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erikatsu · 1 year

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❆ POSITIONS ❅ — capitano

❆ ─ KINKMAS DAY TWO: SIZE KINK

❅ ─ PAIRING: capitano x fem!reader

❆ ─ SUMMARY: you and the rest of the knights of favonius weren't used to the cold of snezhnaya, but it's a good thing you found warmth in a fatui harbinger.

❅ ─ WARNINGS: size kink (reader is implied to be smaller than capitano). semi public sex (they're in a tent). implied age gap. unprotected. use of “little one”. cervix fucking. nip play. slight dumbification. creampie. implied after care. unedited. probably not my greatest.

❆ ─ WC: 1.5k

snezhnaya was cold. much colder than the frozen corner of mondstat where only ruins and monsters remained. you weren't used to the weather, even though you'd been here for months. you'd gotten acclimated to the fatui harbinger and his subordinates being nearby far quicker than you had the climate. although, you didn't think you could describe your situation as acclimating.

you didn't think cozying up to a harbinger in the fatui's camp was exactly what a normal person would be doing. at least, not a normal person from your city. afterall, the fatui had always been breathing down the knights’ necks back home, and recent letters from acting grand master jean told you they were getting worse.

but, you now knew better than anyone that the harbinger capitano and his subordinates were not like those of la signora. he was helpful, aiding grand master varka and the expedition team, as you were after the same goal. the fatui left you alone for the most part, yet offered ways to keep warm and help restock. you quickly learned that capitano was a great source of heat.

to be honest, you weren't quite sure how you ended up in his tent several times since arriving in snezhnaya, but you were definitely not against it. he had a certain allure to him, he was guarded and mysterious. a man seemingly made of iron who spoke with a gentle words and led with a fair hand. his voice was soothing yet full of grit, pulling you in even further.

for months you'd snuck around with him, kept him company late at night when mostly everyone was sleeping, save for a few posted guards. it was freeing, yet reckless, but you didn't care because it was fun.

tonight was different than most. two days ago capitano had received orders to head for natlan, and tomorrow morning is when he'd make his departure. it was one last hoorah before you saw him off, or rather watched from a distance as he left. who knows if you'd ever see him again or if there was even a chance that moment came.

sounds of the fatui laughing, drinking, and sharing stories around a fire was the perfect ambience to mask what was happening in capitano’s tent. the warmth of fine pelts underneath you added to the heat radiating off his skin. he had one of your legs pushed back, the head of his thick cock teasing your cunt as precum leaked from the tip.

even though you knew you could handle it, there was always apprehension each time that you couldn't. because there was nothing small about capitano. he was tall, muscular, and he was even stronger than your grand master. strength was something he looked for in others, which is why he took an interest in you. because unlike the youngest, over-ambitious harbinger you first reminded him of, you had strength in sword and mind. it was worthy of his attention, and your beauty was as well.

you squirmed as one of his large hands gripped at your waist, your own flying up to brace his broad shoulders. you looked up at him, unable to see the eyes that hid behind the mask. although, if you could they'd be telling you that you could take it.

“relax, little one,” he told you, your whole body vibrating from just a single word.

he rolled his hips, letting the tip slip in and slowly allowing you to adjust. your eyes nearly rolled back with each thrust that went deeper and deeper. a choked noise escaped your mouth once he sank all the way in, his pelvis pressed flush with yours while his cock bullied your cervix even at a standstill.

he leaned forward as he rocked into you, a strong arm slipping underneath you as your back arched. he easily flipped your positions, rolling you on top of him. you whimpered, feeling as if he somehow reached deeper than before. his hands gripped your waist– firmly, and not too rough– guiding you up and down and splitting you apart on his cock.

you groaned, leaning forward and hooking your finger under the mask he wore. he paused, breath catching in his throat at what you were thinking about doing. you– or anyone else for that matter– had never seen him without it. the reason was simple: underneath was identity, a man he no longer was. he gave that up centuries ago for the tsaritsa, along with his false sense of justice.

a man scorned by his own action, who was battle born and covered in reminders of the journey he was once on. one where he had lost his mind and went to hell to get it back.

it had been a long time since then, since he had let anyone in like that. however, he made no move to stop you as you took the mask off him. he was apprehensive, unsure if he'd meet your expectations as he closed his eyes. you leaned in, gently running your hand through his inky black hair before cupping his cheek. in all honesty, you hadn't known what to expect. but to see he looked as gentle as he loved was comforting.

his gaze finally met yours at your touch, eyes opening slowly to see you studying his features closely. your thumb ghosted across his skin, and you closed the gap between the two of you. your lips met his– softly before you melted into him as he kissed you back. as his mouth moved against yours, you rolled your hips, your pelvis grinding against his.

his fingers briefly dug into your skin, using you as leverage to sit up. you let out a choked noise, his cock rutting harshly against your cervix. he rocked you forward, a whimper leaving your mouth at how deep he was reaching. he smirked against your lips, knowing he was bullying you with his size.

“don’t be shy, little one,” he murmured, pulling away from you. “i want to hear all the pretty noises you can make.”

“they– they’ll hear,” you tried to counter, but a yelp you couldn't hold back fell from your mouth as he bucked his hips.

one of his hands trailed from your hip up to your breast, gently toying with your nipple, “they're all drunk. they won't hear a thing.”

you whimpered, eyes falling shut as he took your nipple in his mouth and used his other hand to move you on his cock. you wound your fingers into his hair, taking the lead from him with ease. you rolled your hips, your walls gliding across his shaft and working through the sensation of being ripped apart by his size.

his teeth grazed you, tongue swirling around your sensitive skin. you moaned, allowing yourself to be louder than you had been. he smirked against you, reveling in your sounds. he didn't care how loud you were, and he didn't care who heard. just as long as no one interrupted.

the tip of his cock brushed up against that sweet spot as you slid down on it, a curse rolling off your tongue as you clamped down around him. you quickened your pace, capitano grunting at the friction you were creating between you two. slowly, then all at once you could feel the building pressure of your oncoming orgasm.

“let it out,” he told you, his hot breath fanning against your skin when he could feel you clamping down around him. “cum for me.”

you groaned, head spinning as that tight bundle of nerves that built up finally releasing as if on his command.

“fuck,” you cried out, riding out the high that washed over your body and had you shaking on top of him and shivers racking your entire body. you panted, wrapping your arms around him and slowing down.

he pulled away, going back to holding your hips as he worked towards his own orgasm. you leaned your head against his, whining out as he bounced you in his lap. you sucked him in each time he lifted you up, his tip roughly pushing up against your cervix each time he pushed you back down.

you were overstimulated, unable to think clearly as he bullied your tight cunt. his fingers dug into your skin, his eyes closing as he grew close. he warned you he was about to cum, but it fell on deaf ears. he had you fucked out and unable to form a coherent thought. you were groaning as he fucked deep into you, his balls tightening right before he came undone. his cock twitched as he pushed his hot seed inside of you, pushing you back down one final time before he moved to rest his forehead against yours.

you tried to calm down, your heart beating wildly in your chest as his arms snaked around your waist. he lied back, taking you with him and letting you lay against his bare chest.

“we should get you cleaned up,” he gently ran his hand down your back.

you hummed in response, “in a minute. wanna enjoy this while i can.”

TAGS: @dottores @dxlucs @myalbedo @mxnjiros @niicevibe @suyacho @alucrds (i feel like i forgot someone but idek)

#capitano x reader #capitano x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin smut

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ephhemeralite · 2 months

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writing pattern tag game!

post the first line of your last ten posted fics and see if there's a pattern! thanks for the tag, @ful-crum !!!!!

not quite sure how i got here, real glad i've got more than ten fics posted (if only barely), excited to see how it goes

"Aziraphale bustles back into his shop with all of the energy of a raccoon holding a goodie they never expected to stumble across." – no skin like the skin you woke up in (gomens canon divergence au)

"Ed has spent the vast majority of his life as a pirate. Get as old and experienced as he’s gotten – far older and more experienced than he ever expected, mind you – and you form some opinions, about salt and the sea and the way of things." – and i feel so proud when the reckoning arrives (this is two lines so it's cheating but whatever 💚. very dumb black sails/our flag means death crossover)

"The first time Dick notices himself call for Batgirl and the wrong sibling respond, he doesn't think much of it." – no difference between the past and the ground (dick grayson thinks he's going crazy until he realizes [REDACTED])

"Tommy thinks that finding himself stuck through the Blood God’s sword – stuck through – should come as more of a shock to him than it does." – this is mostly what happens in dallas (au of my dsmp hero/villain major character death series where the major character death doesn't happen but it's still not great! hence the wtnv if he had lived title)

"Wilbur drops onto the couch with a groan and some sort of weird, histrion-type flail." – a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun (dsmp hero/villain au, companion piece to the actual mcd, probably my best piece of posted writing)

"He isn't looking for trouble today, but he isn't surprised when the blade of a sword finds him regardless." – the truth is like a sickle (it'll cut you to the middle) (dsmp hero/villain au with the mcd)

"The flickering lights of the tavern seem soft, in the late hours of the night." – drunk in a field (on dandelion wine) (unfinished 5+1 from a folk witch!jaskier universe that i got super super attached to but eventually let go of because my life kept getting more insane and the concept more intricate)

"Peter had spent a lot of time trying to psychoanalyze Neal Caffrey before his capture." – acquainted with the saint of never getting it right (white collar/batfam crossover, dick grayson is neal caffrey, my most popular fic by a chunk)

"Geralt can already tell that Jaskier plans on dragging them both out tonight, probably with quilt, to force him into a night of 'stargazing and communing with nature like we used to!'" – it could feel like an end (to have to keep going) (immortal/modern times geraskier au fic i haven't read since i wrote and posted it in a day. i think it's contemplations on mortality, helplessness, and the climate crisis?)

"Briefly, he contemplates sitting up on the couch to give himself better lung capacity for his incoming tirade, but figures that he may as well put his vigilante training to good use, and continues to lay back." – more like me (less like you) (technically the second line of an emotional conversation between dick and jason, but the first line was dialogue and it is too early for me to mess with quotation marks like that)

so, full disclaimer that i don't post a ton (no skin was last updated in august of last year and more like me was posted in july of 2021) so a lot of this writing is kind of old, but! i did notice that i've tended to open in media res, but recently i have been incorporating more exposition. i've never tried to make my first lines great hooks — i'm honestly more concerned with giving myself a good jumping-off point than anything else. it also struck me how many fandoms i've written for that i no longer engage with, basically at all. maybe i've just been really focused lately, but i don't think a few of these fandoms would hold my attention anymore! ironically, i'm talking about the more recent fandoms like dsmp/gomens/ofmd and not the older stuff like the batfam or the witcher.

this was really fun, i loved looking back through my work like this!! thank you again ful-crum for tagging me :)! i'm gonna tag @doingthewritethings, @b10000p, and @alavenderleaf !!!!!!

#tag game #me when ive been writing plenty of fic recently but not posting any of it so my most recent thing is gomens s2 cope fic......#and by cope fic i mean Make It Worse fic. for the record #augh i'll finish something eventually

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unusual-raccoon · 7 months

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🔥Dunkegg NSFW ficlet🔥 below the cut (warnings; omegaverse, omegas have pussies, size difference, size kink, cunnilingus, squirting, underage, come swallowing, rimming, DLDR, takes place during The Sworn Sword)

He needed a drink. The heat in the Reach had drawn the moisture out of everything of late.

What water they had to drink was sweated out in an instant. Baked away under the glare of the sun. Oft the boy whined at the sight of withered-up melons dying on the vine.

Whole orchards sagged, browning under the scorching heat.

Even Dunk had omitted the need for heavy plate mail in the current climate. He kept his longsword upon his hip, his painted oaken shield upon his back, and his squire by his side.

"You're sweating," Egg noted rather unhelpfully as Maester and Thunder were left to graze on brittle chutes of grass.

"I hadn't noticed," Dunk grumbled sourly, wiping a broad palm down the sheen of sweat upon his face. The soil greedily drank up the droplets of perspiration.

The boy offered a skin of water, the contents as tepid as the humid air. Dunk felt the lining of his mouth plump up, resuscitated - his tongue is once more reminiscent of flesh than leather after a reserved sip. He moaned, and the sound shot through his nose.

The boy squirmed beside him in his floppy sun hat.

“Go on,” Dunk says to the boy, handing off the waterskin. Forcing himself to be oblivious in the face of apple blossoms and sweet smoke dripping into the air. The boy smells more alive than anything in this sun-bitten stretch of land.

"We should conserve our water, ser. I'm not thirsty."

The boy blinks back at him with owlish eyes.

"Drink," He says firmly, "I won't have you die because you're as stubborn as your mule."

Somehow Egg's pink little moue pulls into a smile. His bare little feet wiggle, watching as Maester flicks a long, irritable ear while chewing.

While Dunk sweats out his weight in water, the boy revels in this miserable heat, just as in Dorne. A little dragon he may be, but even dragons needed sustenance.

Egg takes a small sip, his lips moistened. With careful little hands, hands that had grown used to scouring rust from Dunk's weapons and armor, the boy corks the flask and hands it back.

"Thank you, ser." He murmurs from beneath his floppy sun hat.

It had been some time since they had sworn their steel to the lord of Standfast, Ser Eustace Osgrey. Currently, they have two large casks of wine tied to Maester's back.

It had been trouble enough procuring the wine, but returning it? That would be no easy victory. Dunk was of a mind to agree with his mouthy little squire; far be it for him to let the boy know, the validation might go straight to his bald little head. Water was a scarcity they needed to preserve.

It had been only an hour since they had paused for a drink, and already his throat ached dry.

A breeze drifts by, as lifeless as all else around them. It sticks lukewarm to the sweat upon his nape and back and brings the scent of apple blossoms and sweet smoke from behind, where Egg guides Maester by his lead. The boy bobs along contentedly, sun hat upon his bald head, one bare foot in a stirrup.

Dunk's tongue fattens with the dribble of his own saliva, thick and unbidden.

He swallows, yet it does little to quench his thirst.

He is not wont to linger in this heat.

With each plodding step Thunder takes, Dunk tells himself he and the boy will enjoy a refreshing dip in the stream upon their return to Standfast. A reward for their leal service.

But the stream is far off, and few things could suffice in its stead in such weather.

They pass another orchard, filled with pear trees mostly. Sagging, sad pear trees. They smell of sweet rot.

The scent of apple blossoms and sweet smoke doesn't fade. It is potent in the cloying air, like ripened, succulent fruit made for biting into.

Dunk wipes at the moisture that drips viscous from his drooling mouth; it seems a ludicrous waste of precious liquid.

"Ser," The boy calls, "Maester is very tired."

Dunk is not wont to linger in this heat, yet he must.

They unload their cargo to bring the stubborn mule some relief, if only for a time. The boy coos, rubbing a fond hand between the mule's long ears.

They linger in the sparse shade provided by the gray, sunbleached limbs of trees.

It is a miserable period while the animals rest; it is only worsened when the boy sits beside him, bare feet knocking together.

"You're...drooling." Egg notes rather unhelpfully.

"I hadn't noticed," Dunk replies sourly. His squire blinks at him with round, knowing eyes.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Ser?"

He is a knight, a man of staunch morals...

"Yes," Dunk croaks, throat dry.

The boy grins, far too clever for his own good.

Within an instant, Dunk hauls the boy to standing between his widespread thighs. Egg's roughspun trousers are tangled around his bony little ankles. His round, pale bottom sticks out in invitation.

Egg's scent is most potent there, dripping like nectar between the downy lips of his quim.

He whimpers, and the sound is sweeter than summer rain in Dunk's ears.

Dunk's nose presses against the boy's slit, nostrils flaring to take in as much musky sweetness as he can. It floods his olfactory senses and softens his mind. Primality within him yearns.

The tip of his nose is replaced by his tongue. He groans deeply, the sound rumbling in his chest as the sumptuous taste of apple blossoms and sweet smoke pools in his mouth.

Egg whines through his teeth. The little submissive arch of his back deepens.

Narrow hips urge back against Dunk's tongue, the length of which is saturated in slick -- fresh slick.

Sticky, sweet nectar glides down his throat.

He chases the taste from the tiny nub of the boy's pearl to the snug pucker of his rear.

He is ignorant to the heat, ignorant to the discomfort of a knight's aches and pains, ignorant to anything that wasn't tight and wet flexing around his tongue.

Little hands fumble to spread his plump little quim apart. The tiny pink hole winks at the Alpha, veritably pleading for the length of his tongue once more.

He presses his tongue back inside with a growl. He sups on all the boy has to offer and drinks deeply until he cannot remember the stream he wished to swim in.

"A-ah," Egg cries out, hips bouncing more avidly than they did in a saddle.

You ride my tongue better than you do your precious Maester, Dunk told himself as he squeezed at the boy's rear in silent encouragement.

"Ser, I'm going to," His breathing catches as a broad thumb blindly gives a few coarse rubs to the boy's bud. Skinny white thighs spasm.

Dunk doesn't cease the deep, curling probes of his tongue. He gorges himself on the boy's slick.

Egg tenses briefly before a fresh stream of Omegan slick gushes into Duncan's open mouth.

He laps away with broad, indulgent strokes of his tongue. Each pass traverses supple, pasty white skin.

Egg squirms, huffing out overstimulated whines.

"Too much..." The boy whimpers.

Dunk takes and takes until his mewling squire has nothing left to give. He feels the lack of fresh slick beneath his tongue, skin that tastes like the flesh of a melon consumed down to the bitter rind.

He remembers himself soon enough and reluctantly pulls his mouth away from the boy's puffy little quim.

He watches, somewhat forlorn, as that tiny pink hole winks at him once more.

He rises from his spot in the shade beneath the gray, sunbleached limbs of trees.

"We shouldn't delay any longer, Ser Eustace will be expecting us."

"Yes, ser." The boy murmurs, words vaguely slurred.

He turns to find his squire with his pasty white face tinged red. His pretty, little cunny is as bald as his head, glistening with spit.

The boy wobbles about with boneless legs before Duncan takes pity on the poor thing.

With a single hand, he plops the boy onto Thunder's saddle.

Egg hides a bashful look beneath his sunhat as Dunk walks beside the large destrier. One hand on the hilt of his sword, the other upon Maester's reins.

"Are you still thirsty, ser?" Egg asks a short while into their trek. In his hands is their waterskin. His little bare feet don't reach the stirrups.

Dunk eyes the skin and the slight turn of the boy's mouth.

"No," he says simply. Egg grins at him atop Duncan's horse, very pleased with himself.

In truth, Dunk is not eager for a drink to wash the taste from his mouth -- sweeter than summer rain.

#my writing #my ficlet #dunkegg #dunk x egg #dunk & egg #ser duncan the tall #aegon v targaryen

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umbralsound-xiv · 9 months

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Breaking Point.

Just a little longer. I would watch and wait just a little longer. There have been none that set their way up the path this sun, and in light of my injury i had opted to keep to one position, and follow the shade around to obscure me.

Out on his lonesome, Mattisaux strolled along the beaten path toward Highbridge. Many-a lofty heaves and sighs puffed his chest venturing through the dry terrain though by now he was used to how the dust kicked around in his lungs and squinted his eyes. His narrowed gaze scanned the surroundings, lifting occasionally for the spiraling crystal of the Burning Wall.

With her back flush to the tree, Bexy kept herself out of sight; she even opted to trace around the base in the shadow as the day shifted through the bells. Each passing face was carefully scrutinised, searching for the reddened mark that she sought for ill purpose. None had caught her gaze this sun, and her restlessness began to show, at least until a more familiar figure pulled into view. She didn't call his name nor opt to move from where she'd concealed herself, instead kneeling to plant a hand into the ground. A ripple of frost races through the undergrowth to greet him; just enough to sound underfoot were he to tread on it, surely melted just as fast in the Thanalan sun.

There was no time for breaks, not until he reached his destination, however a sudden chill had him pause in step. Sweat coated his skin, the black he wore not quite helping in this climate, though to the rapid onset of frost soothed him beyond belief. A frost that was all too convenient for these lands. Suspicion spun him in place and darted annoyed eyes side to side. “Show yourself before I lose my temper. That is unless I know who this is.”

Bexy slowly raises; only just visible over the brush. Her good arm throws a snowball that collides with the dirt beneath him, spattering in every direction to get his attention. She does not call out, but should he look in her direction, a gloved hand beckons.

I couldn’t call his name. Not if there was someone close by. It needed to be more subtle than that. But i should have thought my aether would have been obvious by now.

After a pause, he huffed some hot air and slowly lifted his hand toward his sword when a snowball, of all things, struck the ground at his feet and melted in a matter of seconds. Peering in the direction it came, the sight of a gloved hand silently calling for him behind a tree had him blinking as if to correct his vision. Regardless, he did as suggested and made his way over with a hand on the hilt of his blade.

A bloodied hand rises, pressing a finger to her painted lips to indicate silence. Her gloves were burned and torn, the pallid flesh on show beneath the fabric. Bexy herself looked perhaps a little worse for wear, blood spattered across her throat and chin, coat smelling of smoke and blood as various tears decorated it, now. An arrow sticks at an awkward angle from her shoulder, encased in ice, not that she seems to mind too much for it, outwardly. "Keep your voice down." She speaks, quietly. "Did you get my letter?"

The closer he came to the owner of the hand, the more apprehensive his demeanor shifted. However, when he finally saw who it was, he froze. Shock lowered his jaw open slightly, staring at the mess in front of him. “What, in the name of the gods, happened to you? Can you walk or must I teleport you to your mages?” Whatever Bexy said fell on deaf ears as he hurried to close the distance and kneel at her side.

"I'm fine, Mattisaux." Her voice is soft and quiet and full of the edges it usually isn't. "Did you read my letter?" She asks again, head inclined. The blood at her neck clearly isn't hers, having no clear wound to pour from. The ice at her arm seems to be staunching the flow from the more severe wound.

I was fine. I’ve endured worse. Little need to head home from a wound so managable as this when i can still hunt them.

I don’t know why he worries so much. He’s had worse too.

Again, he ignored her. “Ridiculous. You have gone mad from your injuries. Tell me, where were you ambushed? Are any of them still alive? Are you waiting for someone to come and heal you? And do not tell me you are ‘fine’, you foolish girl.” The shock from earlier dispelled into a stern care now that he had a better look over her.

"I said i'm -fine-." Her teeth bare, a rare expression for her as her icy eyes narrowed an ilm. "Are you here to help me, or not?"

He kissed his teeth, already irritated. “You are sitting here helpless and bleeding; of course I will help you, you stupid girl. Have you tried single-handled jumping in the midst of that group that took your sister? I knew you were reckless but I expect this behavior from myself, not you.”

"Shut up and -listen-." Bexy hisses, lowering her head. She doesn't seem to be in any pain; and if she does, she's not outwardly showing it, though decidedly looks like a mess. "I have killed nine of them, one got lucky. If i needed medical attention, i'd have sought it. I am fine, and i will continue to be fine. Are you going to help me -hunt them-, or not?" The temperature in her vicinity plummeted, settling to an eerie cold as her gaze met his.

“Gods, you are just like that scalekin.” He snatched at the shaft of the arrow sticking in her shoulder with both hands to suddenly break it short. “Now you are less likely to catch yourself on a branch. What is it will you have me do? I will listen until you start babbling nonsense.” Her attitude grated on his own when all his eyes beheld was grime and blood.

Bexy gives a sharp hiss, but does not jerk away nor does she move, exhaling when he retreated. She seems to gain a little more composure, then. "...Sayuri has been taken by the slavers who held her as a child. The majority of them have a red mark at their cheek, and i will kill as many as i need to in order to bring her home. There's more than two hundred of them. The company cannot involve itself, else risk extermination if they turn their gaze on us as a whole. There's some few of us that are working to learn what we can. So i'm picking them off until i can learn something, or i find out more."

After she finished her fount of information, he was counting his blessings that the news was not entirely brand new to him. Though, it did not stop him from draining a breath. “That scalekin, Neoma you call her, told me as much through her blubbering. If you have already killed nine of them, they will be expecting you, should they know what you look like.” He shook his head, tossing a hand up in a gesture at her. “Not that I expect anything, but what is your plan now? Sitting and waiting in this spot until you get lucky?”

A wicked smirk curls on her lips. "They don't. I have left no survivors. They don't deserve to live. They don't know what i look like, and i have left nothing more than bodies in my wake. What will they do? Draw back? Hide in their compound? That would be poor for their business. Let them come. I'll kill them all." Her smile is suddenly a little too wide for her face, eyes wild and staring, before something seems to send her spiralling back. "...They pass through the road often enough, and i follow when they do. They begin to get wary... But not careful enough to have noticed me. If it is a large group, i keep my distance. I'm not stupid."

Mattisaux’s brow rose to the smile, her mien wildly different than what he was used to. “You are going to collapse before my eyes, I can see it now.” He then sighed once more, suddenly straightening his back as he listened. “So what I hear is, the plan is to kill them all, slavers and slaves alike until they either kill them or they kill themselves from all the torture they have suffered since their inception. I was told they are treated terribly, I can only imagine.”

"Until i find a thread to follow, Mattisaux. They can't die. They won't kill them. Why kill that which you have searched for, for cycles? Eir is more disposable, but the last i learned he lives still. One of them has to know something. And i will pry it out of them when i find it, and pull the thread until it unravels with the rest of it's secrets."

“Then it is a race to rescue them before they kill that Viera of hers.” He took a moment, not quite to think, but to look over her one more time. “You look terrible, dear. What would you like me to do?”

...He’s understanding enough. He grasps the situation. Sayuri will live, they will not kill her. But there are fates worse than death, as i have often meted out on my enemies themselves.

I do not want her to suffer, though she surely already is. And Eir...

...I only hope he’s still alive, for her sake.

"He is a delicate sort. Soft. Gentle. Sayuri told me herself, and i have learned enough. They won't kill her, no. But you're right about the rest." Bexy slowly drags herself up to her feet, filling her lungs. She's quietly glad for the onslaught of rain, washing the blood from her face as it spattered her cheek. As soon as she fills her lungs to speak with him, a voice calls out above the hill, barely audiable from the rain. Blue eyes go wide, and she says not a thing more, gesturing with a glove to follow, and lay low.

...I can hear something. Them, perhaps?

As Bexy stood, so too did he. The rain gracing the lands was another blessing he counted though it was difficult to feel too good about it seeing the woman he stood next to. He opened his mouth to make a comment until she gestured for him. “They are truly here...?” A tinge of incredulousness colored his expression.

Bexy shifts low in the brush, inviting Mattisaux to join as they witnessed the scene ahead. Several figures made their way through the rain, all marked save for one, carrying what appeared to be a body between them. They quietly spoke amongst themselves, snippets of conversation between them.

"...Is here good? Should we go further?" A Hellsguard talks to one of the others behind him. "...Feels kind of... Wrong, somehow."

"...He made his bed. Let him shit in it." A Sea Wolf barks back. "Shouldn't have put his hands on her."

Mattisaux lowered himself with Bexy, watching and listening as best he could though his stature may have made him a fair bit awkward with it. The bits of conversation he could make out only had him rolling his eyes. He whispered. “That is the mark?”

"Yes." Bexy whispers, ears lofted and eyes narrowed, akin to a predator tracing prey. "They all look to be marked... Besides the Raen. But he doesn't seem like he's here against his will. We watch a little longer." Bexy pauses for a moment. "How is your sword arm, Mattisaux?"

I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.

Strange that they already carry a body, though. That too, is marked... I think. Though it’s difficult to tell from the blood.

"Quit bickering and dump him. We said to get this over fast, yes? People have -died- out here recently. Wouldn't want to linger." The Highlander comments.

"People have died back in the compound too. He isn't special!" Grief seems to lace the tone of the Xaela woman, looking with a frown to her comrade. "Do... Do you think they'll dump Hichort's body like this, too...?"

His answer came promptly. “Ready and waiting to strike them all indiscriminately. They seemed to be distracted with themselves, the fools. Just tell me when.”

"...You take the front. I'll hold the back. We'll corner them in. If you see anyone reaching for a pearl, stop them immediately." Bexy hushes, listening. "...Something is happening in the compound, and i intend to find out what. Leave one of them alive."

“Something that forces them to discard a body out in the desert to fry, or get eaten. That they need five people to carry him and still go through all this trouble to come out here for it.”

"Their own foolishness. They should know better. But they don't." A smile tugs at her lips, as ice begins to form in her hands. "Ready?" She asks, ready to move...

"Ready, dear."

It begins.

None will walk away from this encounter. Of that i will make sure.

But not before i have their secrets.

Bexy surges aether into the wound at her arm; it would hold it, she hoped, for the better part of the altercation. Leaping to the edge of the gully, ice forms at her feet, enabling her to skid down and land at the bottom without so much issue, her bow now fully formed at her fingertips. An arrow looses to the Sea Wolf, embedding itself in the side of his neck with a gurgle.

Given leave to slaughter all but one seemed like far more freedom than he expected. A freedom he gladly took. Once Bexy jumped to action, he stooped low to push himself up, leaping high and ripping free his blade to then land atop the Hellsguard with his sword stabbing down. With the aid of gravity and Mattisaux’s weight, the poor man was cleaved in twain from a shoulder and down.

"Agatmas! Thunder!" The group immediately drop the body in the fray, beginning to scatter and take up arms. Naritaka turns on his heel and pulls his weapons, attempting to skirt around and stab Mattisaux in the back, whilst Asgrim quickly closes the gap between himself and Bexy, aiming to grapple her. Samga immediately pulls her focus, and begins casting. "No, NO! NOT AGAIN! GET UP, GET UP!" She shrieks, attempting to pour her aether into the dying Sea Wolf, who twitched as Bexy's arrow plunged deep in his neck.

Bexy is pummelled to the ground with a grunt, but it doesn't seem to stop her. One strike hits her square in the face, but he is quickly grabbed back, as Bexy attempts to swipe for his neck.

Mattisaux was acutely aware of the Au Ra in the group, following what looked like some sort of rogue with his eyes. The Raen’s speed surprised him which only had Mattisaux gritting his teeth in frustration. It took all his focus to avoid the worst of his attack though the Raen did manage to scrap his back as Mattisaux tried to evade it. In turn, he swiped his sword in a diagonal sweep in hopes of catching the man.

The Raen manages to narrowly avoid Mattisaux's swing, countering by ducking close and leading with his blade once again, aiming for Mattisaux's torso, much more close and personal this time. Asgrim's hands find Bexy's neck as he makes some attempt at strangling her, as Bexy's ice surges along as up his shoulder, grabbing his wrists in turn. "ICE!" Samga screams, and the mere appearance of it causes her to panic. "THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!" She diverts her aether then towards Asgrim, attempting to thaw it away from him.

Bexy is pinned further into the dirt. But she doesn't squirm nor panic, staring the Highlander in the face as his hands closer around her. A sudden surge of frost is given, and with it a sharp jerk of the arm she held; and in return, he gives a scream at the sound of his snapping forearm.

There was a type Mattisaux always loathed fighting against, almost as much as the race of the person skipping around him. However he knew of one simple and effective way of handling them. Seeing where Naritaka aimed his blade, Mattisaux turned himself to expose his side and allowed the blade to plunge until his armor stopped it from going to the hilt. From there, a crooked grin spread over the man’s lips, breathing close to the Raen.

“Burn, seethe, black and blood...” The familiar sensation of his soul crystal seared against his skin, channeling a blackened aether beneath the pair. “Searing breach, lands above.” In a matter of moments, the darkness shot upward, engulfing them in hostile energy aimed to burn them, though mostly the Raen, in black flames.

Naritaka relinquishes his weapon in Mattisaux's side with a shriek as he was engulfed, set alight and consumed by the darkened flames at Mattisaux's beck and call. He writhes on the ground, forcing Samga to divert her attention again. "No, NO! Get up!" She shrieks, pouring aether into him in some effort to die out the flames. Asgrim screams as he retrieves the now stump of his hands, aiming to bury his knee into Bexy's ribs and strike her in the face once again.

A sudden crunch is sounded from Bexy's ribs; a gasp more than a scream given as it spills blood from her lips, a dizzying feeling swimming around in her head. Her aether nigh explodes outwards, fusing him to her as she raises a hand and manages a length of ice, which swiftly pierces him in the chest, causing him to slump atop her.

Mattisaux grabbed the Raen by the ankle the moment he fell to the ground. Regardless of what aid Samga tried, Mattisaux sought a different approach. He began with the man’s thigh, stamping a leaden boot at the center of it to echo a healthy crunch in their ears. Once one leg was misshapen, he moved to the next, marching it a few times just to make sure it cracked up to the hip bone. The dagger fixed in his side did well in plugged his wound while the adrenaline kept him free of most aches. It was enough to return his grin, truly enjoying his line of work.

Naritaka shrieks with pain, writhing to no avail to free himself of the situation, not that he would run if he could. "SAMGA, RUN!" He screams, pleading for his ally to flee. But she doesn't, fighting between turning to help him, or to the now frozen Asgrim who no longer seemed to be responding. She turns to the Raen, attempting to heal him as best she could. "No, no, i won't leave! I won't leave you!" She pleaded, eyes streaming with tears.

Bexy drags herself away from Asgrim, now once again covered in blood. But her breathing is ragged, and blood spills from her nose as she fights to stand. From behind she lunges herself into Samga to knock her down, pinning her through the arm with her ice. "Three hundred and twenty, three hundred and twenty one!" Bexy snaps. "START TALKING OR I'LL PRY IT OUT OF YOU!"

The rest are incapacitated or dead. Start talking, girl.

Don’t make this any more painful than it has to be.

Unfortunately for Mattisaux, the shrill of the Xaela in their group kept him from enjoying the most of what he was doing, though by the time he turned to handle her, Bexy already threw herself at the woman. Just watching tugged a quiet laugh at the corner of his mouth until Bexy yelled with all her lungs. “Pray, you ought to listen to her if you want a chance at living.” He spoke casually while kneeling down to Naritaka, moving on to stretch one of his arms by squeezing a hold at the elbow just to jut the butt of his palm over his upper arm to snap in half.

But he’s wrong.

There’s no chance of living. Not for her. My lungs seethe, and my ribs ache, and i surely know i am wounded... But i will ensure she’s dead before i’m done.

Naritaka shrieks, and fights some attempt at muffling. There is nothing he can do, save for screaming, awaiting what would likely be the next blow. "No, no! Naritaka! NO!" Samga screams, but Bexy's ice begins to snake up her arm, much to her distress. "No, no! Not again, please! PLEASE!" She begged.

...But her words fell on deaf ears. "Again. What do you mean by again?" Bexy asked, glaring to the woman in her grasp. A small length of ice begins to form at her fingertips, the gurgle of her lungs heard between each breath. "...What were you doing here... With the body...?"

...Again? This has happened before...?

...Sayuri. It has to be Sayuri! She’s talking about the ice, yes?

Did she kill the man they brought here?

“Gods, this one. Do they torture their own too now?” Mattisaux asked aloud though he was more focused on the Raen below. Seeing how the screaming grated against his ears, he found a convenient, mouth-sized rock to stuff in Naritaka, making sure to shove it to the back of his throat to keep the man from spitting it out. "Now, then." With that settled, he moved to the next arm.

"The--- The girl! She... She ---Hichort! She... She killed him. With her -ice-!" Samga sobbed, eyes squeezed shut as not to stare at the offending ice that began to snake up her neck and along her jaw. This seems to satisfy Bexy some, as the grin splits again over her lips. "...Good. Keep talking." Her voice is an almost eerie quiet, almost gentle, then. "...And the body?" Naritaka's muffled screams don't seem to affect Bexy one bit, but the horrified expression on Samga's face tells all.

She’s still fighting. Sayuri. She’s killed someone, and i can only take it that she hasn’t given up.

Give them the hells, Sayuri. Show them not an onze of mercy.

Mattisaux’s attention vaguely perked to something that sounded hopeful and continued to idly listen as he toyed with the broken man. His next aim were Naritaka’s horns, pulling free his own dagger from his waist, decidedly not the one piercing his side, and began sawing his left one off.

"---He...He hurt her! H-he... Hurt the girl, without Grym's permission! And he... he... O-oh, Nhaama, he... Killed him." A new shriek of pain is bellowed from the Raen over her shoulder. Bexy stares to her, still. "...And they both live still. Yes?"

To the sound of what seemed like Sayuri getting injured, Mattisaux quickly snapped the rest of Naritaka’s horn off and stopped to listen to the rest of what Samga had to say. His demeanor soured, glancing to Bexy then back to the cowering Xaela.

"Y-yes? No! I... D-don't know!" This does little for Bexy, who in her displeasure, sinks her blade into the skin of the woman... And slowly, begins to flay her. "I DON'T KNOW! I-- HE FOUGHT WITH VAIRG INSIDE THE ARENA! BUT-- BUT HE WAS TAKEN TO THE INFIRMARY! PLEASE, I'M TELLIING YOU EVERYTHING I KNOW! THE GIRL IS FINE, THE GIRL IS FINE!"

...Sayuri is fine. She says. So she tells me.

But Eir?

...If he’s dead, then i dread to think what state she’s in.

Mattisaux hummed curiously though it was all but drowned in Samga’s screeching. He seemed to be more interested in what Bexy was doing than the frantic information being spewed forth. “Interesting...,” was all he contributed at the time, glancing down to the Raen beneath him once in a while as he was still alive and, therefore, still a threat regardless of how mediocre.

"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ELSE! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! JUST LET ME GO, PLEASE, I'LL NOT SAY I WORD, I WON'T GO BACK! I----" Her words are cut short, as Bexy plunges the blade into her neck... And slumps to her side.

"Three... Hundred... And twenty... T-two..."

...I can feel myself slipping. The pain is... Gods... My ribs...

I couldn’t hold out much longer. But they’re dead. Dead. I... I need to get home.

“Bexy!” It was Mattisaux’s turn to shout, nearly jumping to his feet to dash at her side if it were not for the sudden sharp ache at his side and the Raen. He could, however, solve one of those issues. Without much thought in a rather unceremonious fashion, he pierced his dagger in the belly of Naritaka, dragging it across from one side to the other and allowed his contents to spill as it pleased.

Then he began he shuffled toward Bexy, affording the briefest of glances to the Xaela with a knife in her neck. “Gods, what happened to you?” Despite her gurgling, it was only now did he notice how rasped her voice sounded during her questioning.

Bexy sputters a violent coughing, sending blood drooling down her painted lips as she slumped, clutching her ribs. "Broken... Them... U-ugh..." Her breath is a wheeze, and yet she still makes some attempt to stand, wild and wide-eyed from the ordeal. Blood streams from her nose, and the rest of her exposed skin spattered in that of her enemies. But she wobbles, and slumps face first into Mattisaux's shoulder. "H-help me... S-stand..." She swallows, as the ice at the wound in her arm begins to thaw. "...N-need... To go... H-home."

“Gods...” Instead of helping her stand, he did the next reasonable thing. Adjusting himself in a proper kneel, he scooped her over both his arms and gingerly shifted her to rest over his chest. At first it was a bit awkward with how a dagger stuck from his waist, but he dealt with worse injuries in his life to ignore this one for the time being.

“Hush yourself, dear. Speaking will only make the pain worse. Now...” With her so close, and the gradual dampness of ice soaking over him, the frost encasing the broken arrow over her shoulder became apparent.

"I'll be fine... I'll be fine... I..." She swallows again, not protesting as she was picked up. "M-mattisaux..." She began, staring up to him. "Y-you... Got my l-letter, yes?" She doesn't elaborate overmuch, the adrenaline that had allowed her to speak so freely moments ago subsiding. "M-my home...?"

Mattisaux only found himself sighing at her, half grunting while lifting the both of them up. “Right, right. East Shroud, it said. Hopefully you are stubborn enough to survive the trip. The last thing I need is you dying in my arms.” Sucking in a lengthy breath, a slow wisp of darkened aether soon whipped about the pair.

Far too much energy for a teleport spell though Mattisaux was too wounded to worry about control. Once landed to a nearby enough aetheryte, he ventured them both the rest of the way.

...I tried not to talk too much on the walk home. I concentrated on breathing. On staying conscious. On directing him. It hurt... I ached...

It hurt to breathe, but at the very least, i was still breathing.

"W-we're here... H-home..." Bexy had kept her quiet throughout most of the journey, but has miraculously managed to retain her consciousness, only speaking for occasional directions here and there. Mostly, she fought to keep her own breathing steady, very much akin to a lump of ice in Mattisaux's arms for how cold she was.

As ever, he welcomed the cold, this time especially as his body warmed to the wounds dealt upon him. On their journey, his eyes darted to and fro, expecting something, anything. But the walk ended in peace, a relief now that their destination lie in front of them. "Here...?" Though when he saw it, his brow lofted though only briefly. "Let us just get inside. I will ask my questions later."

Bexy Amalaryssia is carried inside, half slumped in Mattisaux's arms. She is once again -covered- in blood, and each breath she takes is met with an uncomfortable gurgle. Her gaze settles on Neoma with some relief. "Neom-a..." She manages, barely. "...W-wounded. H-help."

Neoma Eltanin looks at you in shock!

I am... Glad she’s here. She must have known...

Somehow, she must have known...

To Mattisaux's half-surprise, her door was unlocked, inviting the pair inside to greet the dim light of her cottage. It screamed comfort alongside humidity, though his focus fixed over the girl he encountered just days ago. "You? Here? Gods, of course." Conveniently, Bexy's body covered the dagger fixed in his side. "Help her now, scalekin."

Y'khive Xetyalha's ears flicker softly as sound reaches them, making her stir from her slumped over position against the window. She stretches, a deep yet soft exhale leaving her as she drags herself closer to the edge of the loft.. and -stares- at the people below.

Neoma Eltanin had kept herself busy tidying up the little cottage as best as she could with how close it was to becoming part of the surrounding woods. While stocking up the shelves with edible goods and other necessary means, she took care to not accidentally wake the sleeping Miqo'te on the loft - Y'khive had looked so tired when she arrived. Neoma hoped she was getting some proper sleep. The company was still appreciated. Whatever peace they both were enjoying was interrupted by the sudden sound of the door opening, and when Neoma turned around with a start to look who had arrived she immediately dropped whatever she was doing. "Bexy!? Mattisaux!? Wh-what..!" She quickly hurried up to them to have a quick look at them, it was easy to tell at least Bexy was wounded. "... Follow me. Downstairs, quickly!" she urged Mattisaux.

Mattisaux was quick to purse his brow together, reluctant in doing her bidding in spite of the situation, though he knew to at least cast his grievances aside until later. His attention focused over Neoma so much, the presence of another slipped by entirely, moving as swiftly as he could to follow after her.

Bexy Amalaryssia is carried through the house, eventually finding herself deposited on the bed she'd fashioned into a makeshift infirmary, if not a small one. "R-ribs... Broken..." She wheezes. "Sayuri... Sh-she is... Alive. Hurt. Eir is..." Bexy swallows. "..W-we don't know." As much information as she could manage was given through the pain, laying as still as possible to allow Neoma to better work.

I had to tell them, had to tell them before i... Ugh...

No, no... I need to stay awake...!

Seeing a bed spread before him, his next move was made plain. Only after he carefully laid Bexy over the mattress did he sink himself into the nearby chair, never minding how overgrown it was. He shifted himself to keep from poking the knife in his side on the armrest then glared at Neoma.

Once downstairs and with Bexy properly laid in the bed Neoma wasted no time in having a proper look at Bexy's condition, hand outstretched above her frame to read her aether. "Okay, okay Bexy, don't talk too much..." She frowned at the amount of blood that coated both her skin and clothes, which made it a bit more difficult to visualize the damages. "Broken ribs... broken nose, and... Something with your shoulder..?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "Arrow... Mnh... Yestersun." She manages, reaching a gloved hand up to nudge into the broken shaft of her wound. The gloves at her hands were now more than torn, barely offering any kind of covering to her blueish skin beneath. "N-not dying... J-just hurt."

Y'khive Xetyalha kept herself out of the way, anxiously peering around the corner. "..What.. happened..?"

Mattisaux Baschet: "Need you ask questions? Start healing her now." He groaned, starting to feel the waning effects of his adrenaline's rapid descent. "You waste so much time with your prattling." The meek voice from behind him shifting him slightly though he decided to not move too much. "Gods, this house is like a second company home... with the crowd she keeps tucked in here."

Y'khive Xetyalha flattened one ear at Mattisaux's comment.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "W-would you... Rather they were n-not?" Bexy half hissed, teeth bared. "Be -nicer-. They are helping."

Khive... She is here, too. They need to know. They need to know... Agh...

I can’t... Keep my thoughts in order...

Neoma Eltanin: "Broken bones are not so swiftly healed, Mattisaux." She gently but swiftly moved Bexy's dirty coat out of the way to better locate the broken ribs, carefully touching the bruised skin. "... The quicker you heal them, the greater the pain." She gave Bexy an apologetic look before placing her hands where they needed be. "... This is going to hurt, Bexy. I have to force the bones together, and fuse them." She did not wait for a reply however, and set about her healing - hands glowing a gentle green as the magic surged through Bexy's body and to her broken ribs, pulling at them.

Bexy Amalaryssia sucks in a breath, but it's never enough to stop the pain. A hissed groan is dragged out of the pit of her throat, hands balled into the bedsheets as she stifles herself. Frost laces the room, but soon retreats, fluctuating as Neoma healed her. "M-mattisaux. Tell K-khive."

Mattisaux kissed his teeth at Bexy’s stuttering and continued his accusing glower at Neoma. Curious eyes trailed along where her hands went while she worked though seeing Bexy tense from the pain had him tensing as well. His teeth grit, sitting up as if preparing himself to shove Neoma on the ground until Bexy snapped him out of his fantasies. “Tell what?”

Bexy Amalaryssia: "W-what... H-happened..." Bexy strains, swallowing her breath. She braces herself for more healing, sweat now lacing her brow.

Neoma Eltanin kept her focus on the task at hand, ribs slowly but surely relocated until they fit where they should, the marrow in the bones starting to fuse and heal shut. "... The shoulder, is there something stuck in it? Something that shouldn't be there." She spoke as she kept working, expecting at least someone to have an answer for her question.

Mattisaux Baschet: "That is not what I... Are you who she means, girl?" Mattisaux glanced behind him for a moment. "Step here if you are. You will not waste my time."

Y'khive Xetyalha's second ear joined the first in its flattened state, she offers Mattisaux a small nod as she steps forwards, linking her hands in front of herself. "..I-.. I had no intentions to.. waste your time.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "Mnh--- Arrow... Sh-shaft..." Bexy hisses, as she pushed the swollen flesh down around the arrow, her coat pinned to her by her wound. "Do... W-what you must."

Once Khive stepped into the better part of his vision, he gave himself leave to inspect her as was his wont for strangers, namely for the feminine variety. "Another Miqo'te..." He sighed. "Whoever you are, am I to believe you know who these people are? Otherwise I would be wasting my breath. We simply attacked a group of five, though we quickly took care of two from the start."

The sight of the sore wound that peeked up from behind the coat was enough to cause another concerned from upon Neoma's brow. Once the ribs were finally fused, she went about healing the punctured lung she had detected. "... Could someone get me some forceps? Khive?" She quickly looked at her over her shoulder. "They should be among the surgical tools by the foot of the bed."

Beneath his eyes, clawed with eyes, breathing a bit deeper with the dagger biting into his side though he tried his best to shrug it off. "Bexy contended with a Highlander of some sort in which you can see the aftermath, then after a black-scaled scalekin was left behind. She screamed nearly everything; who knows what was truth or lies to save her head. She mentioned how familiar the ice was though I cannot remember if she ever mentioned that Sayuri by name. She certainly did shrill that she was fine though..."

The sigh sees Khive's shoulders slouch just a touch, gaze lowering just a touch as she peeks at the Elezen between her dreadlocks. ".. I do know. As.. I believe most of the people who come here do. And we're here to help in any way we can." Khive managed a small smile Mattisaux's way, before her ears flickered at Neoma's voice. She gave a quick nod and approached the table of supplies, all while still listening to Mattisaux talk. She retrieved the tool and extended it to Neoma, letting her gaze resettle upon Mattisaux. “.. You took down a group of five.. Just the two of you?”

Neoma Eltanin: "Thank you," Neoma quickly replied before she leaned over Bexy's shoulder, carefully moving the fabric around the wound away as much as she could to try find the end of the shaft. "... Okay... Hang in there, Bexy..." Using the forceps, she slowly but swiftly pulled it out, releasing the coat from its grip so that she could move it aside and properly heal the wound. "... Sayuri is alive, you said? And... Eir?"

Bexy Amalaryssia hisses as the arrow is taken out, gritting her teeth as she forces a nod. "Sayuri is... Hurt, but alive. Eir is... I don't know. Neither did the woman." Bexy's breathing at least has eased, less pained and wheezing than it was. "...If... If he’s still alive, he’s hurt, badly."

I hope for her sake that he is. That he lives still.

I... I can’t imagine her misery if he dies here.

I can’t imagine there will be any comfort to be given for it.

...Gods, it hurts...

Mattisaux Baschet: "That you are so impressed speaks volumes, dear. Anyroad, it largely would not have been any issue, however this frostbitten girl here does not know how to properly take care of herself. That arrow in her shoulder did not happen during our skirmish." To Neoma, he groaned. "Again, she mentioned none of their names aside from one I was unfamiliar with. Varg or whatever it was with that blasted accent of hers. She mentioned something about him in an infirmary perhaps."

Y'khive Xetyalha merely met Mattisaux' initial words with a soft smile, her head tilting a touch. She adds nothing to it other than a small nod.

The uncertainty of the fate of their captive friends had Neoma purse her lips in worry, yet she did not let that worry distract her from the importance of her current task. She listened as Mattisaux explained their recent encounter. "... I see. It's... we're still not where we need to be, then. Still, I... I'm glad you managed to get back here... both of you." Once she was satisfied with the shoulder, she gently tilted Bexy's head to have a look at her nose. "... Goodness, Bexy..."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "We will find them... We will... I... I have to..." The adrenaline, the pain, and the fact she'd not slept or eaten for several suns finally begins to overwhelm her, as her own body gave out in favor of unconsciousness.

I... I have to find them...

I have to...

...

#Muse: [Bexy]#Chapter: [Without Mercy]#[What We Want Most]#FFXIV #IC #Screenshot #Writing #Textlog #TW: Murder #TW: Torture

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the-hero-of-jk-its-len · 2 years

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A Flower by Any other name. - Chapter Six: Memories don’t sing, they just scream in tune.

A.N: I am sorry this took so long, I have entirely too many excuses, but anyways, this might just be one of my favorite chapters so far, and uh, kudos to Jester, because they are the only reason I managed to end my writer's block, enjoy.

Reminder: Aster uses he/him pronouns!! You can exchange his name if you want and i won’t mind, and also this isn’t beta’d at all because I have no friends in the LOZ fandom that I would ask to beta this thing.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The legend of zelda (gods I wish), the linked universe au or any of the franchises and works I may reference in this fic, this is a work for fans by fans and all credits go to the respective owners.

Summary: A compilation of moments saved into permanent memories in the upcoming weeks towards Aster's seventeenth birthday and the upcoming fall of hyrule.

Word Count: 2250

Warnings: Implied death at the end of the chapter.

“You know you are not immortal right?”

Aster received nothing but a slightly pained ‘hm’ as he tightened the bandages around Link’s arm, the gauze underneath undoubtedly already carrying red spots from covering up the hero’s wound.

In truth, Aster actually felt a bit guilty, it had been his idea to go out that day to check out the surrounding areas to what soon would house the woodland stable, He was curious, in all sixteen and some years of life he’d been in Hyrule he’d never really been allowed as much freedom to explore the land as he was now.

It was just also very unfortunate that where both of them went trouble followed.

“That should do it for now, but you should be more careful Hero,” Aster said as he put away the handy little first aid kit back on his bag, “as of lately, monsters keep growing stronger, and if you keep fighting recklessly then soon there’ll be no one to fight them anymore.”

Well, not that Link being careful would change things much, Aster thought while looking at the hero rise to stand by his side, looking at the scenery beyond the cliff while Aster himself could only look backwards to the many monster corpses,

Still, I’d rather see him healthy for now

“Come on hero, let’s keep moving”

If there was ever something Aster was thankful for in his old life, was that, the climate was at least forecasted, in Hyrule however, there was no such guarantee, and while Deya village was certainly close enough to walk any other day, it was still a slippery way down and apparently Link was not planning on letting him anywhere close enough to the path to continue.

Although, it wasn’t like it was a bad situation or anything, it just brought Aster sense of deja-vu to see Link train with the sword while he was kept mostly dry under a tree, he remembered this location of course, Deya Lake and the Hylia River, with the two weird looking statues under a big tree, it had been one of his favorite places to take pictures in-game.

And, if he remembered correctly, it had also been the place of one of the memories Link would eventually obtain.

Even now, if he looked long enough at Link he could see the visage of the lonely hero a century later, a burned scarred one with long hair he had patiently modded into the game so that he looked accurate to a comic he was reading at the time, Aster wondered sometimes if Link would look like that when he was brought back from the shrine, or if he’d be a perfect reflection of the blank canvas of the original game model.

Looking at Link did also bring more things to his mind though, like how the sword almost shone under the darkness of the cloudy day, or even how the rehearsed steps he made now out of practice would one day become instinct.

“It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Fate,” he spoke to rain, though it might have been at Link, who was admittedly keeping an ear open to the prince, “Do you ever think about it hero? To be born with a duty we supposedly did, destined to fight a great calamity that might otherwise destroy our very world.”

Aster wouldn’t have noticed it, but he spoke in a knowing tone, like every single one of his words had already happened, it had to him at least, but Link did, he had begun to notice many things nowadays, enough to stop his training to fully listen.

The prince didn’t look back at him, face half hidden in his knees, looking to the distance, “Have you ever wondered Link,” he began the question, not noticing how easily the name had slipped from his mouth after years without saying it “What would it be like to someone else? To be a cook, or a gardener, an artist, being able to live out our lives without having to worry about fate or destiny? Knowing that our biggest struggle is deciding what to have for dinner.”

Aster’s tone spoke of longing, he’d once had it all, a peaceful life, a caring family, a perfectly placed workplace to go to in the mornings, even a pair of dogs to keep him company in the colder days, and now, now he was a prince, blessed with a castle and riches that weren’t his and in a body that didn’t belong to him, fated to lose everyone he had grown endeared with in exchange of keeping the darkness this world was cursed with at bay.

Link, for his part, had looked at Aster when he’d fallen silent, finding the prince to be barely containing tears and holding himself into a small ball, almost like a snail trying to hide in its shell.

But he said nothing, and simply put a cloak over the prince before looking back into the sky.

The rain didn’t seem to be ending any time soon.

For what it was worth, Aster was impressed by the guardians, sure his context for them was as enemies rather than allies and he knew full well it was a matter of time before everyone else realized that.

In the meantime however, he is willing to just stare sadly at the scientists taking care of the machines while he passes by the bridge overseeing the testing area, of all the people in the castle, Aster has no doubt these were, no, rather, they will be the first casualties, and he can do barely more than mourn them in life, the same way he mourns the champions.

And if the way Link suddenly rushes them both to the other door is any hint, perhaps, someone else has started to feel the ghost of the future too.

He prays that night, in a storage room turned temple that people often use for worship of the goddesses, in his past life he could almost call it a small scale church like the one his grandparents too him to when they visited them as a child, this one doesn’t have stained glass or statues of saints with badly done paint.

There is however, in the far corner of the room, a statue of the goddess, it looks like all the others, but he’s not picky, and lately, he’d been coming much more often than before, kneeling in the dark of the night as Link waits outside of the door.

It stares at him, first in the way everyone feels stared at in museums by paintings and statues, and then in a way that can only be defined as expecting, he stares back in his kneeling position, he knows she’ll listen, but the gaze still feels judgemental regardless.

He prays that night for all the people that will be lost in the weeks that follow, for all that may survive but find no home to take them in, he prays for a soldier in Hateno who will never return, even for the champion who despite their best efforts have managed to worm themselves further into his heart, ultimately he prays for a small family in Deya that will lose a brother and a kingdom in one fell swoop less than a month from now.

But he whispers his prayers and by the time Link escorts him back to his room, he remains none the wiser to the fate of his family, much to the guilt of the prince by his side that can almost feel the gaze of the goddess on his back.

Not for the first time Aster was found in the garden, indeed it would be more rare if Link didn’t find him there nowadays, caring for plants and books, it was tradition almost.

But, it was different this time, if not for the guard, certainly for the prince, this might not be the first time in the garden reminiscing of the dead queen Zelda while caring for her rose bushes, but it would certainly be the last.

There was no hope in Aster’s mind, nor heart, that one day he would come back to this self-sacred place, a hundred years from now it would all have fallen away, to rot, rust, age or malice, leaving nothing but memories of a beautiful garden behind.

But that didn’t mean all had to disappear, not completely, memories would last him long but not others, in their stead, the tiny metal box in his lap would carry them, tiny bags of seeds and dried flowers, leaves, even roots, rocks that he’d studied and the notebooks carrying his investigations, small bottles tagged with poisonous names and descriptions, even letters made their way in.

A hundred years from now all the people who had aided his studies would be dead and gone, the memories of their lives all but erased from history, so it fell to him instead to make sure that one day their words and thoughts came back out of the dirt like the plants they studied.

And it fell to him that the world knew just how beautiful his mother’s roses had been.

Aster left the garden that night, a metal box on his knight’s arms ready to be packed away with the rest of his things for the pilgrimage to mt lanayru, a week long trip that at the end of the king hoped to announce him properly as having finished his studies of faith and open his first season of marriage candidacy.

A true pity of a plan, because as fate would come to be, Aster never set foot on the garden, nor the proper palace again in the king’s lifetime.

It’s not as far now, than it used to be, Mt Lanaryu looms on the distance by the time they decide to take a break, more for the horses than for him or Link, there is a fountain nearby and plenty of shadow in the meantime, less than a proper week from now, they’ll be up in the mountain and barely hours after that the calamity will come down.

And, it would be a lie to say that Aster hasn’t begun mourning already, even now, in the peace of the night he cannot mutter anything less than a brief “thanks” when Link serves him a bowl of stew, it’s warm, and flavorful, absolutely delicious and yet he cannot enjoy it properly.

Link notices, he knows Link notices, but he can’t help the sobs that escape him later on in his bedroll, in the end, even after almost two years of close to no contact beyond that of a knight and a prince, Link had been there to hold him through the silent crying that shook him that night, with no question asked that night nor the morning after.

Even in the early afternoon he remained quiet while the horses were packed back up, not even once questioning the fact the prince had buried a small box under the earth close to the statue, much deeper than anything that was meant to be found, for preservation.

And if Aster looked even more mournful by the time they left than when they arrived, well, Link didn’t question it either beyond offering a handkerchief and moving just a bit faster with epona to give the prince a chance to gain his composure back.

It would only take four more days to get to the mountain, and less than one to make camp. The morning after it, the prince woke up aged 17 rather than 16, and he climbed before the sun even came out, and there they stayed, 18 hours to the minute.

By the time they climbed back down, ceremonial robes instead of his daily clothes, Aster looked nothing short of sorrowful to the champions, even Link seemed on edge by his side, and though the champions had tried their best to reassure them, for they had assumed the pilgrimage had been of no use.

In return, Aster looks at them, the four champions in front of him, and with specks of gold against his blue eyes, he apologizes, there, in that clearing in front of the mountain and close to the sunset, Aster’s words are echoed by the sound of faraway rumbling that interrupts the confusion the champions felt towards his words.

But it’s too late now, even from a distance, they can all see how Hyrule Castle falls to the calamity, how the beast awakens and rises from the shadows that envelope the once home of the royal family, and soon prison of the prince besides them, in the meantime, Aster looks at their faces instead as they turn back to him to hurriedly say their goodbyes before rushing towards the divine beasts.

And as Link takes his hand and rushes them to the horses only to find they’ve run away, all they can think of is the fact this is the last time he’ll ever see the champions' faces.

Not even an hour after nightfall they see it, the lights on the divine beasts flash on the distance in a pattern they can only recognize as SOS before they are overtaken with utter and complete malice pink, Ruta goes down first, and after Rudania is soon to follow, Nabooris lasts only a few minutes longer, and in the end Medoh is the last to fall, the light pattern almost rushed to finish before the pink overtakes it.

Hyrule has fallen.

#🖋️ The Len Writes #a flower by any other name #isekai #eventual linked universe #link x ftm reader #breath of the wild au #link x reader #link x transmasc reader #loz fic #loz x oc

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sam-glade · 1 year

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Happy STS, Sam! I did a silly fun one last week, so this one is a little more serious. How much do you use symbolism in your writing, and to what level? Why? (You know, are the curtains blue because you needed to describe them, because it fit the current mood of sadness, or to represent something deeper the reader won’t see until the third read?)

Hi Moshke! Thank you for the question💜

And that's a damn good one.

In general I don't think I use symbolism consciously? The trees and flowers I mention grow where they do because that's what tends to grow in this climate, in a location like this. The interior design is usually motivated by the status of the owner of the house or the purpose of the building, and in the former case the colour scheme of especially the representative rooms will match the house's colours.

This however has the effect of the First Prince's residence being decorated in blues and silvers, and kept very clean, with no scuffs or stains on the furniture, which hopefully works well to set the mood of a cold and stiff environment, that quite a few characters struggle to be at ease in. It's a bit of a question what came first - the vibes or the in-universe reason why something is the way it is😉

There are certainly deliberate phrases I put in which might be glossed over on the first read, but I see it more as foreshadowing, not symbolism?

The one exception to that is Sword (and Crystal, etc.) Spirits - the animal companions that most of my characters have in their minds. They have been chosen very deliberately and with the intention of summing up the given character. They have also been chosen based on local legends, that I don't actually expect many readers to know. They are a little bit of a joke to myself.

As for why - personal preference primarily. I strongly dislike it when following a story relies on understanding the symbolism. I haven't done any literary analysis in high school or at uni, and I don't trust my ability interpret symbols. I'd stress about getting it wrong. I also don't like missing the point - like there's this nagging feeling I should be getting more out of it, but it's flying over my head (looking at you, The Locked Tomb). So I don't want to inflict it on my readers either🙂

#I like my writing to *make sense*#sts #ask and i shall answer

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tooplantnet · 1 year

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How to Care for Boston Fern?

The Boston Fern (Nephrolepis Exaltata), also known as the sword fern, is an air purifier. Its simple and hassle-free maintenance has made it a very suitable choice for the interior of homes and offices.

The Boston Fern loves heat and humidity. Does not like to be exposed to heating/cooling devices. In winter, because the plant is not growing, you can reduce the amount of watering, but never let it tolerate drought.

Try to meet all the needs of the plant, in the same way, then you can be sure that the beautiful fern will compensate all your efforts with its excellent growth. The main secret of caring for all plants is not to focus solely on one factor (for example, receiving a lot of light) and to pursue all the factors involved in plant growth in a harmonious and uniform way.

Essential Tips to Care for Boston Fern

The best methods of how to care for Boston Fern include as follows:

What light is best for Boston Fern?

Light is among the first important issues to care for Boston Fern. If you keep Boston Fern at home, they need bright but indirect sunlight. A fern that is outside the house prefers to have some shade. Of course, some types of ferns can also tolerate direct sunlight. But in general, filtered light is suitable for them, so make sure you sufficiently provide the Boston fern light requirements.

The best condition for this plant is near a shade in a bright environment. But this plant is stronger than these words and lasts in more or less light.

How often should you water a Boston Fern?

It is very important to always keep the roots of this fern moist. If the fern is in a dry climate, water it about twice a week and allow the soil surface to dry slightly between waterings. Never spray water on the leaves and stems of this plant as it will destroy the leaves.

How to water the Sword Fern (Nephrolepis Exaltata) in spring and early fall on a daily basis, water the plant to the point where excess water comes out of the pot. On cold winter days, reduce watering to twice a week, as cold weather prevents potting soil moisture from evaporating and the plant needs less water.

In general, to water a Boston Fern flower, keep in mind that as soon as the soil surface of the pot dries, water it. When watering, care must be taken not to spill water on the leaves of the plant, and to pour it directly on the soil of the pot.

What is the best soil for a Boston Fern?

The ideal soil for Boston is light, rich soil with organic compounds. As a result, the potting soil will be suitable for it. Make sure the soil is well drained. If drainage is not suitable, the roots will rot.

Does Boston Fern like humidity?

Moisture is another thing which we need to inevitably pay attention to when talking about how to care for a Boston fern. Boston ferns that are kept at home need a humidity above 80%. If you feel the air in the house is dry, you should moisturize it regularly.

The air around the plant should always be moist. So keep it away from radiators. The best place for a Nephrolepis Exaltata (Sword Fern) is the bathroom or kitchen.

#houseplants #houseplant #houseplantcare #houseplant_care #careforhouseplants #care_for_houseplant #care_for_houseplants #care_of_houseplant #take_care_of_houseplants #takecareofhouseplants #plants #plant #Boston_Fern #caring_for_Boston_Fern #care_for_Boston_Fern #take_care_of_Boston_Fern #Nephrolepis_Exaltata #care_for_Nephrolepis_Exaltata

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cm-electrical · 2 years

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Buy horizontal & vertical designer radiators For Modern Homes

Buy Designer Radiators at cmelec.co.uk . Variety of styles, colours and orientations. Modern styles. Easy fit. Energy efficient. Fast and free delivery in UK

A house becomes a home when it’s comfortable to live in. In utmost of UK, the temperature is always indurating. Therefore, there’s a need for a radiator at home. With the help of this device, we can regulate the heat in the house, and insure that there’s a warm climate that suits everyone.

Traditional radiators generally were kept in the basement or locked down in a special press down from the view of callers, since they were relatively unattractive and no bone wanted them at home in full view of guests and family.

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Dimensions: 430mm (H) x 480mm (L). – Depth: 95mm.

Code: ALH430-480

all feathers of advantages to ultramodern developer radiators piecemeal from looking great, the main bone is their inflexibility. You can buy them in a huge range of sizes, shapes and colours, which means that they can virtually be hung in any sized niche and fissure in the house. For illustration, if you want some heat in the hallway but space is minimum and a vertical radiator just will not fit in there, also rather choose a altitudinous, narrow unit that takes up minimum bottom space. Traditional cast iron radiators take some time to toast up and warm the room, also when switched off they tend to take their time cooling down again.

These days, horizontal single radiators, Horizontal Double Radiator offer a much more effective volition asthey’re made of accoutrements similar as pristine sword and aluminium that are effective heat operators and extremely responsive. This permits you to fine tune your heating system with the outgrowth being lesser effectiveness and frugality.

you’re determined to ameliorate your home and increase its value by adding or replacing developer radiators. Once you have in your mind the type and style of radiators you bear, and also look online where you’ll find a huge array of showrooms.

Take a look at the different designs on offer and pick commodity you like in a colour that will match your décor. Also just give them a call to bandy your options and ask any questions. All you need to do also is sit back and stay for delivery and relax with your warm, swish new radiators.

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

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CW major character injury (beartrap)

Splitting up for winter seemed like the most sensible idea. Geralt would head north with Ciri and, at his insistence at not leaving his muse, Jaskier. Meanwhile Regis would lead the others south, down to Touissant for a bit of downtime. Privately Geralt also hoped their infuriatingly stubborn Nilfgaardian shadow would opt to head for the warmer climates and leave them alone. It wasn't even that Geralt was worried about the man following them. Over the weeks it had become abundantly clear that he was trying to help in his own way, even fighting off a stray bandit or two to keep their tail clean. Rather, Geralt simply couldn't be bothered to exert the energy to get to know yet another person and it was another mouth to feed. Given his rather solitary nature, the fact he was travelling with a ragtag bunch was already quite exhausting.

As luck would have it, Geralt ended up with the Nilfgaardian trailing after them, heading steadily north. The weather got colder and sometimes Geralt caught the whiff of another camp fire, creeping a little closer as it that small lessening of distance would give their tail a smidgeon more warmth. It was pathetic and Geralt was more than a little pissed off. Still, at least the trip up to Kaer Morhen would lose him. Nobody was foolish enough to try and reach the old keep alone, even Witchers succumbed to the trail, a human by himself stood no chance. So either their foolhardy idiot would find shelter for the winter in the surrounding villages or he would perish.

They were at the bottom of the mountain, one last night to get some rest before they braved the slopes. Jaskier and Ciri definitely needed sleep and to give their bodies a break. Geralt was content to meditate, keeping them safe. In the distance he could hear their Nilfgaardian make camp, daring to stray as close as he ever had. Frustrated, Geralt found himself wishing that a bear would appear and deal with the annoyance for him. Alas, he couldn't hear or smell a bear in the region despite the villages mentioning that there had been some bears sighted earlier in the year. Thankfully the local hunters had taken care of them. Lost in thought, Geralt almost didn't register the sound of something snapping shut before a pained cry echoed in the forest. Immediately he was up, sword in hand while Jaskier was on his feet too, looking around in the darkness.

In the distance Geralt could hear pained hitches of breath plus a few agonised grunts. Whatever had happened, it wasn't the swift death he'd wished on the Nilfgaardian. There wasn't anyone or anything else in the vicinity so whatever had happened, the idiot did to himself. Probably stabbed himself with an arrow in the dark. Despite all his ill-wishes, Geralt couldn't bring himself to ignore someone in trouble.

"It's the Nilfgaardian. He's in trouble."

There wasn't any argument when he set off, Jaskier and Ciri behind him, treading carefully, a flaming torch lighting their way. Geralt almost wished they hadn't had the torch because then he wouldn't have had to see the scene in front of him in full colour. The Nilfgaardian was on the ground at the edge of a small clearing where he'd obviously planned on making camp. However, the stench of blood around him suggested that something hadn't gone according to plan. Walking up to him, Geralt watched as the man realised he wasn't alone and jerked upright. A beartrap kept him rooted though. His hands were bloody, even worse, his palms had been cut open from where he'd obviously tried to pry the metal from his leg. What struck Geralt though was just how young the man looked. Wide blue eyes stared up from shock paled skin, lips almost white enough to be missed. Only slightly older than Ciri, probably about twenty, Geralt couldn't fathom why someone so young was so desperate.

"You'll need to keep still while we get this off," Geralt said, crouching down. The young man tried to scramble away but aside from leaning back, he couldn't go anywhere. "Why don't we help with the pain a bit?" Hand raised, Geralt prepared to cast axii. Before he could, a rock connected with the man's temple and knocked him out cold as Jaskier stood behind him, hand wrapped around the lightly bloodied rock.

"That will keep him still and out of it," he declared. "It was the kindest thing."

"Or you could have let me use axii to keep him calm." Geralt tipped the man's head to the side to check how badly the rock had split his skin. It was going to give him quite the bruise, possibly a black eye and one hell of a headache. Still, it did made life easier and Geralt pried the trap off. It had snapped in bone deep, probably even broke his leg. Humans were fragile like that and the trap was meant for a bear. Sighing, Geralt looked around the miserable excuse of a half made camp. It screamed of skills learned on the fly, for the sole purpose of survival rather than something practiced in safety before being put into reality. "Grab his things. We'll head up to Kaer Morhen tomorrow and take him with us."

They had more in the way of bandages with them and, while the man was unconscious, Geralt did his best to clean the wounds, splint the leg and bandage it as well as the cuts on his hands. There wasn't much to be done for the headache of the future though.

In the morning Geralt roused from his meditation to find a pair of blue eyes staring at him.

"You going to make an example of me and kill me?" The accent was harsh despite the soft voice. It wasn't what Geralt had expected coming out of the man's mouth.

"Yeah, I wasted all the bandages on you just for that. Name's Geralt."

"Cahir Mawr Dyrryn aep Ceallach."

"Quite the mouthful. Cahir alright with you?" The nod was answer enough and Geralt set about getting breakfast ready. It was only thanks to the events of the previous night that he kept an eye out for more beartraps and avoided falling victim to one himself. He set it off with a stick and winced as it splintered under the metal jaws.

Despite their best efforts, by the time they'd loaded Cahir onto the cart strapped to Roach, his cheeks were flushed with fever and Geralt could smell the sickness on him. The valiant effort to get to know his new travelling companions better was foiled by the way Cahir kept drifting off, a combination of sickness and from the hit to the head. When he woke, it was only Jaskier's quick grab to the back of his shirt that kept Cahir on the cart as he threw up over the side.

It wasn't looking good. The first night they stopped, Geralt helped rebandage Cahir's injured leg. As the cloth fell away, it became amply evident that infection had thoroughly set in. The cuts were an angry red without defined edges to the inflammation while the wounds themselves were puckered with puss.

"It's fine," Cahir tried to reassure with a wobbly smile. "I've survived worse." Which may have been true but he'd probably also been in a place with better medical supplies. The gnarly scar below his collarbone and through to his back attested to his words but Geralt didn't think it was caused by an old, rusty beartrap. If they didn't make it to Kaer Morhen soon then no amount of surviving worse injuries was going to mean anything.

Come next morning Cahir was no longer quite so chirpy. He was still and silent on the cart, Ciri sat next to him and sometimes gesturing for Geralt to look, worried that Cahir had stopped breathing. He hadn't but his deathly pale complexion wasn't giving Geralt much hope. They were still at least a day and a half out from Kaer Morhen, maybe even two because of the additional weight on the cart.

A fever peaked and fell in cycles, each time Geralt hoped it would be the last but, before long, he reached to feel Cahir's skin and winced at how hot to the touch it felt once more.

By the time they made it up to Kaer Morhen, Geralt feared it would be just a corpse for a funeral pyre that they'd be dragging in. By some miracle it wasn't. With Eskel's help he pulled Cahir off the cart, floppy as unresponsive as he was, there was still air in his lungs and an erratic heartbeat in his chest.

"What did you bring us this time?" Lambert teased before getting a better look and his grin turned into a frown. "Well shit. I'll get Vesemir."

It took three days before Cahir was declared out of immediate danger. Geralt spent a lot of it down in the infirmary, sitting next to him. The others could start Ciri's training and Jaskier was no doubt pleased to get to spend time with Eskel again. It left Geralt in the quiet, watching over someone who he had convinced himself he hated. But this wasn't the person he'd conjured up in his mind. Barely older than Jaskier had been when they met, Cahir didn't look like he had any youthful optimism or naivety.

"I'm sorry." Geralt murmured, watching as Cahir slept, breath a little less thready. He should have been better. Shouldn't have judged, not when he was on the other end of so much of it himself.

By the time Cahir roused, everyone had settled into their winter routine. Ciri trained most days, reading tomes Vesemir left her when it got too cold for the outside obstacle course. It left Geralt free to sit with Cahir, watching as glazed eyes opened, unseeing. The worst thing was, not once did Cahir cry out for someone or reach for an invisible source of comfort. In all his years Geralt rarely found someone so lonely. Even Lambert, in his training days, had called out for his mother and, of late, for Aiden. It was a struggle to believe Cahir had nobody.

"Why?" The first word from cracked dry lips and Geralt jumped. He grabbed a wet rag and dabbed it against Cahir's lips, squeezing a little water into his mouth.

"Why what?" There were a lot of questions Cahir could have and Geralt wasn't a mind reader. He startled when a weak hand clasped around his wrist, keeping his hand close. It felt all too natural to take the rag in his other hand so he could cup Cahir's sunken cheek.

"You stayed."

Something told Geralt this wasn't something Cahir had encountered before and it broke his heart. Why nobody would stick around for him was baffling. Even a Witcher had more people looking out for him, he was certain. He cleared his throat, trying to think about why he stayed. It was true, he had no reason to. "I wanted to."

The soft 'oh' from Cahir pulled at something in his chest. He let Cahir tangle their fingers together shyly, looking up at him from the infirmary bed with so much awe and gratitude, Geralt didn't know what to do with it. So he sat back down into his chair and kept holding Cahir's hand. There was a lot of talking, of getting to know each other in their future. But, for now, Geralt was content to offer whatever comfort he could, vowing to be better than all those who had come before him.

#cahir/geralt #geralt of rivia #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cw: major character injury #tldr: cahir is injured and taken to kaer morhen

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sokkascroptop · 4 years

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traitor. (sokka x f! reader) pt 1

part 2 | part 3

Azula was good at that, doing and saying things that made you want to yell back. It was her favorite thing to do on purpose and had become like second nature by accident. Y/N, in response, had become very good at holding her tongue over the years, and very good at calming herself when she wanted to lash out. More than once when they were children Azula had lobbed a fireball in her direction that had singed the clothes or skin it was aimed at.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Azula asked. She was lounging on a chaise near the window cleaning her nails with a sharp blade. The sun was setting behind her basking her in a glowing, warm light. It made her gold eyes brighter, gold eyes that were staring intensely at her, waiting for an answer.

“Of course I do. I came to the palace for a party with my parents,” Y/N responded. She was a ways away on Azula’s bed lying on her stomach. She flipped over and hung her head off the bed letting the blood rush to her cheeks. Azula was smirking at her.

“No, at school. When I chose you.” Azula tossed the knife she was using and it thudded into the dark wood of her door frame. A door frame that was sliced with notches of where the girls–her, Azula, Ty Lee and Mai– would measure their heights when they were younger; or where Azula would stab her knife deep in the wood, for safekeeping, she would always say.

Chose. That was a word that Y/N was familiar with. It usually meant that you were special, but to her, to Azula and the girls and Y/N’s parents, it just meant she was lucky.

“Of course I do,” Y/N repeated.

Y/N started at the Royal Fire Nation Academy for Girls later than most. She was already nearly ten and had always had a slew of private tutors. But her father had been recently promoted to Commander and it was insisted that his daughter, his progeny, had the right type of upbringing–and apparently that meant not running through the forests of Ember Island barefoot.

She not-so-fondly remembered the heavy uniform they wore, so different than her thin cotton pants and tunic she was used to. The Capital City was in the same climate as Ember Island, so why did they wear silk? It was so hot. Y/N had hated moving back to the Capital City, and out of their summer home that had become her year round home the minute her mother decided it was much better to be away from the city.

“That first week was hellish. I’d never had to listen to authority before, or hang out with children my age and suddenly that’s all I had. You saved me.”

“Saved you,” Azula scoffed. “I do remember you being quite the little heathen.”

“Hey! I just meant from lashings from the teachers,” Y/N laughed and threw a decorative pillow at Azula’s head. She caught it quick as a cat-snake with one hand and brought it to her chest.

They sat in an easy silence, Y/N wondering why Azula had brought up the moment they met. The first words that she’d ever said to Y/N echoed in her mind. “We’re going to be great friends.”

Azula wasn’t wrong when she prophesied that they were going to be great friends. Azula wasn’t necessarily the ‘welcome with open arms’ type, but she did whatever was closest to that with Y/N. She became a part of them, almost instantly. They had class together, they ate lunch together, they went back to the palace and trained together. Everything, together. Ty Lee was the most friendly of them all, she often braided Y/N’s hair over and over, taking it out and braiding it back, just to have something to do with her hands. Mai was sweet once you got past her glum exterior. Azula was, well, Azula. She was cold one minute and hot the next, literally. Her emotions changed as quickly as the weather. She might throw a fireball at your head if she was mad. But the next moment she’d sweeten you up with fruit tarts she’d stolen from the kitchen and all would be forgotten.

Y/N kept thinking about Azula’s words as she trained with one of the palace guards later that evening. He wasn’t the best with a sword, but he was a fire bender, and that gave her a better workout.

Y/N was a non-bender, but masterful with a sword. It was her father’s favorite hand to hand weapon and he had insisted on her training with it even at a young age. By the time she started at the Royal Academy, she was able to beat her trainers regularly.

Becoming friends with Azula gave her access to some of the best fighters in the Fire Nation, and even that was becoming boring.

Y/N slashed at the guards neck. He threw a fireball at her that dissipated harmlessly where she once stood. She landed in a crouch and kicked her leg out at the back of the guards knee, it buckled and he fell. She bounced to her feet and pointed the tip of her sword at the back of his neck. She saw a swatch of pale skin there which dripped with sweat. A small part of her wanted to dig her sword in and draw bright red blood.

A slow clap echoed through the courtyard that awoke her from those dark thoughts. Y/N smiled at her friend and patted the guards shoulder. “See you later.”

She jogged to join Azula who was starting to walk away. “Come to watch and fawn over me for old times sake?” Y/N giggled and wiped the sweat off her brow. She sheathed her sword and felt the familiar weight bounce against her hip.

“You give yourself far too much credit.” Y/N could tell Azula was in a good mood. A better mood than she’d seen in a while. They reached Y/N’s room and she dropped her sword on the bed.

“Why are you so chipper, ‘zula?”

The left corner of her mouth tilted up in the ghost of a smile. “Father wants to speak to you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“I think I know what it’s about but I won’t ruin the surprise. Come on, we don't want to keep him waiting.”

Y/N’s stomach turned. She’d only stood in front of the Fire Lord a handful of times. The first being the first time she traveled to the palace when she was very young. At the time she didn’t know the weight of what she was doing, now she did and she was filled with terror. What in Agni’s name could he want with her? She was just a Commander’s daughter who had befriended his daughter.

The throne room was cold despite the summer heat outside and the fire burning around the Fire Lord. It was dark as well, the black marble floor and columns absorbed the only light from the flames licking upward to their Master. The only sound was the crackling fire and the click of Y/N’s boots; Azula was always so light footed she hardly made a sound.

A drop of sweat leftover from Y/N’s workout dripped down her spine and she shivered at the feeling. Ten yards away from the throne, Y/N dropped to one knee and bowed her head. Azula bowed slightly and stood behind Y/N’s right shoulder.

“Fire Lord, it is an honor to be in your presence,” Y/N said. She could feel the heat from the flames now that she was closer. Whether from nervousness or the warmth that filled her face, she began to sweat.

“You may stand.” The Fire Lord’s voice was higher than she remembered. It didn’t fit the aura he gave off and he sounded bored. Y/N stood with her hands behind her back at attention. She didn’t want to have any excuse for Azula to chastise her when they left. “Azula tells me that you are gifted at sword fighting.”

Y/N fought the urge to send a questioning look to her friend. Azula talked to the Fire Lord about her? She stared at the black outline of his tall figure seated in his enormous chair. “I’m adequate, sire.”

“Beating every single one of my palace guards is more than what I would call adequate,” the Fire Lord remarked.

“Your palace guards are extremely well trained in fire bending but not in sword fighting, sire.” Y/N grimaced and ducked her head, cursing internally at her mouth that was too quick for her brain.

Azula chuckled softly behind Y/N. Now she did turn around to stare at her friend. She whipped her head back not knowing how disrespectful it was to turn your back on the Fire Lord.

“Azula will be leaving tomorrow for the Earth Kingdom to capture my brother, General Iroh and the Fire Prince Zuko. I want you to go with her.”

Y/N paused for a beat. Capture them? The last she heard was that they were on a pointless mission to catch the Avatar. Iroh was disgraced and went with Zuko when he was banished because Iroh couldn’t face his brother when he abdicated the throne for his failure at Ba Sing Se. What could they have done searching for a dead Avatar that could get them into more trouble? Y/N could feel Azula’s sharp nails dig into her arm behind her back and she knew she had waited too long to speak.

“It would be an honor to accompany Fire Princess Azula on this mission, My Lord.” Y/N clasped a fist in her left hand and held it below her right palm and bowed deeply.

If the Fire Lord was pleased with her, his tone didn't show it. “Wonderful. You’re dismissed.”

Y/N couldn’t get out the room fast enough.

Azula was more excitable than ever on their walk back to their rooms. She grabbed Y/N’s arms and tugged like she was a small child. “This is going to be so amazing for me, Y/N! For us!”

Azula seemed to notice Y/N’s hesitation to agree with her. This earned her a sharp look. “Don’t you want the honor and recognition that bringing home two traitors would give you? You’d be promoted higher than your father. Agni knows you’d be more deserving of the title.”

Y/N gave Azula the smile she was waiting for. “Of course. I guess I’m still a little shell shocked at the Fire Lord giving me such an amazing opportunity.”

“Well you can thank me for that.”

Y/N stopped at the door to her room. “Thank you, Azula,” she said before she could snatch the words back. Azula rounded the corner to the stairs that would take her to her room and Y/N took a deep, calming breath, working hard to push away the anger the Azula had incited.

She slid down the wall inside her room. Did Y/N want the honor and glory that Azula talked about? She should, with how she was raised, but now that it was offered on a silver platter, Y/N wasn’t so sure that it was for her. Recently, it became all Azula wanted to talk about. Training and war meetings had become her life so suddenly. And if they were Azula’s life, they were Y/N’s life as well. Y/N wasn’t allowed to sit in on the war meetings but it didn’t matter because Azula always came back to relay what happened in them. ‘Relay’ was the wrong word, more like brag about them. Azula was anything but informative when she spoke. Y/N tried to find some interest in the things the Fire Nation was accomplishing but to Y/N it just turned her stomach. She’d never admit it to anyone, especially Azula but she was sickened by the war.

When did life become this way? All about war and capturing cities and cleansing the world? She wished things were back to simpler times when the girls ran the palace wild and teased Zuko and the maids. She knew that in the past three years since Zuko’s banishment, Fire Lord Ozai had been calling on Azula more and more frequently, upping her firebending training to half the day. But Y/N never thought it would come to this.

Y/N skipped out on dinner that night, just told the maids to take the tray of roast turtle-duck back to the kitchen. Her stomach had been in knots since leaving the throne room. Her and Azula were leaving. Sure, Y/N hadn’t lived with her parents in years; this would be her fifth year of calling the palace home, but for some reason, she didn’t feel like she was going to come back.

Y/N instead slid into a hot bath that she drew for herself for once and mulled in her thoughts. As if the steam in the room was steeping her memories like tea leaves she thought of what this mission was supposed to entail. Things that happened around the palace and behind closed doors were usually hidden from her unless she heard gossip from the servants or occasionally, Azula. But she didn’t seem like she was going to give up any information about it. What did Iroh do to betray the Fire Nation? He was one of the best General’s they’d ever had, even after his defeat at Ba Sing Se. And what did Zuko do that was even worse than his banishment?

None of that matters, she told herself. Her previous ideas about the kind of men they were didn’t matter anymore. If the Fire Lord said that Zuko and Iroh needed to be captured, then that’s what needed to be done.

A/N: uh oh, settle in for more inner angst as y/n tries to figure out where her heart lies. what is more important? honor? friendship? peace?

#atla #a:tla #avatar the last airbender #avatar: the last airbender #sokka x reader #sokka x female reader #suki #katara #aang #zuko #azula #toph #toph beifong #ozai sucks #avatar resurgence #sokka x y/n #uncle iroh

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drjackandmissjo · 3 years

Text

I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you

(but I’ll do what I must for there’s no me without you)

*** Set throughout the course of their 7th and final year at Hogwarts, this story follows Slytherin's finest and one of the only sane members of the House, Blaise Zabini, as he navigates war-torn friendships, school under a dictatorial regime, Death Eaters and, most importantly, his secret relationship with none other than the new leader of the DA, known blood-traitor, Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom.

A sequel to my previous story: Firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine, you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

Chapter 1 --- next chapter

Harry Potter fic masterlist

29th of July 1997

“I have to admit: I enjoyed the film way more than I expected to,” he said once they had left the muggle theatre. The air had become chilly during the time they had spent inside, but neither of them was bothered by that: they were used to colder climates, after all, spending most of the year in Scotland. And for all its spells and constant fires, one thing always must be said about Hogwarts: certain rooms and corners had never seen the light of the sun and they surely behaved as such, even during warm days.

Like the Potions classrooms, while Snape was their Professor. Those dungeon rooms looked and smelled and felt every bit of humidity that came from being so close to the lake and that, even with the countless explosions that Theo and the Fire Kid from Gryffindor caused with each lesson, could never get anything warmed up. A Hungarian Horntail could breathe fire in there for 24 hours straight and it would still be humid and wet and cold.

It was a good thing Professor Slughorn had decided to move the classrooms up on the fourth floor, in rooms full of windows and light. Blaise could have easily gone without having to add to his ever-growing list of worries his skin getting dehydrated with the stained and stale air that circulated down there.

He watched from the corner of his eye Neville nod along to his statement in agreement, before casually running a hand through his hair and messing them up even further. No matter how hard he tried to keep them neat and proper, like his grandmother wanted them to be, the strands appeared to have a life on their own, especially when certain Slytherin hands had free reign in between them whenever they were alone.

Besides, it really wasn’t Blaise’s fault: Neville had decided he wanted to grow them out, instead of cutting them just as his grandmother suggested on the daily, and, much to Blaise’s happiness, now his bangs framed his face divinely, making for a perfect place to leave his hands whenever they were else occupied.

He also enjoyed the way Neville would scoff in pretended annoyance whenever he disarrayed them and then would shake his head in disbelief at his antics, aiding Blaise’s purpose even further.

And, really, who could blame him? If Blaise wasn’t as in love with the dorky plant-head Gryffindor as he already was, he’d fall even harder at the sight of him with his funky tousled hair and puffy lips as he took a bite out of Blaise’s food without asking first.

He had been so glad that day, having bought a muggle camera that worked similarly to a magical one but that was way easier to manage. He had taken dozens of stills of them, never seeming to get enough of Neville’s smiling face and of his own relaxed and happy one. For Salazar’s soul, he had even sent one of the two of them smiling to his mother, after she kept on asking to at least see the young man that had enchanted her son.

She had replied to his letter the following day, with a simple: “Rule number fifty-one: don’t let him go.”

Blaise had never once wanted to disappoint his mother and definitely wouldn’t start now.

“I don’t really like the way it ended, though. The part where J removed K’s memories was a nice touch, but I feel like we didn’t have enough time with neither,” Neville commented, shoving his hands inside his jeans’ pockets as they kept on walking further and further away from the theatre, undoubtedly to stop himself from doing something idiotic like holding Blaise’s hand when there were still people around.

Given the current political and non-political air that permeated both the Wizarding World and Britain, the two young men had decided that it would be best to limit their encounters only to muggle areas in London, although they would still have to maintain a rather low and inconspicuous profile. It had become incredibly easy to be together without raising suspicions, especially with almost an entire school year of experience sneaking around the castle, but they still preferred to be cautious, to hide from both dark wizards and close-minded muggles.

Neville still lived with his grandmother, but she had become less strict during the course of his first week back at home from school and didn’t really bother him with the amount of time he stayed out, as long as he spent the nights at home. Besides, in her own words, they all had ‘bigger problems than teenagers breaking curfew a little bit to meet with their friends.’ Blaise couldn’t believe that he could ever agree with Augusta Longbottom, but he had seen stranger things happen.

Still, when Neville told him, he had been so shocked he had choked on his drink, causing the Gryffindor to laugh at the spectacle he had created with his Cola.

Blaise himself had been invited to spend his vacation at either Malfoy Manor and the Nott’s, both families offering their hospitality and implicit protection, but he had declined immediately under the ruse of a simple: ‘I live with you the whole year, I need my space and I need to breathe proper air that isn’t tainted with your disgusting deodorant.’ While the sentiment itself was true, he did not want to risk being found out with Neville, a known ‘blood traitor’. Not to mention the part of him being a guy. And a Gryffindor.

Blaise wasn’t really certain about which part would get him into more trouble and wasn’t willing to find out anytime soon.

Therefore, he had chosen to stay at his father’s old bachelor apartment in London, while his mother moved back to France, not wanting to be anywhere near the War that was brewing.

He had asked Neville to stay with him as soon as he was done cleaning the place, making it welcoming and a cosy retreat for them, but his adorable boyfriend couldn’t leave his despotic grandmother alone the entire time, especially not now that the waters were rough.

Always the selfless Gryffindor.

They had retorted then in meeting for random dates almost daily, which had been heavenly. Neville would show up at his apartment with Floo Powder, since he hadn’t taken his Apparition Examination yet, and then they’d just walk around muggle London, as if they had no care in the world. They still kept their guards up, checking every corner for danger that could be avoided, but they tried to ignore the Damocles Sword that hung above their necks.

Which had led them to the muggle theatre on more than one occasion. It had been a perfect idea: in the darkened room nobody questioned why they were holding hands or sharing the popcorn; and they wouldn’t risk anyone from the Wizarding World discovering them, those who would cause them troubles too high on their brooms to even look down at something as mundane as a muggle theatre.

They had also gone to muggle museums and parks and bookstores and restaurants, but Blaise loved the privacy the theatres offered, he loved the way Neville would get engrossed in the stories, he loved the way their hands would link together as suspense built on the screen, he loved to discuss the film afterwards and to dissect every aspect that he found interesting.

And he loved Neville, so it was all an added bonus.

There was a small theatre nearby his place that was quiet and seldom fraught and that allowed them to spend their evenings together, with the walk towards it full of the most random topic the pair could come up with and the walk back usually occupied with their thoughts and opinions about the film they had just watched. Neither of them had been too well versed in muggle culture to begin with, but it was very easy to pick up, especially with the way the family-owned theatre would sometimes project well-known and older productions, instead of only showing the recent ones.

It made the muggle spectacle even more fascinating, in Blaise’s eyes.

“It was kind of poetic, like a rite of passage and everything, but I understand what you mean,” Blaise said as they kept on walking, itching to grab Neville’s hand but holding himself back for the time being: they were still under the scrutiny of the public eye, after all. He’d have to wait until they turned two corners and were finally alone in the streets to finally place his hands on his boyfriend’s. With moderation, of course. “I feel like the story isn’t finished, especially with the way they had the doctor become an Agent. I understand that she had had her memory wiped more times than Lockhart, but she seemed fine! I don’t know, that ending left me pretty unsatisfied as well.”

His boyfriend huffed out a laugh at that and began to silently shake his head: “Lockhart got obliviated only once, by his own spell bouncing back from Ron’s broken wand. Compared to him, that doctor got her brain scrambled on the daily. But you’re right, it would have been so much better if she kept her job and was on the loop with the alien stuff.”

“Speaking of Lockhart, I wonder how’s he doing…” Blaise inquired, scratching his neck. It had been over three years since anyone had heard of the famous wizard and pretty much everyone had seemed to have forgotten about him. It was such a mystery for some, his sudden disappearance after his year teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Yet again, pretty much all the students at Hogwarts knew of the curse on that position, which made his absence plausible, but to have such a well renowned and celebrated man vanish into thin air after publishing a controversial book where he told the world he had no memory of who he had ever been, it was more than suspicious.

“At St. Mungo’s, giving out autographs Godric knows what for,” Neville answered his implicit question with nonchalance, “I see him sometimes when I go visit Mum and Dad.”

During the time they had been together, Neville had slowly begun to tell Blaise about what had happened to his family: how they were members of the original Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Dark Lord during the First War; how Dumbledore had suggested they hid as well as the Potters, because of some prophecy that would connect their children with the Dark Lord himself; how, after he was defeated and the Potters were killed, his parents were tracked down by four remaining Death Eaters and tortured to insanity; how they now stayed at St. Mungo’s, without a single memory of their son, completely out of their minds.

Blaise had always been cold and calculative and preferred to keep a rational outlook to the world, but when he saw, for the first time since that new information, Bellatrix Lestrange, at Malfoy Manor, free and enjoying life, his blood had begun to boil. He had never wanted to murder someone as much as he did in that moment, forcing himself to maintain a smile on his face and to pretend like he wasn’t ready to slaughter someone. When he came back home that night after dinner with Draco and his wretched family, he had spent an entire hour in the shower, scrubbing at his skin as if he could erase the memory of that wretched woman, drinking wine and telling them all about the Cruciatus Curse and how useful it could be to a dark wizard. He had kept that piece of information hidden from Neville, even though he had recounted pretty much the entire evening the following day, while his boyfriend attempted to calm him down from his homicidal plans, without truly knowing what had instigated them.

And he would never know, for Blaise would go to any lengths to avoid his sweet and loving boyfriend any pain. He had already suffered too much, in his short life.

“Really, he’s at St. Mungo’s?” Blaise asked, trying to distract himself from those dark thoughts. When he was with Neville, it almost felt as if Death Eaters didn’t exist, as if the Dark Lord hadn’t risen again, as if they weren’t on the verge of War. “I thought the whole ‘Who Am I?’ book was all a plan to disappear after he botched our second year without being bothered and now you tell me that Weasley sent him to the healers and basically deprived the Wizarding World of that perfectly blinding smile?” Neville playfully shoved him to the side with his shoulder, lingering a little in his touch as they kept on walking, just as restless as he was to be behind closed doors and to have their privacy and safety: “Ron didn’t send him anywhere and he got what he deserved,” he commented sheepishly, regarding Blaise with a blinding smile of his own.

And Blaise definitely preferred his boyfriend’s smile, so true and sincere and warm and just perfect, rather than anything their former fraud of a professor had ever shared.

“He spent the entire year pretending he could do shit and leaving me hanging from the ceiling, multiple times, and then, at the first sign that he needed to be a responsible adult, he tried to Obliviate Harry and Ron and leave Ginny down with the Basilisk. They got so lucky that Lockhart took Ron’s wand that still hadn’t been repaired, otherwise they’d all still be down there.” Then, as if in an afterthought, he added: “And don’t worry, he still got that smile,” his face reddened and visible even in the dimly lit street.

“No need being jealous of a man who isn’t even worth the mud under your shoes, Nev,” he teased, enjoying how his boyfriend would stammer embarrassed at being discovered.

“I’m not jealous!” he defended himself, but the crimson on his cheeks spoke of another story.

Blaise itched to cup his cheeks and to feel the warmth of his skin, but they were still in the middle of a street that was fairly illuminated and with people around. Therefore he did the next best thing: returned on a safer conversational path. “Oh, yeah, I remember about Weasley’s wand,” he said, laughing at the memory, “It bounced back that Slug-vomiting charm that was aimed at Draco. We had a blast that day, when he told us the story.” “Glad some of you enjoyed it, with your sick sense of humour,” Neville said, shuffling his hands inside of his pockets as they moved closer and closer to the corner that would lead them to the apartment, “poor Ron had to carry a bucket wherever he went for two days straight!”

Blaise couldn’t help himself: maybe it was the serious way he defended his friend, or maybe it was the image of a tiny second-year Weasley carrying around the entire castle a bucket to throw up slugs in, undoubtedly aided by an equally tiny Saint Potter with a bewildered tiny Grander following suit and reprimanding them both, but he just burst up laughing, his entire body shaking with it as he put his hands over his stomach, to try and regain his composure.

Yet, all thoughts of etiquette were damned as soon as he heard his boyfriend join in, his own laugh bright and pure and just perfect.

And the icing on their cake laid in the fact that they were alone, without anyone watching them, and they could just be themselves. Blaise didn’t hesitate a moment into grabbing Neville’s hand, enjoying the warmth that the Gryffindor radiated. They kept on laughing and holding hands as they walked back to the one place they could call theirs.

They all but ran the few meters that kept them vulnerable, staggering over the stairs as if they were drunk. It was a somehow good paragon, considering how inebriated they were with each other, and Blaise couldn’t stop thinking about how wonderful his life was in that moment. He could just be himself, around Neville, without having to worry about composure or secrets or manners.

When they closed the door behind their backs and stumbled inside of the apartment, they didn’t even open the electrical lights up, too engrossed in making up for the time they hadn’t been allowed to share, close and up in each other’s personal space.

Blaise would’ve been content in simply existing there, in the tiny apartment that once belonged to his late father, with his hands up on his boyfriend’s hair as he worked and worried over Neville’s exposed neck, slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt, watching him lean against a wall for support once his legs had given up completely. The outside world didn’t matter anymore, not to him, not when he had Neville’s hands on him. He’d be glad dying there, in his arms, unbothered by the imminent war, by his friends, by their duties.

But reality had to crash down on them at some point.

Neville removed his mouth from his, panting and with his eyes shut, savouring for one more moment their closeness. Blaise studied his face from the short distance, as he always loved doing, recognising his boyfriend’s reluctance to separate. Yet, his duty would win, as it always did, and he would take a step back, trying to recompose himself and running a hand through his hair.

It was long due a haircut, by now, but Blaise was an egoist and wanted the length to stay for a little longer. Besides, when September came, his grandmother would definitely cut it, even against Neville’s will. And Blaise would take whatever he could, when it came to going against Augusta Longbottom.

He hadn’t even met the woman yet and he had already accepted defeat, if it meant keeping Neville in his life. And, while he did not harbour any love for the witch, he was most certain he could keep an amicable front with her, at least, all for Neville’s sake.

That didn’t mean, though, that he didn’t try to stray her grandson into a different path than the one she wanted, at every corner: “Can’t you stay this once?” he asked in a low and sultry voice, fully conscious of what that tone did to his perfect Gryffindor boyfriend, refusing to take a step back and let a single centimetre separate the two of them.

He watched as Neville slowly opened his eyes in the dim light that was filtered by the window from the empty street below. He watched as his throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to regain his breathing. He watched, powerless, as Neville slipped them over, switching their positions, effectively trapping him against the wall in his arms.

The Gryffindor bent down a little and placed the most chaste and sweet and anticlimactic kiss on Blaise’s lips, driving the Slytherin mad with want and desire, unable to do anything other than comply.

“You know I can’t, flower,” he murmured directly against Blaise’s lips, his own stretching in a wicked smile. Neville Longbottom knew exactly which buttons to press and when to use them all against him: Blaise couldn’t help the shiver that ran over his back at that simple word, still not used to the way the simple pet name made his toes curl and his heart beat out of his chest, nor could he help the sound of appreciation that came out of his throat, and that transformed immediately into one of disappointment as soon as his boyfriend untangled himself from him.

He tried to make some air reach his brain, when Neville stepped back from him once again, leaving him space to breathe and recollect himself while still being infuriatingly close, neither of them wanting to truly part despite their obligations.

“Yes, I unfortunately do…” he answered, still leaning against the wall. He ran his right thumb over his lips, enjoying the way the Gryffindor’s body stiffened at the sight as his eyes tracked the movement. He sometimes still couldn’t believe his luck, especially when Neville looked at him like that, as if he needed all of his strength just to hold back.

Most of the time, Blaise wished he didn’t, yet the knowledge that he was the one to make the apparently timid, placid Schlongbottom, as his friends still believed he was, lose his mind completely was intoxicating. And he lived for those moments and hours when Neville would let go of his composure fully, causing Blaise to follow suit without a single complaint. Because he couldn’t be the farthest from timid or placid, but only he saw that side of him, only he got to enjoy that part of his sweet and amazing boyfriend.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” Blaise asked almost out of the blue, conscious already of the reply, but wanting to steal some more time alone with the Gryffindor.

He didn’t particularly care that he was abiding by the stereotype that Slytherins were manipulating and tempting, not when Neville would shoot him a blinding but cocky smile as he fired back: “Already missing me?”

“Always.”

“I told you, I’m going to help Luna find a dress for the wedding and Grandma’s organised that family gathering to celebrate my 17th…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck, to try to make his blushing less noticeable. Unfortunately for him, in doing so, he had involuntarily made his shirt rise a little, showing off the skin beneath, and Blaise was not going to let such an opportunity pass: he moved closer and snug his arms around his boyfriend’s midriff, planting his hands in the small of his back. “Remind me again why I can’t crash her party and steal you away?” he asked casually, next to his ear, before he began to worry the earlobe with his teeth.

Neville seemed to be at a loss for words under Blaise’s ministrations, which was entirely his goal, but he eventually did manage to speak again: “Because she doesn’t know about us, since if she did we’ll never hear the end of it ‘cause we were keeping this a secret, and you are a Slytherin and I am a Gryffindor, and because she is not allowing me to invite any friends,” he said, his voice firm and unfaltering, despite the way his hands were holding Blaise close to him, silently begging to keep up with his work.

Not that he was planning to stop anytime soon. Still, some words at the back of his throat itched to be said: “I have a few words I’d like to tell your grandmother and none of them are kind,” Blaise claimed, staring right into Neville’s eyes and wondering how such a stern woman could raise such a loving man. While it was true that she had laid off his back for the time being, she had doubled down on her questions about Neville’s private life: the poor Gryffindor had to retort to lying simply to avoid her finding out about their relationship. It was a good thing that he had quite a vast number of friends and that said friends didn’t interact with his grandmother, because, based on Blaise’s very own experience with pureblood families, everyone knew everything, especially when ‘keeping the lines pure’ was involved and everyone turned out to be related.

For instance, Neville’s white lie for that day’s activity was very simple: “I’m going to play Quidditch with my roommates and we’ll have dinner afterwards.”

When Neville had told him as much, Blaise had exploded into laughter and disbelief. Was it believable for his boyfriend to play Quidditch? Absolutely not, but he shared a dormitory with Weasley, Thomas and Saint Potter, therefore he played by proxy. It would have equally been absurd for his grandmother to and not to believe him, which was what made the lie incredibly clever.

Blaise shook his head as he silently snickered at the fresh memory, still hesitant to remove his hands from his boyfriend’s body: “Anyway, who’s getting married now that we’re almost on the brink of war?” he inquired, truly curious. A wedding in the Wizarding World was a very public event, especially when pureblood families were involved, which they must have been, if Lovegood was invited.

All of his friends still kept on calling her Loony, but he had stopped using that epithet, since he had begun to consider her a friend as well, thanks to their mutual connection to Neville. And she was an excellent friend, both to him and his boyfriend, kind and compassionate and considerate.

He had already begun to wonder about who the couple must have been, considering no one in his circles had mentioned anything, when Neville spoke, making him understand exactly why nobody amongst the purebloods he spent his time around had even known or cared about such a thing: “Bill Weasley, Ron’s eldest brother, and Fleur Delacour.”

“The Triwizard Champion? How did they even meet?” he inquired, now even more curious. He had seen the eldest Weasley only once, at Gringotts, and it was in that moment that he first began to question whether or not he was straight. And, to pair that with Beauxbatons’ champion, well… That must have been a hell of a good looking couple!

“I don’t know,” Neville said, leaning his head against Blaise’s shoulder and looking at him with a soft smile through his eyelashes, “but they’re super cute together, at least that’s what Ginny told me.” “And you haven’t been invited?” His boyfriend shrugged at that, Blaise knew he did not particularly care about mundane events and being into the public eye: “No, from what Ginny told me it’s not going to be that big of a ceremony. Only family, close friends of the couple, and neighbours. Which is why Luna’s going, as well as to spend time with Ginny.”

“That’s a shame you won’t be there,” he commented, running for the umpteenth time that eventing his hands through Neville’s hair, as the other wizard stayed there, merely enjoying his ministration while he tried not to fall asleep. It had happened already once, right before he had to leave, and that incident had prompted his grandmother into a speech about the right of an adolescent Gryffindor to a little bit of rule-breaking. “I bet you would’ve looked dashing in a suit.”

“Jealous, darling? You know you could always look at me in a suit, if you’d just let me borrow one…” “Not a chance, caro. Mine are all tailored to perfection for my body,” he said playfully, moving his head to the side to place a small kiss on Neville’s nose, causing the other wizard to blush and giggle, “Besides, I prefer seeing you without a single stitch.” “Blaise! You can’t just say shit like that!” his boyfriend spluttered, trying to get away from his words as if they had just tickled him. He loved the way Neville would get all cute and embarrassed. His usual tell was the blush that started on his cheeks and spread throughout his body, and that was incredibly adorable. Blaise had tried to see just how farther the colour could spread, but he had been distracted in his path, somehow. “Why not? No one is listening and it’s true!” he had begun to retort, only to be shut up quickly as two lips pressed against his own, soft yet insistent, gentle yet commanding. One thing had to be said about Neville Longbottom and that was how efficient he was at quieting him with a single gesture, whether with a kiss or by simply occupying his mind with the little things he always did, essentially being himself, unfiltered.

It took them less time than usual to resurface for once, mainly because Blaise still wanted to know more about the hot new wizarding couple that could definitely take over the world, if the Dark Lord wouldn’t win.

He desperately prayed he wouldn’t, for countless different reasons.

“When is this marvellous event?” he asked, still refusing to put a single millimetre of space in between them.

“In three days, on the first. Luna’s absolutely on her last chance, looking for the perfect dress that won’t attire Wrackspurts,” he commented, shaking his head. Something inside of Blaise told him that it wasn’t the first nor the second time they went out shopping and, if Lovegood was anything like Pansy, it must have not been an easy task chaperoning. Pansy Parkinson could try on an entire street of boutiques, buy every single item of her size, and still lament she had nothing to wear.

“Why? Wanna meet up? I thought we were going for lunch on the second,” Neville added, pulling him out of the horror of the memory of the first time that witch had discovered French Haute Couture: a tornado would’ve left behind less damage.

“Yeah, I’ve been invited to Draco’s for dinner on the first, with all the others…” he trailed off, remembering exactly what had been discussed the previous night amongst the Death Eaters. It wasn’t unusual for Draco and Theo to invite him over, especially since they both believed he was fully on the Dark Lord’s side but was merely acting precious, never truly giving in. And he couldn’t deny an invitation, otherwise it would have looked suspicious. After all, his friends knew that he was staying all alone in London, away from his family, and that he wasn’t fooling around with anyone, which, in their eyes, meant he had a lot of free time.

Free time that they tried to occupy, not wanting to leave him completely alone. Thankfully, they weren’t overbearing, having him over every couple of days or so, respecting his privacy, but whenever an invitation came, he had to follow through.

Now, he couldn’t exactly tell his friends: “No, I’ll pass on spending time with you, I’m going to go watch muggle entertainment with my Gryffindor boyfriend,” could he?

Luckily for his relationship, though, the invites were rather old fashioned, called days prior, and that left him and Neville plenty of time to organize. The only person in their friend group that liked to show up uninvited or unannounced by an owl was Pansy, but she would’ve stayed in Spain until the mid of August, which meant Blaise could breathe a little without having to worry about her finding out his secret. Draco and Theo were way too busy in their official Death Eater work to even want to hang out with him in the mornings and afternoons anyway.

“What is it, B?” Neville asked, undoubtedly feeling the way his shoulders had tensed from up close. His hold on Blaise became slightly tighter, grounding and real, while still remaining gentle, letting him know that they were alright and, no matter what happened, they’d be okay.

Closing his eyes and leaning against his boyfriend’s shoulder, he began to recount what he had eavesdropped: “When I was at Theo’s last night, his father and his uncle were talking about something that went bad for them the day before, so on the 27th, and how the Dark Lord was more than displeased. All I got were hushed words about a failed kidnapping, I believe, and how the Dark Lord had completely exploded against his followers in anger, even though he had no idea who to even blame and punish. But then his father moved onto a different topic and said that they’d have their victory in a couple of days anyway, that they needed to wait, that they couldn’t lose, that August would be their month of victory. But he didn’t explain what exactly he had meant, without a doubt to keep us ‘children’ in the dark. I couldn’t really understand much, Crabbe had gone off about some bullshit of his and they were speaking in a low voice on the opposite side of the table, but the intent was clear. Something big is about to happen.” “Blaise…”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but they don’t fully trust anyone who doesn’t have the Mark. Besides, they consider us children, even Draco doesn’t know much and he let the bloody Death Eaters into Hogwarts! They know he’s loyal, or at least think so, ‘cause he was at some meetings with the Dark Lord himself. Yet they still don’t tell us shit. Not even to Theo, who’s more of a fanatic than a follower. And I am not going to taint my arm with that disgusting thing anytime soon, even if that would help. But it’s so frustrating and…” he continued, still refusing to open his eyes: he knew he should’ve told that story to Neville earlier, but he had got distracted by their date; he knew he should’ve contacted Professor McGonagall, warning her about what was going on and whose side he was on, but he was terrified he’d be intercepted somehow; he knew he was a terrible spy and that his motive was entirely egotistical, fuelled only by his will to keep Neville safe, and he couldn’t do anything about any of that.

War was coming and Blaise Zabini was powerless against it, unable to do anything concrete.

It wasn’t until he felt warm lips on his forehead and felt warm hands on either side of his face, gently holding him together, that he stopped his rambling. He usually wasn’t like this, letting his mind wander and his mouth running to catch up, at least not in front of other people, because it could potentially be dangerous and could bring unwanted questions. “Rule number eighteen: do not blabber, unless you intend to become a thespian and need practice for monologues,” his mother always said and he preferred to maintain a decent amount of control over the words that came out of him, never going into a rampage, unlike Draco did whenever he messed up his hair, yet never appearing bothered by the simple act of speaking, unlike Theo, who favoured monosyllabic replies to everything. His was always a perfect balance, studied to the last detail to make his speeches and his sentences reach the point and the mind of those who lent him their ears.

Rule number nineteen was: “do not fall in love with a thespian unless they’re a muggle actor from Hollywood,” yet Blaise knew he wouldn’t use that rule. Not anymore and hopefully not ever.

Still, of course, as it had become a routine in his life, everything about him became erratic and unpredictable when he was with Neville. He had found himself digress many times and he was always quite shocked when he realised how far he had gone from his initial path, much to his boyfriend’s delight and amusement. “I like seeing you ruffled,” he had admitted once, earning a copy of ‘Advanced Potion Making’ chucked at his head as they both laughed, with Blaise trying to hide his blushing cheeks.

“Blaise, my love, calm down,” Neville whispered softly against his forehead, hugging him closer and managing to reassure him without wearing him down with his own emotions, “I’m sure everything will be fine. The Order probably knows already that something’s about to happen. Besides, McGonagall’s in there as well, she’s not going to let anything happen, bad or not. Everything will be alright and I’ll come here on the second just like we planned to. You gotta trust me.”

He took a deep, steadying breath as he tried to ground himself back again. Neville’s presence helped greatly, as he had already told the other wizard countless times. “I trust you, more than anyone else,” he admitted, staring straight into his brown eyes as if they could hold all of the Universe’s answers, “But promise you won’t jump headfirst if something happens.” “Of course, I’ll stay home with Grandma as much as I can, when I don’t have my powerful Slytherin around to protect me. Besides, I’m pretty sure You Know Who will stay out of her path, she’s almost as scary as McGonagall!” Neville joked, causing Blaise to shake his head: Gryffindor antics were hard to knock off, it seemed. And, even if he was already wildly intimidated by Augusta Longbottom and she might make the Dark Lord reconsider his career path with her umbrella and her hats, theirs was not a topic to take lightly. “Neville, I’m serious.” “I know.”

Blaise scoffed at that and removed himself from their embrace, allowing space in between their bodies to better convey his message: “I know I can’t make you promise me you’ll stay put, ‘cause you won’t. But can you swear to me that you won’t risk your life recklessly?” he asked, unbothered if some of his desperation seeped into his voice. He knew he could let his walls down around his boyfriend, after all. “You mean like a Gryffindor,” came immediately the reply as Neville crossed his arms over his chest, now that he had the space to do so. “Nev…” “Only if you swear on Slytherin himself that as soon as shit starts to go down, you’ll get to safety,” he intercepted him, stopping Blaise before he could go on another tangent about House Values, “I need to know you’ll be careful.” Blaise nodded at that, he could understand the sentiment: of course his boyfriend would want him safe. But times were darkening by the hour and soon neither of them would probably know what safety even meant.

“Let’s make a deal:” he suggested, already knowing that Neville would agree to his plans, even if they were half-assed ideas about sneaking inside of a muggle library just to study and recreate the ambience of Hogwarts’ own, “usually I’m back from Draco’s around midnight. If nothing happens, we’ll just see each other in the morning after, as we planned. But if the world ends, meet me here at midnight. Sneak past your grandmother or stun her, since you won’t have to worry about the Trace by then. But just, come here, please.”

“The world’s not going to end, my love. Not on my watch,” Neville said, holding once again both of his hands in his and placing a soft kiss on his thumbs.

With the Gryffindor, it was all about the soft and subtle touches, the small moments. Blaise had dived into their relationship wanting to keep it hidden to avoid uproar by the entire school, yet he had been surprised when Neville hadn’t complained about their subtlety; he had almost expected the dorky plant-head to be the most PDA-indulging being in their entire school and it had been unexpected, yet not unwelcomed, his quiet way of giving affection, even when they were all alone and safe.

“Thank you, my mighty Gryffindor,” he replied with a flourish, pondering the pros and cons of bowing. On one hand, he’d keep up his theatrics that seemed to amuse Neville to no end, but on the other, he’d have to let go of his boyfriend’s hands, which was something he wasn’t willing to do. Neville, as always, resolved his qualm without a second thought: he playfully shoved Blaise away with a push from his hands, before pulling him back closer and making him crash against his torso. “Besides, it’s not like we’re not going to see each other before then! What did you say we would do again…?” Blaise saw right through his feeble attempt at distraction immediately: “Nope, I’m not going to tell you, it’s a surprise!” he exclaimed, placing a placating kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. He had already planned the entirety of their date since he found out the plant-head wouldn’t be free on his birthday: they’d start the day by having lunch at a Chinese restaurant Neville had particularly enjoyed and then they’d move to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens, allowing for them to spend the entire afternoon and evening there, since he already knew very well that his boyfriend would get distracted with every single leaf. And Blaise loved when Neville got side-tracked to talk about plants, even if he didn’t care about the ‘green things’ himself, so it would be a win-win. “Please, B, you know I don’t really like surprises!” he lamented, but Blaise was adamant on his position. “Mio caro, you’ll have to suffer then.” “You’re so mean to me.” Blaise kissed the tip of his nose once more, giggling at the way it involuntarily twitched under his lips: “Yeah, but you love me nevertheless.” What followed was a bad series of sloppy kisses and giggles shared between them as they walked in tandem next to the fireplace, miraculously avoiding tripping over furniture. They knew it was time for Neville to leave, but they were both incredibly reluctant to let go.

“Goodnight, then,” Blaise said, attempting without any real intent to put some space in between them, and he was almost immediately followed by Neville’s own: “Goodnight,” spoken directly against his lips as he removed his hands from around the Gryffindor’s torso, giving a little push to create some distance in between them. “I love you,” Neville sing-sang as he grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, waiting for Blaise’s reply before disappearing into the Network. “I love you too, but go before your grandmother decides to murder me for keeping her grandson away from home all the time!”

And with that, Neville Longbottom had gone back home, leaving Blaise alone in the quiet apartment, his laugh still ringing clearly in his ears against the deafening silence. The place always seemed to lose its warmth as soon as his boyfriend left and so he shrugged on a jumper he had ‘borrowed’ from the Gryffindor, without his knowledge and without any real intent on giving it back.

He was not as naïve as Neville was sometimes, still believing that everything would be alright in spite of all the signs pointing to Hell, but he knew that they would be together even if the world did fall off its axis, and that thought warmed him more than any fire could.

And with that, plus the jumper, he tried to fall asleep, ignoring the way his heart pounded at the uncertainty of his future.

But, of one thing only he was certain: he’d stay by Neville’s side and he’d stay at his, no matter what.

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potassium-pilot · 3 years

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Prompt 28: Bow

“So remind me why we’re doing this, if you’d be so kind”, Dia asked.

“You may be an all-powerful warrior with a spellbook in hand, but imagine the utility if you learned something new. Where better to learn than a training ground such as Camp Dragonhead?” Haurchefant reminded her kindly as requested.

“I guess. I don’t necessarily have anything better to do thanks to the Braves, now do I?”

“I hope this might prove sufficiently entertaining during your stay. Here is your weapon.” Haurchefant removed an oaken bow from the wall mount as well as a quiver filled with arrows.

“A bow?”

“Aye. Is aught amiss?” Haurchefant tilted his head at her comment.

“Well, no, I guess…I would have thought you’d recommend something a bit more, er, close combat than that.

“A knight cannot be content with simply one mode of combat. A quick marksman can have just the same impact as the mightiest of swords with the right timing.”

“Yeah, but the sword looks cooler.”

He sighed. “Aesthetics aside, I figured this would be an easier transition. Instead of slinging spells, you would sling arrows.”

“I guess. The bow is definitely a different medium though- easier to aim my hands than this.”

“Who knows? Mayhap you’ll find yourself enjoying it more than you think.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll try anything once.”

“Attagirl! Now then, here is where you’ll stand.” Haurchefant lead her to a marker about twenty fulms away from a target. “Allow me to give you an example of proper bow handling.” He grabbed his own bow and quiver and prepared at a target next to hers.

“All right, first thing’s first, depending on your dominant hand- based off of what I’ve seen, you appear to be right-handed- you need to place one leg back and another to the front. As a right-handed woman, keep your right leg to the back for support…” Dia listened as he explained form for proper bow handling for about two minutes.

“….and last, but certainly not least, keep your eye on the target. If you’re aligned with your bow, you will hit your mark.” Finally, he demonstrated everything he said in one shot. Carefully, he drew back the bowstring, and fired at the blue and silver target in front of him. It flew skillfully towards the bullseye and landed perfectly, as if he told the arrow to simply go there. “Does this make sense, my friend?”

“I…think so. I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Indeed. Show me what you’ve learned.”

The answer was rather little. She fumbled with the quiver for a moment, failing to get an arrow since she failed to attach the quiver to her person properly. She spun in circles a few times as if she had a mi’qote tail she wanted to catch, but she did manage to get one.

“Got it! Now you said something about a nock”, she mumbled, looking for a slice of metal on the string as he pointed out. “Ah-ha!” she exclaimed quietly as she located it and placed the feathers against it. Slowly, she pulled back the bowstring, but found she couldn’t get it very far back, not to mention her slipping grip on the arrow.

Out of nowhere, Dia felt her arms be lifted upward gently. “Don’t let your elbows fall back into your sides or you’ll never get very far”, he spoke softly into her ear in a low tone. He slid his hands up her arm to her hand and corrected the positioning of the arrow, pulling it slightly backward so she didn’t grip the feathers. “Remember, slightly behind the feathers”, he instructed in the same tone.

Please don’t let go of me, she thought to herself, hoping to every god she could think of that he couldn’t tell how she drank up his warmth, that hot breath against her neck, the way he whispered to her just right, and how it made her heart race.

It only made things worse when he gently took her chin and tilted her head towards the front of her, pressing against his own cheek as he put his face parallel to hers.

“Eyes on the target”, he said just as low before turning his head to her ear, and whispering “Fire.”

She didn’t even register her own grip releasing. She just focused on her racing pulse and the shiver being sent down her spine at his whisper.

“Well done!” he exclaimed aloud, snapping Dia out of whatever the hells that was, and bringing her attention to the target. Her arrow pierced through the edge of the circle near the bottom.

“Uh…I-I didn’t even hit the bullseye.”

“‘Tis your first time, my friend. Many a fresh recruit have sent their arrows flying through our windows, so I consider this a rousing success for your first try!”

Now that he said it, it was rather nice to her that he could see a miss in such a way. To that end, she intended to try again. “Hey, so uh, you might want to help me try that again, Haurchefant. Maybe I’ll hit the bullseye this time with your help”, she suggested meekly.

“Nonsense! You’ll never learn with me hanging over your shoulder. Now then, use what you’ve learned, my friend.”

Dammit, she cursed in her head.

Dia picked up what he led her to do pretty quick, and went through the motions: straight arm, just past the feathers, eyes on the target. She waited a few moments as she felt herself practically fighting the bowstring, but the stage was set.

That is, until she took her eyes away from the target to look at Haurchefant, who seemed to stare her down as well, but why?

She would have thought about it more had she not just grazed his arm with an arrow.

“Oh, Twelve help me!” Dia exclaimed as she threw the bow to the ground to run to his side.

“I’m all right, I’m all right”, he tried to reassure her, but kept his arm conveniently covered. She pulled it away from the wound with great force as he attempted to keep the wound out of her sight. “Gah! I’m so sorry, Haurchefant!” she apologized as she began her ministrations on his arrow wound. “I’m an idiot; I got distracted by something at the last second and that arrow just flew in the exact direction I didn’t want it to go.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t; not when she was right there. The way the aether flowed from her into him electrified his senses. Her firm grip on his arms was exactly what he needed. The way she glistened with sweat in such a frozen wasteland; in this moment, she seemed rather…splendid.

“There. Are you all right?” she asked Haurchefant worriedly.

Halone help him, he needed out of there before he did something he’d regret.

“Oh, uh, yes, I’m fine now, thank you”, he answered rapidly and nervously, “Keep, uh, keep practicing with that bow. I just remembered that I have some business-like…business to attend to in my-my office. Excellent work! Keep it up!” He shot out of the shooting range as fast as he could and entered his office with all haste.

Dia, you fucking idiot, you scared him away. Focus! she berated herself in her head. She picked up the bow one last time, doing exactly as she was instructed, and fired the arrow. It hit the wood that held up the target. “Fuck!” she whispered loudly.

********

The evening sun hanged in the horizon of Ishgard. The golden glow of twilight still shone enough light that the garden she managed to keep alive in the courtyard behind Borel Manor could remain visible. She tended to her peppers and kidragora quietly in spite of the cold. None could make a master botanist stop doing botany, climate be damned.

Once weeds were pruned enough, fertilizer was laid down properly, and covers were applied to keep her labor of love warm through the night, she stepped away. Her garden was located in a different spot of the courtyard, separated by a wall, most likely at the former countess’s request. On that other side of the wall was a small area used to practice combat. Neither her nor Aymeric used the other side all that often; Dia had a proper setup for practicing gunbreaker maneuvers with Thancred back in Mor Dhona, while Aymeric preferred to use the mostly defunct Whitebrim front for his training. With that in mind, she was slightly curious about it, and decided to pay it a visit.

Upon reaching the other side, she took a quick look around. It was painfully obvious how unused everything was considering the frozen state of all the equipment. That said, there was one particular item that didn’t seem to share the same level of disrepair: a dark oak bow, complete with metal arrows in a quiver next to it.

It still hurt. After everything she’d seen and done, after everyone she ever met, after all the sacrifices she’d seen, it still hurt. But still, she always remembered how a smile better suited a hero. Dia picked it up off the wall, alongside a quiver that hung next to it, and stood at the line about 30 fulms behind the target.

The quiver was on correctly this time, making it much easier to pick one out of the collection. She found the nock easily, seeming to have been prepared already, and placed the arrow just above the feather. She placed her right leg back, and lifted the bow, ready to aim. “Arms up”, she whispered as she lifted her arms. “Eyes on the target”, she whispered as she focused on the target.

She could still hear him whisper, “Fire”.

In a moment, she let go of the arrow, and felt a small sting of disappointment as she just missed her mark. It landed on the right between the edge of the target and the bullseye. “Dammit”, she whispered.

“Fine form.”

She turned her head to see Aymeric at the doorway, clearly amused by her attempt. “Come to laugh at your girlfriend and her piss-poor aim?” she snarked, still disappointed in her efforts.

“I would never. Your aim is fine, my dear. That in mind, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lack confidence in something before.”

“You should have met me when I first started adventuring. You’d be floored by how little confidence I’m capable of having.”

He smiled and laughed lightly. Aymeric walked towards her and said, “You look rather dashing with my old bow.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“Naught to apologize for, my love. Consider it our bow.” He led her to lift up the bow again. “Your form is quite good, but don’t waver.” He held onto her bow arm to still her arm, and tilted her chin upward, keeping his hand in place. “Align yourself with the bow. Remember, it follows your lead, and you are a natural leader.” She kept her eye on the center of the target.

“Fire”, he ordered in a low tone.

Dia released her grip, and witnessed the glory of her arrow hitting the very center of the bullseye.

She squealed in excitement and hopped in place like a child, making Aymeric laugh in a mixture of pride and amusement. “Congratulations!”

She pounced him and kissed him in her jubilee, and he returned it happily. After a few seconds of enjoyment, she released and told him coyly, “Thank you for being such a great teacher.”

“Where would I be without my star pupil?”

She grinned and returned to kissing him with more passion behind her efforts than the first time, the both of them soaking in each other’s energy and warmth as the evening began to wane.

Thank you too, Haurchefant. I’ll carry your guidance with me always.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #haurchefant/wol #aymeric/wol #haurchefant greystone #aymeric de borel #female wol #this is the stupidest i’ve ever written #i’m looking forward to writing stupider #just spritz those two with cold water and get them laid and they act normal #ffxiv fanfiction #fanfiction

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hollenka99 · 3 years

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A God Walks Into a Temple

Summary: The Blood God is someone to be feared as much as revered. So that is why he is going to raise this baby he just met to be a soldier, definitely not for any other reason. Prologue of Blood and Feathers.

If you were to research the cultural history of piglins, perhaps one of the most prominent figures you will encounter is the Blood God. This deity can be found mentioned as far back as their records go. He likely predates any ancient literature they have. There are disputes, as with anything from that far back in history, as to his origins or his true role. Some say he is simply a war god for a race that easily become hostile. Others argue he is Death personified while a handful speculate he is specifically the patron of those who die bloody. Whatever attributes he is labelled as, be it war, bloodshed, death, chaos or vengeance, it is clear the Blood God is not an individual to be messed with. A significant piglin settlement is rarely devoid of some sort of effigy pertaining to their god, especially the ruins of old cities. A common sight is a golden statue portraying a grand piglin dressed in armour and armed with a sword, typically in a stance suggesting he is rallying his forces to fight and potentially fall in his name. The only method known to kill the Blood God is causing him fall in battle. Even then he will not be quashed for long. Within weeks, he will be reborn amongst his piglin brethren. His bloodthirsty nature will reveal itself before too long and his years of harsh yet necessary training will begin so he may lead his followers into battle once more. The last time the Blood God was defeated was centuries ago. The days of his youth in this life are faded memories. The blood that he has witnessed with these eyes alone has been enough to replace vast bodies of water. He has admired each tribute to him, dilapidated and well maintained alike, countless times. He's not even sure of the quantity that have been sacrificed in his name by this point. Functional immortality can get dull, repetitive even, with enough time. So perhaps it’s a good thing he finds himself passing an avian settlement that night. The valley is populated by a small city. The architecture is tall, practically dominated by skyscrapers. There is a temple a fair distance away at another point of the rim surrounding the place. In the darkness, he can just about make out a series of stairs leading up to it, all well lit by lamps. The local area up here is full of farmland. However, it would seem the year's harvest has been collected by now. A small gathering exit the temple. They disband with some flying home and others ushering themselves down the stairs reminiscent of defeated troops. That is the least of his concerns though, especially given his divine visitor who lands beside him with a swoop. "Well well well, this is a rare sight. Bit far from the Nether, aren't you, Blood God?" "Perhaps. And you are? Sky goddess undoubtedly but which one? There are a few of you." She gives him a thoughtful smile. From her hair, she retrieves a yellow flower which she proceeds to twirl within her fingers for a moment. "Celandine. Perhaps you are more familiar with my mother, Aderyn, the Mother of Birds." "Sure. You're all the same anyway." "Oh, is that so?" She laughs in mock offense. "Then I suppose all piglins and Netherworlders are of the same breed too." He grunts in acknowledgement that she has spoken but gives her words no further attention. Instead, he gestures towards the temple and asks "What's going on down there, some ritual?" "Ah." She gazes in the same direction as him. "Now that would be the Offering of Hatchlings. They do this every year. As you may or may not have noticed, the wind have been growing colder recently. They've gathered the year's harvest and it is time for them to temporarily migrate to a warmer climate. But, of course, they want us to ensure their journey is a successfully safe one. For whatever reason, they've convinced themselves the way to sweeten the deal is to leave two of their children that were born in the past 12 months behind for us along with other gifts. Come, I'll show you if you'd like." "Well, I got nothing better to do. Lead the way." The interior wasn't anything significant. White walls surrounded them without a ceiling. What did surprise the Blood God, however, was how there was more room to walk around than the view from outside gave the impression of. That said, the centrepiece of the room is, by far, the large sculpture that resembled a nest, filled with cushioning. Surrounding it are gifts like samples of freshly yielded crops, gems and gold ingots. Situated on top are two winged infants in white gowns that had been abandoned as part of the ritual. On the left was a girl with hair as dark as her complexion and light purple feathers that may grow richer in tone as she ages. She bawls from fresh abandonment but the empty air is yet to pay her any notice. Then to the right was her companion who was seemingly slightly older and far calmer. The boy stares up at him with blue eyes that match the gradient of his wings. He does not cry or murmur despite the ceremonial desertion of his parents or the oversized figure (even by piglin brute standards) of a god looming over him. The infant... even breaks into a tiny smile at him. "They just leave them out here? Surely there must be some parents that get attached to their child." "Oh, of course, all the time. Some see it as a great honour but others do view it as a great loss, yes." She sighs. "I have made it my vocation to watch over their community and ensure these chosen children are kept safe. I even bless them with longevity so that they may endure far into old age. There is another town far from here where I send them. There's always someone who is willing to raise a new arrival." "I see." He does not know nor understand why the notion appears in his mind. He has no reason to care about some dumb baby, especially not one who isn't even remotely the same species as him. Caring about living things isn't on brand for him either. Nah, he was more the type to make things stop living, not ensure their survival. Although... he could use this as an opportunity to raise a warrior whose skills were on par with his and those of his greatest recruits. Maybe if this experiment produces successful results, he will consider home growing armies' worth of overworlder children. Oh, who is he kidding? He simply wants a change of pace, a new experience. As far as he can recall across the spans of all his lives, he has rarely troubled himself with trivial distractions such as a family or passing his knowledge based of vast years of experience to the next generation. Who says he can't break that pattern? "What if I took this one with me, the boy?" She raises an scrutinising eyebrow. "Are you sure?" "I have lived eons. How difficult can one child be to maintain?" The incredulous look towards him persists before laughter unfurls from her mouth. She comments something about how he is setting himself up for more than a few surprises. It bears no consequence since she complies with his request regardless. As Celandine advises him on the basics like how to hold the boy and gods above, no, you cannot feed him cow's milk as to compensate for a lack of his mother's own. Shortly before the pair depart for their new life together, he is told the child's name is Phillip. He see no reason to change it.

#mcyt #dream smp #technoblade #philza #kidza #my writing #blood and feathers

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sushiburritonoms · 3 years

Note

DinLuke #38 if you're still doing these prompts! :D Been really enjoying reading these, haha

Look my darling @lulollymint, I tried so so so hard to write a normal cop story, but I kept getting stuck. So I hope you don't mind that this goes incredibly off prompt and probably isn't what you were expecting. I don't even know what genre or motif I was working with, its just mashing things together for the lols. I hope its ok!

Also warning, there was a lot of F-bombs in this one, to fit the AU Din I was going for. Sorry?

AU Fic List

38.cop/person getting a speeding ticket au

The moment Din saw the familiar white GT-86 fly by him, not even trying to slow down this time, he groaned and flipped on his lights with more force than necessary. “Damnit, not again.”

Was there even a point to this? Everytime he handed this driver a ticket, it mysteriously disappeared in the system, thanks to his all powerful Mother. Christ, Din hated this guy. He was tempted to just turn around and find another place to patrol. But no. One day the driver could kill someone at those speeds and anyways it was the principal of the thing, even if this rich asshole would never face consequences of his actions. It was an unjust world but Din was forced to live in it, for Grogu’s sake.

Usually when they did this song and dance, the GT obediently pulled over to the side of the road as soon as it caught sight of him. This time it took several minutes, until Din was close to calling for backup. At least they were on a rural road and there wasn’t any other traffic heading out of town at this time of day. After several tense minutes the GT finally swung to the side of the road in a sharp, sudden movement. It wasn’t the most graceful stop he’d seen from the man, but Din was too pissed to care.

“Fuck.” Din growled as he slammed his driver side door shut. Maybe he should drag him to jail this time, let him stew in a cell for a few hours before his mommy came and got him this time.

“Again, Skywalker?!”” he hissed as he made it to the GT’s front window. It was already rolled down and waiting for him. “Third time this...month…”

The words died in his mouth the moment he caught sight of the bane of his existence. Skywalker looked up at him, one eye almost completely black and swollen shut, his face covered in scratches that were still slowly oozing blood. He had his left hand on his wheel but his right hand was just gone--his arm ending at the wrist. How was he even changing gears in that car?!

“Hey Officer Djarin,�� Skywalker rasped. “This really isn’t a good time, can we--” he gave a wet cough, “--do this, l-later?”

“Jesus Christ!” Din put his hand through the open window and popped the door. “What the hell happened to you!” He pulled it open and immediately reached over to shut the engine off. Skywalker tried to bat his hand away from the ignition but Din easily dodged him.

“‘No don’t,” Skywalker groaned. “Please don’t--I have--have to keep going--”

“The only place you’re going is a hospital,” Din said grimly as he caught sight of Skywalker’s bloody blue checkered shirt. Had the pretty boy been in a bar fight? At...2pm on a thursday? Din sighed as he reached for his radio. “Darjin. I have a 105, requesting a rig to South Socorro, next to Mumble’s Turnaround.”

“No hospital!” Skywalker gasped, shouting over dispatch’s reply. “No, please, you don’t understand, this is the only way. I have to leave town--”

Fuck. It had finally happened. The pretty boy must have done a hit and run. Din craned his neck to look at the front of the car. “Who did you hit, Luke?”

“Nobody,” Luke rasped. “Please, you have to let me go. You will let me go.” The young idiot tried to raise his only hand and wave it at Din’s face and the moron was lucky that Din wasn’t as trigger happy as the rest of his hillbilly squad. Din grabbed his hand and frowned.

“Christ you’re on some sort of drug aren’t you? What did you take? Spice?” Jesus, where was his ambulance? He used his free hand to hit his radio. “Dispatch, confirm?” He waited to hear from Omera, but instead of an answer his radio made a high pitched electronic wail that was piercing. “The hell?”

“No no no noooo,” Luke gasped. He was staring at Din’s radio with a sheet white face. “Please not now!” He tried to pull his hand away from Din’s grasp.

“Luke! Calm down before you hyperventilate.” That’s it, Din was putting him in his squad car, where he could lock him in if he started to violently hallucinate. He reached over to unbuckle Luke’s seatbelt only to realize the moron wasn’t wearing one. So instead he just raged silently as he dragged the other man out.

Luke’s legs buckled the moment he stepped out of the car. “You have to leave,” the boy mumbled. “Before...too late.”

“Whatever, your highness,” Din sighed, using Fett’s most innocent name for Skywalker. He started to drag the other man to his car, noticing at the same time that it was a lot darker outside than it had been two minutes ago. He looked up and saw clouds suddenly blocking the summer sun. That was odd. It had been a clear cloudless summer day earlier. “Fucking climate change.”

It was while he was trying to maneuver Skywalker into his back seat that he finally noticed the strange tattoos the man had on his left and right forearms. They were thick green lines that swirled in weird sharp geometric shapes and angles, almost looking like words in an alien language or something. The right arm tattoo ended with Luke’s wrist. The left spilled into his hands and even down his fingers. They looked expensive and very new, with ink that was so bright it almost looked like it was glowing. Din didn’t remember Skywalker having any tattoos the last time he’d pulled him over. But then again, he was also sure the last time they’d met Luke also had a real fucking hand.

“Nice ink,” he said finally, unable to bring himself to ask the other man if he’d always had a really amazing prosthetic hand and multiple massive tattoos. He was losing his touch--what was he thinking, letting Cara talk him into transferring into this hellhole state? As he chastised himself, his right thumb moved to caress the closest line on the other man’s arm without thinking. But the moment he touched it, a painful sensation almost like electricity shot through his hand and down his spine. “Fuck!” What the hell was that?!

Luke also jerked. “Don’t touch me!” His voice sounded low and full of pain. He looked down at his arms with his one good eye in horror. “Oh God! It’s too late.”

“What hell are you on?” Din said, just as he felt a sudden icy wind blast past them both. It was strong, dragging leaves and other debris over their car and pelting Din’s unprotected back with small pebbles. “Ow! Damn it!” The sun had disappeared, and the world around them had taken a sinister grey color. He instinctively pushed Luke back, into the protective shelter of his car.

Then he heard a terrible, low laugh, so close it felt like there was someone inches next to his near. He flinched and turned...and saw no one. The back hair on Din’s neck stood straight up and he found himself reaching for his gun. All his instincts were screaming and when he looked back at Skywalker he yelped because now Luke really was glowing bright green.

“Din.” The sudden use of his first name jerked his attention from the glowing green marks on Luke’s arms to his face. His unbruised blue eye was clear and full of determination. “Move.”

Din found himself scrambling to let Luke drag himself out of his car before he could even blink. It was like he was possessed. He watched as Luke took several unsteady steps until he was in front of Din and facing the empty road. He stood in a wide ready stance, with both glowing arms held out at his sides. His left hand was open, palm forward and his right stump was a bright ball of green fire.

The unnatural wind blew again, making Din flinch against dust kicked up in their faces.

“Drive away,” Luke commanded, as he continued to face the road. “Leave.”

Din’s body started to move towards his front seat, but he stopped it just as his hand touched the door. “No!” He rasped. Instead he made his hand pull his gun and he found himself pointing it at the empty road in front of them instead of at Skywalker like he should have done.

Luke sighed. “You’re too honorable for your own good.” Gone was the cheerful yet annoying voice Din had become used to hearing. Skywalker sounded like a stranger, an unnatural being. “Stay behind me and whatever you do, don’t turn your back to him.”

“What--”

Between one breath and the next, the devil himself arrived. Without a flash of light or possessed gale force winds, it suddenly just appeared. It had a red and black demonic face, a head covered in horns and had glowing yellow eyes. It was dressed in all black robes and had a glowing black sword in it’s right hand.

“Maul,” said Luke. His right stump twitched and suddenly his hand was back and it was holding a glowing green sword. Except it wasn’t his hand, not really. It looked like it was made of light instead of flesh.

“Chosen One,” said the devil.

“Oh fuck off,” said Din. Chosen one? This guy?!

Maul smiled, all sharp teeth. “I’ll kill the human and eat his soul.”

“As happy as that would make my mother, I can’t let you do that,” Luke replied.

“Then I’ll use his corpse to kill her too,” Maul hissed. “Then your sister and her unborn babe.”

“HEY!” Din shouted. “Nobody is using my corpse for anything.” Also he was pretty sure Governor Padme Naberrie would be fully capable of killing the devil herself.

The devil laughed and before Din could let loose one of his bullets into him, he disappeared. Then he reappeared inches from Luke’s face, his black sword swinging for his neck. Din shouted but Luke was already moving like he was a character from the Matrix. He brought his green hand and sword up and there was an explosion of energy.

Then the fight was on. Somehow tiny Luke pushed Maul away from him, but the devil stopped in mid air and swung towards him like he was launched from an unseen hand. Luke parried and ducked, more agile than his appearance would suggest. He slid underneath the demon and leapt to his feet. Maul landed on the ground and launched another attack, swinging the black sword up over his head. It hit Luke’s glowing hand sword with a crackle of energy. They swung, parried, swung and parried again, moving in a blur too fast to Din to see them clearly. He kept his gun out, pointed vaguely in Maul’s direction but he knew he was more than useless here.

Luke was beginning to tire. Din could see it in the way he was swinging his hand and the way his legs were shaking. When Luke had launched Maul several feet away from them, Din turned to see if he could reach his rifle in the back of his car without the two noticing. But as he did that he heard Maul hiss in triumph and suddenly he felt an intense burning in his back, like a hot poker being buried into the middle of his spine. He couldn’t even let out a cry as he dropped his gun.

“NO!” Luke screamed.

“Didn’t the boy tell you,” he heard Maul hiss in his ear. “Never turn your back on a Sith!” Din gasped, unable to form words as the world dimmed and he fell to his knees. He felt like he was being slowly dragged backwards, out of his own damn body.

Just as he started to see black spots in his vision, he heard an inhuman roar. The pulling sensation stopped and he felt himself slam face first into the ground. There was the sound of growling and he heard Maul shriek. Bright lights flashed over his head.

Then he felt himself being lifted up into someone’s arms. There was air rushing past his face. He struggled to open his eyes and the first thing he saw was his squad car rapidly disappearing as they left the ground in a rush. He also saw shimmery white scales, like the kind you would see on a snake, and impossibly, a white leathery wing flapped in and out of his vision. He heard the wings pushing through the air and another loud roar.

“The fuck!” He gasped. The arms around him tightened. Din’s head was pressed against Luke’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around him and holding him against the back of some sort of living, breathing FLYING thing.

“Hold on!” Luke said grimly and they flew through the air.

“ARE WE ON A FUCKING DRAGON?!” Din shouted.

“Technically it’s my GT!” Luke yelled back.

“WHY THE FUCK IS YOUR CAR A DRAGON?!”

“That’s what you’re gonna fixate on?” Luke said incredulously. “Fine, yes! It’s magic, now shut up and let me concentrate!!”

“Your arms are still glowing!” Din said, his brain completely broken. He could feel energy pulsing through Luke’s bare arms, their heat licking at his skin. It felt good, because he was freezing, so cold he felt like he could barely move. “What--what is that? What are you?!”

He felt Luke sigh and suddenly there were lips firmly pressed against his, swallowing the torrent of panicked words that were trying to spill out of him. He also felt the freezing cold that had its grip in him ease, replaced by warmth. It felt like Luke was pouring fire and light into him and when he pulled away a moment later, Din saw that Luke’s face was pale and full of worry.

“Better?” He asked, words barely audible over the flapping of dragon wings.

Din nodded wordlessly.

“Right, ok. Everything is under control,” Luke said, more to himself than Din. “We’re alive and you have most of your soul left, so everything is going to be fine, just fine. Ok? Right, calm down.”

“I am calm now,” Din said. Well mostly.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Luke replied. He tightened his grip on Din and sighed. “Not gonna lie Officer Din Djarin, we’re pretty screwed right now. But I’m gonna get us somewhere safe, I promise.”

“How do you even know my first name,” Din exclaimed.

“My mom’s the Governor, you don’t think I wouldn’t have her lookup Navarro City’s best and brightest police officer?”

Din frowned. “You just did that to erase your speeding tickets.”

“Maybe,” Luke chuckled. “You gonna arrest me now?”

“Yes,” Din moaned. “So very yes.”

He heard Luke laugh and tug him closer to his GT/Dragon as they glided together through the bright summer sky.

---

Obviously the dragon was inspired by Lulolly's X-Wing dragons! I know nothing about cars, I just picked a GT-86 because I like the way they look and they're not that crazy expensive. I think Luke might drive one.

Previous Responses

30: tourist/knowledgeable local au (Din/Luke)

19. parents meeting when they take their kids to class au (Din/Luke)

15: meeting in the E.R/A&E au (Din/Luke/Boba)

40: Soul destroying exes meeting again after not speaking for years au (Din/Luke)

25: Library/Avid Reader AU Part I (Din/Luke, Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon)

Library AU part II (same)

#I don't know what's going on in this AU but I like it #I can't write normal things ok?#I don't watch cop shows so I don't know anything about them #I make it a policy to also avoid them in real life #there was a lot of googling that occurred about police culture before my brain gave up #I think the last police adjacent show I watched was Sherlock #I was also thinking of Stranger Things when I wrote this #sbficlets #din/Luke

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