind. Instantly.

The way he stands. The breadth of his shoulders. The curl of his hair, now threaded with gray, much like your own. 

Time is funny. 

That which will pass. An old friend of change. And maybe -- preservation.

Every feeling you ever buried roars to the surface. A veritable wave -- a tunnel that blocks out the light of the sun, stirring up sand and detritus and bulbous creatures just minding their own seafaring business, crashing against a smooth, placid surface in an aquamarine spray, pushing and pulling and swelling up to do it all over again. 

You almost don't even see Tommy next to him, grinning and waving at you. The room seems to pull the air from your lungs. And when he turns and visibly recognizes you, your knees threaten to buckle. 

He looks -- the same. Good. Weathered, to be sure, but just as ruggedly handsome as he'd been in his mid-twenties. He's...he's Joel. As you've always known him, even as he's lived in your dreams. He stares at you, wide-eyed and unmoving.

"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes," Tommy croons, pushing off the bar. 

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. Tommy was your friend too.

You stride to them, suddenly very aware of the fit of your jeans. The way your shirt hangs off your too-thin body. The plainness of your bare face and the long, silver plait down your back. The clunk your boots make on the wooden floorboards as you walk across them. 

But you shrug your shoulders back and push all those things as far down as you can manage.

"If it ain't the Millers," you hum. 

"Hey, darlin'," Tommy murmurs, opening his arms for a hug. You take him up on it without question, pressing your body to his. His embrace swallows you.

"You've grown at least a foot since I last saw ya," he comments.

A hoarse laugh works its way out your throat. It's true -- he'd left for the army a few years prior to your own departure. You'd still been a girl. "I was a late bloomer."

He chuckles and releases you, leaning his back against the edge of the bar. "Aside from the height, you look the same, gal."

You snort. "Lyin's a sin, Thomas Miller."

He chuckles and turns to gesture to the man behind the bar. 

"What uh...what are y'all doing out here?" you ask, looking from one brother to the other. Your eyes snag on Joel's, whose remain keyed onto you. His body incredibly still. Frozen. It isn't lost on you that he hasn't said a word. You try to ignore the heat rising along the back of your neck.

"Could ask you the same."

You feel your smile falter. "It's, uh...it's a long story."

Tommy accepts a beer from the bartender and slides it toward you. "They usually are."

You stare at it for a second, your delicate mind suddenly stuck in Georgia -- the hellscape you managed to flee.

"Don't like beer?"

You reach your hand up to grasp the glass, running your thumb along its cold surface. Joel clears his throat, drawing your gaze back to his.  "No, sorry, I'm just -- slow to take it all in, I guess."

Tommy looks between the two of you, brows furrowed slightly, but doesn't comment on his brother's silence. "I reckon that's fair enough." He takes a sip. "So, what, uh...what brings you to Jackson?"

You absently trace the rim of your drink. "Atlanta is...uninhabitable. Um...so I left." 

"Atlanta?" Joel interjects, his voice hoarse. Like he hasn't used it in awhile. 

You startle a little at hearing it. After all this time. 

But you nod, studying his face. You note a couple scars you don't recognize. The gray in his scruff. You're very aware of your heartbeat.

"Yeah...Atlanta."

"You...you've been there...all this time?"

You shake your head. "No, no. Just the last few years."

"Where...where were you before?"

"Texas," you answer softly. "Dallas."

You think maybe Joel's stopped breathing. You've never seen him wear the expression he's wearing now. Like he's been shot in the stomach. 

"Are...you okay?"

The expression vanishes. "Yeah, just. Tired."

You glance at Tommy, but he's busy gulping down the rest of his beer. You take a long pull of your own. It's crisp on your tongue -- a refreshment you're no longer used to. It takes a concerted effort not to groan. 

"Well, I uh...," Tommy starts, fidgeting with his hands. "I'm gonna go check on Maria. You know, baby and all. I'll -- I'll leave you two to catch up." His discomfort is palpable, but still, he claps you on the shoulder. "Come see us at the house, okay?"

You nod. "Yeah, okay. I -- I will."

You watch him walk away, though you aren't really looking. Your attention is wholly focused elsewhere. You take another sip of your beer.