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legends-of-apex · 3 years

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‘Finally’ - Kung Lao x Reader (smut)

Rating: 18+ for smut

Word count: 5,000 words (I know it’s a lot, lmfao)

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long!! Just really wanted to make it good :D there’s so little written for him that I just had to! In short, Kung Lao and the reader have been pining for one another for months and finally decide to do something about it. This fic contains both fluff and smut. Reader is AFAB. Hope you all enjoy, please feel free to let me know what you think and thank you for reading :D

You were trapped between him and the table. His arms on either side of you, braced against the table’s edge so he could lean down to your level where you sat. “It’s very rude you know. To tease your friends.” His eyes held a challenge, a sprinkle of mischief that never seemed to leave when he was with you.

“We were never just friends though were we?”

You weren’t sure why a sudden burst of boldness had overcome you. Perhaps it had something to do with the absolutely unbearable frustration that had been training with him mere moments ago. You were both so distracted by one another and intent on teasing with small jesters and jabs that you couldn’t take it for another minute, delighted when the sudden appearance of the moon relieved the necessity to train. You couldn’t be sure exactly what had sparked it that day but one thing you were sure of was that you wanted him. And you needed him to know that.

It was selfish. Of course it was, but something deep within your gut was begging you to just do something about the way you felt.

“Sounds like you’ve been having some improper thoughts.” He was joking but his voice held little semblance of his usual jest, the tone soft almost timid as he took one of your hands in his and brought your knuckles to his lips. He looked as though he was almost apologetic for having such an effect on you.

Romantic affection and other such distractions weren’t permitted by Raiden. But right now, being so close to Kung Lao, you couldn’t have cared less about what Raiden did or did not permit. His scent was all around you, coupled with the dirt from the fight pit where a kick had sent him tumbling. You swallowed hard, attempting to calm the strange feeling in your stomach in response to his affection.

“Most of my thoughts of you are improper.” That was it then, you’d finally done something that feeling. It was pointless pretending like you didn’t care for one another. You were done with this, done with the longing glances and the pining.

Moving your hand away from his lips so he could speak, he instead pressed your palm to the red dragon enshrined on his chest plate. You were so close together now that he seemed to have a hard time concentrating on your eyes, his gaze instead directed towards your lips. “Perhaps some meditation might remedy the issue.” His tone held absolutely no sense that he meant or likely even knew what he was saying. He was far too focused on drinking the image of you this close to him into his mind.

“It just…” you allowed yourself to lean in closer to him so your lips almost grazed his as you held his cheek in your free hand,”...doesn’t quite scratch the itch.”

“Oi, if you two are going to fuck in here at least let me get in on the action!” Kano’s grating drawl cut straight through whatever moment you had.

Lao moved to stand up straight and likely confront him, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, but you took hold of his forearm, silently asking him to stay. The both of you turned your heads to glare at the man and for once he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “Well, worth a try! I’ll leave you to it. Don’t fuck on the table, we gotta eat there tomorrow!” With that, he left.

As soon as Kano rounded the corner, Lao turned back to face you and before he could even register it, you pressed your lips to his. The exchange was soft, sudden. But you felt him smile into the kiss and cup your cheek with his hand. His lips were so gentle. You couldn’t help but sigh when he deepened the kiss just a little, clearly testing where the boundary lay. You had both been holding back so much for so long, and yet you held back still for now.

When you pulled back for a little air, you kept your cheek pressed against his, wanting him close. “Finally,” you whispered and he smiled once more. The tension between you felt like it had finally subsided, even just a little. You pulled away a little more to get a better look at him, admire him in his hazy state. “Finally,” he agreed.

That one singular word was enough to reassure you that he’d had the same issues you had for a while now. You had been pining for him from the moment you met him when you first entered the temple. His cheeky smile and bold words had you hooked. Not to mention literally everything else about him. And you had noticed, the way he looked at you sometimes like he was gazing at the stars. The quick glances at dinner or in training that sometimes weren’t all that quick or subtle. The softest of touches when your fingers grazed his when he would pass you a plate or fill your glass with water without you having to ask him to pass the jug. The way Lui Kang would shake his head at him whenever Lao was a little too excited to help you with something or even just to spend time with you. All of this and more should have told you that he’d felt the same, but you were far too engrossed in the potential scandal of it all to put two and two together. Lord Raiden would surely have your heads for falling prey to such distractions and for breaking Kung Lao’s vows.

“So what now?” You asked him, hoping, just silently praying that he’d take the hint of how much you needed him right now. Hell, you’d have dropped to your knees before him there and then if you could be sure Kano wouldn’t interrupt. He pulled back from you, extending to his full height once more, grabbing his hat and offering you his hand to take.

“What would you like to do?” He asked, his face held a look of almost pleading but his pride and the public setting wouldn’t let him do so. It was then as he held his hand out to you in invitation that you noticed just how tightly the thin leather cords were tied around his upper arms and how wonderfully under stress the cord seemed right now. One side of his mouth quirked up into a smile like he could hear exactly what your mind was screaming, he saw you admiring his thick arms. He had done many times. The slight hitch in your throat at his question too told him everything he needed to know about what you wanted right now but he wanted to hear you say it.

“I think….” You took his hand, trailing your finger over the centre of his large palm before entwining your fingers with his, “That we should take this somewhere a little more private. I mean unless you want Kano to join..”

He looked like he wanted to devour you. His chest heaved a little, tongue darting out to wet his lips as you rose from your place at the table. He couldn’t speak properly, couldn't believe you truly wanted this with him. So many days spent pining for one another yet he still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that you wanted him, not Liu Kang or anyone else, him. You tugged on his hand lightly, yanking him out of his thoughts and towards your bedroom.

As you hastily unlocked your room with your keys, he couldn’t help but place only the faintest of kisses along your neck from where he stood behind you. His hands found your waist and circled round to meet at your middle, your back pulled flush against his chest. You were so beyond touch starved that even the faintest of touches had you in pieces. You couldn’t help the soft moans that slipped from your lips when he bit down on your skin ever so gently. And he couldn’t help what hearing that sweet sound did to him.

When you flung the door open and tugged him inside, all bets were off about being reserved. His hands were all over you, trying to make up for the lost time that he could have been touching you. Kicking the door shut behind you, you pulled him against you once more. Desperate to have him close. The metallic rattle of his hat hitting the floor rang throughout the room. His lips were far less gentle on yours now and you loved every second of it. A slight nip of his bottom lip between your teeth had him groaning. Such a gorgeous sound. He had you pinned against the door in his efforts to be near you. You were thankful as it gave you just enough leverage to hike your leg over his hip. He took that as his queue to lift your other leg up too, bracing you against the door with his strong arms supporting you.

At the new angel, he nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing kiss after kiss, light bite and after light bite to your soft flesh. You dragged your fingers through his dark hair, careful not to undo the red ribbon he had so carefully tied. A gasp escaped you when he kissed his way down to your chest, mouthing his way over any exposed skin he could find.

You wanted to tell him to just take you then and there. To shove your underwear aside and have you against your bedroom door. But his stature was far more caring than that right now. He was wound tightly, the hardness against your thigh told you that much. So much pent up tension between the two of you and yet he treated you as though you were glass. You’d soon fix that.

“Bed. Please.”

He carefully carried you towards your bed and set you down, mouth never leaving your skin as he did. When he released you to remove his robes you couldn’t help but stare at him. Of course, you’d seen him bare-chested in training many a time before, but it was a view of which you would never tire. His chest was strong and broad, the muscles were defined and well-worked but benefitted from a soft layer above them so his skin was soft to the touch. You couldn’t help it, dragging your fingers over his chest and stomach. You felt each shiver that wracked through him at your touch and revelled in the way his chest heaved from your fingertips alone.

His hand came to shadow your own, near dwarfing it beneath his as he held your palm over his heart as he had done mere minutes before, “Are you sure you want this?” His voice was low, heavy with want, but gentle. You could see the desperation in his eyes. You shared it too.

“More than anything.” You replied, and he smiled, taking your hand and carefully pressing your knuckles to his warm lips for a long moment as though he was almost praying to you. Butterflies spread throughout your stomach, you couldn’t believe the effect he had upon you.

“In that case, lay back,” you quirked a brow at that,”I want to taste you.” He clarified.

You hadn’t been expecting that. You did as you were told for once, shuffling back onto your bed but propping yourself up on your elbows so you could see what he was doing. He ever so gently undid your shoes and slipped those, followed by your socks, off your feet. Next came your trousers once you lifted your hips enough for him to take them off. He let out a huff at the sight of you, staring almost in disbelief at you sprawled out before him. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? It is truly distracting.”

“Is that why I keep whooping your ass in training?”

“Maybe.” He chuckled before turning his attention back to your dripping underwear, “So wet for me already and I haven’t even touched you.” His eyes held a hunger as he parted your legs at the knees a little more so he could get a better look at you. Taking your knee, he hooked it over his shoulder as he sank to the floor, pressing slow kisses along the inside of one thigh and then the next. The touch sent shivers through you, right to your already dripping core. You whined when he got so close to where you wanted him, only to turn his attention to your other thigh again.

“What’s the matter? I thought you liked teasing?” He asked when you whined. You dared not look at him, knowing he’d have his smuggest smile on display.

“Please.” You mumbled, desperation for any touch at all. With a nod of his head towards you in compliance, he rid you of your underwear, tentatively rolling the material down your legs to expose your heat to the nighttime air.

“I’d hold on to something if I were you.” His mouth returned to the tops of your thighs, only this time he let his lips ghost over your core rather than skip over it completely. Your folds were so slick and warm that it almost felt as though his lips melted into you. A long groan escaped you as he began to move his mouth and tongue, laughter vibrating through him at the sound you made. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, you wanted to tug on his hair but settled on grabbing the sheets beneath you. When his tongue flicked your clit, that was out the window and one hand shot to the back of his head in desperation.

He pulled back from your pussy for a moment, “Please pull as hard as you’d like.” He’d obviously caught on. You tangled both hands in his hair then, before he returned to your warmth and he moaned before bringing his lips back to your core. Oh, he liked it when you tugged on his hair, you’d have to remember that.

He sucked your clit between his lips then and let it go so he could lick a strip right up the middle of your folds. “Oh fuck,” you exclaimed, “P-please, do that again!”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He repeated the action, this time taking extra care to move as slowly as possible. Another lick and he was gathering your wetness on his tongue and once again groaning at your taste.

He moved one hand from your thigh and brought his fingers to rest by your lips, “Get them nice and wet for me.” He told you, and you didn’t need to be told twice, sucking his two digits into your mouth and lathering them up with your tongue. “Gods.” He breathed, no doubt imagining that was his cock in the place of his fingers. He withdrew them from your mouth and brought them to your core, circling them slowly in your juices before ever so slightly prodding your entrance with them, slipping the tip of one in and out, followed by the other, in and out, intermittently whilst he worked the rest of your pussy with his tongue.

The very sight of him between your legs would have been enough for you on any other day, but today you were spoiled for choice on what to focus on. He snuck a glance at you from beneath his brow every once and a while, watching your facial expressions in between closing his eyes in pure concentration. You were close now if the coil in your stomach was anything to go by. Honestly, you were surprised that you’d lasted so long given the circumstances.

“I’m close!” You told him.

“I know.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He hooked both his fingers into you at once now, noting how you clenched around him when he did. Pleased with himself when he hit a spot within you that had your head flung back so your chin pointed towards the sky. He chuckled to himself and looked up at your face, not wanting to miss the reaction on your beautiful features.

“What are you- Oh!” The new motion of his fingers, pressing firmly exactly where you needed them to be, was an entirely too overwhelming sensation. Not only did you grab his hair now, you pulled on it, grinding your core against his face in a desperate plea for your release. In your haste to keep him close to you, you’d accidentally pulled the tie from his hair letting the strands fall upon either side of his face in a beautiful frame. He put his mouth into overdrive too, moulding his lips around your nub and giving it as much attention as he could, eyes never leaving your face now. You clenched around his fingers once more before the dam broke and he’d swore he’d never heard a more delightful sound.

His name fell from your lips as if it were the only thing you’d ever known as your orgasm washed over you. He held your hips down with his free hand as he helped you ride it out, never once stopping his movements until you’d finally collapsed back on the bed. You continued to pet his hair as he lay his cheek upon your thigh, brown eyes gazing up at you in a haze.

“They teach you that at the Shaolin academy?” You asked in jest as your breath began to even again. You tilted your chin to look down at him and the adoration in his eyes was enough to send your stomach fluttering once more. He smiled up at you then, his usual half-smile with a slight tilt of his head that you’d grown to love. “Seriously that was great, thank you. Would you allow me to return the favour?”

“If you wish, but please don’t let me finish too soon.”

“Too soon?”

“If you would allow me such a privilege, I would like to feel your body around me as well as your lips.” Gods, you wanted to feel him inside you too.

Once you were ready, still aching with want but satisfied for now, you slipped down off the bed and onto your knees. “Oh you poor thing. Need me to take care of that for you?” You asked when you saw the strain in his trousers. You pulled the waistband of his trousers down with ease, revealing his underwear. You could tell from the outline that he was big and painfully hard but you couldn’t help but tease him with a few soft strokes with the pad of your thumb through the fabric.

“Please-” he gasped when a particularly long stroke had his cock twitching. “Oh sweetheart, it looks like you’ve been hard all day.” You pulled his pants down and allowed his cock to spring free. His cock was thick, thicker than you’d ever imagined. It had ample length too but it was a particularly large vein that ran along its side that really caught your attention.

You pressed a kiss to his leaking tip, another to the vein. Such sweet noises left his mouth already and you’d barely touched him. Dragging your tongue along his underside whilst looking up at him seemed to really do it for him because his cock twitched in your hand. “Oh, gods. Do that again. Please.” You obliged him and earned the most breathy, muddled sound from him.

You gave the tip another kiss before wrapping your lips around just the first half an inch or so.

“Fuck-“ He pulled his cock from your mouth, “As beautiful as you look with your lips around my cock, I’d rather not finish so quickly.” He brought you up from your knees to kiss you again before lifting you slightly so you sat on the edge of your bed once more.

“Do you still want this?” He asked, hand lovingly caressing your cheek, eyes soft and locked with yours. You stood, gliding a hand from his stomach, up along his chest until you reached his strong jaw, eyes never leaving his as you did.

“More than anything. I just want to be close to you.” You confessed.

“We can just lay together if you’d like? We don’t have to do this, I’m more than happy to wait until you're ready.”

“I’m ready,” you told him, “I want you, so long as you want the same?”

“Oh I do. I've wanted this since the day we first met. You have no idea how much I want you.”

“Oh I have some idea.” You pushed on his chest lightly and he fell back onto your bed, taking you with him in his arms, shimmying until he was comfortable. You tugged your shirt over your head and rid yourself of any remaining underwear, flicking your eyes towards him only to see him dumbfounded at the sight of you bare before him. Heat rose to your cheeks for the first time that night. The man had just been eating you out like his life depended on it yet his gaze still made you giddy.

“You are so cute when you’re nervous, you know that?”

“Oh, shut up and fuck me.” You laughed, taking his head in your hands once more and kissing him, revelling in the feeling of his mouth on yours. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“I know.” You rolled your eyes playfully at his cockiness, sitting upon his hips, careful not to let your body sit fully on his stomach or any other sensitive part of him. His hands glided down your sides until they reached your hips, resisting the urge to tickle your sides as he would have in any other situation.

“You ready?” You asked him, sitting up on your knees, hands braced at the base of his thick chest. He nodded, swallowing hard in anticipation.

With one hand you took hold of his achingly hard cock and directed it towards your entrance, taking care to coat the tip in your wetness before aiming it at your aching pussy. A sharp inhale and you were sinking down onto his lap until his cock filled you completely. With each inch, Lao arched further off the mattress before collapsing back once fully inside you, a long moan escaping him as your pussy enveloped his cock within you. The fullness you felt was something else. His velvety cock filling you so pleasantly you thought you could just sit there like that forever if you wouldn’t have gotten needy.

“My gods,” you groaned at the overwhelmingness of it all, “you feel so good.” You told him and he smiled amid his haze, absolutely delighted he was able to make you feel good even from his place beneath you. He let you take it completely at your own pace, supporting your hips when you moved up of him and then slide back down onto his cock. He wouldn't last long, not with months worth of pent up frustration finally coming to a head. He never thought the day he’d be inside you would ever come, didn’t let himself wonder what your walls would feel like around his member. To be fair, usually, just the thought of kissing you was enough to get him off.

You rocked forwards again once you were sure your body had adjusted to his size. Falling forward to essentially lie directly atop him. You didn’t want to ride if you couldn’t touch and be close to him. Another grind of your hips and a moan fell from his lips right into your ear, his hands now gripping your lower back, helping you move on his cock whilst keeping your form flush against his. His hips moved up in tangent with yours.

“Shit!” You cursed when his cock hit a particularly sensitive spot.

With another roll of his hips, he made contact with that spot again, your hands desperately grabbing fistfuls of the sheets at either side of his head to attempt to transfer the tension in your body from such pleasure. “Again!” He obliged you, full concentration on helping you reach your release.

“Lao, please!” You almost begged, “harder please!”

To your surprise, he pulled out of you completely, gripping your hips and lifting you off of him. In one swift movement, you were on your back, Lao leaning over you and tugging your knees around his hip so he had easier access to your pussy.

“You ready for me?”

“If you don’t get back in there and fuck me I think I’m going to die!”

A laugh escaped him but in truth, he felt that desperation too. In fact, he would have come ages ago had he not been in essence edging himself so that he wouldn’t finish long before you.

You sat up so you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing him in for another kiss. You couldn’t get enough of his lips, or hips scent, his arms around, or really anything about him. His arms wrapped around your right after he entered you as you kissed, your moans swallowed by one another’s mouths. That wonderful fullness was back again and he waited until you gave him the go-ahead that you were comfortable again before moving. His thrusts were measured, slow but forceful in a way that had you mewling against his shoulder.

He took his time with you, basking in the feeling of being with you in such a way. His lips found your neck once more, then your shoulder, then your chest and over the tops of your breasts. A particularly loud moan on your part had his attention turned back fully to spearing you on his cock.

“There?” He asked, looking to you for your response. You nodded your head into shoulder and he kissed the top of your head tentatively, smiling at your pleasured state. He focused on hitting that spot again, and again, until your nails started to dig into his shoulders. He let one hand drift between your bodies and down to your core, using the knowledge he’d gained from exploring you with his mouth to heighten your bliss.

“Lao!” His name left your mouth, along with obscenities. You weren’t really sure what you were saying at this point apart from his name. His fingers dancing over your clit combined with his thrusts had you feeling so stimulated that you swore that was all you could feel right now. The coil in your stomach had been rigid and pulsing for a few minutes now.

He pressed another kiss to your temple, “I’m almost there!” He told you, voice shaking both with intensity and the constant movement of you both.

“These bed sheets are a pain to clean.” You informed him in a moment of clarity and he laughed, but his voice was strained as you met his thrusts with your hips.

“Where-“ he gasped, “Do you want it?”

“Inside.” You quickly replied, knowing that you had taken any precautions you needed to.

He laughed again, “I swear you’re trying to kill me.”

As he rubbed harder and more sloppily on your clit, you knew he was extremely close. His forehead was tucked into your shoulder now, skin glistening. When you tugged the hair on the back of his neck between your fingers, he was done. A cry escaped him, cock twitching as he filled you with his release.

That feeling, the feeling of his body shuddering against you, his warmth filling you, was what finally made you come for a second time. You fell back against the covers, taking him with you as you worked through your release. He kept going, lightly and sloppily moving in and out of you until he was sure you were spent. He collapsed a top you, chest heaving in tandem with yours as you slowly came down from your high. When he turned his head to look up at you, a smile spread across your face and his in turn.

“We really shouldn’t have waited so long.” You sighed, feeling the stickiness between your legs as he carefully pulled out of you, not moving his cheek from your chest.

“Agreed.” He huffed in another large breath before his breath evened. It was so good to be with you, in any capacity really but this, this was something almost heavenly.

“Sorry, I think these sheets are still going to need to be cleaned.” He leant up off of you and off the bed, careful not to crush you under his weight, his playful little side smile returning as he walked to your en suite to grab a towel.

You looked down between your legs to check, groaning at the mess. “It can wait for tomorrow!” You didn’t feel like doing any kind of cleaning right now. Your body was spent and your muscles had already begun to ache. He returned with a damp towel and ever so gently wiped away any mess from between your legs, his movements so tentative that it was hard to believe he’d been the one to make that mess in the first place.

“Why? You got something else planned for tonight?” He asked, chucking the towel in the general direction of your bathroom before scooping you up in his arms and setting you down against your pillows.

“Yeah I was just about to go train.” You said in a mock serious tone, actively shoving the covers down so you could both crawl beneath them.

“Ha! Sure.” He had already settled beside you, bringing his arms to wrap around your frame. You turned to face him, your hand sliding beneath his upper arm to gently caress his back as you buried your face in his chest. You felt his lips on your forehead again, his arms tightening to bring you as close to him as he could.

Yeah, you weren’t moving for the world.

#kung lao #Kung Lao x reader #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 2021 #mk 2021 #fic #my writing #reader insert #smut #lemon

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puttingfingerstokeys · 3 years

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A little something I whipped up for @heamatic with her Shinnok in mind.

No timeline alignment stuff here, just pure gift work based on a thread we’ve got on my RP account @bastardsunlight. Ft. Shinnok being creepy because that’s kind of his thing. Shinlao, because we haven’t come up with a ship name and I am appalled at our laxity.

Also like, I can’t believe I’m saying this but neither writer is in any way under some fucked up impression that this is a good, safe, or non-toxic ship. We use the term to describe people who are involved IN SOME WAY. That way is not necessarily healthy.

This story features no NSFW instances.

The dimly lit corridors of the Bone Temple are familiar passageways to Kung Lao as he moves effortlessly toward the audience chamber where he will soon be needed. Shinnok does not often offer his time, but today, he evidently feels generous. It is therefore his favorite creature’s duty to attend as well. Lao has long since stopped thinking of himself as a monk or even a former one, though his spiritual power is still formidable. That life is behind him. Netherrealm is—if not his home—his territory.

Emerging from a massive double door at one side of the infernal hall, he surveys the emptiness of it, the cavernous opulence of the mad god’s particular tastes. Deeper, under vents in the floor—Shinnok appreciates the screams of his captives—is the dungeon proper, though the audience hall very much resembles it. The high pillars are of dark reds, shining obsidian, and shot through with veins of other colors difficult to distinguish in the Stygian light of the realm of dishonored dead. Everything is bone and sinew and suffering here, fire and brimstone and ugly deception.

“You have kept me waiting, little one,” purrs the Elder God of Chaos from his throne. It is, naturally, constructed of bones—not all humanoid. He leans to one side and regards Kung Lao with those inscrutable eyes characteristic of his kind. “Do you wish to bring punishment down on yourself?”

“No, master,” responds Kung Lao, approaching the dais and then ascending to within reach of the massive entity’s long arms. If Shinnok wishes to pull his guts out and toss him back down like a used doll, he may do so from anywhere; why inconvenience him?

“Yet you offer no explanation…” The Elder God’s finger came out and lifted Kung Lao’s chin before sliding down his neck, over the pretty young man’s Adam’s apple, and down to collar bone and chest. He has left this one alive, appreciating the responsive heat and goose flesh of living skin. It bruises so prettily.

“I offer no excuse, my lord.” Kung Lao meets his eyes with an impertinence he loves and hates and oh he has made the right choice in this one. He had known the moment they met upon the field of kombat that Kung Lao would, indeed, make an excellent addition to his collection.

“You are wise beyond your years, it seems, if a bit pert.” Shinnok retracts his hand and waves it about. “Well, get on with it. I’ve better things to do.”

Quan-Chi materializes presently, late as well, though his arrival receives no acknowledgement whatsoever. His dark lord spares not a glance, instead watching the retreating back of the foolish monk who exchanged his own freedom for the life of his friend. Sentiment is worthless in Netherrealm and soon, the arrogant boy will learn this, if the old soul sorcerer must show him the way with his own two hands. His fists clench with the thought, imagining themselves about Kung Lao’s throat, squeezing until something breaks. The pleasure that arises from the thought sends a shudder down his spine.

Meanwhile, Kung Lao, unaware of this contemplation—or if he is aware, he cares so little, he doesn’t bother sparing the man, if a thing like Quan-Chi can be called a man, a single glance—turns to descend the dais. An oversized bone arm which has sprouted from the stone and bone floor of the mad god’s receiving hall offers itself, open-palmed, to the fallen monk. Kung Lao accepts it gracefully, laying his hand in the much larger one, knowing he has not displeased his lord on this day. The dry, brittle-feeling digits wrap gently about the young man’s hand as he makes his graceful retreat to discharge his duties.

Quan-Chi scowls at Kung Lao’s back until Shinnok actually turns his attention on his favored sorcerer—really the only sorcerer who will competently serve him with true, deep loyalty. It really is pathetic to watch, but sometimes a whipped dog is better than no dog. Shinnok has not even had to whip this one. He’s done it of his own accord.

A strange Netherrealm native (as native as anyone can be in a realm of dishonored souls and demonic constructs born of the mad god’s fits of rage), it had been he who had approached the Elder God of rot and chaos to serve him. If Lord Shinnok could be said to be grateful for anything, he might have chosen that moment when Quan-Chi’s power had drawn him to his lord and master’s prison and set about events which would eventually free and embody him. Of course they have greater plans, but for the time being, this will do.

This will do very nicely indeed, he considers, regarding his little pet’s taut backside as Kung Lao makes his way through the hall, the bone arm now sliding along with him, digging a furrow in the ground which seems to knit itself together just a few feet behind the abomination which now has its hand on the curve of Kung Lao’s lower back. Every sensation the bone arm feels, he also feels and the warmth of living flesh is delightful; he wants to grasp it hard, make the boy squeal with pain, make him bleed a little. Just a little.

Perhaps later.

“You have some… news?” Quan-Chi has been scheming—he is always scheming—to manifest his dark, mad god in Earthrealm and he clearly believes he has hit upon something. Shinnok can see it in the sparkle of the man’s eyes. Oh how he loves me, contemplates the Elder God with absolutely no reciprocity of that feeling.

“I do, my lord,” responds the sorcerer, bowing to one knee and standing to deliver his findings. Shinnok listens patiently, mind elsewhere as it must always be. He is chaos incarnate. There is little order to be had in Netherrealm beyond his absolute rule. Not much can hold the attention of an Elder God, in general, but Shinnok in particular has always allowed his mind to wander where it will. Aside from grand machinations of upset and overthrow which delight him endlessly, there is almost nothing of such magnitude in all of existence—no single object or concept which can so fascinate him. What could possibly be of such import that he, a deity, might need to focus his energies on it for any length of time? The boy, some part of his thoughts remind him sweetly. You’re quite captivated with your new toy, aren’t you? Ah but toys come and go. He will tire of this one… eventually.

That boy is now crossing the threshold of the temple’s audience hall, the doors gliding open before him. The dry heat of Netherrealm has ceased to move him and he walks out into it, ushering in the first petitioner, wondering if his lord and master will listen to this one, or slay it on sight. Any creature, demon, or lost soul who is bold enough to approach the Bone Temple and beg favors of the lord of the Realm is desperate, addled, or too cocksure for their own good. An obliteration by the death god is permanent, it is nothingness, non-existence. Somehow, that void is more terrifying by far than the screaming, burning, howling dimness of Netherrealm.

The first demon in line—he is first by virtue of having killed his way up the queue; the corpses of those before him are littered in pieces here and there as a testament to this, all still twitching and flailing as the death he grants is only pain—is a truly imposing figure, easily ten feet in height, with massive, twisted horns like a ram and a maw full of jagged teeth. His eyes ablaze with contempt. This expression does not soften when it lays its burning gaze (with all four eyes) upon the pretty, behatted monk—Kung Lao may not think of himself as a monk, but they do—but rather hardens to something bordering on obscene. The thing licks slavering lips with an exaggerated motion, clearly aiming to upset the small, soft-looking mortal, who does not respond, only gestures to the hall.

“The master will see you now,” he says in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “Please, follow me.”

As they enter, the beast’s three-toed feet hit the ground much harder with each step than might actually be necessary, as if to emphasize his weight. Shinnok leans back upon his throne and assumes a semi-attentive posture. There is no real reason for him to pretend he cares; even the pretense is worthless, but for now, it entertains him. Some of the denizens of his realm wait the Netherrealm equivalent of months, even years, if Shinnok is indisposed and simply does not care. Lately, he has been taking more audiences, but then he has only lately had a… secretary. Kung Lao moves swiftly ahead of the demon, braid swinging tantalizingly behind his shapely back. The boy is an hourglass, upon close inspection, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and thick of hip and rear-end. The demon is inspecting.

“This is far enough,” instructs Kung Lao. “What are you called?”

The demon splutters with indignation. How could they not know him, the greatest general of the northern armies of Khadul, the god-king of the demons, the true creatures of Netherrealm! He has severely overestimated his importance, a grave error in the Bone Temple. The silent hall rings with its silence. An audience chamber ought necessarily to have an audience, but Shinnok prefers the cavernous immensity. It reiterates just how small his petitioners truly are. He eyes the demon, but has yet to speak. A bone arm sprouts near Kung Lao and it makes a twirling motion with its forefinger.

“Lord Shinnok bids you speak,” says the shapely boy through plump lips that look like they ought to be bruised and bloodied and used, in the creature’s foul opinion.

“I will speak,” he snarls, reaching out toward Kung Lao with the intent to brush past, “but with the lord of this Realm, he in whose temple we stand, not you, little slut. There are things I would do with you, yes, but speaking… it is not one of them.” The demon’s laughter rings out boldly into the hall, bouncing off the skulls and femurs and ribs and myriad other bones which make the walls, floor, and ceiling. Quan-Chi flinches minutely, though more at the brazenness of it than the sound. Shinnok is a statue. The bone arm has dissipated, crumbling like ash and ruin, leaving Lao alone. His lord is watching.

“No,” says Kung Lao, the syllable sharp and clear as a pretty bell rung in a mausoleum—and equally as incongruous next to the obscene, guttural speech of the demon. “No,” he repeats, “you do not speak. You bark like a mangy cur begging for scraps. Heel.”

He rushes the demon with lightning speed as it swings for him. There is a brief moment when it seems he might make a try for the beast’s sizeable testes, which swing visibly behind the scant loincloth one might say he is “wearing”. The idea occurs to him and a strange flash of melancholic amusement jolts Kung Lao’s spine before he disappears beneath his hat in a flash of red light and lotus petals. The creature, having never encountered this particular mortal, looks baffled and squats to examine the hat. Quan-Chi’s mouth opens to warn the beast of its insolence in his master’s presence, but a sharp gesture from said master silences him. His face heats with rage. How dare the boy show off this way? He will be punished—perhaps disemboweled or flayed. How delicious that would be!

As the as yet unnamed demon reaches toward the object to pick it up, the flash occurs once more and the deadly piece of headwear flips upward, turning vertically, its far edge held by the owner, the only man in any realm able to master such a strange weapon. The creature barely has time to cry out as Kung Lao draws the hat up its entirety, bisecting the thing and spilling its steaming insides along the floor. Midair, Kung Lao flings the hat, hard, toward Shinnok. Once more, Quan-Chi blanches, but the mad god catches it easily and holds it, bottom facing downward, toward his knees where he sits. This, he thinks, is the most fun I have had in millennia.

Kung Lao’s form plummets toward the gory mess he has made and for a brief, shining moment, Quan-Chi thinks perhaps he will fall and snap his neck and that will be that, one last escape attempt with the final spark of the monk’s spirit left to him. Lord Shinnok has no need of a broken doll. Of course this is a flight of pure fancy. Shinnok will find a use for that beautiful body, even broken.

Alas, rather than crashing to his death—or maiming, at least—Kung Lao’s body dives into a circle of blood, red light, once more accompanied by a flash and flurry of lotus petals. It takes only half a moment for him to repeat the trick, falling out of the hat and into his lord and master’s waiting lap. Shinnok allows the hat to settle upon Kung Lao’s head and once more tilts his chin upward so that their eyes meet.

“Far too impertinent,” he scolds, shaking his head, running his thumb over his little doll’s full, perfect, soft lower lip. Kung Lao is flushed with the pleasure of his accomplishment and hasn’t a spot of blood on his person. “Who are you to decide who I do and do not address, hmm? Is this not my domain?”

“His master would pretend it is not. One cannot serve two lords and you rule this Realm.” This is not a question, nor is it simpering. Kung Lao speaks cold, hard facts. “I merely saved you the trouble of hearing a dog bark.”

So bold, Shinnok thinks. I must curb this. But he does not punish his little favorite. The unpredictability delights him. Quan-Chi senses this misplaced delight and recedes from the receiving hall unseen, glowering over his shoulder and now hellbent on perfecting his machinations to bring his master to Earthrealm.

#violence #cc #cw #mortal kombat #kung lao #shinnok #shinlao #gift work

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massensterben · 2 years

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@jawlost said: The trenches were always cold so close to a new year, the feeling of the wet mud never quite seemed to go away no matter how dry you may or may not have been. It was enough to send a shiver to your bones and ache until you would be set alight. It was not the birthday that Porco had wanted to spend celebrating with Bertholdt, but it was the one he was given. Bones had been rattled during the onslaught of the day, enough so that they’d both wound up in the infirmary. Bed rest. Bullshit, more like it. Hours waiting for guards to change over, moments spend persuading them to turn a blind eye in favour for a favour that Porco would deal with at a later date, he’d dragged Bertholdt (whether he was entirely recovered or not, Porco figured he’d rest later) out into a distant clearing he’d found on one of the many trips back to the camp. It was bone-rattling cold and all Porco had was a shitty blanket, their jackets and a loaf of fresh bread he’d swiped from the eatery. Piss-poor efforts to most, but it was the best he could do with the circumstances they had been given.

A kiss was given to Bertholdt under the stars, the loaf being unveiled between them and Porco harboured the smallest of smiles. A shell sounded off in the distance, Porco let out a chuckle and told him to pretend it was a firework. Tearing the bread open between them, there was a gentle reddening of Porco’s cheeks. “Happy Birthday, Toldie. Not the present I had planned, but y’know. The bread’s fresh.”

The resistance was futile and not well executed to start with. It is his own fault, in the end. He doesn’t keep track of time out here, not with shells springing around his feet and mines crushed under his heels, not with the planes dropping bombs overhead and zeppelins deploying white-parachuted soldiers by the score. Days bleed into each other here, where there is dust in your eyes even when it rains, even when the ground freezes solid. Bertholdt has little to do with such sedimentary concerns. He lords over the battlefield, crouching over battalions of tanks and infantries like a spider over its brood. His jurisdiction deals in sweltering heat and steam, the kind that nearly boils your skin but never quite breaks it. He is unhappily removed from it now, after a bombardment of anti titan shells lodged themselves in his red throat and tore him free of his confines.

Back on the ground, the anthill business has kept him well away from the awareness of the eclipsing year. Another one, spent far from home. Another one, wasted on senseless brutality, fighting with feral viciousness for scraps of his masters’ dinner table. Originally, he supposes he would have simply slept right through the night, had it not been for Porco. Suddenly he appeared, like a gust of wind, like an errant speck of light, badly reflected in the dark. Under Porco’s urgent supervision, Bertholdt got dressed, sluggishly pulling on his boots and muttering under his breath about what on earth could be so goddamn important.

It is when the older man guides him to a clearing and makes him sit, that it begins to dawn on Bertholdt that it’s himself. If he had known, perhaps he could have refused Porco with more conviction. As it is, he can only tiredly insist that it doesn’t matter, that it’s not worth freezing their asses off out here. There is nothing to celebrate but one year closer to the finish line, one step down the long queue in front of the slaughterhouse. Instead, he is tugged down and closer, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and told to deal with it. Bertholdt settles uneasily, oppressed by the dark, by the orange glow in the east that is not the dawn.

Porco makes light of it, calls it fireworks, kisses him for it. He brought bread. The good kind from the Marleyan mess hall. He makes it... not pretty but palatable. Bertholdt sits beside him, struggling to keep up with Porco’s effortlessness, the detail with which he executes tranquility in this frozen, pockmarked tundra. Everything about him seems to cry out with it: simple and quiet, that’s what I’m trying to give you. And Porco breaks the bread. Bertholdt watches him, stunned and arrested. He doesn’t feel like he belongs here, bleeding steam from his mouth as his... his... —As Porco makes himself comfortable for him.

A sting of embarrassment tightens his heart at the cheesy nickname, that attempt at adoration that hails from their earliest childhood. He’s long outgrown it, this label of innocence, best bestowed upon a little brother or a clumsy pet. But he is tired and he doesn’t want to argue. He wants them to be warm.

“Works for me,” He mutters as he places his half of the loaf in his lap to instead catch Porco by the hands. He cups them between his palms, turns his grip into a furnace, a glowing oven. “C’mere...” His voice turns into a purr, a vibration so deep in his chest, you’d mistake it for a running engine. It’s gratitude on that halting, coy level that Bertholdt has. He wants to be good, be deserving, but he only has his body and the way that it can serve.

“I’ll warm you up.”

#;;v. god of destruction #fellas is it gay to go picnicking with your boyfriend during a military campaign?#jawlost #;;sh. bertholdt & porco : jawlost — wie die faust auf's auge.#bertday extravaganza

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opensidestories · 3 years

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After a long journey, you have finally reached the Dark Lord's castle to confront him. What you did not expect is a line of adventurers that stretches past the castle's gates.

The queue...

“Hey mate, what’s going on?” Grayson asked the person at the back of the queue…

He had done all he had been told to do, all he had been destined to do, he had travelled far and wide, fought great and dangerous monsters, escaped dangerous ruins, almost losing his life to get the next clue for how to defeat the Dark Lord.

It had consumed him, it was his be all and end all, and now, when he finally reached the Dark Lords castle, his sword sharp, his armour set, his nerves steeled and ready for the epic battle he had spent years preparing for…he found himself, at the back of a queue…

“It’s a queue mate…” said the person at the back of the line, turning briefly to see who was behind before turning back and pointing up the line.

Grayson was taken aback by how nonchalantly he had been answered…

“I can see that,” replied Grayson annoyed, “why is there a queue?”

This was not right, he thought, this was not what all the fables, songs and legends spoke of. He was destined to come here and defeat the Dark Lord, or so that is what he had thought, what he had been told.

The person at the back of the queue turned, looking a little exacerbated, “a queue to fight the Dark Lord,” he responded once again only turning quickly as if to make sure the same guy was there he was answering.

Grayson was taken aback, his brain logically telling him what was happening, but still in disbelief, as if this was a bad joke, or a test by the Dark Lord, “is this a test?” He asked himself, confused.

“Oi,” started the person at the back of the queue not hiding his exacerbation, as the person in front of him moaned as well, “here we go again,” said the person in front of the person at the back of the queue. “look mate, let me guess, you’re the chosen one, right, told from birth or you found a mysterious weapon, or scroll etc that you were the one to defeat the Dark Lord and save this world and those that lived in it. Then you went on an epic adventure, finding weapons, information, blah, blah, blah, until you got here, right?” Questioned the man at the back of the queue wildly exaggerating as he spoke.

Grayson was shocked, this random person had just, mockingly, summed up everything he had been doing for years, had believed for years, had sacrificed, had nearly died for, in a few seconds…

“Ok, I can tell from your expression that that was all correct, right, so here is the deal no one told you about, and not going to lie I did not know about until I got here, neither did this guy in front, or her in front of him and so on and so forth, right up the queue likely until you get to the Dark Lord himself,” continued the person in front looking back and forth pointing up the queue.

“No one knows when exactly this happened, but some elders from several clans, country kings and lords, no one really knows the origins. Had sent out adventures like yourself, me and everyone else here on an epic quest to fight and defeat the Dark Lord, but they kept on failing, the Dark Lord would keep coming from his Castle wreak havoc etc.

So, they came up with a plan, the idea, a simple but effective one, instead of finding the best of the best, numbers were and better and quicker option, the more adventurers they sent the greater the chance there would be that someone would finally defeat the Dark Lord, so they went back to wherever they came from and started all these legends and myths.

There was a side benefit they didn’t realise, so many of them doing this all at the same time, these legends would grow and before they knew it the Dark Lord had so many adventurers at his door he wouldn’t have time to go out and wreak havoc as he would be too busy defeating all these adventurers.

Make sense, you keeping up?”

Grayson was stunned, how can this be right, he questioned as he started to fill with a combination of confusion and anger, he went to speak but the person at the back of the queue spoke again first.

“No this is not a joke, this is not a test, and you’re confused and angry just as I was when this guy in front to me told me, when she in front told him and then that guy and so on and so forth, basically you have two choices, stand in the queue and wait or head on home,” he finally finished turning back to face the other way.

Grayson went to speak when there was a roar, a flash, followed quickly by a vibration and a distant maniacal sounding laugh which he was not sure if he heard or not, seconds after there was a groan from the crowd as people appeared to shake their heads, shrugged their shoulders with a few “oh wells,” and “next up,” could be heard as the queue moved forward one step.

Grayson didn’t know what to do, he put his sword down into the ground and leaned on it not realising someone was walking up behind him, as the person behind him asked, “what’s going mate?”

Grayson turned, “it’s a queue mate.”

#queueing #queue #dark lord #demons #Adventure #myths and legends #miss sold #not what was expected #castle #castleinvation #defeat the dark lord #waiting #short story #storytelling #writing prompts #writing inspiration #writeblr

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a-libra-writes · 4 years

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Unexpected - Tywin x Reader

Hey yall! Im really sick with a cold, so I haven’t been able to get to the Imagines +Alphabets Instead I’ll post this requested fic, and I’ve got two more fics in the queue for the next few days while I recover.

This wasn’t exactly as requested, but I really enjoyed writing it!

Incoming: Fighter!Reader and Tywin having their meet cute and bond over being sick of other people’s shit.

Every inch of her body protested as she untied the dirty shirt and slipped it down to her arms. A squire had helped her out of her armor and padded gambeson, and she put on a strong face for that, but upon reaching the maester’s tent she nearly collapsed.

There were voices and scattered chaos outside, but she held her dizzying head and tried to focus on the maester’s instructions. Her strong facade finally fell when he gently pressed his fingers to the ugly black and purple bruises forming on her chest.

“Not broken,” The haggard man said. He looked as worn as the men she saw leaving his tent.

She hissed and cursed, but had no energy left to flinch away. Thank the gods, she assumed the worst when that blow knocked out all the wind she had in her lungs and toppled her backwards. Damned Northmen. She threw herself to her feet soon enough, but the pain wrenched a scream from her everytime she cut through a foe.

The maester began cleaning a more pressing wound on her arm. It wasn’t her dominant hand, another stroke of luck.

The gods give and take, she thought bitterly. The cut on her arm did not trouble her near as much, nor did the slice on her leg. She carelessly tore her breeches for the maester so he could wrap it. Her modesty wasn’t even crossing her mind.

Instead, she asked the maester, “Have you tended to my lord father, or seen him? He is of House Lydden, our standard has the badger.”

The maester’s weary eyes only looked up from his work for a moment. “I have not, my lady. House Lydden is not amongst my patients.”

The bitterness and anxiety began to creep up her stomach, touching at her throat, becoming an uncomfortable bile. Of course not. She was the one who broke formation, who left her father and their knights.

I thought the old man could handle himself. I would only be gone a few minutes, then I’d return to him -- stupid, reckless girl --

She could still see the way her father’s arm snapped backwards, as if he were in front of her again. She still heard his scream echoing through his helmet, and the way his strong body crumpled back. She was able to lunge forward, fight off his attacker, but the real fight was leaving his side. She couldn’t stay and help him, cry over him, hold him. She had to keep moving, it’s what he always told her.

He would teach her the sword, her lord father said, but she had to learn to be hard. Soft hands and soft hearts made for softer blows.

The maester must have noticed her stormy thoughts. The fatigue on his face lessened as he gave her a soft smile. “Your lord father is a known knight, and fine warrior, my lady. Doubtless you will find him when the camp gathers.”

She nodded, but the dark thoughts continued. Even if I do, what condition will he be in? That was his sword arm. He may never hold one again.

She should have been there to watch his back, and their men. She should have, but …

Kevin Lannister led their host, nearly 10,000 men strong and composed of other houses, not just her own. When the chaos of battle reached its height, the neat formations began to break, and she noticed her commander was surrounded. Even if she had lost her own horse, she threw herself into the defense, allowing him to ride to safety.

She did the right thing, she knew, but the anxiety still twisted at her. She asked the maester, “May I leave now?”

“You would do well to rest here, my lady. You should not be walking with that wound.”

“I can make it to my own tent and rest there,” She said stubbornly, even though she wasn’t sure where her house had set up their war tents. The maester was ready to protest, but a commotion outside pulled away both of their attentions.

There was the noise of horses and clinking armor outside the tent, not the sound of wounded men groaning as they were carried in. A squire opened the tent flap, and a tall, armored man entered.

The maester instantly bowed his head. She followed his gesture after a brief moment of shock. “My lord.”

When she looked up, the squire was taking his helmet. She found his eyes in an instant, a striking green that only looked bolder against his fine gold armor and the splash of blood that dried on his cheek.

“I understand it was you, Lady Y/N of House Lydden, who came to my brother’s defense.”

“Yes, my lord,” She said. She’d heard him speak before, but that was to crowds of people, swaths of armored men. In such a small tent, in close proximity, she could hear just how deep and commanding his voice was. She was determined to keep her own steady.

“300 armored men, yet a stray soldier was the one jumping to the task. He wanted to know your name.”

Her mind scrambled for a response. “You spoke it true, my lord, and you have honored me with a visit. Might I ask why?”

While the unwounded and surviving soldiers outside the tent were already beginning to celebrate victory, their liege lord’s manner was steady. Take the fanciful armor away, and you would never guess he was returning from battle, save for an unmistakable glow in his eyes. She was sure that wasn’t just the candle light.

“Your father has relinquished his command to you. He was one of my strategists, so in his place, you will join the war council tonight.”

A wave of emotion washed over her, slowly ebbing away the pain but bringing in a new motley of feelings. Regardless, she nodded. “I understand. I will serve well, my lord, as he did.”

Lord Tywin’s eyes glanced up her body. He turned to his squire. “Find her proper clothes before the evening sets in.”

The young squire hastily opened the tent flap for him and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

When they departed and the tent clothes, she felt her body sag on instinct. All the warmth seemed to have left the room, replacing it with a comforting chill. She released a breath and instantly regretted it, wincing at the pain in her ribs.

Then she winced again as she flinched. Gods be good, nearly her whole upper body was exposed in front of her lord paramount. She hastily tied her shirt back. The damage was done, but at least she could keep herself covered in front of the camp.

“It seems you cannot stay here even if I wish it,” The maester said. She had almost forgotten he was in the room.

“I’ll return if my wounds take a turn for the worst, I promise. Thank you for your help.” Her promise felt silly as she uneasily stood on her bad leg. The pain began to dissipate as she walked, not because it felt any better, but because her mind was spinning, replaying the conversation.

It had been a short talk, but she kept going over what he said, the way he stood, the way he looked at her -- well, she was just imagining that last part. She hastily pushed aside her exposure and focused on finding her house’s tents.

As was commanded, a set of fine clothes were brought to her tent, in addition to her set of newly cleaned armor. She raised her eyebrow at the dress - presumably, what she was expected to wear. She sighed and put it on. On one hand, it was irksome that she couldn’t wear a doublet and breeches, on the other, she was grateful to not have to don the armor. Her body was still aching from the morning battle, and a skirt was easier on her wounded leg.

The wartent was just as impressive as it was the last time she saw it. The canvas was a bold crimson that was lit up from the inside, making it glow in the night, with embroidered gold lions on the side. Tywin’s squire recognized her and allowed her inside with a courteous “good evening, Lady Lydden”.

As expected, several of the lords gathered at the table stared pointedly at her. Some recognized her, most didn’t, and it was Kevan Lannister crossing the room that quieted any protest. He offered his hand. “I owe you a great deal of thanks, Lady Lydden.”

“I was merely doing my duty, Ser Kevan.” The gratitude was unexpected, but welcome. Kevan led her to an empty seat, only two seats down from Lord Tywin, she realized. Was this truly her father’s seat? She ignored the other lord’s gazes, but she could feel how confused and indignant they were.

Lord Tywin began the discussion. Even after a heated battle, a victory, he would not rest. The young wolf had surprised him. She listened to the talks and strategies the men threw out, interjecting when she felt the need to provide her own knowledge. Some lords ignored her, others gave her pointed retorts. It seems only Ser Kevan was responding to her favorably, and she had yet to have a chance to respond to Lord Tywin, until now.

“We will need a smaller host to stay in the center, and go where is needed,” Ser Kevan said, pointing to a map and moving several figures. Banners of various houses were attached to small stone-carved knights, representing their forces.

“They will need to be swift riders, with a keen awareness. Whichever side begins to crack under pressure, they’ll be there to relieve it.” Lord Tywin said. He looked around the table, expectantly.

She met those green eyes as she leaned forward. Close as she was, it was as though she were speaking directly to him, not addressing an entire war council. “My lord, I have some of the finest riders at my command. I can lead two or three hundred of them -- the rest will replenish whichever hosts have lost the most men.”

There was a loud scoff behind her. She turned sharply, recognizing the source at once. Of course, Ser Amory Lorch. “It is so … refreshing to see enthusiasm in a … lady such as yourself, but such an important task should be left to one with experience.”

Lord Leo Lefford leaned back in his seat and adopted a tone that was better suited to addressing a child. “I agree. I was at the center of today’s battle, my lady. Surely you understand our soldiers will not be eager to obey your commands, no matter what they may be.”

“They will listen,” She retorted hotly, the pain in her wounds and worry for her father creating a bite in her voice. “My orders would be coming from our liege, Lord Tywin. To disobey me is to disobey him... Surely they understand that?”

The men around the table did not immediately respond, falling into an uncomfortable silence that made some of them shift in their seats. Ser Amory obviously wanted to argue, but now it was a matter of what their commander would say.

Her father taught her to meet men’s gazes, to not demure and look away. Her mother taught her to straighten her posture and keep herself tall, never shrink and simper, even if they tried to make her feel small. Their lessons helped her become who she was, and she looked upon Tywin Lannister’s green eyes again.

Just like at the maester’s tent, the room felt smaller and warmer than it had moments ago. It was foolish to say time crawled, because it didn’t. She just breathed a little slower.

“Lady Y/N’s host will lead in the center. They’ll be supplied with the best mounts, after the vanguard has had their pick.” Lord Tywin said, and gestured to his brother. Ser Kevan placed a figurine with House Lydden’s banner, and just like that, any room for argument was over.

It would be unseemly to smirk and gloat, so she’d do it in the privacy of her tent, or perhaps when the next battle was over. For the next hour, her contributions were received with noticeably less ice, save for Ser Amory. She became engrossed in the meeting, not noticing how the man sitting just two seats away was taking note of the certainty in her voice and the strength of her conviction.

Some ladies flourished in court, some in marriage, some in solitude. It was obvious where this one’s talents lied.

She hadn’t even noticed how the hours passed, especially once wine was poured. The council was dismissed and Y/N tried to subtly finish off her cup. She didn’t get fine vintages like this often, and her aching ribs thanked her for the alcohol.

She set it down once she realized she was being watched. “Pardon, my lord. I don’t often have the luxury.”

“I imagine you’ll need it to sleep.” Tywin said. His goblet was still half-full, and she wondered if it was still his first cup. She hadn’t been paying attention. “Most men would’ve yielded from that wound.”

She touched her chest, feeling pain from just the brush of her fingers. “My ribs are not broken, my lord, and besides, I’ve never yielded to any man.”

“Is that so? I believe it.”

Why was there amusement in his voice - was she imagining it, and the way his eyes looked lighter? Why couldn’t she stop looking at them? Desperate to look at anything else, she realized the other lords had shuffled out of the tent, even Ser Kevan. The only one left was a servant clearing the table.

She stood from the war table and slid her chair in. It would hurt less to curtsy, but she wouldn’t do such a thing. Perhaps if she were leaving her lord paramount at a feast or gala, but this was her commander. She bowed her head and kept her posture rigid, ignoring the pain that shot up her spine. “I’ll speak with you at the next council, my lord.”

“That you will, and louder than tonight. The likes of Ser Amory and Lord Kenning are hard of hearing, and not half as clever as they think. They need a reminder of what I expect in this army.”

His flippant tone brought a slight smile to her face. “I’ll gladly speak loudly and slowly for them. Rest well, my lord.”

#asoiaf #tywin lannister x reader #tywin lannister #libra fics #idk yall i tried lol imma go back to sleep #my ass has just been sleeping and dying all day

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

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Hello folks! Welcome to June! And on the very first day of the month, I bring you this offering. You said in a poll that you were interested in the vampire WIP, so here it is. Although it says WIP, each part has been extensively edited. The story as a whole is a work in progress though, and some elements may change as it develops, although it's all mapped out and I know where it's going. It's written up to Chapter Six, and is sitting at a total of 23,000 words, so it's not going to be a small project! You said you wanted more multi-chapters, so here it is! (I won't neglect the other ones though, I promise! Winter Solstice's next chapter is also ready to go, and is in the posting queue too!)

Now, this one is set in Skyrim - but wait! Don't stop reading now if you're not a Skyrim person!!! It's not following the events of the game, and only features a few characters from the vampire-themed DLC, Dawnguard. You don't need to know about Skyrim to enjoy it, I hope.

It centres on Kjartan, a pureblood vampire (rare) who has lived a cloistered life at the dour Castle Volkihar, located on a remote island in the northern sea of Skryim. His father, Lord Harkon, is a sadistic and obsessive vampire lord, who until just before the start of this story, had been hell-bent on bringing an ancient prophecy to pass that would darken the sun, and therefore increase his vampiric powers. In the game, I think he wants to wipe out the sun entirely, which is stupid because the humans couldn't grow crops, and the vampires would also starve without humans. I removed that element from this story becaues it's dumb af. Without spoiling what's to come, Kjartan was not treated well at the castle, and after his much older sister, Serana, returned to stop Lord Harkon's dumb plan (accompanied by the dragonborn and the anti-vampire faction, the Dawnguard), he left with her to travel Skyrim and learn how to stand on his own two feet a bit better.

Serana took him to various locations in the north of Skyrim, and discovered that he has some magical talents other than his innate vampire abilities, though he's not particularly strong. She suggested he go to the College of Winterhold, an ancient bastion of learning and scholarship, as much to socialise him as to teach him to use his magic, while she continued south to keep working with the Dawnguard.

It is at this point that we pick up Kjartan's story. I am aware that not everyone will be familiar with the lore of Skyrim, so I have tried to weave it into the worldbuilding side of the story without infodumping on you, or making you have to look stuff up.

I really hope you enjoy it - this one has come to be a real favourite of mine, with socially awkward, emotionally repressed Kjartan, and outgoing and outspoken Nora, his first friend at the college...

Any questions, please feel free to ask in the comments or on Tumblr or Discord. Otherwise, here's 3140 words of Kjartan's POV for Chapter One. It will be alternating every chapter between Kjartan and Nora. (Kjartan is pronounced with the 'j' soft, like 'kyar-tan').

Kjartan

“Your talents are… ‘adequate’ enough to gain entry to the college, but you’re hardly the strongest mage we’ve ever considered,” Faralda said condescendingly as his conjured light faded and the residual magicka in the air sputtered out. The high elven gate keeper of the college still looked like she’d swallowed something bitter though, and she continued to stare at him.

“Thank you,” he said, still standing in ankle-deep snow outside the small barbican gate of the College of Winterhold. Beyond, the leaping expanse of the ancient, crumbling stone bridge stretched away into the blizzard, partly masking the millennia-old college building behind, perched on its promontory like the lone survivor of a shipwreck. With half the town of Winterhold now sitting in the sea below the cliffs, it felt somehow apt to think of the venerable old complex of buildings that way. Of course, most of the inhabitants of the town wished the college had gone down to lie with the rest of the rubble, but that wasn’t his concern. He was here for the college, not the town.

“Ordinarily, that rather underwhelming display would have been just about enough to get you admitted to the college,” the mage went on, “But there’s very obviously something else about you which will need discussing with the Master Wizard before I can even let you set foot on the bridge, let alone into the college.”

Meekly, he bowed his head, his long black hair sliding forward to hide a handsome, if extremely pale and drawn face. He’d been waiting for that. “I understand.”

With a soft huff, Faralda nodded and ushered him into a tiny stone chamber in the gatehouse that had room for no more than a fireplace, a battered old table, two chairs, and a round window the size of a porthole. There she left him sitting with his hands in his lap, and his dark gold eyes burning. As she left and slammed the door behind her, he caught her muttering and he held his breath.

The wait for someone to appear was not as long as he’d thought it might be. Apparently it wouldn’t take hours of arguing amongst themselves. The woman who strode into the squat, stone chamber forty minutes later was short but still very much imposing, power washing off her like a font of pure magicka. She wore traditional belted mage robes that crackled with all sorts of enchantments, and her stern expression fixed itself instantly on him the moment she entered the room.

“Kjartan Volkihar, is it?” she said in a gravelly alto voice as she stood in the open doorway, letting all the snow flurry in from outside. The single candle on the table guttered instantly and left nothing but the soft glow of his eyes and the weak light from the window to his left. It was clear that she was not impressed or even intimidated - if her steady heartbeat was anything to go by - and that she knew of his family’s reputation. “A vampire. And a pureblood, nonetheless.”

There was little point denying it. He couldn’t hide with illusion magic from someone as powerful as Mirabelle Ervine, or change his unnatural eyes with their entirely black sclera and red-gold irises, glowing even in strong sunlight. Illusion spells might work on the everyday peasant, but to those two mages here in the dimly lit room, his eyes must have shone like the recently extinguished candle flame.

“Well, it’s not entirely without precedent, you’ll be pleased to hear, but I need to know you can control yourself,” she said, and before either Kjartan or Faralda could have prepared for or prevented it, she had drawn a little belt knife from its sheath at her waist and nicked her inner wrist. Blood welled up, bright and hot and ferrous, and his eyes went immediately to it. Thirst clamped at his tongue and throat and his canines throbbed in his gums, but he never moved so much as a muscle in his body.

The slow drip - loud as hammer blows to the vampire - of falling drops onto the stone was the only sound in the room for almost a minute, time stretching. He wrenched his eyes from the crimson liquid after only a few heartbeats, and fixed her with his careful gaze instead, and all the while she glowered at him, wrist bleeding, daring him to react. Finally with a flick of her other hand, warm, golden light sparkled at the cut, the skin stitching itself back together, and in an instant the damage was healed.

“Apologies for such theatrics,” she said, voice clipped and professional as she entered the room and closed the door. While she spoke, she began to pace. “I had to make sure of your reactions and control, and warning you would have spoiled the test.”

Read the whole thing right now, as well as all the Mermay 2020 posts (five in total, including extra artwork) and a surprise, nsfw ‘ghost lover’ story, plus everything that’s been posted already on Patreon!

#vampire #vampire story #male vampire #vampire x human #male vampire x female character #3rd person narrative #it is set in skyrim #skyrim vampire #volkihar vampire #volkihar

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lsbaird · 3 years

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The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Three Preview!

I’m a day late, it’s true, but hopefully you’ll forgive me. Today Etienne rallies to give it the old college try one more time, but he’s beginning to realize his target may not be quite so murderable as he appears...

It was the D'Grassa, in fact, that proved to be the next opportunity for dispatching Frey. In the morning Etienne dined alone, again, as Frey was tied up over his breakfast meetings, where he held court with his tenants and resolved grievances between them. There was a sticky situation involving a sheepdog and some geese, Frey had told him, and it would be quite boring for Elsa. Etienne heartily agreed. Not to mention, of course, that Elsa's presence at Chancelion was supposed to be something of a secret for a week, unofficial until her aunt had time to accept her niece's elopement, and the engagement was fixed. Or, in terms of the Order, when Frey was dead and the Lady Elsa vanished into thin air.

So Etienne made his way though another round of oatmeal and bland tea, and then retreated back to the library. Maybe he couldn't steal the D'Grassa yet, but at the very least he could read the damn thing.

But once he had settled in the window seat, Etienne opened the tome to its first illuminated page and stared at it without comprehension. His mind was not on the Binding of the Archdemon, centuries past. It was on the prevention of that same Archdemon's return. His easiest opportunity to do his sworn duty had ended in failure, but there were numerous other methods to be tried. After all, it was only the second full day of his stay.

He had no idea how long he was there, lost in thought, staring out the window. The rain had let up, but it had stripped all the autumn glory from the trees, and Chancelion's forests were skeletal frames with flecks of red and peach clinging to them. The timber hills, whose evergreen wombs birthed the hulls of Verlia's merchant vessels, were a dark-green smudge in the distance under a brilliant sky. In the stone courtyard below, past the lacy ironwork points under the windows, tatty leaves chased each other back and forth like schoolchildren let off their studies, whirling into circles and then breaking apart. The sudden sound of Frey’s voice scattered Etienne’s thoughts in a much less poetic fashion.

"I would have said my library lacked for nothing, but I see now what it most needed is here at last."

Etienne started. Frey was standing in the doorway, his eyes only for his betrothed, love lending him an added appeal that his already fine figure did not need.

"Frey!" Etienne said, even as he scolded himself for letting someone—a target, even!— sneak up on him. He hurried to rescue the book that was falling out of his lap before its fragile binding could crash to the parquet floor. "I didn't even hear you come in."

"I could not bear to disturb you, in whatever thoughts you were having." Frey smiled. "Dare I hope that I was in some small part of them?"

Etienne liked nothing better than when Elsa could be honest and full of lies all at the same time. It was so gratifying. "Why, yes, I do confess that you did feature rather prominently," he said, and neglected to elaborate. It wouldn't do to tell Frey that those lush, private fantasies had all involved Frey's murder. "Did you think I would be thinking about the lawns, or the sparrows on the roof?"

"The mystery was so much of the appeal," Frey sighed, happily. "I should have you painted just like that, tilted away from the frame, so I could always watch you daydreaming."

Etienne put the book to his mouth to hide his expression. He breathed deep the reassuring smells of old leather and parchment and felt calmer at once. "Really, my lord," he said, pleased with the teasing note he'd managed, "one would think your thoughts might be ungentlemanly."

"They are," Frey said, with a dark little smile that made him look far too much like his Great-Uncle, "entirely ungentlemanly. And if my lady insists on calling me lord, and thinking me so chivalrous, I might have to remind her that I was born a bastard, in a cattle barn, to a tavern wench."

"So long as your elusive father was not one of the cows, I'm hardly concerned," Etienne said, lightly. "After all, you are Lord Reichwyn now, are you not?"

"So everyone insists on telling me," Frey said. "And he has come to ask his betrothed if she would like to go out for a ride."

Horse-trampling, being thrown from the saddle, neck-breaking, falling down a gully, drowning in a creek, impaled on a broken branch, oh yes. All the things Etienne's dreams were made of. "I would adore the chance for some fresh air."

Frey held out both his hands. "As I hope you adore me?"

Etienne had to rush up then, and take his hands, and be scooped up into another kiss. It was an easier lie than saying yes, Etienne supposed, but he disliked how it set his lips buzzing and made his heart so loud. A dull thump from the window put Frey off his affections, but not enough to release his lady. "What was that?"

"Ah, damn!" Etienne said, with feeling. "It’s the D'Grassa. If I've broken the binding I'll never forgive myself." The book, left teetering on the edge of the window seat in Etienne's wake, had toppled over onto the floor with its pages splayed.

"Not to worry," Frey said, bending to pick it up. "It's been all right for centuries, it looks like it can take a knock or two."

"Still, I hate to abuse a book—oh!" Etienne broke off, because Frey, kneeling there over the book and looking so wonderfully vulnerable, had just given him an idea.

"Something else wrong?" Frey asked, looking at his lady in confusion.

Belatedly, Etienne clapped a hand to his ear. "Yes! Ah, I've lost one of my earrings. It was one of the pearls you had in my wardrobe for me. I hope it's not gone for good!"

Frey put the D'Grassa safely on the window seat, and as Etienne hoped, went back down on his knees. "Not to worry, it must be around here somewhere, as I saw you had it when I came in..."

Etienne hastily took out one of his earrings and chucked it away in the direction of a distant bookshelf, while Frey flipped up the edge of the carpet by the window seat, peering at the floorboards beneath. "This library eats things, I believe. Just the other day I lost one of my pen nibs, and I was rather fond of how that one laid down ink... Oh look! Here it is."

Etienne's hands froze on his collar, but Frey had only found the pen nib, not the earring. "I hope then my pearl will turn up," he said, and as Frey went back to searching, Etienne yanked a length of fine, deadly wire from the net of stiffened black lace that rose up from his collar. The handles were gilt toggles that looked like common decorations, and the wire whispered a high, thin note in Etienne's hands. What would one more red line be, among the many already lacing Frey's body?

Frey sat back a little to look under the cushions of the window seat, and then, Etienne sprung.

It was beautifully simple. The invisible wire looped around Frey's throat, drawn tight in Etienne's hands as the assassin used his entire body to leverage his force. It was quick, elegant, bloodless. With Frey's windpipe blocked, there was only a moment's silent struggle, like a fish dangling at the end of a line. Frey's grasping hands reached out blindly for aid and knocked over the ink-pot on the writing desk, upsetting a candelabra and igniting the desk papers with a breathy roar. The heat of the rising flames licked Etienne's face, relaxing the false curls of his wig. Soon the conflagration would take the entire room, and Freyton Reichwyn Landry with it, along with all the Archdemon's desires. It was a shame about the books, but it was a mission, Etienne's mission, and it must be accomplished at any cost.

...except that it wasn't.

Etienne did not, in fact, get much further than looping the wire around Frey's neck. The rest happened with glorious brevity in his imagination, until Etienne pulled the wire taut, and it snapped. The unexpected lack of murder sent him staggering backwards a step, bewildered. The finest garroting wire in Ivanis City, specially made for him by a master craftsman in the tools of death, broken in two as though it were no more than a cobweb!

Frey fell back on his heels with a surprised cough, and Etienne stuffed the broken garroting wire down into his bodice.

"My lord?" he asked, shoving his own annoyance aside to radiate mild concern instead, wondering if Frey had chanced to see the wire flickering in front of his eyes. Perhaps he'd thought it only a stray hair, one of the ones that so often escaped from his queue. "Are you all right?"

"Ah—yes, I think so," Frey said, patting his cravat in some confusion. "For a moment I thought... It must have only been this pulling tight, though."

"This?" Etienne said thinly, bracing for accusations. But Frey only pulled an object free of his waistcoat. Twirling on the end of a silk ribbon was a miniature painting of Etienne dressed as Elsa, the one that had been sent along with his letters. Ephaseus had painted it himself for the ruse.

"I put it round my neck this morning, you see, and wound it twice as the ribbon was a bit long. It must have just pulled tight when I bent over. The locket's gold, so it's quite heavy." Frey rubbed his throat, laughing ruefully. "For a moment there I thought you were trying to strangle me!"

"Aha ha ha heh!" Etienne's laugh lacked any humor at all, at least to his own ears. Surely Frey must know it was false? "But why would I do that! I haven't even gotten my ride with you yet." By the time he got to the end of his protest, Etienne had managed a decent grasp on his facade again. Still, the word ride came out in far more of a provocative tone than he planned. Frey looked startled and pleased and a little bit breathless at it, though the last was probably more from the near-strangling more than from his lady's advances. "I mean," Etienne fumbled, and looked around in desperation. "I, er—oh, look, there's my pearl!" He hurried over to retrieve the earring, and to do what he could to repair his disguise. "Would you put it back in for me? I'm afraid you startled me so that my hands are shaking. I wouldn't want it to be lost again."

"Your least wish is my highest command," Frey said, and with a deftness that belonged to the card-player more than to the manor lord, Frey slipped the gold earring wire back through Etienne's ear, and admired it there a moment. "I'm so pleased you like them, and your dresses. This is another you're wearing today, is it not? From the ones I had here for you?"

"Ah, yes," Etienne said, trying not to squirm away from the things Frey was doing to his ear. He detested being tickled. "They really are lovely. And the jewels... You are too generous."

"I'm nothing of the sort. Chancelion's fortune is your fortune, and they are yours by right. I've worked hard to bring the family wealth back here, and to provide things suitable for the lady of the house." Frey's hand slipped down to Etienne's jaw, and suddenly it was worth the pain Etienne had gone through to have his beard yanked out with hot sugar tallow before the mission. The least roughness would have been unfortunate, so close. Damn the man for being such a warm-hearted suitor. "It pleases me to see you in them."

Etienne felt a flicker of surprise. "You chose my jewels and things?"

"I did, though Tobias saw to the fitting of your rooms. He said you would be more used to extravagance, coming from the southlands."

"Ah." Gracious adoration, Elsa my girl, he told himself. You are a woman in love with a rich, handsome man, remember. "It's… so kind of him," he finished, and for once was grateful to be kissed, because it meant not having to talk. I am going to throw that accursed cherub in the duck pond when I go.

"I would give you all that and more," Frey said, when they parted again. "But first, I think it best if you try that riding habit on for fit, and meet me down in the courtyard? Say, a quarter of an hour? I'll see to some hawks for us, and mounts."

"I can think of nothing finer," Etienne breathed, kohl-darkened lashes fluttering.

"Good." Frey ran his thumb under Etienne's lower lip. "Till then, my love." He kissed Etienne's knuckles and then was out the door, whistling again, a besotted and happy man.

Etienne sprawled back in a spindly chair not meant for sprawling in, his legs splayed wide and his skirts in disarray as he allowed himself one moment of utter and complete disgust with the world.

"...Fuck."

#the devil's luck #sneak peek #queer lit #indiepub #naughtiness and rude things #fuck that cherub seriously #i know it's really a putti #but putti is specific and cherub is generic and this isn't supposed to be our universe #real writer problems

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theanimeview · 4 years

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The Wolf Lord’s Lady: Ghosts of the Past (Analysis)

By: Peggy Sue Wood | @peggyseditorial

Many things stand out about The Wolf Lord's Lady. Particularly in how it opens--with our main character's life completely falling apart. Her family, dead. Her lover, a spy. Her only options are living a life of solitude in a monastery or death. She chooses death, embracing the burdening sins of her family. All while putting on a cruel persona as a means to make her death appear justified for the new Lord, Kaid, to remain unquestioned in his decisions. Had she remained alive, there would have been ongoing political unrest. Kaid knew this, yet still offered her life. She also knew this and made the decision he couldn't by sacrificing herself, committing the most meaningful deed of her family's reign.

It sets up a very solemn story, which stands out in our current rebirth-genre where the "villainess" main characters are given a second chance. Most reborn villainesses quickly find themselves in some sort of court-drama on the path to saving themselves while also finding love. Our leading lady, Shirley, however, is seeking neither of these things. Instead, she's accepted her family's crimes and feels that she has a duty to pay for them by pursuing a quiet life in the church. This is her seeking redemption for turning a blind eye to her family's horrendous sins. It's hard to swallow as we see how beloved she was by servants and others despite her family's deep injustices against the people around them and those under their domain.

In her new life as Shirley, she is an orphan raised by the church. But through some series of events that happen before she reaches adulthood in their society, she's been sent to work in the current Lord's home. This is where she reunites with her former lover, Lord Kaid, formerly known as Helt.

While some may see this as the set-up for a romantical tale of reconnections, I see the story more as a redemption tale for both Lord Kaid and Shirley, who must face their past traumas lives to continue a renewed one, which can make the story difficult to read.

Both Shirley in her past life and Lord Kaid in his current life have done great deeds for the good of the people. They are virtuous people who struggle deeply with the darkness of the decisions they made in their past. They struggle to forgive themselves for their mistakes and choices--Shirley for not trying harder to work with her family to make them better nobles and people. Lord Kaid for not saving Shirley, who was his lover and, in his eyes and the eyes of many who once served her family, a good person undeserving of her fate.

They are haunted by these memories, and thereby awaken them as metaphorical ghosts.

For Shirley, this plays out in her reflections on the past as she is forced to re-live life in the place she once grew up now as a maid instead of a noble lady, all while serving the man she once loved. The very man who betrayed her and helped murder/execute her loved ones. The ghosts she sees are the memories of her family and their choices compared to his, such as when she reflects that they never invested into their people's businesses, unlike what Kaid has done for them.

Kaid also sees some ghosts of their past as we see short moments from his perspective that always seem to focus on Shirley's eyes. Even though the story points to moles being the identifying factor for a person who has been reborn, each time we see things even slightly from Kaid's perspective, the focus is on Shirley's eyes. Perhaps this is because “eyes are the window to the soul” that the focus is placed here as we get a lot of close-ups in this series to make one feel the truth and weight of that sentiment. In chapter 1, we see close-ups of the wreckages and horrors of Shirley’s past life in her eyes. We also see multiple close examinations of her face to show the range of different emotional expressions she’s experiencing.

In chapter 2, we get another close up of her face and eyes, showing similar shading:

Each time we get a real look at Shirley's face from Kaid's perspective, he stares at her intently and seemingly focuses on her eyes and into her soul, which leads his expressions to turn dark--not out of anger but out of guilt and possible despair at her loss in his life.

Once it is confirmed to Kaid that Shirley is the former lady he loved, Kaid tries to make amends by behaving like the servant Helt, but Shirley doesn't accept that very well--after all, she is now a maid and he is the Lord.

Their relationship can never go back to what it was, ever, and she accepts that. She helps Kaid accept that too. For a moment, the story feels finalized at the end of Chapter 7, when the two find forgiveness for their respective counterparts in this tragic ordeal.

It’s a beautiful scene that I appreciate coming to a close before the dramatic events of other reincarnators entering the story.

I look forward to seeing how this story continues now that our two central characters have at least found each other's forgiveness for what they view as their own mistakes. Now I hope to see them officially forgive themselves.

What do you all think?

Hey, y'all! This post has taken a long time to come back from drafting purgatory. As some of you may know, I had finished a post on this series a while ago under the same name and scheduled it only for the Tumblr queue to eat it. I then had to re-write the bloody thing, and my laziness got in the way. Sorry. With that, I hope you've enjoyed this updated review of the story thus far. I'll see you all next Saturday with another post! Best, Peggy @peggyseditorial

#Ookami Ryoushu no Ojou-sama #the wolf lord's lady #anlysis #Princess of the Wolf Lord #狼领主的大小姐 #狼領主のお嬢様

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pereirawrites · 4 years

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𝓢𝔀𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓭 : 𝓐 𝓢𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓡𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰

Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Far Far Away, there lived a King & Queen who were happily married. The King’s daily temper tantrums could be heard all over the land, and their silly fights were a matter of regular gossip among the subjects of the province. The aristocratic couple had only one son, Damien, a dark boy with tanned skin & hazel eyes. Everyone who met him, found him to be uniquely beautiful. One unfortunate day, the King had a sudden fall in his kingly bathrooms, & died an untimely death. A tall statue was erected in the town square, to commemorate his valiant wars, during his younger days & all the subjects paid homage at his tomb. The Queen mourned for about a month, feeling lonely for the lack of someone to squabble with.

Then began the reign of The Great Queen of Far Far Away.

The Queen set out to expand her empire, fighting valiantly to conquer the domains of the Lords of the West, winning many battles. While her son, now a well mannered boy of fifteen, looked after the daily affairs at his mother's castle. At the same time, the long queues of kings & princes, asking for her hand in marriage for political leverage, grew steadily. The kingdom flourished during this period of expansion, with a steady inflow of precious metals from the defeated lands making the kingdom's treasury look like a picture from every pirate's dream.

All was well, until the day her majesty met The Count of Well-Spun-Lies. He was tall, dark, & perceived to be amusingly idiotic. Unfortunately the Queen fell for his masculine charms. The now married couple were in pure bliss for the first few months, until the Queen was bored by the new King’s constant complaints about the quality of the bathing soaps, & aromatic perfumes because the King was very concerned about his flawless bronze skin.

But the new King had a secret, no soul except his own knew. Every night, as the clock struck twelve, The Count would stand before a mirror and chant the twelve most important words of his life,

“Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the darkest of them all?”

“Your Majesty, you are the darkest in all the land.”, said the same voice everyday, in its deep baritone. And the The Count would smile slyly, fix his hair & return to his bed-chamber, with peace & calm in his heart.

***

To escape the new King’s narcissistic self-absorption, the Queen entertained herself, by hosting massive dinners and balls with dukes & nobles, to celebrate no occasion in particular. The King & Queen grew further & further apart, but neither really cared. Not until one summer night when the castle was celebrating the eighteenth birthday of the young Prince Damien, where the Queen hoped to get the Prince married off to a dignified princess after the ball.

The King stood once more in front of his mirror, and for the first time in his life, heard the words he had always dreaded to hear.

“You are ONE among the darkest in the land. But there now exists one who is of a darker beauty & a golden heart.” uttered the voice which was now just above a whisper.

“And WHO might this impostor be?”, roared the King as he examined his face in the candle light, searching for wrinkles, but finding none.

“He is the young prince who turned eighteen today.” replied the voice only the king could hear.

The King burned with jealous anger at this terrible news, & plotted his way to reclaim the title of the darkest beauty in the land. He knew the young Prince could not be harmed unless the Queen was removed, & so he laced her wine with rat poison during one of the palace parties. She did not die. So, he increased the dose by vast proportions, & the Queen was finally declared dead by the end of the week. The fate of the young prince now lay in the hands of The Count of Well-Spun-Lies.

Thus, began the evil reign of His Terribleness, the new King of Far Far Away.

The long queues of queens & princesses, asking to be married to his Majesty returned. The King began by marrying the princesses from lands with expensive spices, perfumes & bathing oils, to regain his dark beauty. He tried every way he could to become younger, from long baths in goat milk to getting tanned in the Sun. But nothing he tried ever worked. In the meanwhile, Prince Damien was confined to the dungeons of a castle that was no longer his home.

***

The Forgotten Prince, the subjects called him. Some said he was dead, or that he had died of grief after the death of his poor mother. But no one dared question the King, for fear that they would be beheaded for being beautiful, or worse be used in one of the insane beauty potions to enhance his youthfulness.

As the days went by, the Kings’ frustration grew. The voices in his head mocked him for his ugliness, & he almost went mad when he spotted a slightly greying hair in the mirror. He had had enough, the young prince had to die & his golden heart would be used in his latest beauty potion, mixed with rare herbs from Egypt, whose princess he had most recently been engaged to.

“Summon the Head Huntswoman!” ordered the King, & the trembling servants rushed out of the throne room, a welcome break from his vexing presence.

The head Huntswoman walked in, wearing all black with her bow swung over her shoulder. Her skin was brown like honey, her eyes had a fierce fire in them, & her heart was one of stone. She is pleasing to the eye, thought the King, but she has no gold, silver or spices to give me. & so the King dismissed the thought & focused on the pressing matter at hand.

“You summoned me, your Majesty?”, asked the Huntswoman with a small bow. She disliked giving respect to people, when they clearly deserved none.

“I have a proposition for you.”, he said with a stupid smirk, that he thought people found attractive.

“Today, you will kill the young Prince in the dark forests beyond Far Far Away, & return with his heart, by midnight. Don’t think I’ll be fooled by a pig's heart in place of the Princes! That has been done before. I’ll have my doctors closely examine the heart! You will leave now.” commanded the King.

She gave a curt nod, showing no sign of weakness.

The Huntswoman was surprised by her latest errand, because this proved that the forgotten prince was still alive, but she did not show her surprise, for she had committed crimes far worse than killing a Prince at his Majesty’s command. The once happy land of Far Far Away now lived in mortal fear of its erratic King; and the Huntswoman, though she hated it, was another pawn in His Majesty’s wicked game.

“You are dismissed.” he added with an air of annoyance. He was late for his new bath, this time with spices brought all the way from China.

The Huntswoman left without a word, and proceeded to the dark dungeons of the castle, which always brought a chill to her skin. She had been there several times, twice for disobeying the King, and the other times to torture innocent subjects for crimes they had never committed. But she shrugged those painful memories away.

***

In under two hours she had the Prince sitting on a horse beside her. All she had told the Prince was that the King had asked them to visit the dangerous forests at the border & find him a special kind of herb for his potions.

“I’m Damien, you are?”, asked the Prince, studying the handsome Huntswoman beside him who seemed lost in thought. She glanced back at him, noting the way the Sun lit up his hair like a halo, & the dimple on his left cheek when he smiled. Yes, he was beautiful, she said to herself.

“I’m Gretel.”, she answered rather rudely, feeling bad about it immediately. The Prince sensing her hesitation to speak, did not try to converse with her further as they rode deeper into the woods.

Suddenly, Gretel had an inkling that they were being watched, as though she was the hunter no longer, & was now the prey. And she wasn't wrong as they soon heard the sound of hooves, voices, and excited dogs following them, rapidly advancing towards them. She recognized the hounds immediately, this was the hunting party of the Princess of the North, a sworn enemy of Far Far Away. They exchanged a look & pushed both their horses into a frantic run, as they sped through the forest brush, as fast as their horses could take them.

There was hope for a close escape, until an arrow flew through the air, intending to kill Gretel when instead the Prince pushed his horse in the way & the arrow plunged straight through his heart. The Prince fell off his horse with a groan, & immediately fell into a coma. Gretel, quickly stalled her horse & fell by his side in shock,thoroughly puzzled by the sacrifice the Prince had just made for her. Why had he given his life in place of hers, when he knew nothing about her but her name ? And she was supposed to murder him later that evening.

***

“And who might this beauty be?”, asked the Princess of the North in her shrill voice, pointing to Damien, who was growing paler by the second.

“He is the Forgotten Price of Far Far Away.”, replied Gretel in a calm voice, that was the opposite to the turmoil she was facing on the inside.

“Well, he’s dying. He needs his true loves’ kiss!”, said the Princess matter-of-factly & gave the Prince a long sloppy kiss. But his lips only turned blue, & his skin turned as white as snow.

“He’s already dead”, said the Princess in irritation. “I shall have him placed in a glass casket at my castle for all the world to gaze at his deathly beauty.”, she declared, climbing onto her horse & shouting orders for her guards to follow.

When the hunting party had left, Gretel could stay calm no longer,& the tears began streaming down her face, as she leaned in to kiss the Prince on his cheek as a final goodbye. If only they had more time, she would understand his kindness, but now all she felt was guilt, for that arrow could very well have been her own.

“Why are you crying?”, asked the Prince with concern in his tone. Gretel opened her eyes & found lovely hazel eyes staring back at her, as the Prince tried to sit up.

“I thought you were dead!”, she stated, between tears.

“Don’t worry, the arrow missed my heart, it's wedged in my shoulder”, he replied, prying the rest of the arrow out.

“But you turned blue, & white.” she continued, wiping away her tears.

“Yes, that happens whenever I have fits or concussions”, he replied with a laugh taking her hands in his.

“Shall we run away?”, he asks, pointing at the horses behind them.

“Why not?”, she replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes, showing him the bag of gold bullion which had been forgotten during the scuffle. And so they raced their horses towards freedom, into a night full of new hopes & beginnings.

* The End *

Pic Credits : Wiki Fandom

#character swap #snow white #ravenna #fairytale retelling #fairy tales #short story #story remix #strong female characters #hallucinations

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chaoticspacefam · 4 years

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Character Traits Meme: The Ahaszaai Twins

I was tagged by @stratosara (thank you!) I shall tag (no pressure, as always, feel free to ignore if you don’t feel like it!) @pauletta-00 , @commander-kulan , @mercurypilgrim , @a-muirehen and anybody else who feels like doing it!

We’ll start with the Ahaszaai twins (of course, they are my favourites), but I’ll probably do this for a couple others and throw it in the queue too, cause this one is fuuuunn :D

Bold for currently applies, italics for formerly or sometimes applies, strike for never applies (AFAIK, that’s what I’m using anyways XDD)

MANDATORY REMINDER THAT MY FICVERSE IS CANON DIVERGENT BECAUSE THERE’S ALWAYS GONNA BE SOMEONE COMING TO COMMENT “ThAt’S NoT CaNOn!” I KNOW! THAT’S THE POINT XD

SAARAI

[WEALTH ]

$ Financial : wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty

[Could technically count as “wealthy” but since most of what they make goes right back into the Alliance I’m gonna call it moderate. When she fled to Rishi with Ty, though, they had very little, she was able to make enough doing odd jobs knocking pirates around etc. for them to get by, but it was a little rough.]

✚ Medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged

✪ Class or Caste: upper / middle / working / transient / slave / unsure

[If Valkorion hadn’t killed most of their family and she’d stayed as the heir to the Sith throne, she would’ve been considered upper class. She’s not sure what to call herself while she and Ty were on Rishi and once she becomes Empress of the Eternal Alliance she’s technically upper class again, but Saarai doesn’t like to consider herself “above” the other Alliance members and prefers to see them as equals with different viewpoints so she’s not going to label herself as “upper” class]

✔ Education: qualified / unqualified / studying / other

[Technically finished training at the Sith Academy, but because she didn’t stay for long after becoming a Lord it doesn’t count. She has plenty of knowledge of the Force though and is always learning new things when she can (though she’s not the smartest, she tries!) so she gets by.]

✖ Criminal Record : yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / classified

[Doesn’t have one, because she ran before it could be traced back to her. If her sister hadn’t taken the fall for her, though, she would’ve suffered the same fate (or worse), for murdering one of Arkous’ apprentices.]

[ FAMILY ]

◒ Children: has a child or children / has no biological children / wants children / has adopted children

[Has a son, Ty. In an ideal world where there was nothing stopping her, she’d want more kids because she loves them. But trust issues and being one of the main figureheads of the Alliance means she doesn’t really have time to be on maternity leave to raise a baby. So she makes do with helping teach the youngsters and/or babysitting her nieces, nephews and grandchildren instead :3]

◑ Relationship with Family: close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased

[Saarai only has one sibling, her twin sister Ni’kasi, and they are very close, so close that they have a Force bond, in fact!]

◔ Affiliation: orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parent(s) / not applicable

[Father was killed when she was a very young child, she only has vague memories of him. Was raised by her mother for most of her life, till things (which she still blames herself for) caught up to them and her mother was killed too. Though they don’t reunite officially till Iokath, the twins are adopted by their uncle Vowrawn and his husband Abaron after their mother dies.]

[ TRAITS + TENDENCIES ]

♦ extroverted / introverted / in between

[Saarai is careful and guarded (but polite, unless you give her reason not to be) with strangers, but with those she is familiar with she is very vocal and extroverted.]

♦ dis-organised / organised / in between

♦ closed-minded / open-minded / in between

♦ calm / anxious / in between

[Only gets anxious in specific situations, otherwise is generally pretty calm.]

♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between

♦ cautious / reckless / in between

[cautious in certain very specific situations, but when it comes to the battlefield and protecting her loved ones or allies Saarai is very reckless. She operates under the principal of “if they’re hurting me then they’re not hurting you and I can take more beatings than you can”, much to Lana and Koth’s dismay XD]

♦ patient / impatient / in between

♦ outspoken / reserved / in between

♦ leader / follower / in between

♦ empathetic / unempathetic / in between

♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between

[Since the trauma in her past, Saarai had to learn the hard lesson that she can’t assume someone isn’t going to try and hurt her, so she tries to be more critical of people, but her first attempt is always to see the good in someone.]

♦ traditional / modern / in between

[Holds more to the old old Sith traditions she learnt from her mother (and the few memories she has of her father), than Valkorion’s Empire’s traditions. Is relatively open-minded about adapting and changing her views, within reason.]

♦ hard-working / lazy / in between

♦ cultured / uncultured / in between

[Has a generally dignified air most of the time. But on the battlefield or when she gets really angry, she’s fucking feral. She has teeth that can crack bones and she will use them on you if she has to.]

♦ loyal / disloyal / unknown

♦ faithful / unfaithful / unknown

[ SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION ]

❤ Sexuality: heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual / other*

[*Polycurious, and strongly woman-leaning, does end up in a closed poly relationship with Lana and Koth mid-way through KOTFE.]

❥ Sex: sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favourable / naive and clueless

[Had to work through some stuff after her trauma, but has managed to work through (most of) it now through the years and is all for it.]

♥ Romance: romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favourable / naive and/or inexperienced

[Saarai is one of the sappiest romantics you have ever met. If she loves you, she’s not afraid to show it in any way possible: cuddles, kisses, dinner dates, stay-at-home-and-watch-movies dates, random flowers, anything you can possibly think of, if it makes you smile, she’ll do it.]

❣ Sexually: adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious

[Absolutely knows what she’s doing (and can certainly give you a good time ;)), but isn’t particularly adventurous.]

⚧ Potential Sexual Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

[After her bad experiences with Ty’s father, she’s not comfortable with any sort of intimate contact with men, not even Koth (and she trusts him more than anything - they have it all worked out between the three of them though and everyone’s happy with the way things are). Sticks almost exclusively to women, would probably be okay with fem-presenting people of other genders, but masc-presenting people would worry her.]

⚧ Potential Romantic Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

[Heavily female-leaning, but not adamantly against a romantic relationship with a man...it will just take her longer to trust and feel comfortable with them, but as long as they respect the boundaries she sets out (thank you, Koth!), she’s fine!]

[ ABILITIES ]

☠ Combat Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

≡ Literacy Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

✍ Artistic Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

✂ Technical Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

[Do not let her near a computer or explosives, for your own safety, please. Even she will warn you as such and refuse to touch it. She’s not good with them LOL Saarai can do very simple things like plug something into a navcomputer, or scroll through files on a datapad/in an archive but that’s about the limit of what her abilities allow.]

[ HABITS ]

☕ Drinking Alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[Social drinker, but never over the top.]

☁ Smoking: trying to quit / never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

✿ Other Narcotics: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

✌ Medicinal Drugs: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[Assuming this refers to kolto and whatever else they put in the medpacs etc. Then yes. Sometimes if she gets hurt and Lana or her sister isn’t around to fix it for her.]

☻ Indulgent Food: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

$ Splurge Spending: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

♣ Gambling: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

NI’KASI

[WEALTH ]

$ Financial : wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty

[Formerly a slave with nothing to her name, but since rising the ranks of the Dark Council has made quite a name for herself, even after leaving the Empire to join up with her sister in the Alliance.]

✚ Medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged

[During her time as a slave she was deliberately kept sickly/weak to stop her from fighting back properly or trying to escape, but once she was re-entered into the Korriban Academy and started training she gradually re-built her muscle tone. She’s still less bulky than her sister because of this, but she’s got decent enough muscle by mid-way through her canon storyline.]

✪ Class or Caste: upper / middle / working / transient / slave / unsure

[Like Saarai, would have stayed upper if Valkorion hadn’t happened. Spent almost half a decade in slavery, but gradually worked her way up again to make it back to upper class.]

✔ Education: qualified / unqualified / studying / other

[As a Dark Council member (and eventually Alliance Council Member), Ni’kasi is very much one of the leading authorities in her field. That doesn’t mean she’s stopped studying though, not in the slightest. She’s always looking through the archives to expand her knowledge base so she can use it to help her family and allies.]

✖ Criminal Record : yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / classified

[Was on the books for Tsâhis (Ty’s father)’s murder, though this was wiped after she became high ranked enough within the Empire as she’d earned that much. What no one but their family knows, however, is that though she confessed to the murder, Ni’kasi wasn’t the one who did it. She simply said she was so she could protect her sister and ensure that she could get her nephew, Ty, out of harm’s way (otherwise Ty would’ve had nobody to raise him).]

[ FAMILY ]

◒ Children: has a child or children / has no biological children / wants children / has adopted children

[I haven’t named them yet (or gotten that far in their part of the story), but she has at least two with Andronikos, maybe a third later on down the line. I haven’t made my mind up yet.]

◑ Relationship with Family: close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased

[Her only sibling is her twin sister, Saarai. They’re very close and even share a Force bond. There’s nothing in the universe Ni’kasi wouldn’t do for her sister. If Saarai says “jump”, she asks “how high?”.]

◔ Affiliation: orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parent(s) / not applicable

[Father was killed when she was a very young child, unlike Saarai, Ni’kasi has very few memories of him. Was raised by her mother for most of her life, till things caught up to them and her mother was killed too. Ni’kasi reunites with their uncle Vowrawn and Abaron much earlier, and they adopt the twins as their own since their mother’s passing.]

[ TRAITS + TENDENCIES ]

♦ extroverted / introverted / in between

♦ dis-organised / organised / in between

♦ closed-minded / open-minded / in between

[Ni’kasi, too, sticks more to the old old Sith ideals taught by her mother, but is far more openly critical of Jedi views. She won’t completely throw them aside but it will take a lot of convincing to get her to come around.]

♦ calm / anxious / in between

♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between

[Mostly agreeable...but is still not fond of Jedi. Where necessary, she will tolerate them, but she makes it clear that she can’t wait for it to be over when that happens.]

♦ cautious / reckless / in between

[This woman has a back up-back up plan for the back up plan for the back up plan. She thinks through everything before she makes a decision or follows through an action and very rarely reacts on impulse.]

♦ patient / impatient / in between

♦ outspoken / reserved / in between

♦ leader / follower / in between

[Usually a leader and quite bossily so. Except where her sister is involved; she will follow her sister anywhere and listen to any order Saarai gives her, no matter what, because Saarai’s the boss.]

♦ empathetic / unempathetic / in between

[Comes off as unempathetic, but is in fact simply very literal/logical and has a bit of resting bitch face XD.]

♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between

♦ traditional / modern / in between

♦ hard-working / lazy / in between

♦ cultured / uncultured / in between

♦ loyal / disloyal / unknown

♦ faithful / unfaithful / unknown

[ SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION ]

❤ Sexuality: heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual

❥ Sex: sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favourable / naive and clueless

[She’s a Sith, it’s like...one of the most important “rules” they teach XD.]

♥ Romance: romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favourable / naive and/or inexperienced

[”Repulsed” is a strong word, I’d more call it “hesitant”. Ni’kasi is demiromantic, so she needs to know a person well enough before she can actually fall in love with them. When she does, though, and she accepts that that’s what it is, she’s alright with it and comes to enjoy little romantic gestures here and there. Though she and Andronikos are certainly more private about their affections, she prefers it that way (:]

❣ Sexually: adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious

[Relatively experienced and open to try new things, within reason. Won’t do anything too crazy.]

⚧ Potential Sexual Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

⚧ Potential Romantic Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

[Kas is demiromantic, strongly leaning towards men because that’s who she prefers in bed.]

[ ABILITIES ]

☠ Combat Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

[Good on the battlefield, as long as she’s not close-range, her footwork is sloppy and she’s incredibly clumsy, despite being the less bulky between her and her twin, Kas is the one that trips over her own feet while duelling.]

≡ Literacy Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

✍ Artistic Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

✂ Technical Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

[ HABITS ]

☕ Drinking Alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[Kas is a lightweight, she can’t hold her liqueour well and gets drunk very easily so she prefers not to drink if it can be helped, but is occasionally persuaded to have a glass or two by Andronikos or some of her other companions.]

☁ Smoking: trying to quit / never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

✿ Other Narcotics: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

✌ Medicinal Drugs: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

☻ Indulgent Food: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[Didn’t get much of it as a slave, Andronikos likes to surprise her with nice things like chocolate on occasion because her face always lights up when he does (:]

$ Splurge Spending: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[Not often, due to coming out of slavery, she understands the value of money and is somewhat picky about what she spends it on, but isn’t above picking up something nice if she knows she can afford to spend on it.]

♣ Gambling: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

#swtor #star wars: the old republic #swtor OCs #tagged meme #OC meme #swtor oc: saarai ahaszaai #swtor oc: ni'kasi ahaszaai #the sith twins #some more backstory tidbits included #[wink wink nudge nudge]#;)#sith pureblood

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ichigo-daifuku · 5 years

Text

Heartstrings

SLBP Fanfiction [Read on AO3]

Tokugawa Ieyasu/MC

A retelling of a classic East Asian legend starring the Archer of Tokai.

Mature | Referenced Abuse and Implied Sexual Content

Part of this story was set in the Another Story Event Series (When Fate Brought Me To You & Blossoms of Love, Blooms of Strife)

Word Count: ~5.4k

Part 1 of 春夏秋冬 | Shunkashūtō

運命の赤い糸 | Red String of Fate

An invisible red thread that connects two people who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance.

Days in Sunpu were mundane for Matsudaira Motoyasu.

In an annex connected by a corridor to the main house, he spent his days in silence. A scroll inked in neat, calculated brushstrokes sealed his routine life in place; every move he made prompted by the Muromachi Shogun and sworn protector of Suruga, Imagawa Yoshimoto.

Motoyasu’s body had gotten used to waking up between six-thirty and eight-thirty in the morning. He would change out of his bedclothes into proper attire, fold his bedding, and wait for breakfast. Although long gone cold upon arrival, he ate his meals quietly. With each dish chosen by Lord Yoshimoto, Motoyasu made sure to finish them all within the allotted schedule. He was allowed to visit the toilet during certain times of the day. He would do so, and in the span of proper minutes, finish his business and return to his room. Most of his hours were spent on comprehending the text he was instructed to read, his posture always perfect—back straight and heels tucked underneath. At times, Lord Yoshimoto would drop by his room in the middle of the day to check on his progress. Motoyasu was used to it. Regardless of the amount of his readings, he finished them all before sunset, just in time for dinner.

Lord Yoshimoto would, on a regular basis, instruct Motoyasu to practice archery in the area close to the annex. Armed with his bow, he shot countless arrows to hone his skills to perfection; one bull's-eye after another. The discovery of Motoyasu’s innate talent for archery seemed to have pleased Lord Yoshimoto. It led to his encouragement of Motoyasu to take up the bow from time and again. After each session, Motoyasu returned to his room and accomplished whatever was next in his daily list.

Although it was rare, Motoyasu was occasionally allowed to go on walks around the city. He would be given a list of errands to run, and then he would return to the residence and report to Lord Yoshimoto.

It was a circumstance similar to that when it happened. That certain afternoon, an even rarer task was given to Motoyasu.

Silver bells tinkled as the annex door revealed the regal purple robes of Lord Yoshimoto. The bittersweet aroma of the outside world slid through the gap as he entered Motoyasu’s space, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. Motoyasu was quick to set the book he had been reading aside to bow and offer his most polite greetings. Lord Yoshimoto smiled and sat down in front of him.

“I have a very special assignment for you, my dear Motoyasu.” Lord Yoshimoto’s expression, as always, was nothing but benevolent as he spoke. “The Imagawa will be welcoming an esteemed guest tonight, a samurai whose alliance would prove to be beneficial for us.”

Motoyasu knew when he was permitted to speak and when he was not. He kept quiet, a smile on his face as he waited for Lord Yoshimoto’s next words.

“I would like to give him a bottle of the finest sake in Sunpu. See to it that you obtain it from any of the places written here.” Lord Yoshimoto pulled a piece of folded parchment from his sleeve and handed it to Motoyasu.

He received the parchment with both of his hands and bowed, “As you wish, Milord Yoshimoto.”

“I trust you will be back on time?”

“Of course, Milord Yoshimoto.”

It was the day of the spring festival. The streets of Sunpu were more crowded than usual, the jovial sound of merrymakers’ laughter all over the place. The vibrant attire of men and women stood out in contrast to the light pink colors that tinted the trees. Children swarmed the stalls to play games in hopes to win a prize while merchants littered the sidelines with a variety of goods such as masks and other trinkets. A wide selection of food was available in the stalls, from seasonal harvests like strawberries to traditional desserts like daifuku. The sweet scent of confectioneries tickled Motoyasu’s nose as as he strolled along the path in his everyday robes, eyes straight ahead and a piece of parchment in his hand. In an unexpected moment, a little boy ran straight towards him. He sidestepped easily, and a cloud of dust seeped through his robes as the child sped past him. He didn’t mind it. No, he didn’t mind it at all.

“Would you like to make a wish to the heavens?” The moment he paused, an old woman approached him, a strip of white paper in her hand outstretched his way. Beyond the streets, torches were lit around the temple where the wishes were to be offered. The blow of horns and ring of bells seemed distant but audible; indications that the performance of sacred rituals were currently underway.

Motoyasu only shook his head in response to the old woman’s question. As the old woman nodded in understanding, he went on his way.

A falconer's bird was never free; it would take flight, only to spin around and return to its master. Motoyasu was at the festival to fulfill the task Lord Yoshimoto gave him, only allowed to be wherever the list told him to go. Even if he was away from the residence, out of Lord Yoshimoto’s sight, Motoyasu’s every move was commanded by the strings suspended above his shoulders, tied firmly around his hands and feet.

He found the festival stall which sold the specific sake Lord Yoshimoto wanted as a present for his guest. The line was long. Motoyasu took his place at the very back. In a matter of seconds, a father and son pair was quick to fall in line after him, and more people arrived to queue. In front of him was a man who reeked the stench of hard liquor. He didn’t mind it. No, he didn’t mind it at all.

Motoyasu waited for his turn. Soon, there was only one more person before he would be able to make his purchase and go back to the residence.

“You’re lucky. This is the last one,” the store owner said as he checked the payment handed to him.

Droplets of saliva fell from the drunken man’s mouth as he guffawed. “It seems the gods have blessed me today, then.”

“Oh, no,” the young boy behind Motoyasu said to his father, “Now we won’t have any souvenir for Old Man Shige.”

“That’s alright, son. We’ll get some at the restaurant before we leave tomorrow.” The father patted the little boy’s back, and the two of them went to a nearby food stall instead.

Their voices faded into the distance as Motoyasu left. There was no use in sticking around when he had a more important task to fulfill. Unlike the father and son, he needed to make his purchase right now. Although his first attempt to acquire a bottle the finest sake in Sunpu was unsuccessful, it was fine. There were still two more places where he could get them. He turned to a corner and unfurled the parchment. Although he knew every word, character, and stroke in it, Motoyasu looked over the list again. He simply cannot afford to make a mistake.

However, his second attempt proved to be as fruitless as the previous. Motoyasu was quick to notice the lack of bottled goods upon his arrival to the next designated place. The line was shorter compared to the first stall. Still, Motoyasu decided to make sure and proceeded to ask the seller about the sake.

“My apologies, young man. You see, since today is the festival, a lot of people wanted to enjoy hanami and yozakura with sake. We sold them out hours ago.” The store owner frowned as if she felt bad for Motoyasu. “How about some dango?” she suggested with a smile and proceeded to hand him a stick. “No need to pay for it, just enjoy the festival.”

Motoyasu glanced at the pink, white, and green dumplings skewered together in the stick, the expression on his face a neutral mask as he shook his head. He was quick to leave after the expression of his refusal. He unfolded the parchment once more in search of the final location he was instructed to visit.

It turned out to be a restaurant on the outskirts of the celebration. Motoyasu was met by a dim establishment; the door seemed to be locked, and although lanterns were lit by the entrance, no one seemed to be inside nor was anyone around the area.

That’s it, Motoyasu thought with a smile. His swollen lower lip that had been split open a few days ago stung at the motion. The fading bruise on his cheek ached at the same time, but there was a strange numbness in his body. The end result will still be the same, Motoyasu echoed in his thoughts. His everyday life was enough proof of the absolute power Lord Yoshimoto's held over him. Even his name, ‘Motoyasu’, had come from Lord Yoshimoto’s own. Although he learned things the hard way, Motoyasu was now a master of it: in every task given to him, the tip of every arrow he would shoot should only hit the target, no more and no less.

The sun had set, and Motoyasu had failed. He clenched his fists on his side, his whitened knuckles hidden by the darkness. He was already resigned to his fate. Tonight, it was a severe beating he would receive. Lord Yoshimoto would take a fistful of his hair and yank him to his feet. “Everything I do, I do for you, Motoyasu,” he would say. Motoyasu’s knees would wobble at the force of Lord Yoshimoto’s cruel hands, but he knew what to do. He would meet Lord Yoshimoto’s gentle eyes with an equally kind smile of his own, and only then would he be released from his grasp. He could already feel the hardness of the wooden floor as he sprawled on it. Eyes would sneak glances at the affair, but it was a common occurrence no one saw. It would be another night where his shoulders would tremble under the thick fabric of his blankets in order to silence himself from an emotion he vowed the light of the world would never see.

Motoyasu turned to make his way back to the residence, empty-handed.

“Your destiny is golden,” a raspy voice said from nearby.

Motoyasu internally scolded himself as he failed to notice the arrival of another person in the area.

There, an old man sat on one of the wooden benches near the restaurant. Although far from the festival, he was dressed in bright, resplendent clothing, and beside him, a woven cloth sack filled with his belongings rested. The book in his hand had a crimson cover, the full moon the old man’s source of light as he read. The haze of smoke that came from the old man’s kiseru on his other hand mingled with the beam of moonlight. Motoyasu could smell the bitter tang of tobacco from where he stood. He didn’t mind it. No, he didn’t mind it at all.

The old man’s eyes were trained on his book as he spoke again, “Many will plant and wait for the perfect opportunity to harvest the strawberries. Even more will knead the rice cake and fill it with the right amount of red bean paste for the fruit. That includes you. You will work for it. You will suffer. But unlike the others, you will know the sweet taste of daifuku.” He took a puff from the kiseru and released the smoke to the skies.

Was the old man pertaining to him? If so, Motoyasu almost wanted to laugh. Strawberry daifuku. He could not remember what the taste of it was like, nor the last time he had one.

Despite Motoyasu’s lack of response, the old man continued, “You are sly, cunning… very intelligent. You will meet many who are similar.” He paused to flip a page in his book. “But unlike them, your destiny is golden.”

With those words, Motoyasu thought that perhaps, the old man was a fortune-teller who swindled money from those who attended the festival. It was unfortunate for him; Motoyasu was not there for such nonsense, nor was he someone easily fooled. He maintained his calm demeanor as he passed by the old man with the aim to go back to the throng of people at the festival, and then to the residence to face his fate. “Pardon me,” Motoyasu said.

“Takechiyo.”

Motoyasu stopped in his tracks.

Takechiyo. That little boy who loved to eat sweets. That unfortunate little boy. He knew him, the child he was once upon a time, Takechiyo.

Before he could stop himself, the question slipped past his lips, “Pray tell, how did you know that name?” Even at that moment, his words were polite, but the slight knit in his brows broke the image of his nonchalance.

“It is written here in my book,” the old man had the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he answered, “Matsudaira Motoyasu.”

Motoyasu spun around and faced the old man. His expression was devoid of his smile nor did he have the neutrality he had mastered—it was a look of displeasure no person has ever witnessed in a very long time. There was a moment of silence as Motoyasu kept his composure in check. “Who are you?”

“Me?” The old man took another puff from his kiseru before he continued, “I am just an old man under the moon.”

Motoyasu’s fists were once again clenched on his sides. First, the old man spouted nonsense about the future, and now, it seemed that he—a stranger—had crucial knowledge not only about Motoyasu’s past but also his present. Motoyasu was torn. He was not supposed to listen to the deranged ramblings of this person; it was not something included in his daily list. The task was to purchase the sake and leave. The end. He had already failed in that aspect, and yet, the fact that this stranger knew certain things about himself bothered him to no end.

Motoyasu’s thoughts were interrupted as the old man spoke again, “Did you know that there are strings that bind twin flames?”

Motoyasu didn’t reply. His feet remained rooted on the ground, the old man’s words foreign to his comprehension.

“Right there.” The old man used his kiseru to point at Motoyasu’s hand. “Around your little finger.” He raised the kiseru to his lips to take another puff, the smoke stronger than it was before. “I see a lot of tangles in your string. Would you like to see who is on the other end of it? After all, she is right here.” The old man looked up from his book, eyes finally trained on Motoyasu.

“A twin… flame?” Motoyasu replied, his voice a mere whisper in his incredulity. Would he even wed? As the heir of the Matsudaira clan, perhaps he would have to take a wife. If so, she would surely be a woman chosen by the Imagawa for him; a political marriage. It didn’t matter. At the back of his mind, it seemed the old man might not be a fortune-teller but rather a matchmaker. Still, that didn’t explain why he knew so much about him.

“There.” The old man used his kiseru once more to point at the distance, towards the sidelines of festival. “That girl.”

On the surface, Motoyasu’s blood began to boil. Why was it that the future that he himself was unsure he had was being dictated to him by this stranger? He was tired. The piece of parchment inside his sleeve felt heavy. The only future he had was what waited for him the moment he would step on the grounds of the residence. In a spur of frustration and anger, Motoyasu picked up a pebble and turned towards the direction the old man pointed at. The first thing his eyes zeroed in was the giant cherry tree. It flared his sudden hatred even more. Although there were a number of people from afar, he knew at once which girl the old man pertained to. It was that one—that girl who stood under the tree he despised. The large ribbon on the back of her obi was visible to him even from afar, her kimono embellished with a spring flower he knew so well, its hues the very same as the tree’s petals. The hairpin she wore on the side of her head sparkled under the moonlight. It happened in the span of a second; Motoyasu hurled the pebble towards his target—the hairpin—equipped with the perfect aim and strength of a skilled archer.

But unlike all of the other targets he practiced with, this particular one moved. The girl turned around, and the pebble grazed her forehead. There was a twinge of something inside Motoyasu as he stood there, transfixed. One of her hands was quick to cover her injury, while the other held a short wooden branch against the tree bark in an abrupt motion to steady herself from the unexpected impact. Cherry blossom petals fell around the girl. The moonlight etched every single detail of the scene in his mind in perfect clarity. Motoyasu thought of her as someone who would be as transient as the blooms, his eyes wide and unblinking so as not to miss a second of the strange encounter.

And she was, transient. In the few seconds that he gazed at her, she had already run away and before he knew it, left more blossoms in her wake. After she had gone, it was as if Motoyasu came to his senses, suddenly aware of suddenly aware of how loud and rapid the beat of his heart had become, how his mouth fell agape, and how his breaths came out in short pants. He spun around, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. There was no book with a crimson cover, nor was there a cloth sack on the wooden bench. The scent of tobacco from the kiseru lingered, the haze still present and on its way to ascend to the heavens. In the place where the mysterious stranger once sat rested a package wrapped in golden silk cloth.

It was a bottle of sake.

Days in Hamamatsu are never mundane for Tokugawa Ieyasu.

For a time, he supposed old habits die hard. He still spent a considerable amount of time holed up in his chambers as he read a stack of various texts. Nonetheless, it is with a purpose; he aims to broaden his knowledge and apply it in the days of battle and in the governance of Mikawa. There is always something new in his quest for the restoration of the land. His retainers are something else as well. Once, he might have thought of them as mere pawns, but things have changed. For the better, he thinks.

Nights in Hamamatsu are… even more interesting, to say the least. Although Ieyasu will never admit it out loud, it is all because of her. The kitchen wench. That girl who always grins like the simpleton that she is. The one who seems to invade his thoughts every second of the day. After that battle in Nagashino, the two of them seem to have developed an inclination towards spending the nights in each other’s company. He eats his breakfast and lunch in the Main Hall, but dinner is always served in his chambers. She excitedly talks about the night’s menu as she sets the lacquered tableware down, the food still warm and fresh from the kitchens. After dinner, Ieyasu begins his choice of nightly readings. She serves him tea and does her own thing, keeping him company while she mends her clothes or writes letters and entries in her journal. Most of the time, the two of them keep to themselves but will have short conversations every now and then.

“Lord Ieyasu, these ink and brushes are great to use. The strokes come out so beautifully. See?”

“Of course, they are mine after all. You know what will happen if you ruin them, don’t you?”

“Right, right,” she replies distractedly, already back to writing whatever it was she was writing.

Some nights, Ieyasu will be engrossed in the book he reads as he buries his nose in it. Unbeknownst to her, the reality is that he steals glances at her from time to time. He finds her focused on whatever she does. Other times, she is already sprawled over the floor, breaths even as she sleeps peacefully. He carries her to his bedding and tucks her in his blanket. He clicks his tongue, a habit he has acquired over the years, only the action is not due to his usual vexation, but because of silent affection for the girl deep in her slumber.

Some nights, she remembers the time and proceeds to go back to her own room. She bids him a good night, and although she tries hard to hide it, Ieyasu notices the slump on her shoulders as she slides the shoji door shut. He hears the faintest of the sighs that escapes her lips as she walks away. As he lays on the bedding and tucks himself with the blanket that carried the slightest hint of her fragrance, he frowns and wonders why.

Some nights, they share a kiss, or two. Maybe another deep kiss that leaves them panting heavily afterwards. How many times have they kissed now? He isn't sure.

Things were simpler then, before that incident in Owari.

The strawberry daifuku, the token of apology she brought for him, is still on the table, yet to be eaten. The last thing Ieyasu expected was for her to be the one to apologize to him. Yet, he should have known. Her words and actions are always genuine. She is kind. If only he could be even just half as honest as her.

Everything happened quickly afterwards. Although the night is still young, it proved to be a night of many firsts already. It was the first time he told her, or anyone for that matter, of his deepest and sincerest feelings. Affection. Adoration. Love. The both of them saw and touched each other in ways neither of them have ever known before. He has never been so close to anyone and he finds that he… doesn't hate it. Not at all.

“You’re all sweaty.” He pats her on the side of her waist. Her eyes fluttered shut and her bare body is above his own, their legs tangled together. She rests her head over his chest, just above his heart. Her arms are draped over him, surrounding him with warmth.

“Hmm…” She makes no move to get off him nor does he do anything to push her away. “You too, Lord Ieyasu.”

“Are you falling asleep on me?”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Milord.”

They are quiet after that. He finds himself touching the strands of her hair and before long, running his fingers through its silkiness. Her forehead is covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and his fingers brush the fringes stuck to her skin aside. That is when he sees it.

“Oi.”

She hums in response. “What is it?”

“Where did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“That scar.”

“Oh.” She opens her eyes as her fingers reach to trace the scar on her forehead, close to her hairline. “It’s a long story.”

Did Yasumasa do this to her? Was it that Sanada Yukimura? Or maybe that fox he kept with him? Whoever it was would pay dearly for it. “Tell me.”

To his surprise, she giggles, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “Okay,” she says and looks far off in the distance. Her body is so close to him, yet her thoughts drifted years back in the past. She begins her story with her younger days, when she had already begun to assist her parents in their restaurant in Kyoto.

“There was a time when Father, Yahiko, and I went on a trip to help around a restaurant owned by Father’s cousin. He and his wife requested for our help on the day of a festival.” Her index finger absentmindedly strokes his collarbone in languid motions. He shivers under her touch, but she does not notice as she continues her tale. “Of course, I wanted to see the festival, but we were busy with the restaurant. Luckily, it was closed early, just before sunset. Everything was sold out by that time, anyway. Uncle and Aunt were participating in the rites in the shrine, and the three of us were free to enjoy the rest of the evening in the festival. I was so excited.”

Ieyasu listens. There are many things he does not know about her. His fingers once again comb the long strands of her hair. He is busy twirling it around his finger when her next words make his motions come to an abrupt stop.

“It was in a place quite far away from the capital—Suruga. The city was not like Kyoto, but it was still full of life in its own way. The cherry blossoms were beautiful.”

Festival. Suruga. Cherry blossoms. The story is so familiar that he himself drifts years back to the memories of his past.

“I was waiting under a giant cherry tree for Father and Yahiko. They told me they would return with some dango and souvenirs. The last thing I expected was a person jumping down the tree. He appeared so suddenly that come to think of it, he might have been a shinobi.” She laughs. “Anyway, that man gave me a short branch of cherry blossoms, and then… he said something strange.” She pauses in thought, as if she is trying to figure out what the cryptic message meant even if it has been years since she heard it. "'I wish you all the best in your destiny.' That was what the man said. I didn’t understand. Still, I bowed to express my gratitude, but when I raised my head, he was just… gone. I looked around for him and that was when I was struck by something on the forehead. I ran to find Father and Yahiko at once because it stung a lot… and there was blood."

She glances at him, back to the reality of the present. “It was fine, though I started having my hair cut this way. Even if the scar is barely visible, I’ve grown quite fond of wearing it like this.” She gives him a smile that reaches her eyes as she touches the scar that has almost faded. “It’s been such a long time. Father got me my hairpin in one of the stalls at the festival. He told me it would go well with the outfit we rented. I don’t remember much about the kimono's appearance, but I remember that the little me felt pretty when she wore it. Like one of those kimekomi or hina dolls. It had flowers, I think.”

“Hollyhocks,” Ieyasu says, his voice a mere whisper.

“Huh?” She looks towards him in confusion. Illuminated by the glow of the lantern, her eyes are bright, and she is golden.

The intensity of her stare makes him look away. “If you’re so proud of it being pretty and all, then it must have been hollyhocks.”

Her eyes never leaves his profile as she calls out to him, “Lord Ieyasu?”

“What.”

“Does this mean that you think I would look pretty wearing a kimono… with hollyhocks?” she asks, her final word filled with uncertainty and reluctance. From his peripheral vision, he sees her gaze shift to the ceiling.

Ieyasu smiles. For most of his life, there have been many things hidden in it, but it is with her that he can smile truly, happily. “My, my. Aren’t we a little audacious tonight?”

She frowns. “After all we’ve done?” she mumbles under her breath.

“What are we blushing for?” he teases her and tilts his head to get a better view of her face. “You decide to get shy now... after all we’ve done?”

“I-I’m not blushing!” She covers her flushed cheeks with her palms.

For a moment, he thinks he sees a silken cord around her little finger, but it is gone in a blink of an eye. It didn’t matter to him. He takes her hands in his as he moves to uncover her face. She looks up to him again, eyes wide and innocent, and also full of love. He touches her to prove that she is real, that she exists. She is right there, and she loves him for all he is.

He kisses the scar on her forehead. It seems he had already hurt her before he even knew her. Since they met, he has hurt her many times with his words and actions. The quietest of apologies slips past his lips, and she trembles. She heard it. He would pay dearly for everything he has done to hurt her. Hells, he will do anything for her.

He kisses her eyelids. She had seen the best and worst in him—the real him—not just the Tokugawa Ieyasu he presented to others, and still chose to stay. His lips brush the slight saltiness of her tears. He hated himself for making her cry back in Owari. He never wanted to ever see her cry again, but if it were tears of joy or pleasure, like the ones falling down her cheeks now, then he is willing to make an exception.

He kisses her cheeks. He would pinch them at the most random moments—when she least paid attention or when he wanted to tease her. He loves to do it. After all, she has the best reactions, she gets flustered easily and turns red in a second. He vows that the expression would be for him and no other. Only him.

He kisses her lips. It is where words of kindness, honesty, and love never faltered even at the most difficult moments. He knew no better way to express his affections, no better way to convey the words he had a hard time saying other than through the kisses they share. From the first brush of her lips on his, he was a goner. She never fails to stir these emotions in him, these feelings he never thought he was capable of having. Although he would never admit it out loud, he would not have it any other way.

He was once a little boy who sat inside his room with a book and gazed at the giant cherry tree that bloomed in the back of the garden. He was once an outsider who looked in, even if his feet were planted on the same ground as others. He remembered the cherry blossoms outside the annex. How the blossoms that swayed in the moonlight, free—unlike him. How each petal looked like a mother's tears as she wept for her poor child. But somehow, in the arms of her, the woman who has filled him with love, the memory was not as bitter when he looked back at it now. Those days were remnants of the past. He was a guest no more. Not a gift. Not a prisoner. He has freedom and dignity. He is Ieyasu, Lord of Tokugawa. Still, he found he disliked being ‘Ieyasu’ for the longest time, thinking he was worth nothing, if not for it. It is different now as she calls his name in between their kisses, he is reminded that there is someone who knows him beyond the name. No tricks, no masks, no pretensions. She knows who he truly is and loves him for it. As she cradles his face with the gentlest of touches, he knows there will never be another one for him but her.

The last thing he thinks before the two of them lose themselves in the throes of passionate desire is that he wants to see her, once again, in a kimono adorned with hollyhocks—this time golden and grouped in threes.

Special thanks to my dearest friend and fellow ESL writer, ReverberatingEchoes, for beta reading this work and encouraging me to continue it! I’ve had the general idea for this story since last year but I was initially reluctant to write about SLBP Ieyasu because he’s my favorite character.

There were two East Asian legends intertwined in this work. First was, of course, the tale of the Red String of Fate (運命の赤い糸), which featured the "old man under the moon”. The second one was the tale of the Musubi no Kami (結びの神), the Japanese deity of love and marriage in Shintoism. Aside from those, you may have spotted some other Asian/Japanese culture references as well ★~(◡ω◕✿)

春夏秋冬 | Shunkashūtō [AO3]

lit. spring, summer, autumn, winter

春 || Heartstrings (Tokugawa Ieyasu/MC)

夏 || Sunkissed (Honda Tadakatsu/MC)

秋 || Crossroads (Sakakibara Yasumasa/MC)

| 秋 | Destiny [Crossroads Alternate Ending]

冬 || ???

Ichigo Daifuku's Masterlist

#samurai love ballad party #slbp #slbp ieyasu #tokugawa ieyasu #slbp fanfiction #slbp fanfic #shunkashuto #spring #ichigo bakufu #tenka touitsu koi no ran #haru #heartstrings

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ardentmuse · 6 years

Text

At All Costs (Charlie Weasley x Reader) - Part 4

Harry Potter - Charlie Weasley x Reader

Wordcount: 2.9k

Masterlist // Series Masterlist

A/N: Warning: violence, fighting, angst. I hope you all enjoy! This part is a little shorter than most but a good move forward for the story.

“What do we do?” Molly asked her husband and sons as they surrounded the family clock containing a tenth hand belong to a Weasley in everything but name.

“We can’t ‘do’ anything,” Charlie responded, though his eyes never left the image at the end of the long arrow, a gold-framed portrait of you, one that had yet to stop smiling up at him, so filled with love that he believed your image sentient, completely aware that it was him looking into your eyes and not a complete stranger.

His hands continued to trace the edge of the metal. A thought entered his mind that the frame was fitting, as only gold was precious enough to surround your person and encompass your form for his eyes.

When his head hit the pillow at night to dream, that was how he saw you, a divine being haloed in gold, shrouded in holy light. Part of him thought maybe he was lifting you up in his mind because you were gone, but he quickly squashed that idea. He had these dreams, saw these images on nights alone in Romania, in times where he craved your presence so acutely he considered mounting his broom and flying halfway across the globe just for fifteen minutes in your bed and a kiss upon his cheek. He yearned for you like a drug somedays and like water others, and if he was honest with himself somedays he would get so wrapped up in his work that he wouldn’t think of you at all until his eyes closed once more in exhaustion. Then his brain conjured images of catching you as you fell from your broom in the family groves, watching your face light up as you opened a gift from him on Christmas morning, and warping you in his blankets as you laid your head to rest upon his shoulder. But every time, when his mind formed the image of you, warmth penetrated his bones, bubbles filled his stomach, and an aura of gold clouded his mind. Pure, pure love. Love that grew each day. And love that would continue to grow each day still, whether you were alive or not to receive it.

And for the first time since all of this began, he felt a tear run down his cheek and land upon the first few letters of your name. For the first time in quite a long time, he felt some joy.

Molly rubbed at her son’s back with soft, rhythmic circles like the ones she used to do to ease his quidditch injuries in youth.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.”

“Don’t be, mum,” Charlie said as he turned to look at her, making clear the smile that was somehow, despite everything, plastered on his face, “Now I know. Whatever Y/N is up, it’s for us and for the Order. Y/N wants an end to this war more than anyone. Whatever this sacrifice is, I’m proud.”

Bill was stunned, “All this and you aren’t even going to send an owl? Have Kingsley investigate? Go searching?”

“No,” Charlie confirmed as he returned his eyes to you just in time to see the small wink that had you laughing. “We always had a no owls on missions policy. Y/N sends to me first, not the other way around. Too much can be traced. And if Kingsley doesn’t know, there is a reason. We’ve got to keep any details away from the ministry. We watch the clock. We pretend we know nothing. And we let Y/N do what they do best.”

Bill nodded as he processed Charlie’s words, seeing the logic within, something his brother often disregarded in favor of selecting the first practical, and usually dangerous, option that came to mind. Noticing the change too, Molly locked eyes with Bill and exchanged smiles. If there was one thing they always liked about you, it was that you made Charlie better.

“Y/N’s a tough one,” Arthur threw in for support.

“The toughest,” Bill confirmed. “ We’ll take your lead on this one, brother. You know this protocol better than we do.”

Charlie laughed, “That’s what we fought about, you know? This stupid protocol.” Charlie let out another chuckle. this one from deep in his chest more like a roar then any human sound, revealing the true lion within. “And now it’s probably going to save all our lives. Merlin, gorgeous, you’re always right aren’t you?” He directed the last question at your picture as he ran his finger once more along the length before finally letting go.

With the decision made, the family parted to continue about their work prepping for tomorrow’s celebration. Molly reached down to take the clock in hand, her constant companion through this war.

“And mum you’ll—“ Charlie began but Molly didn’t need him to finish before she confirmed, “I’ll watch for all my children.”

Arthur lingered a little longer than the rest, grabbing Charlie by the shoulder to gain his attention.

“I’m proud of you,” he said as he offered a pat, “You’ll make a good husband someday, son. Take it from me; trust is key. And I know you’ve both got that in spades.”

A single shaft of light came in through a small crack in the foundation of the dungeon in which they held you captive, enough to allow you to see how the horrendous mark upon your skin was healing, but just barely. The brand was chard on the edges. The skin was dead, as dead as the evil which produced it, and you still felt the burning deep under the surface, so deep that you thought that when you died and your flesh rotted away, the brand would still exist upon your bones.

You did your best to explore the baron room, crawling as you felt against the walls, but you only got a few feet before a voice, raspy and worn, called out to you.

“You won’t find anything, my friend,” the voice said before falling into a fit of coughing, “Merlin knows I’ve tried.”

You vaguely remembered the voice but couldn’t place it. You felt above your head to try and see how high the ceiling went and upon realizing you could stand, just barely, you walked with labored movements towards the source of the sound.

Once you were within reach, the man grabbed for your hand and upon feeling it recited with frightening accuracy, “11-inch, hornbeam wood with dragon heartstring core, sister wand to my very own. I always knew there were great things in store for you, Y/N L/N. I simply wish it didn’t have to be this.”

“Mr. Ollivander?” you said as your heart filled with fear and compassion for the man who had only ever shown you kindness, “Goodness, what have they done to you?”

He didn’t respond, but instead reached over beside him. You head a small metal tinge before feeling a rush of water upon your wound. It burned, worse than you expected, but after a rinse or two, you found relief.

You hadn’t a clue how much time had passed. Without light, it was near impossible to tell. But you did get a rather solid run-down from Ollivander about the proceedings among the enemy since the fall of Albus Dumbledore. You were grateful to have a fellow prisoner, even if you were more of a “guest” serving out a necessary punishment.

A swing of the door and a loud clang against the stone wall woke you from an agitated slumber. The light, so bright and painful against your eyes, made it hard to see who stood before you, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Up, curse-breaker,” Ismelda said as she threw a dark hooded robe overtop your body.

“Where are we going?” you managed to ask as you unburied yourself from dark garment.

“Our lord has a loyalty test in mind.”

Her laughter fills the void of the chamber as you clamor to your feet and rush out the door.

The music of the band had the reception tent filled with joy and activity. The pomp of the evening was lost on no one, as the events of the previous two months had left little to celebrate.

Bill held Fleur in his arms just a few yards in front of Charlie in the middle of the dance floor. The couple was laughing with each spin, completely engrossed in each other. And while sure, Charlie was happy for them, he couldn’t help but feel something was wrong. As best man, he had worn an suit to Fleur’s specifications but Charlie had intentionally selected a pocket square that would have matched your outfit perfectly and had planned to do his hair the way you liked, pulled back from his face and flowing behind his ears just enough for you to be able to run your hands through it as you sat beside him or astride him as you talked. But his mother had chopped it off before he could properly protest.

He wanted you here, wanted to see how you reacted to such a ceremony so you could begin planning your own. What parts would you like to keep? What parts did you wish to avoid at all costs when you said your own vows to each other? He wanted to sit in this chair with you right beside him, running his finger over the ring that should now be sitting upon your hand, as you commented on each detail: “No white tablecloths; too easily dirty,” or, “This food is good but I think we can do better,” or, “It isn’t too cold out tonight so maybe we aim for August too?” or even the occasional, “I can’t wait to marry you.”

Just as he turned down yet another cousin offering him a dance, the entire party was interrupted by a misty orb shooting through the tent into the center of the dance floor, like a meteor set on a path of destruction. Charlie stood in shock and pulled out his wand. Party guests scatter in all directions as the lynx lets out a low growl, making itself known. Harry sees out of the corner of his eye Harry and Ron run forward, accompanied by his parents and others who were otherwise entertained, the entire Order lined the dance floor protecting the rest of attendees from whatever harm such an object might contain.

The orb unraveled into the form of a lynx. It circled the tent once before settling at the center of the crowd. From its form came the voice of Kingsley, whispered and urgent.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

And as if on queue, black masses began appearing on the outskirts of the tents and rushing inward to search the mass for Harry Potter. Cloaked figures whizzed through the crowd like birds darting for fish just under the surface of the water, talons bear and dangerous.

On instinct, Charlie flipped the table and encouraged those few family members near his to apparate away. The goal as always among the Order was to protect Harry first and his family second, but honestly it was all the same at this point. Faceless cloaked figures shot curses in aimless directions, filling the tent with light and chaos. Cloth rained down like Christmas mist, sparks caught upon the edges of napkins, and dishes clanked upon the floor as each table was unturned and each settling tossed aside in the search for Potter.

Charlie had managed to stun a few assailants from his advantageous spot near the center of the mass but quickly it became apparent to him that a united front was a much better option. The capture of a single Order member could be devastating. Charlie stood and began to run towards the house, towards the mass of bodies back to back that he believed to be his twin brothers.

But before he could move even a few steps, he came face to face with an unmasked Carrow whose teeth were bare in amusement as he made to charge.

Just as Charlie was about to disarm him, a table flew into the air separating the two men. Carrow ran face first into the white-washed wood, falling to the ground for long enough for Charlie to get away.

But Charlie didn’t move. He knew that trick, knew it too well from all the times he and Bill used to levitate the tables and use them for battles out in the garden.

Charlie turned himself towards the hooded figure, face masked and otherwise indistinguishable from the rest of the attacking forces. He immediately shot a jinx in the direction of the body but the Death Eater didn’t counter, but instead casted a levitation charm on themselves, rising quickly into the air and avoiding his jinx completely.

And then he knew. He knew immediately as you hovered in the air before him that it was you.

As you floated, your head hitting the roof of the tent, you stared down at Charlie who couldn’t move, the shock and knowledge reading all over his face.

You had prayed he would remember that day in the forest all those years ago, before you even began dating, when you had levitated yourself to search for the centaur that he had somehow managed to befriend. Charlie had offered to catch you that night. He’d seemed so eager to help you then, and for the first time since you had started your friendship, you realized the butterflies you felt in your stomach upon seeing him might be mutual. He had uttered the counter-charm and down you floated, as gentle as feather, into his embrace. And he held you for just a second too long, and then you knew.

You waited a moment to see how he’d respond. The chaos around made it so no one was really paying much attention to you. And as you had just “accidentally” knocked out your handler, you had a moment to think.

Charlie lifted his hand, whispered something and down you floated, just like that night a decade ago. Charlie ran forward, ready to catch you his arms, looking so desperate to feel you again that it hurt your heart to see. And Godric did you want to feel him, too.

When you had first laid eyes on him upon your arrival, he seemed strong and confident, not the saddened wreck you expected. Maybe he never really loved you as you had thought, your brain said. But now seeing this, you knew the truth; Charlie had figured it out. He had nothing to mourn. But having you within arms reach seemed another level of torture.

But before he could reach you, you could see out of the corner of your eye Ismelda charging, accompanied by Bellatrix, as they chased Tonks back into the tent, all three blasting curses as quickly and deftly as they could.

You only took a second to assess the situation, to consider what was best, for you and for Charlie. And a step before he would have held you again, you whispered so only he could hear, “Sorry, my love,” before blasting him with a stun that sent him flying across the tent. You watched as he connected hard with a post before slumping against the dirt, unconscious but far out of harm’s way.

A couple of hard slaps to the face helped bring Charlie back to the waking world. As he blinked his eyes open, he realized he was in a bed, but not his own. And everything, literally everything was spinning.

“There he is!” George cheered as Charlie squinted his eyes, “I told ya, mum, something violence is the answer.”

“Oh, enough,” Molly chided as she pulled her boys aside to set herself down beside her injured son. She placed an ice pack upon the crown of his head. Only then did Charlie register the throbbing in his skull.

“Do you remember what happened?” Fred asked as he took a seat on the arm of the sofa next to Charlie’s feet.

George pipped in too, “Other than getting blasted hard by some death eater.”

“Not some death eater,” Charlie corrected, “Y/N.”

The faces in the room looked around a few times, trying to understand if they heard him right. But Charlie didn’t bother elaborating. The less who knew what was going on, the better. And he didn’t even have a chance before Aunt Muriel entered with a tray of tea and snacks and kisses upon the forehead for everyone.

A few days of recovery had Charlie feeling like new. He would have to get back to Romania soon on orders of Kingsley to recruit more foreign witches and wizards to the cause. And being hauled up in a tiny house somewhere in the Cotswolds was not helping anyone.

Just as he had finished packing his bags, finalizing his route through Europe to throw anyone off his trail, and sent the owls necessary to assure his safe journey, he heard a knock on the guest room door.

His mother stood before him, clock held tight to her chest, and a few tears littering her cheeks and apron.

“Before you go, I think you should see this,” she said as she handed him the clock.

It looked the same as it always did, except now not nine but ten hands all pointed in the same direction towards “Mortal Danger.”

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#harry potter #harry potter imagine #charlie weasley #charlie weasley imagine #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x mc #charlie weasley x you #hphm #hp hogwarts mystery #hp #harry potter: hogwarts mystery #hp series #hogwarts mystery #hphm imagine #at all costs #reader insert

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