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#and it carved through their being enough to leave golden scars crawling like cracks up their arm and across their body from the hand they
toomuchdickfort · 2 years
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*comes up with a cool ass scene for a character that is in no place to have that scene rn and not developed enough to figure out how that scene would happen*
#theyre coming to terms w the idea that unless they want to wait for days or weeks in a plane they hate they dont have any way back to the#people they know and love bc their teleporting goes weird most of the time and they can only have 1 or 2 places they can consistently for#sure get to and they lost one of those roots so they can either sit at the pools for fuck knows how long until someone else shows up bc#they cant work the gateway or they can just try and do the best w what they have which is what theyre doing#and like. theyre apart from anybody they care enough abt to have one of those 'screams hard enough to kick up in power for a little bit'#moments. which like. theyd not be able to do hardly anything anyways bc they keep the magic of like their whole being unstable to be able#to shapeshift but like. reference rey jaret through 'if they were a paragon of their kin they could create wonders. They could cleave open#the earth beneath them and rend the skies asunder and re-thread the very fabric of reality. ...But they're not. And all that happens is a#hum in the air and a little kicked up dust.' because like!! rey did that!! they had a little help but they went to the hole in reality and#slapped some stitches on the main hole in reality!!!#and it carved through their being enough to leave golden scars crawling like cracks up their arm and across their body from the hand they#held outstretched to this hole in reality and it took them weeks to recover#and now they're kind of possessed but shh its probably fine#and also their memories have been yoinked to put into someone made with their blood but thats also. probably fine.#character rambles#elysur#rey jaret#mikail barne#cyrn o’neal#edit: I was able to put it into another one so 👌
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yandere-wishes · 3 years
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MONSTERS
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👹 Yandere Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
👹Summary: Monsters aren’t born they're made, but Sukuna stumbles across the rare exception...
👹Warning: dehumanization, mention of gore, blood, slight dub-con mentioned in passing, death, past trauma, and abuse
👹 Edited: By the lovely @tealyjade-libran !
👹 Wordcount: 2,480
👹Alternative Tittle : If Roxanne ( from the Police song) lived in ancient Japan.
👹First Jujutsu kaisen fic! I hope you guys like it, please let me know your thoughts! Likes and reblogs appreciated!
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Monsters were made. 
Slowly created as once blazing ideals, withered and died under harsh strokes of reality. Stitched together with broken promises and the ashes of rotting memories. 
Monsters were made
whisked into a role they once dreaded, once feared. Beaten into the role of the villain, the reprobate, the sinner. 
If anyone ever asked Sukuna when was the exact moment he turned his back on the laws of "good" and "evil", shedding his human skin to regrow a pelt of hate and destruction,
He would simply answer, "Never".
Because skin is skin no matter how much it decays. Even if the epidermis turns into a rotting orange shade, littered with eyeballs and teeth that shouldn't grow there.Even if the blood from all those he's slain has finally stained his dermis, tainting it in a permanent crimson that all the waters of Lake Biwa could never wash off. Even if his hypodermis is no longer made of fatty tissue but rather spiritual energy sucked from the atmosphere. It's still skin, the same old skin he was born with.
Sukuna had never shed his skin, he'd only perfected it, enhanced it, molded it into its perfect form, until he was no longer held back by foolish human limitations.
He'd never been "reborn" only recreated; only perfected. 
Spike, talon and teeth covered arms sprouting from oozing, bleeding scars, charred over by begriming infections that burned worse than the strikes he'd endured as a child. Knuckles and bones cracking over and over and over again until they grew as solid as the rocks that were thrown at him when he was all too little to understand the malice behind the insults and threats. Breaking until they could break no more, until they'd become strong enough to split a boulder with a mere flick.
There had come a time when he'd given up licking his wounds, leaving them to be kissed by the mold-covered worms who left an urticating sensation he'd soon come to associate with victory. Rotting flesh growing covered in thick layers of black tar tattoos that hid every cut he'd endured when he'd once been too weak. 
Monsters were created from quarter truths buried neck-deep in fables that snipped like red-eyed scorpions. 
Until the blood dancing through their veins was as black as the void they now called home. 
Sukuna knew the exact moment he realized he was a monster. The day he realized he liked the crunch of skulls beneath his feet, the pitiful spark in mortified eyes staring at the heavens for a scrap of mercy. Mangled mouths barely held together by fractured jaw bones, uttering prayers and pleas that died in the scorching air. 
Sukuna knew he was an abnormality, patched together by broken heirlooms and shattered family traditions. Sitting on a throne made from skulls of those who thought they could ever kill him. 
You can't kill a monster, for you can not kill that which was never born. 
You can't slay something made from good intentions with malevolent methods, something so vile that it might actually be pure. At the end of the day, no monster really admits that it is a monster, a nightmare that should have never existed. 
Yet...
Tattered hearts and cruel orbs are never quite enough. No monster is complete until they dive off that last edge, plummet into the sea of nothingness, and finally, finally break their souls on the spiked soil. Monsters, spirits, curses any malicious being that had been mended together like a half-done ragdoll was not complete until they truly let go. Until they erased all the former humanity that they had been born with. Until their eyes reflected nothing, no emotions, no malice, no want, no need. Just the absolute emptiness. 
The void in all its glory.
that was the symbol, the true markings of a real monstrosity. The void that took over their existence, that had replaced every inch of their former self. Only then could it be said that you were above all other beings, the true perfection of this world. 
There are worse things created than monsters, things that are made from nothing and everything. Things above "Yin" and "Yang". Things that have no scrap of humanity, monstrosity, or anything in them.
Things that are just empty.
So maybe -just maybe- that's why when Sukuna's rotting orange eyes landed on the epitome of emptiness, a...girl, whose face was sculpted to disreflect emotions and intents. Someone who was the void of darkness itself. The true personification of nothingness. 
His heart -for the first time in countless centuries- began to throb.
a truly dead face swarmed by a sea of buzzing ants, chasing their routine happiness. Smiles of delight and carelessness carved on their aging faces with sunlight knives and the melody of golden coins. The lust for life leaking from every pore of their bodies. 
With every face being a carbon copy of each other it was no wonder yours stood out.
There was a silver chain of attraction, dragging Sukuna towards the village girl. Not love, never love, the king of curses was beyond certain, that neither you nor he could feel such a honey-laced sensation. It was more like....something. Something paranormal, inexpiable. Some magnetic force outside of everything's control. 
It was easy enough to explain why he liked you. Why you stood out from the other insects of this middle-of-nowhere-village. 
You had dark matter for blood and dead seas for brains. 
Your eyes radiated an endless abyss. Making others shy away from your lifeless gaze. Scared to look into the void in fear that it may respond. 
You were a thrown away doll,
A living dead,
A dying star,
You were the daughter of the number zero,
The monster that had no maker nor mother. 
Something not born nor created. 
Just an entity that roamed the earth, with no desire nor hope, no wish nor dream. Not leaving, not dying, just existing in the space between today and tomorrow. 
There'd been no need for pleasantries, for hiding behind ghostly tree branches and frozen windows. There'd been no need to kill or ravage for you. No competition to eliminate, because no one ever came near you. Humans don't like what they can't explain, Sukuna knew that all too well. 
Sukuna watched from a close enough distance to almost touch. Lingering around like a phantom begging to be noticed. Orbs trailing over you, but never approaching. Until one day he'd just stood still. Waited for you to turn your head just a fraction to the left, just to see him in all his menacing terror. To finally notice the clawing, crawling sensation that had been creeping up your spine like a hoard of spiders. 
And when your dead eyes did finally land on him. Sukuna could swear that his breath hitched in his throat for the first time in his seemingly endless life.
You weren't human. Humans didn't have hollow faces or marbles for lips. 
You weren't a curse. Curses didn't lack venom dripping from their souls.
You were something better than a monster. You were the divinity of monstrosity, the void itself. Black holes for eyes, answerless paradoxes for hands, and an endless maze where your torso should have been. 
 Exploding suns danced around you, burning, burning, till they died out, leaving behind no trace that they once lit up the universe. 
The space after the end, that's what you were.
Perfect, to Sukuna you were perfect.
You hadn't run, hadn't screamed, hadn't even bothered to talk. You didn't care about him, couldn't care about him. That's what made him want you, made his mouth salivate with the thought of your flesh between his teeth. 
That night the world stood still, as Sukuna's claws penetrated your flesh like twirling needles. You were as light as a feather. You weighed nothing, were nothing. All so easy to pluck and throw about. You never made a noise when your body collided with the bamboo walls, just letting gravity and Sukuna play a twisted ball game with your lump of a body.
You hadn't protested when he violated you. As his lips bit every inch of your body raw. For some unearthly reason that even the gods couldn't understand, would never want to understand, you had found the Curse's violent actions rather...adoring. Taking every slap and slash with the earnest pride of a small child getting praised for a day of relentless chores. letting the dawn-tinted-haired monster adorn your body in blue and purple jewels. It felt right, in a  pathetically, nauseating, twisted way...it just felt right.
 It was disastrous, sure, but it was right. Like two universes crashing. Destroying each other with every kiss and every bruise. 
But...
For the first time in your meaningless life, you had truly understood what "happiness" felt like. 
For the first time in his endless life, Sukuna had truly understood what "intimacy" felt like.
///
Was it wrong to kiss you? For a fraction of a second Sukuna hesitated, blood tinged lips hovering millimeters away from your own stone-set ones. The moon's cursed rays acting like an unnoticed barrier, keeping two things out of each other's grasp. His lips curled back revealing two rows of knife-like teeth. The last resort, a final hope that you'd run away, that you'd act somewhat normal. The king of curses, the evil among men, didn't mind your lack of regularity. He didn't mind how you leaned into every bitter strike, every painful display of fading affection . He adored how you merely giggled as he slashed open your uncharged skin, creating slits for your blood to spill through, onto his waiting tongue. He admired your lifelessness, the way you radiated death. 
Oh, how you filled him with a startling aftershock every time he touched you. Every time his tongue lapped at your bleeding skin he'd feel the sort of electric shocks that came after the storms had passed. Your body had no shape, it molded to his touch, turning his favorite shades of red, with just a little pressure. 
But sometimes, in fleeting, endless seconds. He wished he had a name for what you two were. You weren't his per se, you could never be his. Being his would indicate that he cared about you, or heck even loved you and that could never be true. The king of curses did not love, nor care. He merely tolerated you; you fascinated him, that's all. 
It had been many moons since he first found you in that no-name village. Months upon months since you'd been by his side. You'd watched as he'd destroyed cities, helped him even. Eyes never shedding a single tear. Mouth never uttering a single protest. 
The two of you had become the best, the King of curses and the Queen of nothingness. With the dying speed of laboring bees, Sukuna had carved himself inside of you. Twisted emptiness into flower-covered destruction. Into molten gold lava. 
Leaving you with wounds that were stuck in a cycle of healing and opening. Until they began to harden like his. Until the need for spilled blood lingered on your tongue like the burn of boiled tea. Until under your nails were coated in a decaying crust of dried blood. Sukuna hadn't turned you into a monster, he'd simply showed you the powers that came with your apathy. With a heart as torn and cold as yours, it was a shame to let it go to waste. 
"You're not half bad," his tone is never approving. It's always laced with a strictness that keeps you nailed into place. His words are oxymorons sounding like praise, but once you peel back the lather layers they're just taunts in disguise. 
You don't answer, words die on your tongue as quickly as they are born. Sukuna can't even remember what your voice sounds like outside of small whispers in heat filled nights. 
 However, to the two of you, things like that didn't matter. Your lack of being even semi-alive and Sukuna's endless abuse had become a norm for the two of you. Where else were a two-faced monster and a lifeless girl going to find love anyway? 
Sukuna was all you had, all you ever had. You'd die for him, kill for him, turn into anything for him. Because he gave you life. 
A purpose to life, made out of raging fires and endless screams. A life fabricated from the pain and suffering of others. That was what the king of curses had given you, all wrapped in a human skin parchment. Maybe that's why all logic withered away the first night he kissed you, maybe from the first second that you sensed his presence you had finally gained a reason to be alive. 
///
Whoever said the end of the world was beautiful? Whoever said the final days would be bright and glowing and pure? 
It's just a blaze of stray flames and red crystal droplets that may or may not be your blood. Funny, Sukuna had always thought that your blood would be as black as the moonless sky, not a mundane red like everyone else's. He'd expected a grander death from you. Some sort of black hole opening to swallow the world whole. Not just another corpse motionless in a pool of their own blood. 
Although he's not one to talk. His own 'death' is lingering on the horizon. Sukuna's head tilts back looking for the flashing jujutsu sorcerers. 
"S-sukun-a..." 
He smirks, fangs sticking out at odd angles. Your voice is sweet, for the first time in forever he'd even dare say it held some semblance of emotion. 
What that emotion is, he doubts he knows or even really cares. He'd long since stopped trying to identify all those "feelings" and their associated names. 
His orange eyes lock with your fading orbs, one last time. No, not the last time, just the final time in this lifetime. He's sure he's going to see you again. In any other life, Sukuna knows he'll be able to recognize you despite whatever flesh suit you'd be wearing. 
"Shh little one," he's halfway gone before he finishes his sentence, leaving you to relish in his memory in your final moments. "We'll see each other once more, someday in another life..."
His four eyes lock on the approaching sorcerers. He finds it humorous how desperate they look. How alive and ready they seem, such a stark contrast to your ever lifeless face and dead eyes, it repulses him. 
"Or maybe in one of the circles of hell." 
The flames encircling his fingers remind him of the heat your body radiated in the dead of night. The crack from bones hum as they meet his knuckles, flash memories of your days wasted together doing nothing and everything. 
The two of you will meet once more, he's sure of it. After all...
Monsters never die. 
How could something that was never even born in the first place, ever die?
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pastelsandpining · 3 years
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congrats on 200 followers!! my request: botw zelink with Selfless by the strokes :)
this turned out a tiny bit more of a Zelda piece than a Zelink piece but it's still there! I hope this is to your liking volt my beloved
Selfless
words: 1806
warnings: read with caution; grief, death mention, vague disassociation
Masterlist
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It was quite the feeling, to be everything and nothing all at once. Zelda couldn’t recall what it was like to be physical. She couldn’t recall much more than the blank space she existed in, and the horrible sounds that encompassed it every time she was so painfully reminded of where she was. Only in those moments of remembrance, of realization, was she able to get glimpses of the land she’d given up so much for. So much of her kingdom had been lost: children, buildings, the very friends she swore to fight alongside. The Calamity claimed everything in its path and it devoured her, too. It was only fitting, fair, even that she should suffer in the void of existence with nothing but a demon and whispers of hatred as her companion.
Zelda was not in Hyrule, not really. Her body might’ve been, but she was elsewhere, using every bit of strength that she’d failed to have before, in the hopes that her one connection to her home would find his way back to her. But for a very long time, he lay buried deep inside a shrine on a hill. The only evidence he was there at all was the warm, very small, and very dormant ball settled in her chest, pulsating softly with every breath he took in his endless slumber.
It was like that for one hundred long, lonely years. The rhythm of his heart, slow but stable, was what kept her from losing touch completely. Goddess powers or not, corporeal or not, someone could only take so much of corruption, of malice, until it started to gnaw away at her peace of mind. It was a good thing that peace of mind was not an essential part of the sealing power, but she’d already lost everything. It would be too easy to lose herself as well... No, he would come, she just knew it, and she would live against the odds, for him.
So Zelda waited, ever patient, watching the land of Hyrule pass in bleary, half conscious moments. A flicker of a new birth here, a wave of grief there, a family settling down, a crack of lightning, a call of a bird, all things once insignificant—common. Now, it gave her the assurance that people were still fighting on, continuing to push forwards despite a devastating loss. They were still Hylia’s people, after all, and the Goddess herself put up many good fights.
The kingdom was as still as ever, as silent as the heavy night, when the hero finally stirred. It was nothing more than a twitch of the eyelids, a strengthening of a heartbeat, but she felt it like a fire burning through her chest, sending hope to the tips of her very fingers. He was alive, to what extent, she didn’t know. But she took that warmth and reached out with it, surfing across Hyrule until finally, at last, he came into focus.
“Link,” she called out, into the void of nothing. His eyelids fluttered. If she was corporeal, if she had any physicality at all, she would’ve sobbed. Instead, she tried his name again, begging in a whisper, “open your eyes.”
Whether he was truly hearing her, whether he recognized her voice or not, his eyes opened. They’d never looked more blue.
But she was not the only powerful being with the capability to sense an awakening. Calamity Ganon could feel it too, and for a moment, Zelda was fearful that it would get to him before she did. It would cry out, loud and obnoxious and horrible, and get into his head like the monstrous thing it was. She couldn’t let that happen, not again. Link did not deserve the horrid fate of facing him twice, though the cards had already been dealt. So she did all she could, instructing him from afar until he emerged at last from his grave. The light was brighter now. She could see him better, all of him, from the scarred skin to the shaky limbs and anxious stature. He was lovely, still.
Zelda wanted nothing more than to burst from her prison and accompany him on his journey. She wished to heal his mind and heart, tell him everything so that he was no longer in the dark, and warn him about the horrors he would face. She wanted to feel his arms again, hear his voice, hug him in those moments she knew so well: those moments when it all felt like too much. But sealing the Calamity, caging its physical form in the very midst of Hyrule Castle, a mere few meters away from where her father and mother’s thrones once sat, took a great deal of power. She could not watch him, protect him as much as she wanted to. She wouldn’t last forever, and so conserving was key. Zelda did not rush him, she did not plead or beg. It was his decision to make, it was his readiness to determine, and she’d already waited a century. What was a little more time?
She lended him something else instead, with every break he took to confront the Goddess. She gave what she had plenty of: strength. Every bit of drained power, every little increase in difficulty to contain the demon, was worth it to see him thrive. Link would come in his own time, and she would be ready for him when he did. Besides, she didn’t mind waiting. She enjoyed those moments when clarity hit, when she could see his progress from her spot in the realm of nothingness. A naturally gifted boy in many ways, but there was something so precious in the way he worked. In the years before, Zelda had come to understand him as this hard working and duty driven boy, but it was so much more intimate to see his efforts herself. Oftentimes, she felt it was something she shouldn’t have been seeing, but she was proud nonetheless. Link would always come to be the hero he was meant to be. Courageous, determined, selfless.
And when he stormed the castle, the warm pulse in her chest thundering in time with his the closer he came, she’d never seen him look so angry. Of course, he’d lost as much as she, if not more. He had every right to be angry. For one bitter but sweet, satisfying moment, she felt for the Calamity. It had its victory, and Link would not let it get another. He was vicious and cruel and precise, and it seemed now, he was returning all of what she’d lent him. Perhaps it was just his presence that made her feel stronger in the midst of the first break she’d gotten in decades. It took hardly any effort to restrain the beast to Hyrule Field, and she took great pleasure in decorating it with glowing targets for the hero to strike.
In a brilliant moment of intensity, Zelda could feel the world around her again. She could feel her body grow solid, the golden glow encasing her with a divine power her mortal vessel shouldn’t have been able to handle, and she faced the Calamity head on for a second time. With a strained cry, with the fury of a thousand lost souls, with the hunger for revenge for her friends, her father, her kingdom, her hero, the princess took her duty upon her shoulders and swallowed the darkness in the holy light of the Goddess. She willed her magic to carve into every crevice, tear it apart, cause it to feel the very pain it rained down upon Hyrule tenfold, but it would never be enough. The Beast was gone too soon. After a century of holding everything hostage, it was reduced to nothing. That was perhaps the worst part of it all. They would never be able to cause it the pain it had caused them, because it was not human. It was not a thing that could feel pain or regret. The only thing it knew was hatred, and for a moment, as Zelda collapsed to her knees and dug her fingers into the dirt, she worried if she was too similar.
She hated Calamity Ganon, hated all it had done and all it had taken from her, and she hated that she didn’t feel satisfied. She was angry, so incredibly angry, that it got to crawl back into its coffin until another ten thousand years had passed, but all of those lost to its claws could never return. She was angry that she couldn’t cause it the pain that it caused her, that it could take everything away from her and no amount of revenge could ease her pain.
She was shaking. She didn’t realize she was crying. But Link, ever the kind, patient, selfless man that he was, did not leave her stranded. His feet came into view, prompting her to lift her head and blink hard to clear her vision just enough to see him kneel before her. He extended his hands to her. They were trembling just as hard. Zelda slowly pulled her fingers free of the dirt, uncurling them just enough to hesitantly slip her hands into his.
Once upon a time, she couldn’t read his expression. A century later, on the battered ground of Hyrule Field, his eyes were misty and he looked like he would crumble at any point, but he looked relieved. She grasped his hands tighter, more desperate than before, and sobbed out a “thank you.”
His thumbs brushed against her, gentle as ever, and she had very little composure left. Her anger, her dissatisfaction in the truth that the Calamity would never truly die, dissipated like it had never been there at all. She found she didn’t care anymore, at least not in that moment, because she had something. She had hope, she had courage. She had Link, if he wanted her. It was an ache in her chest, nagging in her brain, and before she could think better of it, she whispered, “May I ask…do you really remember me?”
She didn’t want to know the answer. He was quiet for what felt like an eternity, and she wasn’t sure she had another to give. But then he answered, quieter than the wind but as sure as the sky, “yes.”
He tugged her hands, pulled her forwards into an embrace, and she clutched the back of his tunic with eager fingers. She could cry again, but she realized with a start that he was the one sobbing instead. Zelda held him tighter, buried her face in his hair, whispered into the wind that she was here, that they were okay, that it was over.
And when they finally lifted their heads, when Link smiled at her, she had no trouble believing it.
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kettlequills · 3 years
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C2: waking dreams: master of fate
Obligatory Miraak In Pain chapter! A classic for every Miraak-Lives fanfic. Lots of vomiting, graphic injury, some hallucinations, blood and gore, paralysis, paranoia, and other fun stuff in this one, bear in mind. On A03.
A high, anxious dragon-creel jarred Miraak from total unconsciousness. A pause. Then, again. That awful, hair-raising screech, the kind of sound that flaked chalk, cracked glass and shattered eardrums.
Miraak had never felt worse in his life. He was not even sure he was alive. If he wanted to be.
His body was numbness and agony. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. His mouth, too, reducing his breath to a whistling wheeze past the turgid coagulant of thick, thick ink. Even his gasping little sob was stoppered in his blocked tear-ducts. His mask was sucked tightly against his skin. It felt like being choked. Stars burst in the dizzy darkness behind his eyes when he tried to breathe. His ribs ached familiarly. Broken? Something sharp jutted against the grind of his flesh. It felt like metal. It felt like death.
The dragon creeled again. The primordial terror of that sound. It was afraid. It was hurting. It was animal.
It was the sort of sound that summoned hurrying priests. It was the sort of sound that echoed off mountainsides and resounded down valleys, and woke even children wise enough not to scream. It was the sort of sound that came before the gristly snap of jaws and bone and viscera, and a new, bloody mask to press onto the quick-forgotten face of a new servant.
Names, traded like currency. But he was Mir-Aak.He was the mightiest Dragon Priest of them all, and everything he had won had been with fire and fury and strength no dragon could deny. That no dragon could replace.
Wherever he was, whatever cry the dragon made, he would face it, he would conquer it. As fate foretold, their power would meet the thunder of Miraak’s soul, and be subsumed.
Miraak fumbled at his limbs, trying to push off his mask in the vain hope it would help him see, struggling against the rubbery tentacles he was only half-sure he didn’t feel looping like a leash around his neck. He wouldn’t be sure he had hands any longer, if it wasn’t for the fact that one of them hurt.
Hurt like the word pain had been invented for this moment alone.
His glove was unwieldy and stiff, and it was only when the wreck of his hand struck the ground and it squished that he realised that it was because it was full of blood. His blood. Filling his glove, because his hand had been carved open as if by a great serrated knife, and air kissed scarred bone and his fingers hung uselessly and he wanted to vomit.
It was that one, naturally, that finally caught at the lip of the golden mask, because the gods had never loved Miraak.
The pain nearly topped him into darkness again, but he managed a blind scrape at the congealed ink on its face. It tore like skin, and bubbling, acid wetness sleeted down his cheek and jaw. It was like a Seeker’s bite.
But his eyes opened, and he could make out dim, blurry shapes. Light was needles in his eyes, but Miraak was a Dragon Priest, and his destiny had had him conquer every pain set before him and make himself its master. He needed no god. He had himself. He did have himself, didn’t he? It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He must be in his own body.
Stone floor, stone walls. Thick with dust, made him cough. The slumbering serpent of a dragon’s tail. Dirty, foul-smelling, dull; no loving priest had tended it with warm water and oil, the scalebeds were so dry he could see the ink-ridden cracks. Armour gleamed like a rusty hill under the slump of Miraak’s broken body, old steel warped and rent tellingly down the middle where a sword might slide home. A bloodless wound here, in Nirn, but a lightning scar across the stone like the spiderweb scarring of their face. The mask watching Miraak dully even now, centimetres from his hand where he must have dropped it.
Laat Dovahkiin’s armour and their flesh-stripped bones, his bedmate and bed both for his first night on Tamriel. When he coughed, wetly, ink stained their armour – oh, oh, that wasn’t rust, that was Miraak, bleeding all over the corpse of his foe.
Time – he could feel it, a silent rasp on his spine – passing, how dreadful, how glorious, to count it under his heartbeats like grains of sand in a gear, how long had it been? A night?
Not time enough for Laataazin’s bones to bleach. Their supplies to gather dust. Their potions. Large bottles of glowing red and blue and green, set carefully just below the plinth where the Black Book awaited. Closed, for now, but he could hear it whisper, could see Mora’s eyes on him through the susurrus of the pages. But the Prince did not reach out to reclaim his plaything, only watched.
Miraak could feel his oily laughter, could imagine the words that would drip from his wretched darkness, mourning how far his Champion had fallen – on his belly like a snake, hand over grim hand, straining towards Laataazin’s castoffs.
Not victorious, after all, but a strong name still for a worthy fight.
Never had a journey across a simple stone floor seemed so desperate and so humiliating. He crawled on the ground like a child, sweating profusely and unable to hold back his pained moans. Even his voice, his pain, sounded whispery and faint, barely an echo of its true self. It did not reverberate like it should, and the stone did not quake and tremble at its touch. He felt wrung out, limp, like a colourless ghost.
And Mora watched, watched. Miraak felt the eyes all over him, like ants. Or was it air? He felt every thread in his robes grating his skin like being dragged up the back of dragon. The fastest, bloodiest way to flay a man. Their scales could cut like diamonds. Only Miraak had made the euphemism ‘riding the dragon’ anything other than a painful death sentence.
He was the mightiest Dragon Priest that ever lived.
His shaking hands knocked the first potion over and it rolled out of his reach. The wetness on his face was warm as tears, sharp as acid. The blood and ink that wept from his watering eyes, his nose, that drowned the dragon’s scream in his ears, forbade that notion of ghostliness. No snowiness for Miraak, no, Apocrypha’s reek was all over him, dripped in him, made sodden and heavy as weights his robes.
The second bottle cooperated, but the cork wrestled with him a moment too long. That first sip stuck to his throat and teeth and tongue like paper. He hacked out some mulchy mess he didn’t bother to examine and managed two mouthfuls of crimson potion. Ancient nerves awoke protesting in his tongue – he could not tell what he tasted, only that it was foul, and thick, and felt like rot and ash.
His stomach’s revolt was instant. He knuckled his fist against his mouth, forcing the potion to stay down. But Miraak was already coughing around the first swallow, the second had him retching. Miserable bile stung his lips and splattered blue-green ink down his chin. Cold sweat sprung out on his forehead. Laataazin’s mask’s empty eyes watched him hauntingly.
Breathing dragged fishhooks through the soft tissue of his throat. To distract himself from the weak clenches of his exhausted stomach trying to empty itself, Miraak stared forbiddingly at the neat row of potions, scattered now by his clumsiness, and tried to memorise their colours. There were green ones, red ones. Blue ones. Sahrotaar, he thought dimly, the colour was like its scales. Where was he? The dragon had gone quiet. More colours than Miraak had seen in thousands of years. Of eras of human history he had been forced to read about, with no hand on Tamriel to rewrite the passage of events.
No longer.
A glint caught his weary eye, deeper red than the rest. Wine-red, rather than blood-red. The stony glimmer tantalised him, teased some exhausted part of Miraak that still craved to know. What secret was hidden here, among Laataazin’s healing potions? Miraak’s, now, by right of conquest, whatever it was.
The first person to speak to him in a thousand years, whose bones had held Miraak’s bleeding, unconscious body.
He retched again when he tried to move, but his stomach only cramped warningly around nothing. Miraak fumbled ungently through the stock of potions, his blurring eyes more hindrance than help. Eventually, he drew out a necklace, simple wood set with the ruby that had caught his eye, nothing more. Crudely-carved dragons squirmed around that red sun, chasing triangular shapes that might have been birds, and tattered feathers frayed around the cord. It was shoddy, no masterpiece to Miraak’s discerning eye.
Disappointment was sharp and quick, but chased quickly on the heel of intrigue as he sensed the enchantment that laid over the piece. A strong sacrifice had been made over this little scrap of wood and feather, so strong that it hummed and burned. But why waste such powerful enchantment on so fragile a material?
Wood burnt, and cracked, and rotted. Dragon Priests built in stone, for the servants of generations that would come after them and convince their master they had never died at all. No change, no loss, stubborn to time. Enduring, immortal, unfleshed.
It did not feel detrimental, so he looped it over his head. His, now. Laataazin was dead, and their world, their life, their soul, it was all Miraak’s, as it always should have been. The necklace itched like a secret, but he would decipher its enchantment. For now, it served as challenge and trophy both to Miraak’s strength. Such arrogance, from Laataazin, leaving behind even a scrap of power when they went to face their death.
The dragon shrieked, lower and louder. Miraak jerked, torn from his contemplation, and his back seized into a hard knot of painful muscle. Through watering eyes, he saw the long whipping neck, the flutelike snout, the leafblade tail – Relonikiv, craning shrilly towards dimness that swallowed the world twenty feet from Miraak in all directions. Relonikiv’s jade head dipped and danced, its yellow eyes ringed with apocryphal ooze that splattered the ground.
“Relonikiv,” he tried to say. It creaked out weakly. “Rel-“
It heard him that time, and Relonikiv’s cringing head dropped low to the ground, neck arched up like a snake, wings fluttering with anxiety. It groaned at Miraak, yellow eyes bright as lamps in the darkness, snarling teeth barrelled with putrid breath that warped and smoked the air of the darkness they shared.
He could not see what disturbed it, what horror above had it so transfixed, nor did he know why it did not simply fly to escape it. Relonikiv had not been brave when it had met Miraak, and the centuries hence had only sharpened its instinct to flee when faced with something it did not understand.
“Come,” he whispered to it, but Relonikiv cowered away with a low whine. Miraak hissed out a breath between his teeth. He had no patience for Relonikiv’s timidity today, not in this much pain. “What do you think I’ll do, fool? … Find me Sahrotaar. Relonikiv? Sahrotaar.”
Relonikiv blinked at him. It reared its head out of sight into the lumpy darkness, those dizzying swirls of venomous yellow leaving a glowing trail, like a sparkler through the night. There was the telltale snap of dragon jaws, and then Sahrotaar’s brassy, confused bellow as it was jerked abruptly from slumber. Miraak’s eyesight was blurry, and Sahrotaar’s great head rearing out of the darkness looked like nothing so much as a vast, terrible serpent. Relonikiv screamed back, and now the darkness was pierced by the dusty light coming from – somewhere, and four luminous dragon-eyes, moon-pale blue and acid yellow.
“What is this place?” Sahrotaar snarled, “I do not believe what my nose tells me.”
Relonikiv rustled its wings and snapped its jaws. It groaned again, quiet and low and distressed.
“Sahrotaar,” Miraak wheezed, and at once the blunt blue head was nudging at his side, Sahrotaar’s eyes already thoughtfully lidded, so that their soft glow was muted. Though Sahrotaar’s searching snout was gentle, the contact nearly knocked Miraak over, weak as he was.
“Thuri.”
“Up,” Miraak fumbled at the dragon’s nose with his uninjured – his less injured – hand, but thankfully, Sahrotaar understood his meaning swiftly. Sahrotaar nudged its nose underneath his arm and took Miraak’s weight with it as it carefully lifted him to his feet. He clung on to the fringe of webbed scales beneath its protruding jaw and tried very hard not to faint.
It took more effort than Miraak would ever admit.
The ridges of Sahrotaar’s scales felt harsh against his bared forehead. Miraak was aware of the lank locks of hair that fell across Sahrotaar’s snout as his own, the same way he knew that the hand that throbbed with blood and pain was his – distantly, without full recognition. He missed his mask. But the ink was still leaking out of him, his mouth, his eyes, his ears and nose, in irregular, acidic spurts that made him choke and his skin burn.
He could just see one crystalline blue eye, the colour of the bright ice of his homeland, watching him underneath the protective inner lid. Sahrotaar’s breath gusted his robes about his body, felt like standing in a tempest, though the ancient, soaked fabric barely stirred.
Miraak panted wetly against Sahrotaar’s head, spangles of pain jarring from his much-abused body with every breath, every second he forced his muscles to lock and his legs to bear a portion of his weight. Apocrypha had preserved him, so he knew his body was more than strong enough to stand tall, but theory had never felt so far from reality.
“Where is… where is Kruziikrel?”
Relonikiv uttered a mournful warble. Its wings pressed tight against its back, it sniffed at what Miraak had taken to be fallen rock, or some other masonry. Something heaped and grey, utterly still. But not dead, or else Miraak would have taken its soul, and likely feel far better than he did now.
“I smell blood, thuri,” Sahrotaar rumbled. Its voice jarred Miraak’s bones all the way up to the elbow, and he bit back a bitter curse of pain.
“Take me,” he commanded, and ignored how thin his voice was.
Sahrotaar helped him limp over to the prone form of Kruziikrel, who slumped like a dragon dead and bled steadily. Thin grooves had worn where it had lain as its acidic blood bit into the ancient stone. At first, Miraak mistook its neck for its mouth, several mouths, all open and staring red red tongue – then he understood that Kruziikrel had been grievously wounded indeed.
Ragged tears had ripped all the way up its neck to its shoulders, where now loose skin flapped like lips, scales peeled back like a gutted trout. As they got closer, Miraak could smell the blood himself, brittle and violent.
Miraak collapsed next to Kruziikrel. His slump against the dragon’s mostly-intact chest was graceless, but if Kruziikrel felt any pain it was not enough to jar it from slumber. Blood soaked his glove and stung his skin. Kruziikrel had covered their retreat, he ascertained – last through the portal, it had been the one to bear the brunt of Mora’s teeth.
Tracing one of the wounds, Miraak considered – briefly – the spell that had slain the Last Dragonborn. Kruziikrel was weak, but his soul was old and strong.
Relonikiv whined behind him. Miraak could feel Sahrotaar’s presence hunkered at his side, ice-bright eyes watching its master carefully. He felt, at once, the strength of Relonikiv where he was weak, the steadiness of Sahrotaar where he faltered. Some emotion touched Miraak then as he reached for the tired spring of magicka within him, something that was uncomfortable but hid from his examination. Thousands of years they had been his only companions in servitude, and yet, when he was weak and in pain, all his body told him was that each one had teeth longer than his forearm, and years to fester vengeance.
“Laas, Kruziikrel,” Miraak bade, and felt the dragon stir as his magicka reached it golden and bright.
It was the last light he saw.
---
Miraak snapped into awareness. His head throbbed. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He was paralysed. Miraak panicked. He was a prisoner – he was trapped – he was not alone. He could feel breathing, massive, muscular breathing, the whistling snore of a predator so much larger than he was. He could feel soul-shredding pain in his chest. His entire body felt shrunken and small, stuck as sandbags.
“Miraak,” a voice murmured. He knew that voice.
I killed you, Miraak wanted to shout, but his lips were stiff as marble. His heart thundered in his chest, and a cold sweat sprung out on his skin. The air felt wrong – weird. His body was limp, folded against something horribly soft. It was warm, wet. Like a corpse, Miraak thought wildly. Like Laat’s blood soaking his robes. Their body, soft and warm and still in his arms, eyes glossy, dark, dead.
Laataazin. Laat Dovahkiin. Niid, niid – hi los dilon. You are dead!
“Miraak,” Laat called again. Their voice was quiet as always, but close, as if they were standing right by his ear. He could feel the shivery vibrations of it across his skin. Could feel Laat’s wheeze in their voice, the gurgling of the blood they hadn’t managed to cough out in time to speak, before he killed them. “Do you feel mighty now, Miraak?”
Miraak screamed.
The piercing sound shocked him. He gasped suddenly for breath, choked on the vomit heaving out of his mouth. He tried to sit up, tried to roll, but his body was unresponsive and instead he panted between retches, feeling the warmth of his vomit trapped against his face against his chin, his neck, dripping into the neckline of his robes. It reeked of ink, the sour smell of sweat. His tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth, like a gag. The bile stung his lips, burned in two hundred small wounds that split his skin, dry as a draugr.
There was a collar of fire around his neck, blistering with the strength of the sun.
Shuddering sobs took over him after the worst of the retching passed. Tearless, dry, hurting more than it helped. The world rocked and spun underneath him, like he was in flight. Like he was falling. His hands wanted to twitch and curl into claws, wrinkle his robes – the robes, not Laat’s corpse, soft and warm – beneath his punishing grip. The agony of his destroyed hand almost failed to register.
Robes. Not books. Not bodies.
Tamriel. Miraak was free. He was floating somewhere above and below the word, like it dragged him in orbit. Someone was watching him. Mora. Mora was watching him.
He cried, made some horrible mix of sounds that made his aching gut cramp and groan. His body felt like a bruise. He had sweated through his robes, and his skin itched and ached, and everything was too loud, and he was free. So then, why did it feel like he was trapped?
Miraak’s head pulsed in time to his heartbeat, quivering and irregular. His mind felt swampy and confused, reality sliding away from him like softened soap whenever he tried to grasp it. Twice, he commanded himself to move and rose all the way to his feet before he realised his body had not shifted an inch with a deep, internal tug that had his heart hammering in fear. Thrice, he tried to open his eyes, and saw only darkness. He had no eyes, his body told him, there was nothing to open. But he knew – he knew it lied…
Someone was watching him. He could feel its presence, tall and eternal, its greedy hands reaching to grasp him. To take him.
He could hear its breathing, deep and huge.
Mora?
Some part of Miraak knew, vaguely, that he was probably dying. Dehydration, if not shock. It had been so long since he had to worry about these things, but a body was only an animal, and it knew when it hurt. It shouldn’t be like this. The power of Laataazin’s soul should have been enough to sustain him until he could heal the wreck of his body.
Mora’s eyes were tangible as feathers brushing along his skin. Miraak was so cold. So hot. Each thought made his temples pound. And the world spun, spun, spun underneath him, and mocked his attempts to move and breathe. Even when he tried to lie still, there came the sharp, brutal yanks in his sternum, as if he was constantly floating free of his body, some animal part of him so desperate to move it wanted to scrape free of his unmoving flesh altogether.
Something cold and wet, rubbery and strong, licked over the back of his neck. It tickled the shell of his ear, dragging strokes of damp slime and slick ooze of oil. Miraak’s thick tongue stopped his scream. Mora? Mora?! The Prince’s gaze pierced his skin like needles, saw the fetid creature within. Saw him struggling, panicking, against a limp form that had become his new prison. There was never anywhere to hide from Mora’s allseeing eye.
He wanted to get up. He wanted to look over his shoulder. He wanted to check that there was no ghost, no Laataazin. He wanted to slap his hands against his ear, rip away the thing that teased there, flirting with the idea of squirming right the way down into his brain. It would hurt so much.
One final betrayal by Mora? Had the Prince done something? Freed him, just to watch him die slowly inches from three dragonsouls that could save him? … Was this always how it was going to end?
Miraak wanted to cry. Shame warred with his terror, his disgust for himself. How revolted the Miraak of centuries ago, bold and proud in his prime, would be by this shivering, fearful wreck that had stolen his name. And where was Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel? The repositories of power where Miraak might steal a few more heartbeats of life… He could feel them, the pulse of their souls, not far from him, but they might as well have been far as sundered Atmora for all he could reach them.
He thought about water. About the endless seas of ink that ebbed and flowed within Apocrypha. Thought about wrenching his mask off and gulping desperate, some critical creature inside him so fearful of thirst that he’d taken Mora’s bitter sap willingly down his throat, the Prince’s deep laughter and the solicitous curl of the tentacles that had pulled Miraak’s seizing body from the inky waters. He tried to remember what it was like to cup his hands in pure sweet lakewater, good to drink and fresh, but the memory was faded and grey – more like an awareness it was something he must have done at least once than it was personal.
He thought about water, and he thought about moving, and he thought about dying.
Sounds brushed by, and when he heard the cultists, he thought at first it was another trick of his mind. Their voices were varied and muttering, scuffed by their robes and the wet slap of bare feet on stone. Creaking hinges, rasp of wood-bristles.
“-hearing things,” he heard – his mind parsed the language vaguely, understanding it more as a dreamlike awareness than any cognisance – “I am not of course you are. Temple sealed shrine. Dream-demons … You see demons everywhere. They are everywhere. I was in Vvardenfell … dreamwoken and then slain Blight ash – Lord – how would a dragon get underground, then, you damn fool?”
“Well, it could not be that, sounds like a squealing netch,” there were two voices, Miraak suddenly ascertained, and they were speaking Dunmeris. Did he speak Dunmeris? He must.
“Or a cliff racer,” the other intoned dourly. “They nest in caves.”
“Blessed Jiub, I hope not,” came the reply, then, “Help me with this buggering door.”
The ancient iron doors had been sealed for a long time – longer than Miraak could remember, in fact. They shrieked awfully, ground like glass over the stone. A growl, deep as rocks muttering under the weight of waterfalls. A dragon. Restless, dream-slunk, exhausted. Reflexive.
“… fucking heard that!?”
“What …” A flurry of words that were too quick to grasp. “- heal! I think it’s…”
Something wrenched his shoulder in a fierce grip. Miraak’s body moved limply under the touch, and he heard a sudden clatter – a lamp, perhaps a blade. An icy touch on his neck, fingers, fingers – someone was touching him and he couldn’t see who –
“-still alive, go-!”
The hand on him moving then – silence –
“… Master?”
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moony-artnstuff · 4 years
Text
Kintsugi
Pairing: Thranduil x Fem!Reader
Note: This is my very first fanfic ever and I am really excited to post it here. I’ve been on tumblr for a while now and there are some really talented writers on here who with some I have become friends with and who have inspired me to write my own fanfiction (I will tag them below). I know this still needs a lot of work but I look forward to writing and improving at it here on tumblr!
Summary: The reader gets lost in Mirwood during one of her travels and is taken to the palace to meet king Thranduil. When Thranduil notices she has a big scar on her face, resembling his own, he feels drawn to her, and a friendship start to form. 
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This was not how you expected your journey to go. When the people of Laketown warned you of the dangers of Mirkwood, they spoke of big spiders and misleading paths, which, in all honesty, should not be that big of a problem seeing you had dealt with orcs many a time and had come out fine. What you did not expect, however, was the fact that the forest seemed to literally try to get you of the path. You don’t know how long it has been since you entered the woods, but it felt like you had been going around in cirkels for days, and the further you walked the thicker the air seemed to become. It made you feel tired, and dizzy.
Crack.
A noise. Right above your head. And as you looked up you saw a spider the size of a horse crawling down from the trees and coming right at you, but right when you went to grab your sword three arrows where shot from behind you, hitting the eight-legged beast in the face. Before you could even blink a group of elves jumped out of the trees, killing the spider within seconds, and then turning to you, bows aimed at your throat. You carefully raised your hands, eyeing a silver-haired ellon who was approaching you.
‘‘Human’‘ he spoke.
‘‘Elf’‘ you answered. His eyes narrowed slightly, they were a beautiful shade of blue. Then he continued;
‘‘You are trespassing our lands, what business do you have here?’‘
‘‘I was only passing through,’‘ slowly you lowered your arms, ‘‘I mean no harm, I just need to get to the other side of the forest.’‘
‘‘Not before you meet with the king.’‘ Turning to the other guards, he ordered, ‘‘Take her weapons.’‘
You furrowed your brow. ‘’Take my-? Hey-!’’ you sputtered, as two guards grabbed your arms and took your sword and dagger.
They took you to the castle, and you couldn’t help but gasp when you entered the caves. Beautiful archways and pillars where carved into wood and stone, and when you looked up you saw that the ceiling was covered in gemstones, reflecting the light of the many torches on the walls. Legolas watched you from the corner of his eyes, and a small smile appeared on his face as he saw you look around in wonder, but it was quickly replace by a look of concern when he noticed the big scar on the right side of your face. Whatever had caused it had blinded you in your right eye, and by the looks of it it had hurt a lot. He wondered how you had gotten a scar like that, but he wasn’t about to ask.
Your eyes were still glued to the ceiling when you were suddenly brought to a halt. A few steps in front of you stood Legolas speaking elvish with someone sitting on a throne. That must be king Thranduil, you thought. You couldn’t understand a word from what they were saying, but you guessed it was about you. Then Legolas turned and left the throne room together with the two guards who were holding you, leaving you in an awkward silence with the king. You took this moment to study his features. He wore a silver and crimson robe, and on his head was a crown adorned with red leaves and berries. On his slender fingers he wore many rings, and his long, pale-blond hair cascaded down his shoulders. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw, and his eyes were a beautiful icy-blue color. That’s when you realized you were staring at him, and that he too was looking at you, so you look away.
‘‘It is not often a human comes into my realm,’‘ you heard his deep, velvety voice say, and in a teasing tone he continued, ‘‘I’m suprised you haven’t been eaten by any spider yet. Tell me, exactly what business do you have here?’‘
You frowned at his comment. What, did he think you were weak because you were human?
‘‘I was only trying to pass through, your highness,’‘ you watched as he gracefully walked down the stairs, ‘‘I am but a simple traveler. All I tried to do was get to the other side of the forest.’‘ Thranduil only hummed in response. He was now standing in front of you, and his eyes were fixated on your face. You knew he was looking at your scar, and it made you feel uneasy.
‘‘Is there something to look at?’‘ you snapped. You didn’t mean for it to sound as angry as you it did, but you had had a long day and you weren’t in the mood to be stared at. You understood that a scar like your own would attract attention, but you wished the elvenking would at least be more subtle about it. Thranduil however didn’t seem fazed by your little outburst, and simply turned his gaze back to your eyes.
‘‘I apologize. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you come by such a scar?’‘ At this you raised your eyebrow. Why would he be interested?
‘‘When I was younger a pack of orcs attacked my village,’‘ you explained, ‘‘They had set the house on fire, and when I finally managed to escape, after already being burned, one appeared out of nowhere and swung his sword at me, cutting me in the face.’‘ A shiver crawled down your back. You didn’t exactly enjoy recalling this specific memory.
The elvenking simply nodded before he turned and walked back up the stairs to his throne. When he finally sat down he turned back to you and spoke;
‘‘I will send a maid to prepare a room for you. You can stay here for a few days to rest up and eat. After that you are free to leave whenever you please.’‘
That evening Thranduil sat in his room in his armchair, a glass of wine in his hand. He was recalling the events of that day and his thoughts drifted back to you. A human woman lost in his forest. Although rare, it was not uncommon. What was uncommon, however, was his hospitality to you. Of course, Thranduil would never wrongfully mistreat someone, but to give a trespasser a bath, a room and food? That was unheard of, so why did he offer it to you? Deep down he knew why. He felt drawn to you, drawn to your scar. The way it was so much like his own yet you carried it so differently, like it was barely a burden at all. Subconsciously he raised his hand to touch his cheek, where he would’ve felt burned flesh had he not concealed it with his magic. He wanted to know how you did it. How you managed to go through your day without crumbling under the stares and judgement of others. How you didn’t seem fazed when the wind caressed your skinless cheek, or when you felt numbness instead of the warmth of the sun. And he wondered, if you were able to see yourself in the mirror. Did you look away like he did, or couldn’t you care less for the way you looked? 
Putting down his now empty wine glass, Thranduil walked over to his bed, his mind still on you. You’d be here for at least a few more days, plenty enough time for him to find out more about you and your scar. Maybe you would tell him how you were so comfortable with it. And the maybe, just maybe, he too could find peace.
In the following days Thranduil and you spend a lot of time together. He showed you around the castle, lead you through the gardens, and occasionally had dinner with you. And the whole time he tried to find any sign of of discomfort caused by the mark on your face, but he found none. What he did notice was the twinkle in your eyes you had whenever you talked about your travels, or how you always wanted to sit underneath the magnolia tree in the royal gardens, and the way you would occasionally bite your lip when the two of you were reading. And the longer you stayed the more he found himself wanting to be around you just for the sake of your company. After a month he had forgotten all about wanting to know about your scar, and Thranduil saw you as a friends, maybe even more.
Right now he was walking through the gardens. He did not have to attend to any duties this afternoon, and he wanted to enjoy his free time. He hadn’t seen you a lot in the past few days, and he was just about to look for you when he heard you humming. Following the melody, he found you sitting cross-legged in the grass, a mirror in front of you and a small jar in your hand. It contained a golden liquid, with which you seemed to... paint your face?
‘‘Y/n?’‘
You turned your head at the sound of your name and your e/c orbs met ice-blue ones.
‘‘Thranduil! So good to see you. How are you doing this lovely afternoon?’‘
‘‘I am quite alright, thank you. What are you doing?’‘ he asked as he sat down next to you.
‘‘Make-up! What do you think?’‘ You pointed to your face, and Thranduil took the time to study it. You had used the gold as eye-liner and as a highlighter for your upper lip, which made it hard for him to look away. Along your jawline where your scar covered your face where small flowers drawn, and a bit about that were small stars covering your scar like freckles.
‘‘It’s beautiful.’‘ he said softly. And when you asked if you could paint on him too, he let you. You carefully applied the golden liquid onto his fair skin, holding two fingers underneath his chin to tilt his head sideways. Through half-lidded eyes Thranduil watched how your eyes followed the brush. It tickled, and he tried not to smile as you poked your tongue out and furrowed your brow in concentration.
You were beautiful. And with the way your h/c framed your face, and the sunlight made it seem as if your s/c glowed, Thranduil felt like he could look at you forever.
‘‘All done!’‘ you said, grabbing the mirror so he could see. You had made sure his eyes and cheekbones stood out, and you had painted all kinds of flowers to cover most of the left side of his face. Thranduil brought his hand up and carefully touched the delicate dranw lines.
‘‘It looks lovely. What is ii called?’‘
‘‘Kintsugi.’‘ you answered, and he raised his brow at you.
‘‘It’s the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold,’‘ you explained to him, ‘‘It’s build on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger more beautiful piece of art.’‘
‘‘Are you comparing me to broken pottery?’‘ Thranduil teased.
You chuckled. ‘’I wouldn’t dare, but I do think it works the same for people,’’ you stared into the mirror, a distant look in your eyes, ‘’Too often people let themselves be defined by their scars, and although it can sometimes be hard to face them, they do not make someone less.’’ You turned your gaze back to the ellon next to you, a knowing look in your eyes as you continued;
‘‘Scars do not define you, nor do they make you weak, if anything they show how strong you are. Just because somebody is ‘broken’ does not mean the cannon be heal again, nor does it mean they are less beautiful.’‘
You closed the small jar and handed it to Thranduil, who still seemed to be entranced by your words.
‘‘For you.’‘ you said.
‘‘What for?’‘ he asked, taking the jar from you.
‘‘In case you ever think your scars make you less than what you are.’‘
His eyes widened. How did you know? But you simply smiled, turning to look out over the garden, breathing in the summer air.
‘‘Say, I know i have already been in Greenwood far longer than we originally planned, but,’‘ and you leaned closer to the elvenking beside you, ‘‘I was wondering if I could stay a while longer? I do not wish to leave yet.’‘
‘‘Is that so?’‘ Thranduil mused, slowly taking your hand in his. ‘‘And what would be the reason for that?’‘
‘‘I met someone who has captured my heart.’‘
‘‘Truly,’‘ he whispered, his lips only a breath away from yours, ‘‘and who might this lucky ellon be?’‘
‘‘I think you already know.’‘ you said, before closing the distance between you. And as your lips met, Thranduil felt something shift inside him. He felt lighter, as if a burden had been shifted from his heart. And with you in his arms and his hin upon your head, he finally knew, he had found peace.
@ceinelee​ @tolkien-fantasy​ @daisy-picking-lady​ @ladylouoflothlorien​ @luna-xial​ @beautifultypewriter​ @writer-inwonderland​ @long-cosmos-overhead​ @fizzyxcustard​ @dabisburnedbutt @lotr-hobbit-imagines​ @lotrfics​ @the0maddest0hatter​ @asraime​ and so many more! You and your amazing work have inspired me to start writing on tumblr and I am so happy I get to call some of you my friend!
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tealquacks · 5 years
Text
We Cannot Sleep
Docthor week day two: Blood
I,,,, didn’t think I would like this as much as I did but I’ve forgotten how much I love this ship. This is basically their relationship forming, and god knows what I’ll do for the rest of the prompts, but here goes!
~1136 words
@lostcybertronian
It started slowly enough. The Author found a place in the ego building, a library that seemed to stretch on endlessly, and stayed there. Well, that’s what everyone assumed. Edward was the only one allowed in, and the only one who ever saw the little ghost when he left, smelling like paper and iron.
Sometimes, he left at night. He carried a metal bat, and woke Edward up by quietly tapping it on his door. He’d always say when he would be back- be it at four am, or around the same time the next time. Then, he would kiss him on the hand. Without another marvelous word, he would slip out to wherever the night took him.
It was normal, now. Author leaving, and Edward laying awake for hours, staring at his hands, wiggling his steady fingers alone in the dark. He saved all his questions for morning. Why take a bat instead of the axe Dark keeps by the fireplace? Because that is meant for firewood. But wouldn’t an axe be better? No. You’re a doctor. You know how bad blunt force trauma can be.
In the morning, he smelled like breakfast, shampoo, and something pungent and familiar.
Then it started picking up speed.
Author spent half of his time in the library, half sitting outside. Even if it was raining. Many times Edward would have to pull him inside, halting him while he was scribbling nonsensically in a small, leather bound journal. He’d make him soup. Try to coax the journal from his scarred, ink-stained hands, bickering like a married couple. Oddly enough, he had grown fond of him.
Edward slept with his door unlocked, knowing that Author would slip in through the cracks; a silent wisp of smoke carrying a baseball bat. He’d crawl over him, mumbling strange, confused words, saying little things before they happened until Edward kissed him. It always had to be him, else Author would keep saying words aloud. Sometimes, he cried them.
Edward asked what they were one night, while trying to figure out if his shirt had broken something after he flung it off. He asked Author what those words were, and Author chuckled.
“Ideas.”
He bit Edwards skin, and they folded in on one another like an all-consuming fire. When they were done, Author would lay down with him, but in the morning, he’d be gone. For whatever reason, Edward didn’t know. He could still smell him on the pillows each morning, feel his warmth even though he was alone in the cocoon of blankets, left to put himself back together.
Every night was like holding his breath. Hoping to not fall asleep, so Author would say, and would be there in the morning, not the red smell of copper on the pillows by his side. Love was supposed to have mornings in it, too. Or was that just in stories?
It came to a blazing, fervent tempo the night that Author came home covered in blood. A night where Edward had held his breath instead of sleeping after Author left, staring endlessly at the corner of the room where Authors bat was propped up. The metal glinted cruelly in the low light of the room.
The door slammed open, the knob cracking the drywall. Edward sat up straight, letting the sheets drip off his skin like water. The Author in front of him wasn’t his Author. His shirt was torn in half, barely hanging onto him, and right on his jaw Edward caught a glimpse of a purple bruise he had left. That was the best of it.
His eyes were huge and gold. They jumped from place to place like a rabid animal. His jaw hung open, sharp, painful teeth showing with every heavy breath he took. His journal was crumpled in his palm, soaked with blood. So were his hands. It looked like he had scratched them up, deep gashes bleeding dark onto his pants, dripping onto the floorboard. Edward hurriedly stood, breath caught in his throat.
“Author-“
“It’s ok,” he growled, like a mad dog, “go to sleep. I can’t die. I can’t. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Edward approached slowly. He reached out, and Author jerks back with a hiss. Slowly, Edward extended his arm, taking Author’s wrist. It squelched like rotting wood, and drenched his hand with blood. He breathed in, deep. He was a doctor, he could handle this.
“What did you do?”
“I wrote a story.”
Edward gently twisted his arm. Blood trickles out. With a shaking hand, Author dips his finger in the blood, and gently traced words on Edwards chest. The doctor froze up, the contrast between the madman in front of him and the tenderness, the /love/ of his touch making his skin burn. Author lifts his hand, and with a hiss, the wounds begin to close and scar over like a needle being pulled through a piece of fabric, Author preening like a peacock as his skin glows gold. Edward looks down- the blood on his skin matched that gold, the words legible only for a moment.
Author stared emptily at him, golden eyes locked on his, a fire set to burn.
“I told you. It doesn’t matter, Prince. Nothing does. We’re all squealing, flailing animals. It’s fine. It’s alright. Doesn’t matter.”
Edward blinked.
“Why return to me, then?”
Author dropped the journal to the ground with a wet smack, and stalked off to the shower. Edward stared down at his hands- one coated in blood as black as night. Once steady hands quiver. He smears it on his other hand, onto his chest, his face. It would be the one part of Author he truly had. Yes, yes, a part that would never leave, a part under his skin that wouldn’t abandon him in the night and leave him in the morning, wondering and cold and smelling that strange, iron scent.
He inhales. Christ. That smell was blood. It was always blood. Couldn’t deny that anymore. Blood and flowers and breakfast and whatever else he carried with him like the baseball bat and the journal but he had left those hadn’t he but they didn’t matter so how could he if nothing did and he didn’t even care-
The water turned off. Edward looked up from where he was on the floor.
Author gave him a long, silent look before dropping his towel. Edward could see more scars than what was on his arms, sentences, a story that was carved along his bones. There was something about a fire. Author sighed, then dragged him into bed with him, kissing the places where blood meets flesh, no words, no more madness, leaving silent apologies on every single inch of skin. He was crying. Scarily silent.
“Why do you return to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you love me?”
Author kissed the blood-stained skin of his collarbone, Edward letting go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, slumping into his arms. They slept together, Author wet from the shower, Edward soaked in blood.
And Edward wakes up alone, the blood all over him the only memory of the night before.
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thewinedarksea · 6 years
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a christmas gift for the lovely @eunoiaschaos​, who asked for something “dark and dramatic and makes me love the villain,” ft. “dead gods.” hope you like it! 💕
The statues are coming down.
Veseth, one of their last strongholds of faith, resistance broken beneath the jaws of the Silian empire at last, their temples forfeit. The story spans three pages, bracketed on each side by accounts of the war, lists of casualties.
Grainy black-and-white photographs accompany it. Half of the first page is dominated by a shot of the temple’s interior, the arched ceiling punctured with holes, pale light streaming over the ring of statues. Valehn recognizes only two: Arienrel, goddess of the sea, dark arms outspread, and Daemon, god of the harvest, his head topped with a crown of golden leaves. She searches the temple for a hint of past glory, finds only cracked marble columns, old murals faded with time.  
When she turns the page she’s greeted with a full-length picture of the wreckage, the wood of the altar splintered and snapped, piles of rubble lining the aisles. Daemon’s crown is scattered across the ground, leaves bent and misshapen. One of Arienrel’s hands has broken off, the marble fingers reaching towards the uncaring sky.
With a sigh Valehn flips the paper closed, shoving it across the table, and drops her head back. The quiet of the room washes over her, easing some of the stress of the last few days.
The Agartha Club smells of smoke and whiskey and spilt blood, the air thick and warm, filled with soft chatter and the rustling of pages. It’s more refuge than social gathering, a place where the old gods go to remember and the new priests come to learn, trading secrets and knowledge of arcane rites over cups of coffee and honey. A pale imitation of what was, but it’s enough, sometimes, for her to pretend.  
When she closes her eye it’s Il’lythria she sees: the walls swathed in silk, incense heavy in the air, revelers dancing to the wild music, the crush of bodies turning in the violent light. And the gods high above it all, their lips dripping blood and gold, drinking in the worship. Adahris, with his wine-red mouth and feverish eyes, the dark silk of his robes pooling around his shoulders; Caithe, their hair in a hundred delicate braids, prowling the edges of the room; Elohra on her throne, wrapped in chainmail, dusted with rose petals.
The memory dissipates at the sound of someone settling in the chair across from her, the creak of springs loud in the stillness. A disciple, perhaps, one who has not yet learned that Valehn has little interest in reminiscing on the past and even less in being disturbed. Frowning, she opens her eye, an angry retort already on her lips.
But it’s Elohra she finds sitting across from her, a peach in one hand and Valehn’s discarded paper spread out on the table before her. She’s flipped it open to the story on Veseth, her lip curling at the wreckage of the temple, the shards of ancient statues scattered across the floor.
The words vanish from Valehn’s mouth. She chokes instead, the sound strangled and ugly, her heart tightening painfully in her chest. Elohra glances up at the noise and, finding Valehn’s attention on her, brings a hand down on the picture of the broken statues, fingertips spanning Arienrel’s face.
“It’s amazing what mortals will get up to, if we leave them alone long enough,” she says, tapping one bloodied nail against the page. In the dim light of the club her eyes are perilously bright; they glow in her face, radiant as a collapsing sun. Valehn averts her gaze too late, black dots crawling across her vision.
By the time it clears Elohra has set the newspaper aside. One hand now holds a slender knife, the hilt carved to resemble a wolf, mouth open and snarling. Valehn stills, pulse quickening. Her eye lingers on the silver fangs, the tips stained crimson. It’s Elohra’s favorite blade, a present from Adahris. She’d taken it to Valehn a handful of times; she can feel the phantom bite of it against her skin, on her wrists where the scars never healed right.  
“Why are you here?”  Valehn’s voice comes out rough and low, tinged with fear. The corner of Elohra’s mouth ticks up at the sound.
“It’s amazing what you get up to, if I leave you alone long enough.”
Long enough. Elohra’s been avoiding the major conflicts, a rarity for her; Valehn hasn’t laid eyes on her in half a century. Once any separation would have seemed unthinkable. Now Elohra’s presence feels foreign, dangerous, threatening to drag Valehn back into her orbit.
Valehn says nothing and the light of Elohra’s eyes flicker as she rolls them. She tilts backwards until she’s lounging in her chair, kicking her boots up onto the table, the heels leaving scuffs on the hardwood. Paper tears beneath her careless feet, separating Arienrel’s head from her body. Valehn winces at the sound, and again when Elohra kicks the newspaper to the floor with a disdainful noise.
“There have been rumors,” Elohra says. Her knife bites deep into the peach, carving out a generous slice. “About Adahris.” She pops it into her mouth and chews, juice trickling down her chin. “About Caithe.” The blade points at Valehn. “About you.”
“Adahris.” The name fits strangely in Valehn’s mouth, her heart catching again at the mention of him. Cruel, beautiful Adahris, with his cold eyes and clever hands, trailing violence in his wake. Apparently today is the day for reopening old wounds.  
“I haven’t seen him in decades.” Not since the Battle of Navera, where he had retreated into the mountains, wounded and beaten, forces routed and stronghold overrun. Recent whispers placed him in Istane, a remnant of his former self, gathering his followers in a desperate bid for power. Harmless enough on his own, but if Elohra entered the war on his side… Velahn tucks that thought away for later consideration, out of the reach of Elohra and her burning eyes.
“And Caithe?”  Elohra’s mouth twists around the name, eyes flickering dark and molten with hatred.
“We worked together, once.” They’d seen much of each other in those long centuries after Il’lythria, when the world continued on and Elohra was nowhere to be found. “We still keep in contact.”
Elohra’s grip on the knife tightens. The next cut she makes is ragged, tearing at skin. Silence settles over the pair of them, thick and choking. Valehn doesn’t dare to break it, settles for stealing glances at Elohra through her eyelashes, careful to avoid her eyes.
Elohra is beautiful still, and that hurts in a way Valehn hadn’t expected. Most of the other gods have became less than as their temples crumbled and their worshippers dwindled, skin hardening to stone, beauty peeling away to reveal the monster beneath. The only mark time has left on Elohra is in her bearing: her arrogance threaded with exhaustion, the weight of centuries pressing down on the sharp line of her shoulders.
“Are you planning to betray me, Valehn?” Elohra’s voice is flat, the words dropping into the space between them with the finality of a thrown gauntlet. Valehn jerks at the question, her gaze darting upwards.
She is met with the implacable burn of Elohra’s eyes, her face smooth around them. Valehn cannot read her expression. It’s disquieting to think that she can no longer decipher Elohra’s emotions, that there is a part of Elohra that Valehn is not privy to. In all of their time apart it’s the one skill she’d never thought she’d lose. Elohra has changed so much. Or perhaps it is Valehn herself who has changed, shaped by a merciless world into something more than Elohra’s shadow.
“Are you?” Elohra repeats, still flat, still unreadable.
Valehn’s chair protests as she rises to her feet, skirting the table to stand in front of Elohra. Elohra watches, expectant, the knife spinning lazy circles in the air.  
The carpet is thick and soft as Valehn sinks to her knees, the accumulated warmth from the fire soaking into her leggings. When she tips her head back Elohra’s eyes catch on her mouth and linger, the knife going still in her hands, eyes subsiding to a deep flicker.
“I have always been loyal to you,” Valehn says, careful to keep her voice steady. The words ring hollow in her ears. She has not stood by Elohra’s side in decades; the space between them can fit empires. She raises one hand, pressing it to her heart. An old soldier, playing at a loyalty that had once consumed her entire soul.  "Always.“
Elohra softens at the sight of her, something dark and complicated flitting across the blank expanse of her face. Valehn does not dare dwell on it.
“Yes,” Elohra muses at last. “You have been.”
She stands in one violent, fluid motion, tossing the remainder of peach over her shoulder to land on the rug. Her fingers are still sticky with juice when they reach out, trailing along Valehn’s cheek in a parody of a caress, ghosting around the empty hollow of her right eye. They track a path down her face, nails drawing blood where they catch at the skin, coming to rest on the curve of her neck.
“Oh, my love,” Elohra sighs, and Valehn can read her face now, an ancient fury trembling across the whole wild breadth of it. There’s love there, too, raw and aching, unbearable in its intensity, and Valehn shuts her eye in the face of it. Elohra’s grip tightens, and Valehn shivers, desire igniting in her veins, white-hot and hungry. “It is a dangerous path you tread. Take care to remember your place.”
The centuries had killed Valehn’s love as surely as they’d driven a knife into its heart; she’d buried the remains beneath the ruins of Il’lythria, laid it to rest alongside whatever monster she’d once been. But in this moment, with Elohra’s hand wrapped around her throat and the scent of blood thick in the air, she remembers what it was like, thinks that if Elohra asked she would follow her to the ends of the earth and over the edge into the star-speckled nothing beyond.
She doesn’t ask. Her hand falls away, smearing golden juice across Valehn’s skin. When she walks out of the room, the silk of her coat fluttering behind her, she leaves behind the sickly smell of peaches and Valehn, kneeling on the floor, trapped in place by old memories.
It’s a long time before she lets out a shaky sigh and stands, legs weak beneath her. The blood on her face is drying in sticky lines and her neck itches, the weight of Elohra’s hand still vivid, threatening to drive her to her knees once more.
But there is work to be done. Caithe needs to be informed, her network of spies prepared. Valehn knows Elohra, knows the difference between a threat and an inevitability. Elohra is planning a war, and she won’t stop until she’s burned the world or broken it, no matter the consequences.
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