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burnedbyshoto · 4 years

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through the looking glass

“Please don’t kill me!” you begged from the floor, your hands raised, trying to get this psycho to leave you alone. “I-I-I don’t think I taste that good? I’ve tried my blood before, and it’s disgusting, true fact! Mosquitos don’t even like me that much!” “I don’t eat humans, I—” the psycho samurai man tried to speak, but you were far from done pleading for your life.

— Or in which you cross paths with Shinazugawa Sanemi and nothing is ever the same again.

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pairing: shinazugawa sanemi x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, nsfw, fluff, cursing, an instance of demon slaying, mirror sex, vaginal fingering, blowjob, slight breeding kink, unprotected sex, cursing, praise kink, this is my first time writing for this fandom oh no

word count: 8,420

a/n: I fell asleep while editing this, good reminder to maybe not lay in a comfy blanket when trying to get shit out on time????? i love sanemi sm tho, please enjoy!

kinktober day 15 main kink: mirror sex | kinktober masterlist

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The sky was always prettier at night.

It wasn’t anything against the sky during the day! As a matter of fact, you also loved the light blue sky just at noon. You loved it wholly! You loved the way the sweet smell of crops of the earthy dewy scent traveled in the morning, and you loved how every creature in existence seemed to hum with life. The morning sky and earth were always busy.

But, you always found the deep dark blue-purple, nearly black night sky to be ethereal.

If you closed your eyes and listened closely, the nighttime, silent with white noise hanging through every quiet move of wind, felt like another world. Out near the countryside, not quite the city and not quite the farmlands, you were able to live a life where you felt safe, felt normal. You and your friends were always screaming and chasing each other through the streets following the setting sun. Your curfew hours pushed back for the night, letting you relax.

You loved to sit just at the edge of the farmed roads, right where the light from the town just disappeared into blackness. You would sit there, eyes bright, fingers pointed at the sky as you took in the irreplicable night sky. At sixteen years, you had decided to venture out on your own; your friends said that they wouldn’t be able to join you because of their own busy schedule and insisted that you don’t go on account of the few vanishing people the past few nights.

But, you were never one to pay mind to others’ opinions; your own mind set on seeing the supposed asteroid shower that night in tandem with the full blue moon was to be a sight you couldn’t miss. So, you laughed, scratching the back of your neck as you sigh.

“Fine, I won’t go,” you lied to them, and they smiled in gratefulness.

But, like the liar that you are, you found yourself rushing out of your home, your fingers clutching at your kimono as you run. The sun had already set, and if you were to make sure that you would make the sighting, you were going to need to get there now.

Eventually, you made it to that pathed dirt road, your eyes scanning the darkened sky with intense focus as you began to search for the asteroid shower you were promised. With the bright, beautiful moon in the sky, your feet stamping onto the road with your impatience and excitement, you listened to the whistling wind and chirping bugs as you waited.

Nothing abnormal or out of the ordinary.

It was tranquil, quiet, calm.

And finally, when the backdrop of the night sky served as the background to the beautiful shower of asteroids, a single sound that you’ve never heard before echoed from before you and immediately made your stomach sicken.

Someone was eating in the fields right before you, the sound of a person, maybe an animal, eating something as if it was starving. Slowly, the air filled with fickle laughter, a noise that had your heart racing as you stood up. Your attention no longer focused on the beautiful night sky, but instead, two pairs of yellow and red eyes staring at you.

“Oh? Would you look at that! Two humans already, and it's only three hours into the night!” a voice cackled, and even with the shroud of darkness brought by the hours of the night, you recognized what the not humans were eating.

It was a person.

Unable to scream due to fear, the horror burned through your veins as you tried to scramble to your feet and run away, only to find that you couldn’t even move. You began to cry instead. Fat tears welling down your cheeks as they stalked toward you at a speed you couldn’t start to believe was human or animal, and you curled into yourself, eyes unable to gaze up at the sky one last time.

“So this is where you shithead demons have been fucking hiding?!” a voice practically roared behind you, and it was then you shrieked when a burst of wind exploded over you and a man dressed in a weird black uniform with a white haori with the kanji for ‘kill’ printed on it.

What the fuck was fucking going on?!

You pinched your skin, wondering if, by chance, the gods had cursed you at the very moment and forced you to hallucinate some strange reality.

“T-That’s a Hashira,” one of the not-human humans gasped, arm tugging at his friend. “We don’t stand a chance!”

What the fuck was a Hashira?!

“Like hell, we don’t!” the other snarled in defensive anger. You managed to push yourself onto your forearms, your knees still too weak to carry your standing weight. “Look at all his scars, gotta be hanging by a damn thread. He’s not even looking at us!”

You were taken back by that statement. Why wasn’t the third lunatic looking at them?! You snapped your attention from the non-human humans to look at the white-haired man who was staring at you. Your jaw dropped in your shock and slight embarrassment at the way his scarred face took you off-guard for a moment. Why was he looking at you and not the non-human humans?!

And in horror, you watched the psycho scarred man in front of you unsheathed a katana.

A katana.

The ringing of metal loud in your ear as you scrambled to your feet, this man was genuinely insane. Who still carried such weapons in this time period?! The samurai were no longer around, and he was dressed in something that looked weaker than your own kimono!

“Ni no kata: Sousou-Shina to Kaze,” the psycho samurai man spat, and if you hadn’t already believed you weren’t hallucinating already, you definitely did now. Jagged, solid apparitions of claw marks appeared from the air as the psycho man shot forward, the glinting menace of his katana tearing through the necks of both the non-human humans with such horrifying ease. You screamed.

The terrified scream didn’t stop afterward, only seems to increase in horror when you watched the bodies crumble into smoke and ash, their voices still muttering last words, bitter and abhorrently angry at being murdered. The psycho samurai had beheaded these non-human humans at such power and strength he had destroyed their living bodies!

Was this because you hadn’t thanked your aunties for adding that one extra meat bun when you noticed after going home?! No, it had to have been for breaking that perverted boy's nose the other day, and this was the curse he placed on you. Physical violence was never the answer; you vehemently prayed to your gods as you begged for forgiveness. Please spare your pathetic life.

Your jaw dropped as you watched the psycho samurai man, with what seemed like proficient knowledge and experience, flick his blade. Blood splattered off the blade, onto the floor, disintegrating too. And well, fuck the gods.

Spinning on your heel, you ran as fast as you possibly could, your chest heaving and nerves entirely shot because if you were hallucinating this badly, you needed to get home. Maybe that candy you ate earlier today from the snot-nosed brat was some weird drug. City kids could never be trusted.

“Are you okay?” a voice gruffed by your ear, and you shrieked, seeing the psycho man seemingly appear beside you. His footsteps were silent as he so obviously ran to catch up to you, and through your frightening horror, you found yourself tripping and falling onto your ass. Staring up at the wholly scarred man in front of you.

You had initially thought it was just his face that was scarred, but no, it was obviously more. There were jagged, ugly cuts lining his pectorals, abdomen, and if you weren’t making it up, you noticed some on his arms. Every piece of exposed flesh was lined with intense scars.

“I don’t eat humans, I—” the psycho samurai man tried to speak, but you were far from done pleading for your life.

“My mom says I have a thick neck! Called me an ox or something! I’m sure you don’t want to cleave off my head like you did the others?! Oh my god, am I gonna die?!” you squeaked, your fingers digging crescent shaped wounds into your arms as you began to cry. “I don’t wanna die!” you wailed, and then just the slightest bit pathetically: “I just wanted to see the asteroid shower.”

The psycho man seemed to grow irritated, his lips pulling back into a small snarl before he rolled his eyes. With tears in your eyes, you watched as the man threw his katana to the side, much too far away from him to use on you, and in the dim lights of the town behind you, you watched the shadows grow on his face as he sat down before you.

Not close enough to make you panic, but not far enough you were squinting to see him.

“My name is Shinazugawa Sanemi,” the psycho samurai man explained, and your eyes narrowed.

“That’s not a god or demon I’m aware of,” you muttered under your breath, but it seemed he heard it by the sour glare he gave you. You stilled under his weighted ton glare, your face warming as you averted your gaze.

“I’m not a god,” he spoke firmly, his arms folding underneath his chest. There was the chance he was a demon, you couldn’t help but think. “Nor am I demon.” You wilted.

“Rabid mountain boy?” you guessed, your nerves and adrenaline are still pounding way too heavy for you to filter your words.

He huffed, “No.”

“Well then—”

“Just let me explain,” he stressed, an eyebrow raised at you, and you stilled. It took a bit, but eventually, you nodded. “My name is Shinazugawa Sanemi, and I am a part of an organization called the Kisatsutai.”

Kisatsutai, the Demon Slayer Corps.

It rang an old bell in your memories, something distant, aged. Maybe a tall tale your grandparents had told you.

“It’s exactly as you think it to be,” he spoke, and you found your gaze rising to meet his. You realized even with the dull, yellowing light of the faraway lanterns, his eyes were a clouded purple. “Those two shitheads that tried to attack you are — were — demons. Yes, demons still exist,” he followed immediately as if knowing what stupid question you were going to ask next. Your mouth closed, and a chill ran down your spine knowing that non-human demon creatures that ate humans actually existed in this world. How had you been so unaware? “I’m a Hashira though, the wind Hashira to be exact. You’re living in my section of the territory I’m assigned to keep safe, so don’t worry. Demons don’t come out during the day; the sun kills them, so keep indoors at night, and you won’t have any issues.”

You remained silent, your mind twisting and turning as you tried to digest his words that seemed to rip apart your life. Sure, there was always a chance of being murdered in life; you weren’t that naive of an idiot to think so. But you never would have guessed that the potential murder you would have was a demon. It just seemed childish.

“T-That’s why they disintegrated?” you eventually babbled, your mind and consciousness entirely overloaded. “Are you some sun blooded person? How did you kill them?”

Sanemi stared at you but grunted. He rose to his feet and offered you a hand, “Top secret, can’t tell you.”

That wasn’t a good enough answer, and your mouth opened, ready to retaliate.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” Sanemi spoke, his hand tensing yet again in apparent effort to get you to grab it. “I’ll explain to you the bullshits of the reality of life later, but fortunately, this wasn’t the only area with demons nearby. So, unless you want me leaving you out here alone.”

A frown curled on your face, but with an unspoken level of trust, you grabbed his hand. You tried not to show how shocked and just awed you were at the calloused, entirely strong palms he had. You had no doubt in mind that he was a master swordsman, that title of Hashira seemed to be a big thing too, and the strength and power and callousness of his palm proved it.

“I’ll walk you home, pipsqueak; let’s get a move on it.”

Nodding your head quickly, you tore your hand from his and walked.

The walk was silent, and you could feel his presence lingering behind you like a hot coal in your pocket. You looked behind to see if he was still there several times, and each time he was staring straight ahead, eyes focused on something far away.

“You’ll be back tomorrow, Shinazugawa-san?” you ask as you made your way to the entrance of your home. You weren’t moving to go in, trying to figure out what he meant by explaining it all later.

“Tomorrow evening before I work,” Sanemi confirms, arms folding again.

You nod, “How old are you, Shinazugawa-san?”

He narrows his eyes but eventually rolls them, “Eighteen.”

Only two years older than you were, yet his hands felt like those of a war-veteran elder. It almost seemed like you and he grew up in entirely different worlds. You nod some more, absorbing his words and skills with better clarity as you finally begin to retreat past the gates. “Well, thank you for saving my life, Shinazugawa-san. I’ll leave—”

“You can watch it tomorrow night,” he said, face void of emotions.

You blink, “What?”

Sanemi rolls his eyes, looking entirely unimpressed. “The asteroid shower? The one you were watching or wanted to watch? Tomorrow night, another one will be happening.”

“O-Oh,” you felt warm, a smile spreading across your face as you nodded. “Thank you for letting me know!”

He nods too, a sharp inhale whistling through the air before his shoulders relax, the tension leaving his body altogether. “Well, until tomorrow evening.”

“Goodnight, Shinazugawa-san,” you politely bow. “Stay safe tonight.”

“...you too.”

And when you pull up from the bow, he’s gone.

The next evening, Sanemi shows up again. The sun is still in the sky, barely on its decline, and the summer day's warmth is slowly cooling down. As promised, Sanemi answers all of your questions, or well, tries to answer it. Some questions you have, he roughly snarks that those are stupid questions that shouldn’t ever be asked again (i.e., you asking if he was a child of the sun and that's why the demons had died, you asking if he had grown up in the woods and that’s why he was so scarred, you asking if it was only him in this supposed corps). He makes it pretty clear and unmistakable right away that all demons are evil. That he has the power to kill most demons as he is now and is continuing to train himself daily to ensure that he will one day help eradicate the strongest demon. That had turned into a slight argument on how you seriously doubted an eighteen-year-old possessed the power to murder a thousand-year-old demon who has yet to be killed despite the numbers who have tried.

But Sanemi, for all that was worth speaking of, was strangely enticing. Whenever your family or friends peeked their nosy heads in to try and hear your conversations with the psychotic looking stranger, his rather brash and abrasive tone of talking melded away into one of perfect formality and intelligence you quickly forgot he had. It was almost devious of him to have charmed your mother as soon as he did despite his rather inappropriate getup — he refused to cover up.

Faster than you would have liked, the setting sun began to turn scarlet red and royal purple against the sky, and you watched one of the nine apparent Hashira walking away, his body disappearing in the crowds of people that were moving about in the town. But, he was taller than most of them, and with that head of white hair, you watched him leave until you could no longer.

“Come back again, please, Shinazugawa-san?” you had asked right before he left, your heart hammering in your chest.

He looked at you, unsure, a million emotions flashing through his clouded eyes. Ignoring the way your family and friends were watching you through the obvious crack in the door, you looked at Sanemi, who rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll see.”

That was good enough for you.

Better yet, the asteroid shower returned that night, and as you took it in with a star dazed smile, you thanked Sanemi, wherever he was.

It seemed to become some sort of ritual for both of you.

Sanemi showing up, both of you talking in the courtyard of your home for a few minutes. Some days he showed up with enough time to eat dinner with your family, who were intrigued to know who he was. Some days your friends refused to leave your side, so Sanemi would as calmly as he could interact with them. Turns out a few of them reminded him of his own friends, and a sense of kinship formed between them all.

But as the sunset and you wished him well and luck, you always asked for him to return.

Sanemi would always respond with uncertainty. But the next day, he was there.

Some days he had more bandages on his body; some days, he looked straight up sick. There were scary days where he wouldn’t appear at all, and he’d be back in two days apologizing. He had come across a few Lower Moons and was hospitalized then had a meeting, he would explain. There were some days he’d let you grab his hand as he explained that he wouldn’t be back for a few days; there was a meeting in Headquarters, and it took a day to get to and a day to return from. Three days have gone from his usual postings, so he would have to spend an additional four days heavily working to make up for his disappearance.

“Fuckers aren’t as strong as they should be anymore,” Sanemi gruffed as you rested your head against his shoulder, his softly resting against yours. “Idiot trainers letting them take the test without their breathing techniques being strong.”

You laughed your finger, raising and pressing against his proud scar on his chest. It had been a year since you had first met him at that point, and now at seventeen, you knew he was proud of his scars, showing them off like the farmers showed off their prized crops, how senseis and masters showed off their awards.

“They can’t even fucking use the Water Breathing techniques correctly,” he spoke angrily, almost bitterly. “That’s the easiest breathing to learn! They had no fucking skill; they don’t use the breathes they should be using!”

“Mm,” you agreed, not really invested in their strengths or if the trainers were blind fucking bats, and your hand rested on his chest. His heartbeat under your fingertips, and you looked at his dark purple eyes. Despite the weird angle, his eyes were beating with the slightest bit of anger. “They sound like the worst.”

You had never known Sanemi to freeze up or startle, but you saw the way his eyes dropped to your lips, the way they drank them in, but he pulled away. His heartbeat suddenly frantic as he stood.

“It’s getting late; I gotta go if I’m going to make the town thirteen kilometers from here,” he grumbled, strapping his katana to his waist and standing up. You quietly followed after Sanemi, listening to him talk about how there was a case this morning but that the supposed demon was an actual cannibal.

As the two of you passed to the front gate, the warm smell of cracked dirt and sweet weeds filled the air. The sun was still high in the sky, just enough for your practically superpowered friend, not a friend, to make it to his suspected town just as the sunset.

He turned to you, falling quiet, obviously waiting for your typical farewell. But, you were trying something new tonight, and maybe from here on out. Sanemi watched with wide eyes as you stepped before him, your lips pressing sweetly against his battle-hardened skin, just kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Stay safe,” you grinned, pulling away, finding the pink in his cheeks and ears as a sign of victory. And as you made your way back into the doors of your home, Sanemi’s hands grabbed you by the shoulders and pulled you near once again.

“I didn’t know you were a fucking Water User,” he snaps, and before you could smoothly input, you were not a Breathe user on account of your very serious childhood asthma, his lips pressed against yours, and it suddenly made sense.

The sky during the day was, for the most part, repetitive and boring. But when Sanemi pulled away from you, your lips humming with electricity and pumping blood from your excitement, the backdrop of the sky on the man who held your heart could outmatch even the asteroid shower you had seen.

“Come back again, please, Sanemi?” you slowly spoke, the smile on your face ear-splitting and pure.

“Fuck off!” Sanemi flushed bright red, and he turned on his heel and stormed away.

He listened to your bell-like laughter as he rounded the corner. Well, until he seemingly reappeared before you again, his hands pressing to your cheeks and kissing the laughter from your throat before he pulled away. His voice was gruff, and his body language screamed he was doing everything not to look away from you right now, “I’ll see.”

And it was good, so very, very good.

By the time you were eighteen, you had moved in with Sanemi.

Despite the lack of a formal proposal, how both of you agreed not to marry yet, your parents allowed you to move in with Sanemi. They knew the reason why both of you had decided not to wed and accepted it as long as Sanemi took all responsibility for what would happen to him should anything happen to you.

You still remember Sanemi showing up in the only kimono he owned. It was a bit — okay, try way — too tight against his arms and chest. His katana or usual uniform nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been expecting this to happen; the two of you had discussed this future together plentifully. But seeing him on his knees, a bow that was so low, respectful, and formal, had sent your skin simmering with blazing heat as Sanemi asked to officially court you and if he could also bring you home with him.

Tears welled in your eyes at his beautifully spoken request, and your parents, who may or may not have interrupted a handful of too many gentle, sweet, full kisses between you and Sanemi in the gardens of your home, had expected it.

That sunset, you had watched Sanemi pull his katana and uniform from underneath a tatami mat in your room, and you screeched about how he had hidden it there. He didn’t bother responding as he changed into his needed uniform, and you had politely looked away while he changed. You may or may not have caught sight of his muscled, toned, and scarred legs, though, and you may or may not have thought about it for every second after he had left.

He kissed you wholly before he left that night, his thumb rubbing your cheekbone just softly enough to make you putty in his hands.

“I’ll be back in the morning to help you move in,” he promised, and you nodded your head impatiently, your lips seeking his again.

As promised, Sanemi showed up the following morning, and with the help of the wagon your parents owned, all of your items were carefully exported to Sanemi’s home. A home that was way more than you had imagined. Your fiancé, not quite a fiancé, was always clean, he never showed up covered in dirt or blood, so while you weren’t necessarily expecting him to live in a crate at the side of the road, you were also expecting that from him.

It was a large home with a large courtyard, garden, and training spaces. Sanemi had easily carried your trunks into your (Sanemi and your’s) room, and you had hugged your parents tightly before they left. Their smiles drowned out into the bright sunlight as they went.

The adjustment to living with Sanemi wasn’t as hard as you thought it was going to be. For sure, the most challenging thing was getting your body accustomed to being awake during the night so that you could sleep with him and then spend his waking hours with him. It was perfect, blissful, and wonderful. You’d spend sundown to sunrise doing chores and doing drills with a wooden sword and dummy — Sanemi was teaching you how to handle a katana in case he wasn’t around. You’d write down lists of what you would need when he came home. Thirty minutes after sunrise, nearly without fail, Sanemi would stumble into the house, calling out his greeting.

You helped him bathe the night's blood and grime away, and with gentle hands and coaxing words, dragged him to sleep. At three in the afternoon, both of you would wake, and the day would begin with a sweet kiss good morning. Both of you would go and finish the day's errands, the vendors soon becoming familiar with your face and person. It was a great community, and everyone seemed to hold Sanemi in high regard.

But your relationship changed yet again when Sanemi slammed through the doors one day after sunrise. His eyes were wide, faint pink, already healed over scars risen on his skin as you came to the front door to see your husband, not a husband, discarding his shoes on the floor.

“What’s going on?!” you asked, partially because you were scared and partly because you were slightly exhausted and ready to drag him into bed with you. But it seemed that Sanemi had that same exact mindset, but with a whole other meaning.

The kiss he pressed on your lips was blistering hot; you arched against the intensity of his kiss, your fingers touching the dirt of his face and feeling the heat of his skin.

“I need you,” he simply stated, over and over, his words coiling and festering under your skin until you could do nothing but let out a shaking moan. Exhaustion had burned out of your bloodstream, and a gentle, building warmth sank through your loins as slowly you agreed.

I need you,” you repeat as the sliding doors close behind your shifting bodies, the both of you losing yourselves to the heat and the passions of the early morning lust.

It had been approximately a year since you and Sanemi began to indulge in your shared sexual desires. Your relationship was deep, it was full, and as everything human, had its flaws. There were mornings where he would come home and needed to sleep in a separate room, evenings when he would leave, and his words would be cold and haunting. His life up until now had been a hard one, and you were no fool to believe that your presence would make him forget that.

But in spite of it all, you were always happy when Sanemi would pull off of you, the streams of golden morning light whisping into the room, your body aching with the intensive pleasurable waves as the both of you would ease into sleep. It was perfect, you thought so, at least.

Sanemi, however, always claimed that you were a sight to be seen when he was bottomed out in you. His words were sweet in your ears as his lips brushed your skin, his praises were endless, but even when the drunken hue of the passions of the early morning faded, he swore you were a sight to be taken in at its full glory. Through every praise, every small moment where he would kiss you afterward as the smell of sex and dewy grass wafted into the room, Sanemi wanted you to see how beautiful you were when he fucked you.

You had no idea how that was to work; there was nothing that gave off a good enough reflection. But one late spring day, your eyes at the table you were using, carefully shuffling the funds Sanemi had acquired and placed them out accordingly, the front door was thrown open.

“I’m home,” Sanemi grunted from the first room in the home, and you strained your ears, not hearing the door shut behind him.

“Welcome home!” eventually came your response, your body pressing up from the floor, fingers smoothing down your purple kimono before walking to where Sanemi stood.

By the time you entered the room, Sanemi had already closed the door. But you were less focused on the time interval it took him to enter the home and more interested in the large, covered, and almost ominous rectangular object resting on the wall.

“Whatcha got there?” you asked, head tilting in your curiosity, eyes focused on the large rectangle.

“The obaa-san gave me free smoked salmon because she heard that apparently, we’re trying for a kid. She said eating salmon before having sex will guarantee a strong male heir. So I figured we could make some nigiri,” Sanemi stated, purposefully ignoring your question if the way his lips pulled into a sardonic smile had anything to say about it.

“You’re an asshole,” you laugh, your hand smacking his shoulder only for him to thread his fingers in yours and pull you in for a sweet kiss. You hummed against his soft lips, your fingers running through his hair until the entire sentence he just told you sparked back into your memory. You tugged the ends of his hair just sharp enough for him to grunt in the back of his throat. “Idiot, don’t let them think we’re trying for a kid just yet.”

Sanemi snorts, pulling away from the kiss, “Maybe you should stop talking about your cravings in public — especially with that gossiping vendor.”

“Period cravings are a thing!”

“Yah yah,” Sanemi grunted, his hand waving you off as he gathered his rectangle thing and started making his way off with it. It was enormous though, you noticed as he carried it. It was longer than both of your heights, and if you were to stand at his shoulder, it seemed like it could still be wider than the both of you. “Stop breathing down my neck, weirdo.”

“You’re the one not telling me what that is!” you complain, following Sanemi with enough distance that you weren’t stepping on his heels. “Come on, ‘nemi, tell me what it is?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I hope it isn’t Mitsuri-chan’s present from Iguro-san,” you grumbled, knowing that last Christmas, you had to keep Mitsuri’s present hidden from the lovely Love Breathe wielder. “I can’t handle him showing up in the middle of the day, demanding to see it again. Why didn’t his own home work?”

“Kanroji shows up occasionally, and he only brings her into the best rooms depending on the day,” Sanemi grunted, resting the rectangle onto the wall by your tatami mats. “He won’t confess; she’s dumber than a rock, it’s all annoying. But he’s still… a friend.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally admitting to being friends with your fellow Hashira!” you chirped, your arms circling his neck, your grin complete and authentic as Sanemi looked at you unimpressed, his lips in a pout, not a pout, but a pout. You had the privilege of meeting all the Hashira Christmas morning, and they were all lovely people you got along with quite well. “Now, are you and Tomi—”

“That water bastard can choke on my foot and die!” Sanemi snapped, his face fuming, eyebrows narrowing, but his warm arms remaining relaxed and warm around your waist. “I’ll kill him and his stupid ‘I’m-better-than-you’ personality.”

“And you don’t get along with someone like that?” you feign surprise, utterly delighted with the way his eyes sparkled dangerously at you. And well, you didn’t ever hesitate to take a bite out of Sanemi. “Guess there’s only enough room for an ‘I’m-better-than-you’ personality even in the Hashira, and if it isn’t you… oops.”

Sanemi choked, and you laughed loudly, face nuzzling into his stiff neck as he attempted to escape from your stubborn hold.

“You’re a real jerk,” Sanemi said as monotonously, allowing his much stronger body to be bent down as your lips peppered against his skin and eventually on his relaxed lips that didn’t bother returning your kisses.

“Kiss me back,” you whined, your lips pressing with a more significant, more profound fervor against his mouth.

“No.”

“I’m sorry!” you giggled with no actual apologies in your tone, enjoying the way that Sanemi’s lips slowly began to press back against yours. “Tomioka-san is obviously not the holder of the ‘I’m-better-than-you’ personality title!”

“You damn brat,” Sanemi growled, his fingers pinching and pulling at your cheeks, paying no mind to your cries of mercy. “To think that I bought this for you too!”

“You haven’t even shown it to me yet!” you complain, unable to pout on account to his fingers, still pulling your cheeks apart. “You left me in the dark!”

Sanemi grunted, letting go of your cheeks, his purple eyes darkening and narrowing as he slammed a hand over your eyes and twisted you around in a swift movement. You resisted the small gasp hanging at the tip of your tongue when you felt his broad chest pressing into your back, and he moved forward, commanding you to move without a word.

“Is this when you confess you’ve been a demon this entire time and trap my soul into Hell with all your other sexy wives?”

“Would you shut up?!”

Sanemi’s hand tore away from your eyes, and even though you were ready to argue with him just to hear the flaring annoyance on his tongue, you stilled when you saw your reflection perfectly. This had to be a mirror, an invention made in the west a few years ago, and finally, it was here. You weren’t oblivious to the fact that you were smaller than Sanemi, but the mirror made that difference alarmingly apparent.

“I told you I wanted you to be able to look at yourself as I fucked you,” Sanemi whispered against your neck, breaking your attention away from its transfixion on the precise observation you finally had on yourself. “Turns out Tokyo got some imported, and I had to go get one myself.”

“Sanemi,” you whimpered, the canines of his teeth dragging against the tender flesh of your neck that was exposed from your kimono. Your eyes took in the sight of how his eyes stared at your face through the mirror's reflection, they were dark, murkier like this, and when his teeth slowly sank into your flesh, a ripple of pleasure and pain bubbling against your skin, you moaned.

“Look at yourself,” Sanemi purred, his arms circling around your waist, and you felt him slowly beginning to undo the fastenings and fabrics of your kimono. “I need you to understand just how crazy you make me feel when I touch you, when I fuck you.”

The words were hot cinders in your lower stomach, festering and twisting in its warmth as his words buzzed in your ears. Your eyes dragged over to your reflection, and you could feel the beginning steam come out of your ears at the sight of yourself. Your eyes were lidded, perfectly hooded to give off the obvious desire that was growing in your body, your lips swelling with how your teeth tore into them, stopping the small moans that went unheard, and the flush that radiated off your features and glowed in your eyes.

It was a sight that you had never expected to see, and the pure unadulterated lust radiating off your features embarrassed you. The embarrassment only seemed to grow more as the kimono slipped from your shoulder, exposing more of your tender flesh for Sanemi’s mouth and teeth to mark, and your head dipped backward at the lewd scene.

“Look at you, angel,” Sanemi smirked against your skin, his eyes glinting dangerously even though the reflection as you weakly, just barely managed to return your gaze onto your review. You looked even more wrecked as the kimono dropped to the floor, the white undergarments you wore making you look saintly in the reflection and warm light of the streaming sun. “So beautiful, so perfect, and all mine.”

Your fingers fisted into the pants of his uniform. Your knees feeling weak with the possessiveness that came with his words. Unsure as to what to do, all the embarrassment and shamelessness in the world dancing like falling leaves as you pondered what you could do. Usually, you would move with him against him. You didn’t exactly fall into a pillow princess category, but feeling the intensity of his gaze through a mirror, and the way that your body behaved exactly as he had always claimed it had, made your head spin.

You gasped loudly when his hips rutted slowly against your ass, his scarred hands continuing to undress you more, each fabric of clothing that separated your naked body from the mirror disappearing until you were completely nude. And you mewled.

“Look at yourself, angel,” Sanemi laughed against the shell of your ear, his head now against yours, keeping you from even attempting to look away. His large, rough hands glided across your much softer skinned body, watching as his fingers rolled your nipples between his fingers, massaging your tender flesh in his hands.

You saw the way your head dipped backward as you moaned, your eyes fluttering as you did so. Undoubtedly, both of you painted an erotic scene, but it was something you hadn’t ever expected to be confirmed. “You look so beautiful moaning against my touch; I wonder if you’ll like the way your face scrunches up when I fuck your pretty little pussy, or even when I touch it.”

Slight fear shot through your nerves as suddenly, Sanemi dropped to the floor, taking you with him. No pain went through your body as he made impact with the floor. You figured out why immediately, your ass was against his hard crotch, his clothed outer thighs pressing against your naked inner thighs, and you made sight with the mirror and keened at the picture of your spread slick pussy.

Sanemi shifted behind you, and although you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from how your cunt glistened in the light, you shook when you saw his bare arms, felt his bare chest against your back.

“You drive me utterly fucking insane,” Sanemi growled hotly against your ear, crotch grinding up into your ass, and you pathetically looked at your flushed face as you ground back downwards onto him in return. A slow groaned out moan resonated from his mouth, and you shivered and gasped at the noise, your cunt clenching at nothing as Sanemi positioned your arms as he wanted them to be. Clutched into his hair, absolutely revealing your naked body to the mirror, denying you no salacious angle of your body. “I want you to watch me make you feel good, angel. Don’t look away, promise?”

“I p-promise,” you stammer, the slight glint of his eye that you can still see, making your toes curl.

And he began.

Sanemi’s finger slowly traced down your knees, the heat from his flesh nearly burning as you tremble in his hold. Your instincts fight whether to look at him from the mirror or normally.

You keep your eyes onto the mirror. “Good job, you’re doing such a good job,” Sanemi voices, his fingers becoming feather-soft strokes against the inside of your legs that make you arch against his chest. a sharp inhale was what he was rewarded with as his fingers make small circles centimeters from where you crave him most. “I haven’t seen you react this intensely in so long. Is it because you’re watching your pretty face enjoy the praise?”

Unsure what to say, your head nods rapidly, your tongue falling dead in your mouth when his left-hand drags up your abdomen, scratching the underneath of your breasts until you can shake no more. “SANEMI!” you shriek, unable to take the teasing touches and watching your embarrassingly turned on face anymore. “SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING, PLEASE!”

“Aw, you cracked so fast,” he chuckles against your ear, and you melt into a euphoric victory when his thick, rough fingers plunge into your cunt.

Immediately, your hips snap up to greet him, your body shifting in quick, fast snaps as you watch your soaked cunt fuck against his fingers, desperately, greedily taking him in more and more. The sight of his fingers disappearing into your cunt through the mirror, the way your teeth tore into your lips to keep your singing praises at a minimum, and how you could feel and swear you could see the heat pounding from your body take shape through the mirror.

You had never felt this tight yet undone. Your lust hazed eyes shifting from your almost too lewd facial expressions to the way Sanemi jaw flexed with his growled endless praises, to how your cunt greedily sucked him in, further and further until the pounding of your heart couldn’t even drown out the wet, squelching of your cunt.

“Fuck!” Sanemi cursed, his hips grinding further, harder into your ass, and you keened at the massive hard length that poked into your back. “Look at you, you’re so fucking hot, angel. So needy, so fucking greedy for everything that I’m giving you.”

“I want m-more!” you sob, your body hyper-aware of how fast his curled fingers were pounding into you. You craved the way his battle-scarred fingers dragged against your puffy inner walls, hips bucking so his fingers would drag against the spongy divots, sending your mind spiraling and your jaw falling in your wordless beg for more. You understood why Sanemi craved you like this, why he insisted you needed to see the way you looked when he fucked you because as the hand that was kneading and pulling on your breasts and nipples shot down to make sure your trembling thighs didn’t smash together in your building climax. How he continued to press sloppy, wet, hot, and bitten kisses against your neck, you were a perverts fantasy. “M-More ‘nemi, please give me more!” you practically wailed.

“You gonna cum around my fingers, angel?”

“I needa cum, I wanna cum!”

“I want you to cum around my fingers, look at yourself for me when you do,” Sanemi commanded, and you, in your lust-driven mindset, agreed. Your eyes were looking on your lewd face, and everything crumbled when the growing clenches of your cunt became a tight vice grip.

But the heated pressure between your legs had been festering for too long, the included visuals that sent your brain into putty had you cumming around his fingers, your hips bucking wildly, barbarically against his still conquesting fingers. “Yes, yes yesyesyeysyes, that was so good… your fingers are so good,” you babbled, your eyes crossing, unable to look at yourself anymore. The elation of the orgasm flooding your mind and muscles. But you hadn’t been fucking the man who could pound you for multiple rounds without tiring without picking up a thing or two.

Twisting around your lips that were swollen from your biting and smooth with your saliva crashed against his. Sanemi didn’t resist your kiss, his lips crashing and moving without any hesitation against yours. You moaned when his fingers left your heat, and you slipped your tongue into his mouth as you ground your ass against his still throbbing hard-on. “I want your cock still, ‘nemi. I want you to fuck me with your cock, please fuck me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, okay!” Sanemi snarled, and his thighs slammed shut.

You crawled off his lap, watching as the slick stained spot on his uniform glistened in the light. Frowning, not wanting to disturb him, you couldn't help but lick against the wet area, voice moaning deeply at the musky, sweet scent of your slick against the fabric.

“Y/n!” Sanemi weakly got out, his hips instinctively bucking towards your lapping tongue.

You worked with him to get his uniform off his hips, your body not waiting for him to undress entirely before your mouth enveloped his thick veiny cock. The salty pre-cum invaded your senses, your tongue lapping up the underside of his cock before your mouth took in his swollen red head. You hollowed out your cheeks as you sucked his cockhead, your tongue swiping and moving at his leaking slit as Sanemi cursed the heavens for you, his hands grabbing onto your head and pulling you off him right when that shivering twitch of his cock pressed to your tongue.

Gasping, you looked at Sanemi’s nearly black eyes, disappointment heavy on your features.

“‘Nemi—” you pout, but Sanemi doesn’t let you finish.

You’re back almost straddling his waist, your back flush against his chest. He holds a strong, sturdy hand against your waist, keeping your waiting, wet cunt from lowering onto his hard cock. Your feet on the mats feel weak as you try to hold your weight above him, but when his teeth sink into the back of your neck, a spot that makes your body collapse without reason, you garble a scream when his cock sheathes completely within you.

Heavy, hot pants escape both of your mouths as you’re completely seated on his cock, the nearly inhumane girth of his cock making you dizzy at the surprise entrance. But you were much, much more fascinated with the way your pretty little pussy was stretched out so wide for his cock. He was buried in you, and even though it didn’t hurt to have him in you. The reflection showed how your lips pulled and stretched to fit him in, the small bulge of his cock in you was seen, and you cried in ecstasy.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” you begged, hips long gone from obeying any command Sanemi could try to give you as you fucked yourself against his length. “God, your cock is so good, ‘nemi! You look so good filling out my pretty fucking pussy!”

That is what makes Sanemi lose it, his hands that rest on your hips tightening with a bruising grip as he begins slamming into you. The wet noises of his cock entering and exiting of your sloppy, wet cunt at an even faster speed in which you were fucking him make your nails dig into his thighs, your eyes crossing, breathes hot and heavy.

Twisting, curling pleasure thrums deep within your womb, tightening and warming with each successive thrust that sends Sanemi’s cock rubbing against your inner velvet walls. You cry his name, eyes dazed and dripping with want and need as you watch the slicked shine of his cock pounding into your without mercy.

“You’re so fucking tight like this, angel, so fucking hot. You like the way you look like when I fuck you, huh, look at how godly you appear,” he snaps, his arms hugging your hips, his thrusting becoming short, deep, fierce snaps.

You can’t look at yourself anymore, the heat of the sex and the electric pleasure that rides with every lick of his cock against your cervix, sending your hot, wet lips in search of his. Sanemi meets you halfway, open mouth moans and groans being exchanged between your open mouths as your tongues intermixed and pressed sinfully against each other. The noises that leave your wet sexes only fuel the raging fire in your cunt that has reignited to a hire flame than before.

“Cum in me,” you find yourself begging against his lips. “Please cum in me, don’t pull out, ‘nemi, please don’t pull out.”

“Fuck, fuck, you sure?” Sanemi grunted, his body heaving you both forward so that you were on your knees, and he was absolutely wrecking you from behind.

“Yes!” you affirm over and over again. your mind high off of him and how you looked in the mirror. “I want you in me, all of you in me!”

He let out a guttural whine, a sound that had you shaking beneath him and screaming when the coil in your cunt finally snapped.

Another orgasm crashed through you, and your spinning high echoed in your ears and curled your toes as you whimpered Sanemi’s name. With the sound of his hips slapping against your ass, and with his teeth burying into the nape of your neck, you felt the hot, liquid ropes burst from his cock, filling you up. The both of you remained there, panting as your sweat and slick covered bodies collapsed to the floor.

“So…” he gasped, collapsing onto the mat beside you, pulling you into his chest so that you could rest against his scarred chest. “Did you like the mirror?”

“...I guess,” you antagonize, grinning when he frowns. “It was hot; you make me look hot.”

Sanemi snorted, his lips pressing to your sweat-covered forehead.

“I don’t do shit; that’s how you are.”

You chuckled, warm grogginess settling under your skin as you merely hum in agreement.

“The Hashira meeting is tomorrow, so I’ll be gone for two days,” Sanemi murmurs, reminding you of the dreaded two days alone. It wasn’t as if you had forgotten; you never do.

“Think anything interesting will happen?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, hopefully.”

You giggle, snuggling in closer to his chest. Yeah, hopefully.

#sanemi x reader #sanemi smut #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kny #kny x reader #bbs kinktober 2020

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wannaholdhandswithfictionalmen · 4 years

Text

(My) Sanctuary;

A/n: First Ever Fic for Genshin Impact Fandom. A fic no one asked for but the idea was living in my head rent free, so what's a girl to do except play more Genshin Impact and work on this fic. (Listened to Sanctuary & Don't think twice by Hikaru Utada while writing this -- hence my inspired and very unoriginal title for this fic because I am horrible at thinking of titles.)

Genre: Mostly Fluff really, a pinch or two of Angst.

Warning: Implied underage drinking. Brief description of Violence. Of age drinking.

Summary: Childhood friends with history. Unspoken feelings. Mutual pining. Circumstances and life have forced you and Diluc on different paths, but you always return to Mondstadt and Diluc always makes time for you.

Word count: 3,128

The busy streets of Mondstadt. How long had it been this time? The absence of your presence from these cobblestone paths; four, five? No. Six months. Commissions to fight greater, fierce foes across Teyvat demanded your blades and lightning. Not that it mattered much how far or long you ventured from your former home. There was only one person who meant a great deal, important even if you could not sort through all the emotions attached to him in your own heart or even dare to give voice to those emotions.

Diluc Ragnvindr.

And despite the inner twisted, festering turmoil (of your own making) cradled in your heart for Mondstadt, Favonius Knights, The Fatui 'diplomats'. Diluc was always a reason to return.

In fact you aren't at all surprised when you stop by Good Hunter, offering up a handful of Mora for a meal. Sitting down at a table, closing your eyes. You took in a deep breath, the air here felt different to you. Thanks to the Anemo god, Barbatos. You swear it truly is the sense, embodiment of freedom that fills your lungs and soothes you even if for a few seconds.

A savory blend of mushrooms, chicken and noodles is your lunch for the day. After thirty minutes have passed since your arrival in Mondstadt. And Diluc is sliding into the chair across from your own, elbows on the table, arms folded. Crimson eyes silently taking in the features of you.

"Hm. You're slacking. That's ten minutes later than before, what took your little informants so long to whisper in your ear word of me being back?" You don't even spare a look at him, taking another bite, chewing a mouthful as you wait for his reply.

"I do have a winery to run and the protection of Mondstadt to ensure, I can't not always come rushing away for personal affairs." Diluc holds a evident edge of underlying frustration in his smooth voice.

Your own gaze trails up and over him, taking in the exasperation and exhaustion that furrows the brow of his otherwise stoic expression-- you want to ask when he last got a full night's rest? If he was still doing his lone warrior, Darknight Hero routine? If he was as stubborn as ever shouldering the burden of his fervor desire to defend and protect. Oh, how you worry, worry and worry the weight of it all on your tongue, tightening your throat-- who takes care of you? Who stands by your side? Who defends you? Who protects you? Who lov-

Once upon a time it had been you but a vortex of mourning, sorrow, rage swallowed up your old life. Until you wanted nothing more than to never see the walls of Mondstadt ever again. One day leaving it all behind. Time was a cruel mistress, one day swiftly grew to years. The first time you returned from what would become regular disappearances--adventures.

Damage had been done. Diluc was the one who reached out to savage your friendship and you had welcomed the chance to have him back in your life even if it would never be anything more.

"Should I be honored that the gentleman Ragnvindr can even grace me with his company?" It's a hollow jest as you pick at your half eaten plate of food.

"No," His dismissal of the notion is soft yet firm. "Just Diluc, a friend, who is glad to see you well again." It's never his straight-forward or blunt nature that catches you off guard, it's when the subtle but clear sincerity creeps to the surface. Open, unwavering in his honesty.

You huff, looking down feigning disinterest yet the twitch of your lips is undeniable. Warmth, simple, gentle curls in your chest. Happiness. Flickering embers outside of the stone walls of your heart that would make Rex Lapis proud. Diluc had always been able to slip past your defenses, so easily lingering in your thoughts, in your heart. Whether he was aware of it or not.

"I suppose I am glad to see you too. Saved me a few bottles of my favorite wine?" You ask glancing up to catch his watchful gaze, biting your bottom lip as a wide smile threatened to spread on your face. Dulic's sudden raised eyebrow says it all-- do you really need to ask?

"Four pristine bottles of aged mixed sunsettia, valberry wine." Prideful is subtle and delicate in his voice as if Diluc would ever forget your favorite wine. Funny enough to think about how even as the unspoken king of the winery industry, he doesn't enjoy alcohol himself. Still keeping a stock of your favorite in his manor.

"You never let me pay you and we can't really share a few glasses together, so," you hum, slowly wired up with nervous yet excited anticipation as you reach down into the bag hanging off your shoulder. Shifting through the items and materials you carried with you for cooking and crafting you find it! Grabbing a slender jug of a bottle, wrapped in cloth. Swiftly placed on the table in front of Diluc. "I brought something for you."

It's not like grape juice is such a hard find or something Diluc could not afford himself with his abundance of wealth but you had commissioned a famous brewer to make a special blend of grapes and other berries to create a rich and sweet juice. With your own Mora to spare after a few jobs, and you had a feeling your wandering would lead back to Mondstadt.

Diluc is steady, slow with peeling back the cloth to stare at the deep, dark purple liquid filling the glass bottle. Uncorking the bottle, Diluc takes a whiff, closing his eyes, the smile that graces his face. It's everything and so much more. "It smells delicious. Thank you, I can't wait to taste it."

"Then we should begin our walk to the manor? I can hear my wine calling me." You leave a few Mora coins as a tip, standing up, Diluc presses the cork back into the bottle and hands it back to you for safe keeping.

"Alright," Diluc nods, following, matching your stride with ease. "Adelinde was asking about you the other day, you know she always makes sure your room is tidy, spotless in fact."

Stupid. How one little phrase has your stomach full of crystal flies like you are a teenager all over again. And the mention of the kind maid who still fusses over Diluc and you on occasion makes you happy. It is a nice reprieve from nights of solitude, you are content to travel alone but loneliness is a creature that waits, and waits until the right moment to sink its claws and fangs into you on the road.

The walk from Mondstadt isn't far but you aren't expecting a fully pleasant and peaceful walk with Diluc. Outside of the gates of the city and a few minutes down the dirt road, the sight of Hilichurls is predictable.

Small pack of fighters, five Hilichurls carrying clubs and one hulking Mitachurl with a shield. This should be fun.

"Make sure to show me how playing the part of the nighttime hero has kept your skills sharp!" You yell with a laugh, grinning as you summon your sword, forged of dragon bone, jagged, fierce blade. Rushing forward you dodge past the throw Pyro slimes.

You let yourself run a little wild, your Electro vision surge through you, bolts of lightning crash down on the charging Hilichurls. Shocking and stunning the monsters for a moment, that's all you need to unleash a flurry of fast slashes.

A loud, enraged howl, crashing stomps approach from your back. Anyone else would need to worry or doubt--you don't. The familiar roar and rumble of flames fills the air, the scorning heat of it nipping behind you. Diluc doesn't even let that Mitcahurl so much as graze you, his grunts and shouts clash with its growl and howls as his flame imbued blade breaks and burns through the beast's wooden shield. Leaving ashes flying in the air and the heavy smell of smoke and fire.

You electrify the Hilichurls, slowing, paralyzing the small beasts until they are left vulnerable and weak against you. The perfect targets. You cleave one's head off, stab straight through the mask of another, impale the chest of another. Delivering killing blows with precision and force. Wiping them out, you turn in time to see the beauty of Diluc.

Rapid, graceful, relentless, ferocity embraced in unyielding flames. The towering giant Hilichurl is left staggering, stumbling under the strikes of Diluc's claymore left all too unprotected without its shield to hide behind. Diluc turns up the heat quite literally, the soaring, blazing phoenix that emerged from his own vision and will, his flames destroy the Mitcahurl, wiping out its pitiful existence effortlessly.

Diluc shakes a bit of lingering flames and smoke off the steel of his blade with a sweeping slash at the air, standing among darkened, black grass, a gust of wind sways his hair and he looks over his shoulder. It is surely a moment deserving of immortalizing in portrait, his bright red hair blowing in the wind, holding his greatsword in one hand, sunlight giving him an ethereal glow, gazing at you.

Giving a slow applause, you whistle and laugh. "Flashy as ever, Diluc."

"The pyro element leaves little room for anything else. Still it's efficient and powerful," Diluc turns to face you, letting go of the hilt of his sword as it vanishes, unneeded outside of battle. "However, it's not something you could critique me on, when anyone for miles could see your lightning."

"Fair enough."

Besides a few stray slimes, the rest of your walk is undisturbed, reaching the winery as nightfall, the sun dipping below the horizon.

"(Name) it is good to see you well." Adelinde smiles upon seeing you as Diluc opens the front door and holds it open for you to walk in first. She hugs you, it's hard not to melt into her tight cradle.

"Have you been eating well? Sleeping accordingly? Not just naps. Taking breaks in between all your monster hunting?" Her lovingly stern questions always feel comforting in a way that is odd to describe and felt deeply.

"I am still standing, Adelinde, fully rested and my stomach is full at the moment."

"You would do well to keep it as such." Adelinde levels you with a motherly look of if you do not take care of yourself, I will which should be hard to make look threatening but the older woman handles it with years of expertise. She has worried over guests, Diluc, Kaeya, you for many, many years in the pact and many to come you are certain.

"Adelinde, please have the bottles of sunsettia, valberry wine brought up, we-"

"One step ahead of you, Master Diluc. Hillie and Moco brought them up a short while ago, I hope you two enjoy your time together." Adelinde leaves the manor, you aren't sure what work needs to be done on the grounds, you know for a fact Adeline specifically tries to do outside chores during daylight hours. It's an obvious tell for someone who knows her, she is ensuring you and Diluc remain alone for now. An avid supporter of your friendship you suppose.

Diluc barely gets to call out a 'thank you!' as she is shutting the door.

You stroll across the room, not much has changed at all. Your destination is the furniture set by the fireplace, the small, round table paired with two cushioned chairs. Pulling out the bottle of juice to place on the table top next to the bottles of wine, to cups awaiting you both.

Pouring your first cup, you are eager, excited to taste the almost sickeningly sweet flavor of the wine. It never seems to taste the same from any other winery or brewery or even in the company of others.

Moments of comfortable quiet drift by as you slowly, steadily sip and savory the wine.

When Diluc takes the first taste of your gift and his low moan of approval as he swallows. Oh. You could listen to that again and again. All husky, raspy delight that sends shivers down your spine. It feels good to bring any kind of bliss to Diluc, even the simplest kind by providing him a drink he loves.

You get the mutual feeling of being watched as you drink, sighing and smiling at the taste, the feeling of nostalgia creeps up on you.

"I remember the first time I tasted this wine. We were barely teenagers sneaking down into the cellar. I badly wanted to try the wine everyone in Mondstadt wouldn't shut up about," you recall it interrupting yourself with short, full breaths of levity. Far too amused by the memory to contain your laughter. "I- I asked. No- begged you to come down with me while your father was gone, saying I'd bring Kaeya instead if you didn't come, bluffing and you got as red as a flaming flower, grabbed my hand and pulled me all the way to the cellar and downstairs."

Diluc huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa. "You knew how to push my buttons too well, half of the stuff I let you talk me into was completely foolish." Staring into the lit fire as he listened to you.

"Just half?"

"Fine. All of the escapades I let you drag me along on were absurd."

"Your welcome as I recall you had a lot of fun."

"At the risk of a lot of trouble, you tested the lengths of even my father's generous patience." Diluc shook his head, the fondness in expression was plain as day.

"Oh, remember the night after getting my gliding license, I dared you to join me on top of the cathedral to see which of us could get farther across the city, and you landed in a bush!" Several glasses of wine, one empty bottle of the tart and sweet berry alcohol and you felt even more relaxed, comfortable in the company of Diluc.

"I, at the very least, remained dry. You were the one who crash-landed right into the fountain." Diluc smirked, sharp, sly as he chuckled, lightly tugging and adjusting the fabric of his gloves. Idle gestures as his cup stays on the table after a few sips.

"I would rate my dive undoubtedly ten out of ten." By the Archons, it had been a miracle you both escaped from the knights of Favonius night patrol with the commotion you made, wet leather boots on stone top made you slip a few times in your dash to escape discovery. Diluc had kept a firm grip on your arm, tugging you back up and refusing to leave you behind.

Then you remember, hiding away, pressed chest to chest, the chill of your soaked clothes clinging to you, the rise and fall of heavy, labored breaths. How close Diluc had been, that smokey, fiery scent that having pyro vision gifted him along with faint aroma of fruit thanks to the orchard of the dawn winery, he worked with his father on occasion. If you had just tilted your head up, leaned in--

"I know Kaeya was always jealous. I could talk you into anything but you refused his antics left and right."

"It's different. I actually like you and spending time with you." Diluc's deadpan response pulls a ugly snort-laugh from you. His relationship with Kaeya is an odd one but you know deep down he cares for his brother even if things aren't exactly civil between them.

"I feel so special."

"As you should, I don't like people." His sarcasm, that is half-joke, half-truth keeps you laughing.

The first wave of tiredness hits you, letting out an involuntary yawn. Your travels, the trek and fight from earlier catch up with you. Combined with the consumption of alcohol.

"I think the wine is getting to me, I feel a little sleepy." You finish off your glass with one gulp, smooth like silk down your throat, the lack of burn makes it far too easy to want to empty all the bottles. Four. You'd certainly regret that in the morning.

"I noticed." Diluc gets up first, three steps towards you, he is holding out his hand to you.

"I can walk myself, I am not that drunk." You protest his offer while reaching out and taking his hand, entwining your fingers without a second thought. Diluc gives your hand a squeeze, his slender fingers lightly caressing the back of your hand. He guides you upstairs to your room as if you don't know the way by heart as if your room would ever change.

"You would never ask for help yourself and you did break a vase the last time, even the smallest bit of intoxication seems to make you clumsier." Diluc gives his clear and absolutely unfair opinion. It happened one time!

It is really not necessary either to open the door for you, letting go of your hand only to press the large, warm palm of his hand against your back. Nor does Diluc need to kneel before you as you sit on the edge of the bed, unfastening your boots, removing your satchel and placing your belongings on the bedside table.

"It is hilarious to hear you of all people, calling me out of not asking for help. Mister Darknight."

Dliuc 'tsks' at the mention of his beloved hero name. "I am aware, that can be a little hypocritical."

"A little?"

"(Name)," Diluc speaks your name so tenderly, softly, as if the word itself is precious. "I simply want to help you, to car-" He clears his throat cutting off that train of thought. Pausing for seconds of silence pass, crimson eyes staring into your own. "If there was anyone I would accept help from it would be you."

That is dangerously close to an admission of something else. And all every moment of the past, all the maybe(s), what-ifs, almost(s) flash through your mind. You could take the leap or let this become another memory to turn over and over in your head, wondering, wanting, yearning.

"Get some rest." Diluc walks over to the door, standing in the open threshold of the room, hand gripping the door knob.

"Diluc, wait" It's barely a whisper, so hushed and subdued. So low, he doesn't hear it and when Diluc looks over his shoulder, the short-lived courage in you has diminished and you can't bring yourself to voice all the longing, desire, love trapped in your heart.

"Goodnight, Diluc."

"Goodnight, (Name)."

#Genshin Impact #Genshin impact fics #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact reader insert #genshin impact one shots #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #genshin impact diluc #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 4 years

Text

Firewood

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: M

Warnings: Sexy, sexy thoughts, but we all know that Sheriff Din is a proper gentleman who would never sleep with you before you’re married. But, a girl can look.

Summary: You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.

Notes: Oh, hello, is this another firewood chopping fic? Yes. Yes it is. Do I have a thing for big, strong men chopping wood? Yes, apparently so.

Jeans were invented in 1873 so yes, Sheriff Din, 100% can wear tight jeans to show off that fine butt.

Archiveofourown

You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.

Every stove and every fireplace in Navarro was wood burning, gas was still a new fangled thing and hadn’t reached your little mining town yet. The metal log burner in the centre of the schoolhouse was no exception and it was on this particular Saturday, when working on marking some of the childrens’ books, that you noticed your store of firewood was rather shoddy. Something that while not an immediate concern would grow to be as the weather began to turn colder and the snow piled up outside. The children would need to be kept warm, otherwise they just simply wouldn’t learn right.

It had been something you mentioned in passing to the sheriff that morning, you hadn’t expected him to do anything about it and certainly not immediately. Just made small talk when he’d popped in to check on you and mentioned that the wood store was getting a little low and that you'd need to sort it soon before the weather turned. You should have known that Din, the mother hen, caring and considerate man that he was, would have taken it upon himself to correct the problem and quickly.

Had you known that that wasn’t just going to the general store and buying more logs, but instead cutting down a couple of trees near the school house and proceeding to cut them into fire logs, then you...well, you would have definitely still mentioned the problem to him. After all, the sight was definitely an enjoyable one. Not that you’d admit that to anyone. You were supposed to be a respectable lady. A school teacher. You shouldn’t have had any thoughts on Din Djarin and how he looked chopping wood.

It’s how you found yourself looking out one of the large windows of the schoolhouse, lip bitten between your teeth and chin resting on your hand as you watch Din lift a large log over his broad shoulders and to a tree stump he’d designated for wood chopping. He managed to make carrying the heavy load seem easy, like it barely phased him, he simply redistributed his weight and stance to make the walk easier.

He’d forgone his many layers. His hat had been placed off to the side, his usual button-up was off, now only stood in a grey union suit unbuttoned, indecently so, showing off pronounced collar bones and dark chest hair and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows displaying his thick forearms. His suspenders dug delightfully into his wide shoulders and the wide planes of his chest were captured fetchingly in the clinging fabric of the undershirt.

Your headmistress most certainly would have clipped you around the ear you think. It was unbecoming, unladylike, most certainly not decent to watch him with thoughts of how easily he could lift you over his shoulder. How nicely it must feel to be pulled into those arms and rest your cheek against his chest. How strong his palms look and how delightful the muffled grunts he let out sounded. Most certainly unladylike, improper and you shouldn’t have sat there and watched, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tear yourself from temptation.

There was just something, something about the way his shoulders tensed as he brought the axe back over his head before bringing it down with a sure stroke, cleaving the log in two. Something about the strength of those thick forearms, the scars that littered them from bounties he’d collected and a life of hard graft. Something about the sweat that beaded on tanned skin, that caught your eyes as you followed in down his prominent nose to his perpetually pouting lips.

As Reeva would say, Din Djarin was a whole lot of man and you thought perhaps a king among men. He could capture your attention just with a change to his stance or a look, you were sure every unmarried woman in town would happily marry him. He was incredibly handsome, but what made him something special you decided was his nature.

He was unfailingly kind, sweet and gentle, he always made sure to look out for others. Every act of service was a sign of his devotion and appreciation to his community, of who he was. He would get birds out of chimneys, sweep the porch for elderly citizens, hunt down a missing pet or build a schoolhouse. You knew that you never had to worry with Din around, the moment you mentioned a problem or difficulty he would be there offering to help without asking for anything in return. A king among men indeed.

A grunt brought you out of your thoughts and back to the view before you. Large palms and dexterous fingers twisted around the wooden handle of a heavy axe, feet planted wide to give him a better stance, jeans tight against his hips. Did the man have to own such tight trousers?

“Oh, Miss Adams, I’m terribly sorry.” You can’t help but mutter as warmth floods your body, your skin feeling too warm in your heavy skirt and blouse. A itch settling deep in your stomach. Your headmistress would have made you go to confession if she knew, forcing you to admit that your eyes and mind had sinned oh so terribly for gazing so covetously at the sheriff, at Din.

You couldn’t help it. You wondered what it would be like. To be married to him, to lie besides him on a cold night, those large palms sliding soothingly over your hips, your belly, your thighs. Wrapped so tightly in him that it would be impossible to figure out where you ended and he began. What would that deep, soothing voice feel like rumbling against your skin.

A breathy sigh leaves your lips at the thought and you wonder how you’re supposed to ever talk to him again without thinking about how he looks in that exact moment as fabric clings tight to his body and his dark hair begins to curl at the edges from sweat and the humid air.

You decide in that moment that he can’t ever know. It’s as simple as that. He simply can’t find out about these feelings you have or the power he holds over you. It just wouldn’t do, wouldn’t be proper. You shall simply go out there and thank him for cutting more wood for the schoolhouse, offer him a drink of water and be done with it.

You rise with determination, hands brushing your skirts smooth before grabbing the glass you use during the school day. The outside water pump is a handy little thing, you think as you fill the glass with cold, clean water. Despite the children often using it for mischief at break times, it does everyone a world of good to have easy access to water at the school.

“You look mighty thirsty, sheriff” You call out to him, one hand lifting your skirts to help you walk over the uneven ground, the other holding the glass of water out in front of you.

When you reach him you offer the glass, he takes it with a thank you and you try not to stare too hard as he throws his head back and gulps the water down fast. His neck extended, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

“You know you didn’t have to do this...I could have bought some wood for the fire.” There was a small school fund for that sort of thing, the mayor had reluctantly set it up so that you could buy chalk and other things that the school would need and have to replace over time. While wood was certainly not a cheap item, it was something you budgeted for every single year.

“Cyar’ika, there’s no way I'm letting you spend good credits on firewood when there are plenty of trees for me to cut down. Besides, I’m not busy.”

“Din…” You want to protest, remind him that he has better things to do that cut firewood for you. Mostly because you worry that you’re taking advantage of his kindness. What possibly could you offer in return to a man who was capable of doing everything himself?

A hand reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek briefly and gently, “Just let me help you.”

It’s the gentle touch and the quiet plead in his voice that has you admitting defeat. There was no use fighting his nature and asking him to stand by if he noticed you in need of something. It just wasn’t in him and it was something you liked greatly about him.

“Thank you. You’re always looking out for us.”

His hand drops from your face to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a gesture you were beginning to recognise as a sign that Din was uncomfortable or nervous. More often than not when it came to feelings of any sort. “Well, I gotta keep my eye on you, make sure you’re doin’ alright.”

“I...have you...have you ever thought that you deserve someone keeping their eye on you too? To look out for you, I mean.” You rush through that last part to take some of the possible innuendo from your words. Not that your eyes had been anywhere but on Din as of late, but...you didn’t mean it like that. You could feel an embarrassed warmth radiating up your neck and into your face at the implication of your words.

There’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, “Oh, I noticed you’ve been doin’ a mighty fine job of that yourself, cyar’ika.” It’s unusually playful coming from Din and it has your mouth drying up as you swallow harshly. Had he noticed you watching him cut wood? Or the other day when he helped carry some of Mr Hewitt’s goods into the general store?

“I’m...I’m just looking out for you. Is all.”

He hums, clearly not quite believing you, but lets it slide. You’re a proper lady and he knows if he teases too much he’ll scare you away. Maybe one day he’ll let you in on the secret that he caught you peering out of the school window watching him. But, today he lets it go, lets you walk away back into the school house with the excuse that you have more books to mark.

If he decides to roll the union suit down to his waist and continue cutting wood with his torso free of clothing, then that’s not to tease you at all, it’s just because the weather’s gotten mighty hot lately. If he happens to notice you at the window again watching him then he doesn’t mention it and it means nothing, nothing at all.

-------------------------------------

Mando’a Translations:

Cyar’ika - Sweetheart, Darling

#din djarin x reader #din djarin / reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian reader insert #reader insert #readerinsert #western au #putting down roots #din djarinxreader #din djarin/reader #female reader #female identifying reader

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morihaus · 3 years

Text

Dawn

The loss of Aldmeris came swiftly and without warning. The whole of the land shook beneath the Aldmer, interrupting the comfortable routine of their lives and forelives, snapping the spirit-mer out of their reverie and rememberance of the dawn.

Bolts of light punctured holes in the bright golden sky, leaving dark voids in their wake. The nobles, the most divine and wise of them all, made calls to all their kin to flock to the harbors, to crowd onto the great ships, to be safe with their pilots and protectorate sorcerers.

The decision was rapidly reached, though not made lightly: they must flee their homeland, Old Ehlnofey is lost to the earth-splitting storm and the swell of the ocean. And the people wept, for not all could board in time; and the people wept, for they had lost their home; and the people wept, for they were afraid, who could say what fate awaited them beyond their waters?

Trinimac, Knight-Champion of Auri-El, stands aboard one of the greatest ships of Aldmeris, beside its pilot, beside the High King, and beside at least a hundred scared Aldmer, huddled together and cowering behind the protective barriers of the spellcasters. His footing is unsure on the deck, for he has never been fond of the sea, and if ever a sea were to take him under and swallow him hole, it would be the roiling dark waves which the vessel now navigated.

A terrified family are within his grasp, a couple and their two children under one arm, his other wrapped around the thick pillar of the mast to keep them righted. Kneeling in the space between the god and the mast is King Aurthelel, divine son of Auri-El, who trembles and clings to his knight protector, his face pale and uncertain, his composure broken for the first time in several centuries.

He looks to the pilot and sees her arms trembling as she keeps hold of the wheel, knuckles white as the rains whip around her and the waves crash against her ship. Two more mer are helping her keep steady, heeding her as she barks orders and assisting in righting the wheel. The ship hits a large wave and for a moment seems to soar over the water- Trinimac tightens his grip on the mast and holds the frightened elves closer to his breastplate as he feels his feet leave the floor, hearing cries of panic all around him- before crashing back down with a massive splash, dousing everyone on deck with frigid ocean water and knocking many of them to the floor. Trinimac holds fast, gritting his teeth and bending down to keep the wailing children dry. Their father whispers assurances over and over between prayers to Auri-El, weeping and holding them close with their mother. The embodiment of the golden god is shivering and hacking up a lung full of saltwater. He offers nothing to the family. It's unclear they even know who they stand beside.

People are pounding at the doors to be allowed below deck, but the lower decks are full to burst with both passengers and crew, trying to mend cracks in the hull and huddling together in fear. It feels scarcely better to be below than above.

The pilot's haggard voice cries out: "UP AHEAD, LOOK!!! SWING PORT, SWING PORT!" Eyes gritting for lack of a helm, Trinimac casts his gaze in front of the ship. What appears to be a massive cyclone stands before them, a towering spiral of wind and water, lightning crackling at its head. His body tenses as he spots what looks like an eye, then another, then another, until the head of the cyclone is lit by a hundred tiny circles of light. He feels the ship rolling beneath him, fighting the waves to try and turn away, but they only seem to raise higher now as they're being pulled to the foot of this storm- this entity.

A massive limb of rippling magic shoots forward from the cyclone, crashing down towards the ship as a hand swats a fly.

The pilot screams again. "BRACE YOURSELVES!"

The ship, almost by chance, rolls to one side, but the near-miss takes affect as it crackles through the water, sending the ocean bright blue and surging a massive wave forth, hitting the ship with such ferocity as to turn it completely on its side.

The pilot and her assistants are able to right it just so in midair, a combination of the turning of rudders and powerful force spells. But they scarcely have time to be thankful, even after the ship lands once again- another wave of cold water soaking everyone aboard the deck- Trinimac looks and sees the eyes of the cyclone turn to face the ship, now doing its best to roll and rock along a path away from the storm. It retracts its limb of light and then raises it again.

"Hold on to the mast." Trinimac quickly says to the family, as well as his liege, and at once he turns and runs to the stern. His gleaming silver boots thud against the wooden floor, and as the ship rolls unpredictably, he almost trips in his haste. But he leaps, almost glides, to stand behind the pilot, who cannot spare the time to look over her shoulder at him. He levels his blade, Penitent, and his shield, and glares up at the limb of the many-eyed giant. "COME THEN!" He yells, his divine voice cutting higher than everything else. "MATCH BLADES WITH ME IF YOU DARE!!!"

The limb descends with greater haste, provoked by his demand. He reels back his sword arm and, with such strength as had never been needed in Aldmeris, cleaves straight through the massive hand, lopping it off at the wrist.

A horrible howl emits, more than just the wind of a storm, and a huge pulse of energy sends the ship skimming forward at a much greater pace. Trinimac is blown clear over the pilot by the force of impact, thudding against the deck below.

As the ship continues on its path, the storm subsides. The sky and sea settle, the clouds part to make way for the golden sky again- but it is not golden, as it always has been on Aldmeris, but deep red, and the great light hangs lower than any Aldmer could ever remember seeing it.

"What- what has happened to the sky..." A young boy asks.

None could answer him, they had no knowledge of this. None but Trinimac, stood again, offering aid to the wounded passengers.

He looks down to the child, who shrinks away at the bare face of the knight, sharp tusked and horned, yet radiant with a light that now seems a dim requiem for their home. "The sun sets here." He wears a frown as he scans the horizon. Nothing but a dull blue sea. Yet he knows where they must be. "We are in Mundus."

Gasps ring out from the few not still in shock. Many cannot bring themselves to believe it. "We... we are in the trap?" One woman asks. "The lie of the doom drum?" Many huddle closer to their loved ones, scandalized by the words she dared utter.

Trinimac only nods.

Silence overtakes the mer on board. The red sky slowly darkens, and again, the Aldmer are scared. None of them have ever lived in a changing world, a world where light fades, where summers set. Little dots of light give them some peace, they slowly fill the sky as the sun made way for them, a procession of sorts. Many distracted themselves by trying to count them all.

This is interrupted by the arrival of more objects in the sky. A girl looks up, eyes wide, and screams.

Everyone quickly looks to see, and now there is only stunned silence.

Many shake and tremble at the terrible sight in the heavens, others begin to sob, some scowl and curse the doom drum and all his wicked works, for it is he who delivers this revolting vision of horror and fear.

Trinimac feels bile in his throat. He turns, for he cannot bear to see the moons.

The Dawn is forever lost. The sky is full of corpses.

#tesfest21 #mori writing #trinimac

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bitchwhoreofastorm · 3 years

Text

this is not very good. you have been warned.

When Lorkhan dreamed of inhabiting his world, he must have dreamed of inhabiting it as Wulf. This is what Aspera thinks, watching Wulf stride through the forest as comfortably as if it were his, as if it had been crafted for him alone.

Wulf is handsome, and not only for the Lorkhan written upon him. His youth in the wilds has left him strong and muscular, his healthy diet and new civilized life on Hrothgar have made him tidy and clean. Someone has cut the mats from his hair, though he still wears it loose and long in a shiny oak veil around his thick shoulders; someone has taken a knife and shaved away the unsightly fuzz from his square jaw, and someone has clad his massive frame in long wool trousers and a fine leather belt, as if he were being made fit for Auri-el's court. But he goes shirtless beneath his trollskin cape, although the forest he moves through is glittering palely with frost, and there's still an untamed savageness in his careful silent steps, and a hint of danger in the golden sword that hangs at the end of one of his long arms, and a profound sadness in his storm-grey eyes.

He could be Lorkhan incarnate, surveying his own deeds for a span, and Aspera is as always captivated by him. Forced to assume a mortal form for this profoundly mortal act of indulgence, she sits still as she can on a bough of one of Skyrim's tall silent evergreens, and rests her chin on her knees, and watches Wulf move silent through the forest. She's as motionless as the chilly air (Kyne dares not intrude here), if her eyes could devour she's been fasting for this moment. All this time they spent together, in the Dawn era in different forms, and then in the woods not so long ago, and not once has Aspera come close to being sated for sight of him. Even now she aches with hunger. How, she wonders, can even the mere shadow of him be so beautiful?

But he's come closer, now, his head bowed and veiled by his shiny wood-coloured hair, his thick limbs hidden beneath the cape. Aspera wonders if he's aware that his walk betrays him-- he moves like something not of this world, each stride a little too long, each step a little too light for his size. He moves like his next step will be into Aetherius, into the veil of death, forever out of reach, a terrifying sort of grace. He moves past the tree Aspera perches in, and she leans forwards, eyes wide and hungry, devouring the sight of him.

Her own movement is not so delicate; with the shift the tree she perches in groans.

Wulf stops in his tracks and looks around him.

He does not think to look up (he must be getting sloppy, she taught him to always look up), but he's definitely caught the noise, and he looks this way and that, stray snowflakes snagging in his loose hair. His eyes, deep and colourless as any glacier, widen as he tries to peer through the tall narrow trees which surround him. The frost crinkles underfoot as he turns a slow circle, and Aspera dares not breathe.

"Hans?" Wulf calls out. His voice is soft, but his words rumble even through the trees.

No answer comes, so he looks in another direction.

"Harald?”

The forest remains silent. Frowning, Wulf begins to walk again, and within moments, once again, so painfully, he's gone.

Aspera is left to slump back against the trunk of the tree, clenching her eyes shut, attempting to imprison the sight she'd so eagerly drank in.

The loss of him from her view is unbearable; it’s as if she’s reliving the tower all over again, and each time she feels as if the grief might shatter her. She considered taking him captive, once. In her darkest moments she’s imagined keeping this piece of Lorkhan for herself, nestled close and safe deep in the heart of her realm, but she already can't stand the sadness in him and she loathes the thought of hurting him further, so she's banished the idea to the only part of her which feels guilt, and resigned herself to possessing him only in the form of these glimpses. Cold comfort, trapping his form like fire beneath her eyelid, stealing looks at him from behind Hrothgar’s walls. However, it’s all that’s within her reach, and even something so small as his silhouette in her memory is to be cherished, guarded--

A mighty heave shakes the tree and Aspera is toppling to the ground before she can even draw her daggers.

Then she stops falling, and she is in someone's arms.

Wulf never laughs-- a strange trait, because Lorkhan was always laughing-- but he has his own equivalent, for when he successfully pulls a prank, and that is a big toothy smile that burns like the sun. Said smile is burning into Aspera’s shoulders now, for Wulf has caught her on the descent and is now crushing her into an embrace, swinging her around mightily and beaming hot and triumphant against her when he presses his face into her torso.

Aspera, of course, cannot tolerate this. Aspera, of course, shouts in alarm and knees him in the stomach. This shocks him and he staggers back, and Aspera’s on him in an instant, pushing him down to the ground and wresting him into a grapple. But he's larger than he was before, heavier, and he manages to overturn them, pinning her down with his whole body, resting his forehead against her own.

"As-peh-rah," Wulf breathes through his smile.

"Wulf," Aspera replies, and flips him hard into the ground.

The blow knocks the wind from his lungs, and he lets out a hearty 'oof', but he's smiling still, his shoulders shaking with the mute mirth that's as close as he'll ever come to laughter. His eyes are crinkled happily, his hair is tangled with clumps of ice and leaf-litter, and when Aspera gets on top of him again, pinning his shoulders with her knees and wrapping a hand around his neck, he only smiles wider.

"Wulf," Aspera says again, amazed. "Did you trick me?"

"I'm Ysmir now," Wulf replies. His voice knocks snowflakes back into the air and sends Aspera’s hair fluttering.

"Ysmir? Who calls you Ysmir?"

"Paarthurnax."

As easily as if he were brushing off leaves, Wulf-- Ysmir-- rises to sitting, shoving Aspera off of him. She falls back on her rump without a struggle, only staring as Wulf shakes debris from his hair. He does not look so civilized, now, smeared with dirt and snow; she sees that he's been painted in the Atmoran fashion, with an image of a dark red gash cleaving his bare breast from collar to left nipple.

"Paarthurnax," Aspera sneers, through her nose, so that her voice takes on a mocking lilt. "Ambitious lord of cruelty. Is that who you're serving, now, little Wulf?"

Wulf frowns at her, in the way that he always used to frown at her-- taking everything too seriously, especially the jokes. “I serve nobody,” he tells her, deathly-grave. “None but myself.”

“So what is this?” Aspera reaches out and grabs his hair, thumbing the neatly-trimmed edges.

“My hair.”

“You cut it.”

“Hans cut it.” Flushing red (he’d always been a sensitive soul), Wulf shoves Aspera’s hand away, and even the graze of his palm feels supernaturally hot. But then the sight of her seems to rekindle something in him, a light behind his cloud-grey eyes that comes perilously close to feeling familiar, and his mouth once again splits open in a smile, revealing perfect yellow teeth.

“Why are you smiling?” Aspera asks him.

In reply, Wulf reaches out and clasps her face between his big palms. “Aspera,” he repeats himself, in awe. “It’s truly you.”

“Yes, it’s me. Let go of me.”

“You’ve come back.” His palms are scratchy with callouses, smelling richly of earth.

Affectionately, Aspera elbows his arm away, then rises to her feet. “Don’t flatter yourself, mortal. I’m not here for you.”

Wulf ignores the lie, ignores the good-natured act of violence. He gropes around him, lifts the sword which had fallen to the side when he’d caught her, rises to his feet and stretches. He’s grown since Aspera last saw him, she can’t help but notice, not just in his considerable height; his body has filled out, his already-generous muscles now padded with a healthy layer of Nordic fat. “But you’re back,” he repeats himself, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Aspera can only nod. She feels mute, breathless, winded not only by the fall; she’s being forced to consider once again that if Lorkhan ever dreamed of roaming his own world, this must be the form he would choose. The alluring seriousness of his dark eyes, the handsome downwards curl of his mouth and the sheer power betrayed by his mortal form (she recalls uneasily the strength with which he’d caught her, the magnetic heat behind his skin); as with Lorkhan, being near him feels like standing on a precipice, the temptation to fling herself in overwhelming.

He takes her contemplative silence as an invitation and seizes her hand in his own. “Come,” he bids her, “Let’s go meet Hans. And Harald.”

“Who?”

“My friends. We travel, we hunt, we’ll roam the world, like you and I did.”

“I don’t want to meet your friends.”

“Oh.” Wulf blinks. “We won’t, then. I know where they are. We’ll go away from them.”

“And go where? Towards the halls of Kyne’s crony?”

“Paarthurnax?”

“Him.”

“No, to a cabin. I left Paarthurnax long ago.”

“Did you.”

“I told you, I travel now. With Hans and Harald.” (There’s that frown again, full of concern). “You’re mad?”

It takes all of Aspera’s strength to wrench her hand away from him. Shaking her head mutely, she turns away.

Time, Auri-el’s invention, does not mean much to either of them, but if one was reckoning by time they had once shared a lot of it. When Wulf was still the foundling of dragons, living alone and without language in the wilds of Tamriel, Aspera had stolen to Nirn and made herself his companion. She’d saved his life, and it had been a perfectly selfish endeavor; they had fought together, hunted together, wrestled, riddled each other, spent long nights by paltry fires cooking scrappy meals of rabbits. They had fled Hircine’s wild hunt on foot and hacked their way out of a herd of werewolves, they had crept around Namira’s corruption and looked Herma-Mora in the eye without flinching. They had shared precious moments together, moments where Aspera had forgot to feel as if something had been torn from her. And when Wulf had allowed himself to be convinced to join the storm-bitten wicked society of the Northmen, abandoning their adventures for a mountain and the mandates of Kyne, those moments had begun to seem paltry indeed.

“Aspera?”

“How arrogant you are, mortal. Asking me to return to your side, after you left me.”

“You left me. You could have stayed.”

“You didn’t give me a choice,” replies Aspera. “Was I meant to follow you, make a toady of myself for Kyne?”

“But I left him, I told you. I’m with Hans and Harald now.” The soft crackle of frost as Wulf shifts on his feet. “So you can come with me.”

Aspera exhales. “No.”

“No?”

No. I’m going to the south, and we shall never meet again.”

“Don’t go. Join Hans and Harald and I. We can hunt--”

“Typical of you. You only want me for your collection.”

“I want you to stay with me.”

“Haven’t I denied you enough times before, Shor? When will you learn your lesson?”

Wulf is silent for several seconds at that, so quiet that Aspera thinks he’s left. But when she turns she finds that he’s come closer to her, and he’s still staring at her with his sad, serious expression, his eyes as dull grey as ash.

And he comes even closer to her, painfully close, and she cannot bring herself to move away when he touches her cheek once more.

“Koraav zey, Boethiah,” Wulf says softly.

Aspera turns her head away. “I won’t.”

“I am not him.”

“I don’t believe you. How can you deny what you are, after all I’ve known about you?”

“I’m not him,” Wulf repeats. One of his hands, hot despite the chill of the day, cradles her cheek, and with the other he brushes his thumb over her lips. He’s standing very close, staring seriously into her eyes with a gaze like staring into one of Kyne’s tempests, fathomless, a spark of violence beneath the eyelid. “Look at me.”

Aspera closes her eyes and laughs a bitter laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

“Boet-hi-ah.”

“Do you think you know me, then, using that name? You know I won’t listen to your words, that I never have; so if you mean to say this thing to me, prove it.”

And Aspera must have known what challenge he was planning, the single thing Lorkhan would never have given to her, for she is not surprised when Ysmir bites a kiss into her lips.

The kiss is sweet, and tastes of ash, and burns for the beauty of it, and Aspera tries her best to bring Lorkhan’s face to mind, as if it were Lorkhan’s mouth on her own, as if Lorkhan were living and Lorkhan would have ever held her so closely, partaking of her hunger with a warm tongue and sharp teeth. It’s not exactly gentle, but she must jealously wonder where he’s gotten all the practice (who are Hans and Harald?), in the few moments before he drags her into an embrace and crushes any power of thought out of her. Later there will be time to ponder this all, to contemplate the real want behind the deed and whether Lorkhan’s memory is behind the depth of the kiss and the grasping of fingers, but for a sliver of that so-called time, somewhere between tasting ash and separating just enough to concoct a plan in breathy whispers, Aspera forgets to pretend that it’s Lorkhan she’s embracing.

In a rough-shod hunting cabin, on a frigid winter night, Ysmir kneels by a straw bed and holds a sword aloft like an offering.

“What is this?” laughs Aspera. She’s perched above him on the thin straw mattress, draped in blankets like a queen.

“It’s a sword,” says Ysmir, earnestly.

“You’re holding it wrong, Wulf. How much have you forgotten?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Always giving me gifts. Come, get off the floor and join me again.”

But Ysmir stays kneeling, and he might have looked a little ridiculous, naked on his knees with the blade held high over his head, if it weren’t for the deathly somberness of his eyes. “Take it,” he commands her, with no hint of humour, “It’s for you.”

“Well, aren’t you cocky.” But Aspera knows him, and knows his stubbornness, so, without further argument, she takes the sword from his hand and lifts it in her own. It’s unlike any sword she’s seen before: the blade is golden, very thin and very long, with a slight curve to it; the balance is impeccable. When she moves her arm to cut the air with it, it flickers hotly like a candle’s flame.

She’s so captivated by the blade that she feels rather than sees Ysmir sit on the bed behind her, keeping his distance respectfully, save for the large hand that lightly cups the outer rim of her hip.

“It’s a good blade,” Aspera declares, resisting the urge to sink back into him. The fire’s burned out ages ago and the cabin is cold, but Ysmir’s hand feels hot as any brand. “Why give it to me?”

“To know you by, when we meet again.”

Aspera places the sword down on her bare thighs with one hand, and uses the other to clasp the hand on her hip. “Who says we will meet again?” she asks lazily, leaning back against his warm chest, so that her head comes to rest with the ear pressed just over the place where a mortal man’s heart would be. “No matter. Does it have a name?”

Ysmir bows his head, embraces her from behind, pulls her in close against that uncanny-quiet chest. And he whispers in her ear, in a voice that rumbles through the world itself: “Goldbrand.”

#self iso has ruined me #my laptop crashed like three times while trying to post this i think god himself was trying to discourage this one #fic

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writing-the-end · 3 years

Text

LoL Chapter 54- Dream’s End

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

A battle beyond the physical realm leaves an ally wounded, and the hermits fight over whether they should bother saving them at all- revealing a dark history of a fellow member.

Warning: Battle scene, some gore (not heavily descriptive)

_________________________________________

But rather than the hermits going down, Dolios crashes into the floor. Knocking him right out of this world.

And into the dream world. Standing behind Dolios, slowly sliding to his knees, Apatia is falling into the dream realm as well. His shoulders are slumped, eyes heavy lidded. Nothing looks different about the guildmaster, except for the fiery determination hiding behind sleepy eyes. “I’ll hold him off. He’s too angered to just put to sleep. I have to hold him back. Get out. Now.”

Ren steps forward, reaching out to help Apatia up. But the kipling shoos him away. “What about you, my dude?”

“I think it’s time Dolios sees what his own councilmember can really do.” Apatia offers a weak, tired smile. “If anyone has to go down, at least its just the lazy bum.”

Apatia falls into his sleep, collapsed with a light snore in the ruins of Dolios’s corrupted crystals. Dolios writhes in his sleep, attempting to force himself from the slumber Apatia has placed him in. But the kipling’s magic is strong. And now, Dolios is in Apatia’s realm.

“We have to get going.” Tango breathes, nudging Mumbo to his feet. Mumbo struggles to carry Grian’s weight, and reluctantly he lets Beef take the still weak, hardly living hermit in his arms.

“We’re really going to leave him here?” Stress waves to the two councilmembers on the floor. They don’t even know what’s happening, deep in the realm of sleep. “He saved us.”

“But he told us to leave.” Doc adds, forcing Beef to start walking.

TFC pauses. “Hypno, you deal in dream magic, right?” Hypno nods. “Can you scry us into what’s going on? I agree, we should put distance between us and Dolios. But I don’t think we should abandon Apatia. Yet.”

All the hermits grumble, but it’s a compromise they can live with. Beef takes the lead, carefully carrying Grian up the stairs and into the main dungeons. The hermits pile into a cell, huddled close and eyes glued to Grian. Ren uses his magic to make the cell appear empty, and that even sound won’t be heard through the illusionary barrier.

Light casts across the hermits as Hypno casts his circle, and the hypnotic pattern of his arcana swirls, spinning and growing until it becomes pure white. Like flying through clouds, Hypno guides his scry into the dreams of the two below. And from the white mist, a battle appears.

Dolios has completely lost all sense of calm and charisma. His hair is wild and untamed, as is his eyes, as the black mist and smoke of dark magic curls and ripples along his arms, dancing along the red sleeves and gold trim. His grin and sharp glare is met by a cold, hard stare from Apatia across the way.

He doesn’t smile, but his brows are furrowed with determination. A wayward lock, straying from his long, straight hair, falls to the bridge of his nose. Despite the blue hair, nothing breaks Apatia’s attention towards Dolios. He throws his cape aside, and from the fog and cloud of the dream realm, a halberd appears. Apatia reaches his hand out, and grips the weapon.

“Apatia, I should have known.” Dolios’s voice echoes in the dream realm, but stops at the barrier between vision and reality. “Though I expected you to be too lazy to bother getting in my way.”

“Got tired of your bullshit.” Apatia growls. “You’re in my realm now, Dolios. Anything that happens here will affect your corporeal body.”

“Good. Because I can’t wait to rip you apart. You may have the upper hand, but you know my power. And since you’ve let my targets run free, you’ll have to take their place.” Without warning, Dolios attacks. A barrage of corrupted magic, from flame to festering, fire and swarms of bugs barraging Apatia. But the guildmaster hardly seems concerned. He disappears into the mist, where even the blaze can’t burn it away, and reappears behind Dolios.

He swings his halberd, all his weight and force behind the iron weapon. Dolios blocks the attack, stumbling backwards. The dark magic fights with the mist of the dream realm, white fog and black ash dueling for control. Dolios raises a hand, pressing it on his cheek. When his finger comes away, a trail of red mars his fingers.

His own blood should have warned him to be more cautious, to face his opponent carefully. But the red ochre, mixing with the darkness that trails along his hands like snakes, only fuels Dolios’s mania. The bloody cheek creases and crests, eyes forced to squint at the diabolical grin on the magistrate’s face.

And when he attacks, it’s without remorse or restraint. All signs of the graceful, charismatic leader of Lairyon are gone. In the dream realm, Dolios’s reality is bared for all to see. Eyes wild and crazed, bloodthirsty and hungry to kill. Hungry for power. His pearly whiteteeth, white as bone, gleam and glisten like a beast’s, sharp as the cold smile he wears.

Apatia was prepared to fight Dolios, the cold, calm, calculating magistrate. But this isn’t Magistrate Dolios. This is the dark mage, hardly even human. Not even a monster. Just pure chaos. His movements are erratic, unpredictable. His magic even more so. There is no plan, no play. Only to kill, and eviscerate all memory of Apatia from the face of the earth.

The hermits can only watch in fear as Apatia takes on the onslaught. Burned, bashed, thrown aside. But despite all the pain, he still stands up and continues to fight. Dolios’s dark magic glings to this purple and azure cape, to his pale skin and navy hair, attempting to drain the kipling of his magic, to claim him as a husk. If anything, it was the dark magic that controlled Dolios, not vice versa.

Like tentacles of darkness, dark magic whips across the realm of magic. Apatia slices them apart, dispersing the ashen mist among the dream realm. He uses his environment to his advantage. Disappearing in and out, only to appear and land a blow on Dolios before retreating. Sometimes he gets away unharmed, other times he’s not so lucky.

Apatia contorts the dream realm to his will, but his upper hand is starting to lose strength. Dolios is learning the laws of the dream realm. And turning them against it’s very creator. Apatia turns the mist heavy, a fog so dense even the hermits struggle to see the battle within. In turn, Dolios burns the fog away with blinding light, harsh and static. For an instant, Iskall swears he can see gilded wings appear against Dolios’s back, but the light forces them all to turn their gaze away or risk burning their eyes.

In the midst of the blazing light, a crack echoes through the endless fog of the dream realm. When the hermits are able to see again, only one combatant remains standing.

Dolios stalks towards his quarry, leaving behind a wake of darkness as the magic grows, nearly encompassing all of him. It’s impossible to see the color of his robes, but unmistakable is the unhinged expression on his face. At his feet, Apatia struggles to rise, one arm wrapped around his waist. Blood stains the cloudy dream realm, turning the endless cloud a dark red. “You were always the weakest link. I should’ve done this from the beginning.”

Apatia reaches out in one last desperate attempt to grasp his halberd, but bloodstained fingers slip from the wood as Dolios plucks the weapon from the ground. “But you didn’t.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. But now, you’ll be a perfect example to the others why you don’t cross me. No one, not even the Council, is immune to my wrath.” A dark, dangerous glint appears in Dolios’s eyes, a glimmer matched only by the bloodstained metal of the poled weapon. “I believe I recall you saying that anything that happens here affects our corporeal bodies, correct?”

Without waiting for an answer, Dolios swings the blade. Some hermits avert their eyes, unable to watch, while others force themselves to witness yet another act of the magistrate’s own cruelty.

And cruel it was. He did not land a killing blow. No, Dolios would not give Apatia the satisfaction of a quick death. Rather, the halberd cut right through the thick membrane of Apatia’s dorsal. A clean, painful cleave. Dolios is unbothered by the blood splattered across his face, his clothes, his hands. The dark wizard steps over the writhing form of a man he once called ally. “My dream has become your nightmare, Apatia. Now it’s time to wake up, and face the consequences of your actions.”

The scrying screen disappears, so abrupt that the hermits are left in waning silence. Trying to remember who they were, where they were. The only one who was not totally enraptured in the fight before them was Grian, though that was mostly because he was still fighting for his life.

“Dolios just-” Cleo starts to talk, before Joe reaches over and claps his hands over her mouth. She looks about ready to bite his fingers off, but the sound of robes shuffling and boots stomping keeps her, or any hermit, from even breathing.

No one dares to move as the offputting laughter that bubbles from Dolios’s lips crosses the cell they hid within. He’s mumbling to himself, laughing in a way that begins as a nervous chuckle before growing into a booming cackle. The ramblings of a madman continue, though fading, until the sound of a door slams closed way in the distance. Even then, the hermits wait a few beats longer.

TFC emerges first, and doesn’t hesitate to turn back towards the spiral staircase. Following immediately behind him, Wels sheathes both his sword and shield, even removing his gauntlets. Some follow along, confused but guided by their guildmaster, others remain behind, just wishing to leave as fast as possible.

So when Wels returns with the others, and in his arms was the bloodied body of Apatia. A trail of red follows every step the paladin takes, and the metal of his armor is caked in gore.

Most hermits follow TFC and Wels without pause. They just want to leave. But Tango gives pause, as does Doc. “We’re only slowing ourselves down, why the hell are we taking him along? He’s probably halfway dead already, and-”

Their guildmaster turns around, and even Doc flinches when he is met with a stone cold stare. “We can argue when we’re back on Eremita. But he’s coming along.”

Without another question, the hermits comply. TFC has never been one to pull rank. He never rules absolutely, much preferring the input of his fellow hermits before making a decision, or even positing it for them to vote. But now? Now there was no questions, no if, ands, or buts. Cub opens a portal, allowing Beef to carry Grian through first, followed by Wels with Apatia.

Eremita is quiet again, but in a different way from when Apatia first arrived. It’s a tense silence as the two victims of Dolios’s magic are carried into the infirmary. Apatia, now ex-councilmember and enemy to the hermits, and Grian, the hermits' own healer.

Wels pulls out the meager infirmary supplies they had left. Between being Lairyon’s most wanted, and their own dependence on Grian’s angelic healing magic, they are poorly stocked. The paladin unrolls the wrappings, biting his lip and shaking his head. It’s not enough.

“Ren, do you think you can wake Grian and mimic his magic?” Wels presses against the bloody wound on Apatia, trying to staunch the blood. He’s used to battle wounds, but this even makes his stomach sick. This wasn’t a wound from a fight. This was Dolios taking a trophy.

Without hesitation, Ren turns around and places his hand on Grian. The angel is silent and still, but his chest rises and falls, if shallow. Color continues to grow across his body, saturating his skin and clothes with each breath of life.

Another hand appears, grabbing Ren’s and holding it down. Raising his gaze, he’s met by fiery red eyes. Tango’s hair burns bright and hot, causing beads of sweat to form at the hairline of Ren’s forehead. “And why should he? Apatia did this to himself for ever siding with Dolios. He’s getting what he deserved.”

Ren shrinks back, but Tango keeps his hand firm over his. TFC winces, but presses his shoulders back and meets the red eyes. “He’s the reason we have Grian in the first place. He’s the reason we were able to escape with almost no injuries.”

“But how does that compare to the thousands of lives he let Dolios take while he sat on his ass and napped in his office? What about my guild that he let Dolios destroy, and for years lead everyone to believe it was bandits? What about all of Gildara, every last soul in that town? What about Iris and Mica, all of the Asklepions? One right doesn’t negate all his previous-”

“Because it’s what’s right!” Wels’s voice rises above Tango’s filling the entire infirmary. Metal armor clatters as Wels sands, eyes staring- one clouded- down Tango. There’s a certain glimmer in Wels’s gaze, one Tango has never seen before.

“Don’t you have any empathy, Tango?” TFC adds, his voice sharp and grating. It makes Tango let go of Ren’s hand, allowing the werewolf hybrid to begin healing Apatia. Tango has never, ever heard TFC raise his voice- even when he was corrupted by Dolios’s own crystal, he didn’t shout. “This man is trying to change, trying to fix his mistakes, but you won’t even let him live to do so.”

“How do we know he’ll even do that?” Doc growls, finally raising his voice and appearing from the shadows. “When has a monster like him ever decided to do things right, and stick to it?”

“I did.” Silence follows, and all gazes are turned to Wels. “I changed. Became a better man. Or am I still the monster you know as Helsknight?”

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #mcyt #hermitcraft fanfic #light of lairyon #lol #wizard au #wizard hermits #wizard wels #wizard hypno #wizard Tango #welsknight #hypnotizd #tangotek

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owillofthewisps · 5 years

Text

beckoning light - part one

notes: i saw the witcher once and immediately couldn’t leave this alone. i know nothing about anything save for the netflix show and even then, who knows. but i am nothing if not self-indulgent. this will be two to three parts. it was supposed to be one but i’m incapable of shutting the hell up.

rating: teen on the edge of mature, i suppose.

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 4,309

the wisps have never lead you astray, but you did not expect them to lead you to him.

There is a light in the forest.

It is not a torch beyond the branches, you know. The light doesn’t flicker and undulate the way a consuming fire would, and it’s soft at the edges, like gleam of the moon streaming through the clouds. It is a familiar sight.

Dusk has not yet fully descended; there is a glow to the sky still, a kiss of orange and pink against the encroaching night.

The light in the forest moves, an odd sort of bobbing motion, and you heave a sigh. “No,” you tell the wisp, as though it can hear you from inside your home. The wisps have spent many an eve dancing at the edge of the clearing, just peeking out from behind the trees and beckoning, but you have no qualms with letting them be lonely sometimes.

The wisp - one of the bigger ones, heavy with light, like the rounded belly of the full moon - pulsates. You pause. It pulsates again, more rapidly this time.

“Fuck,” you say, and scramble for the trousers you’d left draped over the bed when you’d changed for the night. You pull them on as quick as you can, not bothering with a real shirt, just haphazardly tucking in the nightshirt you’re wearing. You make fast work of your boots as well, tugging the well-worn leather up over your bare feet, knowing it may well rub your skin raw.

Your cloak, your dagger, they fall into place in a whirlwind of movement, and then you are out in the chill of the settling night. Asha plunges out of the small garden by your home - half-wild, the sighthound is loathe to come inside while there is still light in the sky and you suspect she’s been harrying the partridges nesting in the back of the clearing - her powerful haunches making quick work of catching up to you.

Together, the two of you hurtle into the forest’s edge, dipping around saplings and tangles of old, old roots. The wisp flitters in front of you, darting along the path that only it knows, and you follow as best you can. The forest floor is slippery still, though the last rain was a few days ago, but you have long learned to keep your balance. Here and there, as you draw close to it, the wisp drops out of sight, and your stomach always drops with it as the forest goes dark around you, barely lit by what dying light filters through the canopy. Then the wisp flashes to life ahead of you once more, marking the path.

You are panting by the time you break into the clearing that the wisp is hovering in. You take in the horse, docile now, but with hoof prints all around it that indicate she had been wildly frightened earlier, and see no rider. The wisp flutters beyond the clearing, weaving and wavering.

“Stay,” you tell Asha. You do not need to tell her to guard; she settles near the horse, her muscles rippling with barely contained energy. You slip out of the clearing.

It is not long before you find the rider. His white hair shines almost silver beneath the light of the wisp, marking his place even though he is tucked into a small hollow between the roots of one of the large trees. He has managed to drag his large frame partially upright, but his eyes are closed, and there is a great gash across his chest, blood flowing from it in small pulses. From the pale sheen of him, he has been losing blood steadily.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Shit.” In your flurry, you had neglected to take even the most basic medical supplies. You are an idiot twice over, you suppose, but nothing can be done now.

You settle onto the roots he is propped against, and as you reach for him, you register the brute power of his form. He is built formidably. Formidable, however, has never deterred you, and there is often softness to be found beneath it, no matter how slight. You are intent on gauging his wound - this close, you can see that it is nastily edged, flesh torn ragged instead of cleanly cleaved from a sword’s edge, and you hope that he has left a corpse in another part of the forest, because you could not defend against something able to do this - and just before your fingers rest against his skin, he moves.

He catches your wrist. His large hand encircles your wrist entirely. The grip is strong, just on the edge of bruising. In spite of the situation, you flash upon what it would be like to have that large hand between your legs, prising your thighs apart - because, as Hadrian often tells you, you are shameless - before you glance up to meet his gaze.

Ah, you think. Hello, Witcher.

“Live or die?” you say, your voice mild.

His brow - gleaming with sweat, with patches of blood and dirt rubbed into his skin - furrows. His grip tightens.

“I cannot help you without my hand,” you tell him. You wiggle your fingers at him, the very tip of your middle finger brushing against his leather armor.

He considers you for a moment, those amber eyes keenly picking you apart, and then drops your wrist.

You shrug off your cloak. It’s a poor replacement for supplies, but it is all you have. You fold it until it is a decently thick square, and press it against the gash. The Witcher’s chest heaves, but only a small hiss of breath indicates the pain. You wrap your hand around his. Gently, you press it to his chest, to the rudimentary bandage you’ve created. “Hold it as tightly as you can,” you say, even though he has done so from the moment you placed his hand there.

For a moment, you think you see a gleam of something cross his handsome, stoic face. It might be irritation, and you cannot help the smile that flickers to life across your lips.

“Asha,” you call quietly.

The hound breaks through the brush with a bound. The Witcher tenses at the noise, but you lean to the side just enough that he can see her. Once he knows what has made the sound, his golden gaze returns to you. This evaluation is different. You pay it little mind as Asha noses against you, her blocky head pressing against your side, the warmth of her seeping through your thin shirt.

“Get Hadrian,” you murmur. She perks up, her tail wagging. You click your fingers twice, and she slinks into a predator’s pose once more. “Go.”

Asha takes off like an arrow flying from a bow. You return your attention to the Witcher and place your hand over his, adding your own strength to the pressure against the wound. He grunts. It’s a gravelly sound, reverberating through his chest. His hand is warm underneath yours, but he shifts his hand lower after a moment, out from under your touch. You do not comment, only push your own hand higher to give him more space from your skin.

“Can you stand, Witcher?” you ask. You are not sure what you will do if he cannot; you are not strong enough to get him to the horse alone, let alone on top of it.

He takes a moment. “Maybe,” he grates. His voice reminds you of river rocks tumbling against each other.

You pull back from him. “We’ll try.” True night is coming, settling over the forest like a blanket, and you know that you are running low on time.

If the Witcher has thoughts about your use of we, he doesn’t indicate it. You’re not sure he indicates much. Still, he does not protest when you slide deeper into the hollow with him, shuffling against his side and lifting his arm so that it drapes over your shoulder. He’s chilled against you. The blood loss, you think. You aren’t sure how he’s survived this long.

“Fuck,” he says as you push to your feet, his fingers tightening on your shoulder. He’s heavy. Despite his wound, he carries a good bit of his own weight. You can feel his powerful thigh flexing against you. You brace him with everything you’ve got, winding one arm around his waist, careful to avoid the tail end of his laceration. The movement seems to open the wound again, blood blooming in crimson patches through your cloak. He presses harder against the fabric. You think you hear another curse tumble from his lips.

Between the two of you, you manage to stagger back to the clearing. His horse nuzzles against him as you draw close. The Witcher’s fingers flex on your shoulder. You pat at the mare’s neck with one hand.

Getting him up on the horse is a struggle. By the end of it, your nightshirt is sticking to your skin, wet with sweat. You shiver in the night air. The Witcher looks worse for the wear. You suck at your teeth, trying to decide how best to ride with him. He’s broad enough that you would have difficulty peering around him, but his fingers had been clumsy as you had tried to get him on the horse. He may not be able to keep a good grip on you. Still, it seems the better option. You keep a hand on him as you mount up, wary of the slight sway of him.

“Hold tight,” you warn him. “And do not dare fall asleep on me.”

He grunts an acknowledgement. His arms wrap around you - you think you hear a hiss of pain - and if the strength of him is diminished by the wound, you cannot tell. The band of his arms is steel around you, his fingers biting into the flesh of your hips. It should perhaps hurt, but it does not bother you.

The wisp flits back into view as you gather the reins. The Witcher is leaning heavily against you now, his chest flat against your back, a solid wall against you. You can feel the wet of his blood starting to soak through. His breath stirs against you, warm and slow. You can just see a few strands of white hair flowing over your shoulder.

The wisp bounces forward, and you guide the horse after it. She’s a nimble thing, placid and unbothered by your inexperienced guidance as you try to learn the rhythm of her. The wisp floats near, just beyond you in the distance. Always guiding. The light stirs the Witcher into straightening in the saddle.

“A wisp?” he rasps. One hand comes free from around your waist. He reaches for the reins, but you evade him as best you can. He can’t quite manage to get the reins. That large hand envelopes your wrist instead. A weaker grip than earlier. Something you might even be able to shake off if you tried hard enough. “You cannot mean to follow.”

“I can and I do,” you say.

“If you wanted me dead,” he says dryly, “you should have just left me back there.”

“The wisps have never lead me astray.”

He grunts, reaching for the reins once more. “They never lead to anything good.”

“They lead me to you,” you say.

That gives him pause, you think. His grip on your wrist loosens. You are more and more aware of the spreading damp against your back. You spur on the mare. The wisp picks up its pace as well.

He is leaning heavily against you once more. You try to glance back at him, but with his form draped over you, it’s hard to make out his face. To see if his eyes are open or shut.

“Do not sleep,” you say.

He grunts.

“I mean it.”

He does not make another noise. You jostle him as gently as you can, and are rewarded with another grunt.

“If you’re going to sleep, Witcher,” you say, “you had best give me your name so I know what to put on your tomb.”

He shifts against you. “Geralt of Rivia,” he finally says.

You blink. Oh, you think. Even you know that name.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” you murmur, after giving him your own name. “But I do hate to lie.”

He huffs against your back.

You talk at him over the pound of the mare’s hooves. He is quiet the whole time, save for a few gravelly hums, but he shifts behind you when you speak to him, and you use that to your advantage. If he sleeps, you know, even Hadrian might not be able to save him. You talk at him until the horse breaks through to the forest’s edge. The wisp burns out once you can see the gaps in the trees. It has done more than its part, you know, had flared bright enough to hurt at a few points along the path, something you have long thought might be an odd form of protection for something lurking beyond your sight.

Getting Geralt off the horse is as much of a trial as getting him on was. Still, you manage it and stumble through the door with him. You settle him upright, so you can look at his wound in the light shed by the fireplace. He grunts. He’s wan in the firelight, sweat beading on his brow. You loosen his armor as best you can around the cloak before you have to peel it away. He winces when you do, but only a bit of blood wells in the gash.

Geralt’s chest is as broad as the rest of him. In another setting, you think, you would be glad to map it out with questing fingers. Instead, you scoop water from the bucket by the hearth with a wooden cup and kneel before him. You flush the wound out carefully, sending rivulets of watery blood running down his chest.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You pay him little mind, using cup after cup of water until the wound is clear of dirt and debris. The water runs pink down your arms, dripping from your elbows to dampen your trousers as well.

Your touch is careful but firm. You can feel those eyes on you - golden and molten in the dancing firelight - as you do not shy away from him. You keep your fingers off the raised shine of his scars, focus only on the sundered flesh.

There is little you can do beyond rinsing the wound. Healing is not your strength, and not for the first time, you consider that you should learn more. You have salves that Hadrian has gifted you throughout the years, but you often forget which is what, and you know that some of them have more poisonous aspects that you would not want on an open wound. You gather a clean nightshirt and fold it. Like your cloak, you lose it to Geralt’s wound, as you press it into place over the cleaned gash. The blood is less now, but with the amount he might have lost, you would like there to be none.

This time, you do not bother to tell him to hold it in place. He presses it hard against the wound. His chest rises and falls more heavily now, and you wonder at how much pain he is enduring.

“Here,” you tell Geralt, handing him a wooden cup, this water scooped from the cauldron by the fire. “Drink.”

He drinks deeply. You retrieve the cup when he’s done and fill it once more, this time with ale. It will help with the pain, you hope.

“You chose an unusual way to get a woman out of her clothes,” you tell him. Honestly, it’s a miracle that you hadn’t needed to peel off your nightshirt in the woods. He pauses mid-swallow before gulping the mouthful down. Still, you think he is amused, think it shows in the softening of his tight fist, think there might have been the slightest tilt to his lips. You wonder what it would take to make him laugh.

Asha bays outside. You get to your feet and stride to the door. The hound comes barreling in when you open it, her tongue lolling. She stops at the sight of Geralt, but her hackles stay down, so you turn your attention to Hadrian.

“Your hound,” he says to you, stepping through the door, “is a menace.”

He pauses, then, likely because Geralt’s blood has crept around to the front of your nightshirt on the ride, staining the fabric crimson.

“Shit,” he says, taking you by the forearm, already pulling at your shirt to get to the wounds.

“Stop,” you tell him. You manage to catch your shirt just as he starts to slide it off your shoulders.

“How much blood have you lost?”

“Hadrian. It’s not my blood.”

His hands go still against you. He lets out a breath that sounds perilously close to a whimper. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

“Hadrian.” You nod towards Geralt. The Witcher has his eyes closed, his head back against the side of your bed.

“Hell,” Hadrian says, his quick eyes already measuring the length of the cut and the shallow breaths of his patient. “Alright.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker open as Hadrian takes your place in front of him. The other man recoils, just slightly, at the sight of those amber eyes. From the way Geralt’s mouth pulls, it is a familiar reaction.

You pay little attention as Hadrian sets to work. Asha presses against you. She is dirtier than usual, dust collecting in her deep brown fur. You sigh and nudge her to come outside with you. You glance up at the doorway, and Geralt’s eyes are on you. Hadrian swipes a salve over the cut and the Witcher’s jaw tightens. His head tilts back once more. His neck is a thick column, and you consider what it would be like to set your teeth against it with his hands firm on your hips, holding you down on his lap.

Asha whines and you step through the door. You leave it cracked despite the chill of the night air. The fire warms your small house quickly enough. “Come here,” you tell Asha. You brush your hands through her coat, shaking as much of the dust loose as you can.

It takes longer than you expect. Hadrian is a careful healer, you know, and the wound had been severe, but you find yourself biting your lip as the moon climbs higher in the night sky. You busy yourself by taking care of the horse, who shies away for only an instant before letting you care for her. When you see Asha circling, ready to curl up on the dirt, you return inside.

There’s a little more color in Geralt’s face now. He is still wan and has a sheen of sweat covering him where he is not swathed with bandages, but Hadrian’s brow has smoothed out of the pinch it had gathered into when he’d laid eyes on the Witcher.

Though you are almost silent as you enter, the Witcher’s eyes open, his head rising. His eyes flicker down for a moment, and you realize that in the chill night air, your nipples have tightened into peaks, just visible under the thin nightshirt. He meets your gaze steadily when his eyes return to yours.

Hadrian’s grey eyes dart to your chest too, but that is much more commonplace. You cross the small room to peer down at Geralt. Even seated, it feels like he towers over you, but you have lived too long at the edge of the forest, where the trees dwarf even some of the largest of creatures. “Live it is, then, I suppose?” you ask him.

“So it appears,” he says, the slightest tilt at the corner of his lips. You wonder if the blood loss is why he seems to find you amusing.

“You’ll take him back to town then?” you ask Hadrian.

The healer shakes his head, picking at his long black braid with nervous fingers. “He can’t ride yet.”

Geralt makes a noise that expresses his clear disagreement with that assessment.

Hadrian quails a bit in the face of Geralt’s thunderous brow, but he rarely backs down when it comes to recovery. “The wound will open again. You need to limit movement. In the very least for the night, if not longer.”

“I can ride.”

You heave a sigh. “I did not drag you out of the forest so you could manage to kill yourself in a quest to return to a small town.”

The tendons in Geralt’s jaw flex.

“Do you need to stay?” you ask Hadrian. It could be foolish, you know, to stay alone with this strange man, but the wisps would not steer you wrong. You think. You hope.

His eyes flicker between you and the Witcher. When Asha shifts in her place by the hearth - even curled up, she is a solid, barrel-chested beast and wounded as he is, you do not think Geralt could stand long against her - drawing his eyes, he huffs out a breath.

“No,” he says. “The bandages should hold. But I will come first thing in the morning.”

Geralt, you notice, has leaned his head back again. His eyes are closed, his white hair spilling over the coverlet like a fresh snowfall. Except not quite, since the forest hollows are not the cleanest, and there is grime streaked throughout his locks.

“Up,” you say with a sigh, bending down to levy him to his feet. Hadrian bends with you, thankfully, as you’ll likely need his strength as well. “Let’s at least get off the top layer of grime.”

Geralt comes to his feet with a grunt of pain, and then you have to press against him as he sways. Hadrian braces him from the other side. “‘I can ride,’” you scoff under your breath - from the look you get, Geralt hears you just fine - before handing off most of Geralt’s weight to Hadrian.

You strip off the rest of the Witcher’s armor methodically, undoing the ties nimbly as you find them, sliding the studded leather free. He watches you steadily as you work, his gaze unwavering as you touch him here and there. Much of the grime is contained to the leather, luckily, so you leave his trousers in place.

Geralt takes the dampened rag from you when you offer it. As he wipes some of the sweat and dirt from his neck and face - Hadrian keeps him balanced with a healer’s detachment, only sharpening his gaze when a noise that could be pained issues from Geralt - you finish a few of your nightly chores.

The Witcher settles onto your bed. The frame creaks under his weight, but it’s big enough for him with some room left over.

“If you’re leaving, you should go,” you say to Hadrian. “It’ll soon be too late to even travel the main road safely.”

He glances between you and Geralt, those nimble fingers plucking at his braid once more, but nods. You bid him farewell at the door.

Geralt watches as you take the rag he’d used and dip it back into one of the buckets. You wring it out a few times, until the water is clear again, and then sling it over your shoulder.

“I would ask if you’re always this quiet,” you say to him, “but I think I already know the answer.”

“I would ask if you always talk this freely,” he says, “but I hardly think you need a question to keep talking.”

“The price of my inn is that you must hear me chatter as I would if you were not here.”

He grunts. You bite down on your smile.

You strip off your nightshirt - it’s gone stiff with blood now, crackling unpleasantly as you pull it over your head - without a care, though you’re turned just enough that he cannot see the entirety of you. You run the rag over yourself, wiping away the remnants of the forest and of his blood, the water soothing against your skin. Gooseflesh prickles at your skin as the air brushes across your damp skin, cooling you.

The bed creaks. “Do not bleed on my bed,” you warn, glancing over your shoulder at him. Geralt has turned to better face you, propping himself up on his side. You can see the bandages straining across his muscular chest.

“You cannot expect me to not turn towards such a sight.”

You pull on your shift before padding over to the bed. It is your bed, and you will sleep in it, whether he is there or not. “You have a neck,” you remind him. “I hear they turn. Without the risk of opening a dire wound.”

He grunts. It’s clearly his most fluent language. He turns onto his back when you push lightly at his shoulder. The bed creaks under you as you put a knee up on it. You consider swinging your other leg over him, to straddle his thick thighs, but there’s little point in tormenting yourself. Instead, you peer down at the expanse of bandages.

There’s no blood blossoming, so you assume the wound has not opened once more. Geralt is pallid in the dying firelight, the embers’ soft glow doing little to hide the effect of the blood loss. His eyelids keep fluttering open and closed, long, sooty lashes dark against his skin.

Still, he drags a finger over the crease of your hip as you climb over him to get to the remaining bedspace. Through the thicker material of your shift, his touch is almost ghostly. You sink into place between him and the wall.

“Sleep, Geralt of Rivia,” you say. “And let us see what the morning brings.”

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #story: beckoning light

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badolmen · 4 years

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real talk, when did shit get really real for the botanist when the woods began to take over?

👀 well since you asked and I’m incapable of answering anything normally...

There was a time when Aleks liked cutting down small trees by hand, when they found peace in hacking down stems no wider than their wrists. Now it was a tedious chore, a daily reminder of how quickly their world was changing. Their axe cleaved another tree to its stump, but the fast growing plant needed a push to reach the ground.

At the very least, they would never have a shortage of firewood so long as the forest kept this pace.

“Run out of gas again?” Even though the voice was familiar, the botanist couldn’t help but tense their grip on the axe in their hands. These were dangerous times.

“I’m saving it for the generator. From the sounds of it they won’t be getting the power lines back up any time soon.” Aleks explained, picking up their discarded jacket and tucking it under their arm.

“I heard the same.” Kalina sighed wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“What are you doing here? Not that I – not that, uh, I don’t enjoy the company, but you usually send a message.” The botanist asked, walking around to the front of their home with the nun.

“That’s actually why I’m here,” She said, voice soft. “The birds won’t fly over the woods. We’ve tried everything. They’re afraid.”

“Everyone is,”

“Come now, you know better than anyone that those birds would rather fly from here to the village than stay cooped up in their nests under any other circumstances.” The nun said, shaking her head as she looked at the where the sun peeked between gathering clouds. “Just, come look at them. Sister Ada thought they might be broody but…better safe than sorry.”

“You’re right about that. Give me a minute and we’ll be on our way,”

The pair walked through the woods, weaving between trees and occasionally glancing at the dark canopy above. Aleks pretended not to notice when Kalina held their arm, sticking closer to the botanist as they followed the overgrown trail deeper into the woods.

There were whispers of men going mad in the village, abandoning homes and taking up the role of brutal savages deep in the woods, somehow surviving the horrors of night without light or fire. But no such savages had made it this far north in the woods, as far as they knew.

“…There’s also the bees, which are as strange as the birds these days.” Kalina continued, listing the news from the past week. Sister Sonia had spent every waking moment in the shrine, while Mother Hedwig assured the sisters that they were safe within the abbey. The priest, Father Kos, had left to the Archbishop in the east just two weeks ago, to bring concern for the forest to wider authorities.

“I meant to ask you about that – the hive in my greenhouse has been in a swarm mood despite the season.”

“Same with ours. The east hives have already swarmed – we can’t find the new colony, not that we’ve looked far.” Kalina paused as the steeple of the abbey came into view between the tree crowns. “Do you think it’s the trees?”

“If it is, I don’t understand how. Not yet.”

The pair walked through the open gardens, other nuns hacking away at the encroaching woods with axes sharper and larger than Aleks’ own.

“Sister, for the hearth.” A nun addressed Kalina, handing her a basket of tinder branches. “Mother wishes to speak with you, now that you’re back.”

“Of course, Maria,” Kalina took the basket and pulled Aleks toward the abbey gates. “The birds are in the steeple, do you remember –”

“I know the way, meet me there.”

The familiar stonework of the abbey that was usually busy with song and clergy lay dusty and silent, save for the occasional cough and quiet murmur of the nuns. Another sound was missing from the empty building – the typical cooing of doves no longer echoed from the tower above, even as Aleks climbed the spiraling stone stairs.

The steeple held nothing but feathers and dead doves.

“Christ the King,” They muttered, picking up one of the limp birds, still warm to the touch but no hum of life under its skin.

“What’s – oh Lord,” Kalina stepped beside the botanist, peering over their shoulder. “What happened to them? They were fine, well, mostly fine this morning…” She reached past them to pry a still twitching bird from its nest. “It’s…it’s having a hard time breathing.”

Aleks had set one of the dead birds on the ground, knife steady as Kalina whispered prayers and comforts to the dying animal in her hands. Birds never bled much, and that they were grateful for as they sliced through the delicate skin and easily cracked the fragile ribcage.

“We’ve never burned candles up here…and its so well ventilated here in the steeple, I don’t know how…” There was a whimper from Kalina, Aleks hardly hearing her soft whisper. “Oh, I’m sorry little one.”

“It wasn’t anything you burned,” Aleks said, eyes seeing but brain struggling for an explanation of how they were seeing what lay before them in blood and feathers. Kalina crouched to their level, still cradling the dead bird to her chest.

“Fuck…” She breathed, though she briefly made the sign of the cross. “What in the name of God is that?”

“It…it looks like a mycelial mat, but, but somehow growing…filling the lungs.” Aleks was not thrilled by the thoughts swirling in their mind. “Where did you last send a bird?”

“East, to…to Father,” Her dark eyes were searching for meaning in the dead animals around them. “The bird never delivered its letter…”

“What are you two – doing…up here?” Sister Ada’s harsh tone faded as she saw the birds and the blood. Aleks sprung up to their feet.

“I need to talk to Mother Hedwig, now.”

---

“Are you sure you’re alright to walk home by yourself?” Kalina’s smile was honest, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Now that’s a question I haven’t heard since university,” Aleks said, trying to force their own smile to match. “I’ll be fine. Thank you and the Sisters for letting me stay the night.”

“Alright,” She tucked a stray curl of hair beneath her habit, eyes unfocused as she stared across the gardens where the other nuns were already at work tending the vineyard and attacking the ever growing woods.

“Hey,” The botanist said, leaning into her. “At least your bees are okay. A little confused about the season, but they’ll settle down once we get a hard freeze.”

“You’re right, you’re right…” Kalina sighed, leaning against them. “Let me know how your hive is doing once you get down the greenhouse,”

“Will do. Might take a bit longer if I have to catch the Courier and convince her to head up your way.” The botanist said, standing from the abbey steps and stretching. “I’ll visit again soon,”

#ra speaks #darkwood #darkwood fic #the botanist #the apiologist #the abbey of st gobnait #me. hoping to avoid all work today: what's this? an excuse to write about the garden gnome and their hellworld? absolutely.#what's that old saying...a canary in a coal mine? a dove in a tower? hmmm???#the italics just mean this happens all in the past relative to all the other times I write the botanist

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Two Sides of the Coin (20 - End)

Chapter 20: You Fit Right in | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

A/N: OH MY GOD YOU GUYS IT’S DONE!!! ;;A;; My longest fic to date and my very first fic with my own OC in it!! It’s been a wild, fun ride for me, but I’m really happy to see that many of you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💖 I might take another break maybe a day or two before I finally work on the requests in my inbox. My irl workload has been doubled being the temporary stand-in for the absentee assistant 😅 I’m holding up okay in the office so I’m fine, good thing I have good outlets for stress relief so I'm able to cope well ^w^ If you enjoyed the story and went with it until the very end, A BIG, BIG THANK YOU!! I can’t wait to share more of my dear Jidné and new Cal x Reader fics in the near future 😉😊

Also in AO3

Also tagging @berenilion @silver-is-in-too-many-fandoms @stellar-trinity @justtinfoley @peterwandaparker @calgasm @cal-jestis @superwarsofthrones @calsponchoemporium @fallenjedii @sweeetteaa @ayamenimthiriel @queen-destenie

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 – 12 – 13 – 14 – 15 – 16 – 17 – 18 | Previous: Part 19 | Masterlist

20 of 20

Each Jedi blocked either side of the Sixth Sister’s double-edged saber, and—surprisingly so, for someone so lithe and slender—the youngsters were overwhelmed by the gradual weight taking over the both of them. If there was one thing that was both the Sixth Sister’s weakness and strength: it’s her temper. Her strength rooted from the vexation that Jidné’s taunt brought, then amplified by her tapping into the insidious fountain of power that is the Dark Side of the Force.

Gathering all of their collective might, Cal and Jidné finally pushed the Inquisitor away albeit a struggle to do so successfully. When the standing paces away from them, they afforded to catch their breaths.

“You might have hit a nerve right there, Jidné,”

“Go figure,” she shrugged casually.

The Sixth Sister’s entire personality changed—if they knew her initially as the suggestively mischievous Inquisitor, then it took a full 180 tunr for her to become a dark agent of the Sith, oozing with rage while flailing her saber against two redeeming Jedi Padawans.

Cal and Jidné put the tension between them aside just so they can properly work together in fighting against the Sixth Sister—whose strength was obviously better than theirs combined. This is where Jidné finally realizes what the Inquisitor meant by having better fights than them combined; tapping into the Dark Side of the Force could lead one to a path of many abilities some consider to be unnatural—and this mismatch of brute strength inside a lithe body was one of the many examples.

“Come on now, surely you can do better!” the Sixth Sister roared.

The pair of Jedi—as the battle against the frenzied Inquisitor dragged on—studied carefully her movements, strategized on how to exploit her weakness or her falters, and finally find an opening. While she’s still overly-strong for someone of her stature, the two Jedi studied the enemy’s form—from the widest swing down to the minutest flick of the wrist or change in the grip.

It was clear that the Sixth Sister isn’t bluffing—she never was, in the first place—and she had proven it otherwise through her prowess with her haloed saber.

The seconds felt like minutes as the three exchanged strikes, but the two Jedi held fast. They were especially persistent in getting the upper hand. Gradually out of steam rooting from the rage she uses as energy, the Sixth Sister’s movements have become sluggish—while Cal and Jidné afforded momentary breaths whenever they distanced themselves. Eventually, they got their own hits on her: Cal had jabbed her shoulder, thus leaving a red, burning crater on the flesh, and Jidné produced a searing gash from her abdomen to her thigh, cutting through the fabric of her right pant leg.

The Sixth Sister turned to the ring of Stormtroopers and Purge Troopers that surrounded them. She didn’t like the way the blank faces of their helmets stared at her. It’s like Vader had another set of eyes to watch over her every move, judging her, condemning her—and she had felt such a presence always looming behind. The fear that she’s been turning her back to has come to chase after her.

“Put those weapons to good use, imbeciles!” the Twi’lek Inquisitor snarled, obviously frustrated that her strength was close to outliving its usefulness.

It was the Purge Troopers who obeyed first—there were only two of them, however, they were the formidable Dual Wielder and the Electrohammer trooper. Finally, the Inquisitor afforded a moment to catch her breath and recover from the pain, stepping away while the Purge Trooper pair step in as her proxies.

“Well, finally!” the Dual Wielder snickered, the indigo electrical currents at the ends of his batons crackled with the same enthusiasm.

The Electrohammer Purge Trooper didn’t speak, instead asserted his dominance in this battlefield by pounding the floor with the pommel of his weapon—sending out violet tendrils of electricity sprawling on the floor and then die out seconds later.

“Dibs on the hammer guy,” Jidné blurted.

“Alright,” in a display of roguish cockiness, Cal rotates the center of his saber hilt—transforming his dual-edged saber into its split variant. “Then I’ll even this one out.”

Jidné stole a glimpse of Cal and smiled to herself, a nasal scoff coming out of her in reaction to his remark. Their arena just got wider as the Stormtroopers—who have a strange mix of admiration, envy, respect, and fear for the Purge Troopers as a whole unit—backed away and continued to watch while being on guard in case either Jedi tries anything—by their definition—bizarre.

“Pheh! You think having the same number of weapons as me would save you?!” the Dual Wielder.

“I can try!” Cal snapped back.

Underneath his dark helmet, the Dual Wielder Purge Trooper smirked—impressed by the Jedi’s snarky determination. He’d make his death as honorable as possible, the fighter in the jet black armor thought to himself as their distance hasn’t shrunk yet.

On the other hand, Jidné is up against the slow yet brutish slugger of a Purge Trooper. The oldest trick in her book would be taking advantage of his slowness, but seeing that this was a specially-trained soldier—particularly much more skillful than the standard Stormtrooper—underestimating his abilities would prove to be fatal for her.

Finally, each fighting pair touched weapons. The right saber would clash against the left-handed baton; the cleaving electrohammer nearly severed the blade of purple light. The surrounding Stormtroopers were actually glad that they have moments to spare by simply watching the fight ensue; however, majority of them were already preparing themselves for the Sixth Sister’s command on them to follow suit against the Jedi.

And speak of the devil, she did.

“Fire at will!” the Twi’lek roared at the white-armored riflemen, nearly straining her throat from her command.

One by one, they raise their blasters at the Jedi—who were excessively moving in all directions. It was difficult enough to get a clear shot, but the possibility of accidentally engaging into friendly fire would result to a beating from the Purge Troopers.

—–

Meanwhile, the Sixth Sister’s fear has been realized. While the Purge Troopers deal with the Jedi youngsters, her eyes wandered around the entire hangar—particularly at the windows of the bridges were commanders would keep post and watch from above. Only this time, it wasn’t an admiral keeping an eye on the Twi’lek.

A pair of Zabrak siblings, stand together in front of the window watching the skirmish below them. The eldest sister subtly kept her gaze on the hunched Twi’lek, anticipating whether or not she’ll return to action. On the other hand, her brother observed the dynamic of the fight—observing the Jedi pair, judging their forms and their coordination together.

“We might have a problem here,” the brother murmured, keeping it only within his sister’s earshot.

“I know,” she chided.

“Shall I inform him?”

In that moment, after the brother asked, by pure coincidence, it feels as though the Sixth Sister and the female Zabrak had locked eyes with one another, despite the tinted gray windows only showing a silhouette. The Zabrak woman’s shoulder flinched but suppressed it quickly by clenching her fists behind her back. The Twi’lek’s eyes remained on the commander center with the tinted window, incapable to see anything from her end but is being looked upon.

The brother verbally nudged his older sister with the same question.

The elder Zabrak sister paused for a moment, she made a quick sigh. Her eyelids dropped as she came to a short yet difficult deliberation with herself. She inched her head to her brother and gestured a small nod to him, prompting him to turn tail and leave the room towards the unspoken yet known destination.

Much later, the Stormtroopers joined the fray—but only at a safe distance—there were brave ones who dared to squeeze the triggers. Some missed, a few found a different mark, whilst a handful got banked by the Jedi—the latter slowly thinned out their numbers as Jidné and Cal traded blows with the Purge Troopers. This tactic of theirs continued until the Stormtrooper commanders donning the red-orange pauldrons motivated their men to continue attacking; the Scout Troopers who wielded batons eventually joined into the very complicated whirlwind of blades.

“I’ve had enough of this!” Jidné bellowed, kicking away a Scout Trooper about to attack her from her 6 o’ clock while waiting to catch her saber she just flung to her Purge Trooper.

Jidné crunched a button on her gauntlet and a tiny light glowed under the keycap. Even though the battle grunts, the threatening snicker from the Purge Troopers, and the blaster fire from the Stormtroopers drowned out any other sound in the hangar—the Crescent Scarab revving and warming up its engines prevailed.

Everybody—even the Twi’lek—stopped to turn their attention to the growing sound of a turbine’s whir. Jidné smirked when she noticed lights flickering in the cockpit—essentially bringing the Scarab to life—and the hydraulic steam sputtering out of the landing gears as they slowly fold into their respective hatches.

“There’s a good ol’ girl when I need it!” Jidné celebrated to herself.

While the enemy was distracted the freighter being remotely controlled by the girl, Cal and Jidné took them by surprise: Cal sent all troopers flying to the ground, flat on their spines, whilst Jidné darted towards the completely disoriented Purge Troopers lying down on the cold, black tile—the girl caught Cal’s second saber in her free hand and then drove both weapons in her hands into the jet-black stomachs of the Purge Troopers.

“NO!!” the Sixth Sister screeched, her mouth stretching into a roundness that showed off her fangs. Her awe-stricken eyes shared the same wideness as her mouth as she watched the Purge Troopers get eradicated by the blades of the supposed bounty hunter.

In the middle of the action, Jidné’s remote had commanded the Scarab’s armaments—an ion cannon on both sides—to turn and aim its barrels at the scene of the fight. At the corner of her eye, Jidné saw this and dashed towards the unaware Cal.

“CAL, GET DOWN!!” Jidné screeched as she tackles him out of the possible radius of the skirmish.

The Inquisitor saw it coming and physically dodged an enormous bullet—two at that—but the Stormtroopers weren’t as fortunate as the three of them.

Seconds after the shots have been fired, Jidné scrambled up to her feet—dragging Cal along with her.

“Come on… Come on!” she urged frantically.

Cal ran in front, Jidné continued to keep herself close behind his back. The redhead sprung from the hangar floor and grabbed onto the door frame of the Scarab’s entry ramp. All the color in his face drained when he saw that Jidné wasn’t behind him anymore.

The Sixth Sister had hindered Jidné in her tracks. The Twi’lek inflicts Force pull on the girl’s legs, causing her to stumble and make a desperate move to crawl away while her hands are still free.

“JIDNÉ!!!”

“MAN THE SHIP!!” cried Jidné as she squirms away from the Twi’lek.

“But…”

“JUST GO!!!”

Cal rushed to the cockpit and witnessed Jidné face off the Sixth Sister one last time before they make their escape. The dashboard dazed him for a few seconds but the redhead pulled it together and began flailing his arms across the control panel before putting his hands on the wheel.

Jidné took ID off of her person, commanded him to join Cal—even though the little droid was vigorously objecting the idea.

“Come on, ID, you have to help Cal and BD-1 in there! Do it for me!”

The probe droid lowed, but his trill was drowned out by the sound of the ship warming up its thrusters. He zipped towards the entry ramp that Cal intentionally kept open and finally rejoined the boy and his droid.

“You think that I’m going to let you go so easily!?” the Twi’lek boiled with a rage as hot as the red of her skin.

Inch by inch, she hauled the Jedi girl towards her and farther away from her own freighter. The floor squeaked as she continues to be dragged against her will, clawing the surface did very little to help her. The malicious grin on her face grew for each pull she made on Jidné.

“Don’t even bother squirming away!” hissed the Sixth Sister, using her other arm to inflict the same ability on Jidné—this time on her upper body. “I will not be the exact same failure as the Second and Ninth Sisters!!”

Halfway in, she brandished her saber with her good arm, closing in on Jidné.

“Now, your Jedi boyfriend’s gonna watch you die—and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The female Zabrak who continued to watch slightly tensed when she watched the Sixth Sister get the upper hand: her eyebrows furrowed, her hand clutching the other behind her back tightened with anticipation, and held all the air in her lungs awaiting for some sort of satisfaction from this suspense.

“Come on, Jidné!” Cal spoke through the clench of his teeth.

But both the Zabrak spectator and the Twi’lek were caught off-guard by Jidné’s next move.

Jidné headbutted the Inquisitor hard on the forehead, disorienting the enemy and consequently losing her focus on the girl—who has afforded enough freedom to move around and retaliate with a Force push strong enough to stagger the enemy.

“What?!” the Twi’lek gasped upon witnessing her would-be victim break free.

Without wasting a single second, Jidné called her lightsaber to her hand and the purple blade obediently emitted out of the hilt by the touch of the switch.

“I don’t plan on dying—not here, not now!!” declared Jidné.

The Twi’lek snickered, “My, my, you have the pride of a bounty hunter but not the grit of one.”

“No,” Jidné slightly shakes her head. “I have the grit of a Jedi!”

The Sixth Sister and Jidné engaged in one last duel. Cal had already prepped up the ship and kept the Scarab warm, he carefully maneuvered the ship to face the exit of the hangar, but maintained a hovering altitude for Jidné until she makes a run for it.

Jidné did not spare any ounce of her might in battling the Twi’lek.

The rough-and-toughness of a bounty hunter manifested within Jidné as she cleaved her way through the Inquisitor’s defenses; but her elusiveness had the fluidity that of a Jedi, denying her enemy to deal a single hit on her and instead overwhelming the Twi’lek with attacks. The latter has started to regain her strength and finally equal herself to the young Jedi she’s fighting, but Jidné already has gotten a headstart in stealing the upper hand.

With their blades locked on to one another, the Twi’lek was taken aback by Jidné’s strength—it was something that she had never witnessed from any Jedi before—but the pain of her injuries had kicked in and betrayed her once more, slowly bringing her to submission as Jidné shifts all her weight on her blade.

The Inquisitor staggered as she receives a kick in the abdomen from Jidné, in the next blink of an eye—she didn’t feel its first moments—she felt the searing sting birthed by a lightsaber’s edge, cauterizing her flesh into an ugly curdle of dried blood on the wound’s surface. The pain caused her to submit to her knees; for good measure, Jidné pushed her away using the Force.

Before she was able to make her escape, the door behind the Sixth Sister whipped open and revealed Darth Vader—who has decided to take the matter into his own hands. Jidné felt her stomach drop to the soles of her feet upon seeing the Sith lord appear and take the Sixth Sister’s place in the duel.

“JIDNÉ, COME ON!!!” Cal barked, standing at the edge of the entry ramp waiting for her.

Cal’s cry to her snapped her out of frozen state caused by the fear of Vader who was seething with an immeasurable fury and unquenchable ferocity.

Jidné ran—as fast as her legs can carry her.

Her lungs felt sore as she caught her breath in every step. Never has she ever been so afraid to look back over her shoulder. Cal had reached out his hand for her and she extended her hand. Their fingers joined flimsily but unlatched as the Scarab continued its fly-by. Jidné pushes herself one last time and Cal caught her arm, gripping it tighter than never before and pulled her into the freighter.

“LET’S MOVE!!!” Jidné threw herself of the pilot’s seat and maneuvered the ship out of the hangar. Cal joined her in the co-pilot seat by her side.

The Scarab darted out of the hangar, the remaining Stormtroopers, maintenance crew, and deck commanders threw themselves out of the freighter’s path for their lives. Their departure was salt to the Sixth Sister’s wounds, watching them fly out of the volcanic wasteland greatly frustrated her—but also made her fear for her life.

Complete, sheer silence was the only thing that the Scarab seems to have left behind when it disappeared in the sky as it made the jump to lightspeed. Darth Vader’s cape billowed in the hot breeze that the Scarab’s mufflers blew as it left. Meanwhile, the Sixth Sister’s heart was rapidly beating—as if savoring its last few moments of doing so, because she knew perfectly well that there’s no escape from the Sith lord’s wrath.

“I almost feel sorry for her,” the Zabrak brother halfheartedly sighed, his older sister didn’t take kindly to the remark and decided to ignore him.

“My lord…!!” she cracked, disposing all of her pride and bringing herself further to the ground, as if praying to a deity. “Forgive me! Let me pursue them! I am perfectly fit to—!”

Vader raised a hand partially clasped. Her terrified stammering annoyed him; however, her voice persisted in uttering the words “Forgive me” through her gagging until a single crack of bone silenced her fully.

“You are forgiven, Sixth Sister.”

The dark lord of the Sith gazed at the now empty hangar, following the trail of the Scarab upon its departure. He stares at the grey sky that watches over his stronghold. Beneath that blank, emotionless demeanor is an anger that boils hotter than the magma that flows under the foundation of his castle.

—–

The Crescent Scarab cruises through the system where the hyperspace jump has led to.

The two Jedi finally had the opportunity to relax and catch their breaths. The lone captain of the Scarab sets the ship on auto-pilot mode as she waits for the adrenaline to subside.

Machine hums, droid trilling and beeping were the only sounds that filled the ship. There was still an awkward silence between the two Jedi. The girl was still unable to explain herself—the negotiation, her motives before and after she had the change of heart—even though she’s got a thousand words to say.

Jidné slouched on her seat, elbow propped on the armrest, and her forehead resting on the palm of her hand. Cal watched the slow rising and falling of her shoulders, the subtle shifts of her position in the chair, and watched how her eyes shifted while staring at the ceiling of her vessel.

Her arm reached out to the navigation computer on the dashboard and encoded a combination of numbers and letters. Shortly after that, the screen flashed a miniature preview of the planet that represented the grid coordinates she’s typed.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home,”

“You mean, we are going home?”

Obviously taken aback, Jidné turned her head to Cal to reaffirm what he meant with his emphasis on the word. She dismissed it when he didn’t get the hint in the first moment and resumed control on the ship. Cal volunteered to co-pilot with her and discovered that it was not really that different with the Mantis’s own controls.

ID-3 and BD-1’s collective beeping startled the Jedi youngsters and broke the silence. Jidné and Cal listened to their excited droids.

“From where we are now, we’re just an hour away from Ombari,” Jidné translated. “Wouldn’t want Cere and the others worry about you, huh?”

Cal detected a melancholic tone in her voice, the smile that she flashed in front of BD-1 quickly melted as soon as she faced the windshield again. He easily felt the bittersweet aura that she emitted as he studied her staring into space and the planets that they flew by. The redhead recalled her words when she set him free.

“Escape now, hate me later.”

He wanted to prove her wrong—prove that he doesn’t hate her anymore. How could he hate her if she’s practically saved their lives from a new Inquisitor and Darth Vader himself?

His eyes trailed to her fingers fiddling on the dangling accessory strand strung on the saber’s pommel. He notices that her fingers were staying on strand that he crafted for her, her thumb pushed each bead as if counting them one by one.

“Jidné,” he uttered, breaking the silence between them.

She turned to him, waiting for him to finish. Her fingers still playing around Cal’s flower beads.

“I want to thank you again,”

Forcing a weak smile, she sighed. “No need to thank me.”

“No, really, you saved my life. I was trying to make peace with the fact that I’ll die once they start trying to get anything out of me about the Holocron… until you came along.”

Silence again. There was nothing Jidné could think of to say back.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“When you said that you were gonna hand me over, until you decided not to anymore,”

She looked away, searching for the right words in the stars.

“Yeah, I did mean that. I simply didn’t think it was right anymore because, well... It’s…” she trailed off, tucking herself in her seat and drawing her leg up to the chair for her to hug it. “It’s a feeling I can’t explain. But you’ve every right to hate me because I didn’t tell you the truth sooner—I hate myself for the very same reason too.”

“No, Jidné, I don’t hate you,”

Her lips parted and she bit them, her grip on the steering wheel made the skin over her knuckles turn white as bone to hide the trembling. Cal’s only response was a deep sigh—he sensed relief wash over her, but it wasn’t enough to ease the guilt anchoring her heart.

They eventually arrived back in Ombari. They did so with the same awkward silence that never seemed to leave them until either of them swallows their pride. When they’ve cut through the atmosphere, the first thing Jidné did was search the Mantis’s signature on her radar; when a ping appeared on her screen, she steered the Scarab close to the other ship’s location. From the windshield, both of them saw Cere, Greez, and Merrin standing outside the Mantis as they watched the Scarab commencing its landing cycle.

When Jidné’s freighter touched Ombari’s soil once again, the crew’s gazes pierced through the thick glass of the windshield and Jidné couldn’t look away like some sort of self-imposed penance for her guilt. She leaned away and let herself sink into the cushion of the backrest, arms crossed and expecting Cal to move in her periphery.

“They’re waiting for you,” she muttered.

Cal didn’t budge. He remains seated on the co-pilot seat next to hers. They exchanged glances with one another and he finally stands up and leaves the cockpit. Jidné swiveled her chair, following Cal as he walks up to the door; she took a few seconds before following him there, discovering that he’s just standing in front of it—as if he had no intention to open it.

“You’re home, Cal,” urged Jidné who’s standing behind him, leaning against the wall opposite to him and having her arms crossed together. “Go on.”

She watched him raise his hand to the control panel, expecting him to press the button and walk away.

The exit ramp hissed open. Warm, gentle sunlight pooled into the vessel—dramatically different from the harsh heat that they were met with when they arrived to Mustafar. Cal stepped out of the ship, basking into the late afternoon sun, Jidné herself went out to fill her lungs with Ombari’s fresh air and warm light.

Cal reconciled with his crew. They welcomed him with hugs that included everyone—even BD-1—and then Greez’s “Where have you been?!” standing out of the indistinct yet cheerful chatter. Jidné watched the modest celebration from the doorway of her ship—the sight put a smile on her face, even if she had no part in it.

As she was preparing to disappear, going back inside her ship, she was stopped by the call of her name. She turned around to find Cal walking back up to her. He snatched both of her hands—taking her by surprise—when he got close.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere, I suppose,” she shrugged.

“I’d still want you around, Jidné. You don’t have to be alone. It’d be like what we talked about before—you and me, the Scarab and the Mantis. Together.”

There he goes again. Jidné sighed in her mind. Puppy eyes in the color of jade shined in front of her, she can feel his fingers running across the smooth skin of her hands.

She sighs, “Cal, I don’t belong here, not after what I’ve done to you.”

“They know.”

That left Jidné into a stammering mess, unsure whether or not to explain her story to the crew, but Cal kept reassuring her—in the kindest tone she’s heard from anyone ever—that he didn’t leave out her effort to save him in his story. She peeked over his shoulder to find the expressions of each crew member standing by the Mantis.

She chuckled humorlessly, “You don’t mind having a bounty hunter hopping into your party, huh?”

“Hey, adds up to the variety,”

Both of them shared a bashful chuckle and their foreheads touched; Cal hoisted a curled finger to Jidné’s cheek, brushing away a loose strip of hair that fell in front of her face and then caressing her cheek. He saw her face flush with color, he could feel the warmth burning underneath her skin. When their gazes locked at each other, time felt like it froze in place, and Cal slowly closed in on her.

Cal gently brushed his lips against Jidné’s. She was warm and soft. He dared to dip his tongue to explore her mouth, finally giving himself the guilty pleasure of her taste. The tip of her tongue ran across the tiny scar that ran across his bottom lip, feeling the slight indent on his mouth. When he withdrew, he followed it up by planting a kiss on her forehead before leveling his face with hers.

“Glad you didn’t stop me this time,” he whispered, the tips of their noses playfully touching.

“I didn’t plan to,”

Cal pulled her in close to him, the closest that both of them have ever gotten with each other, he wrapped his arms around the small of her back, lifted her an inch upward to the point that she had to stand tiptoed.

“Now you’re home with me too, Jidné,”

He whispers as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, in turn, he felt Jidné embracing him back—arms hooked around his back and her hands clung onto his shoulders, her cheek resting against his chest, and a sigh of the greatest relief escapes her mouth as she lets those words sink into her.

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sootcloak · 4 years

Text

Living Gale

So I got permission yesterday(????? Is time a thing anymore ????) to write a thing for @lordofcrowns‘ Captain Cyril Stacy, a diabolically fun villain. This piece was based around the general evocative aesthetic of the art he made for the Good Captain. So I did that. It was a good exercise, and doing it for someone else helped keep me motivated.

~2000 words of whip-snappin action and tense posturing, mostly trying to just capture the aesthetic i got from his work in my own medium. General warnings for the things which come with this kinda territory: murder, violence, abduction, etc. And lastly, if you wanna see more of that diabolically fun man, go to lordofcrown’s page.

The jade islets of the Sea of Clouds hang on umbral winds, drifting up and down on the aircurrents. The sky is dark, moody greys and greens which shift over one another. Three figures race across the shifting jadestone islets. Two chainmail-clad templars charge through the underbrush, over stone outgrowths, and across the shallow waters. Their footfalls drum against the earth, scaring gaelicats and other rodents down to earth.

The third figure is a full 30 yalms ahead of them. A heavy white coat trails behind him, billowing as he takes leaping, bounding strides. Strands of his turquoise hair hang in the air as he runs, whipped by both the wind and his own dead spring ahead.

His boots scuff and slide on the slick, smooth stone beneath his feet, the sky suddenly opening up in front of him as he finds himself not at the edge of the island. The two templars come barreling to a halt, their pursuit stopping ten yalms away from their quarry.

“Nowhere left…” One of the templars devolves into a heavy cough, and gasps for his breath in a distinctly over-exerted wheeze. His fellow looks at him with distinct concern in her eyes behind that metal mask.

“I must say, you both have kept up admirably.” The Miqo’te man turns to face his pursuants, gilded eye smoldering as he looks the two over. “Mostly.” He adds. Both tense, and the wheezing knight’s comrade steps forward, clears her throat, and speaks.

“You’ve nowhere left to run. By orders of the Holy See of Ishgard and other bodies of the Eorzean Alliance, you are under arrest under suspicion of crimes against Eorzea and her people, including treason, aiding and abetting heretics, and murder of the highest order.” She takes a bold step forward, shield held to face him with it’s rook-like insignia, and sword leveled at his throat.

“Halone’s Inquisitors will extract the truth of your actions from you.” The out-of-breath templar says, squaring his shoulders. He moves forward slowly, one cautious step and then another, speartip leveled at the Captain’s chest.

Beneath his cap, Cyril’s ears twitch. The clouds far below howl with an odd, almost-beast-like sound. The wind snaps, changing directions and whistling just a little faster around the trio.

“This is certainly a mistake. You should consider what you’re suggesting here.” The Captain’s voice is a halfway-point between a snarl and a purr, low and rumbling in his ribs. He holds one hand up, in something almost akin to a surrender. His other hand thumbs his belt, or rather the handle of the whip wrapped around it.

“You see, I’m just a trader. I have my permits and licenses here, with me. If you’d like-” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, the heels of his boots slowly, subtly shifting to steady his center of balance. The distant, rumbling, angry roar slowly grows louder and louder.

“Save it.” The shield-bearer says, voice muffled by her metal mask and the rising wind.

“We have evidence under sworn testimony that an individual with ties to certain black-market elements would be in this sector of the Sea of Clouds. If this really is a ‘misunderstanding’, you should hold your testimony for Halone’s Inquisitors. You’ll need it.” She spits her words and steps forward, closer to both her companion and the Captain. Her chin raises upwards, coming to rest at an accusatory slant as she waits.

“Ah, someone implicated me, then?” He says, words slow and flowing like honey. His eyes remain steady on the two templars, but his ears are trained on the approaching, angry wind.

“That’s right.” The wheezing knight says, inching closer with. His hands shake and jostle his own spear nervously. “So you’d better come peacefully. We have authorization to kill the target if we have to, and you’re standing real close to that ledge.”

“How brave of you.” The Captain says slowly, his lips turning into a subtle sneer, “Why, such forthright persistence is so rare these days. I’m pleased to know the Temple Knights are yet the bravest, most chivalrous warriors in Eorzea.”

“Of course we- Oh you little.” The realization hits the out-of-breath knight in the middle of his sentence. “Playing cheeky are you, I’ll be sure to teach you some real manners.”

“Don’t take the bait. He’s just trying to get you to attack. He’s better use to us alive.” The swordwoman pauses in the middle of her thought, stopping to listen.

“What’s… What’s that sound?” She says, not loud enough for her companion to hear. Her sword drops ever so slightly.

Cyril snaps into motion as soon as she finishes, hand drawing out his whip and swinging it back in a single motion. The long, sinuous leather snakes around him, curling like a dragon’s tail. The spear-bearer lurches forward, pushing against the now-feverous wind. He plants his feet, and thrusts forward with the point of his spear.

Captain Stacy twitches his wrist.

The length spins out and away from him, like the arms of a cyclone. Whistling, it smashes into the center of the lancer’s chest. The mail rings like a cymbal, and the templar’s ribs snap loudly. His feet lift a few inches up off the ground. A resounding crack silences the wind for a brief second. The lancer lands a few paces back from where he’d stood, groaning on his side. His spear clatters to the ground where he was struck. The whip lurches back, Cyril’s arm winding and tensing back behind his head in a circular, casting motion. His coat billows out over the ledge, filling with air.

“Shit!” The shield-bearer pushes off of her back foot, covering close to half the distance between her and the captain in a single bound. Cyril’s arm circles round once more, and then reaches up towards the churning skies.

“Fast.” He notes, his voice growling in tandem with the fibers of his whip. It would almost sound complementary, if not for the predatory glint in his eye.

“But it’s pointless!” The whip snakes around him, curling inwards and coursing across the surface of his coat. The leather hisses, and his arm streaks downward, painting a thick, vertical black line in the sky as the whip follows his motion.

It falls like lightning, the whip bending outward as it hisses downwards towards her. She raises her shield, but true to his word she’s not fast enough to match the sinuous, ebony whip. It moves in a blur, first striking her shield and shoulder, then twisting around her and catching her in the side of her ribs. Her feet skid, but she holds her balance from the twin strikes.

Then it wraps around her left arm from below. As it snaps into place with an iron-hot shot of pain, she feels more than sees as the captain pulls her elbow and shoulder inward with a terrible jerk. She feels her arm pop free of her shoulder as the whip holds fast and jerks her to the side. She screams in rage and pain as her elbow breaks backwards, her shield clattering to the ground.

Through biting tears, she pushes through the pain and pushes forward yet, blade still in steady hand. She plants her feet as she nears him, his eyes burning into her with all the apathy of a storm at sea. Her good arm pushes forward, tearing the air, cleaving towards him in a single upwards, goring slash. He darts to the side, coat trailing behind him like a phantom.

There one moment. Gone the next.

Something hard and fast buries itself in her gut. His fist, she realizes dully. Her sword soars upwards and then over the ledge as she’s thrown backwards and lands with a metal thud.

She gasps for breath, lungs finding none. Nevertheless, she struggles to her knee, and then to her feet. Her eyes blearily stare upwards. She locks her eyes on him, blurred from pain and tears. Her head is wracked with the building panic born of being so thoroughly dismantled so rapidly. Her ears ring, but her sweat-stung eyes sweep off the Captain to her companion on the ground. He claws at the dirt, trying desperately to flee, but unable to get his footing.

The wind suddenly bellows, the droning that’d haunted the brief encounter opening up into a deathly roar. A monster of wood, metal and steam breaks through the mist and clouds around them, screeching all the while. A magitek-powered airship, leaden with naval cannons and watchful, dark shadows atop the deck darkens the sky behind the captain. He reaches up to hold his cap steady in the gale. The humm and roar of it’s engines rumbes in her aching, airless lungs.

Her eyes, though, remain locked on him. He looks down towards her, and without a word just raises one arm. He points to her fallen comrade, then holds an open hand towards the vessel behind him. He closes his fist.

She makes another breakneck dash for him, legs still wobbly after having the air knocked from her. His eye shines in the umbral glow of the Sea of clouds, and he opens his arms wide as she charges him.

The moment hangs for a second, as she stares with murderous intent. The wind whipping around them loses its sound. Something guttural and crass has torn free of her chest, curses just out of reach of her panicked, enraged instincts. All the while, he stands with his arms wide and head low. The wind races out from behind him, blowing the tails of his coat up and kicking up dust around his feet.

As she rears back with one fist, he steps into her space and snags her wrist with his gloved hand. He spins around her, pulling her back by the arm. As his other hand ensnares her other wrist, she feels the coils of his whip bind her by the wrists. She tries to pivot, to face him, but her legs trip on his knee. Gravity grips her, her body once again thrown to the jade earth of the islet. He places a foot on her hips and a knee on her broken shoulder.

The pain is there, she can feel it, numb and aching as she tries to unpin herself from the Captain atop her. He waves over to the hovering ship, and like vultures, crewmen descend on ropes. As they take her and bring her to her feet, binding her properly, they throw the lancer off the island’s ledge, down towards the clouds.

“You can’t escape.” He says, all the charm gone from his voice as his sneer creeps into more of his face. “And you’re more useful to me alive.” He turns his attention, but not his eye, away from her and to his crew.

“Take her. I’ll see to her when I’ve the time. I have questions for her regarding who they received their information from.” Cyril says.

The men and women gripping her pull her over to one of the dangling ropes, but she keeps her head and eyes pinned on the Captain as he slowly walks over to her still-crawling compatriot. He drops into a squat beside the prone man, hand reaching into his coat, to somewhere near the small of his back.

“You would tell me whatever you want, wouldn’t you.” It’s not a question, but the templar nods in jerky, quick motions. The knight’s movements get more and more frantic, all the while the Captain’s gaze unfalteringly falls on him.

“Yes, of course! Yes!” The dark glint in Captain Stacy’s eye sparks a moment.

“Thought so.” She can barely hear the crack of gunfire over the winds, but the stark red of her friend’s blood staining the jadestone dirt around the Captain’s boots is impossible for her to miss.

“I have no need for a coward and a liar.” He turns his deathly gaze to the woman in his crew’s grip. “We’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted, lady knight. But for now, enjoy your rest.” He nods to someone behind her, and her vision goes dark as a club strikes the back of her chain-clad skull.

#ffxiv #ffxiv creative writing #lordofcrowns #captain cyril stacy #aegis' writing archive #i spent the vast majority of my work on this blasting Helltaker's OST and staring at a screen in a dark room wondering if #'churn' was an actual word or if i'd somehow made it up without realizing #that's just how sleep deprivation be i s'pose #now that i'm done with my work i can go crash into my coffin at mach 10 and die #i should really sleep more but if i have one (1) more weird marriage dream im gonna scream #otherwise have a chill night all i'll see you when my brain rolls the roullette which decides whether im tired or dead awake #oh shit wait its afternoon #ah fuck it i dont have to be anywhere in the foreseeable future

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scribblesofanaricat · 4 years

Text

Kaleidoscope Icarus

(big thank you to Toni for helping me with parts of this)

Alone in bed. Covers twitch. Clock hands rattle around their beaten path and I count it backwards. A meander towards oblivion.

I see my reflection blink. It must like watching me thrash in blue sleep.

Narrow staircase, no socks, tea bag fossils pinned to the wall, I count them up, all six, any colour I like as long as that colour is yellowish grey.

I inhale indifferent coffee broth with a side order of whichever death cult the screen hunched in the corner is serving up today. Bidding its junkies a good afternoon and then meting out a lethal dose of contradictions. It beats down on me as a sun would: simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained.

I’m not Icarus.

Even so, quick fears still tread on my heels after I kill the show and instead pay a call to the frosted-glass moon low in that blank page of a sky. Shoes dangling over a railway bridge, one a lovely Twitter-blue, lemon laces trailing like a severed leash, the other was once violet. Jaundiced glances from pedestrians and passengers cursing the back of my neck.

They plant themselves beside me because where else would they go? We don’t say much, never do, “our glass roots were love when lilac liquids flowed invisible” and “my powdered soul occurs from sun sight with figure flames and smoke” and “if we lose time by staring freely and counting sound, you’re told about it accidentally”, that sort of thing. And we do submerge our long short hours in staring freely and we do count sound since we’re not the type to move mountains, although young by our own reckoning. We know it - or we think we know.

Amongst foggy vows to meet again tomorrow, they clear off and I’m left with the grains of my own soul, the static in my skull, wearing it like a flannel shirt. House prices. Affairs. Break-ins, breakouts. Blares of ‘protect our free speech, protect our children!’ born from whatever illusory agenda they’re being warned against by the king agenda-pushers this time...another monologue from another plastic jack-in-office here to fuck us around...

Sometimes I could carve it all into my skin with a dirty needle and not flinch.

We end up huddled like penguins in the fug heaving around my room. We’d have thought the dawn of the end times would look different, something that’d be splattered over our calendars and marked in history. Instead we’re met with a whitewashed wall from the screens and newshounds even as we watch it happen in 3D. Nothing to do now but wait.

‘I don’t give a damn.’ They’re flung down on their stomach, right arm stowed under an Everest of pillows and left arm glancing off the carpet. ‘I don’t care, I couldn’t...we’re gonna flatline someday soon and we’ll nosedive into Hell and I’d still take that over this shit…I’ve got to see that ocean again, though...just one last time…’

‘Mhm.’ I’m stiff. Stiff yet floaty. The screen crouches there, rattling off a story from America about some toupeed sore loser being forcibly dragged out of the White House with the boot of millions tattooed on his arse. Let them have their pipe dream, let them have their ocean, their fickle friend with its brackish spray, rolling pulse, delusive serenity, useless but to go to your watery grave in… if I scorn it hard enough, I can almost smell it.

I outstretch my rusty arms, gathering the ceiling in a remote embrace, and begin to narrate. ‘After the downfall from the empty pages of a multitude, myths started to creep back through the gaps in the world we saw. They’d been driven feet-first out of society by the threat of extinction long ago and so they’d had to hide themselves away over the rooms of sighs they found.’ The haze seethes and swirls, fashioning hieroglyphs from my breath.

They shift beside me, breathe it in. Counting sound. I survey it all as they draw it down into their lungs and bloodstream - giants and Lilliputians, fae and demons, sister ships sleeping in spoken hiding places, uman babies feeding off a wolf who bares her teeth at us. And Icarus. Taking to the air, lured by the glare that swallowed all else and eagerly drinking it down, until he fell so far and so fast that nobody could save him.

Not like us. We won’t be led astray. We are not the imperfect sight, crimped, bought with ballads.

‘But their memories were long and their bloodlust ran deep as trembling nails. And whatever scraps of human society were left had their turn to hide, or to pose as something different - pretend to be one thing when they were really another, in case they were in line for the wrath of their former fantasies.’

I recline on my mountaintop carpet in the soupy silence after my short tale gives out, waiting. Waiting perhaps for a flashbulb of understanding or for guesses at regions of dry ideas. The clock shudders into its next aspect. Bonded pattern, distorted mosaic.

‘C’n we go to th’ocean?’ is what they exhale at length. I lie there. Head sagging into my chest. Dead rain of a crowd. And then I patter on about spume and pulse and deceit, and about rock shadows standing full at Phoenician attestations, and by God, it’s like reading a bedtime story (or maybe an aloof comedy) to a toddler and almost as easy.

So we sprout in the bleary armchair of the ocean. Coast and universe falling away like a house of cards beneath our shoeless steps. They ask pinch-eyed if I brought a laptop along with me (of course I didn’t; the world watches us out of the corner of its panoramic eye enough as it is) and seem satisfied with my answer. I droop backwards so the rocks can catch me, mendacious as the water - that slumbering giant - but in the opposite direction, downside up. I have to wonder if the sky could be the same way, or if it’s merely everything and nothing. The aridity of all.

A boat worms along the horizon, eats it up inch by inch. That old static begins to pulsate against the core of my head, guessing at who or what could be in there. The newest pet of the media, pockets padded with the benefits from yesterday’s public-spirited stunt, familiarising themself with the bits of fruit floating in the middle of an etched glass and awaiting the casting call for yet another lone hero who’s the only force insulating their precious homeland from the evils of truth and the nefarious threat of equality.

Maybe a consortium of sallow flesh and bloated eyes, red as tongues of flame yet seeing only in black and white, skin honeycombed with pinprick holes. They give and take manufactured fairy tales that accelerate their enslavement, fire their last magic bullet together in a binding act of mercy.

Or a smoke-bearded fisherman and his helpmate with salt water in their veins, in their stirring times; they haul up their meshwork and inspect its captives. Look at these beauties, they marvel every time, a record dashing against its broken needle like a baby bird against a window. Or something - I don’t fucking know what fishermen talk about. Are there fishermen anymore? I guess there must be.

As I study the vessel, purling with the wind, it metamorphoses fitfully into a whale. Its heaving back is encrusted with arthropods. Plunging its way into nowhere. Watch through unchartered eyes as its tail heaves up into the air, blotting out the sun, before it too plunges beneath the depths, beneath the waves, into the dark, dark blue-grey murmurs and untapped power of the abyss. I wonder what sort of watery graves still dwell there, trapped, locked in and locked out. The corpse of a ship. The corpse of a whale.

The sun dissolves into the horizon, spilling its aureate blood over the sea-shaped cemetery. I drink it in; it comes out in puffs of icy white. The smouldering glare lances across my eyes, burning, gnawing. I close them. I breathe cold.

My wax wings splinter. But will not melt.

Their pixelated face reappears above my own, sun’s gore cleaving to their hair with a shimmer, and jab me with a bone. And we trudge back over clumps of sand, the world brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening. The light parts liquefy like butter in a pan, overflowing, flowing, flowing until there’s no more left to flow. Until it evaporates and its burnished blush is briskly replaced by glitter and dazzle and tiny flickers of rainbow bouncing off little jewels.

I breathe warmth. The radio goes on at me, goes on, goes on, a webspinner sniping its threads.

Time hangs suspended for the lion’s share of the night. Screens paralysed in an eternal moment. The masked puppets on one side, me on the other. They dance, bow, spin on wire strings. They get tangled. They do not move any longer. Asides from the occasional twitch and twist, as weak as that of a dying deer caught in the scheming beauty of the headlights. They do not get free. Eventually they too are still.

I move onwards.

We separate then, me and them. Their fingers dance in the air as the light of the sky slips through the cracks of the earth. ‘We’re completely and irreversibly fucked.’ It’s somewhere between question and statement. I watch them droop away, hands tucked in pockets of woven clouds and leather, until the night embraces them and their shadow melts much like the light had. Tipped-over oil, trickling away.

I watch. I wait. I breathe.

I move onwards.

The wet earth slumps when I step upon it, its cold breathing into the soles of my worn shoes. I look towards the sky, up and up and up, so far that I cannot see. The sun has sunk, withered away. Gone. Gone and perhaps never to return. You never know. Never know.

The moon is rising now, the stars winking like oh so much spilled glitter. I see the sun's reflection here, its beaming glow bouncing off the pale white surface of the small planet as though it were an alien mirror. This is how you know it's there, even when it’s faded away. Gone but never quite so.

But its blazing heat is no longer here to thwart me, even if its glimmer is still present. I spread my wax wings. I breathe, I live, I rise, I die. That wet earth hums its lullaby of little critters, chirping crickets and twittering bats and the frozen old breath of ghosts long dead. Disdainful wind freezes my nose and lips and ears. I soar…

I am not Icarus.

The dark sky cradles me like black ocean water. The shimmers of light are fish, sparkling beneath the waves, the moon their only beacon. My only beacon. I breathe warmth in the cold night air. Prickles of goosebumps along the skin of my arms and legs. I am the warmth, but the cold consumes me slowly.

I float lazily, there and not there, alive and dead, warm and cold. An angel on wax wings, a ghost long dead and gone, a corpse at the bottom of the ocean. Fuck. I breathe a disclaimer of disaster, a rage against the remorseless. I breathe warmth, then cold, then nothing. Just to double check.

The golden-white glimmers of school fish trail past, streaks of astigmatic light. The moon smiles down at me, a comforting glow. A lantern hung by gods of old on invisible chains. The mirror of the sun. The dancing partner of the earth. The lighthouse of the sea.

My beacon in the sky.

It does not melt my wings. I am not Icarus.

I soar. On and on, the sparkling sky, the gentle sea. The land leaves me far behind, the twinkle of city lights fading into nothing but open waters, open skies. Nothing but starlights. Nothing but moonlight.

There is nothing waiting for me. Fuck. They have melted into the shadows, slipped like dry sand between fingers, like dry sand in an hourglass, like water in a hole-littered bucket. It is only me and the star speckled sky. Me and the moon.

I'm not sure how long I stay, floating between schools of sparkling starfish. Slowly, the moon rises…falls…and the sun creeps up behind me like a monster in a cave, turning the sky from black to blue…green…then spilling yellow, melted butter, sunstreaked blood across the horizon, its burning light warming my frozen cheeks…soothing my goosebumps…the black sea once more becomes its sparkling blue-ish green. Fuck. The stars fade like fleeing fish and vanishing ghosts. I breathe cold into the warmth.

My wax wings drip in the light. The sunlight burns my eyes, searing my retina, boiling my cornea. I squeeze them shut. I wobble and sway, a dance in the sunrise. I dance, bow, spin on wire strings and liquid wings. I become tangled. I tumble down a narrow staircase, no socks, teabag fossils pinned to the wall.

Wind sighs in my ears. I see my reflection blink in the waves far below. It must like watching me thrash in yellow dreams. The world beats down on me as the sun is now; simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained. The world crumbles around me, earth cracking, water roaring, sky tearing and tearing like shreds of paper in the hands of scissor-happy children. I am a puppet on broken strings and I am falling with nothing but the frigid embrace of the ocean to catch me, where the whale-ship corpse sleeps. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I breathe and it is cold. The sun blazes like a beacon. It is life. It is the death cult and that fear tingles down my spine.

A shoe of lovely Twitter-blue falls free, lemon laces flapping wildly. I outstretch my rusty arms, as though to catch it like a ball during playtime in the schoolyard, swamped in the too-big uniform of bright purple, a blazer that fell well past my knees. But I cannot catch myself.

I’m falling.

Falling, falling, falling like Icarus.

#my scribbles #mine #tw language #tw drug mention #tw self harm mention #tw existential crisis #tw death mention #long scribble #original writing #writeblr #wow that's a lot of tags

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of-muppets-and-men · 4 years

Text

Penumbra

Chapter 7: Daybreak

New update i forgot to post here. Whoops. AO3 link if prefer it instead.

Another hushed morning in the Soul Society.

It was around five’o’clock, a time where most souls were still very much asleep. Seated Officers, Lieutenants, and a handful of Squad Captains as well. An unforeseen benefit of the peaceful era they’d fought for. No real remaining threats outside of common hollows necessitated any sort of urgency. Complacent as it may seem, Head Captain Kyoraku had made it clear this was to be mandated.

After all, the majority of the shinigami reserve forces needn’t bother themselves with the potential return of Yhwach. They wouldn’t stand a chance anyway.

As much as Yoruichi wished to take full advantage of said mandate, Suì-Fēng had other ideas. The former captain and current lieutenant of Squad 2 wouldn’t let her Captain slack off for any reason whatsoever. Paperwork, logistics, training. All seemingly without end. And so Yoruichi sat at her desk, stacks upon stacks of paperwork surrounding her and her dutiful lieutenant. Suì-Fēng was almost too happy to be once again serving her beloved Lady Yoruichi.

“UGhhhh… Can we take a break yet? It’s too early for this…” The Captain groaned.

“My Lady, we can’t afford to slack off. What example are we setting for the squad if we do?” Her Lieutenant lecture.

Yoruichi pressed her head against her desk, folded arms over her head. Suì-Fēng chuckled at her Captain’s dismay when it hit. A massive wave of spiritual pressure came out of nowhere, sending a shiver down both their spines. The room quaked, the air reverberated. It was so dense, Suì-Fēng could barely breathe, the pressure on her lungs becoming overwhelming. As she leaned against the desk, struggling to stand, she felt a hand at her waist propping her up. Suì-Fēng’s gaze drew upward to see Yoruichi’s face adorned with shock. She immediately recognized the spiritual energy cascading and pulsing through the air.

“Captain.. Who is that?”

“Katsumi…” was all she whispered in return, “Let’s go, Suì-Fēng.”

The commander of the punishment force bolted out of her office with Suì-Fēng in tow. Flash Stepping as fast she could through the halls of her manor, desperately trying to reach her daughter’s room. The Captain and her lieutenant practically broke the door open to see Katsumi standing on her bed, zanpakuto in hand. The main difference being it was no longer the normal Odachi she handed to Katsumi the night before. It was bigger, much bigger.

It couldn’t be, she thought to herself. Yoruichi pushed herself towards Katsumi, her own weight betraying her with every step. Suì-Fēng stood bereft of strength or words, marvelling at the inherent power of a mere child. Katsumi’s mother shook her awake with whatever willpower remained. The young girl’s eyes peered open, tired and confused, her mother’s distraught golden eyes staring back at her.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

“Shikai…” Yoruichi quietly remarked, now truly seeing the blade Katsumi held.

Now perhaps more confused than before, Katsumi puzzled “What?”

“Don’t worry about anything for now. You were releasing absurd amounts of spirit energy, so I thought something was wrong. I’ll tell you everything after breakfast. But it looks like we’re starting your training sooner than i thought…” Her mother explained.

Katsumi’s fatigue came surging back, causing the girl to fall asleep for another three hours, and Zanpakuto still safely in her clutches. The paperwork Yoruichi had left behind was soon finished in a lightning round between Suì-Fēng and herself. Now with Katsumi achieving Shikai, she had no time to dawdle with her Squad’s trivial matters. Though she still had trouble believing it; Shikai? After barely telling Katsumi what it was? Rukia… Ichigo… your daughter is a prodigy, The Captain repeated in her mind.

Prodigy. A broad term but true in every sense in Katsumi’s case. She was progressing at an outrageous pace that would make Captain Hitsugaya jealous. If she could achieve Shikai in little more than an afternoon, how long would it take her to learn the other aspects of a Shinigami.

Zanjutsu? Shunpo? Kido? Hakuda? Shunko? Or perhaps even Bankai? Goosebumps littered Yoruichi’s arms at the thought.

Not long after Yoruichi managed to finish slogging through her less exciting duties as Captain, Katsumi at last woke up. Albeit still hazy on what had occurred beforehand. But fortunately, both their troubles could be eased by a spot of breakfast. Together, they made their way to the expansive dining room in the center of the manor. There Katsumi gorged her little mouth on Onigiri; Pickled Plum, her favourite. As the child ate her fill, her curiosity spiked yet again, prompting Katsumi to bombard Yoruichi with questions.

“So mom? Are you gonna tell me what ‘Shikai’ is? How did my sword get so big? Can yours do that…” the girl babbled on and on.

“Whoa! Slow down there, kiddo. Before I answer any of those questions, there’s a place I wanna show you first. Kinda like a secret hideout.”

“Secret Hideout?!” Katsumi reiterated with glee.

“Mhmm. Wanna see it?”

“Uhh, Yeah!”

“Then let’s go. Make sure to bring your Zanpakuto with you.” Yoruichi said lovingly.

In a flash, Katsumi cleaned and dried the dishes and stormed down the hallways in search of her blade. Meanwhile her mother stood astonished at her endless enthusiasm. As Yoruichi waited, she began to reminisce on how she had brought Ichigo to the very same place all those years ago. If only you could meet her, Yoruichi lamented on Ichigo’s absence. A part of Yoruichi would never understand Rukia’s decisions; why she never found the heart to confess… but at the very least, Katsumi was happy. But for how much longer?

“Mom! I got it!” Katsumi announced from down the hall.

Yoruichi shook her head, shaking off her darker thoughts and focused on her daughter, “Well, let’s get a move on then.”

The elder soul grabbed a pack she’d asked one of her many attendants to prepare, filled with an abundance of snacks; including a new pocky flavour Kisuke procured for her. The lady of the house made her way to the courtyard, her staff bowing politely as she passed by. To Katsumi’s surprise, her mother knelt down and coaxed her to grab hold.

“C’mon sweetheart. It’ll be faster this way.”

“Umm Okay…” Katsumi replied, doing as she instructed.

“Alright. And a one and a two and…”

Just like that, the pair vanished into thin air. Yoruichi Flash Stepped from rooftop to rooftop with little effort doing so. Katsumi beamed with delight as they soared over the Seireitei; other souls appearing as no more than insignificant flecks. The girl’s vision arbitrarily gawked to and fro at every landmark in sight. Until she felt a tap from her Yoruichi, who then pointed toward Sokyoku hill.

“That’s where we need to be.”

“Why there?”

Yoruichi chuckled and purred, “You’ll see.”

Instead of landing on the hill like she’d anticipated, her mother swerved left toward an inconspicuous little alcove built in the rock face. The young soul hopped off her mother’s shoulders and inspected the quaint little hideout. Although, Katsumi couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“I like it but are you sure it’s big enough?”

Yoruichi smirked at Katsumi’s child-like chagrin, “Follow me.”

Yoruichi then opened a hatch Katsumi hadn’t noticed before, carefully hidden amongst the floor tiles. A light jump and Yoruichi disappeared down the hole. Katsumi rushed over to look down the hatchway, seeing darkness with a vague hint of light at the bottom. With a deep sigh to psyche herself up, Katsumi followed her mother’s example and jumped.

The fall lasted a few seconds despite looking far deeper, or so her young mind conjured. She opened her eyes to see a vast cavern, far bigger than she could’ve ever imagined. Yoruichi ruffled a hand delicately through Katsumi’s hair and she ogled at every inch of her old training grounds.

“Impressed now?” Her mother asked coyly.

Even without uttering a single syllable, Yoruichi could tell she exceeded her daughter’s expectations.

“Shall we begin?” The Captain questioned once more.

“Yes!” Katsumi replied, nodding so hard it looked like her head would pop off.

“Alright. But first and foremost; here, you are my student and I am your teacher. You listen to me no differently than you do at home, okay?”

Another enthusiastic nod. In a moment’s notice, Yoruichi jumped onto a higher platform, arms crossed like an instructor.

“Good. Now you must know that all Zanpakuto have three states. The first is the unreleased states, which you have now. The next is Shikai, when a Shinigami learns the name of his or her Zanpakuto. And the last state is Bankai, but today you’ll be learning how to summon your Shikai at will.”

“How will I do that?” Katsumi mused.

“By learning your release command. A specific word that will transform your Zanpakuto into the form you saw last night.”

The young soul searched her mind to remember that form. Its shape and design.. What was it? Delving further, it came back to her, slowly but surely. A massive cleaving blade, far larger than it was now, with metal bands lining a hollow center. She could recall it with perfect clarity; Tōgetsu’s true form. But what was the release command?

“How will I know the right word?” She pleaded.

“Unsheathe your blade and find out.” Yoruichi snidely lectured.

A quick pout escaped Katsumi’s lungs before she did as her mother instructed. She removed the sash from her shoulder, drawing the greatsword from its scabbard. It felt like forever since she held it properly, the weightlessness of it catching her off guard as it had the first time. But expectantly, the blade remained silent; Katsumi unable to her Tōgetsu’s voice as she had previously. She held it every which way but alas, it changed nothing.

“Why won’t isn’t it working?!!” Katsumi shouted in frustration.

While her daughter fiddled with her zanpakuto, she slipped back by her side and calmly placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Easy, Katsumi. This isn’t a thing that can be forced so just breathe and concentrate. Your Zanpakuto will do the rest.”

The girl huffed and puffed but ultimately headed her mother’s advice. She held the blade steady in both hands, closed her eyes and took deep deliberate breaths.

Tōgetsu, tell me how to release you.

Silence.

Tōgetsu, please…

Remember my name and dream… A voice she knew whispered.

“Dream, Tōgetsu.” Katsumi repeated.

She opened her eyes and marvelled alongside her mother at the now transformed blade in her hands. Katsumi erupted with joy; Yoruichi rubbed a hand through her daughter’s hair.

“You did it, Sweetheart.” Yoruichi said lovingly as Katsumi continued to giggle, “Now let’s practice the basics.”

Later that same day

Rukia was alone in the Kuchiki household, preparing for bed. Renji had more business to attend to at the Sixth Division barracks alongside Byakuya, so both of them would be spending the night there. Ichika was sound asleep and had been for the past hour. Rukia had every intention of following suit. At least, she was until a Hell Butterfly came sputtering through her open window.

Puzzled, she held out a hand for the messenger to land on, unsure of who’s voice to expect. Low and behold, Yoruichi’s voice came through.

Rukia. Meet me at my old hideout beneath Sokyoku Hill. There is something you absolutely must see. Also, make sure you come alone.

Before Rukia could even respond, the butterfly flew off back out the window, leaving Rukia alone with her thoughts. Something I need to see? What on earth did that mean? Far too tired to give it any more thought, Rukia slipped beneath her covers, drifting off into a deep slumber. The morning would come soon enough.

And so it did.

Rukia managed to slip away under the guise of running an errand, leaving Renji and Ichika at home. The acting captain made her way through the semi busy streets, ducking through alleyways to avoid any members of her squad. Eventually, she made it to the alcove Yoruichi had shown her years before. Speaking of her old friend, she stood waiting for her to arrive.

“Yoruichi, what’s this all about? First you send me a message in the middle of the night and now have me sneaking through the Seireitei to get here.”

“You’ll see once we get down there.”

Both women handed down into the depths of the old training area, but mid-descent, Rukia heard unfamiliar grunts and shouts. She focused her ears on the encroaching voice, clarifying the closer she got. And the reiatsu Rukia felt… Katsumi?

It had to be. But it’s strength was unlike anything her daughter had mustered before. Definitely stronger than an officer, perhaps even matching most of the current Captains…

Rukia followed her old friend deeper into the cavern, tracing the origin of her firstborn’s voice. However, the closer she got, the more apparent Katsumi’s increasing might became. Her legs slowly turning to jelly, the weight of her petite frame pressing down upon her. But even though Rukia’s breaths shortened with every step, she felt no fear of any kind. Just happiness.

Finally, Katsumi came into sight, intently practicing the basic forms of zanjutsu. From mere meters away, Rukia watched on as her eldest’s reiatsu encircled her like a blazing torch. Wind swirled and danced around her aura. Its breathtaking silver hue overpowering the natural light of the surrounding cavern. Tears of joy formed in the corners of Rukia’s violet eyes, Yoruichi standing by her side rubbing her back.

“She looks so much like him…” Rukia gushed, half-heartedly wiping at her eyelids.

A smile and a chuckle escaped Yoruichi’s lips, “That she does… Oi! Katsumi! Look who’s here.”

The girl’s concentration broke, the energy around her dissipating like snow. Katsumi’s eyes locked with Rukia’s, violet mirroring violet. A grin from ear to ear materialized on the girl’s face, full on sprint towards her beloved ‘aunt’.

“AUNTIE RUKIA!!” She screamed, colliding with a thud.

“Hello, sweetie.” Rukia smiled in return.

The two shared an earnest hug that Yoruichi felt hard pressed to interrupt, “Care to show Auntie Rukia what you’ve been practicing?”

“Practicing?” Rukia said as she felt her daughter’s warmth slip away from her.

Bewildered, the woman watched Katsumi assume a stance with her Zanpakuto. It didn’t resemble any form taught at the academy so what in the world was she up to? Eyes closed, the apprentice brought the blade an inch before her forehead. With her grip slack, Reiatsu surged around her yet again. But unlike previously, it felt more calm, controlled… like the delicate wisps of candlelight. And in a serene voice, Katsumi spoke the name.

“Dream, Tōgetsu!”

Rukia was speechless.

Shikai. Her little one had attained Shikai.

Her heart danced around in her ribcage, slowly succumbing to her emotions. The baby she had left in Yoruichi’s care for fear of banishment, had bloomed magnificently. Before Rukia even knew it, tears had begun streaming down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them, knowing they’d only be replaced by more. So instead, she smiled and Katsumi smiled back.

“When did this happen?” Rukia finally managed to say.

“Last night. She was sleeping one minute, then releasing spirit pressure the next. Scary to think what she’ll be like a few years from now. You and Ichigo sure made one frightening kid.”

The old friends chuckled as Katsumi eagerly cleaved a boulder in half.

Katsumi was strong. And still had more room to grow.

#Bleach #bleach oc #ichiruki #pro ichiruki #rukia x ichigo #ichigo x rukia #ichigo kurosaki #Rukia Kuchiki #yoruichi shihouin #katsumi kurosaki #sui feng #Penumbra

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notapaladin · 4 years

Text

they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for)

Me? Able to halt my bullshit? OF COURSE NOT.

Canon divergence midway through Harbinger of the Storm; Acatl is executed for treason, and Teomitl refuses to let that stand. If he has to go into Mictlan and bargain with Lord Death, he will.

As always, can also be read on AO3!

His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.

He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.

A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.

“And so the traitor falls.”

Oh, Duality preserve him. He was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.

Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”

There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.

I can’t—

He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—

It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.

No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—

His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.

This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.

The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.

He couldn’t feel his own heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either.

As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuizotls’ song.

& &

Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach. The pain spurred him onwards. If he was late...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Instead there was only him and the ahuizotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.

There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.

No. No. Nonononono—

Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.

He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.

It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuizotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts until he wrestled them back into submission. Kill. Kill them.

They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of the executioners and guards screaming as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, even when one took a swing at him. He parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc. Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.

“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl sucked in a breath, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”

And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.

He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuizotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have warned him about the boundaries of the Fifth World, the star demons threatening them all. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.

But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, hands free of blood. Good. It would be easier to kill him if he didn’t have to deal with spells.

He strode over. He raised his sword.

Quenami’s voice wavered—rank fear, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. “My lord—Teomitl-tzin, please!”

Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.

Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”

He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If—I could have Acatl back—

“...Speak.”

Quenami spoke. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilpochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given the condition of Acatl’s remains (all in one piece, evidently a rarity for this sort of thing), they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami would evidently require the other High Priests or—at least, he said, as though Mihmatini couldn’t obliterate him—the Guardian of the Duality. Who had been sent away for her own safety but who had not, thank the gods, left for Popocatepetl yet. And who would have to be informed of her brother’s death.

Teomitl let other people handle the cleanup and the preparations. Nezahual appeared at some point, directing his warriors. He did not offer condolences, but they nodded at each other and somehow, obscurely, that helped. He didn’t think he could handle soft words at the moment; anger, turning a tight whirlpool in his chest, was keeping him on his feet and moving forward. If he stopped to think about it, he would fall apart.

Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.

And then she spoke, voice soft and raw. “I heard. Follow me.”

He followed.

The chamber she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual.”

She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench. “And you trust him?”

“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” He’d closed Acatl’s eyes himself, hands shaking.

Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”

He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”

She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails—if it’s some sort of trap—I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”

Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “You’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”

“And your brother.”

There was no judgement in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.

Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when she was looking at him like that, assessing him without an ounce of judgement and waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else. “...I do.” Duality preserve me, I do.

“Good.” She didn’t smile, but her face relaxed as she studied him. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”

It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.”

The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca. Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.

Teomitl stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. It wouldn’t have been enough—the ritual demanded all three High Priests—but then Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.

Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”

Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”

Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”

“He’s my—“ Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”

Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. He seemed to find it, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”

As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.

A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him, and the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.

Beat. He was weightless, floating.

Beat.

A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of gray dust and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere.

It trotted off. He followed.

He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. This area of Mictlan was devoid of any major hazards and landmarks; even if it hadn’t been, he was in no shape to take notice. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Mictlan. The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger, his constant companion, was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.

At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.

The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for the one he loved.

But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.

He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely…

Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn’t wearing before he realized it was the dog, tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.

He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.

They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another.

And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.

Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.

Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”

He’d never been good at speeches. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”

“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.

There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.

He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—“ The star demons. The boundaries. “We’ll fall without him.”

“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”

Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You…”

“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And you say this is why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.

The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.

Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”

“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.

“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”

He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”

Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”

The quincunx shimmered into being under his feet, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.

Beat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin again. It felt too warm and too tight, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands.

“Did it—?“

“Teomitl!”

He ignored the outcry around him. All that mattered was opening his hands, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips and disappear in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?

And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.

Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and set two fingers at the pulse in his throat, revelling in the strong and steady beat.

Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.

Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake—whom Teomitl had decided, grudgingly, to let live for now—had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use, or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He’d wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.

Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”

If he thought too hard about that, he might start crying. There hadn’t been nearly enough time for him to erase the memory of Acatl slumping to the ground from his mind. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”

Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won.

The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences. He could be free.

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed.

Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.

Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilpochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”

Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of powerful magic glimmering over his skin. He swallowed roughly. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.

He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.

“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”

& &

The first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness was pain. His throat felt like it had been squeezed shut; for a moment he couldn’t think why that should be, and then the memories began to filter in. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuizotls singing to him.

Teomitl.

He stirred, registering as he did so that someone had placed him on not one but several thick reed mats and covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He supposed he was; the last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a dry click and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”

“My lady? He’s waking.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She sounded close by; the small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly cool. “Acatl, can you speak?”

“Grmngh.” He swallowed again, cracking one eye open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry. Her hair was in disarray, and the dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim light. There was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Water...?”

Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to sit up and failed; it felt like his muscles had been replaced by solid stone. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuasca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuizotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.

Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuasca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”

He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. It wasn’t until Oyahuasca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”

He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. “There were ahuizotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.

“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuizotls were too late. You...Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”

No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his thumping heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands; if he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the veins and tendons wrapping around bare bones. Another twinge brought his attention to the familiar cold, dry emptiness of Mictlan sitting in his gut. “I...” He didn’t feel any different, but the faint grief-stricken waver in Mihmatini’s voice left no doubt that she was telling the truth. I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, the smells of the sickroom and a distant kitchen filling his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.

Mihmatini went on. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”

It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. “How...was I brought back? How am I alive?” How was Lord Death convinced to release me?

A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”

He felt heat suffuse his face. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”

“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.

Someone was running down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face. Acatl couldn’t look away.

Mihmatini rose gracefully. The smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

She left. For a long little while, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise and his earrings were jade and gold, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.

Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”

How am I feeling, he asks. He could almost laugh; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper with the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”

Teomitl averted his gaze; as he turned, Acatl saw blood at his ears. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”

There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. He took a deep breath. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”

Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”

What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—

“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”

He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”

Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.

“What did He want, Teomitl?!”

“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”

Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him, but hard on its heels came a fierce joy. Because I’m his. Because...Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe. “...You killed him for me.”

“I did.” It came out ragged, raw. Teomitl had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”

“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.

Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—“ His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”

He’d never heard his name like that before—soft and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp; it was easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”

Oh. Oh. Love pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. “Is that all you want from me?”

Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over his fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No.”

Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”

Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”

It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.

He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”

Teomitl closed the distance.

When he’d thought about what kissing Teomitl would be like—and he had thought about it, in flashes late at night that left him flushed and flustered the next day—he’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t expected soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting Teomitl’s arm around him take his weight as he kissed back. From there it was only natural to pull him close in return.

Teomitl made a small, soft noise into his mouth when Acatl rested a hand at his waist. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”

“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. Oh gods, he’s ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”

He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.

“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, just as sweetly as the first time. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”

He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He drew Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth as he pulled away, just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.”

Teomitl’s smile was a soft, wonderful thing. “We’ll be the happiest shades in the underworld.”

#obsidian and blood #teomitl #acatl #teocatl #mihmatini #quenami #paladin writes stuff

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teaplease1717 · 5 years

Text

Ashes of Love and War - Ch 2

Title: Ashes of Love and War

Couple: TodoMomo

Rating: Mature (for violence)

Betas: @flourchildwrites (Link) , C’s Melody (Link) , Estelle and my friend Katherine

Art that will appear later on is by: @evieebun125 (Check out their work!)

Notes: This is dedicated to my awesome beta reader @emberstork who has helped me with ‘Cost of Freedom,’ ‘Gosling,’ and ‘Waking the Fallen’.

Story is posted to the @bokunoaubang collection

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638800/chapters/51598993

Chapter 1: https://teaplease1717.tumblr.com/post/189430137781/ashes-of-love-and-war

Xxxxx

Chapter 2: We Can (Not) Win

Xxxxx

'I have to win. I have to win. I can do this.'

Momo grasped her spear with both hands and held it above her head, blocking another attack. The feeling of steel striking against her weapon reverberated through her arms and down her spine in painful vibrations. The blisters on her hands stung. In the back of her mind, she registered pain as a few popped and liquid leaked through her fingers.

She didn’t have time to stop and inspect them.

Gritting her teeth, she bundled the pain, thrusting it to the back of her mind as she used her spear to shove the soldier back.

Her halberd spear had been specially made for her. Shorter than a normal lance, it was lightweight and durable. Instead of a wooden shaft, the entire weapon was made of tempered metal, and it had a hook on the end like an axe. Tokoyami Fumikage, the half-man half-bird guardian of the temple, had given it to her as a gift.

She spun the spear around to create room and returned to her position in front of her friend, panting heavily.

Ash whirled around her like a snowstorm. The smoke from the temple fire made it hard to breathe, and her body wasn't used to endurance battles. The times she had sparred with Tokoyami had all been quick, short skirmishes, and never against so many opponents at once.

Never against men who weighed twice as much as her.

The worst part was that the soldiers knew it. They were taking their time, wearing her down, slice by slice, until they could move in for the kill.

Momo clenched her jaw in frustration.

There was a hidden passageway underneath the temple that Tokoyami had dug over the last ten years. It was small and could only fit one grown man at a time. Some of the younger priestesses and orphaned children had already escaped through it. If they could just get to the passage, she could fight the men one on one.

They may be able to escape.

Tokoyami moaned softly behind her.

Momo's heart twisted painfully at the sound.

He was trying to keep quiet so she could focus, but he was fading fast. The smoke from the fire was getting to him, and his stomach wound was deep. He had lost too much blood. If she didn't treat him soon, he'd go into shock.

Her throat tightened.

She couldn't let him die. If he died, she’d be all alone again. Tokoyami was all she had left. And a part of her, no matter how unrealistic, had hoped that they could escape together. Wetness prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked back the tears.

“Ah, your monster doesn’t look too good. Don't think it will last much longer,” one of the soldiers sneered from within the crowd.

Momo forced herself not to look. Pulling up mental barriers, she tried to block their voices as the rest of the men began to jeer at her, taunting her to look back at Tokoyami so they could close in. She knew the only reason they hadn’t rushed her yet was because of the demigod. Although hurt, Tokoyami was still a frightening enemy. With his power over shadows, he had perfect offensive and defensive abilities. The soldiers were cautious for now, but that wouldn’t last.

Momo squared her shoulders, grasping her spear tighter. She couldn't give up. Not yet. Not when Tokoyami was still alive.

She just needed time to think, but the never-ending attacks and the slow-building headache from the smoke weren't allowing her to.

One overconfident warrior stepped closer.

She thrust her weapon at him. And he jumped out of the way, bringing his sword down to jam her spear.

She twisted her weapon. Using the axe side of the spear, she tore at the Athenian’s calf.

He screamed and fell to the ground; dropping his sword.

'I can do this.'

It was just like Tokoyami had made her practice. She whirled her spear around, slamming the butt into the soldier's head and knocking him unconscious.

Momo tore her gaze away as a flash of silver caught the corner of her eye. Instinctually, she twisted and jumped back. Her vision swam at the quick movement, and her foot hit the sword that the warrior had dropped moments before.

Her eyes widened as she fell, the momentum pulling her to the ground.

Her left hand hit first; a jolting, jarring pain shot up her arm. Momo hissed through her teeth as the fire licked through her wrist.

‘Stupid. She was so stupid.’

"Yaoyorozu!" Tokoyami's dark shadows shot out of the ground to protect her.

She took a moment to look down at her wrist. It was slightly swollen. She flexed it experimentally, and relief flooded her. It wasn't broken, only a sprain.

"I'm okay," she said, using the spear's pole to pull herself back up. She tried to wrap her fingers around the weapon’s shaft and flinched. Her eyes widened and she tried to grasp the spear again, but her wrist throbbed horribly. She swallowed over a sudden knot in her throat.

The warriors were watching her. Their eyes gleamed in the morning light, like a pack of wild dogs that had scented blood.

A sickening thud echoed through her chest and reverberated down to her stomach.

They knew.

A couple of men took a hesitant step forward. Momo spun her spear around and pushed them back, but her speed and strength were gone. A ripple passed through the crowd, and then they moved forward in unison.

She tried to breathe, but felt like she couldn’t. Unwelcome tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Anger and frustration filled her and made her heart pound in short little stutters.

Again. She was going to lose everyone she had ever cared for again, and the only person she could blame was herself.

If she could have just been stronger. If she could have been smarter and faster, then maybe she could have protected Tokoyami. Maybe he wouldn’t have even been hurt in the first place.

It was all her fault.

Dread coursed through her as the Athenian’s moved in.

No.

She wouldn't let them have him. They'd have to kill her first. He was all she had left. A desperate cry bubbled through her, and she clenched her hands as hard as she could around the spear. Preparing herself to fight.

"No! Yao--"

“Stop!”

Momo's heart stilled at the command, and she looked up.

Standing at the perimeter of the temple square was another soldier. He was lithe and taller than most men. Golden bangles wrapped around his left arm. Hanging from around his broad shoulders and billowing behind him was the red cape of Sparta.

Unconsciously, Momo swallowed as the warrior stepped forward. And she squinted through her tears and the smoke to get a better view of his face. He stepped into the early morning light, and she gasped.

The Spartan’s hair was split evenly between two colors: half as red as blood, the other as white as fresh snow. Storm gray eyes, colder than steel, stared out from an otherwise soft face. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and yet, at the moment, all she felt was terror.

Shouto Todoroki.

The Spartan demigod was Ares’ favorite son and renowned for his battle prowess. Every Trojan knew his name. He had taken down a whole battalion at the beginning of the war when he had only been sixteen.

He had burned them all.

His gray eyes swept impassively over the scene, and he stepped closer, making his way across the square.

Momo shivered.

"Get away," he said, his voice a low and even baritone. The men hesitated, and he touched his sword’s hilt in warning.

A brave Athenian stepped forward. Momo couldn't see his face but suspected when he spoke that he was young.

“Fuck you, Todoroki. This is our kill. We were here first.” His voice held the confidence of youth. He must have thought because they outnumbered the Spartan that he was safe.

Todoroki’s voice lowered. “On what basis do you think you can fight me?”

Momo shuddered, and the man cowered back at the deathly edge in the Spartan's tone.

“Fuck. Just leave it. Don’t mess with Ares’ brat," an angry voice said from near her. Suddenly, her spear was wrenched from her hands.

She had let her guard down.

Momo's eyes widened, and she jerked back, but not fast enough as a hand roughly grabbed her sprained wrist. Momo gasped, both in shock and pain.

"We’ll just take her then.” The words had barely left the Athenian's mouth when the soldier stilled. His hold on her wrist went slack, and he dropped dead at her feet. A sword with a red hilt protruded from his forehead. The Athenians froze in surprise as the warrior hit the ground.

Then Todoroki moved, and there was chaos.

He was as deadly as the stories had said. He killed everyone, showing no mercy as he worked his way through the soldiers.

He slammed his hand on the ground and ice erupted from the earth. Six Athenians were immediately impaled. Screaming. He stood back up.

His movements were fluid, like a dancer. No wasted movement, no hesitation. He made it look effortless as he picked the warriors off one by one with deadly precision.

It was utterly terrifying.

A warrior charged. He slashed at him, intending to cleave the demigod in half. Todoroki slipped low, under the sword. He pulled a short dagger from the soldier’s side and slammed it into his throat. The man died, choking on his own blood.

Todoroki skimmed the ground and picked up a fallen warrior's sword. Another attacker came from behind him, and he spun, avoiding the strike. He brought the weapon down, cutting off the Athenian’s arms.

Momo just stared. Fear unlike anything she had ever experienced gripped her heart. It felt like she had been frozen, rooted to her spot, unable to move a muscle as she watched him tear through the remaining men.

He blocked another attack, sliding the other warrior’s sword off his own with a resounding clash of metals. Then, with a quick movement, the demigod cut off the man's head. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, and Momo realized that he had been the last one. No one was left, only the sickening stench of blood and smoke. He had killed them all.

Todoroki paused. He took a deep breath and threw the sword to the ground. Then he turned towards her, and his eyes flashed.

Ice curdled in her veins.

Blood speckled his face and covered his armor. He was intimidating, but it was his eyes that scared her the most. During the fight, his gaze had been cold, almost impassive, but now, as he looked at her with those steel-gray eyes, all she saw was a gluttonous possessiveness reflected back at her.

It was terrifying.

She needed to move; she needed to get away, but her limbs wouldn’t listen. Momo shook as he approached. Her whole body trembled but wouldn’t listen as she ordered herself to run.

He reached a hand out towards her.

She inhaled sharply, and her eyes widened as his fingers skimmed her cheek.

A vice-like grip closed itself around her arm and wrenched her away as black shadows shot out of the ground, forcing Todoroki to jump back.

“Yaoyorozu, go! Get out of here! I’ll buy you time with dark shadow,” Tokoyami rasped. He was barely standing. Blood was streaming down his front.

“Toko--”

“Go!” Tokoyami roared. His yellow eyes flashed in warning as he looked over his shoulder at her.

Momo hesitated. She couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t fight like this. Todoroki would kill him.

A roaring sound tore Momo’s eyes back to the middle of the square.

Bright, hot flames slammed heat across the temple, burning through Tokoyami’s shadows like dry leaves.

In the middle of the firestorm, Todoroki stood unhurt.

Tokoyami dropped to his knees. Gasping. He had used all his power in the last attack, she realized.

Todoroki’s gaze narrowed on Tokoyami. His face was enraged. He raised his left hand.

Cold sweat dripped down Momo’s neck. He was going to kill him. She couldn’t let him. She couldn’t be alone again. If she could just save Tokoyami. If she could just keep him alive.

If she could.

Momo’s body moved before she could think. She flung herself in front of Tokoyami, and both men froze. It was like Kronos had stopped time.

For a moment, Todoroki just stared at her, and then his face hardened. "Move."

"No." Her voice was a whisper, but she was thankful it came out firm.

His eyes flashed, and she thought she saw the same desire from a moment earlier swirl back through them before he pulled his indolent mask back into place.

She swallowed. She was walking on a thin rope. If she dared to look down, she'd fall, but if she played her cards right, she could win. "I won’t! Not unless you let me save Tokoyami. He’s hurt already. He needs help. Let me save him."

"Yaoyorozu, no!"

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed. The fire leaped all around him, making his eyes glow bright silver. It made him look harsh. Dangerous. Everything within her warned that this was not a man to cross. He was a step above them, but they were out of options. There was no way she or Tokoyami could fight him now that they both were exhausted and hurt. This was their best option for survival.

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. "Let’s make a deal!" There was a sharp inhale behind her. She ignored the temple guardian as she continued. "Let me save Tokoyami, and I promise I'll be your slave for as long as you want me. I won't run. I'll do whatever you ask. I promise." Her eyes stung and she bit her lower lip to keep from crying. "Just please, I can't let him die."

Todoroki’s eyes shot down to her lips. His face didn’t show any emotion, but she got the distinct impression that he was fighting against something.

Slowly, he walked closer.

“Yaoyorozu, no! You have to run. Please!” Tokoyami’s voice was weak. She could barely hear him now, and she had to stop herself from turning around as she felt his hands reach for her, his fingers skimming against her calf.

She clenched her hands into fists and straightened. She was thankful she wasn’t trembling anymore.

Todoroki stopped in front of her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. She could feel the three fates measuring out her life’s thread. Whether to extend the string or to cut it she did not know.

“Fine.” His voice was a low baritone. “I accept.” It must have been her imagination, but he seemed to relax. “From now on, you’ll be mine. I’ll let you do what you can to save your monster. But I won’t help you, and you aren’t to bother anyone else. If it lives, it's because of your own actions.”

Momo jerked as his hand slipped around her neck to close around her nape. His grip was gentle but firm enough for her to know she was powerless against him.

His thumb stroked over her pulse. “Deal?”

Momo shivered at the unchecked dominance in his tone. She swallowed, but made sure not to drop her gaze. “Yes. It’s a deal.”

His eyes flashed in triumph, and his fingers tightened possessively around the nape of her neck. He leaned down. Momo closed her eyes and forced herself to remain still as his mouth met hers.

She could endure it. She would. Anything to save Tokoyami.

XXXX

Thank you for reading! I appreciate all your kudos, comments, and bookmarks.

Also, I want to make it absolutely clear that there will be NO rape in this story. I can’t handle rape and so will not be writing it. With that said, most Greek stories center on woman being raped so there will be references/fear of un-consensual sex but I would never do that to my favorite characters.

Notes:

1. Yes, both of Todoroki's eyes are gray right now and he doesn't have a scar. He will get both later.

2. Momo is not weak, she just thought the most practical way for both Tokoyami and herself to survive was to make a deal with Shouto.

3. Halberd spears – sorry, these actually weren’t used until the 14th or 15th century, but we’ll just say Momo had a prototype. It’s a spear with a hook like an axe head.

#todomomo #todoroki shouto #Yaoyorozu Momo #todoroki x yaoyorozu #my writing #bnha #bnha fanfiction #boku no hero academia #ashes of love and war #bokunoaubang

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visionofnoxus · 4 years

Note

☠

// Here you go. A little peak into the past of both our characters. Maybe headcanon, maybe not?

“Have infantry brace for impact. They will throw themselves on us en masse, attempting to break our ranks” the noxian commander guided his officers, the messengers being deployed immediately. “The pikemen remain immediately behind the outer perimeter. Their infantry is chaff but those horsemen are lightning fast. Should they see an opening, they’ll break through and tear open our lines from behind” The man’s lips drew into a thin line at the thought. “Do not let that happen gentlemen or else these dunes will become our grave”. He cast his eyes on the far side of the battlefield, eyeing the enemy commander, the shuriman’s figure clear as he stood on the chariot, the blue sky as his background. Golden ornaments and colorful clothes made the leader stand out like an eyesore. “How pompous” Swain muttered to himself, glancing at his command staff.

All of them wore loose robes of mute colors, tightened only around openings to block out the ever shifting sands. Their insignia’s and such were pinned on shoulders of the garbs but other than that, there were little differences between them and the shuriman soldiers. Likewise, the noxian troops, while wearing their armor to battle, had discarded leather and sturdy cloth in favor of local clothing, wearing only scarves of crimson and black to mark their allegiance to their nation. The fact was that while northeners’ weapons and armor bit just as well as before, their clothes, uniforms and most of the infrastructure had no place on the dry wasteland and the burning deserts of Shurima. As such, by the command of colonel Jericho Swain, the warband had refitted itself almost entirely, the heavy infantry the only ones still clad in dark iron, and even they wore light cloth on top of their armors, discarding them just moments before entering the fray, which day did only at the last possible moment to conserve their strength.

Crossing his arms, Swain let his thoughts for a brief moment wander to the next phase. Once this battle was won, the Noxians would have land access to the port city of Nashramae from their garrisons in Tereshni. With that, the empire would be uniting the entirety of northern Shuriman coast. The colonel smiled at the thought. With the entirety of the coast under their rule, Noxus could begin truly expanding southward and in a couple of decades the entirety of Shurima would be added to the empire. And all that stood between the empire and their conquest was some local chieftain controlling the city. “All too easy”.

“Colonel! Colonel Swain!” Came the alarmed shouting of a messenger arriving on horseback, eliciting a frown from the commander. “Take over. Maintain the defensive formation and charge when their offense breaks” He ordered his second-in-command, turning to resolve the new development, whatever it was.

The courier stared at him, his eyes wide with shock, his voice trembling. “Sir! The rear guard and our reserves too, they are under attack!” He explained, fighting the inner turmoil to relay information quickly. “An enemy has broken through and is charging our command position. Lieutenant Grahan ordered a stalling action to buy time, but it’s tearing through our troops without slowing down”. Swain blinked a few times, confused. “What is the enemy like? Horsemen? Or some local beasts with infantry unit on the trail?” He guessed, trying to understand what was going on. “No sir… a single giant man. And we think he is a mage”. “A single man? A single individual soldier broke through our rear guard?” Swain asked with confusion, receiving a nod. Decisions had to be made fast. The battle had suddenly changed it’s nature and whatever this new development was, it warranted a change in strategy. “Captain, keep up the defense, do not break formation and do not pursue, should the enemy break. I am taking the heavy infantry to a special task”. His second-in-command overseeing the front line looked puzzled, but she was a veteran officer, nodding and not asking questions. “Yes sir”.

A few minutes later, Swain looked upon the backline of his army, annoyance and awe fighting for the main spot in his mind at the sight. It was as they’d said. At the eye of a strange miniature sandstorm, a single enormous man was cleaving his way through the loose formation of infantry surrounding him, advancing in steady jogging pace. The raging wind and sand made it a challenge to approach the figure, the flying sand razor sharp blinding and impeding the defenders. And those who made it through, the strange pole-arm weapon cleaved and swatted aside. “What are you..?” Swain wondered while staring at the hooded figure, motioning for the heavy infantry to discard their robes and prepare.

Wrapping a scarf around his face in preparation against the storm the warrior would bring, Swain lowered down from his horse. “A halberd” He ordered, taking the offered weapon from his adjutant. The Noxian’s officer’s sword would do little against such a massive foe. The Master Tactician was absolutely convinced the warrior was coming for him. He’d felt the moment his attention had turned towards the colonel on horseback. “Crescent formation on me. We surround him and cripple him. Aim for the legs. Shurimans don’t wear armor there. Once he falls, finish him off” Swain ordered, seeing the storm so very close already, positioning himself at the center of the soldiers. Now then… Let’s see just how mighty you are…

And then the maelstrom of sand, wind and raw violence hit them. The enormous figure leaped through the last of the light infantry, entering the kill field Swain had prepared in stride befitting of any foolish demacian knight. The arcane powered winds struck at the men around Swain but he’d chosen carefully and they resisted the initial impact, moving methodically for the kill. A low growl like that of an angry drakehound reverberated from the warrior, yet this one so much deeper and potent than even the mightiest alphas of the warhounds. And then it struck, the strange staff swirled in the air, sending several armor clad men flying, shattering bones beneath the dark iron plate. From the depths of the hood, a pair of piercing eyes glared at Noxians in primal challenge. The stave came around for another strike, warrior’s reach so long the noxians had yet to attempt even a single strike. Another handful of northerners fell to the sands. First few men managed to step close enough though and brought down their war axes and great swords to cut down the warrior, but it was for naught, their weapons incapable of hurting the shuriman. By some sorcery, his skin was too thick, the blades not finding purchase. And with a mighty kick, both warriors were sent flying, the enemy’s focus turning to Swain, the colonel bracing for the inevitable, knowing he did not stand a chance. He did not know what this was, but there was no power that he commanded that could turn the tide against the warrior. His trap and the strength of his mightiest warriors had not brought him victory. The sheer brute strength and martial prowess had overcome his strategies and guile. Making peace with himself, he whispered: “For Noxus”, preparing for futile charge against the enemy. He’d die like a noxian should, with a weapon in hand. But that devastating blow never came. Years later, Swain still wondered if the creature came to regret it’s choice later on.

“You are the commander of the army. Seize your campaign, Noxian” Came the deep voice from the depths of the hood, the warrior staring down at him, the battle halted yet the sandstorm raging around the two, cutting off the intrusions of the lesser men. “You will find nothing but death, should you press your invasion” It declared, pointing it’s stave at his chest. “Shurima offers no riches or resources your empire desires, only sand, wind and death. Let it’s memory slumber in peace. Let it’s people go about their lives unmolested” It declared. Swain blinked, fighting the tears that the sandstorm was drawing out of him. The Master Tactician felt confusion and outrage at the bold demand of the warrior, but he couldn’t help but trust it. The conviction with which it spoke was unnerving. It sounded like a promise and a threat. His mind ran calculations. A single warrior like this had undone his plans. If there were more… “If I pull my forces, what of our holdings?” He shouted to the wind, bargaining with the warrior. “I am not a general. Treat those you’ve taken well and you’ll not hear of me. Abuse them, or reach for more, and I’ll raise the very sands of the desert to swallow you and your forces” it promised him. There was no real choice in Swain’s eyes. “So be it Shuriman. Leave and I’ll withdraw. I’ll urge my country to seize the campaign” he promised, the creature staring at him, it’s piercing gaze scanning his very soul for a sign of treachery. When it found none, it nodded. “Remember, Noxian” came the last cryptic words, and with that, it was gone, like a mirage.

The winds calmed, leaving Swain standing, surrounded by dead and injured, all power leaving his limbs, him dropping the halberd and falling on his knees with sheer exhaustion. The nearby soldiers ran up to him, crouching down. “Colonel, are you alright? Where is the enemy?” They all asked, confused. Wrenching the scarf from his head, Swain gasped for breath, staring up at the bright blue sky and the merciless sun, it’s rays painting the desert in golden hue littered by the fallen and dying. “We are withdrawing. Sound the retreat” He ordered. What a disaster. He’d have to come up with an explanation for High Command.

#papa burd storytimes #shurima-demigod #the first meeting #yet neither necessarily knew who the other one was #young swain

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