#and it carries the stench of death that forsaken

[druidonity2]

Fanfic idea - A lost mawrat finds itself on Azeroth, long away from home, and finds a man soaked in the stench of the Maw. Unsure where else to go, it follows him, hoping to be lead back to the Shadowlands.

#He thinks its a hallucination but then other people see it and hes like oh #it wont leave him alone so over time he decides to just accept that its there #and strangely bonds with it as some weird form of therapy #it likes pets and doesnt eat anything and is very good at scouting ahead or alerting to danger #that said its never been to the realm of the living and thus does not fit in very well both in looks and behavior #and it carries the stench of death that forsaken #and deathknights can pick out a mile away #fic idea #anduin wrynn #world of warcraft #shadowlands #the art sucks cuz im going back and forth between artblock and i just aggghh sometimes its harddd

[thebadboyfanclub]

Welcome To Our Family (Daemon x Reader)

Hey everyone, so as I mentioned before I wanted to write a throuple thing with Rhaenyra and Daemon although even on this request there was some drama involved but it was interesting to write nonetheless. Also I don’t know why but this song inspired me the most especially the part “where you go I go, what you see I see” that was the vibe I was trying to pass for our reader with daemon

Most would say that the war in the stepstones had no place for love to blossom, the reeking stench of death had overtaken and most men had no life in their eyes, the majority prayed in gratitude that they were alive while others cursed the gods for keeping them on this forsaken realm when their friend of even their kin had been killed.

That did not even grace Daemon, who was lucky enough to spend every night in the arms of his beloved (y/n), the sister of one of his soldiers that had been wounded, (y/n) had marched in and demanded that her brother will come home.

“I will be damned if I allow you to give more than an arm for this, you are coming with me”

Her brother had obeyed her, she was as fragile as a rose but her thorns stung more than anything, right then and then Daemon had become a mere slave to his emotions, something that had never occurred before.

“I wish I could stay in your arms forever”

“That would be a dream, my love, however, we are counting the days until you depart, your wife probably awaits you”

Daemon was deeply offended by the jab his lover had thrown at him, slowly he rose up and away from her arm reach to look her straight in the eyes, the fireplace burned bright and the light shined against her glistening skin.

“You are questioning my feelings for you”

“I am questioning how strong they are, you are a prince, a husband, your life seems to hold no room for me”

“Is that how you think of this? That I just wanted to bed you?”

“Do you truly wish for me to answer that?”

Silence took over them while the only sound came from the crackles of the fire, Daemon was aware of how badly this could look, she was a commoner, a mere lady, and the realm would never accept her even if Daemon had not wed another.

“You and our daughter mean everything to me”

“But nothing to the king, he will ask for my head once he finds out I am carrying your child”

“I would never put your lives at risk”

“How do you plan on keeping us safe my love?”

“Do not worry about that, I will take care of everything”

(Y/n)s belly was starting to show, it wouldn’t take long for the king and his little whisperers to demand answers, the easy route was to declare his kin a bastard but Daemon was flying on cloud nine when (y/n) announced that she was with child, no he must do right by her.

He flew with her to Pentos, far away from Viserys and people that cared most about titles and crowns than love and compassion.

“Twins, my prince, two sons, praise the mother”

“What about (y/n)”

“The lady is a warrior, she is tired but healthy”

Daemon did not speak another word to the maester, he simply passed by him and into the room to find his beloved laying in bed, a faint smile on her face as she held one of her children while the other was being held by a midwife.

“You owe me 3 dragon coins”

“It is a bet I will happily pay, how are you feeling?”

“Sore and gross but happy, why don’t you hold him?”

“I-“

“Come on love it is merely a babe, like… so”

Slowly (y/n) passed one of her sons to her lover, instructing him to hold it carefully but securely, then she reached for the midwife so she can have her other son in her arms, both of the babes were quiet in their parent's arms.

“What should we name them?”

“I was thinking of Orryn, and mayhaps… Baelon?”

“Baelon and Orryn, the two princes”

Daemon and (y/n) had grown inseparable much to his brother's dislike Daemon had scoffed at his previous marriage and took his place next to his most endearing (y/n) that had blessed him with not just two children, but with passion, and comfort, she created a home for him, without her there was no warmth, no color.

Viserys was only finding out the milestones his brother was achieving with his mistress via ravens that Daemon dared to send, the birth of his sons had scratched a wound in Viserys that was not quite healed yet, so naturally when Rhea had passed due to fever, Daemon had even dared to invite Viserys to his wedding that took place in Pentos.

(Y/n) had just given birth to another set of siblings, Alyssa and Arren, two silver-haired princesses that slept peacefully through the night and would only stay quiet if (y/n) or Daemon held them, (y/n)s parents and brother had traveled to Pentos to finally meet the children and also attend the wedding.

“You look dashing sweetling, I see the prince has taken good care of you”

“How could I not? What is more important than the happiness of my lady wife?”

“We must admit we had conflicting thoughts over you my prince, I am happy that you proved us wrong”

“I do not hold it against you, she is your daughter you want what is best for her, also you were not the only one, (y/n) was also very skeptical over my intentions”

“I had every reason to do so”

“I have made peace with the fact that you will never admit you were wrong my love, you do not have to find excuses for it”

Daemon and (y/n) were wed in Valyrian traditions, something that infuriated Viserys, how dare he wed a commoner with the sacred paths of old Valyria, it was distasteful and utterly disrespectful, Viserys had only sent a one-sentence raven scroll back

“You disgust me, never come back”

Daemon had only rolled his eyes at it and threw it in the fire, he couldn’t care less about Kings Landing, they could eat each other for all he cared, (y/n) and their children were all that mattered ever since he met with the beautiful hues of hers, he treasured everything about her and worshipped the ground she walked on, he would always hold her close and shower her with gifts.

“We received a raven, I have taken the liberty to open it”

“What is it?”

“Laenor Velaryon has passed, and your niece is requesting our presence, well yours to be specific, she said “I need you, uncle”

“You are jealous, I have never seen you get jealous”

“Is this the one you told me about, that “spur of the moment” girl?”

“Indeed, we do not have to go, besides, my brother banished me”

“No, it is the first time our presence is requested”

“My dear, you are with child and the flight is long”

“I will be fine, I know it”

Daemon was certain he could not sway her, once something was on her mind there was nothing that could turn it around, he was also aware that the reason she was so adamant was a side of hers that felt threatened, there was a ghost of his past that was requesting attention and (y/n) was not willing to walk away from this without putting up a fair fight.

At a day (y/n) and her 8 children stood next to her and her husband all dressed in black, everyone rubbed their eyes at the sight of such numerous children, (y/n) always knew she was meant to be a mother and that fact that she had Daemon as her husband made it so much easier.

Until it didn’t, they were summoned by the king after the ceremony, (y/n) felt her stomach drop as soon as she walked in the room, instinctively her one hand went over her growing belly, yet she mastered the strength to place a smile and curtsy before the king.

“What is the meaning of this brother?”

“I was hoping we could agree to some sort”

“Over what?”

“I wish for you to come back, I… will legitimize your children and wife as she has proven worthy, bringing forward 8 children with another on the way is no easy task”

“The gods have been generous to us that is correct, we are grateful for this offer but forgive me to ask, since you mentioned an agreement it seems you want something in return”

“Correct, there is no smooth way to say this but as a parent, I hope you understand that I would do anything to protect my daughter”

“No”

“Daemon”

“If you are asking us to wed Rhaenyra then you have lost your mind, I will not involve my wife and children in your scandals”

“Pardon my husband, I think you can understand the reason behind his outburst”

Daemon was left confused over (y/n)s composure that attempted to cover for his utter refusal to hide his brother's plans, he turned to observe his wife, she was calm, and her hand went to find his as their fingers intertwined (y/n) gave him a slight squeeze of comfort.

“The legitimacy of our children and our marriage is something that we are interested in, however, you can see why we might have some objections over accepting Rhaenyra in our marriage”

“You are trying to negotiate?”

“Yes”

“What else would you like to accept, please speak freely”

“I want my children to be given dragon eggs as well as meet any unclaimed dragons, they are Targaryens, they should have the pick of their dragons as well”

“Done”

“I shall also be considered Rhaenyras wife, if we were to wed I shall have the same rights as my husband”

“You are suggesting the realm accept you as the future queen's consort?”

“As you mentioned I brought forward 8 children and another on the way, the crown shall accept them as future princes and princesses, if not then there is nothing for us here”

Daemon chose to observe his lady wife than speak up, she took initiative and strived for the best option, something he admired in her but he had never really witnessed how far she was willing to go to secure the future of her family, now she was sacrificing a spot in their marriage for a seat at the table, Viserys had been outsmarted by what he used to frown upon.

“Very well, we accept your conditions”

“Well then… welcome to our family Princess Rhaenyra”

-

(Y/n) and Daemon wed Rhaenyra as they had once done while their children and the rest of their family watched, Rhaenyra had underestimated the lady, (y/n) and might not be as assertive or rebellious as Daemon but her wits and calculated movements showed a woman that walked with her head held high and every step was thought after.

The days turned to seasons and then years, everyone was holding their breaths as they took a front-row seat to one of the most important marriages and alliances within the Targaryen Dynasty.

(Y/n) was held in the best light by the small folk, “the realms mother”, and “the Alyssane reborn” as her fertility kept thriving, blessing Daemon with another set of twins soon after Rhaenyra was wed, the two beautiful baby girls were named Megaera and Valera, the first of their family to receive dragon eggs on their cradles a gift by Rhaenyra who picked them herself then came Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya, overall (y/n) had the castle of Dragonstone filled with children, 13 to be precise.

Rhaenyra was painfully aware of how those babies came to fruition, Daemon's thirst for his wife was evident and he did not even consider giving Rhaenyra the courtesy of hiding, Rhaenyra had lost count of the times she had walked in on (y/n), and Daemon lusting after one another at all hours of the day and any room that was close to them, she sometimes wondered if the legends of Rhaenys being the favorite wife of Aegon made Visenya go through what Rhaenyra was also experiencing, is that mayhaps the reason behind Rhaenyra identifying with the warrior queen?

As (y/n) and Daemon stood by Rhaenyra at court, defending her and consulting her on important matters, painting the picture of a happy marriage with two spouses that supported her revolutionary claim, the realm expected Rhaenyra to bare a child as well, (y/n) was producing heirs one after the other, Rhaenyras womb laid empty since Daemon did not spend not even one night in her chambers.

It was the first time in years that the three of them had stepped foot in kings landing, Vaemond had called the court to usurp Lucerys from his claim at the driftwood throne, naturally, all 13 of their children were present along with the three boys from Rhaenyras previous marriage, (y/n) insisted that it would show how United they are and having that strong of a number on their side would scare off any other accusations.

A solid plan, until Ser Vaemond decided to protest against the king affirming young Lucerys as the successor for the driftwood throne.

“You run your house as you see fit, but I would rather die than let that boy take over my family’s name, parading around because you are too blind to see the truth”

“You dare question the decision of a king?”

“Look at them, all thirteen of them hold the characteristics of old Valyrian, true born heirs that I would happily accept as mine even though they came from a womb of a commoner, and you ask me to accept these three boys as Velaryons? It is blasphemy”

“You are certainly bold Ser Vaemond, you have the nerve to call me a commoner when I hold the future queen and the brother of the king as my spouses, my children are not thirteen, but sixteen, and all of them hold their names with pride, it saddens my heart to see that the thirst for recognition has turned you to this low of antics”

“Her children are BASTARDS! and she. Is. A. Whore”

“Pity, you had such great potential”

As (y/n) finished her sentence Daemon had taken the liberty to end Ser Vaemonds life, a clean cut through his head right above his tongue with the great sword dark sister, causing most people to gasp while (y/n) smirked and watched the body fall on the well-polished floor.

“No one disrespects our family”

“Disarm him!”

“No need, my love”

Daemon stretched his hand to his beloved (y/n) who only turned to pinch Lucerys cheek before she took her husband's hand to walk away, only to halt and turn around again, looking back to the rest of her family members.

“Rhaenyra”

Rhaenyra was grateful for (y/n)s graciousness, there was nothing that she could hold against her, she was loving and caring to her three boys, she would listen to Rhaenyra about any concerns for hours and even now she defended and included her in front of everyone.

She should be satisfied with such, still a thorn stuck in her heart and pride making Rhaenyra feel second best when it came to Daemon's heart, it has always been (y/n), (y/n) carried his offspring’s, he gave up everything for her, took her away and gave her a life full of gifts and love, the finest of any kind was reserved for (y/n).

“Pardon my intrusion, the princess is requesting Prince Daemon in her chamber”

“It is late, can it not wait?”

“Sweetling, the poor girl cannot know, go to her, I will be waiting for you”

“Fine, take your nightgown off for me, I want us to get straight to it when I get back”

Daemon whispered deviously before he planted a passionate kiss on the lips he most adored, reluctantly pulled away with an audible gruff and followed the servant girl silently, wondering what was so important that he had to leave his precious bed and his lustful wife right in the heat of the moment.

Rhaenyra paced back and forth with impatience written all over her demeanor and face, Daemon always had an influence over her, making her feel like a little girl again, though this was a different type of anxiety, once Daemon entered the room and the servant gave them their privacy Rhaenyra took a deep inhale through the nose to ease her nerves.

“I hoped to confront you over our marriage”

“What of it?”

“Do you truly think everything is fine or are you just blind?”

“I and my wife have honored our vows”

“That is the problem, you and your wife, it has never been just your vows”

“When you wed us you were to understand your place when it came to me and (y/n), I never used her as a surprise, you called for our aid and we generously offered it”

He was right, Rhaenyra had never been blindsided by them, (y/n) was a staple of their marriage, (y/n)s strive for the legitimacy of her children was the only reason Daemon allowed their wedding to happen, (y/n) had drank for Rhaenyras cup just as daemon had, binding their hands together and swore loyalty and devotion to their future queen.

As a woman Rhaenyra felt cast aside, this marriage was an insult to her pride, and having to bare through a birth of a child one after the other with a smile on her face was a twist of a knife in her wound, while her womb lay empty.

“You refuse to spend time with me, alone, you only show up with your children-“

“Our children, (y/n) and I call your sons our sons”

“At court yes”

“Are you questioning our actions? I did not have you to be as dim-witted as you seem right now, (y/n) called Lucerys her trueborn son in front of everyone, I took a man’s head for insulting you and our house and yet you stand before me and claim it is not enough for your liking?”

“I stand here to remind you that we have yet to produce a child, you can kill as many men as you wish, and (y/n) can scream it at the top of her lungs but that does not change that everyone sees her parading her belly and call her the realms mother while my womb rottenness under this wedlock”

“Rotten? Alright then, let us entertain this and say you bare my child, a silver-haired beauty that the realm will welcome, has it crossed that brilliant mind of yours that this will be more of a scandal for your three boys?”

“My sons are Targaryens”

“No doubt about it, but certainly they do not look like the part, in comparison to their brothers and sisters they look more like (y/n) than you”

“You are not refusing to lay with me to hush the rumors, you simply do not have the urge for it, I remember a time that you did, mayhaps it was the image of a gullible girl that kept you going”

“Listen and listen well, wife, (y/n) is my eternal love, the woman that took me in her arms and showed me life, you are my blood, I protected you, I defended you, I offered you sanctuary just so you can once again have something to complain about, well that is it, if you dare to summon me again for such idiotic matters I will grab my brother by the neck and force him to annul the marriage do you understand?”

Daemon was furious, as he spoke he started taking steps towards her, to the point that her back found the wall and Daemon was inches away from her face, hissing out the threat of annulment like a snake that released poison to its prey.

Rhaenyra had never experienced such hostility from Daemon, to say she was shocked was an understatement as her eyes frantically tried to find focus on his, daemons eyes were filled with fury, Rhaenyra had crossed the line in his mind, (y/n) had been kind and honorable to the princess, doing her duty like a proper lady wife and Rhaenyra scoffed at her, at his (y/n).

“Alright”

“Wonderful, now you must excuse me, I have some urgent matters that need my attention”

Requests are open!

#daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon x rhaenyra #daemon x oc #hotd daemon #daemon au #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd #hotd fic #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon x reader #hotd season 1 #Spotify

[221bshrlocked]

Finding the Heavens

Pairings: Captain Rex x afab!Reader

Words: 1725

Warnings: Brief talk of war casualties. Indirect love confessions. One very soft kiss.

Summary: Rex finds you meditating after a particularly harsh day on the battlefield. A small misunderstanding leads to big realizations.

A/N: This is for @cloneficgiftexchange ClonexReader Comment Swap. I realized the only Rex fic I have is hella NSFW so here is my SFW admission. I hope you guys like this. It's just a little bit angsty because you know, wars, but it's fluffy in it's own little way. Comments are always appreciated.

It was becoming difficult, the repetitiveness of leaving the Temple for rotations on end, and going on outrageously weary missions as if you were made for war and not peace. You laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the chuckle quickly turns in a deep sigh as your naivety settles in, and you realize that your excitement for being knighted was misplaced. Completely and utterly misplaced. It was never about peace, but the justification of inherently hopeless actions. 

You wipe your face with a wet towel, looking up and studying the field in front of you littered with nothing but pain and suffering. As you take in the stench of death, you hear the faint voice of the 501st Captain speak through the comms, signaling everyone to return to camp for the night. You were never meant to spend more than fortnight on this maker-forsaken planet, but things prolonged far beyond your control and the Council decided it was best you remain where you are in case Dooku’s minions returned for what belonged to them. His voice rings across the several troopers surrounding you, and you nod at them when they turn around and wait for you to move ahead of them. 

As you make your way back to the campsite, you try to alleviate the sadness enveloping the men walking with you, cracking jokes and doing your best to discuss anything but the war. It proved easier than usual, and you figured it was probably because of the trooper’s need to forget about their place in this galaxy. When you finally make it back to the others, you watch as they each let the reality of the situation kick in, mourning those they will never see again and wondering who was next. 

Not wanting to push your luck with them, you bid them a good night and head towards the edge of the camp to keep the first watch. A few men wave at you as you pass by them, and you do your best to smile back, allowing the faint gratitude to wash over you. When you reach your position, you throw the hood of your cloak over your head, tightening it around your body until you are somewhat warm. The sounds of the men carry over the campsite, calming you down enough to finally meditate. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you knew it had to do with the return back to Coruscant. You could only hope there was time off ahead of you, not because you were extremely fatigued from battle, but mostly because of the psychological effects you knew the men were suffering from. 

Especially the Captain. 

“You were distracted out there.” The voice of none other than the man you found yourself thinking too often lately breaks the silence of your space, and you crack a smile before continuing to regulate your breathing. When Rex turns to face and sees what you’re doing, he stops in his tracks and apologizes profusely, afraid that he’s crossed the invisible boundaries that have always existed between the Clones and the Jedi. 

“Captain, please. There’s no need to apologize, I was only de-stressing. Nothing particularly important.” You take in one last deep breath before relaxing your whole body, allowing your limbs to fall off the giant rock you’re sitting on until your muscles stretch. 

“I can come back later.” Rex avoids your eyes, knowing he might give himself away if he were to look at you once you agree. 

“You can stay as well.” The response shocks him into looking up at you, and when he finds your features missing that soft smile he’s grown so fond of, he tries his best to calm his heart, afraid of what he might say should you sense his unease. 

“Please…stay.” 

He makes up his mind then and there, quietly nodding at you before setting his helmet aside and taking a seat beside you. His thigh touches your leg, and he looks down immediately, wondering how it was possible for him to feel heat course below his skin when there were so many layers separating the both of you. 

Neither of you say anything, choosing to marvel at the scenery overtaking your sight. A cool wind passes through the trees and sends a shiver down your spine, making you grow closer to the Captain unintentionally. If Rex notices you leaning into his space a little more than professionally appropriate, he says nothing of it, smirking at the prospect of being a safe space for you. 

The trees rustle all around you, making you wish you weren’t out in the middle of nowhere and instead back in your room at the Temple. The thought randomly reminds you of Rex’s previous words, and you reluctantly turn to face him before you speak. 

“Forgive me.”

The sentiment pulls Rex’s eyes to your expression, and he tilts his head to the side in confusion at the soft outburst. 

“G-General?” He doesn’t know what you’re referring to, and he hates to think that he may have led you into thinking that you need to apologize to him. 

“You’re right. I was distracted out there, as much as I tried not to be…I- I should be better, not for my sake but for yours, and the other men.” You swallow the lump in your throat, allowing your eyes to roam down at the lightsaber on your belt. It feels like a massive weight is bringing you down, and you hate that it’s your weapon bringing your attention to said feelings. The last thing you want is for anyone to blame you for the deaths of your friends, and your heart skips a beat at the prospect of Rex thinking such a thing.

“General, you misunderstand me.”

It’s your turn to be taken aback by his response, and you shift your attention from your weapon to Rex’s eyes, wanting to be sure that you heard him correctly. 

“I may be out of line here, but I- I meant to…I was afraid of your distraction, not because you could have done better, but because it put you in danger.” You furrow your eyebrows at him, unsure of whether he was saying what you thought he was.

“I saw you, from across the battlefield, and it terrified me seeing you so indifferent, so unconcerned with your safety.” Rex is ringing his fingers, knowing that he was crossing a line that will most likely make you refuse to work with him again. Although it would pain him to never see you on a daily basis, he was confident he would lose his mind if he didn’t voice his concerns to you, especially now. 

“Maker, you terrified me.” His voice shakes, the sound shooting straight to your chest and clasping onto your heart instantly. You stare at him with wide eyes, incapable of blinking out of fear of missing something, anything that would let you know he was only saying such things because he was your General and not because you meant more for him.

As you take in the reluctance and pain etched on his soft features, you can’t help but admire him even more, marveling at how beautiful he looks even when he was clearly uncomfortable beyond measure. 

When a few moments pass by and you remain silent, Rex swallows nervously and finally turns away from you, unable to maintain any eye contact with you now that he is positive his feelings aren’t reciprocated. 

Against your better judgment, you reach down and trail your index finger along the back of his hand to his wrist, waiting until the gesture settles in his mind before finally breaking the unbearable silence. 

“You look handsome in the moonlight.” You whisper to him, smiling softly when his head shoots straight up from your hands to your eyes. You can tell the sentiment is unexpected, and you wish with all your heart that he knew how much you long for him, how you dreamt of him every night ever since you met him all those months ago. 

“Then again, you always look handsome.” You chuckle to break the growing silence, praying to the Force that he found it in his heart to believe your words. 

“Mesh’la,” Rex’s voice come out hoarse, and you barely have any time to react to the word before he’s standing up and moving in front of you, completely shielding you from the rough night ahead

“Rex.” His name on your lips is all it takes for the two of you to accept the shift in your relationship, and without caring for any of the men walking around the camp behind you, Rex cups your neck and glances quickly to your lips, waiting until you reach for him in return before leaning down and molding his mouth with your own. The kiss is chaste, and you feel your tears fall down your cheeks when he steps even closer to you and wraps his arms around your back. The embrace is uncomfortable but neither of you care for the layers preventing you from truly touching each other. All your focus is on the warmth passing between the both of you, the touch allowing you to forget the tragic reality you’re in if only for a moment. 

When you do finally pull away, it is because Rex has tasted the salt of your tears, and wants to wipe them from your skin. His thumb is rough on your cheek, but you lean into the warmth his palms exude as they hold your face and dry them. You turn to the side a little and kiss his wrist, relishing the new-found comfort he was bestowing on you. 

“I’m here cyare, I’m here.” Rex rests his forehead against your own, smiling to himself when he feels you completely melt into his arms. You can tell he needs this just as much as you, and when you’ve taken everything you’ve been desperately craving for from the hug, you push away from him and bite your lip just as you look up into his hazel eyes, the ones you’ve looked for in everyone you’ve spoken with since the fateful day of your introduction. 

Somehow, as impossible as it was to liken the colors, they reminded you of the heavens just after sunset. 

“So am I Rex, so am I.”

#captain rex/reader #captain rex x reader #clone fanfiction #captain rex #captain rex fanfiction #the clone wars #star wars #captian rex fluff

[himboskywalker]

Hello Love

Anakin stared at the innocuous words, and then stared some more. He blinked, rubbed durasteel fingers into his eye sockets, and blinked spots from his vision, but the words stayed.

Rex cleared his throat. “Something wrong, sir? General Kenobi said it wasn’t urgent.”

Anakin stared at the flimsiplast sheet death gripped in his sweaty, flesh hand. There was still mud and blood caked under his nails that needed trimmed. If Obi-Wan were here they would be cleaned already from the sheer amount of bitching he’d take if he didn’t. But Obi-Wan wasn’t here, he was halfway across the galaxy scraping blood from under his nails from his own planetary sieges. Halfway across the galaxy and sending flimsiplast letters addressed hello love like something out of a holofilm.

Vague and incredulous worry crept up the back of his mind. “Has something happened?” He demanded. “Is the General and the 212th alright?”

Rex shifted and adjusted the helmet balanced against his hip. “As best I know, sir.”

Hello love

He could barely look at the familiar slant of Obi-Wan’s scrawl without pleased heat bubbling up in his chest like a bottle of uncorked champagne. The words didn’t make sense, bewildered him really, but that didn’t stop the euphoric, giddy blush from rising up his throat and burning his ears florid and red.

He wanted to gasp around the bright shock of it, how viscerally it suffused every atom of him with flustered happiness. But that didn’t make the flimsiplast make any more damn sense.

He called Obi-Wan on his comm, half expecting the sounds of blaster fire or screams to answer. But Obi-Wan merely answered with a smooth, “Hello Anakin.”

“Master,” he muttered unsurely, leaving Rex on the bridge. “What’s going on?”

“What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan clipped back, immediately on the alert.

“The flimsiplast you sent,” Anakin said helplessly.

“Oh did Rex deliver it? It’s something tech has been working on, works shockingly fast on an intergalactic scale, carries a signal where coms drop. Keep the sheet on you, it will transcribe handwritten notes between us in real time, even if radio signal cannot pass atmosphere.”

“Oh,” he answered faintly. “Wizard.” That didn’t really address his real question, but Obi-Wan quickly shifted the topic to more important matters at hand. More important than Anakin’s scrambled, flustered brain.

Days passed, then weeks, and while the flimsiplast note did not leave his thoughts, other worries pressed in, sieges, assaults, planet-side entrenchment. The war had lasted long enough that sometimes he found memories from before difficult to recall. Especially when assaults dragged weeks at a time, so that only the screams of dying men and the stench of ion fire kept his exhausted, frenetic thoughts company.

One such assault found him flat on his stomach in a trench full of orange water and empty trooper helmets. Ion cannons lit the violet sky vermillion overhead, a constant rumbling barrage that shook him to his bones. He dug gloved fingers into the mud and pressed his face to his forearm and felt that even the force had forsaken them here.

The Seps had been quick to cut their communications, and then their supplies. It was just a quarter of his regiment here, marooned on this force forsaken rock with no way to call for aid. Two days prior they managed to separate him from his men and at any movement in the trenches they rained blaster fire down that gouged the earth and left smoking holes in their wake.

So he crawled through the mud and rested where he could, searching for his men amongst the wreckage and artillery fire. Violet darkened to a wine dark stain and under the rumblings of ion only the sound of breathing filled the silence of his foxhole, until his belt beeped.

He startled and then scrambled for the sound, wondering how his comm had broken through the communications block. But it wasn’t his comm, he pulled the rolled up flimsi from his belt and it unfurled with a faint, backlit glow.

Anakin—hold fast—we are coming

He sobbed with relief and then snarled at his own weakness, angry at the burn of tears he fought.

Can’t hold long, he wrote. Badly outnumbered and caught in entrenchment under ion cannons. All comms & supplies blocked. Casualties High.

I know. He watched Obi-Wan jot out the words letter by letter, quick and unusually messy.

Just hold on, love, we’re coming.

He gripped the flimsi with whitened knuckles and felt as if he could tear an ion cannon in two with his bare hands. He had never—Obi-Wan had never—

Anakin knew he lit up like a sun when Obi-Wan called him his padawan—his friend—his anything. Obi-Wan wasn’t stupid, he knew how easily Anakin bloomed with embarrassing satisfaction at such simple address. But his master had never—

He shoved the flimsi under his surcoat and gritted his teeth under the flashes of cannon bolts and fought through the mud, fire crackling in his chest with renewed fight. Hours passed and lightning joined the vermillion bolts to flash across the darkened sky. Rain washed sideways through the trenches in icy sheets and he drug one of his unconscious men by the shoulder pauldron and yowled in frustration every time his boots slipped in the mud.

A beep trilled from under his surcoat and he flopped back in the mud with a squelch to take ragged gasps as he yanked out the flimsi.

Keep holding on love.

He sobbed and pushed it back against his breastbone. Hours blurred by one after the other in nothing but a slow bleed of agony and terror and rain lit by ion and ozone. Only the steady beep of the flimsi carried him through, with Obi-Wan’s messy scrawl to remind of the fight still inside him.

Keep fighting love.

I’m coming love.

Don’t give up, my love, the last one read. He could barely make out the words from the blur of rain in his eyes and the agonizing burn of his own exhaustion. He felt only half coherent dragging trooper’s passed out bodies to cover, one after the other, one foot in front of the other.

And finally, finally with the break of dawn a strong and familiar hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him to stand in the mud.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, eyes wide and piercing. “I’m here—I’m here.”

Anakin sagged against his chest, every string of the force keeping him on his feet suddenly cut. “Master,” he slurred, “I didn’t give up—I kept—I kept fighting like you told me.”

Obi-Wan caught him and they both collapsed to the ground, grass here, wherever they were, finally beyond the mud of the trenches.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, a sharp edge to his voice though Anakin felt too foggy headed to decipher it. “I know, love, I’m here.”

#first thing I’ve been able to string together since my brains got liquified hooray!!!! #omg actual words guys #obikin #obikin ficlet #ficlet #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #angst yet fluff…somehow #my fanfic stuff

[blzzrdstryr]

Moth into flame. Yandere!Kaeya x gn!reader

Wordcount: 4k

A.N: It’s very self-indulgent, but I had this idea for 2 weeks now and needed to get it out. I’ve never written fanfiction and I am not a native speaker, so bear with me.

CW: Violence, unhealthy relationship

For as long as you know Kaeya, he feels different from other people. Odd in the way that empty alleyways and dark rooms are odd, a sense of barely concealed danger lurking underneath the layers of charm and friendliness. You always felt his darker nature, but never questioned it before - you are an adventurer after all, the danger is your thrill.

He must have known that you aren’t particularly repulsed by this side of him, as his friendly facade morphed into something darker right in front of you for a couple of times. You doubt a liar and an actor as skilled as he is would make such amateurish mistakes.

No, he can’t be ignorant about how his more ominous part is what makes your veins sing from the strange mix of fascination and fear. That must be why he kept flashing his less amiable side, enticing you further in his grasp, and you gladly took step after step in the carefully crafted trap he prepared just for you.

How could you not? Kaeya is charming and dangerous, like wildfire  and you are nothing but a moth, too blinded by his light to stop and just think.

And now, seeing an irrefutable, but faux proof of the crimes you didn’t commit in his hands, you feel it - how searing his casual coldness can be. Right now, Kaeya Alberich is no human in your heart, he is a small piece of abyss that made its way out of Khaenri’ahn ruins to drag you down the cosmic darkness, where you possibly truly belong.

***

Kaeya both loves and hates your first meeting and he avoids reminiscing about it. It sounds strange, right?

Back then he was still a part of Ragnvindr household and Diluc treated him like a brother, and maybe that is a small part of a reason why he feels such aversion to recalling it - those memories are tinted both by fond nostalgia and bitter loss, enough to make him itch for a bottle in his hand.

Both Kaeya and you were green rookies - a knight fresh from training and a beginner adventurer, accidentally teaming up against a gang of treasure hoarders. It all ended up with both of you victorious, but injured. Kaeya helped you to walk back to Monstadt as one of the criminal's bolts wounded your leg, enough to make you wince from pain at every step.

In the middle of the trail he suddenly grew bored from your barely suppressed pained expressions and soft pants, no matter how cute they were to him, and decided to carry you, just like the groom would carry his  bride. He quipped and joked about it, as he made his way to the city's general direction, and you laughed and made some witty remarks in return.

At the moment he didn't think too much of it - you were another adventurer in his eyes back then, a cute, but insignificant passerby in his life and he was just playing a role of gallant knight in shiny armor. Give it a week or two and he would forget your face and your name.

But he didn't.

Just as you were approaching city gates, a miracle happened - red vision materialized right in your hands. You clutched it tightly to the chest, a bright smile appearing on your face. You turned your head to Kaeya, and he could have swore you were using your newly acquired Pyro on him.

How else could he feel so warm inside all of a sudden?

He couldn't help but recall your smile for weeks after that.

***

Your second meeting happened when you were returning to Mondstadt after your first long expedition. Shortly after the word of your Pyro vision reached Cyrus' ears, he was dead set on sending you to Dragonspine to help other adventurers. You were hesitant at first, but then your natural thirst for thrill combined with a hefty pay he promised won over you, and here you were - carrying several stacks of starsilver, absolutely exhausted and frozen to the very bones walking back to Mondstadt.

To say that you were unprepared would be an understatement of the year - even with pyro vision the cold seemed absolutely unbearable and to make matters worse you almost had a run in with a frostarm lawachurl. To avoid hopeless fight, you had to hide behind the tall snowdrift, almost submerging your body in it, as you both admired and dreaded the ice cladden giant.

Nonetheless, you acquired all of the starsilver the adventure guild needed, and now you trekked through the forest as the sun started to set.

Straining your eyes to see through the heavy rain and approaching darkness you saw it - a bright red smudge against the dark tree bark and unmistakable scent of blood. Such stark contrasts were enough to shake off the tiredness. You slowly made your way to the source of the stench, both fearing and anticipating what may reveal itself to your curious eyes.

There was a silhouette of an injured man that started to slowly morph into a vaguely familiar figure as you got closer. Seeing that there was no threat, you threw your ore to the ground and ran to the unconscious person. It was that knight who helped you to defeat treasure hoarders, Kaeya.

He looked horrible - his normally rich bronze skin now looked ashen and grey from the bloodloss, the face that radiated smugness seemed as if it already belonged on the corpse, the blue vest that he was wearing dyed almost completely in purple from the bloodloss, but the most horrible thing was a shallow but wide gash on his chest.

Not wasting any second, you pulled out your trusty dagger, and sliced the vest to inspect the wound. As you pulled obstructing cloth away you noticed another detail - small burns, surrounding the gash, as if someone slashed Kaeya with something hot enough to scorch, but not hot enough to close the wound and most unexpectedly, faintly glowing blue orb. A cryo vision.

You sat on your knees to put his vision in your pocket and clean his wounds. It still bled, as you frantically searched for a way to close it your eyes fell on the small burns around the wound and suddenly a crazy idea popped up in your head.

With shaking hands you used a piece of sliced vest to muffle him and prevent Kaeya from accidentally biting his tongue off, and then you took the dagger again heating it up. You heard about cauterization from older adventurers, but hoped that you wouldn’t resort to using it.

Kaeya’s pained groans were muffled by the makeshift gag, yet it wasn’t enough to wake him. After you made sure that his bleeding stopped, you removed your outerwear and wrapped Kaeya up. You cursed, as you hoisted a heavier body on your back, an exhaustion you have forgotten moments ago hitting you with a renewed strength.

The path to the Mondstadt with a new burden on your back now felt ten times longer. Even if you two were barely an acquaintance, a cold coil of fear for Kaeya's life still set in the pit of your stomach, and it seemed that no amount of fire would make you feel warm again.

***

Waking up in the infirmary was one of the biggest surprises in Kaeya’s life.

There were times when he was sure of his imminent death - an abandoned shivering child all alone in the forest, a stranger in the strange land, a prince of nothing with the weight of the whole dying kingdom left on his shoulders; a rainy night reeking of death and loss, grief and fury burning him just as much as incandescent claymore, rapidly growing pool of bright red blood, just as red as a…

Kaeya was okay with dying - it would be a nice ending to his story. The dead saviour of an already dead nation, an outlander casted out from the only semblance of home he had. He liked the irony.

He could have asked for help right after the duel, calling out that person’s name, he knew that that person wouldn’t leave him if he was dying, but the possibility of seeing hatred in those eyes was too much for him. The second a fiery blade cut through his flesh was when Kaeya decided to die.

And honestly, he couldn't continue to live once he confirmed what kind of a monster he is - the first thing he felt when he saw Crepus Rangvindr, a person who took him in, kept him fed, warm, safe and clothed all these years, a person who loved him more than his own father did, slowly disintegrating under the strain of delusion Kaeya felt no sadness. No, a relief, as if he was freed of a tiresome burden came instead.

Kaeya was disgusted and horrified for even experiencing such feelings in the first place, but he also couldn't do anything with it - for the last few years he was torn apart between Mondstadt and his homeland, and Crepus’ death should have solved his internal dilemma, driving the final nail in the coffin.

Sometimes he felt as if he was no person at all, just an abyssal creature that took on a human form and was allowed to live only to be unleashed on Teyvat. The time at Khaenri’ah was something that stuck with him for the rest of his life - the fear and resignation he experienced there heavily imprinted on his brain.

Every once in a while he had impulses to lie, to hurt and do as he pleases, for a long time he stopped these urges at the root, maintaining the illusion of normalcy he built for Ragnvindr household. He knew it was from Khaenri’ah, a cursed  nation of sinners with all of its glorious legacy lost to the sands of time. Immoral impulses were something that would have helped him to survive among the endless darkness that surrounded god-forsaken place.

“Ugh”, he tried to get up, to shake intrusive and self-deprecating thoughts away, but failed. Pain, like melted iron, slowly spread from his chest to the points of his fingers in a second. Even breathing was hard - his entire body ached and burned, a shaking hand slowly touched bandaged torso. Alberich winced as he remembered why exactly it was aching.

“Sir Kaeya, you are already awake! Please, don’t move.”, pretty but forgettable nun fussed over him, rechecking his bandages and then taking out a foul smelling medicine. She made Kaeya drink it all. He still cringing from the bitter taste, half sat on the bed, leaning on the headrest, tried to flash her his most charming smile and asked:

“Do you know how I got there?”, it seemed his charms did work on the girl, as she started to describe the previous night in great detail: what she was doing prior to his arrival, how dark the sky was, how worried she was when she saw his battered body, how exhausted the adventurer and guards that delivered him looked.

“Do you happen to know the adventurer’s name? I would like to say my thanks once I get better”

“Oh, it was [First], I think, but I am not sure.  I believe I saw a pyro vision” Kaeya slid in the lying position again, as he remembered you, his first and only crush. Half buried feelings ignited in his chest with a renewed vigor.

Seeing that Kaeya paid her no mind, the nun headed to the exit of the infirmary, but right before she left she turned to Kaeya again, saying that you will visit him tomorrow.

****

Just as you thought Kaeya was conscious today. After you managed to carry him back to Mondstadt, worried but distrustful guards at city gates took away your load and delivered him to the Church of Favonius. You insisted at coming with them, still anxious for Kaeya’s life. Nuns almost showed you out of the infirmary and you, defeated, had to go home.

The next day you spent looking for the abandoned starsilver, thoughts occupied both by Kaeya and the payment Cyrus promised. Fortunately, the stacks lied right where you discarded them and after a quick trip back to the adventurer's guild, you had nothing to do - weekly commissions done days prior, so you decided to spend some time inside the city for once.

As you navigated the city square you felt the tense mood that hung in the air, Mondstadt usually cheerful and carefree now seemed uncharacteristically gloomy. You later learned that the local wine tycoon, Crepus Ragnvindr, died in the accident and his son and young the youngest captain in history of Ordo Favonius, Diluc, left the city and abandoned the knights.

Despite spending almost all of your time outside the city gates, even you were aware of the city's happenings and certainly heard about two dashing young gentlemen. Kaeya was rumored to be a foreign orphan taken in by Crepus and Diluc as you remembered is a claymore swinging pyro user - a picture of Kaeya’s injuries came to mind. Scattered details started to slowly gather into a sound theory.

A fight after Crepus' death(was accident Kaeya’s fault?), that resulted in Diluc abandoning the knights(Are knights also at fault?).

You quickly brushed it off, as theorizing without the concrete evidence was one of the biggest mistakes one could make. So instead of building baseless speculations, you decided to visit one of the key people, Kaeya. Occupied by your thoughts and curiosity, the travel to the church seemed almost momentarily.

Stepping in the infirmary you were hit with a strong bitter scent of the medicine, but Kaeya sitting on the bed seemed fine, if not a bit tired. He was reading a book, but put it aside as he noticed you and gave you a warm smile.“I remember you, [First], you were the one who saved me I was told. Seems I should make it up to you”

“No need for it, you were dying”, you head to him, a hand searching for the vision in the travelling bag. His smile doesn’t drop, even when a somewhat awkward silence hangs around you. Finally, you exclaim: “I found a vision near you, and kept it so it doesn’t get lost or anything”.

“Oh, that’s a surprise, give it to me” the vision in his hands glows alive with a gentle blue light, a small ice shard forming between his fingers and you find yourself holding your breath. Kaeya looks less impressed than you, a strange emotion written on his face,as he looks from the blue orb, to the ice, to your amazed face.

“It may sound rude, but do you remember who injured you?” Kaeya doesn’t appear phased, slowly blinking, a confusion written on his face, as he looks up in contemplation. “Hm, no, can’t remember anything” You shift a little, disappointment not reaching your face. Was Kaeya lying or not?

“I hope I didn’t mess up your adventuring schedule” Kaeya murmured, leaning a little closer to you.

“No. I planned on spending a week inside the city. Why do you ask?”

“Well” he smirks, “maybe a brave and strong adventurer will lend a hand to poor injured me and”, you felt your face slowly heating up “escort me to Good Hunter, the food here is abysmal and maybe your company and decent meal will clear my head a little”

Only a day later you realized that it was your first date.

***

Kaeya likes challenges, and maybe that is a reason why he’s so drawn to you - you’re smart, just not people-smart, and you have enough intuition to guide you away from the schemes and plans he tries to pull off. Of course, he wouldn’t risk your life or general wellbeing - he likes your presence far too much to do that - but the possible less savory reactions he could gauge out of you were too alluring to miss out - frustration, fear, anger.

Alberich is frustrated - a hunger that was ignited by you grew greater and greater with each day - he wants to see so much of you, see you in pain, see you helpless, see you defeated. Would you cry, would you yell, would you curse at him?

He tried to resist it in the beginning - just as he did when he was still a part of Ragnvindr family - but he failed. Maybe, Diluc’s dismissal of him and abandonment was something that broke Kaeya in the way that Khaenri’ah couldn’t. That rainy day he learned one lesson - everyone leaves, and Kaeya didn’t doubt that you would too.

You are an adventurer after all, as free as a wind. It’s just pure luck that someone as curious and thrill-seeking as you hasn't moved to the other nations in search of excitement.

Kaeya feels threatened.

Over the years, you both fell in the comfortable, but vague place between friendship and something-more-than-friendship,a status quo of sorts. You were a loner at heart - fine with keeping almost everyone at arm’s length and Kaeya, to his disappointment, found that even his charms wouldn’t bend your will.

He could see how uncomfortable yet excited you got, when he showed his less considerate side - when he arrested and fought criminals, when he pulled off his complex plans, when he turned and twisted the words of others to make them scream and writhe and beg. Oh, of course you tried to hide it, your face becoming akin to a mask of stone, but there were other tells - the shine in your eyes, the body language and accelerated breath.

Kaeya also knew what an excitement glutton you are - there is a flame inside of you, needing to consume and devour new tastes, sights, adventures and mysteries. You are predictable in that way, he has a gut feeling that you are wary of him, but the promise of a new enigmatic crime that needs your assistance is almost always enough to lure you back into his arms.

And now he has a new problem at hands - his failed plan. Months of subtle work and manipulation led and were supposed to build up your feelings for this. A public love confession, both sudden and extravagant. Kaeya thought that someone as awkward as you, would cave in under the pressure he would put you through by making his love public.

However you didn’t, even if some, if not most of the onlookers gasped in the shocked disappointment - Kaeya was sure that you two looked like a would-be-couple to the observer’s eye. You stuttered some apologies, hid your face and almost ran away from him.

It grates on Kaeya’s nerves in a special way, annoyance slowly building up. Fortunately, he has a strategy to relieve it, by methodically destroying it’s source.

***

“Thank you, let’s do the next commissions together” you wave goodbye to the fellow adventurer, missing an indiscernible look cavalry captain gives both of you.

Only when the said adventurer leaves, does Kaeya step out of the shadow, his single eyes wholly focused on you. After the confession you started to purposefully avoid him - something that Kaeya thought was possible, but didn’t entertain it enough.

Seeing him is what almost sends you to retreat - relationships are messy, especially after failed public confessions, there’s too much burden now and you never felt the desire to work on any of them leaving everything to take its course. Instead, you stand there, enduring his cold gaze and warm smile, hit by a sudden realization of how childish your thoughts are.

Kaeya must have taken your passiveness as an invitation, as his hand snakes around your shoulder, throwing you off your internal monologue. “[First], I have an interesting case again” he leans in, his breath tickling your neck, “and I need an assistant again, the pay will be like last time”.

In spite of your current discomfort you almost space out, body habitually relaxing near him. “What the thing about?” the cases that Kaeya involves you in are always bizarre and something never seen before, a mystery awaiting to be solved.

He begins describing it to you - a strange string of deaths of young adventurers, all of whom were visionless and most curiously they all died off duty. Young men and women did their commissions, plunged in the domains and fought with monsters, but died inside the city walls, inside their houses and beds, surrounded by safety and comfort.

Kaeya shares that his informant found a hearsay that there were some interesting potions on the black market and he needs you to infiltrate as a visionless adventurer and buy potions, as much as possible.

This evening you leave the city, your heart full of trust for Kaeya, even if your relationship did take a colder turn.

***

You, as Kaeya predicted, still believed him.  Alberich almost felt bad for exploiting and twisting your trust in him , but as he supposed there was nothing more he could do with himself. Your visage filled his head day and nights, sometimes he even daydreamed about the life he would have with you. It would be delightful - to have you underneath his thumb, ready for any whim and perversion he could come up with.

He came to the Angel’s share and ordered a glass of wine, ignoring judgemental stare Diluc pointed at him. He could almost hear Ragnvindr saying “already” and calling Knights inefficient and lazy drunkards. Kaeya happily took a sip of the liquid - all of his plans always carried an element of risk, so the cavalry captain felt a bit agitated. What if you don’t touch the potions? What if the gang will escape with them?

Nevertheless, if you did touch it or not wouldn’t really matter, as catching you red-handed was more important. He needed to make you look guilty - you worked with him unofficially, which meant that no one knew about it, not even Vile. Sure no one would take your word over his, even if you left significant evidence of your innocence, after all a lot of knights are weak to bribes.

He almost hummed, as he imagined things he would do to you once you were imprisoned and completely in his power. He, of course, would save you from the dank dark cell, finding an “overlooked” detail, but not before breaking and molding you a little.

Finishing his wine, he went to the knight’s headquarters, to request the assistance of other knights in the arrest of a dangerous criminal, a spring evident in his step.

***

It was treasure hoarders again, you silently cursed, while dodging one of the attacks. You weren’t the best actor and within the minutes they exposed you. Fighting among the fragile vials wasn’t the best idea, so you moved the fight to the outside. Once they all run after you, you jump over them, raining a constant stream of fire over them. Some of them started to scream, a pure agony written on their face.

Some of the hoarders used a hidden gas bomb, submerging the whole place in smoke and using it to run away. You didn’t run after them, and headed inside instead. There was a significant change: some of the vials that contained transparent liquid now were bright red. You took one of them in and gasped - it felt so warm in your hands - and then you recognized your own elemental energy.

Out of curiosity you reached for the “uncontaminated” one, the colorless liquid rapidly bloomed with scarlet red, as your vision came to life without your command. Was it that deadly potion that Kaeya talked about? You felt how it sucked some of the pyro energy from you, then it must transmit collected energy to its consumer. No wonder all of those adventurers died - without a vision their bodies weren’t used to receiving and processing such amounts of elemental energy.

You tried to take the vials with the “clear” potion, but no matter what you did all of them got dyed in red the second you stood a little closer. Sighing in defeat you collected ones contaminated with your energy and prepared to head back to Mondstadt. You needed to warn Kaeya to take some regular knights with him if Albedo needed samples for analysis.

Suddenly there was a sound of several people running up to you, a Favonius armor coming into the sight. You almost smiled as you saw Kaeya, happy that he decided to help you, until you heard it: “Arrest them!”

#yandere genshin impact #yandere kaeya #yandere genshin x reader #yandere kaeya x reader #Kaeya x reader #Yandere genshin impact x reader #Yandere genshin #Yandere #Kaeya #my writing

[bokettochild]

Hi! I really like the fics you write, and for the requests I was thinking some Wild and Legend bonding? I’m a big angst fan, but fluff always makes me happy :)

Okay, so, this was partially inspired by this, but also this.

I'm not really sorry, this has been brewing since the last update and I finally wrote it. That and I broke my writers bloc and figured out how to write Legend again!

Suffer 🙂

Sunset Comforts

Twilight was dead.

That was the thought flashing through his mind as he called the younger heroes to order. The worry that stung in his heart as Hyrule and Four charged towards the enemy that had downed their friend with ease.

A gleaming axe had struck the wolf form of their brother mid spring, and the pained and breathless whimper of the canine mixing with the wet squelch of the blade pulling free echoed in his mind.

Legend’s stomach rolled, the need to turn to the side and be sick growing as the battle continued on around him.

He didn’t know how he took command, simply let his emotions fall to the back burner, pressing down the need to vomit along with memories of a dark sewer, a gleaming blade, a wizard's cackle and wet and wheezing breaths. He focused his gaze on the enemy and called out orders, forcing the hero’s spirit to take the reins while a young hero fell to the background, eyes wide and full of tears as sobs built up in a throat that words had not poured from in years.

Blades sang a death dirge as monsters had fallen; enemies laid low by the weapons of the heroes still standing. There were no words to the song as an eerie silence hung over the field, only the sounds of battle and the occasional cry filling air that felt thick and muddled as they fought. And when at last the final monster had fallen from Wild’s blade, and the shadow had long since faded back away from where it had come, leaving the heroes bloody and breathless, Time and Wild had sprung to the rancher’s side.

Legend stood to the side, hands gripping his blade, ignoring the blood that trailed over his clothes and skin, eyes wide as they’d watched Time firmly press Warriors’ scarf to the gaping wound in -the now hylian- Twilight’s chest.

White and red clashed beneath blackening green, and Legend’s stomach revolted again at the sight, one hand pressing to his lips as he’d been forced to turn away, the sight to much for him. Bloods stench was heavy on the air, death and destruction smelling of gaping wounds and foul flesh, and it made his stomach roll. There was no task he could complete as he stood to the side and allowed the others to fuss and heal, and the mere smell of the blood on his hands made him wince back nausea.

He was covered in the stuff, it coated his body and overwhelmed his senses, and as the other’s fussed over far more pressing matters than blood; a wound, gaping and black with shining bones exposed to the air and torn flesh and-

Legend keeled over, heaving and wheezing for breath as the contents of his stomach found a new home in the carcass of a slain bokoblin.

The camp that night was plagued by the eerie heaviness in the air that had lain over the battle-field.

Warriors leaned back against Sky’s side, hands shaking from having laid the final stitches, eyes bleary as the Skyloftian gently pressed a potion to the captain’s lips. Not far from the two, Hyrule’s glimmering hands worked over Twilight’s chest weakly, shoulders drooping and hands shaking until Four had gently pulled him away with his one good hand, the other wrapped and hung in a sling from his neck as he gently ushered the traveler towards his bed roll to sleep.

Time, to no one’s surprise, sat at Twilight’s side, the ranchers hand clasped tightly in his own as worry creased already heavy brows, a single eye dark in the fading light as a song, bitter and almost tearful rings through the air. There are no words, but Warriors’ voice, heavy and weary, joins in, and though Twilight’s body lies still and the rancher hasn’t opened his eyes, there’s a flicker of his lids as his breath evens slightly, the faintest of hums sounding wet and broken from blood-stained lips.

Legend turns his gaze away.

None of the others had seen his shameful reaction earlier, and as much as he wants to be of aid, he knows that the blood that coats the bandages wrapped around Twilight’s chest and spatters over his clothing will only made him ill again, which will be in no ways helpful.

Violet eyes drift over leaves and stone before coming to rest on the form of the Champion, curled around himself at the furthest edges of the camp, fingers digging into his arms as his eyes remain fixed on his mentor. The vet blinks in surprise as his gaze trails from Twilight’s broken form to the huddled form of the man’s protégé, hiding on the edges of the camp and making no moves to approach him.

Does Wild have trouble with the blood too?

A closer look reveals that the champion’s face is red, eyes puffy and tear tracks rolling down his face, but the gaze on the champion’s face is hard, and Legend finds himself shaking off shivers from the intensity of cornflower hues as they stare across the camp, resolute and dark.

He’s useless to the healers, and the sight of Twilight’s blood streaked across all the surfaces around camp, red and wet and warm and full of life that should be staying inside him and not bleeding out because he needs to live, he needs to live, he needs to stay alive! Link can’t live without him he can’t it’s just not possible please-

The vet forces himself to breathe, shaking his head and blinking back his own tears as he moved towards his fallen friend’s protégé. He can’t offer any help to the others, but at the very least he can knock Wild out of his own head.

Twilight would want that.

As feet pick across the camp, bare because he can’t stand the ooze that coats his boots, he wonders when he began to wonder what the rancher would want or do.

Wild’s fingers are digging into his arms, blood springing up beneath his nails as they grip tighter, and Legend has to fight the urge to flinch away at the sight. It’s shameful, his aversion. He’s a hero and he’s killed more enemies than he’s seen seasons. Yet, he still flinches back at pooling red, and the droplets that roll down the champion’s arms to drip onto the ground are enough to make his stomach lurch again.

“Quit it.” He scolds, positioning himself in the way of the kid’s line of sight, blocking off the sight of the rancher as cornflower blue flicks up towards him.

His stomach rolls again at the ethereal glare that’s cast his way, eyes too old and a soul too shattered for the young body they’re set in. Still, he’s fought a corrupted goddess, he can meet the gaze of the champion, but it’s hard, and he hates it, but he forces himself regardless. Violet and blue clash, trails of gold set in each as both boys glare at each other, both disapproving in their own way before Legend shakes his head, reaches down and pulls the champion’s hands free of his arms. “None of that now. You don’t need more scars, kid.”

Wild’s eyes blink slowly, but there’s no recognition in them, and Legend finds panic flooding through hm as he realizes that Wild may or may not even be fully aware at the moment.

Great Seven, what would Twilight do?

Wild is stiff as a board and silent as death itself as Legend kneels before him, the kid’s gaze unmoving as he glares over Legend’s head, right between his ears, to where Twilight lays in his mentor’s hold. Pain leeches into the silent cold of ethereal blue, and something inside the vet shatters, his chest burning lightly at the pain and hopelessness that crosses over the kids face for a brief second before it returns to stony coldness.

Ah.

“It’s not your fault.” He breathes, crossing his legs underneath himself as he gazes up at eyes that won’t meet his own. “Wild! You can’t blame yourself; you hear me?” His own gaze hardens as he focused on the kid. “Twilight chose to chase the Shadow. It was his choice-” Glowing blue turns to him with a ferocity that nearly steals his breath, but Legend presses forwards, golden tinging at his own irises as his voice rumbles low and firm, blessedly free of its usual squeaks and breaks. “Twilight chose to fight. I’m not saying this is his fault, but it isn’t yours either.”

The champion’s gaze is stony and silent.

“You had no way of stopping this.” Legend repeats, hand clasping the kid’s arms just below the shoulders and gaze heavy as it meets the flickering blue before him. “You were on the other side of the battlefield, your arrows would have only made things worse and you had no way, on Din’s green earth, to reach him before the shadow struck.”

Wild’s eyes flicker up to Twilight’s broken form again, but the vet catches the kids face in his hands, eyes firm and glimmering slightly in faded light of the sunset. “Do you understand?”

“I failed.” The kid croaks out, broken and stiff and every word labored as if it is a weight that holds down the kid’s tongue. Each weight falls hard and heavy on Legend’s shoulders, pain dancing through his chest at the broken soul that cracks through the stone gaze. “I couldn’t save him.”

“No one could.” Legend presses, voice catching in his throat.

“I should have.”

The words are simple, but they bear a weight that nearly fells the veteran hero right then and there, and he watches in horror as tears pool behind Wild’s eyes as they turn to gaze at the dirt at his feet.

“I’m supposed to be the Hylia forsaken Hero.” The kid curses softly. “And I can’t even save my best friend.”

“You can’t save everyone.” He murmurs in reply, his own gaze struggling to stay on the kid before him and to not follow it to the ground.

Red hair and a bubbling laugh ring in his memory alongside a booming laugh that is weakened by blood that trails from an open wound, hidden in the sewers below the castle. Hands that held his own, laughter that rang with his and voices that carried joy and wonder on tehri lips as they filled his heart and breathed life into his soul.

Both of them are gone. He couldn’t save them. He’ll never have another chance to try.

“But Twilight is still alive. He’s still breathing and...” A wet laugh stutters up in his chest, broken and wrong, but impossible to hold back. “He’s still trying to sing on key.”

Wild’s eyes freeze the breath in his throat, hard and shattered and angry as they bore into him. “Twilight is still alive because Warriors and Time saved him.” The kid hisses. “He’s alive because everyone else banded together and staved off the monsters. He’s alive because you all are heroes enough, that while I was pulling my sorry ass off the top of a wall, you were all down there protecting him!”

The kid’s voice rises and those behind them turn to stare, but Legend isn’t cowed. He’s heard many a worse speech from his own shattered soul ringing in his mind again and again over the years. The kid’s broken voice and aching soul aren’t enough to bring him to tears and reassurance.

Twilight might treat the kid with care and grace that one would a wounded child, which Wild needs. But the kid also needs the sense slapped into him, and Legend’s very good at that.

“You all protect everyone!” Tears spill down the kid’s cheeks as he glares at Legend. “All I ever can do is sit by while everyone else struggles, and I can’t even offer help!”

“Wild-”

“My whole world died while I was sleeping!” Wild’s voice breaks, blue eyes sparking with lights that aren’t natural or Hylian.

“And I killed mine!” Legend shoots back, gaze and voice both dark as he meets the kid’s stare. “You’re not the only one of us to have ever failed!”

The champion blinks at him in shock, and Legend takes the moment to catch his breath, eyes blinking open again to meet the kid’s. “I destroyed a whole world. People, places, families and homes. Just blotted them out of existence.” His voice is firm but tears prick at his eyes as he glares down the taller hero. “You aren’t the only one who messed up.

“What matters though, is that when you were given a second chance, you took it. You stood to your feet, after being killed in battle you came back. And you walked right up to Ganon and drop-kicked his ass back into whatever hell it came from.” Violet and gold swirl in the vet’s gaze as it bores into Wild’s, the kid’s expression fading just left of wonder as he stares back. “You are still living your second chance. You are going to make new mistakes. You are going to get hurt. Other people are going to get hurt. What matters is that you don’t spend all your time crying over what you aren’t, and instead use it to become what you can be.”

The vet’s gaze softens. “You’re a good kid, Wild. And a great hero. Don’t ruin that by worrying about the past. You don’t live there, so you don’t belong there. Get your ass in gear and start worrying about the now.”

Wild opens his mouth to protest but is cut off by Legend. “And I don’t mean fussing about a battle that’s already lost. I mean by getting over there and hugging the stuffing out of your grand-mentor or whatever the shit Time is to you, because the guy is on the verge of tears and none of the rest of us can help.” The vet cracks a weak and strained smile. “Twilight’s strong. He’ll pull through. Don’t make me have to explain that you’re depressed because you can’t accept what he sees in you.”

He’s not fast enough to pull away before Wild’s arms are wrapping around him in a tearful hug, sniffles and sobs escaping the kid as he whispers thanks into Legend’s blood matted hair, and Legend can’t even bring himself to pull away. Instead, he gently rubs the kids back, grumbling back fondly until Wild pulls away, rubbing at his eyes and nose he offers Legend a wobbly smile, before standing and making his way back into the center of the camp.

Time’s face when Wild comes over and wraps his arms around the man is priceless, the tune on his lips fading out as the man folds Wild into his arms with a quiet sob, and Legend fights back a twitch of his lips as the two hold tight to each other.

Night falls as the others fade off into sleep.

Legend had finally pulled himself back into the camp once the lights had dimmed enough that the blood across their faces and clothes could be mistaken for dirt and shadow, and while the others cling to each other in their sleep, his eyes are fixed on the rancher.

Twilight’s breaths are sharp and strained, chest stuttering and stopping agonizingly often as the night continues on. Each time it stutters, Legend has to hold his hand above the rancher’s mouth and nose, waiting for warm air to caress his palm. Each time it comes late, panic blossoms inside of him, and Legend has to hold his own breath as he waits for it to eventually puff out again.

Time sleeps not far off, Wild’s curled in his arms where the two had dozed off after their nerve-wracking evening, and Sky is settled not far from them, Hyrule pressed to one side and Wind to the other, and Four lying across the lot of them while they sleep.

Warriors sits at the edge of the camp, hands working over the blades of his brothers, cleaning away blood and dirt and sweat with practiced movements as his gaze flickers from the forest to the fallen hero, concern in the royal blue gaze as it turns every so often to Legend.

He knows the captain wants to tell him to sleep, wants to tell him to rest, but seeing as the man himself doesn’t seem able to do it either, neither presses the other to sleep. Grim understanding flashes across the camp when their eyes chance to meet, and Warrior’s turns his attention back to Legend’s sword where it lays across his lap, hands working over it while its owner sits beside Twilight.

He doesn’t know when he’s taken Twilight’s hand in his own. Doesn’t know when his fingers start trailing over worn scars and calluses, taking comfort in the warmth that they find there as he holds it close to his chest, breaths deep and stuttering as his eyes flicker over Twilight’s pale face.

“You better be okay.” He whispers, voice breaking slightly as tear prick at his eyes. “I told the kid you will be, but it you make that a lie I’ll-” A sob breaks the silence, one that Warrior’s politely ignores as Legend drops his gaze, clinging to the still hand. “You’ve got to make it through this, Twi. Please! Please!”

Scarred and calloused fingers twitch softly, clasping Legend’s own weakly as another sob shatters the silence.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #fluffics #lu wild #lu twilight #lu legend #lu time #lu warriors #hurt/comfort #i'm not sorry #linked universe fic requests #angst #wild angst #legend angst

[hysterialevi]

Day 7 - Battlefield 

(fanfic below if you’re interested)

THE KNIGHT - An AC Valhalla oneshot

SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND

Wicked was the man who reaped the souls of the innocent, a priest once told Eivor. He who spilt the blood of God’s children would one day know His wrath and be barred from the gates of Heaven, for he had fallen prey to the Devil’s song.

And yet, amongst this tattered field where naught but the dead roamed, Eivor found himself surrounded by the souls of his fallen brethren, slain by a so-called child of God. Fly-ridden piles of corpses decorated the haggard landscape like mountains made of flesh, and in the sky, he could see ravens circling above the carnage, scavenging any human remains.

It was unlike anything the viking had ever seen. Although this kingdom was no stranger to war, even he had to admit that this was an uncommon sight. Birds and insects alike feasted on the new bodies now littering the blood-soaked mud, and the pungent stench of death had burrowed itself so deep in Eivor’s throat that he felt as if he would suffocate.

This had to be the place. The one place in England where even the Northmen didn’t dare traverse.

It was the source of many frightful tales that Eivor had heard from the people in his clan, and very often, cryptic rumors of a lone knight would accompany their words. 

He knew not the identity of this knight, nor what they desired. All he had gathered was that they carried a raw hatred for anyone of his ilk, and would not hesitate to strike him down should they lay eyes upon him.

He would have to be on his guard here, no matter how barren this battlefield seemed. It was a death sentence for anyone bold enough to travel through these lands, but that was exactly why Eivor had to come. To put an end to this massacre.

Venturing further into the heart of the slaughter, Eivor wandered underneath a canopy of naked trees and trudged through the slick mud, searching for the knight as his horse whinnied nervously behind him. He felt as if he were being swallowed by the darkness that shrouded this forsaken arena, and with every passing minute, he could see the world outside dwindling away with the gathering fog.

An unsettling chill had befallen the mass tomb upon Eivor’s arrival, and up ahead, he spotted the faint silhouette of a kneeling man.

From where he stood, the viking couldn’t tell if the man was still alive. His body appeared to reflect the lifelessness of the environment around him, and his head hung low between his shoulders. A weathered sword stood proudly from the chest of a corpse lying before him, and at the hilt, the man’s hand rested motionlessly around the grip.

What really caught Eivor’s attention however, was the torn cape dangling from his back. By now, the blue fabric had been matted with the dirt and ash of a hundred other battles, but even then, he could still make out the ghost of a once prominent sigil. It was clearly of Saxon origin just as he suspected, and seemed to resemble the banners he often saw draping from Mercian walls.

This must have been the knight that everyone spoke of. Eivor had finally found him.

“...You there!” He called out, keeping a hand on his axe. “Can you hear me?”

At first, the man offered no response. 

“Hey!” Eivor persisted, carefully approaching him. “Saxon! Are you alive?”

Stirring with a twitch, the knight perked his head up upon hearing the viking’s voice and steadily broke free from his entranced state, turning to see who had visited him in this putrid wasteland. He still had yet to reply to Eivor’s calls using any words, but acknowledged him with a mere glance.

Watching the knight’s every move, Eivor stared in fascination as his opponent threw a gaze over their shoulder, revealing a face that was more akin to a skeleton than a warrior.

The Saxon’s once youthful and handsome visage had been replaced with the mask of death itself, leaving nothing unscathed except for the eyes. They sat in his sockets like a pair of empty glass orbs, and mirrored the desolation of the landscape he beheld. 

He appeared extremely frail in terms of physical strength, but carried a stern ferocity that was more than enough to hold Eivor in place. He glowered at the viking through strands of dark, tangled hair, and locked eyes with the man as if he were marking him as his next target.

It suddenly made sense to Eivor where all those tales came from. The Northmen often spoke of this particular knight in a way that painted him as a beast, and now, he couldn’t stifle the new pang of fear that was beginning to sprout in his chest.

Eivor took a few steps closer, careful not to provoke him.

“Can you understand me, Saxon? I’m looking for a Mercian warrior who is rumored to be killing Danes and Norse alike. Are you him? Is this all your doing?”

The knight squinted his eyes in a perplexed manner, undeniably surprised to see a viking in his company.

“...A Northman?” He whispered, his voice delicate yet haunting. “In this part of England? It’s been a long time since I’ve encountered any of your kind, pagan. Most of your people make an effort to avoid me.”

The knight pressed his foot against the ground and slowly rose from the mud, using his sword for support. Contrary to what Eivor expected, the Saxon proved to bear an incredibly tall stature unlike most of his people, and towered over the battlefield like a hallowed guardian.

“Begone, Northman,” the knight warned. “Return from whence you came. I have no desire to fight you.”

Eivor didn’t budge. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Even if you spare me, you’ve been slaughtering every other Northerner who dared set foot on these lands. It must come to an end.”

His words earned nothing but a somber look from the other man.

“...The Danes ravaged everything I held dear, and robbed me of my soul when there was nothing left to take. If you truly wish to put an end to this needless war, then perhaps you should confront those whom you call ‘brother.”

The Wolf-Kissed held his tongue for the moment, not wishing to cross swords just yet.

“I’m not blind to the cruelty some of my people have displayed,” Eivor conceded, “but you inflict pain on those who had no part in your suffering. It isn’t right.”

The knight simply sighed and took hold of his sword, yanking it out of the body lying at his feet.

“Your judgement is immaterial to me, pagan. If I am to be condemned for my sins, then that will be an affair between me and God. But until that day comes, I shall remain here, and await death’s impending advent.”

Eivor gazed at the other man in pity, admittedly reluctant to kill him. Even though he was aware of his crimes, there was still something stopping him from attacking the soldier outright.

“Have you no life outside of this, Saxon?” He asked. “Why not leave this place, and put this crusade to rest? Surely, you tire of this pointless battle.”

The knight peered upwards at the murky grey sky, staring into the heavens as if he could see God himself. 

“...Where would I go?” He questioned, his tone gentle and forlorn. “I have no home to return to. No family left alive. The Northmen took all I had.”

“So, you’re doing this for revenge. Is that it?”

The Saxon shook his head. “No. My lust for vengeance was sated long ago. Those who wronged me have already met their fates. Now, I do this because it’s the only thing I can do.”

Eivor slid his axe out of its sheathe, steeling himself for battle. “...Well, whatever your reasons, I can’t allow you to continue.”

The knight glanced at the viking’s weapon, finally understanding why he had come. He showed no disappointment upon realizing Eivor’s intentions, but rather, a unique sense of sorrow. 

“...You wish to duel me, then.”

“You speak as if I do this for sport. I’m doing this to protect my people.”

The other man chuckled weakly, though not out of amusement.

“There truly is no greater threat to man than the delusion of one’s own heroics. Your people trespass on a lion’s den, and then complain when they are bitten. Such is the nature of the Northmen, I suppose, building their homes on top of the ashes of those they have scathed. I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

“Does that mean you view yourself as a hero, then?” Eivor wondered. “For slaying all these people?”

“No. I am well aware of the blood on my hands. Though, your slate is not exactly clean either, is it? I can see the remorse in your eyes. It’s etched into your face. Tell me, how many monasteries have suffered your wrath since you arrived in England? How many villages have you had to destroy so you could construct your own? How many men like me now reside in a similar hell because of your actions?”

The knight paused for a moment, looking down at his blade in thought. “...Ah, no matter. If this is the way it must end, then so be it. Whether it was God or Satan who led you here today, I do not know. But you are here for a reason nonetheless. And there is room yet for another corpse in this graveyard.”

Growing weary of this endless quarrel, the Saxon decided to grant Eivor with the bloodshed he sought and approached the center of the field, prowling towards him as his cape fluttered in the wind. The marred plates of his armor clanked quietly with every move he made, and soon enough, he was right there -- standing directly across from his opponent. 

For a moment, he was completely still. Not a single word was uttered from his lips, and only the hollow breeze was able to fill the profound silence that ensued.

After a while of contemplation however, the Saxon suddenly thew his blade to the ground and knelt beside it, presenting his head to the enemy before him. He showed no signs of putting up any kind of resistance, and to Eivor’s surprise, it seemed like he was actually asking for defeat.

“Wait,” Eivor blurted out, confused by the gesture, “you’re not even going to fight?”

“What would be the purpose?” The knight asked with a shrug. “I have been starved of all the strength I once possessed, and my sword-arm has withered in the face of this perpetual conflict. I know I would be no match for you.”

“Still, won’t you pick up your blade? Out of honor, I cannot cut a defenseless man down.”

The man’s voice softened with reassurance. “Discard your fears, Northman. Unlike your god, mine does not demand sacrifice in death. Only faith. The path I walk once I depart from this world will depend on that alone. You dishonor no one by smiting me.”

Eivor crouched in front of the knight, speaking to him at eye-level. He felt strange offering the man any empathy considering all the things he had done, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to hate him. 

To the Wolf-Kissed, the knight was no monster or beast as the other Northerners had claimed. In truth, he was merely a man who had been ruined by the horrors of human cruelty, and left behind by those who promised to protect him. His heart had become rotten with decay thanks to the loss of his loved ones, and his soul had already fled for Heaven’s gates.

The only thing left for him to do... was to join it.

“What is your name, knight?” Eivor inquired.

The soldier’s striking blue eyes flicked upward at the question. “Does it matter? Soon, I will be dead, and my memories will be buried with me.”

“Indeed, which is why I ask. Our memories are a treasure, Saxon. They preserve everything we’ve experienced. If we are lucky, they will even outlive us. Do not let yours die out so willingly.”

“That is easy to say when you’ve led a good life. My memories deliver nothing but nightmares. They paint images that would make the Devil himself tremble. Had I the choice, I would give anything to forget the things I’ve seen.”

Eivor fell quiet for a second. “...Even who you are?”

The knight took his advice to heart, slouching in defeat. Even though his most recent memories were far from pleasant, it was clear that he still feared losing them entirely. He did not understand why he harbored this fear to begin with -- after all, he should’ve been glad to dispose of such horrors -- but he could not deny its presence nonetheless. 

Maybe it was because he had spent so long struggling in this war. Or maybe, it was because his identity was tied to it. Regardless of whatever the case was, a small part of him secretly hoped that Eivor would remember him once he was gone, and that he wouldn’t simply become another faceless corpse to add to the pile.

It was a peculiar way to preserve his legacy, leaving it in the hands of the enemy -- but the fact that his hardships would live on in the viking’s mind offered him a strange hint of solace that he would’ve never expected from a heathen.

“...Erian.” The knight finally answered. “My name was Erian.”

Eivor placed a hand on his shoulder, preparing to grant him his final wish.

“Then go to your god, Erian, and pray that he accepts you in the next life, wherever it may take you.”

“Wait...!” Erian gripped the Wolf-Kissed’s arm, halting him for the time being. 

“What is it?”

The Saxon glanced down at the ground, unsure of how to word his thoughts.

“...Why are you doing this? I’ve slain many of your warriors, and would have even killed you if I had the ability to do so. You have no reason to grant me mercy.”

“I... I don’t know, to be honest.” Eivor said sincerely. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve witnessed firsthand madness that can ensue when a man allows his hatred to run amok. Or perhaps it’s simply because I grow tired of all this suffering.”

“If that’s true, then you are already better than most. I only hope you will preach the same sentiment the next time your heart thirsts for plunder.”

Eivor nodded firmly. “I will. And I have.”

Erian loosened his grip on the other man’s wrist and shut his eyes, ready to depart at last. “Then I can go in peace, for I know my legacy remains with a compassionate soul. Goodbye, Northman, and thank you for blessing me with this final kindness.”

The viking positioned his axe above the knight’s collar, gently holding his head in place as he said one last thing.

“...Farewell, Erian.”

Yanking the blade away with a sharp tug, Eivor promptly opened the Saxon’s throat in one swift motion and cut his life short, cradling him in his arms until his body fell limp. The knight’s gaunt face was instantly wiped of all color, and soon, his expression dimmed with an ethereal fog that the Northman had seen far too many times before.

Yet, despite the morbidity of Erian’s death, the man radiated with a sense of tranquility that seemed to split the overwhelming darkness in this land. He appeared as if he were only sleeping, and resembled a child who had just been put to bed. 

Normally, the sight would’ve warmed Eivor’s heart to see someone basking in such contentment, but in this case, it provided only despair.

Had the war in England truly gotten so bad that its people found more comfort in the embrace of death itself? Was this the Northmen’s doing? 

Even though Eivor never intentionally caused needless tragedy to those he opposed, he couldn’t help but question if this invasion was really worth it anymore. He had already killed countless people for the sake of keeping Ravensthorpe on its feet, but with every victory he earned, he found it more and more difficult to convince himself that he was doing this for the greater good.

Though, Eivor supposed it was meaningless to doubt his motives now. The Raven Clan had achieved too much at this point to simply give up, and he knew Sigurd would never return to Fornburg after being stripped of his birthright. 

The best thing he could do now was try to keep his jarl from teetering over the edge, and remember people like Erian when hatred threatened to consume him. The fallen knight may not have been able to affect the world directly any longer, but his memory would serve as a reminder to never lose one’s humanity.

It may have been dangerous to offer his foes such a high level of empathy in times of war, but to Eivor, it was still better than having none at all. No seat in Valhalla would ever be worth the mindless slaughter he had witnessed during his time in Midgard, and the last thing he wanted was to become an empty husk filled with nothing but regrets.

It was a cost that only the cruel could afford, and a dream that only the naive chased. 

A dream of eternal glory.

#captober #writeober #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #eivor varinsson #male eivor #ac valhalla oc #ac valhalla fanfic

[paper-cloud]

i. the crushing weight of what happens next

part of "(there will be a) tomorrow"

fandom: prospect (2018) characters: ezra, cee rating: T words count: ~3K context: post-canon general warnings/tags: see series masterlist warnings/tags for this chapter: ezra's pov. angst. not graphic descriptions of wounds, blood and amputated limbs. mentions of minor characters' death. (probably very) inaccurate but anyways vague descriptions of medical treatments and post-anesthesia symptoms. taglist: @ravensmutty @buttercup--bee @thegreenkid (again, thank you all for your interest and encouragement! :3) @krissology @ezrasarm @bonktime (please forgive my nerve, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you'll explicitly ask me to! just thought about someone else who might be interested and you guys are AMAZINGLY talented and inspiring "prospect"/ezra writers. it's not my intention to waste precious moments of your time! 🤡

[SERIES MASTERLIST] [MAIN MASTERLIST]

He'd have thought it was almost ironic – opening his eyes to the light only to see nothing. To feel pain.

He'd have laughed about it, most likely. A bit later, he'd have acknowledged it was a reasonably fair compromise; for him and any other wretch that'd ever dared play dice with darkness and miraculously made it out alive.

And in the very end he'd come to laugh at himself, too.

He knows the drill. Someone who trades their own life with the contract of the highest bidder doesn't see the universe in black and white, let alone is in a position to draw the hypothetical line between the two of them.

Must be an even more wicked universe than he's ever cared about, then.

At least, that's where the struggle of opening his eyes made him stumble upon; when a blade of light thrust through that hint of a gap he'd pushed himself to create in the middle, resonating through the dark coils of unconsciousness like a harsh, unforgiving bell.

A skilled mariner over silky rivers of natural redundancy and rapids of professional edges, Ezra is a man who can appreciate a sharp wit when he recognizes one.

That was too much even for him.

Floundering in between a blinding whiteness and a black hole that wasn't even completely black, but permeated by a thick, suffocating haze that filled every ghost haunting his mind with its stench. With the color of diabolically lush leaves.

Forest— spores— poison— death.

It hadn't been enough to let him dangle in apnea above a roaring vortex of lifeless emerald; take him away from the grey flow whose elusiveness he'd come to appreciate more than he'd ever hated to endure its chaos— from the bubble built on the routine series of one last jobs that, in the end, never really were.

There'd been a moment when, from the higher parts of the room, his pupils tumbled down, tripping over a patch of green discreetly lurking in a corner.

He almost threw up.

It had taken him a while to clear out the misty grit clotted in his corneas— focus on white walls, light wood paneling... a harmless seedling in a pot.

He'd breathed heavily, deeply. He sure hadn't got much relief from it. Still, he'd been able to hear its sound, louder than he'd ever heard it before, the musical, cooling mesh of oxygen particles in and out of his lungs almost begging his fingers to be touched.

Oxygen.

Fresh air.

Had he been less sore – less convinced it was just the residual effects of anesthesia pulling pranks on him –, he would have burst out laughing. Even more so if some poor soul of the medical staff nearby would have called for reinforcements from the other side of the space station before storming into his room.

He'd be laughing now, too. The best he can manage is sitting on his bed, leaning his back on the headboard – which is what he's struggling to do right now— and well, sometimes the room lighting still slightly bothers him. Of course, with all the painkillers and antibiotics they've given him, he wouldn't feel like the wound on his stomach is swallowing the entire arsenal of stitches and bandages.

He just wouldn't like her to get the wrong idea.

He blinks several times, like a man who no longer trusts his eyes. How can he, when they're burning like that, in such a different fire from the one from days before – damp and flickering? For reasons he can imagine, she seems to be faltering. Totally beyond his comprehension, he could swear she's smiling at him. Something inside his ribcage creaks oddly, while the curve of his chest arches upward.

"Birdie."

It's just a huff of breath, weak and hoarse, yet scratches his throat all the same, in a way that its walls feel studded with rock spurs. Actually, Ezra doesn't remember talking since they left the Green behind – which, being him, is saying something – and it's like an eternity has passed since their pod docked up there.

The nurse who let her into his room has just left and Cee sinks her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. She's still smiling— just the faded shadow of a smile, now that he takes a better look at her.

"How's your wound?"

It sounds a lot less plain than he expected.

She hasn't moved towards him any further, and for now she's not showing any hints at wanting to. In her irises, Ezra recognizes thumping stars and cerulean clouds, all clustered in the black circle cut by the large porthole next to his bed. All before catching the thin mist veiling them. As if she did want to reach those stars, let herself get carried away by those streams of bluish dust, but she had no idea how or what to do there.

He looks down, the borders of the bandages over his abdomen slightly raised under his black short-sleeved tee. He clears his throat.

"S'healin' nicely", he says, with a deliberate lightheartedness that costs him a sharp, bizarre inflection in his voice. He closes his eyes soon after, tilting his head condescendingly. "That's how the nurse feels about it, anyway... S'not like I can feel much more right now."

This reminds him of those vacuous moments between brief, chaotic waking states and delirious dreams. When he'd managed to reconnect some essential key points scattered around in the talks of surgeons and nurses; the weariness he felt from simply gathering he was on a space station due to enter the orbit of Mesos in three cycles and something standard hours. All while his only solid reference point – the only indisputable proof he was still alive – was the sequence of beeps chirped by the medical monitor perched nearby. Constant, not monotonous. Friendly, even. Sometimes, he actually comes to miss it.

"A trust fall to the extreme, I'd guess", he snorts, a sly laugh as weak and heavy as the words trudging out of his mouth. As the whole rest of him.

Whatever answer she's considering, Cee freezes it in a quick purse of her lips – maybe a nod, but for his own good he'd rather be doubtful. Then she starts looking around.

There's a chair under the board firmly anchored to the opposite wall – probably a desk or something he's never needed to test, whatsoever. She grabs it and puts it next to his bed. She sits down, bringing her legs to her chest, squeezing them in her arms.

Waiting for what, Ezra has no idea, and he's afraid she doesn't have any, either.

He doesn't speak, though, nor does he encourage her to do the same. Her pearly gaze roams steadily but unhurriedly from him to somewhere beyond him, her nose buried in the gap between her knees. He studies her carefully, two purple crescents above her cheeks, a few hair strands swinging down her face without her wiping them out. The nights she's slept through haven't been any more peaceful than his.

Trust, he recalls in the meantime.

It sure brings an odd taste to his mouth. Something close to sweaty spacesuits, grimy paths and gone-off ration bars. A single word for two human beings forced to share the same air filter for days; that, and the image of a dead body left to rot miles behind and the desperate commitment not to end up in the same way.

His gaze just happens to trip over his right side, taking in the deflated sleeve over the emptiness that saved his life. When he lifts it back to the girl, meeting her eyes just before they can flutter away, he realizes they were both looking at the same spot. And he realizes something else— something he's already understood, yet not quite.

There is no tube binding them now.

"Why d'you do it?", he mumbles a split second later, almost like somehow the thread of his question has immediately knotted to the one of his previous thought.

He huffs. He shouldn't even have asked her, in all honesty. Seeing her like this, at least he should have put it in another way, danced around it, it's not like he’s never been good at stalling, after all—

"Comin' back", Ezra says instead, and when he swallows, he mainly does it to send his heart back down his throat. If he'd died without being given the last chance to be this straightforward on this matter, he would have probably kicked his ass all the way to the other side. 

This time, Cee doesn't avoid his gaze. He shouldn't be surprised by how collected she looks, given the calmness she handled his infected arm with and then told him about when she used to slip into Jata Bhalu carcasses. But he can't help it when he thinks she can't be much older now than what she was then.

He watches her breathing in, wobbling her pupils here and there, seemingly considering his words. She's not afraid, not any more than what she seemed to be when she walked into his room. Maybe she's just better than him at playing pretend – but this, he can't tell whether it's more of a good than a bad thing. Especially for her.

One thing he can tell is that she's not the same girl who pointed a trembling gun at him before running away into the woods. He knows she's not afraid.

He knows...

So is it the hunter's instinct he has to blame if he feels she is?

"Guess I've seen too much death on that forsaken moon to just... turn my back on one I can help– one I can do something about."

If he was standing in front of an entire mountain crumbling down into the ocean, he wouldn't hear its sound. ‘Wouldn't even be the worst he deserves. She did hesitate before adding the last few words, but Ezra refuses to believe she did that because she was afraid of hurting him. He may be a wretch, but not a fool.

Kevva, for a man who's always managed to untwist himself from far tougher situations with the tangles of his tongue alone, he's sure having a deal of trouble – and he wishes he could put all the blame on his current physical condition.

There is no word he doesn't have to weigh carefully now, to prevent it from taking too sharp edges once out of his lips. He may float around it forever. But once he's let her go without saying anything, he'll hardly find the courage to look within himself again, more than after any other job that hardened his hands with calluses and tarnished his eyes with blood.

He doesn't know for sure. In fact, everything he was sure to know – about the turning direction of the universe and the one of the wheels in his head – has already collapsed in front of him, tracing a flaming tail. An unforgiving meteor following a trajectory far beyond his grasp.

He just knows silence scares him, in a way that a wrong word will never do again. It terrifies him. More than as a talkative person, as a castaway on a hostile moon for too many cycles to keep their count – with the only company of a mute. Silence is green; the green of the most poisonous pollen, lethal in his brain just like toxic spores enveloped in his lungs. The green of snake scales ready to stand and scratch his flesh until liquid crimson pours out of it.

And at the end of the day, this is the only fucking thing he can tell himself to know without having his guts churning and chest heaving a beat later.

"Stop looking at me like that."

It's more of an exhausted prayer than an annoyed remark. Ezra blinks, stunned by the sudden return from the shapeless stream of his thoughts.

"Like what?"

"Like you're looking for the words to thank me", Cee settles back into her chair and this time she lets one leg touch the floor, "Tell me you owe me, and you– you're sorry about what you did."

Ezra sniffles. "Would it be bad?" 

"No, it—". She closes her eyes for a moment, clenching her jaw. "Just no good", she breathes out, calmer.

And the discordant note in those words conjures up ghosts not yet vague enough for Ezra to be able to tolerate them without something twinging inside him— like a violent flutter of wings. Voices groping their way up ravels of compromises. Damon, deep in the forest. Himself, with the mercenaries in the Queen's Lair. Cee, days before that. After he—

She's right— those words she hasn't said yet, but whose shadow he feels looming every time he catches her wetting her lips.

Some things just can't be split evenly.

"This is not the Green", she states, suddenly more confident but no less exhausted. "If you're going to hang around just because you need to, once we reach Mesos¹ you'd better be on your way."

Ezra doesn't interrupt her. A faded echo starts making its way into his ears. A former prospecting partner, many years ago. An easy job on a forgettable Fringe moon.

Gems don't have an expiration date. Deals do. Strike 'em if you need to, get rid of them as soon as you can. Unless you care to dig a quicker way to your grave.

He didn't pay attention to it, then. He'd thought it was just the empty rhetoric prospectors drop absentmindedly to fill the time between an unrewarding digging and the next. All the more so under the rickety advice of a couple too many.

His eyes still wide open, hands shaky, he merely reciprocated the awkward bottle lift of his partner, whom he didn't know more than the meanders of that quarry. A toast to a faceless future – a nothingness still more reassuring than what was all around and behind them. Not to the darkness of the cave, basically unbreakable if only for the red halo thrown by the twinkles of sharp, sinister Prystines². Not even to the two poor bastards that had set out with them, ending up skewered a few hundred paces behind – one by mistake, the other to return the favor of saving him from the clutches of a furious Aiu³.

Like an idiot.

Several contracts later preventing him from missing a beat in front of similar hiccups, the logic of that statement no longer sounds so absurd to Ezra. Luckily for him, Cee understood it long before him.

"I was just lookin' for the words to tell ya you'll be better off without me—"

Half a truth. Half a heartbeat. After all, she isn't the only one of them who knows how to sell it.

He leans his head back against the headboard, eyes half-closed, a sly grin baring a couple of his upper teeth. It would almost be intimidating, except that the glint hitting them doesn't quite match the dying one in his eyes.

"—But you beat me to it", he finishes, and he sounds like he's about to fall asleep.

He slowly turns his head away, looks through the porthole. His gaze clutches to the passing asteroids outside, distant nebulae spraying the sidereal black with hues of purple, blue, red— then green, again. A climbing plant squeezing him from the inside, discomfort starts creeping on him an inch of his body – what's left of it – at a time.

He doesn't want her to think he's angry at her, and it's the only concrete foothold emerging from the fluid, magmatic chaos in his mind.

How could he be, when she came back to get him?

She didn't have to.

She doesn't have to be here, either...

"I'm sorry", she suddenly blurts out.

He meets her eyes again, a mix of bewilderment and disapproval shading his own. He shakes his head.

"Don't."

"I just—". She starts fiddling with the extra fabric created by the folds of her sweatpants. Then she sighs deeply. "I have no idea what I'm gonna do now."

He snorts. "Not that it's s'pposed to make you feel any better, but... neither do I."

He doesn't have a hazy helmet choking the glimmer in his eyes, an air filter breaking some frequencies in his voice— maybe just those making him sound sincere, while saving those trapping him into the swamp of self-loathing.

He was nothing but honest when he told her the rules of the game on the Green. When he openly admitted he was a killer, and when he assured her he wouldn't trade her for the Sater's Aurelac. And she's always seemed to believe him, maybe for that kind of desperate inertia that washes over people when they need something to cling to. Whatever the case, Ezra can only hope she wants to believe him now. But she doesn't speak, and for a moment his fear of not saying enough overcomes that of crossing her boundaries.

"But w—", he immediately bites his tongue, "—you still have three cycles to figure things out. Someone up here will be able to help you. Even so, please know you'll always have my most sincere gratitude."

The effort of lining up all those words and so few pauses to catch his breath casts a thick fog over his ears. His eyes suddenly hurt again and he finds himself squinting.

What happens next, he just records it, hardly managing to follow each cause-effect relationship. A series of events softly raining on him without making a noise, while he can quite imagine them to be way more prolonged in time. Cee leaning towards the lighting panel on the wall, sliding her finger counterclockwise, and the white coating the walls turning less painfully bright; her getting up, walking away, dwelling just before the door. "I'll come to check on you tomorrow", she says, sniffling.

She tilts her head, holding his gaze in her watery one for an agonizingly slow while – Please, don't ask me why.

He blinks once – Of course.

Then, the automatic door is once again engulfed by the wall, closing behind her with a metallic rustle.

Tomorrow.

His heart is taken by a spiraling jolt that leaves an empty cave behind. When it falls back into place, Ezra finds something has tripped in there, shapeless and quivering like the nucleus of a newborn star.

Hope, terror and everything that lies in between. 

___________________

NOTES:

1) Mesos — Invented planet. Its only raison d'être is that "mésos" in Greek means "middle" and my intent was to frame this story in a moment of transition (after those of movies) for both Ezra and Cee. 2) Prystines — Invented kind of crystals. They're implied to be huge, red and very sharp, thus endangering the path through the cave. 3) Aiu — Invented predator, ideally a big feline.

A/N:

Yeah, uhm... at this point, if someone was ever to give me any kind of feedback, constructive criticism or random thought, I think I'd just melt into a puddle for the attention alone. And to all those who came all the way down here, your bravery shall not be forgotten. ♥️✨

In my defense, it's (almost) all P**** P*****'s fault & of his habit of taking orphans under his wing from one planet to another.

I know people in the fandom generally tend to make Ezra and Cee go along straight away after the movie, so this will be a slightly different take on things, I guess... But even if I don't know if I'll keep this series going atm (life & maturity exam suck), a final reconciliation is definitely on the way. ;)

Oh, and any beta reader that should feel like helping me out for when I'll have the next chapters ready is warmly welcomed! My DMs are always open and I swear I don't bite! :3

#prospect (2018) #prospect movie #ezra (prospect) #cee (prospect) #pedro pascal #sophie thatcher #my writing ☁️ #geez what tf did i write this so long for? #it's all sadness and insecurities and introspections #hopefully i'll fit more dialogues in for the next ones... #which means kevva help me when i'll have to put my hands on that verbose space rascal's dialogues #i already know i'll ruin him but i really don't want to but he's so fucking intimidating but— #*goes hiding in her cave*

[hirvitank]

Waste + 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 11, 12, 13, 15

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

I knew Death of the Outsider was coming, and as the Outsider was my favourite character I really wanted to explore the theory of him becoming human—the game hadn’t been released yet so we had no idea how it’d actually end, just that Billie and Daud were working together to kill him. Since the Outsider functioned as a sort of moral compass, I was very curious to try and imagine how his canon characteristics and biases would translate into a human version of him; how would he experience the world? How would he come to terms with such a humbling existence? Where did he come from and who was he? How would he cope with his own mortality, human emotion, the consequences following his choices in the Void? And most importantly; how had his being the Outsider affected his humanity? There was so much I wanted to see explored, things I feel the previous games hinted at but never elaborated upon. I wanted to write a psychological sort of story where we’d really be able to feel and experience whatever passed in his mind, and I tried my best to use my knowledge as well as my own experiences—flaws I either observed within myself or others, ideas, thoughts and feelings influenced by bias, depression, trauma, etc. When in art school, most of my inspiration came from the transience of things; my fear of death. I really wanted to take the subject and explore it through the eyes of someone previously immortal.

2: What scene did you first put down?

I think it was the original ending I wrote down first. I was supposed to write towards a particular scene, but somewhere along the way I’d decided to discard the idea entirely and opt for a happier resolution. I originally intended for the Outsider to die in the end, both to explore the feelings of those around him, as well as his own emotions accepting such a fate. I wanted a way to embrace death, as well as an output for all my bitterness regarding the subject; my anger at the ‘unfairness’ of it all, as well as my own trauma. I wanted to express loss, and in a way try and reveal the beauty of it. In the end, I had already found a way to deal with grief, and I also felt these characters deserved more; the fairness of fiction

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

That’s a REALLY difficult pick haha (does this mean literally a single line, or like a paragraph?). I’ll just share one of my favourite parts, because I can, and because it’s even more difficult to pick a single line from such a long story and I’m honestly horrible at making choices:

I heard the whispers of rats all around me, tiny feet scampering through the pipes; Billie’s gift tucked inside my shirt. My bare feet light, making little noise—as if I wasn’t really there. Perhaps I wasn’t. Perhaps I hadn’t been anywhere for centuries.

Up the stairs, cold stones. The walls decorated, grand and lavish. Empty corridors and lingering traces of hushed whispers—the guards had left their posts. She’d be there. How would that have made me feel? How should that make me feel? Almost, getting closer. My heart pounded in my ears, lungs greedily begging for more air, more—more. I felt like running. Strong currents of energy coursed through my veins, vibrated through bones and tendons. If I lost control, would I explode in a million pieces? Would the energy burst out and take my body apart, like the Void tearing into reality?

Who was I?

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

Honestly impossible to pick, I’ll just take this monologue:

“Anton Sokolov: sire to 14 children, but a father to none. A brilliant mind at a terrible cost, enlightenment in exchange for the dark depravity of the soul. Fingers that turn the times into a revolution of progress, the same fingers that touch upon women as they do the cold inventions they craft. Objects close to his heart—objects from his mind.

“The stench of alcohol in his bed, his clothes, his skin. Liquors and paints; on the canvas, dripping from his fingers, in the eyes of the beggar he found in the flooded slums of a place forsaken. The stench of rot still fresh on his teeth as he smiles at young Emily Kaldwin and tells her: ‘Don’t worry dear, here in the tower you are safe.’ Don’t worry dear, for I know the truest evil lies not within the high walls of Dunwall but within my hands and mind, within the flooded basement where a woman screamed and bled until she hung her head and closed eyes from which the dark paint still leaked—forever.

“The human body—like clockwork—taken apart in exchange for coin, for valuables. But those things Anton Sokolov values most lay outside of his intellectual grasp; for all the reasoning in the world he is but a cold, lonely man in search of a higher purpose that is but a lie of his own twisted imagination. A delusion of grandeur.

“How does it feel? One’s biggest regrets are but feelings of little consequence. The true disease is the sickness that allows one to enact true consequence on an innocent in the name of a self-prescribed fate. But I suppose that’s the curse of boredom. That, is the curse of your brilliance.”

5: What part was hardest to write?

The first chapter! There’s nothing more difficult than a set-up imo; establishing characters, pacing, setting and feel. I had a vague idea of where I wanted to go, but there was still so much I didn’t know that I had a hard time choosing how and where to start. I think it’s one of the most heavily edited chapters, just because I didn’t have a clear grasp on the characters or plot yet. (Also smut, oh lord help me)

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

There’s the original ending, and I did at one point start on a companion fic to explore Emily’s pov, but decided I better focus on finishing the original instead.

11: What do you like best about this fic?

The fact that it’s finished (hurrahhhh!!), and the themes and subjects.

12: What do you like least about this fic?

My own sense of humour, I always cringe reading my own jokes so I can only hope it hits with others—I genuinely have no idea, and it’s hard at times to figure out where to draw the line.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

WELL IM GLAD U ASKED!! I’ll try and keep this short, but these are some of the songs that carried this fic, not even exaggerating.

1. Lover Don’t Leave, Citizen Shade

2. Happy Life, Roland Faunte

3. Painting Roses, Dresses

4. ID, Charlie Allen

5. High Tops, Del Water Gap

6. Love Song for Lady Earth, Del Water Gap

7. Battle Cry, The Family Crest

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

EVERYTHING. I had literally no idea about writing, apparently. I’ve had no classes in literature, nor have I ever been taught the common rules when it comes to writing. I got to learn most of it thanks to my friends who helped edit (shoutout to @onewhoturns again), and through trial and error. I absolutely loved the experience of it, and I’m so grateful for all I’ve learned, and all I will continue to learn in the future. It’s given me the basis for my own original writing which I’m trying to pursue, and which I hope will someday become reality.

Thank you so much for these! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed answering every single one. ♥

#anon #ask #emsider #waste #my writing #it’s almost 4 am but i wanted to finish answering these #im gon sleep now byeee thank u so muchhhh

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 12: The Skinwalkers

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

The sun set over the Cambrian mountains, turning the silvery mists into a luscious golden haze. Rowan flew through it heedlessly, idly circling the woodlands surrounding the fortress, purposeless and brooding.

After Aelin had left him standing there in the quiet drizzle, Rowan had shifted, taking to the misty winds for answers he knew they couldn’t give him.

The girl was an enigma. She didn’t make any gods-damned sense. And Rowan didn’t want to have to put the energy in to understand her.

He had wished she would vanish, would just up and leave. Taking her bullshit along with her. But now that she had, Rowan found himself equally irritated by her departure.

Rowan soared still higher while rain tumbled all around him, ruminating. He was relieved, he told himself forcefully. He was relieved that the girl was gone. That she’d returned to whatever gods-forsaken place she came from.

But he didn’t quite believe it.

It felt…unresolved. This thing between them. And it grated on him like an unscratched itch.

Darkness fell, but still he flew. Not wanting to return to the fortress and deal with the others’ questions. To face the reality of her departure and what it meant for him. What he would have to endure when he returned to Doranelle empty-handed.

So instead he continued his circling, thinking his useless, repetitive thoughts.

The girl hadn’t said much, but what she had said painted a strange picture. Though she had spent the past ten years hiding away in Adarlan, learning to be little more than a paid cutthroat, she was now in Wendlyn to make a deal with the Queen of the Fae for some esoteric piece of information that she said could help bring about the demise of the King of Adarlan.

Who she currently served as champion, and whose court she had lived in for the past year. Who she had killed for, and promised to assassinate the Ashryvers for.

Why a mortal king posed enough of a threat that she needed to bargain with Maeve for information to help destroy him, was beyond Rowan. And at that, so was her strange need to destroy him in the first place.

Why had she made such a vow? And to whom? Had she in fact become the King’s Champion to spy – or to otherwise work against him? And if she cared about the loss of human lives, why had she become an assassin in the first place?

The thoughts spun uselessly around in Rowan’s head, dragging his muscles and weighing down his wings. The girl’s words and actions didn’t correlate – were completely at odds with one another. She was a coward, but she faced Maeve down without hesitation. She was a killer, but she had apparently come to Doranelle to rescue a people that weren’t even her own.

It was exhausting just to think about.

And Rowan didn’t think he had given another person so much thought this decade – this century even. He hated feeling like there was something he didn’t know, something he didn’t understand. And this girl made absolutely no gods-damned sense.

It was beyond frustrating.

The moon began to rise, Deanna shining her pale light through the pouring rain and streaking silver over the blue-tipped mountain peaks. Rowan turned to look, but that was when he spotted it – an orange spark partially hidden on the side of the mountain to the northwest of the fortress.

He swooped towards it, his gut tightening in fury as it came into view. A fire flickered in the mouth of a shallow cave, and sheltered behind it was the huddled, sleeping form of Aelin Galathynius.

If he could have, Rowan would have groaned. As it was, he let out a short screech of exasperation.

The fire was like a beacon, a signal flare for anyone and anything in the vicinity that might be interested in a stupid, irresponsible, arrogant demi-Fae female. He closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. Hadn’t he told her? Hadn’t he warned her?

Rowan had not lit one single fire during their journey from Varese. Wouldn’t that have been enough to get the message across? Hadn’t she been listening to the stories Emrys told around the hearth each evening?

His beak clicked as he settled on a branch overlooking the cave mouth, deliberating.

The fire was dwindling, its wood nearly burnt out. The night had nearly reached its height, was about to pass over into early morning. The female had made it this far without something coming, perhaps her luck would hold, and Rowan could avoid having to rouse her and face dealing with the angry, idiotic girl.

But before he allowed himself to hope, a sudden, unnatural silence stole over the surrounding forest. Rowan pulled a breeze towards him, and it carried with it a familiar rancid, festering scent.

Rowan cursed, diving from his perch towards where the princess lay, but she was already gone.

He cursed again, this time out of dread. Skinwalkers. Another curse, barely a huff of breath from his beak. He flew back out over the woodlands, flying low between the tops of the oaks.

Rowan was immortal, a warrior who had served Maeve for nearly three centuries and had been sent to almost every corner of the earth. He had faced a great many foes, and while the skinwalkers were far from the worst of that bunch, that didn’t mean he looked forwards to an encounter with them.

Particularly because his magic was completely useless. The creatures were made of darkness clothed in stolen skins – they did not breathe, and did not rely on their piecemeal bodies to sustain them. His ice and wind could not stop them, only slow them.

He tracked the girl within seconds, her path straight and unwavering through the trees away from the cave and down the mountainside towards the north. Her scent would be as easy for the creatures to follow as it was for him.

Rowan stopped his advance, hiding within the branches of a tree about fifty feet above the princess as she crept through the foliage below. She had obviously been trained to move quietly, to avoid detection. But it had been to mortal standards – her every step was a crack, her breaths much too loud.

Rowan mentally cursed again.

He pulled a wind towards him, dragging her scent away from her path through the undergrowth and instead pushing it to the southwest. Away from him and the girl and anyone who might be outside the fortress. But it wouldn’t work for long.

A flash of lightening, and Rowan could see three tall, lanky silhouettes lurking in front of the mouth of her cave. They stood like humans, but they were barely pale imitations. Wolves in sheep’s clothing – literally.

As he continued to push away the girl’s scent, disguising her actual trail, ever more pungent wafts of the creatures’ stench poured over him, wrapping him in the scent of leather and carrion and blood and earthy darkness.

It was revolting, and it took every bit of his self-control not to gag. Or to cut and run. But he couldn’t leave the girl here alone, not with the skinwalkers so close. No one deserved death at their hands.

But Rowan couldn’t hide her for much longer, the creatures were stirring atop their perch, and soon would discover that the scent trail was false. And with her weak, human legs, the princess wouldn’t even make it half a mile before they caught her and killed her. Tore her apart, bit by bit.

She didn’t even have anything to help her in defense – Rowan had taken her weapons upon arriving in the fortress, and she hadn’t left with them. She was unarmed. Defenseless and vulnerable.

And there was nothing he could do, nothing, except dive down there and die next to her. Because he couldn’t leave another female to face their fate alone.

He reached her within moments, swooping down and transforming in midair.

She had started to run between the tree trunks, having given in to the terror he could smell swirling around her. She was swift and strong, but nowhere near fast enough.

It was dark, and she was blinded by her weak mortal senses, so she didn’t notice him until she crashed right into him. Without looking, she slashed a wooden spear at his chest, but he ducked out of the way before she could make contact.

She moved to stab him again, clutching a pair of rudimentary stakes she had fashioned out of oaken branches. But before she could, Rowan grabbed her wrists hard. She twisted in his grip, bringing up a foot to smash into his chest, but Rowan just dragged her against him and pressed them into a hollowed-out tree.

She finally realized that he was a friend and stopped her useless struggling, instead curling in on herself and panting franticly against his chest.

Rowan gripped her by her shoulders and shoved his mouth as close to her ear as possible, keeping his voice low and steady. “You are going to listen to every word I say,” he could barely hear himself over the pattering of the rain outside. “Or else you are going to die tonight. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he let go, needing his hands free to draw his sword and hatchet in preparation for the fight that inevitably drew upon them. He could hear the skinwalkers drawing closer, their stench overwhelming.

“Your survival depends entirely on you. You need to shift now. Or your mortal slowness will kill you.”

Rowan’s eyes were intense, forcing his words home. She took them blankly, shoving down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her with a deceptive ease. While she was no stranger to fear, the very idea of having to shift was enough to cause her chest to rise and fall in shallow breaths, for her palms to sweat and her jaw to clench tight.

Rowan’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. He didn’t really believe that she would be able to do it. But still he tried to convince her, made one last attempt to guide her around those iron bars in her mind. To avoid the bloody battle that loomed over them, carrying their certain doom along with it.

He tensed as the sound of stone of metal shrieked through the rain – the creatures were sharpening their blades. His fingers twitched.

The girl found her voice, “Your magic – ”

He interrupted. “They do not breathe, so have no airways to cut off. Ice would slow them, not stop them. My wind is already blowing our scent away from them, but not for long. Shift, Aelin.”

She just looked back at him, eyes wide and breaths uneven, while her terror coated his mouth with its copper tang. Her embers shifted and rose within, responding to the stress.

Lightening flashed once again – they were close. Very, very close.

“We are going to have to run in a moment. What form you take when we do will determine our fates. So breathe, and shift.”

She closed her eyes as he drew a stream of cool air towards her, a soothing thread, filling her lungs and calming her racing heartbeat. She breathed deep, but remained stubbornly, infuriatingly mortal.

Rowan gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the coming battle. If she couldn’t shift, there was almost no point in running, no point in giving up the advantage of surprise. If she couldn’t shift, he would attack. But he wouldn’t win.

Rowan breathed with her, in and out, accepting his fate. If she couldn’t shift, he would die at the hands of the creatures. At least he would die at someone’s side, protecting them.

Die as he should have two hundred years ago.

But then there was a bright flash, and Rowan slammed his body against hers, attempting to cover up the light before the creatures could take notice, and mark their hiding spot.

Sharp canines pierced her gums, points sprouted from her ears, and keen senses overwhelmed dull ones as she made the shift from mortal to immortal. Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, almost in wonder. She had actually done it.

Confusion descended almost immediately. How? What had been different this time?

But before he could let the emotion distract him further, the female gagged, finally smelling the true stench of the creatures, and he could hear voices drifting from the trees above them.

“There are two of them now,” one hissed. “A Fae male joined the female. I want him—he smells of storm winds and steel.”

Another voice. “The female we’ll bring back with us— dawn’s too close. Then we can take our time peeling her apart.”

Rowan clenched his jaw, stepping back from the girl and turning to assess the forest beyond, altering his plan. They would now have to flee, to run as fast as their limbs could carry them. But there was still no guarantee that they would get away.

“There is a swift river a third of a mile east, at the base of a large cliff.” He pulled two long daggers from their sheaths at his forearms, not looking away from the surrounding forests as he handed them to her. She immediately discarded her makeshift weapons and tightly gripped the ivory hilts of his steel, her knuckles white with tension.

“When I say run, you run like hell. Step where I step, and don’t turn around for any reason. If we are separated, run straight – you’ll hear the river.” He lay down each order with an unyielding finality, not leaving any room for argument. “If they catch you, you cannot kill them – not with a mortal weapon. Your best option is to fight until you can get free and run. Understand?”

She nodded, steeling herself.

“On my mark.” Rowan prepared himself as well, the wind whispering to him, revealing the locations of the three creatures and showing him the lay of the land. The cliff was nearly fifty feet up, while the river large and swift, swollen from the falling rain. It wouldn’t stop the creatures, but perhaps the water could slow them. Giving him and the girl a chance to escape, to flee back underneath the protective wards around the fortress.

“Steady …” They both settled onto their haunches, moments from launching themselves into the mossy undergrowth.

Then, what he had been waiting for – one of the creatures hissed, so close they could have been in the tree trunk with them, “Come out, come out – ”

And Rowan sent a bolt of wind over to the branches in the west, carrying their scents and rustling the brush – a false trail, a distraction.

The skinwalkers bought it, racing after the diversion as Rowan said, “Now,” and burst out of the tree and into the waiting forest, racing through the pouring rain for the river beyond.

Aelin followed after him, but she couldn’t keep up – she was too slow, much, much too slow. Rowan lessened his racing pace to allow her to catch up, but still, the creatures were beginning to realize that the trail he had laid was false, they were turning back, hearing the sounds of their actual escape to the east.

And she was tripping, stumbling over roots and loose stones. She hadn’t adjusted to her new speed and strength, her limbs were awkward and uncooperative beneath her, and even though he slowed, she lagged behind.

She slipped, almost falling, but he shot a hand towards her elbow to steady her, “Faster,” he growled, fear making his words tense and harsh.

They shot forwards, breaking through the underbrush, but they were slow, much too slow, and far too soon, the creatures’ smell began to envelop them once again, cloaking them in the rancid stench of leather and carrion.

But they were so close now, the darkness of the forest beginning to brighten ahead as they neared the treeline and the waiting cliff, soon they could jump into the waiting water and flee –

A fourth skinwalker leapt out of the brush ahead, somehow managing to remain undetected in the undergrowth. Masked by their overwhelming scent and Rowan’s own carelessness.

It lunged, and Aelin shouted in warning from behind him, but Rowan didn’t falter as he ducked, slashing with the sword in his right hand and slicing with the hatchet in his left, severing its arm and removing its head.

It fell to the ground with a soft thump, but Rowan didn’t stop to look, still sprinting towards the river. He knew that at that very moment, its leathery limbs would be stitching themselves back together – skinwalkers never stayed down for long.

The other creatures closed in from behind, shrieking in rage, Aelin still at his heels. They were so close, only a few hundred more feet –

“You think the river can save you?” one of them hissed at Aelin, laughing coldly. “You think if we get wet, we’ll lose our form? I have worn the skins of fishes when mortals were scarce, female.”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He had worried about that – but the river was still their best chance. Not a good chance, but their best chance. There, he could use the water to freeze the creatures, to trap them and allow them a few moments to escape to the other bank. Give them a head start in their mad rush back to the fortress.

The scent of Aelin’s terror wafted over him, carrying with it the feel of her rustling embers, her gathering power. “Rowan,” she breathed, worried, and seeking some kind of reassurance. But he had none to give.

Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, and instead answered by launching himself off the cliff and into the roiling water below.

He breached the surface, rising up and hurling himself onto the other bank in preparation for the girl’s fall, and for the creatures that were only feet behind her. Then Rowan felt Aelin’s power rise up in a tidal wave, spilling from the near-infinite well of magic hidden in her small frame. He could finally see her on the cliff, and she did not hesitate before throwing herself over the edge.

He readied himself, digging up his own well of magic, but before he could act the girl twisted in midair, turning to face the creatures on the ridge and shouted “Shift!” Rowan obeyed without question, transforming into his hawk and flying out of range as she released a torrent of fire that spread from her in a great flood in every direction.

She had no control, no precision, but the force she released was powerful enough that it burned the three skinwalkers to ashes, and set large swaths of the surrounding forest alight.

Then Aelin hit the water, and the torrent of fire choked out. But the flames consuming the oaks burned on, and though they were hindered by the rain pouring down from the heavens, they still spread from branch to branch, the girl’s raging wildfire writhing and dancing and multiplying.

Rowan’s power ached, not just to be released, but to join the girl’s flames. To dance with her sparks. It wanted to play. Rowan ignored it, instead sending out his wind to douse the flames, slowly choking them of the necessary oxygen.

Aelin pulled herself from the water, soaking wet and shivering. She sat down on the bank, curling in on herself. The fear he’d felt around her had lessened its copper tang, her embers settling down once again. Rowan couldn’t scent much of anything wafting from her. She was blank. Empty and exhausted

Though the power she’d shown was a mighty force, Rowan could still feel an ocean churning within her. Her well of fire was near-bottomless – she had barely let a drop out of the faucet.

Rowan’s magic twitched and writhed, while that strange thirst yawned deep in his gut. Just like all the males who served the Queen of the Fae, Rowan was drawn to power. And the might of this female was unlike that of any other he’d encountered.

He shoved the feeling down, submerging it deep within and locking it away, icing over his limbs. He didn’t want to deal with the uncomfortable call, didn’t want to face it. The female was already confusing enough.

As he continued to choke the fires still eating the surrounding forests, Aelin finally spoke, her voice tired and soft, “Can you put it out?”

“You could, if you tried.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I’m almost done.”

As he spoke, the flames nearest to them finally vanished, and Rowan got to work on the rest of the smoldering trees. Rowan gritted his teeth, his own exhaustion drawing out a simmering irritation. “We don’t need something else attracted to your fires.”

She remained silent, too tired and cold to respond to the taunt, watching as Rowan slowly extinguished her flames one by one, the lights dying out like snuffed candles.

For a moment they waited as silence and darkness settled in over them, a soft, light blanket.

“Why is my shifting so vital?”

The question rose gently from her, a quiet plead for information. She had asked it before, so many times, but there was always an edge of command there, of entitlement. This felt different.

“Because it terrifies you,” he responded gruffly. “Mastering it is the first step toward learning to control your power. Without that control, with a blast like that, you could easily have burnt yourself out.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her, brows scrunched together. She didn’t know?

“When you access your power, what does it feel like?”

She paused for a moment, thinking. “A well. The magic feels like a well.”

“Have you felt the bottom of it?”

“Is there a bottom?”

His eyes tightened imperceptibly. Had she never felt the bottom? Even as a child?  

“All magic has a bottom—a breaking point. For those with weaker gifts, it’s easily depleted and easily refilled. They can access most of their power at once. But for those with stronger gifts, it can take hours to hit the bottom, to summon their powers at full strength.”

“How long does it take you?”  

Rowan’s lips tightened at the personal question, but his irritation was more at having to answer at all than the question itself. She should know these things; she should have been told. Even the youngest Fae children understood the basics of wielding magic, whether they had it or not. It was common knowledge in Doranelle, so Rowan hadn’t even considered that this princess from the west might not know it.

“A full day. Before battle, we take the time, so that when we walk onto the killing field, we can be at our strongest. You can do other things at the same time, but some part of you is down in there, pulling up more and more, until you reach the bottom.”

“And when you pull it all out, it just—releases in some giant wave?”

“If I want it to. I can release it in smaller bursts, and go on for a while. But it can be hard to hold it back. People sometimes can’t tell friend from foe when they’re handling that much magic.”

Her eyes shifted, darkening, almost…remembering. But before he could ask, she said, “How long does it take you to recover?”

“Days. A week, depending on how I used the power and whether I drained every last drop. Some make the mistake of trying to take more before they’re ready, or holding on for too long, and they either burn out their minds or just burn up altogether. Your shaking isn’t just from the river, you know. It’s your body’s way of telling you not to do that again.”

“Because of the iron in our blood pushing against the magic?”

He nodded. “That’s how our enemies will sometimes try to fight against us if they don’t have magic—iron everything.”

Her brows rose, so he explained. “I was captured once. While on a campaign in the east, in a kingdom that doesn’t exist anymore. They had me shackled head to toe in iron to keep me from choking the air out of their lungs.”

She let out a low whistle. “Were you tortured?”

“Two weeks on their tables before my men rescued me.” He unbuckled his vambrace and pushed back the sleeve of his right arm, revealing the thick scar that lay there. “Cut me open bit by bit, then took the bones here and – ”

“I can see very well what happened, and know exactly how it’s done,” she interrupted, looking at the ground as if she could tear up the earth with her very eyes. That relentless, roiling grief poured from her once again, anger and pain stiffening her limbs.

He thought he knew, but Rowan still quietly asked, “Was it you, or someone else?”

“I was too late. He didn’t survive.” She was silent for a moment, then, “Thank you for saving me.” Her voice was hoarse, and reluctant.

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I am bound by an unbreakable blood oath to my Queen, so I had no choice but to ensure you didn’t die.” He didn’t know why he was lying. He just knew that it was easier than any other explanation.

“But,” he added, hesitantly, “I would not have left anyone to a fate at the hands of the skinwalkers.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“I said they were on the loose – weeks ago. But even if I’d warned you today, you would not have listened.”

She just shivered, seeming to acquiesce. Then a flash of light, and she shifted back, her ears rounding, canines vanishing. Her shivers became more violent, the cold much more intense in her mortal form. Once again, the shifting was uncontrolled, seeming to have no rhyme or reason behind it.

“What was the trigger when you shifted earlier?” he asked, needing to know, even if the girl left and he never saw her again.

“It was nothing.” The girl distractedly rubbed at her arms, her voice hollow. But it belied concealed knowledge – she knew why she had shifted, she just didn’t want to tell him.

He stared at her, a silent demand for information.

She sighed, and answered. “Let’s just say it was fear and necessity and impressively deep-rooted survival instincts.”

He pursed his lips at the half-truth. “You didn’t lose control immediately upon shifting. When you finally used your magic, your clothes didn’t burn; neither did your hair. And the daggers didn’t melt.” He grabbed the blades back out of her hands, only just remembering that he had given them to her.

“Why was it different this time?” he pressed.

She looked away, and answered reluctantly. “Because I didn’t want you to die to save me,” she admitted.

He cocked his head. “Would you have shifted to save yourself?”

“Your opinion of me is pretty much identical to my own, so you know the answer.”

She stared into the churning depths of the river, shielding herself from his probing gaze, her own eyes blank and unseeing.

Rowan narrowed his eyes, forcing the pieces of her together – bit by confusing bit. She hadn’t wanted him to die to save her. At the very least, she didn’t want to owe him that debt, hadn’t wanted to have another life hanging on her the way so many already were.

He had misjudged her, had dismissed her as a ruthless killer, had mistaken her coldness for heartlessness. But this female was far from cruel. She cared, cared far too much for an indifferent world that had stripped her of everything that mattered.

Rowan didn’t know what had happened in the intervening years after her family had been assassinated, but he did know that they couldn’t have been easy. So little was.

And so she had become this – a writhing mess of a person, clothed in her arrogance and grief. Barely surviving.

Rowan had thought her a coward, but she had faced Maeve, had faced the skinwalkers, had faced him day after day. Her fears weren’t normal, weren’t average everyday horrors for such a person to run from them. To piss and vomit on herself when faced with them. To force her into a cage of her own making.

Her power slumbered, once again trapped beneath those unyielding iron bars. An ocean hidden within her. But Rowan could still feel delicate tendrils of its writhing flame, poking and prodding at him, longing to get out.

They didn’t make him as uncomfortable as they used to.

He shifted slightly. Regardless of his feelings about her, the princess was obviously a scion of the gods. A power like that was a force unleashed onto the earth by their hand – for wrath or for kindness no one yet knew. And Rowan couldn’t find it within himself to allow that power to remain on its leash. It called to him, ached to be let out. To be free.

Though the girl infuriated him like no other, he was starting to see beyond her biting insults and flashy armor. And he couldn’t let her walk away, not without having escaped the cage she was trapped within.

Rowan crossed his arms. “You’re not leaving,” he said at last, “I’m not letting you off double duty in the kitchens, but you’re not leaving.”

“Why?” she turned to look at him, brow furrowed, still shivering violently.

“Because I said so, that’s why,” he retorted, unfastening his cloak. She looked like she was about to protest, but then he tossed her his cloak. And then his jacket.

When he turned to go back to the fortress, she rose to follow him. And Rowan found himself feeling…relief. He was relieved that the girl was choosing to stay.

Because no matter how much she infuriated him, he wanted the girl to learn, wanted her to escape and grow into who she was meant to be. Not because Maeve had ordered him to, but because he, Rowan, wanted to see what she would become.

He couldn’t let the girl leave without having felt the true might of Aelin Galathynius – free and untethered.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#WatE repost

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-two - a brother’s promise

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

DEIMOS ROARS WHEN he enters the villa in Phokis, knocking over a weapons rack in the courtyard —chest heaving in his rage. Everything was predicated on a lie. He shouts again, lashing out at the cold, iron brazier. It topples to the tiled floor, spreading ash and coal over the white stone slabs. The words of the Cultists play over in his mind. Tightening the laces of his cuirass, Deimos sets his mind on finding Lesya —he does not know what he will say, nor if he will be able to tell her she is right. He just knows he needs to see her. Sliding the Damoklean sword into the sheath on his hip, Deimos sets off to Kirrha with fury and cold determination. 

Kirrha’s Harbor is always bustling with merchant ships —pilgrims who come to seek the wisdom of the Pythia. Among them is a trireme with three masts, a gilded figurehead, dark Tyrian red sails. The vessel once belonged to Elpenor, though now it fully belongs to the Cult. The Areion remains a fine ship. “Deimos!” Labdakos exclaims, the captain had not expected to see the champion so soon after Kleon’s messenger departed. 

“Prepare the ship,” Deimos announces, ascending the short staircase to the helm of the trireme. Labdakos barks orders at the crew and they bustle around the deck, securing lines and arranging the barrels of freshly fletched arrows. The horizon is dark, mimicking the raging storm within his heart and mind. 

The captain stands behind his chair, hand resting on the carved back. He knows something is wrong —that Deimos is not falling in line with the given orders. “Where do we sail?” Labdakos asks. 

“Keos,” Deimos answers. He will sail to where Lesya is, or at least where she is rumored to be.   

“But Kleon’s orders–” Labdakos trails off —a fool to fear Kleon more than the unhinged demigod before him. Deimos seizes the captain by the neck, fingers tightening around his throat until his pitiful cries for air are nigh silent wheezes. “Fuck his orders,” Deimos spits, throwing the captain back to the deck. “Take me to Keos or I’ll see the sharks have their bellies filled.” It is not so much a threat as it is a promise. 

Labdakos dips his head low, hand rubbing the tender places of his neck. “Of course, champion.” But the appeasement is insincere. Kleon has paid enough to sail the champion to Athens regardless of the champion’s wishes to travel to the Pirate Islands. Deimos can tell the captain’s loyalty no longer lies with him. He places his hand on the back of the Labdakos’ head, forcing him to his knees, then twists to the left with the other —then a little farther. Deimos does not even strain and with a quick, final jerk there is a crack and the captain’s head snaps around to face backward. Stepping back, the Labdakos’ head loosely rolls back to the front, then lolls —his neck hanging at an angle with white bones poking through the skin, leaking scarlet blood. 

The body flops forward onto the deck. Deimos looks at the frightened deckhands and the lieutenant of the vessel —he steps toward the second-in-command and motions at the captain’s chair with his bloody hand. “You’ve just been promoted to captain,” he announces with a grim smile.

“THANKS,” LESYA SAYS when Kassandra hands her the other blade. It had been buried to the hilt in the back of an Athenian spy. Save for the corpses, the camp on Keos has been emptied. Xenia’s lieutenant will offer a hefty reward for helping him remove the Athenian thorn from her side and it will put Kass closer to earning the drachmae to pay for information about Myrrine. 

Kass eyes the pair of daggers again —she has noticed the strange glint of the metal several times, it is similar to her spear and the sword Deimos had carried. There had been a cast for a dagger the same shape and size in the Ancient Forge as the two Lesya carries. “What’s so special about them?” She asks, though she knows they never need to be sharpened or honed, much like the Spear of Leonidas. 

Lesya holds out the blade, balancing it on two fingers. She remembers the stories Chrysis told about the daggers and the Damokles sword. Mighty weapons from long ago. It was only after she and Deimos had been named champion that the Cult gave them the blades. “They belonged to the Amazon Penthesilea,” Lesya explains —a daughter of Ares and queen of the Amazons but slain in battle by Achilles. “Or at least that is what the Cult claims.” With ease, Lesya spins the dagger between her fingers and sighs. There is something special about the weapons, she can feel the difference with a normal spear or kopis in hand. “I believe it though, whenever I use these it’s like I can see my opponent’s next move before it comes.”

Smoke lingers in the battered streets of Koressia, masking the foul stench of death. Barnabas had spoken of the horrors committed in the polis before the Adrestia docks three days ago. Pirates had taken the city by force, but a shortage in food could mean starvation and the rise of sickness. The elder denizens within the city were forced to drink hemlock tea, culling the population of the city. Merchants said Aphrodite had forsaken Keos after that. The misthios leaves to report their success to the lieutenant and collect on the deed, but Lesya wanders the ravaged town. 

Tucked away near the white cliff-face is a sunken pit, with stairs carved into the rock. Pirates surround the pit, watching one of their brethren fend off a wild boar. Wagers are made and collected on who will emerge from the fight victorious. Given the size of the beast and the bloody gash in the man’s side, Lesya already knows who will win the fight. It happens quickly when the boar charges —its sharp tusks sinking into the fighter’s gut and pinning him against the smooth wall. Red streaks the white marble and when the boar halts the assault a bloody mess of entrails are left strewn across the white sand. 

“Are there any other challengers who wish to face this mighty descendant of the Erymanthian?” Lesya looks down into the pit at the beast roaming around its freshest kill. She and Deimos had skewered plenty of boar in the past —and a rasher of fried back fat does sound good. Stepping forward to the edge of the rope fence, she calls out. Accepting the challenge. The organizer thinks her a fool for not taking the leather-and-metal cuirass they offer. All she takes into the pit is a wooden lance affixed with a rusting leaf-shaped spearhead and her twin blades. 

The beast does not notice when Lesya steps into the arena —it is busy rooting around the guts of its last victim, but she knows better than to strike first from behind. Moving around in a low crouch, she clicks her tongue —drawing its attention to her. The boar charges and Lesya rolls out of the way and reaches behind her, unsheathing one of the daggers. 

Weighing the blade and the opportunity, she throws it. The boar squeals when the dagger buries itself to the hilt in its flank. A wave of chants and cheers sweeps through the rabble above, but she tunes them out —eyes narrowing on the beast as it returns its raging black eyes on her. Stamping its hooves into the sand. When Lesya rolls to the side again, she reaches for the second dagger on her back —cutting a deep line into the boar’s side, it rears up and cries as though it had already been skewered. 

The beast readies to charge again, but Lesya is done with the spectacle. Crouching, she adjusts her grip on the spear and faces down the boar as it races toward her, bloody mouth agape. Lunging as it nears her, she thrusts the spear forward and up —pressing into the wooden lance with a loud cry. The crowd above grows silent as the boar halts, its squeals of pain turning to silence. Metal glinting with red pushes through the top of the boar’s skull —twisting the spear, she jerks it free and drives the bloody point into the ground next to her foot. 

Tundareos is there when she emerges from the fighting pit, grinning —his clear blue eyes like a sparkling sea. Sandy blond hair windswept and loosely tied back from his face. He is so much like the lively boy Lesya remembers from a distant childhood, but a pang of despondency rises in her chest. Tundareos has not led a gentle life either, that much is evident from the deep scar running across his left cheek down to his lips —half-hidden by a scruffy beard a shade lighter than his hair. “You’re insane,” he laughs, clapping her on the shoulder, having watched the fight from above.  

The purse is heavy with silver and gold —from the prize and the bets even if the organizer is reluctant to part ways with the pay. Her brother trails along as she returns to the Adrestia, tossing the earnings down at Kassandra’s feet. It will put her closer to paying Xenia’s hefty price.  

FOR WHEN TUNDAREOS is not at sea, he has a small house in Koressia beneath the Temple of Athena Nedousia. He pours two cups of watered wine and lays the thick-cut slices of boar fat into a bronze tagēnon to fry and render over an earthen brazier. The supper of fried back fat, brown bread, olives, figs, and honey is taken in silence —though Tundareos and Lesya exchange quick looks and small smiles. It is the first time either of them has been with family in over a decade and had been longer since sharing a meal. 

Lesya does not part ways for the night as she had initially planned, instead, her brother leads her up to the roof. A full moon hangs in the clear dark sky, pocked with the twinkle of a thousand stars. Tundareos looks out over the sea, a deep sorrow washing over him. “Sister,” he breathes, “tell me what happened to you after that night.” He has heard stories of a ghost with copper hair, fighting like a demon —after witnessing her kill the same beast who gored countless men there is not a doubt in his mind the stories had been about his sister

“Tundareos,” Lesya shakes her head, laurel gaze darting down to her palms. Remembering is one of the hardest things to do, but forgetting is even harder. “I–” she pauses and when Lesya begins again, the words come pouring out as a torrent. Lesya tells him everything and it feels good to have someone to confide in without fear of judgment. 

His face twists in anger —no one would have hurt his sister if his father had not given her up as a girl. “What can I do to help you stop these people?” He asks but Lesya does not have that answer for herself either. Luck leads her to some Cultists and Deimos to others. The only way to stop them from choking Hellas was to cut the head from every serpent. “I’ll do it. I promise,” Tundareos says, voice reflecting his iron will. “They all deserve to die and rot in Tartarus.” A good number already were. 

Then something stirs in the pit of her stomach, rising to seize her heart. “Deimos doesn’t,” she says, softly. Deimos was the only person who knew what it was like to be a weapon, to be twisted into something valuable from a young age, to have freedom and humanity stripped away. Lesya cannot stop her heart from aching every time she thinks of him —can not stop hoping their paths will cross sooner rather than later. Tundareos looks at her oddly for a moment before he begins to understand what the pause and the rose color on her cheeks mean. “His name is Alexios,” she tells her brother, smiling. I love him. 

@wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x OC #Deimos x OC #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #story: Kryptic #my writing

[capsized-heart]

Little Lamb

Pairing: vampire!Wanda Maximoff x Reader, incubus!Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Your simple life in the Sokovian countryside is no more. The events of a single night disrupt the natural order of your world. God is silent. He always is.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: (oh boy..) violence, blood, gore, sacrilegious imagery, explicit smut 

A/N: This is my entry for @thewritingdoll​‘s freaky500 writing challenge! Congrats on 500 followers! <3 I wish I could have finished this before yesterday’s deadline, especially before Halloween since this shit is so dark aha 

I had a lot of fun with this! I honestly wish I could have done more bc I could write about Wanda and Quentin forever..I feel like I had to restrain myself a bit. I really like how both Wanda and Quentin can see someone’s deepest fears and thought that dynamic would be really cool for an au. 

I was also inspired to write this after seeing this beautiful moodboard by @tohomorii​...you honestly killed it with that Wanda vampire aesthetic. 

using the quote prompt, “He’s covered in blood again. Why is it he’s always covered in blood?” -harry potter and the half blood prince

Sokovia, 17th century.

Dawn breaks with rosy hues and warm, vibrant gold. The soft, streaky clouds of early autumn float lazily by, stippling the sky with pinks and baby blues. Your eyes follow a flock of blackbirds as they flicker across a patch of sunlit horizon in a melodious chortle, climbing and climbing beyond to lofty heavens. You smile.

Your purse jingles with the sound of newfound coin. You’ve had a productive morning at market, having left your family homestead yesterday afternoon for the day’s ride. You’d sold your stock of bread and eggs to Ms. Ryba, homemade jams to old Dmitri, trading your other goods for the groceries mother had asked of you. As a surprise, you’d also purchased a small leatherbound book for your papa, a new piece of stitching work and silks for mama. Gifts carefully wrapped in linen and secured in your saddlebag, a small bit of happiness glowing in the crook of your ribs. Your heart feels full. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

Times have been hard for you and your family. This summer’s harvest had been exceptionally low with heat and droughts. Money has never been a luxury and you’ve been broken with the disciplines of how to bargain hard, conserve, safeguard, and how to put the needs of your parents before your own. 

These gifts will bring favor and approval to their eyes. A godly daughter. Honor thy father and thy mother.  

You tilt your face upwards to the flushed morning, relish the fresh breeze tickling your skin and murmur a quick prayer of thanks.

O God, who hast folded back the mantle of the night to clothe us in the golden glory of the day, chase from our hearts all gloomy thoughts, and make us glad with the brightness of hope, that we may effectively aspire to unwon virtues, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

You ride atop Iryna, your family’s tender Carpathian pony now weighed down with your spoils, and watch the fields of your homeland ripple in red and honey light. Even Iryna seems to sense your good mood as her head bobs with her quick gait. You balance a basket of apples in your lap, a reward that you had purchased for her (and for yourself) after a long day’s journey.

This is a safe country, not at all uncommon for young peasant girls to ride to market alone. Broad plains and cut mountains, you’d passed your closest neighbors about ten miles back, welcome solitude on each homestead.

You like to spend your time on these rides daydreaming of riding in a royal procession as princess, or as cavalry returning from battle abroad. How you would be welcomed back home to your kingdom!

Smoke curls from your cottage chimney as the edge of your family’s property comes into view. You squeeze your heels against Iryna in encouragement and she trots faster, the promise of a waiting breakfast and the smiles of your mother and father urging you forward. 

The smell of hay and manure greets you as you lead Iryna into the barn. You adjust your skirts, woolen tunic, riding cloak, and wimplet before dismounting, careful not to catch anything on your saddle or packages. You slide off Iryna’s bridle and feed her an apple, rubbing soothing circles into her neck as she devours the fruit, snorting happily. 

You give her fresh feed, change her water, quickly removing your tack and supplies and turn her out into the pasture, whispering a promise to give her a thorough brushing later. She gallops away with a swish of her tail. With your arms full of supplies and balancing your bushel of apples, you kick through dust and dirt and enter your cottage.

You’re about to call out to your mama when your voice stops in your throat. The nauseating stench of rot fills your nose, familiar and ominous, like when papa slaughters the chickens for winter stock. Only this time it’s inside your home. 

Your arms go limp and your packages fall to the floor in a muffled thud of wrapped paper. Apples bounce, scatter, rolling through soot and blood. 

Your father lies crumpled, his strong body disfigured in a tangle of limbs. His skull has been crushed into a crown of grey matter and gore, leaking like tears down the planes of his face. His eyes and mouth hang open in a frozen, silent scream, twisted skyward in agony. Protectively draped over your mother in his final moments. 

Your mother is spread-eagled with her throat slit open and her veil stuffed into her mouth, rosary beads crudely circled tight around her wrists in manacles. Her skirts have been torn, bunched around her thighs and you see violet bruises in the shape of hands.

You stumble to the hearth and wretch up bile and water. You heave, vomit, tears stinging your eyes and mucus dribbling down your chin until there is nothing left in your stomach but a wriggling pit of nerves. You can’t breathe, can’t think. Strength evaporates from your body and you sink in front of the cooling embers of the fireplace.

You look to the bodies of your parents. You don’t bother trying to feel for a pulse. You are numb.

You stay beside them until the light outside turns bleak and grey, until your legs ache from kneeling on hard wooden floor for countless hours. Slowly, finally, you wipe your mouth, lift yourself up. 

You find the scythe used to harvest wheat. It feels good and heavy in your hands, makes you feel strong. You make rounds to the rest of the property with it tight in your grip.

Your homestead has been completely ransacked. What livestock that hasn’t been stolen lies dead, slain and swarmed by flies. You’re left with one cow, six chickens, two goats, and Iryna. 

You salvage whatever raw materials you can. You return the scythe back to the shed, unused, the sharp, pristine metal gleaming a cool blue. Part of you had hoped that the intruders still lurked about. Maybe then you could have descended upon them with all the silent wrath of Jael, as she had killed Sisera. 

You whistle a low blast. Iryna trots over to you, nuzzles your hand for another treat. It makes you smile and fresh tears to drip down your cheeks. You wonder if she can sense anything awry, sense that your entire world has been violently turned on its head. You don’t think you’ll ever crave apples again. 

They’ll only taste of sin. 

**

It takes you well into the night to dig two deep holes. The ground is frigid with frost and your breath clouds, fogging the air as you work the soil in an eerie echo of familiar, mundane times. Instead of the sun, the moon guides your hand. Instead of toiling the fields to lay in crops, you prepare the graves of your mother and father. 

Sweat slicks your skin, dirt streaking down your neck and arms. The moon has dipped below the hillside when you finish, plunging you in complete darkness. You thrust the spade into the ground.   

You are not strong enough to carry the bodies of your parents. You will have to tie them to Iryna and bring them here to the fields. But you cannot tonight with the last of the moonlight gone.

And tomorrow is the day of the Sabbath, your holy day of rest. You will have to wait to bury them.

You hug yourself tight. From the cold, from the juvenile fear of death and despair.    

Did Christ not feel this way upon the cross? Abandoned by his own father? Alone? 

And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" that is, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

**

You rise late. Fatigue still sits deep in your bones when you go and collect eggs and milk for your breakfast. You step over your mother and father. Splattered blood, now dry, ring around their heads in crimson halos.  

You spend the day idly. You read the book you had bought for your father, practice your stitching with the embroidery hoop and silks meant for your mother. You heat water for a bath and sprinkle in some of the salts and oils she kept tucked away in her bedroom. You wash away tears and dirt and grime. 

You relish the hot water as it seeps into your tense muscles, watch the milky surface ripple around your limbs. The cottage is quiet and seems to settle around you. 

You were always the last to bathe out of your small family. You would be told to fetch and heat the water, waiting until your father finished, then your mother. By the time it was your turn, the bathwater was always cold and dirty. You were not allowed to change it out as it was costly and a waste of time. You would be quick to rinse.

Now, you sit until your fingers becomes wrinkled and pruny, your skin and hair fragranced with the smell of rose petals and lavender. There is no one to scold you to hurry up. 

**

Iryna watches over you as you pack the last of the dirt over the burials. You’re both exhausted. You finish at midday. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

O God, grant unto us, in this dying life, that peace for which we humbly pray, and hereafter to attain unto everlasting joy in Thy presence; through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

**

You pass your days in solitude and in fear. You wonder if the bandits will return. It makes you pray harder, harder than you have in your entire life. You ask for forgiveness, for protection, for salvation.

The windy autumn nights bring chills and unease. The windows rattle in their frames, the cottage groans, and the goats bleat in the pressing darkness.

Visions of your murdered parents dance behind your eyelids. A crown of gore, blood red tears, suffocating rosary beads. The possibility of specters and demons and Satan’s lurking servants seem to hide behind each darkened corner. The homestead feels too vast, too isolating. You feel yourself slowly going mad, every howl of curling wind making you shudder in your cot.

You ask for companionship. A friend to share company.

**

A young woman’s voice calls out to you. The day is abnormally warm and you’re hanging laundry to dry in the sun when you first lay eyes on her.

She wears a riding cloak and veil, a pretty woolen dress of fine cardinal fabric. Her hair falls in loose waves down to her chest, catching the sunlight in a gleam of muted copper. 

She leads the most magnificent looking horse you’ve ever seen. A towering black Clydesdale that stands eighteen hands high with a glossy coat and tail, powerful muscles moving with every stride. Curiously, you see no saddle or tack, only the leather bridle she uses to guide him.

When you approach her, the young woman asks if you are master of the house. You respond with, yes. She smiles and takes your hands in hers, inquiring if she may stay for a few nights before continuing her journey to the next town. She says she will pay you with coin and labor, with whatever help you may need around the property.

The gesture surprises you. Travelers are few in this stretch of country and your family has never housed one before. But, you think of how turning this woman away would mean another day’s ride for her until she reached the next homestead. As you’ve understood, these trails are no longer safe. Especially for a young woman riding alone.

When you agree to offer her lodging, she blesses you with another radiant smile and kisses your cheeks. It’s enduring, warms your heart and tingles your fingers still laced with her own. 

**

As promised, Wanda helps you with your chores. She does not ask about your family or parents or why a young girl of your age could indeed be master of a homestead all by herself. You do not ask why a beautiful woman is traveling alone. Instead, she carefully listens to your instructions and assists you perfectly.

You’ve just finished gathering firewood when the two of you head to the barn to tend to your few and precious livestock. You muck out stalls, change hay and water. Wanda’s Clydesdale watches you from one of the extra stalls you’ve placed him in. 

When Wanda tries to lead out Iryna, she flinches away and flattens her ears in a shrill whinny. It catches you both off guard and you quickly take the rope from Wanda’s hands before Iryna can hurt herself, placating her with a low hush.

“She does not like me.” Wanda frowns. It’s charmingly youthful, makes her look like a pouting child.

“She is not used to strangers,” you soothe, smiling gently. You return Iryna to her stall and slide the door shut. “What is your Clydesdale’s name?” You ask. 

Wanda’s mood seems to lift instantly and you catch a glimmer in her hazel eyes. “Paimon,” she tells you. “Paimon is friendly to everyone, especially strangers. But, he loves pretty girls most of all.”

Later, you invite her into your home and the two of you relax your tired bones by the evening fire. 

**

The days grow cold and dark. You and Wanda now share the bed of your late parents, bigger and warmer than your own. You awake each glowing morning with her slender arms wrapped tight around your waist, her face buried into the crook of your neck. 

For warmth, you tell yourself.

Her sighs, her moans in sleep stir something in the pit of your stomach.

You’re unsure of what other reason you would prefer.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

**

Wind and rain whistle against the glass panes of your cottage. It is a dreary, bleak morning of storm, one that has forced you and Wanda to remain inside. A fire crackles in the hearth and throws dancing shadows along the walls. You sit and read while Wanda busies herself with housework. It is the first time you’ve felt peace in months. 

She returns from the pantry, setting down her washcloth and bucket with a faint groan. You look up.

Warm, flickering light highlights the skin of her collarbones and cheeks. Wanda has plaited back her hair to keep it out of her eyes, save for a few wispy strands that fall to frame her face.

You swallow, enraptured. 

She catches you staring and her irises seem to glow brighter with firelight. She turns slowly, sauntering towards you with measured, delicate steps. 

“Little one, didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s impolite to stare?” she whispers. She walks until she is flush against you and the fabric of her dress brushes your toes. Without looking away, she eases the book out of your hands and sets it facedown on the table. Your father’s bible.

Your mouth dries up, your pulse hammers. 

Wanda tilts her head, her expression clouding. Then, she sinks to her knees to straddle you completely, arms winding around your neck. 

“Sweet girl, when I ask you a question, I expect a response.”

Her fingers trace your jaw, looking down at you with a stern, flinty gaze. You find your hands holding the swell of her hips, pulling her closer.

“Those who see you will stare and wonder, ‘Is this the man who made the world tremble and shook up kingdoms?’” you recite into the ever closing gap between your mouths. She sighs, high and breathless, feel her overheated body slowly start to move against you. 

Your lips and tongue meet in a tangled kiss. Your first. She tastes of myrtle and honeyed milk. You feel yourself falling when you gently cup this young woman’s face in your hands, kissing and touching and her fingers lustfully twisting into the nape of your neck. Dizzy, ashamed. Your skin is on fire. 

You think of Lucifer’s wings burning away as He hurtled towards earth. 

“I’m so thirsty, my love. Thirsty for you,” Wanda gasps. Her pupils are blown impossibly wide, ringed in red. Her canines glint in the darkness. “Will you let me drink?”

You remember Iryna’s skittishness, Wanda’s beast of a horse, Paimon. No saddle, no luggage. A lone, beautiful woman wandering the countryside with exquisite eyes and sharp, sharp teeth. A devil in masquerade who never intended to leave. 

Slowly, you untie the strings of your dress’s blouse and expose your shoulders, the dip of your chest. Wanda’s lips part hungrily, the shadow of her eyelashes fluttering like feathers. 

She sets you back and runs her fingers over the thin skin of your neck. Her touch is smooth, gentle. Then, she leans over you, keeping you still with a single hand wrapped deliciously around your throat, pressing you deeper into the wooden chair. 

The bite of teeth, then white pleasure. Your vision rolls and you writhe against her in a fit of sighs and otherworldly bliss. Suction, flickering tongue, the obscene sounds of her mouth devouring you whole. You moan, cage her against your body and you hear her chuckle. 

Blood trails down her throat and drips between her breasts when she finally sits back, sated. Half-lidded eyes gazing down at you with more love and adoration than you’ve ever known.

You are her blessed wine. 

Take this, all of you, and drink from it,

for this is the chalice of my Blood,

the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant,

which will be shed for you and for all

so that sins may be forgiven.

Do this in memory of me.

“Amen.” she murmurs with a kiss. 

God is silent. He always is.

**

Wanda pulls you atop her. She cradles your face, smooths back your hair as she looks up at you in the silvered morning light.

“Little one, would you like to live forever?”

The question takes you by surprise, makes you pause. She takes the opportunity to kiss your fingertips, arch her hips into you. It makes your breath hitch, but your mind is clear. 

“As long as it’s with you.” 

She grins, gleaming and bright, the first glimpse of sun you’ve seen in this godforsaken autumn. 

“Oh, my sweet little bride, my princess of night.” she sighs.

“Yes,” you whimper. 

She gazes into your mind and sees what you’ve always wanted.

**

Wanda prepares for the ritual that very evening. Candles, parchment, a single serrated knife. 

She bathes the two of you in the shared tub, washes your hair and cleanses you, a mock baptism with soap and scented oils. Her fingers wander, coaxing pleasure as you lean back against her. 

Finally, she guides you to the bed when the world outside stands cold, silent, watching, at the cusp between night and day. 

Wanda eases your finger between her lips and pricks the skin with the point of her teeth. Her eyes flutter before reluctantly removing it, a string of saliva following suit. You watch the single bead of blood bloom and sign the parchment with a steady hand. 

Cold air brushes your cheeks, skin tingling as if touched, breath in your ear. You feel your vision haze in and out of focus, a foreign sensation overcoming your body. 

Then, a young man appears before you. He’s tall and lean and handsomely bearded, dark hair curling against his forehead, down the tufts of his chest and arms. His eyes, green and glimmering, inspect you carefully, tracing every curve of your exposed skin. You feel achingly vulnerable, pinned. 

Your eyes trail lower and lower until…

You find that he is completely bare. You flush and turn to hide your face into Wanda’s shoulder. She chuckles, gently takes your chin in her hand and tilts your gaze back onto him. 

“This is the flesh of Adam, sweet one,” she murmurs. “It is not shameful to lust. Did God not create man in his own image?”

Wanda reaches out her other hand in offering and the man takes it, lowers himself onto the bed. There is an air of familiarity between the two of them as they share a kiss of greeting. 

“Welcome, Quentin.” she hums. She fondly runs her thumb along his cheek and he leans into her touch. Quentin’s eyes then flicker to you.

“Is this my gift?” he asks. His voice is soft, sweet like honey. Wanda hums again. Quentin smiles warmly, looking you up and down. Your blood ignites.

With one hand on both of your faces, she guides you and Quentin together. He kisses you, surprisingly soft and gentle, cradling your jaw with a touch that makes your stomach flutter. You hear Wanda moving, feel her touch.

Some of the tension wound tight in your shoulders evaporates with Wanda beside you. It encourages you to be braver, bolder as you kiss the incubus back more urgently, touch his skin. Quentin responds with a purr and tangles a hand in your hair, mouthing at your neck, tracing your puncture wounds with a soothing, possessive tongue.

He draws you upon his lap, still pulled flush against him and the heat of him so close to the most intimate part of your anatomy makes you timid, afraid. 

“Relax, lamb.” he whispers. “Enjoy this, enjoy us.”  

The broad touch of his fingers against you makes you mewl in surprise. Wanda hushes you with a soft kiss, takes one of your hands in hers. Quentin’s palm rests on the plane of your stomach, his other easing into where you’re most aching and tight, where a man’s strong touch has never breached. 

He slowly guides your hips upon his hand, until his fingers glisten with your slick and your body starts to warm with the glow of angelfire. 

“Keep going, little lamb,” Quentin urges into your ear. “You know how, don’t you? Those lonely nights when your parents lay fast asleep abed?”

You moan. Indeed you do. Nights where darkness was most suffocating and you prayed that God would turn a blind eye to your lust. 

You shatter with the heat of hell rain. With your body still clenching and fluttering, Quentin lays you out beneath him, his eyes darker, lips turned up into a sly smile. You’re breathless.

He feels cold when he enters you, a sensation you would have least expected from a creature molded by burning sin and Lucifer’s fire. Yet, it pushes your poor, mortal flesh to the thresholds of pleasure and you reach for Wanda, keening. Wanda slinks closer and pushes your hair out of your eyes.

“How does she feel?”

“Like a dream,” Quentin moans, laughing. “You want Wanda and I both, lamb? I can see it in your mind’s eye. So needy, you are. I’ll give you what you want, lamb. You’re doing so good for me.”

**

You don’t remember waking up. A blood moon hangs in the sky.

You feel the lull of pleasure, of Quentin’s lush curls buried between your thighs. Your fingers catch on horns, his velvety tongue forked as it slips into you. 

Your world blurs around you, dreamlike. 

Again, you reach for Wanda and she laces your fingers together with a smile, kisses your damp forehead.

“Is this real?” you moan into her neck.

“As real as your God, sweet one. Are you ready to come home?”

You nod, drowsy with euphoria. You see Wanda take up the silver knife and again, you offer your hand. 

You wince when she slices open your palm, watch the blood seep over and down your arm in great drops. Quentin lifts his head from between your legs, intoxicatingly beautiful with shining lips and heat in his eyes. He keeps his gaze on you as he drives into you again, as your hand stains his chest and neck with crimson, ravishing you again and again. You feel Wanda’s tongue and then the bite of her fangs. 

You arch, reborn with the blessing of immortality and pressed between two demons.

You wonder how many times these two have completed a ritual like this, with Quentin’s powerful body covered in virgin’s blood. 

His blessed cup.

And the Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.

#freaky500wc #thewritingdoll #marvel #mcu #Wanda Maximoff #Scarlet Witch #wanda maximoff x reader #scarlet witch x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch x y/n #quentin beck #mysterio #smut #oneshot #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck x you #quentin beck x y/n #mysterio x reader #mysterio x you #mysterio x y/n #vampire #incubus #vampire!au #incubus!au #writing challenge

[wolfn]

“Sometimes dead is better.”    (  @victoira​  )

                  There    is    an    aura    around   this    woman    that    Valerie    cannot    explain    (    the   same    energy    a    witch    would    feel    around    a   freshly    deceased    corpse    );    the    redhead    is    not   dead,    but    she    is    not    alive,    either    –   something    almost    macabre    clings    to    the    atmosphere   around    them    as    she    speaks.    Something    heavy    and  dense    and    decidedly    bitter    –    once    upon    a   time,    people    would    believe    men    and    women    with   her    hair    color    to    be    inherently    soulless.   Now,    as    Valerie    hears    her    speak,    she    can    only   tell    that,    while    this    woman    might    possess   none,    she    still    carries    far    too    many    burdening   feelings.

                    “    do    you    wish    you    were   dead?    ”    words    blurt    out    past    her    tongue   before    she    can    stop    them    (    voice    is    a   soft    murmur,    inquire    sounds    barely    audible    ).   there    are    a    million    questions    about    vampires   Valerie    wishes    to    ask    to    this    woman    (   mortal    enemies    of    the    werewolves,    an    ancient   battle    between    two    forsaken    children    ).    and   even    though    the    woman    named    Victoria    should,    by  all    means,    repel    her,    she    only    finds    the   stench    of    death    and    blood    and    dirt    around    her   to    be    different    –    not    repulsive.   Perhaps,    she    surmises,    it’s    simply    that    her   senses    aren’t    as    developed    yet    –    the   curse    remains    dormant    in    her.

                   “    I    mean    …    I    guess   anything    would    be    better    than    being    half   something,    right?        ”    half    alive,    half    dead,   half    werewolf,    half    witch.    You    walk    a   decidedly    loose    tightrope,    “    i’m    sorry    that   you    feel    that    way,    by    the    way    …    i’m   sorry    you    ended    up    like    this.    ”

#victoira #verse : alt. #idk what this is bUT #mWAH :)

[apenitentialprayer]

Tedious were it to recount how citizen avoided citizen, how among neighbours was scarce found any that shewed fellow-feeling for another, how kinsfolk held aloof, and never met, or but rarely; enough that this sore affliction entered so deep into the minds of men and women, that in the horror thereof brother was forsaken by brother, nephew by uncle, brother by sister, and oftentimes husband by wife; nay, what is more, and scarcely to be believed, fathers and mothers were found to abandon their own children, untended, unvisited, to their fate, as if they had been strangers. [... D]eluded y hope or constrained by poverty, they stayed in their quarters, in their houses, where they sickened by thousands a day, and, being without service or help of any kind, were, so to speak, irredeemably devoted to the death which overtook them. Many died daily or nightly in the public streets; of many others, who died at home, the departure was hardly observed by their neighbours, until the stench of their putrefying bodies carried the tidings; and what with their corpses and the corpses of others who died on every hand the whole place was a sepulchre.

Giovanni Boccaccio (The Decameron, The First Day)

#Decameron #Black Plague #disease #death

[ladywindrunner]

@diguerra ( nathanos! ) gets a random starter!

She would never go so far as to say she missed the Undercity, but it was certainly evident that Orgrimmar lacked a certain CHARM. Many would disagree, many would say the things Orgrimmar lacked in comparison to the Undercity was the, what as the term they were so found of?

           STENCH of death, the RATTLING OF BONES, or GROANING. Orgrimmar was flooded with light, with clear skies, and winds that were powerful but carried with them the heat of the sandy plains.

           Sylvanas HATED it.

           If she were to be fair ( she never was ), she hadn’t been fond of the Undercity,  but here, the climate certainly did not aid the Forsaken, the most loyal of people. Was use were they to her if they shrivelled up and perished, losing their usefulness? Who then would she rely on? The orcs? Animals, clinging to vain pride, yet too fearful to shout about honour unless the odds were in their favour.

           She recalled too many atrocities committed by orcs to truly think them capable of honour, as USELESS as it was. Trolls were more-or-less the same, goblins were at least honest in their dishonesty, the tauren perhaps actually did have some clue to what honour and pride meant, but their grasp of the trait made them limited in potential.

           Her mind lingered on the sin’dorei.

           Did they grasp honour? Perhaps, yes. Though they were flexible in regards to it. Not utterly contradictory as the orcs and trolls, but certainly not as stifling as the damn tauren.

           What of the nightborne?

           Sylvanas snorted.

           What did it matter?

           Honour was worthless. She did not care who clung to what pathetic ideal, as long as they did what she commanded. Which, of course, they were not. The Horde was sundering itself, because war was demanding something so many found themselves unwilling to give.

           EVERYTHING.

           The Warchief said nothing to the silence. The long house, where everyone had been bickering earlier in the day, was quiet and empty. The fires were dying, and she hadn’t wanted them renewed. Thick smoke rose up to the roof, flowing out the chimney hole.

           The darkness is what Sylvanas missed most of the Undercity. Every window flap was drawn shut, the fires were nearing to coals, and most candles had burnt down.

           Still, somehow, it just wasn’t dark enough for the Warchief.

           She caught the sound of the main door’s latch lifting, and she glanced over. Sharp words were on the tip of her wicked tongue, having given express orders not to be disturbed. So rare were reprieves, that when the evening offered one, she was vicious in defending it.

           Yet the words did not come. The man that slipped inside was perhaps the only man that could defy her orders, and survive. An undead human, skin as pale as death, eyes glowing not crimson but a hot, angry orange that set him further apart from the other Forsaken then just his restored figured.

           A gift for her champion…

          Her expression unreadable, she watched him approach.

           “I would never doubt your efficiency Nathanos,” the woman remarked, suspiciously amused. “But I do find it troubling that you would be here, when your last report from Zandalar spoke of Alliance troops making landfall…”

#( you said i could so im gunna ) #( sylv greedily wants her champion ) #✧:: the dark lady ( warcraft ) #✯:: lament of the highborne ( queue )

[ifridiot]

Fictober WoW Fic: That Which Kills Us

World of Warcraft fanfic for fictober2019. Rated M for violence and gore. 

Day One Prompt: “It will be fun, trust me.” Word Count: 1,892

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In the time he’s been out in the world, which admittedly wasn’t all that long, Tal Runetotem has witnessed many deaths he would rather not have. On the field, he shows none of his ethical distress over senseless death and tedious slaughter; on the field he is Glueboy, a warrior in every inch of his being. It is better to be that person, safer; killing is a part of his life, his duty to the Horde, and he does his job efficiently, often, and without a second thought to the lives he ended.

Yet, despite the uncountable times he’s drenched himself in the blood of his enemies, drowned himself in the stench of their death, he finds his heart caught in strong claws at the sight of every wounded friend. Part of the pain perhaps comes from a nature that leads him to so quickly feel attached to people traveling with him.

Tal has seen two of his companions die; watched one of them (another Tauren bull, a druid) hacked to pieces, and the other (a blood elf hunter) drag herself out of a battle only to bleed to death by the side of the road. Tal takes every severe wound and death personally , a testament to his lack of ability. As a warrior, as the friend of these people, it is his job to fight for them. For them to be killed while he still draws air is wrong, and it wounds him that he could let it happen.

Pain translates easily to battle fury, which does something to explain why he himself still survives. The sight of his comrade’s injury or, at the very worst times, their death, sparks a white-hot rage in him that pulls him through a fight, letting him smash and hack his way out of every overwhelming mob. In a rage, Tal is reckless, his hits harder, more vicious; he’ll take a man apart with a few swings of his blade, cleaving through bone and tearing through flesh.

But before the fury is always horror. Usually it’s a smell that alerts him to the situation; fear in most cases, because a serious wound is only shrugged off by the stupid or the reckless. But Daniel, his first companion of the Forsaken ilk, is never afraid, and never seems to show sign of tiring or hurt. What becomes the cue to Tal’s rage is the stench of that thick, green ichor the Forsaken pour instead of blood. When he can smell that through the sweat and gore and cleaved meat of the battlefield, over his own wounds and the blood of his nearest victim, then he knows a problem has arisen for his comrade.

In so many ways, Daniel is different. Daniel is probably one of the few real friends Tal has made, despite his tendency to call all his travel-mates ‘friends’. Despite being of a brooding nature, and being reserved and secretive in the way Forsaken all seem to naturally be, Daniel is pleasant to be around, intelligent and kind. He puts up with Tal’s ignorance and compulsive behavior – to the point that he even helped Tal recover from the completely misguided attempt to follow the Forsaken’s lead and cannibalize their enemies to regain some health.

Never had he run off in the night, never had he told Tal to shut up or ordered him around in a fight. He wasn’t always the best for conversation, but he was a good friend. He deserved to have someone watching his back and keeping him safe in a fight.

But Tal was busy with a devil of a fight when it came to his attention that his companion was in trouble. He’s distracted, but not enough that he doesn’t twist at the all-too-clear sound of flesh meeting something hard. There is a crack of bone snapping – ribs, he thinks by the sound – and the area is suddenly drenched in the putrid smell of the Forsaken’s ‘blood’. Suddenly his enemy doesn’t seem so clever; his axe whips through the air in a sharp backhand, clouting the man across the jaw and snapping his neck. It’s not a clean death, but he’s not really paying attention to the body twitching at his hooves.

Instead, he’s turned to find Daniel, sees him reeling back from a blow that has actually left the weapon stuck in his flesh. The weapon, a self-made maul, has gotten hooked in the rogue’s broken ribs and torn flesh; Daniel stumbles back from his enemy, raising his dagger valiantly as if to retaliate, and utterly fails to block the thrust of the other man’s great sword.

So there is the horror: his friend’s thin body shoved over backwards, the broad blade sinking into the scant flesh of his stomach and straight out his back. His eyes, trained to assess a body in terms of dismantling it, will not lie to him here – the blade could not have missed his friend’s spine. The wound cane be nothing short of fatal.

Like so many careless fighters, so sure of their prowess and certain of victory, the human allows the hilt of his sword to slip from his fingers and leave him weaponless as Daniel falls backward, gaping down at his pierced gut. The vile green not-blood is rushing in earnest from both sides of the wound, coating his legs and pooling around him where he falls.

Tal doesn’t know what he could have done to prevent this, only that he has neglected his duty and it has cost him his friend’s life. Here is the moment between horror and rage, when he is a well of pain without bottom, his sorrow like a tunnel burrowing through his chest, regret whistling through him. His fingers close firmly on the hilt of his axe and, though he isn’t yet thinking of vengeance or violence, he steps over the jerking, dying man and takes a step toward the one who has slain Daniel.

He doesn’t speak any of the tongues a human might deign utter, and so has no idea what bold thing the man says when he sneers at him over his fallen comrades. Tal doesn’t really care; what he cares about is the still form behind the human, sword jutting grotesquely from his chest. The rage is coming now, red at first and growing hotter; his hand tightens its grip on the axe and he hefts it over his shoulder for leverage, and suddenly fear writes itself on the human’s face. He turns and bends to grab his sword, and very suddenly freezes.

To be fair, Tal pauses too, because what he’s seeing can’t have happened. Daniel cannot have survived that wound, much less have reached up to grip the cross guard of the sword. He can’t have actually pulled himself further up the sword, impaling himself worse, with his dagger still gripped in one bony claw. Can’t have used that motion as leverage to sink the dagger into the human’s chest, just off center to the left where it will slip between the ribs and sink neatly into his heart.

For that to happen simply wouldn’t makes sense, because the sword – the sword Daniel appears to be impaled on – would have killed him with that first blow. He can’t have survived that, and the gore spilled on the ground gives credence to Tal’s memory of that fatal blow. Yet, the blood dribbling down over Daniel’s claws and onto his upturned face, the look of shock and horror on the human’s face, all tell him that this is indeed really happening, exactly as it seems.

Shock, as it often does, short circuits his rage, and he watches numbly as the human crumples to the ground, rolling to narrowly miss landing in a heap on top of the Forsaken. There is a soft grunt of effort as the smaller male sinks back down on the sword, returning to a sprawl on the ground with the sword now pinning him down. It’s hard to fathom, but in his ploy to catch the human off guard, the rogue actually buried the point of sword in the ground and used it as leverage to stab with.

The noise does something to snap Tal into action; he drops his axe and runs to his friend’s side. It seems foolish to hope that the Forsaken could survive this, and his heart feels caught and torn by those phantom claws as he skids to his knees beside his friend, expecting to find him truly lifeless or very nearly there.

Instead he is graced with a narrow-eyed look and furrowed brow, Daniel as usual giving no sign of real injury or pain as he lays there. He looks, for all the world, as if he’s simply resting after a difficult battle. Even with a maul and sword jutting awkwardly out of his body.

Tal can only stare for a minute, his hands hovering in the air without him really knowing what to do with them, before he drops them into his lap, baffled. “Smarts sommin terrible, that plan, I expect,” he finally says, trying to keep his voice in its normal range. It sounds a little strangled to his ears, but otherwise calm. “Pin’d ya self a-ground now, can get yourself on ya feet?”

Ever intuitive, Daniel stares at him for a moment before leaning laboriously up and shoving at the blood-slick cross guard. The sword doesn’t lift from the ground at all. “I may be stuck,” is all he says, still hinting not at all as to whether he’s hurting physically or not. “And… perhaps I’d be better laying here for a moment.”

Setting his head to one side, Tal’s face creased in confusion. “A bad idea, stayin’ down longer than must. More a that sort could come, and not all of em going to stop to check on the pretty pin’d butterfly. Should get gone soon as you can get up.”

“My legs won’t work for a while yet.”

A little laugh forced itself out of Tal’s throat. “To hell with your legs, thought you were a-dead. Can carry you from now on.”

The Forsaken made a face, which Tal was hard pressed to define. Confusion was there, perhaps discomfort as well. “I’m not going to die and when I heal, my legs’ll be fine. Just…”

“Aw, lemme carry ya a spell,” Tal says, not quite joking. It wouldn’t do to admit, especially not to one such as Daniel, but having the little rogue held close for a bit, so Tal couldn’t help but feel all the little signs of his being alive and well, was something the warrior desperately needed now, with the rush of bravery and calm pulling away now that the emergency was behind them. “Be fun, trust me. Anyone tries ‘a sneak up, you pull out a knife and I toss you at ‘em.”

Perhaps he might have told the Tauren to leave him there, had they known each other a little less well. Perhaps he might have told him to keep watch. As it was, he paused, looking up into Tal’s open face, the joy and delight that radiated out of him at those simple words, and heaved a small sigh that didn’t match the amusement hinted on his face, saying, “Get the sword, then.”

#neoma writes #fictober19 #World of Warcraft #tauren #forsaken #tal runetotem #daniel/bynx #gore #wow fanfic