Icarus - On one hand, he’s got mad upper body strength and a gun. On the other, he’s a massive wimp and if you knock him off his crutches, you’ll probably win in about five seconds flat. Fight Icarus. He deserves it. You know you want to. You’ll probably win. Unless he actually likes you, in which case you’re fucked.
Eli - Decently strong and fast from juggling and acrobatics, but they’re a performer, not a brawler. They talk big, but probably don’t know how to throw a proper punch. You could win, but you’ll also definitely lose your wallet. Your call here.
Elias Tiore - Don’t fight Elias, why would you fight her. What kind of sick bastard are you. Hasn’t she been through enough.
Taeris Fidel - God he’s such a wimp. And a cowardly wimp too. Beat him up, he’s been asking for it all his life. 100% guarantee that you’ll win.
Gabrael - He’ll probably wreck your life somehow in revenge but fight him oh my god fiGHT HIM HOW COULD YOU NOT HE’S SUCH A HUGE DICK YOU JUST GOTTA FIGHT HIM
Ride - Don’t fight him he hates himself enough already and Gabe’s already fucked him up badly enough why would you want to kick someone when they’re already down that low do you piss on dead kittens’ graves too
Trap - She’ll probably tell you to fight her, then something’s going to blow up in both your faces and she’ll start crying and you’ll feel bad because she’s a ball of fluff you made a ball of fluff in an aviator hat cry how terrible are you.
Emanate - You see that ponytail and smug smile and those frilly clothes. You see that “don’t worry babe it’s not that dangerous oh shit fuck damn” attitude? Everyone wants to fight him. You’d have to be crazy to not want to fight him. Even his own boyfriend wants you to fight him. Hell, his own boyfriend will fight him. Fight Emanate.
Refrain - Well you could fight him, but he’ll just patch himself up afterwards. But if you really wanted to put him through pain, just put him near his dumbass boyfriend for extended periods of time. That’d be more effective, really.
Alexei Uriel - Hard to say. He’s a professional soldier and has been getting into brawls before his first adult teeth and pilots a giant death robot. If you fight him, he’ll beat the shit out of you. But then he’ll either get arrested because he’s probably on some sort of probation, or his equally violent boyfriend will get overexcited and jump into the fight and the two of them will be busy beating the shit out of each other. So really, who wins?
Elijah Flowers - He’s a tattoo artist who’s scared of needles. If that doesn’t say “beat me up I’m the biggest weenie alive”, I don’t know what is. Don’t worry about his magic. Literally the worst thing he can do to you is run away. Fight Elijah.
Eliakim Flowers - If you’re only out to hurt him, he’ll probably let you fight him just to get it over with. To be honest, he’ll probably just let you punch him a couple times then look at you with a mildly irritated expression and ask if you’re satisfied. However, if you’re out to hurt his siblings, then he will Fight and Destroy you. Don’t fight Eliakim, you’ll only feel bad about it later.
Elphanor Flowers - Oh god this kid is probably gonna self-destruct from all his terrible life choices already. Fight him, just fight him, he deserves it. Knock some sense into him. Save him from himself.
Chris Gao - You can beat him up no sweat, but he might enjoy it and ask for more. Then you’ll want to beat him up more, but that’d just be rewarding him. You won, but did you really win?
Julia Izearth - She’s the Marquess of Perevel by day, vigilante by night. You probably won’t win, but even if you do, the entire district is gonna hate you for hurting her. She just wants to help people, you asshole, why would you fight such an angel.
Aede Gilliams - She’ll block and sidestep and barrier everything you throw at her either until you tire, or she recieves orders to engage. Then she’ll destroy you- either with her fists or her magic. The only way you could win is if you embarrass her into submission.
Estella Aethwild - There’s an 80% chance you won’t win since she probably wrestled gators and scaled volcanoes as a kid. Also she has three guns. But if you do, then you’re probably blacklisted from the entire merchant’s guild network already. Better start farming your own produce, and good luck trying to buy anything again. There’s literally no reward in this.
Kimiya Korosuke - He’ll probably let you fight him and just laugh it off. But if he doesn’t, you’ll trip down the stairs and shatter both kneecaps in a few days’ time. Is it really worth it.
Akashi Himiko - If you get past her security, then you’ll get a razor sharp nail file to the eye. That’s not a warning, it’s a statement. I’m sorry, that’s just how it goes, I don’t make the rules. Also, you’ll probably trip down the stairs and shatter both kneecaps in a few days’ time. Even less worth it.
Elana Kalas - You could beat her in a physical fight, no doubt. But she literally has a year left to live, you heartless bastard. Also, she has no fear of death. Also, she’s a minor hell goddess. Also, her best friend is a terrifying hell bear. You may seriously want to reconsider this.
Ramos Blackhat - He’s a genius criminal hacker who can probably clear your bank account and life savings from his smartphone while playing Love Live. But also he’s the world’s hugest chuuni who trolls 4chan, claims that he’s a cyborg AI, wears an eyepatch for fun, and has a shrine to at least one of his 2D waifus. You’ll lose everything once he gets to an Internet connection, but still do it. Fight this bastard. It’ll be worth it.
The trailer's been out for about two days, and I've already written fic. My depravity knows no ends.
Fire Emblem If, fanfiction.
Marx/f!Kamui
Word count: 1304
Notes: Psuedo-incest, speculation fic
Speculation fic written after the release of the 2nd FE:If trailer.
The maids had picked out a beautiful dress for her; white silk and crimson chiffon, the same colors as Hoshido’s banner, as a sign of goodwill. Instead, Kamui dons a full set of armor and a cape as dark as night. She watches the stony set of her features in the mirror, and refuses to go smilingly. If they must take her, she will make sure that it is a conquest and not a homecoming.
Warning(s): Blood and gore, dark AU, character death, amputation
Summary:
"Falchion’s blade rings through the air with a single, clear chime as it slices clean through. For a sword forged from the tooth of Naga and made to cut through dragonscale, human flesh is nothing. "
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A gory AU where Robin succumbs to Grima, and Chrom goes to drastic measures. But in the end, they still love one another.
Written for Sera.
[I'm not entirely satisfied with this, seems a bit too "tell" rather than "show", but just some initial rough thoughts on Reines des Fleurs, i.e. Ghislain and Chrysantheme.]
Ghislain knows fear of death. He has heard it in the deafening silences that ring from the low ceilings of military bases, louder and more telling than the ripples of whispers that die as soon as he steps foot inside. He has felt it in the dry, scorching winds that tell only of more famine, more drought, in the arid, cracked earth that shifts loose and dustlike beneath his boots. He has tasted it in blood, pooling at his feet so deep and crimson, dripping and mixing until it becomes indistinguishable from the ruby steel of his blade. In this land where survival is ever a struggle, and mere existence is warfare, Ghislain could choke on the smog of fear that has surrounded him his entire life.
As far as Ghislain is concerned, when the Grace begins to run out and Solvieux falls into decline, all it means is that the rest of the world now feels what Chrysantheme has felt for the past century. He takes shallow breaths to avoid the stench of fear that permeates Campanule’s ostentatious conference halls. He turns away when he watches the reopening of long-neglected shrines in Villet. Back in Chrysantheme, the churches were the first places to be abandoned and looted. If Reine ever blessed the world, then Chrysantheme must have been forgotten.
As the world prays for salvation and grovels in the shadow of a sheltered, floating girl-goddess, Ghislain does not kneel, not so easily. He was born with the mantle of survival heavy upon his shoulders, and he along with his nation have had to grapple with nature and the heavens for their very right to exist. He knows he will die in the bloodstained land of Chrysantheme, and has long accepted his fate. He has anticipated the onslaught of his mortality from his very first lungful of toxic wasteland air. Ghislain does not fear death.
As it turns out, neither does the Reine. And how ironic it is that Ghislain only realizes this in the moment of her demise.
The cage-born girl gives herself to the Tree of Life without a moment of hesitation. Her tears will nourish its roots, her breath will spread its seeds. Her entire being glows as she steps forward, more an ascension than a death, and when she fixes her gaze upon him, it burns. In her eyes, Ghislain can see rivers streaming down from Chrysantheme’s peaks, the first successful harvest in decades, and field after field of golden chrysanthemums. In this instance, Ghislain cannot breathe. And he knows that from this moment on, with the indelible debt that he owes her, as atonement for all his past mistrust, for all the respect and love she has earned from him, only she can be his master now, and he would die for the Reine.
By the time he comes to his senses again, his cheeks are wet without him realizing, and before him is but a beautiful, blooming tree.
it's almost 4 am i'll write a summary later here we go i'll proofread and correct in the morning
A couple centuries ago, it nearly would have given Jack a heart attack to walk into his lab and find Atticus waiting for him inside. These days, he barely even bats an eyelash. Walking past the dark-haired man splayed spread-eagle across his (thankfully empty) lab table, Jack heads straight for his desk and opens his laptop, checking patient files and noting down his appointments for the rest of the week. He refuses to give Atticus the attention that he’s looking for. Jack’s expression is absolutely unflinching as he scrolls through his appointment spreadsheet, eyes refusing to look anywhere but the screen. It’s never worked before, but maybe today, just today, if he pretends Atticus isn’t there, then the other Wanderer really will disappear without a fuss.
Jack hears a drained slurping sound and a satisfied ah. Is Atticus drinking a soda? In Jack’s lab? Where he could spill that diabetic sugar-water all over Jack’s paperwork and computers and clean, disinfected floor? The nerve of this bastard. Jack’s ears twitch as his blood boils with irritation at his coworker’s sheer insolence, and the sound of his typing gets ever louder as his fingers savagely pound onto the keys.
“Dr. Crossfield, are you ignoring me?”
But of course, this is Atticus, and Jack’s life is never allowed to be that easy.
The last time Jack pretended to be deaf, Atticus came up close and licked his ear, which was not a fun experience. So with a belabored sigh and the premonition of an upcoming migraine, Jack swivels around in his chair and fixes Atticus with a grudging stare. “Atticus, at this point, do I even need to tell you to get out of my lab?”
Atticus just flashes an award-winning smile at Jake, nonplussed by the other’s attitude. It’s a smile radiant enough to have scores of maidens swooning on the streets. Jack, however, is tragically unmoved. “Doctor, please,” Atticus croons, theatrically tossing an arm over his head. “It’s serious. I need your help.”
The doctor, of course, is skeptical. Last time Atticus said something was “serious”, he’d wanted Jack to examine a mysterious bulge that had grown in his crotch. The time before that, it was a severe case of “broken heart”. Loathe as he is to give in to Atticus’ attention-seeking, it’s simply against Jack’s occupational ethics to ignore his fellow Wanderer’s blatantly faked cries for help, lest Atticus really be injured one day. Not that Jack doesn’t recognize the supreme irony in Atticus becoming “the boy who cried wolf”.
“What seems to be the problem, Atticus?” Jack intones flatly, massaging his temples as he gets up off his chair. Thinking about having to change his keys again is already giving him a headache. To this date, he has no idea how Atticus has managed to foil every lock, passcode, and security system Jack’s ever set on his lab. It probably has something to do with his demonic summons, but Jack isn’t sure if Atticus has a locksmith summon.
Atticus spreads his legs a bit more, presumably to sit more comfortably as well as to show off the painful tightness (and tackiness) of his leather pants, and takes another sip of his beverage before setting down the plastic cup precariously close the edge of the table. That had better not spill. “Well, it’s more a proposal than a problem, doctor,” He replies, the wry glint in his eyes signaling that this can’t be anything good. Jack’s fingers almost instinctively twitch for his needles. Why does he even try anymore? Atticus’ mere existence spells trouble.
Atticus is gladly willing to elaborate on his idea, despite Jack not having asked for more information. As giddy as a songbird, the dark-skinned Wanderer continues to talk in that irritating, melodious tone that makes Jack cringe at the sound of it. “So I won’t bore you with the details of how I got this idea, usual story, doing the rounds in some universe, on some planet, and some person’s too taken by my charms and before you know it… You get the idea. But anyways,” at this, Atticus leads forward on the table, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in a conspiratorial manner. “I want you to give me a piercing. Right, here.” With that, Atticus pokes out the pink flesh of his tongue and points right at the center of it.
In light of some of the more outlandish things that Jack’s seen and heard of, that doesn’t quite shock him, but it’s surprising nonetheless. Not because it’s Atticus; that barefaced hedonist would go to any lengths of body modification in pursuit of excitement and pleasure. But rather, Jack is confused as to why Atticus would come to him for such a request. “Atticus,” Jack pipes up, voicing these concerns. “I hope you realize that I am hardly a professional piercer.”
Atticus, to his credit, seems utterly nonplussed by this confession. “Yeah, but I figured you’re good with needles. How hard can it be? You poke a hole then it’s done right?” Jack physically flinches at this gross misunderstanding.
“Atticus, do you know how bad piercing infections can get? Especially in places as unsanitary as the mouth?” Jack chides, his face filled with disapproval and disgust, as it always is when it comes to Atticus. “Why would you even want one of those?” Jack can tell from the way that Atticus’ eyes immediately light up with intent that he’s asked exactly the wrong question.
Atticus sidles across the table, now lying on his belly closer to Jack. His leering gaze doesn’t leave Jack the entire time, and the dark-haired man drags the tip of his tongue across his upper lip. Jack can feel the hairs on his arms rise in what he tells himself is revulsion. Burning amber eyes are fixed upon Jack with focus and intent so palpable that he can feel it rolling off in waves, an intensity typically seen from predators fixating upon their prey. And Jack had thought he was the wolf here.
“A tongue piercing can be a lot of fun, Jack,” Atticus lilts. The slant of his lips is one that Jack is intimately familiar with. “All it takes is a little creativity.”
Jack remains still in his seat as Atticus slides off the table, and fluidly sinks onto his knees, spreading Jack’s legs apart so he can settle between them. Jack can feel the imprint of Atticus’ smile on the crotch of his pants.
“Let me show you, Doctor.”
Jack’s hand fists itself tightly in the dark tangle of Atticus’ hair as the dark-skinned Wanderer toys with Jack’s cock. Atticus is circling his tongue around the head, lathing quick licks along the side, blowing short, deliberate puffs of air just to tease. Atticus has always been infuriating, and unfortunately, this is not a trait that disappears when he’s stark naked, on his knees, and giving head. Jack’s entire body shivers with anticipation, and his hips buck instinctively upwards, trying to get more heat, suction, friction, anything. But Atticus’ firm grip hold on his waist prevents him from gaining any more satisfaction than the Prince will allow or provide.
Atticus pulls off for a moment, resting his cheek against the side of Jack’s thigh, and a puppy-like whine escapes from Jack’s throat as he creases his brow, annoyed at the loss of stimulation. “Imagine if I had a stud of metal, right on my tongue,” Atticus whispers thoughtfully, tracing the edge of his fingernail against the tip of Jack’s cock. “Just a single, focused point of solid cold. Wouldn’t that be interesting, Doctor?” Those words send a shudder down Jack’s spine. He can’t tell whether it’s from arousal or dread of the idea of cold metal against his cock. Either way, it certainly has nothing to do with the searing gold of Atticus’ stare.
Jack’s senses are jolted back into focus when he sees Atticus reaching up towards to the table surface, and he hears the faint rattle of ice cubes inside the plastic soda cup. He barely has time to register what Atticus is doing before the other Wanderer has popped a piece of ice into his mouth, and sealed his lips around Jack’s cock once more. This time, the heat of Atticus’ mouth and tongue and lips is contrasted sharply against the wet chill of the ice, slowly melting against Jack’s skin. The feeling of it tears a sharp gasp from Jack’s throat, followed by a lower-pitched, half-stifled moan as Jack’s grip in Atticus’ hair tightens.
Atticus slowly slides the rest of Jack’s length into his mouth until the head of it hits the back of it, and Jack is quickly reminded that wolves are better-endowed than most humans. In a rare gesture of tenderness, Jack’s hand loosens to stroke Atticus’ hair, gently easing the rest of his cock into the other man’s throat. Atticus, as credit and testament to his skill and experience, does not gag. Once it’s in as far as it will go, Atticus inhales deeply through the nose, and Jack is suddenly hit by a series of vibrations around his member that makes pleasure surge through him. Jack’s toes curl and his head lolls back onto his shoulders. Oh gods, is that bastard humming?
Of course, Atticus won’t give Jack even a moment to catch his breath. Barely a moment as passed before Jack feels the chill of cold again, this time from the ice cube in Atticus’ fingers, pressed to the underside of his balls, sliding against his perineum. Jack’s eyes have long been squeezed shut, but he knows that if Atticus’ lips weren’t wrapped around his cock, the other man would be smiling. The doctor’s breaths come in the shallow gasps of a drowning man seeking air, punctuated by sighs and ah’s of pleasure. He tries to cover his mouth with his forearm, but that soon falls away for him to grip the arm of his office chair. He’s close, he can feel the cresting pressure build up at the pit of his stomach, frying his nerves and making it hard for him to think. Jack’s cock twitches between Atticus’ lips, and the dark-haired Wanderer looks up coyly, swiping his tongue along its length as if daring Jack to cum into his mouth. Jack wants nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face.
In a rough movement, Jack pulls Atticus off his cock and promptly shoves him to the ground, leaving the dark-skinned Wanderer surprised and coughing. And then, before Atticus can process this rapid change of events, the beast is upon him. Jack slams the side of Atticus’ face roughly into the ground, fingers of one hand knitted in his hair, the other holding him down by the back of his neck. Atticus’ skin is so smooth compared to Jack’s, unmarred by scars and scabs and wounds. The sight of it makes dark instinct flare up within Jack. “Smug little arse,” Jack growls before leaning down to sink his fangs into Atticus’ shoulder. Atticus gives a wail that isn’t all pain, and twists vigorously in Jack’s grip until the doctor pins his wrists to the floor.
Jack can feel his pulse pounding in his ears as drags his claws down Atticus’ back, leaving red welts that are just short of breaking the skin. Atticus arches in response, like a cat in heat- an apt metaphor, considering the things that Jack’s about to do to him. The doctor reaches the cleft of Atticus’ ass, only to find that the other man is already stretched and lubed. Atticus must be able to sense his hesitation, however, brief, and the prince smiles, rows of white teeth gleaming bright against the sweaty mess of his hair and the flushed tone of his skin. “Didn’t want to waste time. It’d be a waste of your- A, ah!”
This time, it’s Jack who doesn’t give his partner time to catch his breath, slipping to fingers into Atticus’ hole and immediately curling them against the other man’s prostate. Wanderers’ bodies don’t change much over the course of time, and loathe as he is to admit, Jack has done this with Atticus’ enough times before to know exactly how to make the other man come loose. Jack pushes in a third digit, and Atticus keens, pushing back for more pressure, deeper and harder. Atticus’ erection is taut and needy, pressed against his stomach, and his hips buck wildly, trying to rub up against something but getting nothing but air. Jack scissors all three fingers before adding in a fourth, and Atticus’ arms give out, his entire upper body collapsing to press against the floor.
The dark-skinned Wanderer turns his head to stare at Jack with a plaintive, pleading gaze. His lips are still cock-swollen and glistening with saliva and cum. “Hurry the fuck up, Jack,” He rasps. “Fill me up already.”
An animalistic growl sounds from Jack’s throat as he lines up the head of his cock with Atticus’ ass, and steadies Atticus’ hips so he can’t try to impale himself upon it. Atticus’ fingers scrabble helplessly against the floor, and curses flow free from his lips. Jack waits for Atticus to get worked up and angry, and right when he’s off guard, slams right in to the hilt. Just like every other time, Jack’s tried this trip, Atticus all but screams.
From there on, it’s just wild fucking. Skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing punctuated by choked gasps and moans. Jack follows through with the almost mechanical motions of pushing into the deepest parts of Atticus, before pulling out to only the tip, then stabbing in deep again. Atticus, ever the vocal one, is reduced to incoherent sounds rather than words, and whenever Jack pulls out, his ass clenches around the cockhead as if he can’t bear to let it go. Trickles of blood trail across Atticus’ skin from Jack’s bite, and Jack lathes his tongue along these paths, reveling the taste of iron against salt. At this point, Jack’s mind is a cloud of arousal and fury. Before long, Atticus clenches tightly around him, and comes with a shout, forming a puddle of cum on the ground. But Jack doesn’t give him a moment of respite, fucking him hard through his orgasm, running Atticus right into the ground and burning him out with the sensation of it all.
Jack can tell he’s close to climax when his penis begins to knot at the base, and at the first signs of it, he pulls out immediately. As much as he wants to come inside Atticus and leave him dripping and used, the last thing that Jack wants is to be knotted to Atticus after sex, whether it be as short as ten minutes to as long as an hour. Atticus moans, and his weak knees shudder under his weight as Jack pulls out fully, leaning back to aim to Atticus’ lower back. With a few quick jerks, he comes as well, splattering the other man’s skin with ropes of his seed.
They lay there on the lab floor for several minutes, exhausted and spent. Jack is just about to offer his shower when Atticus decides to open his mouth again. “Maybe we should get you a piercing instead, Jack,” He quips, giving the doctor’s flaccid member a playful squeeze. “Imagine how better that cock would feel with metal on it.”
Jack makes an indignant sound of horror and disgust as he bats Atticus’ hand away, and Atticus can only laugh.
Amaha Tsubasa & Kinose Azusa ft. Amaha Shino & Amaha Eisuke, Harry Potter AU, oneshot.
Word count: 3506
Warning(s): Child abandonment and family issues
Note(s): My lovingly-crafted Starry Sky Harry Potter AU, and of course the first take is looking at our lovely cousins! :)
The way Tsubasa hears it, his parents would have made a great love story.
A handsome, talented young wizard from a high-standing pureblood family walks into a convenience store in the downtown of a muggle city. It's several minutes before midnight. He looks across the scuffed linoleum floor, and sees the bored high-school dropout cashier. She has three piercings in her left ear, a metal stud beneath her lip, and she's kneeling on the floor as she stacks boxes of cheap chocolate onto the bottom shelf. Her face is pretty enough, though her eyeliner is smoky and smudged from the long shift. There’s a splatter of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her tongue unconsciously peeks out from between cherry-red lips to lick at her piercing. It must be new, the wizard thinks, and he wonders how that stud would feel against his own lips. She doesn’t notice the wizard at all as he approaches her, taking broad steps in his dragon-leather boots, until he squats down beside her and flashes a smile so enticing that would make a Veela swoon from envy. “Hello, love. Would you believe me if I told you I was a wizard?”
This is the part where Tsubasa imagines the background turning pink, and cartoon hearts floating about. Because this, he is told, was how his parents fell in love at first sight. Perhaps his mother had given a coarse laugh, charming in its roughness, and told his father that he should go see a doctor. Or maybe she’d arched a thin eyebrow, quirked her lips into a smirk, and said that if he was a wizard, then he’d better damn well prove it.
Tsubasa doesn't quite know how or why they fell for each other so fast. Perhaps the appeal of the lip piercing and dating a muggle girl was an allure too strong for his father to resist. The man always was a rebellious one, a veritable black sheep of the family, Tsubasa has been told. Blew up half the family mansion’s west wing in an accident involving a boggart when he was fifteen (Tsubasa sees remains of the scorch marks on some parts of the ceiling). Nearly lost his life in a duel once. Was almost expelled from Hogwarts on more than one occasion. Or perhaps, there was something chemical and physiological that just clicked, reacted, exploded when their eyes met. Perhaps, it was because the moment they looked at each other, the clock on the grungy convenience store wall hit twelve, the date switched to February the 14th, and a sort of rare Valentines’ Day magic took place. Tsubasa doesn't know.
Either way, three months later, his parents were very much deep in love, and together they ran away to elope. She gave up her minimum wage job and one-room apartment with her unemployed (now former) boyfriend. He forfeited his inheritance of a mansion of riches, and severed his ties with the one of the oldest pureblood families in the world. Tsubasa has been told that his father had once said that it didn’t matter whether his girlfriend was muggle or witch. He’d be willing to make enemies of the whole damn world just to be with her. Tsubasa knows that his parents’ love transcended the boundaries between magic and mundane, rich and poor. They left behind everything they knew for the sake of a future with one another. Tsubasa thinks that this is rather romantic. His parents would have certainly made a great love story, and had their lives been written into a novel, it surely would have sold millions of copies and received a movie adaptation.
It’s too bad that Tsubasa has never really been one for love stories. Especially the kinds of love stories where the credits don’t roll as the happy couple rides off into the sunset on a flying motorcycle, and nine months later, they return on that flying motorcycle and dump an unwanted baby onto the doorstep of the family mansion. Tsubasa’s been told that after they returned to the mansion that one last time, his parents disappeared like mist in the morning sunlight, never to be heard from again. Now, the only remnants of their great love story are a moving black-and-white photograph hidden deep in the corner of the attic, and Tsubasa himself.
Pureblood families are called as such for a reason, and in absence of the disgrace-to-the-family who sired him, it seems that the sins of the father have been projected onto Tsubasa. Half blood children are less magically viable, Tsubasa hears one aunt whisper when she thinks his back is turned (the way she scrutinizes him with her narrow, unimpressed eyes says that she thinks he’s a squib already). An uncle proposes a list of local orphanages that would take him, and argues with Tsubasa’s grandfather about why they should keep raising a bastard mudblood parasite(Tsubasa doesn’t say anything but mentally objects, because technically speaking, he’s only half-mudblood). At fun family gatherings such as these, Grandpa Eisuke merely sighs, as if he’s amazed that this debate has continued on so many years after the matter, and repeats the same decision that he’d made the day an infant had showed up on his doorstep.
“This is my grandchild, and I will take care of him.”
There is a certain hierarchy in ancient pureblood families such as theirs, and Tsubasa understands enough of it to know that no matter how much his uncles and aunts and second-cousins-twice-removed may protest against it, Grandpa Eisuke’s word is law. When Tsubasa finally shows signs of magical potential, it’s in the form of building blocks and broken toys that come to life according to his whim. When Tsubasa sees the smile in Grandpa Eisuke’s eyes when he shows him all his animated creations, Tsubasa feels for the first time that he’s worth the trouble, that he’s done Grandpa Eisuke proud. (He also feels more than sees the look of subdued horror on the face of the aunt who thought he was a squib, and that in itself is also a very, very satisfying moment.)
In the year of Tsubasa’s sixth birthday, there’s a huge family gathering at the mansion to celebrate one of his cousins’ weddings. By this point, Tsubasa has lost all interest in interacting with anyone other than his grandparents and the various house elves that roam their estate. He exchanges the food, dancing, and fireworks in favor of exploring the attic. Although Grandpa Eisuke can silence his relatives’ complaints, he can’t silence their gazes. Tsubasa is sick of looking into other people’s eyes and seeing himself reflected as nothing more than the half-blood.
Branding others with blood values appears to be an acquired talent. When Tsubasa is half falling into a large, partially empty chest of old fur coats, he hears the door to the attic open with a stuttered creak. He looks up, and that’s when he meets Azusa. Azusa is his cousin, from the city, Tsubasa learns, and when Azusa looks at Tsubasa, he doesn’t see him as a half-blood, or mudblood, or any blood at all, in fact. All Azusa sees is a new potential playmate.
This is the first time that Tsubasa has met anyone his own age, and he’s stunned when Azusa’s face splits into a wide grin, devoid of any disgust or judgment. “Hey, so you’re here to explore the attic too?” He asks, as he joins Tsubasa, clinging onto the edge of the crate. His eyes shine so bright that Tsubasa can see the stars and magic crackling inside him, astonishing as a nebula and vast as a galaxy. He's a miracle, Tsubasa thinks.
Tsubasa doesn’t speak much, but Azusa does enough talking for the both of them. When they go for dinner, Azusa is completely oblivious to his family’s stares of disapproval when he asks if he and Tsubasa can sit together. Either that or he doesn’t care, and Tsubasa can scarcely tell which is more amazing. When the wedding is over, Azusa tells Tsubasa that he had a lot more fun this weekend than he’d ever expected, and that they’d see each other again, soon. Thus concluded the whirlwind affair of Tsubasa making his first and best friend.
It’s only afterwards that he learns that Azusa is what people call a prodigy, a genius. Exceptionally talented and filled with potential, most likely to be one of the next great wizards of their age. It’s no wonder that Azusa’s parents don’t want him associating with the family half-blood, and it’s no wonder why Tsubasa doesn’t ever see Azusa at family gatherings again.
For the remainder of his years, although now with the single exception of Azusa, Tsubasa dislikes his extended family as much as he loves his grandparents. Grandpa Eisuke passes away the year that Tsubasa turns ten, several months after Tsubasa’s Hogwarts Acceptance letter had arrived. It’s a surprise to everyone, aside from Tsubasa’s grandmother, that Grandpa Eisuke had left a large portion of his wealth and estate to Tsubasa. And it was a good thing too, Grandma Shino says. Tsubasa’s father had cleared out his vault at Gringotts before eloping, and the money for Tsubasa’s school books and uniform robes have to come from somewhere.
Tsubasa barely has time to grieve for his grandfather before he has to make his first trip to Diagon Alley. Instead of crying, he stuffs away his sadness the same way Grandma Shino forces books, robes, and even a cauldron into her never-ending handbag. Tsubasa is willing to his grief coalesce into a dark growth deep inside his chest as long as he doesn’t need to deal with it for now. Grandma Shino becomes his pillar of strength now as she shepherds him from shop to shop, marking item after item off the extensive school supplies list that came with the acceptance letter.
The number of people and faces and sights in Diagon Alley all make Tsubasa nervous. Which is to understandable, considering how he’d scarcely ever left his grandparent’s countryside estate. Tsubasa clutches Grandma Shion’s bony wrist with both hands, and vaguely wonders how Azusa can survive living in the city. (Then again, Azusa could probably do anything.) Grandma Shion looks down at him, an understanding gaze softening her severe face and sharp cheekbones. She tells him that there’s only one important thing left that they have to buy, then they’ll go home.
The shop that Grandma Shion shuffles Tsubasa into smells of wood and spices. Tsubasa can’t help but stare in wonder at the countless shelves of neatly organized little boxes. The man at the front of the desk looks old enough to rival Tsubasa’s grandparents in age. He has deep furrows and wrinkles in his forehead that remind Tsubasa of the ditches on the side of dirt roads. But there are laughter lines tracing the corners of his features as well, and Tsubasa is infinitely more trusting of elderly than he is of adults. Somehow, he feels as though he doesn’t need to be afraid of this man.
The old man at the desk smiles, and clasps his hands in front of him welcomingly. Tsubasa thinks of an old turtle with spectacles that he once saw in a picture book. “It’s been a long time since you last came to see me, Missus Amaha,” He greets amiably. “I thought all your children had long grown up?”
Grandma Shion’s stern expression gains a note of amusement. “This is my grandson,” she replies quickly, but her voice isn’t sharp. “We’re here to purchase a wand for him.”
The turtle man lifts his spectacles and cranes his head to get a closer look at Tsubasa. Tsubasa can feel Grandma Shion’s hand on the small of his back, prompting him to take a step closer. He does, and Tsubasa can see the sparse hairs on top of the man’s half-bald scalp. “Oh yes,” the turtle man murmurs, more to himself than to Tsubasa. “I can see it now. Mitsuhiro’s son, of course, I can see it. I remember Mitsuhiro. Sycamore, with dragon heartstring…” The hairs on the back of Tsubasa’s neck tingle when he hears that near-taboo name, and suddenly, he feels distinctly uncomfortable under this old man’s scrutiny. Tsubasa’s waiting for the man to draw back and deem him unworthy. Mudblood, halfblood, bastard child. It must be written all over his face.
Grandma Shino’s clears her throat pointedly, and the turtle man suddenly jerks to attention, as if breaking out of a daydream. His blinks his wide eyes, startled, before focusing his gaze back onto Tsubasa. “Ah, yes, of course, the wand. Forgive me, young man. I’ll get right to it!” With that, in a sudden show of dynamism, the man behind the counter clambers onto a wheeled ladder. He kicks off, and speeds deep into the shop, through the labyrinth of shelves. An echoing shout reverberates from the very back. “And what’s your name, young man? Pardon me, but I forgot to ask.”
Tsubasa looks to Grandma Shion, but she stares right back at him, gesturing with her chin for him to answer himself. Tsubasa draws in a breath, not used to speaking loudly, and yells, “Tsubasa! Amaha Tsubasa!” There’s a rumble and clatter of wood from the back of the shop. Tsubasa’s eyes go wide in horror, afraid that he’s caused an accident, but Grandma Shion places a hand on his shoulder.
Within moments, the man is whizzing back through the shelves, and lands back behind the counter with a hop. “Amaha Tsubasa,” he repeats, voice seeming much livelier than before. “You are a young wizard of great potential, but first you’ll need an instrument to channel that talent through.” He has three boxes tucked beneath his arm, and he places them on the wooden surface of the counter, spreading them out like a hand of tarot cards. “Try this one first,” the turtle man says, opening the one in the center.
The first wand is short, but thick with a corkscrew base decorated with glossy varnish. Tsubasa glances first back at Grandma Shion, then at the turtle man, at a loss for what to do. “Why pick it up, boy. Give it a wave,” The turtle man says, urging him on, and Tsubasa follows his instructions. At first, there is nothing, and Tsubasa begins to panic, thinking that there may be something wrong with him. Perhaps he has no magic talent after all, like that one aunt said. In his fluster, he jerks the wand more forcefully, slashing it forward in a violent motion. There’s a delayed reaction, and all of a sudden, a burst of smoke and sparks explodes from the tip of the wand, showering onto the counter top with a clatter. The air smells of burning, and Tsubasa drops the wand in fright.
“Ah, not that one it seems. I thought dogwood might fit, but evidently not…” The turtle man seems completely unfazed by the catastrophe, and Tsubasa just looks at him with bewildered eyes. He eventually notices Tsubasa’s shock, and his wrinkled face folds back into a smile. “Oh, don’t worry, boy. This is standard fare for a wands seller, and dogwood is a mischievous wood to master. We just have to find the right fit for you, see? The wand chooses the wizard after all.” As he dispenses that adage, the man slides open a second box, and hands the wand inside to Tsubasa. “Now give this a test.”
This wand is longer, lighter-colored with a floral design carved into the round base. Tsubasa picks up this one cautiously, afraid of inciting any further disasters, and testily holds it with three fingers, as one might hold a teacup. Grandma Shion and the wandmaker look on expectantly as he gives it one short flick, then another. The tip of the wand emits a soft glow, and a slim trail of silvery mist seems to leak out of it, floating in the air. Tsubasa’s eyes widen in delight, and he tries to gesture a wider, bigger motion. He hears a crackling sound, and the silver trail disappears immediately, as if it had shattered and fallen to pieces.
This time, Tsubasa is a bit crestfallen as he returns the wand to its cushioned case, but the turtle man still seems hopeful. “Fear not, third time’s the charm!” He encourages, handing the last box to Tsubasa. “I think this one should do the trick. It rarely takes me more than three tries. Go on.” The old man lifts the wand out of the box, and presses it into Tsubasa’s hand. “Walnut, phoenix feather core, roughly 12 inches, and suitably springy. This one likes you, I think.”
The wand is long for his ten year old hand, but Tsubasa finds that the flared handle fits quite comfortably into his palm. It’s warm to the touch, and Tsubasa quietly prays that this is the one for him. He draws the wand in an upwards arc, and feels a tingle up his arm, but sees nothing. Perplexed, he tries again, and again, tracing wild shapes in the air but to no visible avail. Tsubasa’s hopes are just about to fall again when he hears a rasping sound behind him. It takes him several moments to realize that Grandma Shion is laughing. Whipping around to face her, Tsubasa is shocked to see that the boxes that were in the shelves behind him when he’d first entered the shop are now floating around in a slowly moving spiral.
The turtle man’s grin is so wide that he looks as if his face could split in two, and he fits the wand back into its box as Grandma Shion pays the 7 gallions cost. Tsubasa feels warm as he presses the slim box to his chest, and the wand seller smiles down at him. “Walnut, the wand of inventors. I tell you, Missus Amaha, this boy has great potential,” he chuckles. Grandma Shion nods graciously, before taking Tsubasa’s hand and leading him out of the shop.
“Say thank you to Mr. Ollivander, Tsubasa,” Grandma Shion whispers beneath her breath before they get to the door. Tsubasa looks back over his shoulder, before weakly calling out his thanks.
“Any time, Amaha Tsubasa. I expect impressive feats from you!” Ollivander replies, and Tsubasa gives a small smile in return, and thinks that it’s so nice to have someone hope in him for once.
Unfortunately, Tsubasa barely has any time to practice with his wand when he returns home. Grandma Shion is a flurry of efficiency and packing. Tsubasa marvels at his grandmother’s talent with the Extension Charm, and has to dissuade her from packing him a veritable feast of snacks to keep him sated on the train. The day of departure to Hogwarts sneaks up on him, and before he knows it, it has already arrived.
Once again, Tsubasa is taken aback by the number of people that flood King’s Cross Station on the morning of departure. This time instead of anxiety, his nerves buzz with excitement. It’s hard not to be infected by the charge of movement and energy that fills the terminal. He holds on tight to Grandma Shion as she pushes his luggage cart through the station, her rigid presence parting the crowd like the red sea.
There are so many children: children his age, and older children, and younger children here to see their older siblings off. Tsubasa’s eyes scan the crowd, and finally, on the stroke of a miracle, he finds a face he recognizes in the ocean of strangers. Tsubasa feels his heart light up like a bonfire and waves his hand, shouting loudly, and hoping that he’ll be heard. Tsubasa lets go of Grandma Shion’s hand, and discards his fear, pushing past shoulders and carts to reach his destination.
Then, there he is. Standing near the edge of the platform, ebony hair matching the black of his school robes, is Azusa. Azusa with the bright smile and shining, star-filled eyes and courageous obliviousness, leaning on a suitcase. He lets out a hoot of joy, and barrels into Azusa with the force of his hug, nearly ending it for the both of them by tipping them off the edge of the terminal and onto the tracks if Azusa hadn’t been able to hold his ground.
When they’re inside the Hogwarts Express, and the train is beginning to move on the tracks, there are no parents or relatives to keep Azusa and Tsubasa from sitting in the same compartment together. They compare stories and wands and house aspirations, and share candy until they both burst. Tsubasa leans out from the window and waves to Grandma Shion. Standing proudly alone on the platform, she looks a lot less sharp, and much smaller. When he finally can’t see the station anymore, Tsubasa settles down into the cushioned train seats and stares out the window with bright eyes and bright hopes.
Tsubasa’s never been one for love stories, but he’s always loved adventure stories.
mass effect AU hollaaaaa kris is a human and katarina is a drell uvu
On the night before the assassination, Katarina goes to find Kris on the balcony of the apartment, looking over the citadel. Her voice is hoarser than usual, not that humans are very good at differentiating the croaking vocals of the drell, and she wills her memories to remain within her. Late nights spent talking with Kris, training together, growing and surviving and fighting together. She prays to Arashu that she won't get emotional, that she won't suffer flashbacks. It's strange, Katarina thinks, that this is the first time that she's felt emotion during a mission. All her life, she'd thought her body merely to be a weapon carrying out the duties set to her by Lady Eremiya. It's never before occurred to her that she could have any actual emotional investment in what she's doing.
The wind is cool and humid, different from the arid planet that Katarina remembers being born in, and she watches the way that it ruffles Kris' hair like an affectionate hand. She knows that every detail of the sight will be etched into her memory, more vital to survival her than any water source or sanctuary. These are the memories that will keep her alive in long nights to come, and Katarina thinks that perhaps if she can relive them over and over again, then she can pretend that their time together won't end.
Kris is wearing her gloves today, so she can touch Katarina without fear of rash. She wraps her arm around her drell lover's shoulders, and Katarina relaxes into the touch, shamelessly indolent considering the acts that she'll be performing tomorrow.
In all my years of life, I will never forget her, Katarina thinks to herself, basking silently in the affection of the moment. In that instant, she owes more to Kris than she ever has to the Hanar, to Lady Eremiya, because although the Hanar saved her species and Eremiya saved her life, Katarina hasn't known happiness like this until she met her.
Flashes of biotic power spark between then as they kiss, adding a jolt of excitement, and Katarina sends a quick prayer up to to the heavens in preparation for tomorrow. Guide her Kalahira, and she will be a companion to you as she was to me.
If everything goes wrong tomorrow, and Katarina doesn't survive, then perhaps this wouldn't be such a horrible way to die, she decides. No matter how long it takes thought, and she prays that it takes a very long time, Katarina knows that if she is the first to leave for the ocean's depths, then she will wait for Kris upon the shore.
so I can't write futuristic so i decided to just fuck it all and write a vague psycho pass AU with collars bc collars make everything better
Jeorge slides the cool leather of the collar around his neck, fastening the clasp at the hollow of his throat with a soft click. In reflection, it's surprising that he didn't end up with it any earlier. He looks at himself in the mirror, watching his reflection run its fingers along the edge of the accessory. It stands out starkly against his skin, thick and heavy. The warning sign of a rabid dog.
Despite his parents' best efforts, Jeorge had always known that he'd end up like this. Finding him a job in the police department had practically been delivering him into a lifetime jail sentence, although perhaps that was the intention all along. Jeorge had never really been on good terms with his family.
When he exits his room, he leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone. If he has a warning sign, then might as well show it off. As expected, Astram is waiting outside for him, suit shirt buttoned high and leaning on the wall of the corridor.When he sees Jeorge emerge with the collar tight on his neck, he stands straight and his eyes sweep over Jeorge once, then twice.
"Stings a bit the first few days, doesn't it?" He says, draping an arm over Jeorge's shoulders, falling into old, familiar patterns from their academy days.Astram's gaze is fixed on the nape of Jeorge's neck, and he can't but quietly gloat. Black leather looks good on him, and of course Astram would be the first to appreciate it.
Jeorge, conscious of the height difference, shrugs Astram off, as per their usual routine. Tomorrow, he'll wear boots with heels. "It's a bit of an itch, that's all. I don't understand why we have to cover them up all the time though. They're just scars by this point."
Astram's fingers go to his own collared throat, where the nanobots and tracking sensors are buried into his skin, and his brow furrows in thought. "The collars are annoying as hell, but you get used to it. I think it has a symbolic meaning, a display of government control. We're their dogs, after all."
Jeorge nods in agreement, although he wasn't expecting such a grave answer. Astram is still as serious as he's always been. Of course, it's up to Jeorge to lighten the atmosphere. "But it's a nice coincidence that we've been put together as a team. I didn't think they'd even let us near one another, given our track record." Images of their old hell rousing flash through both their minds, and Astram winces in shame at the same time that Jeorge flashes a satisfied grin.
"Well it makes sense," Astram replies, shrugging his shoulders. "The three of us work well together. Nobody can deny that." By this point, they've reached the door at the end of the hall, and Astram waits for Jeorge to catch up, because he's always had the larger stride, before pushing the double doors open and revealing the ornate office inside.
Jeorge smiles as he and Astram approach the smartly-dressed woman waiting for them at her desk, completely unruffled despite the change of scenery. "And it's not like she didn't have the both of us whipped in the first place," He whispers, shooting a final remark to Astram before turning to face the Police Chief.
In days of old, when dragons and demons still roamed the earth, there lived a woman named Midia, who was captain of the royal Archanean knights. She was a valiant warrior who had protected the royal family on many an occasion and she was known throughout the land for her skill with the lance just as well as her beauty. Many suitors from different houses and countries came to seek her hand, but no matter how many gifts or praises they lavished her with, she never bent to their will. For since childhood, Midia had been betrothed to the son of the noble Menedy house, a talented archer named George.
Midia and George had been dear friends for many years, and although they were very fond of one another, George did not want to marry Midia. For George was not on friendly terms with his family, and hated them for reasons that he'd always kept hidden. He did not wish to acquiesce to his family's plans by taking Midia's hand in political marriage, nor did he wish to drag Midia into their schemes. However, he also knew that Midia held strong feelings for him, and did not wish to hurt her, so he never told her any of this.
They were to be wed on the day that Midia turned 18 years old, but on the morning of the wedding, George and his father became engaged in a heated argument. In a fit of rare outrage, George knocked over an antique mirror that had been resting on a shelf. This mirror had once belonged to a powerful sorcerer, and it was cursed with fearful magical properties. As it smashed to the ground, shards of the mirror’s glass pierced George’s chest, and immediately, it was as if his heart had turned to ice.
When George went to meet with Midia, he was not moved by the sight of her snow white wedding gown, or the decorations of the wedding. Instead, he boldly strode to the altar and declared that the ceremony was to be terminated, before exiting swiftly without a second glance, leaving Midia stranded at the end of the aisle, confused and hurt with her wedding bouquet still grasped in her hand.
Fortunately, George’s father knew of the enchantment on the mirror, and knew immediately that his son had been affected by the spell. He told Midia that the mirror had frozen George’s heart, and only thing that could thaw it was the blood of a star. If George did not receive such an antidote, then the enchantment would eventually spread throughout his entire body, resulting in his death.
Immediately, Midia discarded her wedding dress and bouquet, donning her knight’s armor, and declared that she would be the one to seek out a star to melt her fiancé’s frozen heart. Her parents were reluctant to let her go, for while it while there once had been stars that landed upon the earth, they lay in perilous locations on the edges of the kingdom. Despite all protests, however, Midia insisted that she be the one to save George, not only as his future bride, but also as his friend and as the knight captain of Archanea.
At last, her parents relented in their objections, but made one request of Midia before she set off on her quest. They asked that besides George, she bring along with her another companion- a hired sword named Astram. This was a blow to Midia’s pride as a warrior, for it seemed a show of weakness for a knight to require mercenary help, much less a bodyguard.
Therefore, the three of them set out on a journey to find a star.
Those in the castle speak her name with revere and fear. "Dame Kris, Marth's Blade." A prodigious warrior with little known history to speak of, and has stood by the King's side as far as anyone remembers. She almost sounds like a character out of one of the fairy tales that Katarina used to hear as a child, of unbeatable knights and mysterious heroes.
Katarina tells herself that every late night conversation and stolen smile across the council room table is part of her mission. She's getting closer to Marth by getting close to his right hand, it's a logical sequence of events. It gives her a sense of consolation when she's getting lost in the deeps of Kris' eyes.
It just gives Katarina tenfold of an excuse to watch Kris' every move, every , idiosyncrasy, every bat of her eyelids and twitch of her lips and stutter of her tongue. Katarina learns that Kris dislikes formal speaking and ties her hair into a ponytail for luck before making speeches at council meetings. That she has an extensive knowledge of the royal family's lore and is better at assessing combat situations than political waters, would rather fight a dozen fiends instead of negotiate with one of them. That she spends the rare hours that she is apart from Marth at the weapon-smith's admiring his craft and creations. It's endearing to see that a warrior of legend has such vulnerable, awkward sides to her as well, and Katarina discovers that Kris is much more human than she'd ever expected.
It doesn't take long before Katarina notices the strange connection between Kris, and the royal blade Falchion that hangs at Marth's side.
---
Katarina is lying in Kris' arms in bed, glowing and more content than ever in her life, when she discovers that what she thought to be a mere epithet rings true in reality. "I am the soul of the blade," Kris whispers into the skin of her bare shoulder. Although her voice is soft, the weight of her speech makes Katarina thinks that if words could brand like heat and metal, then she would be scarred for all her days to come. "And I will live for as long as the blood of Anri flows through living veins."
Katarina cannot see Kris' face, but she knows that her expression is one of sorrow. In Kris' mind, the implications are clear. I am not human. I cannot make you happy. We cannot have a relationship, we cannot marry, we cannot ever move further than this. I am sorry. Katarina has half a mind to tell her that none of this matters, that these are not things that concern her. If anything, she understands how it is to be a living weapon, raised only to kill. Moreover, Katarina wants to say that no matter how Kris' soul came to be, whether she is born of a weapon or not, she is the most human person that Katarina has ever known.
But Katarina feels the lump grow in her throat as she chokes down her words, and Kris' arms wrapped around her waist are so warm that they burn. If King Marth were to be killed, if Anri's line were to come to an end, then it would end Kris' immortal life. The blood of this beautiful, lovely woman, whose life has seen centuries of conflict and peace and transformation, whom Katarina loves above all treasure, would be upon her hands.
Katarina lies in bed embraced by the soul of Falchion, and she can feel the edges of the blade cutting into her skin.
Their high school days are marked with scores of unspoken confessions and stolen kisses. Kris first pecks Katarina on the cheek, quickly and tentatively in fear of being caught, during a library date for a group project, after Luke has fallen asleep on top of his textbooks, and Cecille and Rody have disappeared to the washroom at the same time. Later, Katarina returns the gesture in a rather daring motion of pulling Kris behind a locker and tugging down on the taller girl's collar before kissing her full on the lips, only several feet away from Principal Jagen's office door.
Even after their relationship becomes public knowledge and the congratulatory teasing of their friends' has worn off, they still continue to have these encounters, keeping things secret even when there's no need for them to be. On the eve of their graduation, Luke suggests that they all sneak onto the school roof at nighttime and shout their dreams into the night sky, like a scene from a feel-good movie. While the others are scampering away from the angry security guard that's come to chase them off campus, Kris and Katarina duck behind a row of large potted plants, and stifle their laughter with each others' lips.
Most important of all though, is the deep, heart-stopping, toe-curling, tear-inducing kiss behind the curtain of the stage during their graduation ceremony, when Katarina presses the second button of her uniform shirt into Kris' hand, and Kris promises to treasure it for the rest of both their lives.
It isn't that Midia doesn't trust Jeorge, it's just that she worries for him. Jeorge has always been the unpredictable, unreadable sort, and recently his intentions and actions have become murkier and murkier, as unfathomable to her as the bottom of a dark well, and this concerns her. While Jeorge enjoys staying an enigma, he will usually tell her of his plans once she truly begins to worry, but this time, he's been completely silent, and this scares her.
Midia doesn't mean to follow Jeorge out of camp in the middle of the night. To make it sound like an intentional stakeout is so incriminating, and Midia knows that she was merely returning from a solo training session that had run far too late when she catches the sight of Jeorge silently slipping out from under his tent flat and disappearing into the woods. She doesn't mean to follow him, but she does, footsteps soft as she shadows him along the leafy paths. She just wants to know if he's alright, because these forests are filled with all manner of savage creatures, and Jeorge has not brought his bow.
What she sees next shocks her, sending stabs of ice deep into her chest, and it is not until afterwards that he confronts him about it.
"That was a Dolhr soldier," she states plainly, voice heavy with confusion and unspoken accusation, and her eyes plead for a rational explanation to the situation. The way that Jeorge refuses to meet her gaze only confirms her worst expectations, and that in itself makes her heart ache despairingly.
The silence settles over them like a veil, and Midia's lungs burn with choked breath as she waits for Jeorge's response. Just when it seems that he will never talk, Jeorge speaks. It's so jarring to hear the words he tells her, because Jeorge is so good at telling people what they want to hear, but this is the exact last thing she's want him to say at such a time.
"Midia, you need to know that no matter what happens to this world or this country, I will never betray you and Astram. I will always stand by your side. You just have to trust me, please." Seeing that she doesn't look convinced, Jeorge goes again after a plaintive pause of waiting for reply. "Please, Midia. I love you both, but this isn't something that Arcanea can win." He taps the side of his temple sadly with one finger. "I'm a Menedy. We know these things."
Midia looks up at him with wonderstruck, disillusioned eyes, as cold and sharp as metal shards, and her lips purse thin as a dagger edge. She trusts Jeorge, but she simply refuses to believe his words.
Her shoulder brushes hard against him as she exits the clearning.
It's rather eccentric, Jeorge knows, for a young lord to go out hunting with such little company. On these outings, not a single servant follows him, only his fiancee and a trusted infantry soldier. It sounds strange, and impossible, to go hunting in a party of three, but Jeorge always manages to bring back a hearty catch, and the banquets that ensue are usually enough to silence all questions and suspicions.
It's only on these trips that he, Astram, and Midia are able to get any time alone, away from the echoing halls of the castles and the listening ears of gossiping servants. It irritates him as much as it does Astram that the three of them cannot simply be open with their relationship, because, as Astram reasons, if god had meant for them to love only one other person, then he would have made their hearts to be much smaller. As much as Jeorge wishes he could agree with this logic, both he and Midia, having been raised in noble households, know that there are far too many expectations to uphold as heirs, and to raise such a fuss in the public eye would be unwise.
That does not mean, however, that things must remain furtive forever. It wasn't until meeting Astram that Jeorge was ever truly thankful for his arranged engagement to Midia. As soon as they are married, which Astram has given his blessing to of course, then it will be nobody's business whom they choose to invite into their bedroom, and if they both choose to have the same "mistress", then who can object to that?
Day 2: Zombies Kris has seen dark magic. She has traded blows with immortal sorcerers, crossed swords with possessed kings, and fought against resurrected dragons. But this- this is something new and foul, and all too painful. For every one of their men that fall, the enemy- Remnants, they're called- increases in its ranks. It spreads like an infection, or a poison. One bite is enough to send the greatest warriors into fevered delusions, then after weeks of illness, death. And once they die, they rise up again, only to turn against their former comrades. The enemy has even robbed them of dignity in death. The night that Altea falls, and King Marth with it, Katarina is barely able to make it out with Kris alive. The knight seems shocked with horror, more dead than alive, which is unsurprising considering the weight of her devotion to her liege. Katarina feels a bitter selfishness coiling in the pit of her stomach, because while she was meant to repay her debt to Marth and Altea, her only priority was to make sure Kris survived. Even now, although she sees the rise and fall of Kris' breastplate, she still feels the need to check her pulse regularly, to ensure that Kris is still alive and well. Kris is silent for the remainder of the night, blank eyes staring into the sizzling embers of their campfire, but the next morning, she seems less dead, more tiny and fearful. Wrapping her arms around Katarina's slighter form, she whispers, "Never leave me." And Katarina knows that this is because with Marth and Altea gone, Katarina is all that Kris has left.
There had been that one winter morning where they’d been sitting high up in spectator stands of the Quidditch Pitch. being so high up and exposed to the chilly winds and the breezes of passing broomsticks made Katarina shiver from the cold.
The stands were crowded with students of all years, jammed together onto the wooden benches like sardines in a can, with yellow-and-black paraphernalia lining every inch of free space. As a result, Kris was comforting presence, pressed up against Katarina’s side. That day’s match had been Hufflepuff versus Slytherin, and Kris was cheering and waving her heart out with such unabashed earnestness and enthusiasm that it gave Katarina a sense of warmth.
Kris had seemed so focused on the game that Katarina was surprised when the other girl looked over and noticed Katarina’s shivering. Kris had clucked her tongue fussily and affectionately. “No wonder you’re cold, you didn’t even bring your scarf!” She’d admonished, before unwinding her from around her neck, and draping it over Katarina’s shoulders. “There you go. Have mine.”
Katarina had blushed bright crimson, even as she wrapped the scarf around herself, and protested, “But it isn’t even mine! And don’t you need this?”
Kris had merely replied with an earnest grin, saying, “I have a spare. Besides, we’re in the same house anyways. No-one can tell. You can keep it.” At that point, Katarina had buried her face into the scarf out of embarrassment, and when she breathed in, it had smelled of warmth and home.
Years later, when Katarina takes a sniff of Amortentia and it smells exactly like that scarf, it only confirms what Katarina already knows.
“Challenge on Infinite Earths” is a 30-day challenge where you take your favorite ship (or character(s)!) and place them in various “what if” scenarios and alternate universes. Feel free create artwork, graphics, stories, playlist or anything in between while exploring how different environments could potentially create a new experience for characters.
(Hover over the prompts for ideas or to clear up any possible confusion.)
