#the wretched yet elegant beast !!!!

[thefanciestborrower]

The Devouring of Prometheus

Ohh boy this fic has been over a year in the making and by golly am I proud of it. It was mostly an attempt to imitate Mary Shelley’s writing style while adding more classic lit vore into the world cause oh boy do we need it. This fic is a little darker than my usual fluffy stuff because. You know. It’s Frankenstein. But everything is still safe despite what Victor thinks. Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Warnings: Contains soft, safe, unwilling vore, mentions of digestion, mentions of dying, mentions of cannon character death, minor injury, and vomit

Characters: Victor Frankenstein and the Creature

Word Count: 2,830

Mankind has no greater fear than that of being devoured. It is an instinctual fear, engrained deep within our very beings from the moment we are born, as it is in every living being, and yet it is perhaps one of the most uncommon fears to experience in its true, unaltered form. We are quite familiar with the notion of being killed and eaten by a wild beast, since such a thing, while not terribly common in the more civilized parts of the world, is often talked of in books and by explorers returning from long voyages to strange, wild lands. It is a threat to be sure, but perhaps not the most fear inspiring one. A hungry lion might indeed pounce upon you with his teeth and claws bared as if to shred you to ribbons while you lay awake in agony, but in truth he is far more merciful than even most men and will end you swiftly with a bite to the neck before he ever starts to feed. The fear of being eaten in this way, then, is diluted by the promise of a swift death at the claws of a creature who bore you no more malice than you do a butchered duck. 

The terror of being consumed lies not in the act of consumption, but in the method. Stories full of giants and ogres who devour men whole and alive fill the countryside and take captive the minds of all who hear them, filling their dreams with images of gnashing teeth and slavering mouths, capable of sending a grown man down, kicking and screaming, in a single swallow. I must confess I never heard much of these tales growing up, aside from a few Clerval was so fond of telling, and when they did reach my ears, I simply scoffed, laughing such frightening images away in the clear light of day when nothing could seem more ridiculous. They were children’s tales, I thought, simply meant to frighten and entertain, for nothing, man or beast, could swallow whole a living man. Oh, how I wish I had been right. 

He came for me in the night. I was asleep, or nearly so, when a sudden noise at my window startled me awake. At first I assumed it to be the scratching of a branch or perhaps even some night creature making its rounds through the garden outside. After all, I was far more unfamiliar with the Oxford landscape than my dear friend Clerval, who had spent much of his afternoon exploring the grounds, so I felt there to be no need for concern. Indeed, I had nearly turned over to drift back to sleep when I saw his eyes. Those wretched, sunken, yellow eyes staring as if into my very soul through the dusty window I had neglected to lock in my naivety. I might have screamed had fear not grasped my throat and strangled my voice, and though I longed to run, terror turned my legs to lead and forced me to watch as the fiend pried open the window with a delicate ease that seemed almost laughable compared to the rest of his hulking mass. I pulled my sheet up to shield my chest like a child might, entertaining fantasies that perhaps this was simply a nightmare, and if I remained still in my bed then he would be unable to harm me, but when he began to climb through the window with the elegance of a lion stalking his prey, eyes never once leaving me, panic settled over my heart and I realized this was no mere conjuring of an overworked mind. The beast was here, looming over me in my chambers as I trembled in bed with naught but a thin sheet and even thinner night clothes to protect me. 

“Devil! What do you want from me!” I cried at last, terror loosening her claws from my throat. “I have not forgotten our agreement, so why do you insist on tormenting me so!” 

I received no reply, the beast more than content to simply stare at my trembling form. Perhaps he enjoyed how weak I must have appeared before him as his eyes flicked over me, almost sizing me up for reasons I could never have comprehended in that moment. Cold and yellow as they were, I could see an inkling of some mysterious emotion behind those eyes, but it’s identity I couldn’t say. Nor did I care. My thoughts were quickly preoccupied as he advanced upon me, padding forwards like some great and terrible cat, until he stopped just shy of the side of my bed, so close I could have reached out and touched him. 

Again, I saw that strange emotion flicker behind his dead eyes, but before I had time to ponder it he wrapped his hands around my chest and lifted me from the safety of my bed with terrifying ease, like one might lift a small child or a doll, and while I screamed and writhed in his hideous grasp, his hold only tightened. My ribs creaked and complained under the pressure and my cries became strangled and choked. With a ghastly popping sound he opened his grotesque mouth, jaw hanging at an angle too wide for any human to achieve, and to my upmost horror he quickly stuffed my head inside with the terrifying efficiency of a ravenous beast. The slimy muscle of his tongue lapped against my face and my body convulsed in disgust as I desperately fought not to be sick. Revolting as my situation was, I did not wish to add my own vomit to the mix, even if it might have disgusted the fiend enough to free me. 

I could see nothing but darkness, each desperate gasp for oxygen only supplying me with the barest sliver of foul air. Teeth ringed my neck like a terrible collar, and for a moment I entertained ideas of those teeth, the very same I had picked and sorted by hand, crashing together to sever my head from my body like some terrible executioner. Before my thoughts could spiral much more in this direction, his grip changed and I was suddenly shoved against the slick, fleshy opening of his throat. My blood curdled and, with a sudden, crushing pressure, my head was crammed downwards in the most painful manner which caused me to cry out in despair. My skull felt as though it would shatter, and I screamed a horrible, terrible shriek of agony and terror as my shoulders were crushed down after me, the tight gullet of the beast threatening to break them into splinters. My vision swam, stars of pain and lack of breath sparking and dancing before my eyes, and though no light followed me into my hellish prison, I could still see the blackest pitch wavering at the edge of my vision, threatening to drown me in its inky embrace. For a moment I wished it would, if only to keep me from the terrible suffering I knew lay before me, but fate is a cruel mistress and before I could sink into that comforting ocean of darkness a terrible pressure bloomed upon the crown of my head and forced me into an open pocket of stinking, putrid air. 

Coughing and gaging I struggled to draw even a single breath. My ribs, now horribly compressed, creaked and shuttered terribly under the pressure of the creature’s throat, and though my legs still flailed outside, and my hands desperately scrambled for a hold on what I felt to be his chin, I did not dare move the length of my compressed torso for fear of inflicting more damage upon myself. Another painful swallow jolted me down, my face jamming roughly into what I presumed to be the bottom of the creature’s dreadful stomach, and the grotesque flesh not only yielded to accept my presence, but did so with an almost pleased sounding groan, if stomachs can be pleased, as if I really were simply a morsel of food to be consumed and forgotten. The sound filled my heart with a terror I’ve never known, and I cried out, though my voice was quickly silenced by the slick flesh as more of my body was squeezed through that terrifically tight ring of muscle and forced to bend and twist to fit my new prison like some sort of contortionist. 

I know not how long it took the devil to consume me: the darkness of my surroundings and constant pain dulled my senses and left me disoriented to the point where I no longer could even tell up from down. I remember no longer feeling the cold air on my body after some time, my entire being now encased in sweltering heat, and searing pain as my legs were crushed down against my ribs. Finally, it was all over. My entire body had been fully compacted into the creature’s stomach, and although this new development was arguably a much worse position than my previous one, I was far too preoccupied with gulping down precious lungfuls of oxygen to care.

Then, all at once, the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me and with the fervor of a cornered beast I began to lash out and fight, twisting and turning in the confined space in hopes of causing my captor at least the slightest bit of discomfort. 

“Fiend! Devil! Release me at once!” I panted, gnashing my teeth in fear and anger. “This is no way to treat any man, let alone your maker!”

I had no doubt that he could hear my cries and feel my struggles, confined as I was, and yet no answer came. Despite the nature of my location, I was completely and utterly alone, for what man pays attention to his food after he’s eaten it. Again, I tried to call out, to plead for release as I fought against the smothering flesh, and again I was ignored, save for a light pressure against my back from which I hastily jerked away. It was his hand; I knew it instinctively. The brute was no doubt relaxing after so fine a feast of human flesh, and that touch was nothing more then the satisfied gloating of a predator now sated with a filling meal that would last him far longer than any morsel of bread or wine. I was merely something to be enjoyed, digested, and forgotten.

 How many more, I wondered, would be lost in the same way once I had perished. Clearly my current location indicated my captor had grown fond of the taste of human, and with a heart wrenching shudder I suddenly realized I had no way of knowing wether I was the first victim of the monster’s appetite, or if he had already glutted himself with other gentle country folk, just as he had done to me, and I was now resting in their grave. The thought was too much for my already distraught and troubled soul, and the disgust which filled me suddenly became too overwhelming to sustain. With a thick heave I proceeded to retch onto myself, my sick mixing with the beast’s own bile, and I sobbed bitterly for my home. 

“Oh, my dear mountains and precious lake. Will I truly never again delight in your sweet air and radiant beauty? Am I to perish so far from all that is fair and wholesome, without even the cold stars to bare witness to my demise?” I lamented; my voice thick with the grief of a man who believes he is to die isolated from everything he once held dear. 

The spongy flesh seemed to mute my voice effectively as a heavy curtain might, and my words fell upon deaf ears, for no reply came from my creation. My captor. My killer. Was I really to meet my end as nothing more than a meal? My last breath tainted by the stench of bile and vomit? The pressure to my back returned, and although the touch revolted me, I was far too exhausted from my fear and the quickly thinning oxygen to do more than twitch in protest. What difference would it make anyways, my fate was already sealed.

Each breath I drew grew more ragged and gasping with every passing second, my panic having done nothing but quickly use up what little air I had in the stale cell, and in some fever, I realized that, although my air was quickly thinning, I had not yet begun to feel the slightest tingle of digestion. Oh, what sweet twist of fate was this! I still would meet my end as nothing more than a morsel of food this was true, but I would be long since unconscious and perhaps even suffocated before acids truly began to work on me and thus spared the sensation of digesting alive. It was a small assurance, but so consumed was I by grief and terror of my fate that even the small mercy of a painless death brought me comfort. It was more than a man like me deserved after all I’d done. The innocent blood on the creature’s hands stained mine as well, and I thought bitterly of poor darling little William and dear Justine. Their blood has been spilt on my account, and yet, while their deaths had been horrific tragedies, I took solace in knowing they had left the world far quicker than I would, and that I would be seeing them again soon.

My vision swam before me, and with one last shuddering sigh I slumped against the slick walls, no longer attempting to catch my breath, for what would be the point in trying to breathe when there is no air left to fill my lungs. The stomach clenched around me with a disgusting squelch, smothering and squeezing my helpless form as it worked to knead what I presumed to be caustic acids into my sodden clothing and soft flesh, preparing for the undoubtably difficult task of liquifying my un-masticated body. With a gasping, barely audible sob I pressed a trembling hand out against my churning prison walls, cursing my creation and praying my end would be swift. Then the darkness engulfed me, and I knew no more.

Due to the circumstances in which I had fallen unconscious I fully expected to never wake again, so when I started awake some unknown amount of time later in the very bed I had been snatched out of, I could seldom comprehend what was happening. My first thought was that my horrendous experience had been naut but a dream; an apparition brought upon me by the dreadful task I knew I would soon be required to complete. Then I became aware of the disgusting film of sticky, foul smelling sick coating my body and the dull, yet throbbing pain in my ribs, and my blood ran cold. It had been no dream. My creation truly had assaulted me in the night, swallowed me whole and alive, and, by some miracle, vomited me back out before his digestive system could process me. In fact, aside from my ribs, which were badly bruised, I appeared whole and unharmed. Not even a drop of acid had singed my clothes, and my skin was fair and unblemished as it had always been. I pressed a hand to my cheek as if to make certain of my unharmed state, and then, to my own surprise, I began to laugh. It was not a mirthful laugh, but rather one of incredulous shock and relief as I grasped at my warm and unharmed skin. So certain had I been that those final moments filled with slimy blackness and foul reeking air inside the creature would be my last that the cold air of my room and the sting of my nails against my face might well have been gifts from Heaven itself. Even now I marvel at my incredible escape and wonder what could possibly have prompted the monster to give up as filling a meal as I surely must have been. I do not think I shall ever know, but judging from the healthy nature which I possessed upon waking, I can only assume he realized he could not process me as he intended and his body expelled me, though wether such an expulsion was voluntary on his part I still could not say. Nonetheless I knew I was no doubt incredibly fortunate to have survived such an encounter and my resolve had the been strengthened. Where before I had postponed my promise, I vowed to not do so again, for who knew how long the wretched beast would be content to wait and leave me and others be. As soon as I was able, I would set to work creating another who would contain his terrible urges and put this dreadful encounter behind me forever. 

[debbiecolon]

My second tarnished oc, Rem. He usually wears the nightmaiden twin crown, but I wanted to draw his face unobstructed. His lore is super meaty and I'm quite happy with it!

Rem is a descendant of the Nox, people of the Eternal Cities. He was raised in Sellia, well versed in Night sorceries and taught melee combat by his 'sisters', Nightmaidens who warden over the town. His days are spent rigorously training his body and mind, honing himself into a warrior capable of subduing the most formidable of foes. Easily identified by both his silvery skin and hair, Rem appears more Silver Tear than anything, yet his golden eyes speak of his heritage, which he is incredibly proud of. And it is perhaps because of his heritage that Rem holds very little love for the Two Fingers and the Golden Order.

Rem had been fortunate enough to meet General Radahn in his youth, and had been privy to the demigod studying gravity sorceries. He grows to admire the flame haired demigod and leaves the Sellian territories for the first time when he offers his services to the General, as both sorcerer and swordsman. He stood among the Red Mane soldiers in battle, dressed in the silks of the Nox, looking elegant as a dancer yet fighting with all the ferocity of a beast. His end is met like many others in the Caelid wilds: witness to the scarlet flower bloom, particles of rot saturating the sky, clogging the beauty of the stars.

He wakes after centuries, called back from a peaceful void to return to the Lands Between. His memories are muddled, mostly lost, but through adventuring he remembers himself, for better or worse. He remembers that wretched flower, and he seeks a power strong enough to oppose it.

Rem is an extremely quiet and emotionally guarded tarnished who borders on selectively mute, speaking little more than he has to. He makes very few connections but is not unwilling to cooperate with his fellows, seeing such actions as a great way to garner much needed knowledge. He gauges everything like a threat but closely safeguards those who win his trust and affection, albeit from the shadows.

Beneath his guarded exterior is a deep longing to return to a home no longer there. Caelid is a fetid wasteland and nightmarish shadow of what it once was, and it is the only time that he openly expresses deep pain upon seeing the remains of a land he once loved so dearly. It hurts more than he can bear to know that Radahn lives as Caelid does--as a shell of his former self. He does not hesitate to participate in the Festival, seeing it as a final act of kindness for his beloved General. It is a hard fought battle, but Rem leaves with Radahn's blades as his trophy, swearing to wield the colossal weapons in battle.

Though Rem was raised in a town of sorcery and has proficiency with night magics, his greatest strength comes from physical prowess. He wields all manner of great swords and colossal blades, overwhelming his foes with sheer strength and relentlessness. He embodies duality, using stealth, life sapping mist and poison to turn the tide of what could have been a heavily skewed battle. He does not see underhanded tactics as something to frown upon. After all, combat (and life) does not play fair. Aside from sorceries, Rem has studied incantations on a surface level, enough to know hos to cast a poisonous mist or mend his injuries.

Rem's loyalty to the red haired demigod is akin to a love that is all consuming. It was a love that felt unrequited, but his unwavering belief and devotion to honing himself into the perfect weapon caught the interest of the towering Radahn. They seemed an unconventional pair, but they both bonded quite easily through combat and a shared love of animals. Leonard, Radahn's steed, received many a rowa berry and nose pats from Rem.

He felt as though he lost Radahn twice over. Once, against the one-armed valkyrie and her scarlet rot, and a second time at his own hand. Though it was a mercy, to grant his beloved demigod a warrior's end, a part of him died again with the General. The loss is an ever present ache that leads to the nihilistic belief that nothing in the Lands is worth salvaging.

The pain of loss and his keen awareness of the loss of many others drives Rem down the path of becoming the Lord of the Frenzied Flame. He does so, not to spare Melina from a fiery end, but to bring an end to it all, to be the Lord of the lost and the broken. To put to rest all that distinguishes and divides, hoping that perhaps the flames will consume him too.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- Part 2

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse etc.

---

"What do you see?" asks Hannibal, forcing you, by an immovable hand at the base of your neck, to stare at your reflection in the mirror. "Speak the truth. It won't shock me, nor should you be ashamed of it."

You have already attempted to close your eyes against the glass, and were gently threatened into opening them again. Now you force your gaze to unfocus, refusing Hannibal in a way that even he surely cannot discern.

He says your name into the quiet with a subtle, yet dangerous edge. It is so rarely used now that you jolt almost guiltily, unsure whether, like Will, Dr Lecter can be frenzied to strike you.

Hannibal's threat is more of a sleek, hunting animal, you think, cunning and serene; he can be cruel in a manner of exact and elegant genius, the bruising of the psyche, and the soul.

"Don't disobey me," he says. "You will not welcome my disappointment."

A tremble of doe-like terror wreathes you in its grasp.

"Doctor," you whisper. "I want to quit. I'll pay you the money my parents sent for me to come here; I'm not a child, and I don't need any of this. I'm not playing your game. Please let me go home."

There is certainly no chance that your family are aware of and approve of this treatment; it is torture under a clinical guise, a sinister, sexual sadism.

Still you cannot deny that the longer you remain here, the more you begin to see Hannibal and Will in the roles that they take within these walls: the strict, hard-handed father, the nurturing and gentle dad.

Each are relentless in their goal to reduce you to their supplicant doll, driving you further into the same hungering madness they wish to cure.

"You cannot leave here," says Hannibal, almost affably. "Your family unburdened themselves by releasing you to more comprehending hands. They think less of your wellbeing, and more of the weight that they no longer carry. Do you believe they would accept you back if you were not cured?"

"There is no cure," you say, bitterly. "You said it yourself. No cure, just recovery and maintenance."

Hannibal strokes the back of your neck, soothing you even as you shudder in repulsion.

"And do you trust yourself to do that alone?"

You don't answer, sinking miserably against the man at your back if only so that you do not fall to the floor in your despair.

"Tell me, little one," Hannibal commands, and his left hand comes down your shoulder, across your breast, tracing your hip with the ease of ownership. "What do you see?"

Swaying, crying, you blink at the horror in the looking glass, this imperfect beast in the arms of so evil and oddly beautiful a man.

"Failure," you spit. "It's disgusting."

Hannibal leans into you, breathing in the scent of your hair, and kisses your temple.

"I see a perfect little girl. Or else one with the potential to be."

You shake your head, certain that he is taunting you. That he is not repulsed seems an impossibility; Will certainly makes no attempts to hide his disdain, even when he fucks you.

"I do not lie to my patients," Hannibal insists. "With instruction, discipline, and loving guidance, you will become everything you should already be."

Warmth under your skirt; Hannibal's fingers cupping your wretched heat, pressing themselves into a self-loathing wetness, a sobbing response to his words.

"You shouldn't do this to me," you say, as always, repeated like a prayer, all frantic fervour. "You're my doctor. You're hurting me."

"It's what is required for you to change. Why do you cling to your chrysalis when it no longer serves you? There is no sustenance in it. You hold yourself here because it is safe. Because it is known. You have grown to love the illness like family."

He circles the heart of your folds with fingers that know you with the certainty of language.

"I suggest that you exchange the subject of your affections for those that will return it."

His lips are soft against your neck, an angel come down in a romantic painting, or fallen, rather.

Your vision of the creature in the mirror disappears into a prism of tears.

"You don't love me, really," you whisper. "And Will... he hates me."

Hannibal pushes you forwards, against the mirror, bending your form in a balletic motion. You are glad that you cannot see yourself in such close proximity to the glass, only the pupil of your eye, black and endless.

"He does not hate you," says Hannibal, softly. "He is gripped by desires that anger him, for he neither wants nor understands them."

Your legs are eased apart, and you whimper as a sudden thickness parts you like a scroll.

"Sometimes he watches you when you sleep," Hannibal tells you. "He finds such beauty in you, when you allow yourself to dream."

[drewdaves-blog]

Reposts from 2014

MIRROR my eyes on fire everything smells like mirror glass I’ll not let you crawl through my skin again I can’t handle the dry numbness nether again

JOURNEY camper van silent sadness hung like a broken disco ball from the roof touching everyone with it’s unsparkle unshine she ’s gone I whispered move on and tugged the gloom even tighter about me

DOLLAR burn little light burn for a dollar I don’t want to wake to see the groping hand feel the holler collar I don’t want to shake in the night queens parlor

SADNESS amid the slippery spaces of our touch and tell hair bound in fingers and strewn clothes as well there is an inexplicable sadness a melancholy only heard in our sighs

LUIGI’S HORSES listen the boxes of soul light turn carousel speed wooden steeds painted on the inside seem to gallop in place it’s life it’s going nowhere and desperately wants to be real GENTLE my eyes are beds to the world dark walnut frame white duvet black satin pillow case where the tired might find rest HURT If I could just weep while I sleep…. do you mind crying on my face tonight? I can’t do both

SKIN once I slipped on your skin and saw the world through your yellows and blues its so much brighter than mine it hurt my eyes a note to the social butterfly from the recluse in your life HEART beneath and under her beauty elegant wrappings her heart was hollow bird bones fragile built to fly

BYE in the middle of that disconnect discontent when all your tears had been spent I just wretched wiped my mouth screamed aloud buried my love six feet down walked out not another sound JUPITER A ball of magical gas with rings and pretty things in orbit about your stormy skin

FIVE Excerpt from a meeting with my inner child found him tied to a tree binds cutting five had to be five injured and scared released him, held him everything will most certainly not be alright but I’m here I’m not going anywhere AGE I can feel your hand wither the bones beneath veins bas relief so stretched though too I can feel your soul resounding bell giant endless well your a planet trapped inside a crumbling shell grandmother

LUNAR EYESCAPE ahh to walk upon her eye in its hazel foam fog til i reached its black brine through its tumble jungle bog then slowly loose my mind after reveling in it all

SCOOP yesterday you weren’t here I felt not hollow but as if i was being hollowed out by the cosmic melon scoop

LEVIATHAN one of the majestic beasts who swims in my soul’s waters died the day you lied to me

DRAGON we found the snake in the garden but it was your hands that bit digging into my bicep leaving fear marks in shades of bruise I didn’t really care for I was in that moment Galahad

INTERVIEW In an interview Mary was asked to comment on kissing… she said “I’ve been kissed with lying lips so often, that when I finally tasted the truth it was far too sweet” And your first kiss? Mom still thinks she was the one, but grandfather did it unawares. Do you use your tongue when you kiss? “Sometimes more often my mind and very seldom my heart” What was your best kiss? “ My daughter fell forward and her lips struck my forehead like a spongy feather” Do you have any advice for us? Don’t make your own mistakes, let someone else do it for you. Any advice on kissing? “linger!”

SLEEP my head your thigh your hand my head your nails my skin your watchfulness my sleep

LIE Lie to me lie on me lie beside me Let me into your world that dirt cornflake world that is so messed up and yet so alluring lie to me lie on me lie beside me Climb inside my horizontal plane and we’ll search for something pristine and when we don’t find it we’ll dream

[cicerobussytransplant]

“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed: ��in his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me.

[...]

"My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched."

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

“Look well into your past,” said the rider, “and you will know whom God loved.” I thought of Cain, his body a web of scabs. How he mourned because his mark kept him from settling among his own. Everywhere children chased him, shrieking “Gaal!” The ruthless elegance of his punishment. He would learn to dwell among the beasts. To be always itinerant.

The rider offered me a cup of black milk seasoned with aloes. Firelight whitened his incipient tusks.

I felt sweaty, gritty. Longing for a hotel.

The rider is right. Cain was the murderer but Abel was the monster.

Monster Portraits by Sofia Samatar

[trellwords]

fic scrap, renathal/theotar, 1800 words

“I have always held,” Theotar tells him, “that everyone deserves to have at least one sure thing.”

Renathal calls Theotar to his study that night, as he has almost every night since the Maw. Theotar doesn’t mind; most of the time they discuss strategy, then veer off onto other subjects entirely, running out the late hours. He has the good sense not to ask the prince about what happened while he was in the Jailer’s clutches, and Renathal volunteers little, though he provides a colorful version of his and the Curator’s rescue by the Maw Walker.

The Curator’s fate, Theotar knows, troubles the prince deeply. Renathal had managed to escape the Maw virtually unscathed, his injuries owed entirely to Denathrius’s subsequent efforts; the Curator had come back changed, and there’s no doubt in Theotar’s mind that Renathal holds himself responsible.

A prince, he would say, always should.

But as the nights pass Theotar decides that the prince’s need for distraction is less to do with the Maw, after all, and more with how much they seem to be losing. Their defeat at Darkwall, perhaps, stings the most; the loss at the Menagerie had been brutal and swift, but at least that had been a final, desperate effort, not the culmination of all their plans.

The defeat at Darkwall, meanwhile—

They haven’t spoken of it, exactly, but the shadow of it seems to circle around their conversations, an Endmire beast stalking the firelight’s edge. Renathal is unflappable, indefatigable in his pursuit of the rebellion, but there’s something to the way he’s managed to avoid even passing mention of the topic, nearly a lie of omission, that makes Theotar think that the failure still weighs on his mind. That the nobles hadn’t answered, dashing his hopes and his faith—that Blackbane had betrayed them—that they’d ended with the tower sundered, their ranks broken, forced to their knees at the Master’s feet …

Well. Theotar has yet to forget the look Renathal’s face, when Denathrius had plucked the Medallion of Dominion from him, and turned it on Renathal’s own forces.

That the prince’s momentum hardly seems to have been slowed by this ignoble end is a testament to his perseverance, his dedication. If what he needs to maintain that dedication is a friend in the quiet hours, it’s the least Theotar can do to oblige.

So when Renathal summons him again that evening Theotar has the tea already brewed, kettle whistling even as the stone fiend messenger arrives. He feeds the fiend a scrap of his anima, collects the kettle off the stove, and steps through the shadows to the hallway outside Renathal’s study, tea set held on a tray.

(It would do no good to attempt to materialize inside the study; Renathal’s wards would certainly repel any such attempted incursion. Theotar had reviewed those wards himself, in pure aesthetic appreciation—Renathal’s spellwork has always struck him as beautiful, elegant and natural in a way no Nathrian magister could ever hope to replicate. Little wonder, when the prince learned his art from the Master, rose from the very source of their power himself.)

Theotar knocks to announce his arrival, and pushes backwards through the door. “Good evening, my prince!”

“Ah, Theotar.” Renathal turns to him from where he’s been contemplating the map on the wall. He and the Accuser have spent the last several days sending emissaries and spies to every corner of Revendreth, consolidating their resistance; the document has grown accordingly laden with colored pins, delineations of us and them.

(Or not, as the case may be. Theotar had been present when the Accuser had—in a moment of particular exasperation—suggested an all-out assault on the nearest concentration of loyalists: “It would be less arduous to just do away with them, Renathal. How long can we continue to risk these incursions?”

“I will not have my people hunted like wretched souls in the Endmire.” The prince’s tone had booked no argument. “Make no mistake, whatever color marks them now—they, too, are my charge.” A wave of his hand had taken in the map, paired with a dark look of disfavor. “This war is only worth what it leaves us, in the end. I mean to unite Revendreth, not break it. No. We will not attack until we are certain there is no other way.”)

No sign of that grim expression on Renathal’s face now. He abandons the map and its treacherous pins, and retires alongside Theotar to the couches at the end of the room.

Two hours later they’re both more than a little drunk, the prince stretched out on the couch in his study and Theotar in the armchair nearby, feet propped up beside Renathal. The wine in their bottle is getting perilously low, and Theotar—eyeing it with suspicion—wills himself to his feet. “I shall resupply us at once,” he proclaims, and wanders off towards the stash behind Renathal’s desk.

He’s fished out a particularly satisfying variety of anima red and is making his way back when his eye falls on the prince, making him stop. The prince is pensive, gazing into his empty goblet, which presently lies tipped against his chest; he keeps it in place with his right hand, his left listless at his side. He’s thoughtful—almost grave—and something about that far-under expression nudges the thoughts in Theotar’s brain, and urges him to action.

Not brash action, of course. Theotar is nothing if not a fine courtier, and so on his return he sets the bottle of wine on the little table between the armchair and the couch, and seats himself beside Renathal’s legs. Renathal stirs, but before he can do anything more Theotar takes his hand, and brings it up for a kiss.

It’s a formal gesture—a mere press of lips against the prince’s knuckles—but he finds Renathal watching him with that same thoughtful expression. “Now, old friend,” the prince says, eyes half-lidded, “it has been a very long time since you last did that.”

“Only a century or two, surely.”

“Or two.” A tilt of Renathal’s head. “Why now?” And then, answering his own question, the corner of his mouth turning up: “Ah, but you haven’t been able to visit the Countess in some time.”

“You wound me, my dear.” Theotar presses his free hand to his heart, drawing himself up in mock offense. “To suggest I’d succumb to such base opportunism! It would be a stain upon my character.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Renathal grins briefly, then sobers again, voice gone softer still. “Truly, Theotar. What brings us here, after so long?”

A reasonable question, Theotar thinks, when they’ve been friends for eons, and lovers more than a few times. Their friendship is solid, dependable, and most of the time that’s all they are—though it’s surely wrong to state it with such diminution. They’re brothers in arms, comrades, dear friends; but every once in a while that cup spilleth over, and they find themselves caught up in something sweeter, enduring sentiment blossoming into more. It’s happened enough times before; certainly it will happen again, should they both survive the probable end of reality.

It is very easy, after all, to love one’s best friend.

But: why now, indeed. “I have always held,” Theotar tells him, “that everyone deserves to have at least one sure thing.”

Renathal breathes a laugh. “A sure thing.” No doubt he takes the comment for what it is, a reminder of everything that has gone wrong, and may yet go more wrong still. Dark times, and things to cling to in them—that sort of thing. “You certainly are that.” He pulls his hand free, taking Theotar’s in turn. “Oh, all right. But you’ll have to come down here, if you wish to have me. It would take a most unromantic effort for me to rise.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Theotar is appalled. “My goodness. Stay right where you are.” As if he’d make someone with sucking chest wounds sit up to meet him, really.

He bends down, and kisses the prince where he lies.

Renathal doesn’t just lie there, of course; he sets his goblet aside on the floor, and reaches up to curl his hands around Theotar’s neck, the better to pull him in. Theotar laughs, not quite falling over him. He plants a hand next to the prince, and permits himself to be drawn in, careful to avoid jostling Renathal. The last thing he wants now is for that charming smile to turn into some sign of pain, much less from his own carelessness.

The kiss is easy, and perfect, in the way of things at which one has had so much practice. It’s been a long time, but his body remembers, and so, it appears, does Renathal’s. The first kiss turns into another, and another, and the next thing Theotar knows—some time later—is Renathal drawing back to growl (and it is a growl, when Theotar has him like this) “Oh, I have missed this.”

“So you’ll agree it’s a worthwhile change.” Theotar smiles, and shifts until he can lie carefully along Renathal’s side on the couch, his back to the room.

“Oh, yes.” A pleased sigh. “If we are to face down the undefiable darkness—if we are to succumb to the end of reality, tomorrow or some other day soon …”

“Now, now.” An indulgent brush of his knuckles against Renathal’s cheekbone. “It’s not so hopeless as all that yet.”

“Oh, but it is. There can be no possibility of survival, striving against the forces the Jailer has marshaled.” Renathal catches Theotar’s hand in his own, and presses it to his lips for a lingering kiss, his eyes closed. As a gesture it manages to be wholly unlike Theotar’s earlier touch, save for in the most superficial of ways. “Is that not exciting?”

“You are a romantic, my prince. Vulca would not approve.”

“But you do.” Renathal’s reply is a drowsy, pleased rumble, and Theotar realizes that he must be very tired indeed. “You permit me a great deal of foolishness.”

“So long as you include me in it.”

“A fine price for your companionship.” Renathal takes Theotar’s hand away, resting it instead against his chest. Quietly, he asks, “You will stay, tonight?”

“As I would have anyway,” points out Theotar. “Perhaps next time I might simply accompany you to bed, rather than spending the night on the couch?”

“The better to have your wicked way with me, no doubt.” Renathal smiles.

“Merely seeing to it that you get your rest, my dear. Not to mention looking out for my back.” Theotar makes a show of pressing a hand to his back and arching stiffly backwards. “This is hardly a suitable place to spend so many nights.” But he nestles in closer to Renathal, all the same, and adds thoughtfully, “Some wickedness later, of course. Once you’ve fully recovered.”

“I shall look forward to it ardently,” Renathal assures him.

[...]

[lorelylantana]

Luminescent

Written at @hestuu‘s request

Oneshot Rating: G

Ao3

Link hated how his reputation was leveraged against the Princess. He hated how his name was twisted into a blade raised against the one person he was sworn to protect at all costs.  She had every right to be angry, to rage against the insults spat upon her by an ungrateful court. She didn’t deserve to be treated the way she had been, least of all by her own father.

He welcomed the bursts of outrage, the sneers and snide remarks made against him when they were out of the castle’s shadow. Link, of all people, knew how crucial it was to have an outlet for the tide of emotions she choked back when the court was watching. Her wrath was much easier to withstand than the quiet sobs that he heard much too often as he watched over her room at night. There was life in her rage. Power in her voice when she shouted her displeasure. A far cry from the defeated, weary gasps for breath that tore at his heart in the dark of night, anger gave the Princess strength. He was grateful for the force of Zelda’s fury driving her forward, even if it was away from him. 

So he was calm in the face of her frustrations, and his patience was rewarded a few months after he was assigned as her guard. She still didn’t hold him in high regard, but she had grown accustomed to his presence. Thus, he was thoroughly ignored while she went about her studies of Hyrule’s plant life. He couldn’t help but notice how different she looked out in the wild. It was difficult to notice when he just started as her guard, but the more time he spent with her, the more relaxed she became. 

That’s when he began to notice it. It was faint, and invisible in the direct sunlight, but when it was overcast or they walked under the shade of a tree Link could see this glow about the Princess. He could only catch glimpses of it at first, only when the stars aligned and she was content. These sightings were so few and far between that for a long time Link was convinced that they were mere tricks of the light. This phenomenon seemed to accompany a discovery of some sort, be it the perfect sample or a breakthrough in her research. This very observation led Link to cast aside the fanciful notion of a sparkling princess in favor of a much more reasonable explanation. Her expression brightened, nothing more. These moments stuck out to him for their rarity, nothing fantastical about it.

Looking back, it put into stark clarity how much pressure she was truly under. 

Things changed after that day in the desert, though he wasn’t sure why. He could understand how an attempt on her life might shake her up a little, but to have her demeanor change completely worried him. Perhaps the incident cut deeper than he’d originally thought. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the difference, because she began to smile more. She had a spring in her step, and her hackles no longer raised at his presence. This newfound ease fostered a friendship between them.

 Any doubts Link had about those little flickers of light, they were banished in short order. Freed of the suffocating disdain for the one person she couldn’t shake, the glow surrounding Zelda’s happiness became undeniable. He could see it filtering through the trees in the rare moment of separation when she walked ahead of him. Link brought a slice of fruitcake along one of their trips after a particularly harsh scolding, and she burned brighter than their campfire. People began to tell stories of a light spirit traveling the land, a beautiful young woman drifting through the woods and leaving sparks behind. The whispers insisted blessings awaited those lucky enough to glance at the shining maiden.

Link was inclined to agree.

Instead of being ignored, Link was sucked into hundreds of Zelda’s little inquiries while they walked the wilds together. Scientific endeavors were a bit out of his wheelhouse, but it didn’t matter. Zelda thrived simply by having someone to bounce ideas off of, turning to look at him with a glowing grin and a theory. Bit by bit, her smile began to chip away at his reservations, replacing his professionalism with a growing desire for her companionship.

Joy was a precious commodity in those years leading up to Calamity, tenuous and fragile and oh so precious. Indeed, any levity in those shadowed times was to be savored, but what Link coveted above all was Zelda’s delight. The Princess of Hyrule deserved every speck of happiness she could get her hands on, King and court be damned. It was hard won, but worth every effort to see her grin. Link pursued Zelda’s smile with the same relentless dedication that made him the youngest knight in Hyrule’s history, and he swore to do anything in his power to make her happy. Anything to see those rays shine around her.

It wasn’t long until Link’s rising affection began to overwhelm him. He began to crave Zelda’s light, spending days gazing at her. He told himself that it was only natural, because he was her guard and he was sworn to protect her. It had nothing to do with the flutter in his chest, that strange flavor of anxiety that drew his eyes to her like a magnet. A byproduct of almost losing her to the Yiga, surely. 

Link was mesmerized, he would go out of his way to make her smile. Not because of romantic interest, of course not, but because he wanted to name the elation that rose whenever he saw her in the light. He wanted to soak up as much of her luster as he could. One flicker of her sweet, gentle luminescence set him adrift in a sea of contentment and affection. It was intoxicating.  He’d bring her flowers, only because she was looking for specimens, and various odds and ends nicked from the Ancient Tech Lab, all to nurture the small bursts of incandescent glee that sent his heart pounding against his ribs.

They were sitting among the flowers when he succumbed at long last. She was trying to convince him to eat a frog. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but the pleading look of anticipation on her face was enough to make him consider it even as he recoiled in disgust. She leaned too far, however, and she tipped over, tumbling over without her arms to steady her. Link couldn’t remember the details, all he knew is that when they were still once more Link’s hands curled around her hips and her hands pressed into his chest, that wretched amphibian sitting primly between her wrists. They were frozen a moment, caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment, before Zelda let out a stream of giggles that struck him down.

She had a smile like the sun, but when she laughed she was radiant. 

He watched her shine above him and realized that this is what it felt like to be in love. He understood, now, why she always seemed to brighten his day, how she sent his blood running hot to the tips of his fingers and toes. He loved her because who wouldn’t? Who could look upon this young woman so full of fire and compassion and not be awestruck? Who could hear her voice, an elegant stream of thought and wisdom, and not be weak? All the stars were in Zelda’s eyes and she still shone brighter.

Of course he loved her. It was only natural.

To bask in the warmth of her presence was a privilege he thanked all the gods for.

The light shining from Hyrule Castle cuts through any lethargy left over from the Shrine, replaced by a searing, deep yearning to see more of it. When night fell and she was silent, Link found himself wandering around, looking for any substitute convincing enough to trick his mind into ease enough to sleep. At first he slept surrounded by fireflies, but there were precious few places that were safe to sleep. Later he would keep a candle burning when he was in his house, and when he wasn’t he’d settle for clutching a star fragment to his chest. It could lull him into a fitful sleep, but it couldn’t banish the nauseating restlessness writhing in his stomach and constricting his heart.

It wasn’t enough, he wanted to bathe in that light, and if that meant wading through darkness then so be it. This sentiment drove him to complete all manner of miscellaneous, almost random tasks. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge, however, after he learns more about the princess, either through stories or his memories. 

He learned that she’s most likely to shine when he wears his Champion tunic, so he rarely takes it off. He kept the ingredients for fruitcake on hand at all times, and has hundreds of wildberries tucked away. She liked to see Link swing the Master Sword, or watch him wield weapons Robbie crafts for him, so he does at every opportunity. Then, when Link was stronger, he began to hunt guardians down for their parts. She liked watching him clear Hyrule Field, perhaps it built her confidence in him. It didn’t matter why it made her happy, all he cared to know was whenever he’d dispatch a particularly troublesome guardian he could see her light reach out to him from the Castle Sanctum to wash away his exhaustion.

He liked doing these little things for her. It gave him a sense of normalcy that anchored him as he stumbled about Hyrule in search of who he was, and he couldn’t help but feel a deep, vindictive sense of satisfaction whenever he watched her light pierce the darkness swirling about the castle. Each glimmer from high in Hyrule Castle renewed his determination, sending him running towards the power he needed to slay the beast.

Link thinks she loves him, but he’s not sure. Or perhaps it seems too good to be true, and his doubts shield his heart from disappointment that would prove too much after the journey's end. He really hopes she loves him, because he cherishes every gleaming inch of her being. 

He notices what he thinks is affection in her eyes when Zelda smiles at him. He notices the little rays of light, precious and small during the first few days when she was tired and grief stricken, but there all the same. Then he set about cheering her up. Link was always a man of few words, so whenever he saw her dim and space out he would bring her back to earth with bits of fruit and give her the trinkets he’d gathered. Countless little gestures that made her glimmer against the desolation.

 It’s arrogant, but he thinks she shines brighter when she looks at him. The thought makes him grin for hours, which makes her smile in turn. They fed off of each other’s fragile glee. His touch sends sparks leaping off of her skin and sometimes he grabs her hand just to see her shine a bit brighter. One night, he holds a Silent Princess from Satori Mountain out to her, and rather than take it she takes his tunic in her hands and pulls him close. She kisses him, and he has to shut his eyes against the blinding light that radiated out when he wraps his arms around her.

There was not a single word in any of Hyrule’s languages that could properly describe the bliss of holding Zelda in his arms. The euphoric radiance when he grins down at her. Zelda is warm, and so beautiful, a living ray of sunshine tucked in his embrace. Link pushes a shining strand of hair behind her ear while she looks up at him, a smile on her lips. Link rests his chin on her head, finally at peace.

[pendragonfics]

homebound

Paring: Thranduil/Reader

Tags: female reader, elf reader, plus size reader, set during The Hobbit, elf  culture & customs angst and hurt/comfort

Summary: Reader, in the company of the Dwarves of Erebor, finds herself in the company of her One; King Thranduil

Word Count: 1,647

Current Date: 2020-09-12

Though the dwarves spoke Elvish, with you alongside the Company aided their efforts in more than translation. Though you appeared young, your heritage hid the passage of time well. At over five thousand years old, you had seen much bloodshed, hatred, pain and strife as the years went by. Though your whole life was not full of pain, there was the reason you were not with your people for so long.

After fleeing the circles of your society, Gandalf the Grey took you in. The wandering wizard had no paying profession. Yet you spent your time alongside him, learning and growing. But mostly, it was attempting to avoid the pain of being separated from your One.

The sight of the dwarves and Mr Baggins riding ahead of your steed day after day never grew upon you; each morning, they would mount, and you would all ride toward the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps it was the novelty of watching them clamber onward like children. It could be your allyship to their noble cause. But mostly, deep inside your heart, you knew it to be the knowledge that you were returning home to the woods where you were born.

Through all the obstacles the troop faced, you all persevered. But as you all neared closer and closer to the Mirkwood woods, the memories of your exile so long ago resurfaced. Neither the Dwarves nor Mr Baggins asked for your story, for which you were glad. But there was something painful for you in returning home.

You were five thousand five hundred years old, and while most Elves lived longer, none in the circles of the elite you lived in looked like you. Ever since you were a child, your body was different. Doubts of your lineage permeated your family, called into question to your status and the validity of your title. It seemed that the society that you came from was against you but not the King's son. Thranduil.

The memories came to you in dreams and wreaked your sleep with their subconscious power. When the land was younger, and you both too, his hair was braided, and he would smile more. He sang, and ran, and made mischief as anyone would.

But with the passing of his father, the world seemed darker, scarier. Forced to crown him young, the council of elders passed the title upon Thranduil's shoulders. Early into his kingship, he kept his facade of happiness, just for you. The mischief became intimate. He no longer sang, but recited poetry and legislation to your awaiting ears. He wore a crown made from the woods and wore his hair loose for your fingers to weave within. And when no one looked, his lips would find yours, and all the cruel fate in the world would fade away for fleeting minutes.

A proverb states that when an elf falls in love, their heart remains with their One. While you had resigned to a life without returned feelings, it shocked you when one night your chambers were entered by palace guards. The Elders had found out; you, the imperfect, could never be the sovereign by marriage. The guards, on order from the Elders, abducted you under the disguise of starlight and displaced you from your home.

At this point, you would wake, panting, and muffle your cries beneath your fist. The fire would be dying in the early hours of the morning, and the last on watch would be blinking sleep from their eyes. As your party neared toward the woods, with Gandalf fleetingly by your side, you felt the grief returning to your conscious self.

The moment you saw the spider, your blood froze. Though you had grown in these parts, never had you slain one of these native foes. Sword at the ready, you slashed at the behemoth before you. One felled, two, but the third beast reared, venom spurting from its fangs into a wound. Crying out, you raised your sword, prepared for death. But the blow never landed; Elvish steel rang against your sword, and quickly, the remainder of the Spiders fell.

The relief of your life remaining your own never settled, however. The presence of other elves meant only one thing. Carried out in shackles, you silently shared the sombre feeling as your companions. It was not long before you found yourself behind Elven bars, imprisoned from your compatriots. Throughout your years, you had spent innumerable hours thinking of a reunion with your One. But never had you, in all of your musings, think it would be like this.

It was not long before more guards came, and silently, they unlocked your cell and escorted you from your friends. Already down the hallway, you could hear their cries, pleas against your removal. If only you had spoken in confidence about your history with these woodland elves to your dwarven friends. But that was the past.

Soon enough, you felt the familiar hallways entwine the passage, as comforting as a womb. Brought into the throne room, you felt the memories resurface once more. Before they could fill your mind, however, the throne came into view; and atop it, sat a familiar face. Time had not ravished him. Thranduil looked the same the last time you had seen him; long white hair, his gaze distant, the elegant attire. Though your hands were shackled still and held behind your back by your escorts, you felt them well with a will to reach for him.

"As soon as I heard of your return to the forest, I cannot lie, I was intrigued," he broke the silence that lingered in the vastness between you. From on high upon his throne, he shook his head, "after all these years, here you are. Home."

"I have no home! For that, your people made sure of," you spat.

At that, the guards tightened their grip upon your shackles, and uncomfortable, you fought back. Instantaneously, they released their grip, looking to your King, you saw why. Descending from his throne, you watched as Thranduil waved a hand your way, with no words spoken. The guards, though not unlocking the manacles that bound you, released their hold upon you. As he made his way closer, you observed another signal, to which left you and you King alone.

You felt your heartbeat beneath your skin, beating faster by the second. Despite all the years thinking of this moment, never had you anticipated it like this; returned in shackles, like a stray animal to your home.

"My people?" he asked.

You tilted your chin his way, your anger getting the better of you. But as quickly as it washed over you, it receded. Breathless, you looked to him, hurt.

"Oh, Thranduil, my love..." you whispered. "You never knew, did you?" You feel a wash of shame now, and though still bound, you turned from his gaze. "The elders. I heard them speaking; I had destroyed your chances of love."

"But you were my love," he growled. "And you left me to wander Middle Earth as you pleased."

You still cannot look at him. He radiates such power, such poise, and you cannot help but feel like you are inferior, despite the feelings you have harboured for so long. Your breath catches, and silently, you feel tears fall against your cheeks.

"It was against my will to leave Mirkwood. To leave you," you whispered. "It broke my soul to leave your presence. The elders forbade my return."

"And yet, here you are." He states.

It is now you look to him. Your face is shining with tears. Yet you refuse to look away now. "Against my better judgement. I was travelling with a troupe, only to be abducted by your soldiers." You fight against the restraints, their clanking noises filling the empty air between Thranduil's lips and your own. "Release us, and we will no longer be a burden to your court."

"You are in no place to make demands."

"And you are in none to scold me for things I did not do." you retort hotly. "I spent so long doubting myself, taking myself apart for others. Hating my body and wishing myself to be better for others. I didn't leave. They expelled me." you looked at Thranduil. "Before you scold me, punish your council."

A beat passes. The sound of elves vocalising in the distant halls catches your ears, but Thranduil does not speak. Silently, he takes something from his sleeve and reaches for your hands. No words are said as the chains fall.

"So I am not your prisoner?" you ask him.

"You do not understand what I have gone through in your absence," he sighs, his fingers tracing around the marks on your wrists. "I was married, then widowed. I became a father, as well."

"Congratulations, my King," you half-bow, as tradition expects of you. "And I apologise for your loss."

His lips turn up at the corners, ever so slightly. "I might have gone through so much pain, as you have too," he says, his fingers now interwoven with yours. "...but it has led us here. Together once more."

"Fate is strange," you hum. "...but I cannot stay, Thranduil. I have pledged myself to the cause of the Thorin Oakenshield, the heir of the Lonely Mountain."

He flinches. "To remove the wretched Smaug from its clutches, I assume?"

You nod and bring his hands close to your chest. His skin is cold and smooth. "Yes. Until Thorin is crowned King Under the Mountain, I am bound to the cause."

"Well," he says softly, lips brushing against your brow. "I suppose that I too am bound to the cause, for the best interest for my people."

"Until then...I must bid you adieu, my King." you release your clasp on his hands, and step backward, from his reach. "I have a dragon to slay."  

[inspiringmelodrama]

Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay, las hay

Part 3

Warnings: death of animals, spiders, curses, injuries, blood.

Beta read by the amazing @hnt-escape

*

*

*

The beast laid still in the middle of the clearing, its elegant body sprawled in a way that hid the harm done by Tovar’s blades. Vines curled around the big head, almost caressing it. The place looked sacred, holy.

No church had ever made him feel small or impure, but that clearing somewhere in the middle of nowhere did. The trees seemed to sway and a gust of wind swept through the space, causing leaves to spin.A distant howling sound sent a clear message for him: something treasured had been destroyed.

The idea of carrying some type of proof of the beast’s death had gone through his mind, only to be dismissed immediately.

He would end up dead on the forest floor if he tried to drag the heavy body with him.

The antlers or the fur could be removed with relative ease, but the thought made his guts wrench.

He had done enough to the being.

If the villagers didn’t believe his word, or his injuries, they could enter that wretched forest and see it for themselves.

With a last glance, Pero turned around towards where he thought he’d come from. Death heavy on his shoulders.

**

The trek back to the village seemed endless.

Tovar dragged himself, leaving a trail of blood from his various wounds. The creature’s antlers had speared clear through his right arm and he wheezed with every step feeling his ribs shift, courtesy of when the beast knocked him down.

The sun had passed the center of the sky when the foliage started to thin and Tovar found himself in one of the pathways leading to the edge of the village.

With a huff he climbed over a tree root that most definitely wasn’t there this morning and came face to face with the old woman from before.

She stood hunched over her cane, a beautiful piece of carved wood resembling entwined vines, her eyes crinkled when she looked up at him and that hissing cat voice was back when she proclaimed “The beast was slayed then.

Tovar assented, expecting she would say something else on the matter.

But the old woman kept looking at him, a flash of sadness on her wrinkled face.

When it became clear neither of them had anything to add, Tovar grunted and made to walk past her, only to be stopped by said cane planted firmly against his front.

“You’re hurt, Tovar. Come to my cottage and I’ll bandage that arm of yours.”

There was no question in her tone, but no order either. It was simply an invitation, a kindness offered to someone who had risked his life for her people. Accepting or not was entirely on him.

A friendly grunt and a nod was all they exchanged before she turned and went her way, Pero on her heels, hoping it wasn’t far.

**

Turns out nothing was far in that village and after a couple of minutes they stood in front of a small but well tended garden leading to an equally small and well tended cottage.

The door was low and Tovar had to bend down so he wouldn’t hit his head. Inside the ceiling was higher and bunches of drying plants hung from the wood beams.

The place was cozy, with embers heating a pot over on the hearth. It was one room with a big, sturdy table in the center filled with glass jars, a pestle and mortar and other strange items.

Fur pelts and candles, jars and what Pero presumed were cooking utensils finished the decorations.

And there were plants.

Everywhere.

Coming in through the sole window, hanging upside down from the ceiling, strewn around the table. Giving the room a heady smell of damp soil and green things he didn’t know the name of.

It’s all very witch-like, Tovar thought, or perhaps she is a healer.

Both healing and witchcraft were strangely similar. How did one know what was wrong in a place they could not see if not by some touch of magic?

One gnarled finger pointed to a chair by the table and Tovar followed with his eyes, still by the door. It was only when he saw the woman turn with her arms full of odds and ends that he moved his body and settled down on the chair.

She approached and started organizing the items she carried on the table top, murmuring for him to take the clothes off his torso.

“Let me see the injuries, Spaniard.” This time her tone was commanding and without thinking he started to undo the armour, disposing of the chainmail and other layers until he was left in his tattered and bloodied undershirt.

Her knowing gaze assessed the ragged edges, the trickle of blood running down from where the beast had stabbed him with its antlers. With quick movements the woman took hold of a soft looking cloth and dabbed it in a bottle with clear liquid, Tovar learned what was the purpose of it approximately 5 seconds later.

At once she pressed it against the wound, holding firm when Tovar thrashed against the intense burn and let out a yelp, sounding like a wounded animal.

Tovar let out a string of curses behind clenched teeth and braced himself for whatever else the old crone had in store for him.

The healer paid him no mind and after what seemed an eternity, but in reality was no more than a minute or two, she removed the cloth and he watched, astonished, as the wound started to foam and dirt bubble out.

Tovar realized 3 things at the exact same time:

1.She was definitely a witch.

2. She meant no harm, for now.

3. He was too tired to care either way.

**

It was time for the last part of his hurried treatment. The woman had cleaned other scratches, tied his ribs and applied a poultice to the many bruises he sported; the only thing left now, according to her, was sewing the skin together.

Pero would have no problem with it if she wanted to use normal thread, but no, the old crone wanted to irk him.

The old witch had to know, because she turned around with yet another jar. What this one contained though...

Few things in this life scared Tovar, and 8 legged creatures were one of them.

Inside the glass jar in the woman’s hand there was a stick filled with a white gray thin substance resembling thousands of fine threads tied together. In the bottom, a brown spider worked on even more of the weird thing.

A shiver ran up his spine, Pero could swear he felt eight legs and a fuzzy body making its way up his bare back.

The old witch, for in his mind he was certain now of what she was, could do anything she wished to his wounds. Anything except that.

“Absolutely not, witch!” He growled, one arm shooting up to hold her needle and thread away from him, the other took hold of his dagger that rested on his belt.

The woman’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the blade, “That,” she said pointing, “smells of death.”

“You figured me out then” the woman let out a sigh, and dropped the needle.

“You didn’t make it hard; with your weird jars and cobwebs you want to use on guests.”

“You are a very rude guest, Tovar.”

“Not letting you sew me with cobwebs doesn’t make me rude. I want answers.Now.”

They faced each other in a battle of wills; Tovar ended up winning.

She harrumphed and let go of the spidery thread, only to pick another spool, green thread this time. Raising it to his face, she only started stitching when he nodded and then they talked.

**

“Why get me to kill your own beast?”

It was the only thing he still didn’t understand.

“Do you think me the mother of that monster? Is there only one Spaniard on this earth?”

Foolish of him to think he wouldn’t end up in a village with not only one, but two witches.

The woman let out a breath and her body seemed to sag with it; that was the moment Pero truly saw the age in her bones, the tiredness in her eyes.

“I’ve been on this earth far longer than you could even imagine and there’s nothing in this world that I haven’t known, Tovar. I’ve seen it all, including what power can do,” she continued. “I chose this place as my home centuries ago and I come and go, watching children be born and grow and I cannot let them suffer any longer.”

“If you have seen so much, why not kill the beast yourself then? Why get me to do your bidding?”

“Because, Pero Tovar,” she said, taking hold of his hand and tracing with the point of her fingers the lines and scars intertwining in his palm, “you needed to come here, you’re meant to a place I haven’t seen yet. And sometimes one needs steel, not herbs and spells.”

“Dine with me, Pero Tovar and I’ll mend your clothes, as a favor. It won’t be long now.”

She sounded ominous. His mind paused at it but his stomach growled and between the two, his stomach usually won.

So he stayed.

**

He should leave. Grab his armour, go to the tavern, demand his payment and leave this place, let the only reminder be the dust on his soles and the scars he bears.

But he couldn’t.

The witch’s home was warm and inviting; the food was delicious and most important of all, she seemed happy to talk to him. To listen to his stories and animatedly tell her own.

He was in the middle of a tale about William and some ducks in Wales when a rush of cold air came and a strange woman entered the cottage.

**

Pero shot to his feet, his left hand wielding the same dagger he used to end the creature in the woods, the strange woman stood before him with fire in her eyes.

“I suppose no one would invite a mother to feast with her child’s murderer,” was said to him in a voice reminiscent of a hissing cat.

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

“It was no child, Ethânis. It was a monster and had to be stopped.” The older witch sounded calm, too calm.

The witch’s forehead, Ethânis, blazed with a series of marks; the same ones he saw on the beast’s head, her eyes focused on the dagger on Tovar’s hand and he felt the steel grow hot in his grip.

“I haven’t finished with you, old hag,” Ethânis’ voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“And you, you heartless bastard, with your precious blade; I know just what to do. A soul for the spilled blood.”

The dagger shone the same marks, the heat on the hilt became too much even for Pero’s calloused skin; he realized with horror that he could not let go of it.

The dagger and his skin were as one.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” was the only thing he could mutter.

The witch raged on, a storm let loose in an enclosed space; the old witch, Tovar realized in that moment he didn’t know what else to call her, laid frozen on the floor.

Everything stopped and the hissing voice came again, in whispers against his ears,

Place of the first strike cursed blade shall find; Wielded by friend or foe you shall never know; For millennia the will wander, only to alone fall in a strange land.

Her eyes kept blazing and winds erupted from the doors, sweeping around and raising leaves and fur pelts.When it was over Ethânis had disappeared.

**

Pero Tovar believed in witches. A lot.

He was stunned. What does one do when cursed?

Tovar refused to cry. He was a man of actions, and crying wouldn’t help.

What would help was getting rid of the curse. And that’s exactly what he set out to do.

The old witch was still on the floor and Tovar shook her none too gently until the old witch came back to her senses.

“Wielded by friend or foe”

“Wander for millennia”

The words kept twirling in his mind, spreading and infecting every thought.

God, he’d spent a life fighting; was it all he would ever know?

Would he truly spend a thousand years drifting only to end up forgotten and alone?

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want any of that.

**

The old witch was up and running around the cottage and at this moment Pero didn’t care about names anymore.

He cared about being cursed.

About being alone.

About being owed a debt; he said so to the witch.

“I know, Spaniard. The debt the villagers owed is now mine.” She kept rummaging in her things, looking for something in various pouches.

The witch finally produced a single coin out of one of those pouches; it was beautiful,capturing the firelight and gleaming like pure, polished silver.

She offered it to him and Pero snapped.

“I don’t care about money,” he roared, “I want the curse gone.”

She shoved the coin in his hands and “There’s no way of undoing a curse after its cast, Pero Tovar,” she continued, a look of sympathy on her face, “the only thing I can do is lessen it someway.”

Shit

“Then do it! I don’t care how. Lessen the curse and I will consider your debt paid.”

“Then a debt shall it be.”

The old witch grabbed her cane, and started hitting it against the floor. A steady thump, thump, thump creating a thrum in Tovar’s ears.

The hissing voice was gone and now she sounded like water. The noise of gurgling springs and waterfalls, the eternal rivers running towards the sea. Powerful and mysterious, not to be played with.

You shall sleep, not wander.

When there’s fire in the sky and ice on the ground, a tender heart shall come and with frigid fingers touch you. She’ll guide you, where you have never been before, through earth, sky and sea.

With the last word the thumping also stopped and her voice returned to what Pero believed to be normal.

“It’s done,” was all she said.

This one wasn’t much better than the last.

“Yours didn’t rhyme.”

The look of sympathy was substituted by one of annoyance. “It doesn’t have to rhyme. Not all of us have the penchant for dramatics that Ethânis

possesses.”

Pero grunted in concordance.

He still held the gleaming coin tightly on a fist and when he let go there was a perfect imprint of it on his palm.

“And this? Shall I acquire another debt with you?”

“That is a favor, mercenary. You may need me once more.”

“What of Ethânis’ curse then? I just wait to be stabbed?”

“You can always take your destiny in your hands, Tovar. You can live in fear of it, or you can end it now.”

“What do you mean?” he was suspicious now.

“Easy. Let me stab you.”

**

Let me stab you.

She just said it. As if being stabbed was something he wanted for himself.

The worst of it was that he was actually considering.

“Strike me then, witch.” the words coming out of his mouth surprised even him.

Pero got to his feet unsheathing the cursed dagger from his belt.

His skin felt clammy as he extended his arm.

He felt shivers as he left his side unprotected and pointed to where the blade had first drawn blood from the creature.

He didn’t need to bother though, the moment the woman took hold of the hilt it felt like there was a string tying the tip of the blade and the place on his ribs together.

Guiding one towards the other.

Before she could strike, Tovar held her other hand, small and feeble under his strong ones, her skin thin and dry.

“Are you…” Pero cleared his throat before continuing, “are you friend or foe?”

Her old eyes held such sympathy for him that he knew the answer before she even opened her mouth.

“I would like to think ‘friend,’ Pero.”

He nodded, he would like to think that too.

She swung her arm in a wide arch, the dagger coming straight to the place it was supposed to hit, no changes in its trajectory.

He felt the blade pierce his skin, felt the tip scrape at bone. It burned more than anything he had ever felt. A fire within he thought never would seize.

He heard the words of the second curse again, then everything went to black.

[fortune-fool02]

dio rejects humanity and becomes fish

"Dio, no!" Jonathan cried, reaching out in vain at his adoptive brother.

Dio cackled wickedly, as he clutched the Coral Mask in one hand, its spikes extending menacingly as it was exposed to a vial of ocean water that Dio had swiped from Jonathan's study room. At his feet, George, Jonathan's father, lay unconscious, having been wounded by Dio to gain the final ingredient-- a smear of human blood.

"I reject my humanity, JoJo!" he shrieked with a sinister grin. "I become MERMAID!"

At once, spiked tentacle-like tendrils emerged from the mask and clamped onto Dio's face. A bright, shining glow began to envelop him as a swirling mist formed a whirlwind of chaos within the mansion's lobby.

"Jonathan, get down!" Speedwagon cried, tackling Jonathan to the floor. Behind them, a frightful transformation began to take place, as Dio began to morph, his clothes all tearing off to reveal his bare, transfiguring body. Golden scales began forming onto his skin, his ears lengthened into pointed fins. His teeth sharpened like those of a shark's and four pairs of gills opened up on each side of his neck. Last to morph were his legs, fusing together into a long, scaly tail tipped with a fan-shaped fin, and now unable to stand, Dio fell to the floor with a thud as the light faded away.

Both Jonathan and Speedwagon gingerly looked up in horror at what Dio had become, as the mask dropped from his face and tumbled to the floor with a hollow clank.

Dio, lying prone on the floor, slowly stirred and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "At last...at LAST!" he laughed maniacally, testing out the flexibility of his new tail. "At last I can feel the POWER OF THE OCEAN coursing through me!"

"W-what have you done?!" Jonathan cried in disbelief. 

"The power of the ocean has transcended my mortal limits!" Dio snarled, though Jonathan noticed he was beginning to wheeze and gasp. "I have...ascended...from a mere...human....to an unstoppable...force of...the sea!"

"But Dio," Jonathan reasoned, "you're....you're not in the sea."

Dio, now panting heavily, seemed to be suddenly struck with a realization, as his eyes widened with terrified regret.

"W-water..." he moaned, clutching his neck in a panic before collapsing onto the ground, his gills flapping vainly for the water that wasn't there.

"Dio? Dio, no!" Jonathan cried, running to his side.

"Leave him be, Jonathan!" snapped Speedwagon. "Let the bastard fish dry out and die, he deserved it!"

Jonathan glared back sternly at his companion. "He may have been cruel and wicked, and now a mythical sea creature, but he's still like a brother to me!" He grabbed the faintly struggling, gasping Dio by his tail, feeling the drying flakiness of his dehydrated scales, and began to drag him toward the back door.

"Speedwagon!" Jonathan groaned. "Take care of my dad for me and make sure he's okay! I have to get Dio into the water!"

Speedwagon nodded thoughtfully as he rushed to George's side. The old man was unconscious but alive, with the stab wound in his flank, inflicted by Dio, still bleeding profusely. "What are you all standing around for?" he yelled at the authorities who entered the room. "Get this man a carriage to the hospital right away!" he yelled, applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.

Meanwhile Jonathan, dragging the now convulsively-gasping Dio by his tail, was slowly but surely making his way to the fountain in front of the Joestar mansion: the only source of water close enough for him to reach in time before Dio suffocated to death. With one final, heaving grunt, he lifted up the twitching merman and dropped him into the fountain with a splash.

For a few moments Jonathan watched the dark water with bated breath. Then suddenly, from under the murky water, a pair of glowing orange eyes suddenly glared up at him, before giving out a bubbling sigh of exhausted relief, before closing back down again.

---------------

"How's Dad doing?" Jonathan asked Speedwagon, as he arrived to the Joestar mansion in a carriage the following morning.

"He'll have to stay at the hospital for weeks, maybe months," sighed Speedwagon sadly, "but the good news is that he'll live. We're not sure when he'll wake up, but he's stable and in better health."

"That's good to hear," Jonathan replied, thankfully. "I'll try to visit him as soon as I can, but for now...I've got another problem to worry about for the moment."

Speedwagon's face wrinkled in disgust as he became aware of a fishy smell emanating from a bucket that Jonathan carried in one hand.

"Dear heavens, JoJo!" he complained. "What is that dreadful smell?"

"Just some left-over mackerel from our pantry's ice box," Jonathan replied. "I've got to keep him well-fed so he won't...try to EAT anybody."

"Who...?" Speedwagon relied, confused, as his eyes trailed up toward the fountain, where a familiar, blond figure lay in the shallow, running water.

"Here, Dio, I brought you breakfast," Jonathan crooned gently to the merman.

Dio glared hatefully up at him, with brilliant, tangerine eyes, pupils slitted like a cat's. "I am not a pet, JoJo! How dare you treat me like some lowly wretched beast?" he snarled.

"Oh, Dio," Jonathan sighed mournfully. "You did this to yourself. You were arrogant and foolish and it's just brought grief to us all. But no matter how much of a spiteful imbecile you have been...you are no less a brother in my eyes. And I know I'm a better person than to just leave you to die."

He fished out a mackerel from the bucket and uneasily held it out to Dio, who seized it suddenly and without warning, causing both Jonathan and Speedwagon to stumble back in fright.

Gripping his meal in his clawed, webbed hands, Dio messily devoured the fish, tearing into it savagely as his razor-sharp teeth shredded apart fins, bones, scales and all. Speedwagon felt sickened at the sight.

"Disgusting," he groaned. "He was vile before he became a mermaid but he's even worse now!"

"It's a shame, really," Jonathan added with a dry laugh. "Dad always used to praise him for his table manners."

As Dio finished off the last remnants of the fish, Jonathan and Speedwagon got their first good look at Dio's newfound piscine form in the yellow light of early morning. His entire body was covered in small, fine, golden scales, save for his face, throat, belly and chest, which retained the color and texture of Dio's original skin. A large, transluscent dorsal fin emerged from the middle of his back, the same see-through shade of yellow as the smaller fins that emerged from his ears, his elbows and what used to be his hips. His tail, tipped in a bright golden tail fin, was longer than Dio's legs used to be, coiling snakily around the circular fountain with the fluke dangling limply over the edge.

Still retaining his mop of messy blond hair and sharpm handsome facial features, Dio was both terrifying and yet strangely beautiful, Jonathan thought. Just like many of the sea creatures he studied in his marine researches: a gorgeous, elegant exterior concealing the heart and soul of a ruthless, predatory killer, one that was best admired with distance and precaution.

His golden scales glimmered beautifully in the sunlight, but Dio didn't seem to appreciate the glare one bit. He shrank away from the light, shading his eyes from the glare as he wriggled about in the water until he was safely in the fountain's shadow.

"He doesn't seem to like the light," Jonathan noted observantly. "His eyes must have become adapted for the dark depths of the sea, I shall have to get him some shade from the sun if he's to stay here."

"So, what are we going to do with him now?" Speedwagon asked Jonathan concernedly. "Are you going to take him to the ocean and leave him there? The sooner we're rid of him the better!" 

"We may be rid of him if we do just that, but he'll be someone else's problem." Jonathan warned. "He's vicious and powerful and he's sure to use his newfound abilities to hurt others, and it would be our fault for turning him loose."

"You don't suppose we could...dry him up and sell him to the museum?" Speedwagon snarkily suggested.

Jonathan shot Speedwagon a horrified glare. "No, no, we're not going to kill him! He's perfectly harmless if we keep him confined in the fountain. This should keep him out of trouble and I can keep a close eye on him."

Meanwhile, Dio had been listening to the whole discussion: furious that they were contemplating on selling him like some common fish. Angrily, he planted his scaly hands onto the fountain's edge and raised his body up as high as he could. "I CAN HEAR YOU TWO SCHEMING!" he cried out at the two. "How DARE you treat me like this!"

Jonathan shook his head disappointedly and approached the merman, who crouched back into the fountain's shadow hissing like a threatened snake. "Dio, I don't want to do this any more than you. But it's my responsibility to keep others safe from you, and you safe from yourself. You turned yourself into this, Dio, and now I know no way to change you back."

"Damn you, JoJo..." Dio whimpered, his voice beginning to break. "So I'm going to have lo spend the rest of my life, however long that may be, kept prisoner in this stupid fountain like some kind of trained seal at a circus? As your own personal pet mermaid, huh, JoJo?" He splashed his tail in frustration and let out a loud, inhuman, mournful wail, and Jonathan felt a hint of pity, even for someone like him.

"This was your choice, Dio," Jonathan scolded, sternly but comfortingly. "There's nothing more you and I can do about the situation, but have to get used to it."

He offered Dio another mackerel. "Here you go, Dio. Eat up and stop being miserable, we'll try to find out a way to make this work out."

Dio recluctantly reached out to take the fish from Jonathan, before sinking back down into the water, bubbling indignantly about his plight.

Jonathan turned to Speedwagon as Dio ate sulkingly. "Speedwagon? This may be a bit of a favor to ask from you..." he asked awkwardly.

"Sure thing, anything that you request," Speedwagon replied.

"You see, I'm going to have to watch over my father at the hospital for a while. And I'm going to have to have someone to watch over Dio for a while to make sure he doesn't get into trouble. I know he can't breathe without water for long and can't leave the fountain for long, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Could you...merman-sit for me while I check on my Dad?"

Speedwagon nodded uneasily, and hesitantly glanced toward the fountain, where Dio, taking his time as he slowly ate his mackerel, made eye contact with Speedwagon and gave a hostile snarl.

"Dear me," sighed Speedwagon in exasperation. "Today is going to be a very, very long day."

--------------

***

This.... This was absolutely incredible to read! I love every second of it! Thank you so much for taking the time to write this, anon! It's absolutely amazing!

[only-hyuran]

w.i.p. wednesday?

a little something i wrote for chai because we are hyping through shadowbringers. it still has a lot of formatting issues and needs an ending. hope it is not too scuffed!

"That's it, then? One of the hive-minds of this scourge."

June marched with certainty and patience into the Lightwarden Philia's grotto, a round expanse of flowery beds of grass, and stone walkways leading only in circles. The terrible creature met their presence with a slobbering roar, barring vicious teeth as it steadied itself on its enormous hind legs. Torturous chains draped from its body jingled metallically as it readied for battle, smashing its spiked tail into the ground in ruthless impatience.

In the godly luminescence of the 'Everlasting Light', the rogue's hair appeared a vivid bleached white, advancing a few yalms closer to his prey with what looked to be a bounce of excitement in his step. His neck turned to face her half-way, smirking lips visible beneath the tangled tresses twisting down to his eyes, his devilish expression all too fitting of the horned circlet adorning his head.

"Take it easy for a few more minutes, Nowi. You need to learn what you're up against first."

After a quick squat to stretch his knees, June breathed deeply and closed his fists around the curved hilts of his daggers. A telltale sound of metal on metal gave away their brandishing, jutting his hands out by his sides as his legs burst into action to take him closer to the center of the arena. Utter confidence exuded from him, until the chilling fingers of an unexpected magic came crawling across his abdomen. He felt as though he was being held around his waist, struggling against the force of the spell to try and take another step forward. With great speed, June's body suddenly slingshot backwards, his boots grinding into the soil as he was 'rescued' back to the Mi'qote's side.

"Please. I've been doing my research. How's about you take a break, mister."

"St-Stupid--... Where'd you learn to..." He struggled to find words after such a heart-stalling surprise, furious yet embarrassed as he turned his body to stand back-to-back with her. "A White Mage, hm? Finally taking care of someone other than your self?" June prodded rudely, but Philia had grown impatient of their banter, decidedly ripping a small dead tree from the ground and hoisting it at the heroes with killing force.

A springy, electrical thud echoed through the arena as Nowi stood at her tallest, an open hand extended forward in just timing to raise her bubble barrier, glistening graciously above them. The tree had shattered into mere twigs upon impact with the shield, warranting the first cocky grin to be seen from the Mi'qote in some time.

"Lets just get this over with." She concluded smugly, cueing them both to charge graciously into battle, side-by-side. With staff extended, Nowi circled to the flank of the rampaging beast, lifting her hands in rhythmic gestures as she deployed her defensive magics on her partner. June had already opened the floodgates of the action, weaving choreographed steps between the ravenous swipes of Philia's claws, and the erratic waving of her tail. The Lightwarden went still a moment, before emitting a terribly ear-piercing screech, enough to interrupt the nearby ninja to close his hands over his ears and droop his torso forward. In this advantageous moment, the Sin Eater swatted one of its forearms forward, closing its beastly fingers around June's middle and lifting his flailing body off of the ground.

In panic, he sunk both of his daggers into Philia's massive hand, only to find them stuck in her flesh. The warden winced, but it only caused it's grip to grow tighter, a breathless gasp leaving his lips as his ribs were compacted, soon threatening to crush him. Nowi scowled in quick-witted offense, swaying her staff off to her side to quake a stray boulder to life, willing it to lift off of the ground and launching it with pinpoint accuracy at the back of the monsters' head.

A dazed, wobbly cry hissed from it's lips when the stone shattered into pieces in impact, toppling backward in pain, dropping June to his hands and knees. He felt a sudden resurgence of energy when the comforting stardust of Nowi's Cure rained down on him, finding the strength to climb to his feet and stare up at the temporarily immobilized Philia.

"D-Ditch the stick and do some real damage, will’ya?"

Having lost his weapons, he was left no choice but to provide support. Nowi watched in confusion for a few long moments as he crunched his knees down to a squat, holding his hands open in front of him, as if offering her... a boost? The enraged Lightwarden had begun to flail again, running short on time as the Mi'qote caught on to her partner's plan. She nodded in agreement, her eyes fluttering shut as she lifted a hand in front of her face, a flow of aether lifting her off of the grassy ground and shrouding her in blinding light. The flash faded to reveal her elegant robes had transformed into brazen black armor trimmed with gold, and her effeminate cane into a thorny gun-steel lance, taller than her in stature.

The visor of her mask sank down over her eyes as she elegantly metamorphosed into the skillset of the Azure Dragoon, her head bowing forward as she broke into a sprint. It took her but a second to close the space between her and the awaiting June, lunging her last running step to plant her foot in his clasped hands. His arms wrenched upward in all of his might with a powerful roar, working in tandem with the kickoff of her legs to send her bellowing up nearly a malm into the air. He stared fearlessly at the monster as Nowi began the descent of her assisted leap. The speed of her fall guided her lance straight downward, crashing with the impact of a fallen meteor blade-first into the creatures' crown, her steel meeting with Philia's flesh resonating a sound not unlike a gunshot.

A last wretched gurgle escaped the slain stewardess of Light, collapsing lifelessly, a thick cloud of dirt masking its immediate area after it tumbled forward with body limp and mouth agape. Through the obscured, dusty view of their target, Nowi emerged triumphantly, leaping off from the corpse and landing back in June's view with a dramatic pose. The remains had began to dissipate into a clear white gas, seeping from the dead Lightwarden as it rotted and shriveled into nothingness. The flowing cloud of toxic ivory mist seemed eerily attracted to Nowi. In absolute focus, Nowi remained still as she let the essence of the Lightwarden gather and flow past her -- to no effect. It worked.

"Haa! haaah! Don't ever tell me to 'take it easy Nowi~'." She remarked proudly, even going as far to imitate  his deeper voice as she quoted him. "You should've seen the look on your-- ... June?"

The glossy pearl-white mist exhuming from the fallen Sin Eater tumbled past Nowi to her relief, her heart rising to her throat when she noticed it clustering around her partner. He had staggered to one knee, hands on the ground to steady himself while he fought to catch his breath.

“I’m, - I’m fine... Hhn...”

[cross-d-a]

I want to know ALL about Wu Xie embarrassing time traveler!Li Cu!!! ✨✨ I'm also v intrigued by Nie Huisang death death death

(Also, Cross you have so many wips; I read in awe. And to think I thought I had a lot of star wars fix-it ideas! I only have anything at all written down for two of them!)

(this refers to the WIP tag game I completed a few days ago!)

Wu Xie being EMBARRASSING & Li Cu Time Travel: 

I’ve got a series of interconnected oneshots planned where Li Cu just- accidentally hops back in time to every drama/book and helps out the Iron Triangle. and it’s more like LI CU embarrassing WU XIE haha

I thought it’d be HILARIOUS if Li Cu got to see how Wu Xie (UR MY DAD BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE) is so YOUNG and STUPID and EMBARRASSING when he’s young!! Wu Xie making (ACTUALLY) innocent doe eyes at an emo Xiao Ge?? GROSS. Wu Xie accidentally (DELIBERATELY?) setting off multiple traps in a tomb?? Li Cu is 10000/10 going to RECORD THIS on his phone and bring it BACK to the future and make fun of Wu Xie FOREVER. Also!!! There are SO MANY SNAKES in Ultimate Note!! And?? Conveniently?? Li Cu has a lil’ snake buddy?? MAYBE HE COULD HELP??? 

I basically want Li Cu being the Actual Competent One and the baby Iron Triangle floundering. Mostly Wu Xie. I want Wu Xie floundering. I also want Wu Xie SO EMBARRASSED when Li Cu hops back to his own time. 

li cu: DAD UR AN IDIOT 

wu xie: i DONT WANT TO RELIVE IT PLS AND THANK 

li cu: nO!! U ARE GOING TO SUFFER!! UR SO STUPID u set off FIVE TRAPS

wu xie: i hate you 

li cu: no u don’t u just told me u loved and appreciated me for saving ur life like ten minutes ago. there were tears in your eyes. actually they were streaming down ur face. u might have been hugging my leg and sobbing

wu xie: tHAT WAS SIXTEEN YEARS AGO FOR ME OK i am an OLD MAN

Nie Huaisang death death death:

I think it’s hilarious that you picked out one of the resurrective immortality fics considering we were JUST talking about the old guard hahaha. This one I actually have a good chunk written so far, so here is a long snippet near the beginning. Context is that Nie Huaisang’s mother is VERY pregnant and she’s riding through the mountains to visit her family before she gives birth. WARNINGS for gore (kinda??) and child death and just- DEATH in general:

There are beasts in the mountains. Ravenous, born of fury and blood, more ragged spirit than flesh. Their claws are jagged and broken and their maws drip with sizzling saliva. They have roamed the mountains for years and years, and have only grown more enraged, voracious.

The Nie Clan have always harnessed the butchery of their past. Binding rage and ruin to themselves, channeling it through their hearts and into their swords until they are one and the same. Until it feeds upon their flesh and their spirit, gnawing on their bones, carving out a little space for itself between brittle ribs. Until, one bloody piece at a time, it consumes them whole.

The Nie Clan’s power is also the source of their doom, and these beasts who roam and know only hate hate hate are Nie-furen’s doom, as well.

They descend upon the Nie in the dead of night, a roiling mass of snapping teeth and furious howls. There is blood, screaming, desperate flashes of Dao magic and heavy blades. But there are too many and it is not enough.

But the mighty Phoenix of the West has always been filled with unmatched fury and she is full of new life and about to burst. She will not let her child die here today. Not before he can breathe sweet fresh air and keen that first high cry. Not before his father can cradle him in his arms and his older brother can plant a kiss on his forehead.

That rage within her swells. It devours her spirit and bleeds out her eyes as she screams screams screams- a raging beacon of power and brutality and every ancestor’s grief.

She slaughters everything in her path.

When she comes to, she is soaked in blood and there is pain in her belly and an ache behind her eyes and in every breath- but she is alive. She lies amidst the ruins of her people and the lingering darkness of vanquished spirits and Shan Xifeng—

She goes into labour.

It is long and hard, lasting through the night into the bloody dawn and beyond. She manages to crawl to the edge of their encampment but no further. She twists into a curl of agony and cries into the clouded sky.

Her son is born on the cusp of evening, just as the sun slides behind dark, ragged peaks. He is born soft and warm and silent.

Shan Xifeng cradles him in quaking hands. Cups his cheek to her breast. His tiny head is blood-streaked like his mother. Blood-streaked like her friends and family around her.

It is an irony that on one of the most important days of her life, she is surrounded by her loved ones and yet they are all dead.

“Little one,” she murmurs, and tilts his limp head. “Little one, please.”

But he is silent as the dead around her and that grief swells again in her breast. It gnaws on her ribs and scrabbles at her throat and she is shaking shaking shaking.

“No,” she spits. “No! He has done nothing wrong! Nothing! Does he not deserve his first breath? His first cry? Does he not deserve the family that awaits him?!”

She screams into the sky and tastes blood between her teeth. “Take me instead! I beg of you! Please let him live! I would give my life! Every single one of them, so that he may live!”

Her sword quakes along with that dark raging thing within her and she clutches her dead son close.

Then—

The faint, elegant curve of a fan in the corner of her eye. The shift of cloth, the echo of a breath. The glimmering of ethereal gold and silver, like someone has spun the stars and sun above into delicate thread.

Summoned, like a beast to blood.

“All of them?”

Shan Xifeng knows better than to face an unknowable thing and so she bows as low as her broken body will allow. She stares into the bloodied dirt and breathes in dust and rasps, “Yes.”

“Hm.” A flicker of a stretching smile, coy, with a hint of sharp teeth. She does not see the fathomless dark behind those stark white teeth, a gaping void of ravenous benevolence. It is hidden behind the flare of the fan. “Do you understand what you ask for?”

“I do,” she says without hesitation.

The grin widens, lips scarlet and dark against bone-white skin. “Then I shall grant your wish.”

A shift of cloth, then a cool hand cups Nie-furen’s cheek, guiding her up. Her eyes flicker open and she sees what no mortal has ever seen, and then that fan whispers against her cheek and blood-red lips press against hers and the last thing she feels is her golden core trembling spasming dying as life is pulled from her breath- all the lives she has ever lived, the one she lives now, and every life she could have ever lived.

Shan Xifeng falls into the bloodied dirt beneath, still clutching her dead son to her breast. And then there is no one left living in that small clearing.

Pale, bony fingers trace a delicate line through the blood that lingers upon her cheek. It is still wet and useful. Stained fingers press against scarlet lips and the life held between stark white teeth is breathed anew into that blood.

Carefully, bone-thin fingers trace a deliberate character upon the newborn child’s left cheek. The blood shines, brilliant and devastating, before fading back into a gruesome name across pale skin. Slowly, the child begins to twitch, brows wrinkling in displeasure, before a high keening wail escapes tiny lips as the child take its first breath.

“Your mother does not know what she’s doomed you to.”

A day later, travelers upon the road hear a faint keening noise not far from their wagon. When they find the clearing, they gag and retch. When they find the weak, whining child clutched in his dead mother’s arms, they shake their heads and then stare at the crest emblazoned upon the woman’s clothes.

Two days after that, the child is delivered to Nie-zongzhu’s disbelieving arms.

“No,” he says, violent spirit quaking deep within him. “No. It- it is not true.”

The traveler ducks his head and clasps his hands in a bow. “I’m sorry, Zongzhu. We were not able to take the bodies with us. You’ll have to send someone to check, but…it was the crest of your house. And…” he hesitates, then nods to his companion who stumbles up and offers a sword.

Not just any sword. A dao.

Shan Xifeng’s dao.

Feng.

“No,” Nie-zongzhu cries, falling to his knees.

“I-I’m so sorry,” the traveler stutters. “I am so, so sorry, Nie-zongzhu.”

Nie-zongzhu sobs, clutching his newborn child to his chest. “Little one,” he weeps. “Oh, little one. At least life is kind enough to have spared you.”

“Yong,” the traveler blurts.

Nie-zongzhu stares uncomprehendingly, tears running hot down his cheeks.

“It- it was written upon his cheek in- in blood. I- I think that is what his mother named him. She must have done it with her dying breath. She must have wanted you to know. He did not enter this world nameless.”

“Yong,” Nie-zongzhu echoes, trembling. “It- it is a good name, for my brave little boy.” He cups his son’s cheek and sobs. “Brave like- like his mother,” he murmurs, voice thin and quaking. “She named you well.”

And perhaps it is bravery that made Shan Xifeng give up the chance to ever be reborn. Perhaps it is bravery that saved her son’s life.

But it was all a mother’s wretched love, and Shan Xifeng did not write the character for brave upon her son’s cheek.

No, it was not Yong for bravery, but Yong for eternal.

And it is not his mother who wrote it.

Perhaps it is bravery that saved her son, but is the curse of eternity really a kindness?

No, no Shan Xifeng did not truly understand what she asked for.

But Nie Yong soon would.

The next section starts with:

The second time Nie Yong dies, he doesn’t even realize it.

He is four years old.

and the third section starts with:

The third time Nie Yong dies, his Adie kills him.

He is nine years old.

It’s basically an Angst Fest with a happy ending bc...I just need a happy ending Always. I just REALLY love resurrective immortality and I love making my favourite characters Suffer :)

I hope these were fun and satisfying to read!! 

♪(ﾟ▽^*)ﾉ⌒☆

(also omg NO it’s a CURSE!!! I WISH I could just finish SOMETHING!! ANYTHING!! OMG!!! I am so envious you’ve managed to restrain yourself to a few!! Also!! I am SUPER excited to find out more about your fix-its!!! :D)

[jennystahl]

where have my eyes gone to? — ao3 | 2810 words | teen — gen, vampire: the masquerade - bloodlines, remy chase (malkavian) ( spiritual predecessor to this. )

Here lies the wretched madwoman, waking with the moon; unfortunately—risen.

Or, Remy tries to parse the Greek chorus of voices in her mind.

Here lies the wretched madwoman, waking with the moon; unfortunately—risen.

Remy rolled sideways out of the bed, landing hard on her hands and knees. No pain shot through her wrists or knees. She didn't feel much of anything at all.

It was dark inside the room besides a sickening green glow coming from atop the desk. The windows were tarped and duct-taped, and there was a towel stuffed under the bottom of the door. She couldn't remember putting it there. She couldn't remember ending up there at all, in fact, much less falling asleep in that bed.

She crawled towards the desk, the rips in her tights catching the rough carpet as she did, making them run further down her shins. Something wet squelched beneath her palm but she didn't bother to recoil; already in one night she felt she'd seen and done much worse than touching a mysterious substance on a moldy carpet.

Look at it, bent like a calf for the butcher! Accursed animal—no, not even a beast would want to touch that. Not yet.

Remy fell against the side of the desk, both hands clutching the sides of her head, her broken fingernails digging into her scalp. Though she was in a dead sleep for who knows how long, she felt she'd been plagued by those voices for centuries. She was sick. She was very sick.

The green glow was a laptop. She barely made it into the chair at the desk when she heard something move behind her. Looking over her shoulder with a frenzied, choked gasp, she saw the shower curtain had fallen off its rickety hooks and was laying in a heap upon the bathroom floor. She probably looked the same when she slept on that musty mattress.

Shaking, she turned back to the laptop. The light in the darkness; surely it was her next step. It was password protected.

The notes, she needs to look at the notes! They're right there, honey bunches of blood clots.

Remy took the one closest to her first. It was out of place in this grimey room: cream-colored paper with an elegant script written in purple ink. Some voice in her mind that wasn't her own read the immaculately transcribed note. Mystical sun...

The bad looks like the good to him a god would doom!

Isn't that one from Antigone?

Never mind. Not only an accursed creature of the night, but a sorcerer, too, a blood-fueled narcissist!

Remy slammed the note onto the desk upside-down. How had it gotten there in the first place? Had he visited? Was she sleeping when he came by? Was it already there when she stumbled in that morning? She couldn't even remember arriving here.

She shook off the strange feelings that kept creeping up her spine and over her shoulders and looked at the other note. Password... sunrise... cash…? Remy slid the drawer open and sure enough, there was an envelope containing one hundred dollars in twenties. What could it buy her? Not that she needed to buy food or other necessities, according to that filthy long-haired man Jack… The note was signed Mercurio.

Remy tried to remember the rest of the previous evening. It was hazy and clouded with the dreams she suffered that day, but she couldn't parse those either. It was like trying to remember the details of a television show you watched when you were a child. Everything coming to you was a nostalgic reimagining of what happened, a strange perspective of the truth.

Can't see, can't see! Where have my eyes gone to? In Santa Monica, her head full of bees; no, her head a beehive pitched against a tree.

Remy slammed a fist on the desk, the already rusted metal denting slightly from the force. "Stop it," she muttered, already knowing she spoke to no one but herself and whoever had taken up residence in her mind. Multiple whoevers; she could hear them chanting in unison.

Her heart existed under a frozen lake. She could sense fear and anger, confusion and anguish, but she didn't feel them strongly enough to act upon them. They just were, as she now just was. Last night she watched her Culture of the Greeks professor get beheaded and turned to ash—that is, after he killed her and turned her into this.

That man Jack tried to explain the affliction, and it made sense, for the most part. As much as becoming a vampire can make sense. But he couldn't get over his laughing fit for long enough to break down the core essence of being a Malkavian.

Her professor's erratic behavior and obscene personality made complete sense now, but she didn't know what that meant for her. Remy didn't like being laughed at, but she didn't want to provoke this Jack; she could sense he wasn't simply the helpful, jovial figure he appeared to be.

Now, now, now she's getting it! Maybe soon enough she'll realize what we are.

Go outside, black-blood, see for yourself the world through your new eyes.

Remy looked around. She felt the absence of a beating heart and circulating lungs, and the aching hunger that burned in her eyes and under her teeth. The usual clamminess of her hands was lost. They were now cold and pale, and when she touched her face she felt nothing: just cold, dead flesh.

Before she could venture to look at herself in the mirror and suffer a breakdown, she quickly checked her email, a creeping sensation of being watched worming its way into her.

Penis enlargement pills… deadbeat husbands… Mercurio and LaCroix, okay, here we go.

LaCroix must have been the name of that French man in the suit from the theatre. Remy's expression twisted as she remembered the events of the night—some of them, anyway. He didn't even introduce himself! Jack might have told her, but she could barely remember. The rancid blood from that rat had clouded her mind… She shook her head and stood up.

Her head swam immediately, a pounding sensation filling her ears as her vision went misty. It was no normal head rush. She was hungry.

She stumbled forward, feeling something pulsating in her veins. Blood, she guessed. Not hers—whatever was left from those rats she decimated. A scent caught her nose and her head snapped to the kitchen area. The fridge—that's where the smell was coming from.

It was almost entirely empty aside from three IV bags sitting on the bottom shelf. They were full of blood, she knew. Remy grabbed one before she could think. The coldness made her cringe, but the sight of the stuff made the tickle in her teeth turn into a full-on vibration in her gums. She ripped the top open.

Feed, feed! Our hunger can't be sated, not anymore but watching her succumb to her sickening desire is enough for us.

Hurry, hurry, get outside! We have things to say about places and people beyond our reach.

It wasn't appetizing, but she never thought she would gain so much satisfaction downing 40 ounces of cold human blood. The aching in her throat stopped, the cloudiness in her vision went away. Sounds from the street outside amplified and she felt a warmth spread through her veins from the pit of her stomach. Maybe she should feel disturbed, but she felt pretty fucking good—physically.

Ignoring the voices in her head tugging her toward the door, and her own thoughts reminding her she had something to do, Remy investigated the bathroom.

The mirror was slightly cracked and filthy, but she could see herself well enough. Bloodshot eyes turning white, a flourish of red spreading over her face and disappearing just as quickly. Her freckles were still there, she noticed, a little faded amidst her sickly pale skin but there nonetheless. She looked like herself, she thought with relief. A very emaciated version of herself.

Sick, sick, sick. You're sicker than you know, little fledgling.

Like she couldn't tell. She turned towards the shower and tested the water. It worked, surprisingly. After fixing the shower curtain she took her clothes off and stepped gingerly inside. The water was barely warm, but she couldn't feel the temperature anyway; a coldness radiated off of her that seemed hard to console.

There was mold in the caulking, and Remy had to close her eyes to finish her shower in peace. She wasn't particularly squeamish, but this place was demeaning. The only soap was a paper-wrapped little bar like the ones you find in a hotel. She used nearly all of it scrubbing the grime from her body. How had she even gotten that dirty?

She expected to find cuts and bruises everywhere, but her body was pristine. Her alabaster flesh was unharmed. Remy sighed as she got out, because the same could not be said for her clothes—there was now a hole in the sleeve of her sweater and her tights were nearly ran beyond use. Still she put them on once her skin dried—she refused to use the towel behind the door—because she had nothing else to wear. At least she was wearing boots when she was killed.

As she made her way to the door, she felt a thrumming in her core, drawn to the other blood packs in the fridge.

See, little doe-eyed girl? The hunger never goes away. The cold blood won't save you. It won't last forever!

Remy sneered and ran into the hall, slamming the door behind her. She wouldn't let herself succumb to that kind of temptation already.

Oh, won't you? Let's make a deal, a bet! Oh, you can't know, though. It'll be our little secret.

As Remy stepped outside the complex, leaving through the door at the base of the stairs, her senses were bombarded. She could smell all sorts of things, see clearly in the darkness, and hear… She turned and saw the man standing in the corner, leaning against the fence. His pulse was lazy and slow, but when he saw her it increased.

"Hey, hey lady," he said, an alcoholic slur in his voice. "You got any change?"

Remy stepped around him towards the street. "Yes, h-here," she mumbled, pulling one of Mercurio's twenties from her pocket and shoving it in the man's hands. She turned and ran out of the alley before he could even say thank you.

It wasn't that she was afraid—not of him, but of herself. She could almost hear the blood swimming beneath his skin.

Shaking off her mania, she looked down the street both ways, trying to get a feel for the area she was in.

YES, YES! OUTSIDE! Now we can see. We're stuck with you, so we rely on your eyes. Take us somewhere where it isn't so hideous. But maggots love you—trust us.

Remy grimaced. She was on the main street, she figured, and so Mercurio's place must be down the road. As she walked she was a little slighted, seeing how nice the building he lived in was; surely she deserved more than wet carpets and moldy showers?

Look down, look down, you're standing in a grave.

Remy looked, stumbling over her own feet. There was blood all over the sidewalk leading to the steps of his apartment building. Her eyes grew wide, wider than normal, and she rushed to the door. If her contact was dead, she was really dead.

The blood trailed down the hall to his door, which was slightly ajar.

WATCH OUT!!!

Remy fell backwards against the far wall, taking a deep, shaky breath that her atrophied lungs did nothing with.

No, you're safe. Go, go. He isn't.

Remy took a cautious step towards the door, pushing it open with her foot. Blood stained the carpet more heavily in the entrance, and once she properly walked in she could see it was puddled all the way to the couch, where a man was lying, groaning and muttering to himself.

"Motherf… ripped me off… I'm dying over here…" He groaned louder, looking over at the woman who entered. If he didn't know any better he would assume he died and was now being haunted. The woman walked towards him silently, her eyes round, staring blankly at him.

"You're the fleet-footed god, Mercury." Remy muttered, kneeling in his blood beside the couch. The chorus urged her on, telling her what to say; she complied, feeling dazed.

"Mercurio, if that's what you mean. Ah, what the hell, you're a Malkavian, aren't you… that's just what I need right now. Bleeding out on the couch and I can't understand a damn word you're gonna tell me."

Him, we like him. A servant of the Ivory Tower but his foot is in many doors. You like him, too. You can trust this man on the couch— this fleet-footed messenger.

Remy blinked, feeling her consciousness being pulled from the depths of her mind and back into her mouth. "I—sorry. Are-are you okay? Your...that…" She looked him up and down, her eyes growing wider with every new injury she spotted. Something was sticking from his side, blood spurted from a wound in his gut, his left eye was swollen shut—Remy had no idea how this man was lying here still breathing.

"I went—" he stopped and groaned again, looking at his chest. "Is-is that my rib? Oh, holy shit, my rib is poking through my side! I can't feel shit!"

Remy reached forward and moved his shirt and jacket to the side which made him flinch. "That's a broken bottle," she replied, seeing the glass embedded in his side.

"Oh, jeez, that's so much better."

Remy's eyes glazed over again. "Hippocrates is not her foresire. Who broke you, Mercury?"

Mercurio was more concerned about his shattered collarbone than her ramblings. "Goddamn chemists. Dirty Cali bastards. You can't trust anyone in LA."

Him, him, and the lone wolf.

"I verified the guy, he seemed reliable. They mix up speed and sell it. They do explosives occasionally, so I set up a drop."

He got dropped!

"These junkie pricks come out of nowhere, got baseball bats. My head feels like a frickin' horse kicked it in. Shouldn'ta gone alone… amateur move…" he muttered the last part to himself. "Those cocksuckers. Left me for dead, took the money and the Astrolite. Crawled my ass to my car and came back here. Vamp blood's the only thing keeping me alive."

Oh, yes, he's poisoned. Not like her.

Remy was curious about the mention of vampire's blood, but she wanted to get this man help as soon as possible. "Do I have to go get it? Also, how can I, um, help you?" She gestured frantically at his tattered body. She didn't have any healing powers, as far as she knew, but maybe there was someone she could talk to.

"Well, do I look like I can go back up there?" He panted like a dog, digging his fingers into his abdomen in some attempt to stop the bleeding. "Those small-time sons of bitches live in some dump over on the beach by the pier. Maybe four or five of them. Dennis has got the explosives. And my money now, that prick. Go through the parking garage. Those better not be my last words."

The lonely wine-colored sea, lying before those whose blood has no home.

Remy grabbed his arm again, involuntarily. "But your battered body and bleeding bruises, how can she help you with that?"

"Ugh, something just started leaking," he said mostly to himself, then looked back at her through his one good eye, "I need something for the pain. Morphine, or something, I dunno. I frickin' blew it."

No, she is going to "blow it". Hahahahaha —with the Astrolite. The warehouse becomes her playground.

Remy nodded, standing. The blood from the carpet now stained the knees of her tights—and the skin beneath the rips—but she didn't seem to care. "I'll bring you something, and then I'll go get those guys."

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down to him, seeming to remember something suddenly. She leaned forward, listening to his labored breaths. "This deal—you tell anyone about this and I'm dead. I'm begging you. I got a way of gettin' people what they need. Y-you don't say a word, I can help you out."

He can help her out! Yes, he can, in quite a few different ways. Don't stray too far, little doe.

"She will weigh your words," Remy mumbled in response, squeezing his arm once more before she turned to leave the room.

Mercurio closed his other eye, leaning back into the couch's cushions, hoping she would make it back before even the Prince's blood couldn't do him any good. Frickin' Malkavians.

[mini-moongi]

Curse || Namjoon || e p i l o g u e

Genre: Fluff, Adventure, Fantasy

Summary: [Dragon! AU] [Namjoon x Knight! Reader]; Apparently there's been a dragon wreaking havoc in the nearby village, and so King Kim Seokjin asks you to deal with it as the newly appointed knight. When you arrive, it seems that the truth is not exactly as it appears. This is a Fem! reader.

Thank you to lovely @ahgassok​​ for the title pic!! I am very much in love with it (o´ω｀o)

curse masterlist

prev // e p i l o g u e

────── ☽. ✧₊∘ ──────

Months after the curse was lifted, the Kingdom was back on its feet again.  It took some time to rebuild, and with a new threat on the rise, production time was slower. Despite all of this, Namjoon’s rule opened up many possibilities the kingdom didn’t have before; He started an open funding for town merchants so they wouldn’t have to reside on the outskirts, started educating the young, and legalized the use of magic. 

The original team became permanent assets within the kingdom. Yoongi and Taehyung regulated the purposes of witchcraft, Hoseok and Jimin worked in the Official Herbal Trade, and lastly, you and Jungkook were made head captains of the Kingdom’s knights.

“...My King,” You bow down at the throne before him,” you wanted to see me?” You look back up and gaze into his eyes, ones of which spoke of kindness and gentility. His purple hair swayed to the side when he tilts his head; a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m still your Namjoon, Lady y/n. I’m no different from you or Yoongi.” He chuckles. Your. The word almost slips past you, as if it was natural to assume he belonged to you. You heat up thinking about it, and your throat becomes dry trying to pretend it didn’t bother you. 

“I’m sorry,” you stammer,” I.. I’m not sure you.. belong.. to me?” Your throat seizes up, making it hard for you to even say a full sentence. You were sure your embarrassment was apparent for you have never felt so warm in your suit of armor before.

Yes, you did have to admit that you have... feelings for him, but you never thought it would seep past the loyalty of a knight to their king. How did he know this weakness of yours? He watches your flustered state; it must be fun to tease your subjects, you grimaced. 

“My dearest y/n,” He smiles the same one that your aching heart fell in love with. There he goes again, proclaiming mine, yours, his, hers, as if any of it held meaning. At this point, he’s walked from the elegant throne and stopped inches away from you. “never have there been a fairer one to behold. Until the end of time, I love you most.”

If you weren’t flabbergasted before, this definitely shook you to your core. A man professed his love to you, and all you can do is stare. Not only that, but it’s Kim Namjoon, the once cursed ruler.  Before you can respond, a black cloaked figure zips pass you two. 

“Hoseok,” Yoongi yells,” save me from this wretched beast!”

Moments later, Taehyung runs into the room and after Yoongi. “Uh that ‘wretched beast’ is your prince apprentice, asshat.” He laughs wholeheartedly. “This castle may be big enough for all of us, but that doesn’t mean this dead rat won’t find you!” Taehyung calls out after him whilst waving around a dead rodent. 

He leaves as quickly as he entered, and just like that, you were alone again. It’s hard to believe that those two, with the occasional help from Jimin, are head of research on Leviathans. To catalog and eradicate, and yet here they were, goofing off like two little kids running around the castle.

“...Y/n,” Namjoon’s voice breaks your intense gaze on door Taehyung exited through. He’s not looking directly at you, but instead at his shoes. His voice wavers, trying its best to sound confident. “..I don’t think I’m better than any other man. In fact, I am probably the most broken one man can be, but I have grown fond of your presence. If you say that you love another, I’ll leave you be.” He pauses for a moment to stare into your bewildered gaze,”But for better or for worse, I know that I can’t love someone if it isn’t you.”

Despite being king, he’s remained the same Namjoon you once knew. No secrets, curses, or tyranny. It’s just selfless, compassionate Namjoon. He’s definitely matured from this adventure, but he’d be lying if he said Jin’s death didn’t leave a scar.

“Love takes time,” you breathe in deeply. Which only made you more aware of his presence when you smell the soft fragrance of lavender and steel. His palm reaches out and holds the side of your cheek, and you lean into his touch, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “If it means loving you, I am willing to spend a thousand lifetimes.” 

────── ☽. ✧₊∘ ──────

A/N: I’m so glad to have seen this through to the end! I originally started this on a whim, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d actually finish it. I am deeply grateful for the support of my friend who gave me the encouragement I needed to write again :) Thank you.

Taglist (series completed! ⇢ closed): 

@namjoonies-dimple​

@ahgassok​

@sugalarity 

[prayandfeast]

Twisted Luck

It’s the new year, and I’m already launching into some Witcher tales. I hope 2021 is an improvement for us all.

This story was originally going to star Caligarus, but maybe I’ll do a near death by cliff fall for all three.

Zvonimir & Caligarus. Content warning for vomiting.

Zvonimir was unlucky. That had to be it.

That fickle intangibility that humans so often blamed their misfortune on. That complicated thing that both relied on one's actions and acted completely in spite of it. That thing that Zvonimir had never believed in once had to be the reason behind the sudden downturn in his life.

The sky drifted further away as Zvonimir fell. He thought back to the research that brought him here and the contract that would now go unfulfilled — the warnings that would never delivered. And once his mind settled on Caligarus and Avitamis, a small wry smile curled his lips. Perhaps, if he was lucky, those two would find him bent and broken. They would recover his sword and his spells, and they would give him an honourable burial. Perhaps, perhaps... But it might have been too much to ask.

As he fell, he could feel the venom still making its way through his body. It burned around the entry wound near his stomach. In fact, that very spot felt as if he had been branded. Even breathing now brought notthing but a shred of misery. Maybe his luck would turn back in his favour and he would be unconscious before his body hit the ground. His eyes began to drift closed but only snapped open once a sharp whistle sounded through the air. It was harsh and almost unnatural. Zvonimir had little time to ponder on it. A wide shadow passed over him, and his eyes trailed to follow it. Only... they didn't stop moving. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the pain hit a fever pitch. The toxicity in his body was too high, and he could feel the clutches of faintness easing towards him.

A new pain joined soon. Sharp talons pierced his back and into his organs. It was enough to jolt him back into the world. Blood spilled from his mouth and down towards the jagged rocks. The massive creature sank a foot when new weight jointed. Dizzily, Zvonimir attempted to lift his head. He was only successful when a hand cupped his cheek and turned his attention.

     "Cali....garus...?"

    "You look worse than usual," came the grim attempt at humour.

Caligarus thumbed down Zvonimir's bottom lid before shaking their head. They made a motion with their hand, and Zvonimir felt the effects of Axii flow over his mind. However he could have met his end, at least he knew a moment of peace before all went dark.

-----

When he awoke, it was to the sound of hushed voices. One was Caligarus' usual drawl, but the other was punchy and elegant. Zvonimir attempted to open his eyes. Which was a trial onto itself. He attempted to let out a faint noise to let them know he was awake, but the sound died in his throat. His entire body felt heavy, useless. The Axii couldn't have been that strong, certainly not.

     "I believe your friend is awake," said the eloquent voice.

    Measured, heavy footsteps, and suddenly, Caligarus was cupping Zvonimir's neck. "His pulse is steady at least. Finally." They turned away. "I can't thank you enough."

    "I'm sure you could manage. My, my. I do have my hands full with you Witchers."

    "Perhaps you could open your own practice. You'd make a killing."

The other speaker laughed, and it was reassuring. Zvonimir felt it in his chest, and it lessened the pressure in his mind only a little.

    "Cagli..." He attempted, but his tongue was heavy. The word slurred in his mouth.

    Caligarus shook their head before lowering him back down onto the bed. "You need more rest."

    "Buh..." It was useless, but Zvonimir's instinct told him to resist whatever this was. Had he been drugged? Charmed?

His hand slid down the length of Caligarus' arm, and it was all too easy for him to succumb to the rest that overtook him. His eyes filled with darkness for the briefest second. He was out immediately after.

-----

Rising the second time was far easier. In fact, he felt completely energised! He placed a hand on his head and sat up without trouble. All of his arm had been stripped and cleaned. The pieces had been stacked and prepared for him on a nearby bench. At the furthest end of the bench sat Caligarus, who had been scraping down a root of ginger.

    "Where are we, Caligarus?"

The Ox Witcher halted their task; their eyes swung over to Zvonimir, gaze intense. He licked his lips without thinking. Dry and flecked with blood. He made a face before looking towards the ground. He raised his hand to touch his lips and saw that his entire left hand had been bandaged.

     "What...?"

    "And here, I thought I was going to be regaled with the tale of what happened to you," Caligarus explained. They bent forward to grab a few stray pieces of ginger. They dropped the root scraps into a basket before grabbing it and standing. "I've never seen you come out so terribly."

    "The- the Ekhidna, did you...?"

    "We found her," Caligarus added, "and you."

We. Zvonimir looked around and then scented the air. There was no sign of the other person still around, but there was the lingering smell of herbs. Powerful, that... He looked to Caligarus, and they extended to him a two-toned potion. It was red mixing with honey yellow. Smelling it brought no offense, but even still, he shot a reluctant look to Caligarus.

    "I'm not going to poison you. I need you alive."

    "Funny. You typically don't need anything of me, but."

Zvonimir stopped the token protest before downing the potion in a single pull. He was almost immediately winded. His sinuses cleared up at the same time his breath was taken away. He reached out, and Caligarus knelt down in front of him. He gripped his hand on their armoured shoulder and held on as tight as he could as a literal nerve-wracking pain built up. It charged up from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. He sucked in a pained breath as he started to shake.

    "Shit..."

    "He warned me it would be powerful, but it's going to purge all the poison from you."

    "Oh, it's going to do more than—" Zvonimir seized as the sudden gag nearly blinded him.

Caligarus, quick with their senses, began to pull him to his feet. He went without issue. Walking didn't bring any further discomfort, but the second heave of his body made him feel even more lightheaded. By the time they were near a pile of dead leaves and weeds, Zvonimir was ready to unburden his body of both toxin and organ. He dropped down to his hands and knees and gave up all that his body wanted to expel. Caligarus was kind enough to kneel down and tie his hair back.

Zvonimir heard the dying whimper of something and prayed to every force and being that it was him. When he opened his eyes, he saw something bruised coloured and writhing in his sick. He regarded it with a flat, teary stare.

    "A parasite," he breathed. "Joy."

    "Do you remember what else you fought?" Caligarus asked as they produced a tiny hemp bag from their side.

    Zvonimir watched almost disdainfully as they collected the thing and dropped it into the bag. "What are you planning on doing with that?"

    "Consider it payment for saving your life." Caligarus tucked away the bag before sighing and dropping their hands to their thigh. They looked over to Zvonimir. "That's what I've been told to say."

    "By. Whom?"

    "The one who did the saving. Truly, in this case. I merely hauled your almost corpse to a safe location." They reached out to grab onto him and help him stand once again.

Zvonimir felt weak in the legs and empty in the stomach, but otherwise, he felt perfectly fine for someone who just wretched several generations of eating. Caligarus pulled them away from the dry brush before setting it all ablaze with Igni.

    "Who was here earlier, Cali?" Zvonimir asked as they headed back to the small domicile.

    "A friend. Someone who I had great fortune of running into while I was out." They looked to him from the corner of their eye. "And you haven't answered me yet."

Zvonimir took in a deep breath, ready to fire the sentiment back at them, but he knew that it would be no use. Fighting Caligarus about their vagueness and mystery had about as much purpose as yelling at a tree for growing its bark. He waited until he was sitting again before finally explaining,

    "I went there because I was told that fishermen and such had been attacked by a terrible she-beast. Based on their testimonies, I had been prepared for a fight with a siren and maybe, perhaps, an Ekhidna. But there was something in the forest."

    "A cursed one?"

    "Perhaps, I never saw it. No matter what I did, it struck with such a savage ferocity that by the time I saw the Ekhidna, I." Zvonimir stopped short and frowned deeply. He wasn't so detached from humanity that he didn't know what shame was. He licked the inside of his cheek, his gaze unfocusing as he thought to the first moment he saw the Ekhidna. "I was already dead."

The air between them went dead. He nodded his head slowly before closing his eyes and balling his hand into a fist. He thumped it down against his thigh. A harsh sigh escaped through his nose. When he opened his eyes again, he stared at Caligarus both annoyed and focused.

    "Tell me you finished the thing."

    Caligarus nodded somberly. "It would have been easier with help, but I knew you needed to be tended to." They leaned against the small counter and crossed their arms. "So, no hint at all?"

    "None. Unfortunately."

    "That is unfortunate, hmm." Caligarus looked at the wall ahead of them. "And I didn't see anything when I returned... I did collect on the contract, however. There were two going at once for this thing, and I managed to talk your clients into believing that you were no coward nor were you dead."

They dug into their pocket and held out his Griffin medallion. Zvonimir felt at his neck and realised that he was truly naked without it. He accepted the pendant and set to work refastening it around his neck. Caligarus continued,

    "Seeing to the beast that did this to you would have been a suitable step in my revenge, but for now, I'll stay to cursing it blindly." They pushed away from the counter then. They moved to a small table by the window and put together something modest to eat.

    "That beast that grabbed me when I fell..."

    Caligarus was quiet for a beat. "A Royal wyvern," they explained.

    Zvonimir stared at their back, incredulous at the idea. "You—! You tamed such a beast?"

    "Tamed would be a stretch. I merely offered it a trade." Zvonimir turned. They crossed the room before setting the bread and meat in Zvonimir's lap. The plate was chipped and a speck of dust had hardened on the edge. He missed the details for he was still staring up at his companion. "Some beasts can be haggled with. It's usually far easier if you know what they're after."

    "And what... did you offer it?"

    "Its territory back. It and the Ekhidna were rivals for that spot." They spoke with an air of confidence and certainty. Even still, Zvonimir thought they were mad. "Anything else, however, I wouldn't know."

    "Oh, of course." Zvonimir began to eat.

    Seeing this, Caligarus fetched their waterskin for him and turned towards the door. "I'll be back before the afternoon. I've yet another trade to make."

    "Are you going to meet this 'friend' of yours?"

    Caligarus paused at the door and looked over their shoulder. "I am."

    Pointless to ask, he reminded himself before readying another bite of his food. "Tell this friend I said 'thank you.'"

    "I will along any other long-winded vows of gratitude you wish to make."

    "Sod off..."

Caligarus smirked before heading out the doors with a slight wave. Zvonimir watched their retreated back, frustrated that he couldn't go along to unravel this mystery himself. Once they turned the corner and exited his vision, he shifted his focus to the brush still burning in his line of sight. Maybe his luck was mending little by little. Of course, he had to pay in blood before that happened. He ate with a burdened air of gratitude. Well, if that was the case, at least he was still alive to pay that debt. One more day bought, one more ounce spilled. Such was the life of a Witcher.

[zisurru]

So I was inspired by Cimmerian's SCP Vs. series and I wrote SCP-735 (the box that attacks you with unusually personal insults) vs SCP-076 in a similar style.

When Able entered the concrete test chamber, he found a small metal box sitting on a plywood table. It was still and silent, but the warrior approached it warily, alert for any sign of danger. Nonplussed, he lowered himself onto one knee to peer into the small slit at the front. He could see nothing within but blackness. Whatever this was, it didn’t appear intimidating, but if the Foundation had sent him in to deal with it, it must have been a significant threat. Surely no one would be so foolish as to waste his time with anything less. Able rapped lightly on the top, and the box rang hollow. 

"Hey," said SCP-735. It spoke with an irritating drawl. "You get lost on the way to a costume party?”

The voice sounded muffled, but it very clearly came from inside the object. Able stood, eyeing the box with grave suspicion. "And what sort of creature is this?" he asked, folding his arms.

“Could say the same to you, freakshow,” said SCP-735. There was a nasty sneer in its voice. “You look like you got mugged by a Hot Topic. Did your mommy pick that outfit out for you, or did you steal it off a homeless vampire?”

Able scoffed. “You think insults will save you from your fate? Pathetic.” He circled the table, considering the best angle of attack. This would be easy. Perhaps the thing had some hidden tricks, but from what Able could see, it was utterly defenseless. Hardly any sort of challenge.

“Enlille absinza mun habizizi,” said SCP-735.

Able’s eyes went wide; his mouth popped open. “What did you say to me?” He loomed menacingly over the table, hands bunched into fists.

“You heard me,” SCP-735 said. “Don’t know if you understood, bein’ slow and all...”

“You dare,” Able snarled. “Beast, I will make you eat your heart!” From the air, Able pulled a slim shortsword. It was an elegant thing, equal parts beautiful and deadly. The sleek black metal glistened under the fluorescent lights as Able lifted it above his head and then plunged it down with fatal precision.

The sword connected with the metal box and bounced off harmlessly, jarring the swordsman’s arm before it slipped from his hand. It clattered onto the concrete floor and promptly began to fall apart into flakes of ash, which melted away one by one. Able blinked, staring at his empty palm.

“Havin’ problems with your sword? Don’t worry, champ. Happens to the best of us.” SCP-735 laughed.

“Hold your tongue!” Able spat. He drew another weapon, a double-headed axe this time. Hacking would succeed where puncturing had failed. He hoisted it, teeth bared.

“Boy, you’re easy to rile up. Hey, Greasy, why don’t you use one of those fancy weapons to give yourself a haircut?”

Able brought the axe down with all the might of his fury. There was an ear-rending metallic scrape as the blade hit the metal, but SCP-735 was not so much as dented. The table it was on, however, did not fare nearly as well. It splintered under the force of Able’s blow, collapsing in two pieces with SCP-735 on top.

"Did you actually think that would work, asshole? You’re dumber than a sack of rocks, aren’t you? Hey, I changed my mind about the haircut. You could use all that oil to take that axe and shove it right up your-"

Able brought his axe down again with a wordless yell. This time, the blade hit the box and bounced back toward him. Able had to move quickly to avoid bisecting his own face. This only made him angrier. He tossed the axe aside and drew a scimitar. This, too, delivered only a glancing blow, so he manifested yet another weapon, this one an enormous claymore. Able slashed at the object, still to no effect. A vein had started to pulse in his forehead. He sliced and jabbed at SCP-735, and the room filled with a symphony of grunting and clanging.

“Uh oh! Doctor, doctor! The baby’s havin’ a little tantrum! I think we need a juice box in here!” SCP-735 gave a raspy cackle. "Yeah, try to solve your problems with swords, just like you always do! You know what that makes you? It doesn't make you strong. It makes you a god damn coward."

“Be silent!”

"You are a child in a man's body, and everyone can see it."

“Wretch! Bastard! Whoreson! I will kill you!”

The response was quiet, almost melancholy: “You can’t.”

At this, Able kicked SCP-735 with the toe of his boot. It shot across the room and cracked a dent into the white-washed cinderblock wall before clattering to the ground, a few crumbles of cement on top.

"You think all that bloodshed will make you feel in control?” SCP-735 taunted. “It won't. Somewhere inside you, there will always be a frightened little boy, calling for his mother.”

“Silence!”

“Do you think yourself strong, Hevel? Do you think yourself mighty? You are nothing but a relic from a bygone age, still playing at warfare! You are selfish and brutish and vain! Your ancestors weep over what you have become, and when you are finally laid to rest, the vultures will turn their beaks up at your corpse! You! Have! No! Honor!"

Able gave a hideous bellow of rage and threw himself at SCP-735. Seizing the object, he hoisted it above his head in both hands and slammed it down onto the floor hard enough to crack the concrete. But SCP-735 was unharmed. He did it again, and again, and again, and SCP-735 cackled all the while. Able dropped the box and punched it with his fists; then he grabbed one side in each hand and attempted to tear it in two. Finally, Able picked up SCP-735 and hurled it across the room, this time hard enough to dislodge a large chunk of concrete from the wall. The sound it made was like a shotgun blast. The box dropped to the ground once more.

Able stood rigid on the other side of the room, fists clenched, chest heaving. The indestructible box had left him disarmed. He could do nothing to silence it; his blade was as useless as a child’s toy against such a foe. How could he fight something that could not die? He glared at it, contemplating this, hollow-eyed and hateful.

"Also you're fat," said SCP-735.

Able drew his sword.