I would love to hear some more about Bono and Lewis in fotb 👀
weeeeell. there's not TOO much more to say about their present-day relationship, where it's just lewis mournfully wandering the halls of his castle and bono bringing him shiny handmade things like a distressed magpie. but i DID find this bit in the docs (from over a year ago??) that is set during the war. a post-battle bloodlust situation. it would seem
Lewis’ body becomes a blade beneath Bono’s hands. The angles of chest-waist-hip are familiar as his own sword—the strong, sharp jut of an ankle as easy to heft as the hilt of any weapon.
He goes easily to the ground. He is beautiful, smeared in blood and mud like warpaint. There is blood in a stroke across his cheek. There is blood shining in the delicate knotting of his braids. There is blood caught in the feathery cut of his eyelashes.
There is blood on Bono’s hands, too. He leaves handprints in shades of scarlet across the dark expanse of Lewis’ belly, around a strong thigh, the solid swell of his arse. He’s not gentle, wrenching Lewis’ body around and over. Putting him on hands and knees. Bending over him and rutting like an animal.
He is aware of sound; from himself, from Lewis, the shrill cicada-song ringing out from the forest. There’s no one near enough to hear Lewis keen when Bono breaches him, in something that should be only pain but is painted thick with layers of pleasure. There’s no one left to hear Bono hiss and groan and howl while he fucks his king into the ground.
He is aware of these things. Of sound, of sensation. Of taste, when he folds as if forced by an invisible hand, mouth gaping wide, tongue searching for the salt-sweat at the back of Lewis’ neck. He is aware of pleasure. He is aware of Lewis’ body, and its tight heat, and of Lewis’ fingers clawing at the dirt.
He is aware, but awareness is not the same thing as lucidity. When he finds lucidity again it is a horror.
When he comes back to himself he sees what he has done. He sees the way he has shaped his king beneath his hands—Lewis, on his back, dappled in red, and in white, in fluids that shine and drip and are only just starting to dry in the western sun. Bono had, it seems, at some point torn Lewis’ clothes from his body so viciously that they’re barely recognizable as clothes anymore.
Lewis is panting. Bono is panting. The sun is hot on the back of his neck but the heat of Lewis’ eyes is many, many times worse.
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Alex hadn't changed, really, over the last year. Still tall, still tan. Still gut-achingly handsome. Really, the only difference from this time to the last is that last time, Logan had been the one bleeding.
Logan was across the clearing in three quick, clean strides. Alex was sliding to the ground, back against a tree, and he hadn't noticed Logan yet. Or if he had, he hadn't recognized him. The wound across his arm bled lazily, as if it were tired of pumping out blood and taking a bit of a breather. A bad sign, more like than not.
On his knees in front of Alex was a place that Logan had always hoped to find himself. Not like this, exactly, but something.
"Hey," Logan said, soft, like speaking to a spooked horse. Last time, Alex had laughed at him, even as he'd carefully wrapped strips of his own cloak around Logan's bloodied stomach.
Alex groaned. His eyelids were flickering like candlelight, lips parted into a perfect, blood-spattered flower.
"Alex," Logan said, and he put one hand on Alex's knee, where he wasn't so obviously injured. Alex's eyes came into focus and then unfocused again. There wasn't any obvious recognition in his face, but his perfect mouth quirked into such a perfect smile that Logan felt a lot like he'd been the one slashed to hell and back with the business end of a blade.
"Logan," Alex said. "S'that... huh."
Like he was surprised, but like it was a happy surprise.
It felt like theft, when he leaned in to kiss Alex on the lips. It felt like he was taking something that didn't belong to him, only it'd been so long since he'd last seen Alex, and Alex had smiled at him like he'd missed him.
So Logan kissed him. Alex didn't stop smiling. Even as his body sagged and he sighed, passing out with a whisper of a breath, he kept smiling. He did keep breathing, too, which was the important part.
For a moment, Logan let himself look. In sleep—never mind that it was a sleep induced by blood loss—Alex looked so peaceful that it made Logan's heart hurt. So he kissed him again, on the corner of his mouth, and he didn't say anything stupid like I missed you or I love you, actually.
Instead, Logan settled in, closer, and unclasped his cloak to shred for bandages.
Last line challenge resurgence. Post the last few lines of whatever you worked on recently, tag some friends, and spread the love of creation 🙌
“Pedrito,” Enea says.
Pedro is too fraught to tell him off for the nickname. He hums, cupping the space just below Enea’s ribcage, thumbs touching. There is a long silence. Enea’s small hands come down around Pedro’s wrists but he doesn’t pull him away, only holds him there, gentle and close.
“I’d give it to you if I could,” Enea says, softly, eventually.
low pressure tagging @dumbf1sketches @testarossa @elementalmoments @kelpenjoyer if it moves ya 💕
hiiii hello you have found a fotb doc!!!! i realized after i posted the og wip game that it could've been read as like a driver number ship thing (which in this case would have been like. what. isack/yuki? nico/jenson?) but no. i have been titling my fotb docs based on the in-universe years they are set in for sloppy organization purposes. i think technically this doc encompasses a bit of 623 too but who cares. ANYWAY! the latter part of this year is when shit starts getting really real between pedro & enea, which is followed pretty immediately by enea running back off to fantasy italy with diggia? much of this is addressed in this post (thank you!!!) but here are a couple bits!!
“You’ll get in trouble,” Pedro says, dazed. “The—”
“Lie down,” Enea says, digging Pedro’s purse out of the heap of his clothes. “I’ll go pay it for you. It’ll be expensive.” It’s a threat or a joke or some middle point between them; Pedro’s favourite. He’s grinning, even as he settles against Enea’s clean sheets.
“You always are,” Pedro says, too tired to make it sarcastic or snarky. It just comes out—fond. Amiable.
Gods help him.
“Come with me,” Diggia says. He is holding Enea so tightly that Enea feels near to bursting. The familiarity is there in whispers and footnotes, wrapped in the arms of the best friend he’d ever known.
It has been so, so long.
“But I…” Enea stops. Diggia is running a hand through his hair. His shoulders are shaking a little, like he is so undone by having Enea close to him. Enea thinks of Flavio, his cruel hands and crueler eyes. He thinks of Franco, and how he would be left alone if Enea were to leave. He thinks of Pedro. Pedro, who Enea wants desperately to keep for himself. Dangerously. Jealously.
He realizes this is the only way.
a LOT of the rest of what's in this doc is enea's journey Back to fantasy spain? some of my fave bits being him running into marc (former favourite client and actual friend somehow) at an inn run by nadia (of gresini fame! fantasy italians speckled through the fantasy spanish landscape) and then marc packing enea onto a horse and taking him north to look for pedro. there's not a ton to say about it so i'm actually just going to dump a WHOLE bunch of bits. i'll put the rest under a cut so it's less annoying of a post lmao
---
“I’m looking for someone,” Enea says, teeth chattering. His grasp on the language isn't bad, can't be bad after so many years of living under its thumb, but it falls out of his mouth in too-sharp syllables, clumsy with cold. “He’s—he is—”
And what is Pedro, exactly? A sellsword. A mercenary.
Enea doesn’t even know his last name.
The woman, who until now has been eyeing him warily, softens. “Why don’t you come in,” she says, slowly, like he’s a bit dumb. “Get warm. Come on now.”
He goes easily into the inn. It is warm inside, so warm, and dry, and it smells like roasting meat. Enea ran out of food two days out of Llynford.
“By the fire, off with you,” says the woman. She bustles him over to it, stripping off the soaked tatters of his cloak and then sitting him down in a chair. “Just stay there.”
/
He hears it from a distance, half-asleep as he is. My lord. Yes ser, he’s right over there. Enea, were he not so exhausted, heavy to the bone with the desperation to sleep, might be afraid. He thinks the thoughts—ah, Flavio has found me—and then lets them go, submits to them. Maybe Flavio will take pity on him. Put him back to work, in a less reputable brothel to be sure but at least it will be somewhere Enea can get warm. And maybe—maybe Pedro—
He sucks in a breath that rattles. He’s prone to this, this sickness of the lungs. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe he’ll die before Flavio can kill him.
“Ah,” says a new voice. “Enea. It is you.”
When Enea opens his eyes it’s—Lord Marquez, stood in front of the fire, all broad shoulders and trim waist and generous smile. Marc Marquez is and always has been very beautiful. One of Enea’s favourite clients.
Is Enea hallucinating?
“You are so far South,” he says distantly, because that seems to be the only thing to say. Marc laughs.
“On my way back from the city.” He kneels in front of Enea, settling the blanket more smoothly over his lap, and peers up at him. “Now, you…”
Enea grins, exhausted, but satisfied. “I ran away,” he croaks. “I know your country has these laws, for your slaves.” He coughs now, shuddering as he realizes what he’s saying. “Flavio will have me killed the second he sees me.”
Marc’s smile falters, but only for a second. Most people wouldn’t have caught it but then most people have likely not fucked Ser Marquez.
“No,” he says slowly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
And Enea keeps smiling. He wants to believe this—that Marc might protect him out of some misplaced loyalty, that Marc might feel like it’s something Enea is owed. Enea has never turned down a gift before. But the idea that he could be protected from someone like Flavio is so outrageous that he wants to laugh.
“I came back,” Enea says abruptly, wheezing a little. He really does feel quite awful. “I could have—I went home. And I could have stayed.”
Marc watches him, features blurry and firelit. “It wasn’t home anymore,” he says.
Dizzily, Enea nods. Marc understands. He always seems to understand. “So I have come back,” he says again, “to find Pedro.” The edges of his vision are going spotty. Darkening, tunneling. He’s so tired.
/
“It would be better to stay,” Nadia gripes. “The weather is bad. Look at him, he’s barely awake.”
Enea makes a muffled noise of protest. He’s plenty awake. He’s following the conversation just fine, even holding his spoon on his own.
“He can’t stay in this part of the country,” Marc says easily. Finally. Anyone else might not have picked up on the hesitance, the resistance against offering up any information that he doesn’t explicitly have to share.
“I’m a whore,” Enea offers helpfully. Marc and Nadia shoot him sharp looks, equally pointed in different shades.
“He’s one of Flavio’s,” Marc says. The reluctance is more naked this time.
Nadia’s face pinches. She looks nervous for a beat before she scowls, starts to mutter to herself. It takes Enea a moment to realize she isn’t speaking Marc’s language; she’s speaking his. “That blood traitor,” she says under her breath, going back to her dough, kneading furiously. “That scum.”
/
“Enea,” Marc says, soft, chin hooked over Enea’s shoulder. “I need you to stay awake a while longer.”
Enea grunts back at him. Why? He is so tired. The snow hasn’t started to fall but it smells like it will, soon; if only they were headed south. East. Anywhere but the north where Enea will be cold, cold, cold.
“We will stop soon,” Marc tells him. “And we’ll have a fire, and you can rest. For now, tell me about Pedro.”
He’s quiet for so long it must seem as though he’s fallen asleep. Marc moves to jostle him, but Enea sinks into his hold.
“He was kind to me.” He says it with so much reluctance he almost wants to laugh at himself. Kind. As if that could begin to explain it.
For the WIP thingy, I'm so interested in fotb based on all the things you've tagged it with 👀
hey buddy wanna buy a wip
OFC MY LUV!
the doc mentioned called 'fotb sidepiece' is literally just where i've been dumping any non-main storyline chunks and thoughts about scenes for the fantasy au aka flat of the blade!!
the whole thing started off as lordling oscar/knight mark doing a big gay roadtrip and oscar constantly being like 👀 so dick time? dicking down? time to dick down? and mark being like [tragic knight voice] i cannot........... i should not.............. i wish to do it but i Should Not.... and then eventually doing it anyway. many such cases with them. but yeah that's the main plotline which has been ironing itself out bit by bit as time goes on BUT the world has also expanded into a way larger space which is to say..... pretty much the gang's all here. i've made maps of the world. i've been making d&d character sheets for everyone. the fantasy brainrot is real
SO ANYWAY the sidepiece doc just has little bits of scenes that could eventually be popped into spinoff stories, some test writing for king lewis having a bad time, two times that lando hit jon in the face (by accident kind of. sort of), galex being real fruity while doing patrols of the capital city, and some [redacted] oscarmark that is not canon to the main story but that i think about often. also bono is in there he's a blacksmith it's a whole thing
but yeah. it's my baby, actually, and i've been having the most fun with it? it's been such a treat to be able to talk about it at length with people who are like not only interested but inspired by it?? @glasscushion & @likepilotlights have both written some bits in this universe and i can not express how much joy it brings to be able to play in a sandbox together :''''''''') very happy very good
here have a bunch of the disconnected chunks from the doc under the cut! galex AND jondo wow two for the price of one <3
As much as George does his best to speak and act more like the noble that he distinctly is not, he still says things like, “the rains’ll be coming down in a day or two,” or “this sun’s going to be bad for the harvest.” Things that Alex would never think to say, because it’s never been relevant. But George’s entire life before wedging his way into the city guard was just that—without vouching, he would still be out working the fields of his family’s farm. Not unsuccessful, but there’s no glory in shearing sheep and milking cows. So he says.
-
“Shouldn’t you be standing guard?”
Alex glances back over his shoulder, blinking curiously as if it will be anyone but George.
“I’m guarding,” he says, gesturing at the square below. “Just not standing, am I?”
George pretends he’s too dignified to do things like roll his eyes or scoff or, gods-forbid, snort. With Alex, he does all three.
“Well, stand up,” he says crisply. “I’m not getting a reprimand because you’re too lazy to be upright.”
-
It’s sweaty, under the helm. Alex’s never fits quite right—he thinks that George might’ve accidentally picked Alex’s up in his hurry to dress, once, and that he never noticed the swap.
-
“Come on now,” Jon says. He’s smiling—but it’s that specific smile that Lando knows means he’s getting frustrated, tight and stretched. “Come on, stop holding back.”
“I’m not,” Lando says shrilly. The practice sword is heavy, is all. One hard piece of carved wood held loose in one hand. He’s not used to holding it. He hasn’t done this in ages.
“You are,” Jon says. “You’re better than this.”
Am I?
“You’re out of practice,” Jon says. “And you’re used to acting weak.”
Acting?
“You’re not. You’re not weak.” Jon hefts his own sword, just adjusting it in his hand. “You’re better than this, so just—“
I’m not. I’m not.
It’s frustration in a wave, a surge that crashes cliffside. It’s fury. Anger, how unfair the world is. How unfair this whole fucking world is, that Lando’s been bedridden the best years of his life, when he could have been fighting or protecting or impressing Jon properly.
He hears himself yell. Not a sob, not a wail. A proper yowl as he lunges on instinct and swings and there’s a sharp crack. A tree, maybe, or—
He stops. Jon’s staring at him, clutching at his face. When he pulls his hand away it’s covered in blood. It’s all running down his chin, lip split.
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let's go wiiiith flat of the bladeeee a crumb of oscarmark for the oscarmark queen!! this actually happens pretty early on, planned for the first chapter? but it's like... it's just an establishing moment they do lots of sparring but this is the first time in the fic we see oscar have the upper hand and he certainly takes advantage of it
“Come on now,” Mark says, dropping his sword arm. “You almost had me. You can—“
Oscar moves so fast that Mark barely sees him coming.
One second he’s across the clearing, the next he’s leaping at Mark, and the second after that finds them both on the ground. Mark flat on his back, Oscar on top of him.
A silence. Mark’s sword has skipped away across the dirt, just out of reach.
Oscar grins. His knees are on either side of Mark’s waist. The only thing that takes the edge off of his pose—he’s straddling Mark—is the fact that he’s still got a solid grip around his sword.
“Got you,” he says, breathless.
And then he kisses Mark on the mouth.
