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wordbreaker · 5 months ago

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The Red Wolf ★ Prologue

For centuries, the Gods⏤Old and New⏤have flipped coin after coin to decide the fate of the Realm. Now that all seems lost, for the Dead are too strong, the Long Night, too thick, the Winter, too cold, it is now men's turn to play this terrible game. May the Red Wolf bend Time and Blood, Fate and Death before Winter comes and swallows the Dance of Men.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader* & Aegon Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader*

*Y/N does have a given name at some point in the story, being a bastard and all.

Word count: 5.2K

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, brief allusion to SA

Note: In honor of Season 2 dropping in a few hours... Enjoy a good ol' time-traveler fic from yours truly. As always, English is not my first language. I do apologize if some typos and grammatical errors managed to sneak into this.

HIDDEN BEHIND the few battlements where bodies were not yet piling up, you whispered a prayer to the Old Gods⏤your eyes closed to avoid seeing the battlefield that had become of your childhood home. Desperation made people do funny things. Stupid, naive things, like praying. The Gods had abandoned you long ago, for what kind of Gods would destroy their creation in such manner?

The Long Night had plunged Winterfell into a bath of fire and blood, with the singular smell of Death emanating from it and turning stomachs inside out. You had been soaking in the puddle of your own vomit for several minutes.

It was too much. Too much for you. Death was coming for them all. An unstoppable Death. A Death that walked, that fought, that killed without ever tiring.

You tightened your grip on your sword, Endbringer, forged from the blade of Ice, the last memento of your father, Lord Eddard Stark. It would not be long before you joined him. He and Catelyn and Robb and Rickon. The Stranger had feasted on the Starks without mercy. Soon he would taste your frightened flesh. Would you find them on the other side? Or did Hell reserve a particular place for bastards?

A roar pierced the deafening din of the battlefield and the ringing of your ears. Up there, far from the burning barricades and piles of bodies, Jon, your twin, was riding Rhaegal and burning the White Walkers.

But Death always came back.

Winterfell, seat of the North, was ablaze with dragonfire. The irony would have pleased the rhapsodists, had they been there to sing the fable.

The bards will sing no more when Westeros is but an open grave, a voice whispered to you. You buried it⏤along with everything else⏤under the smell of burning flesh and the clash of swords.

You stood up on wobbly legs. A white strand of hair blocked you vision but you did not care, for nothing could be clearly seen anymore. The smoke from the dragon's fire, the bodies throwing themselves on top of each other, the Dead leaping into the courtyard, the cannonballs flying over the ramparts, the arrows whistling through the air, the buildings exploding. It was all chaos. You dived in it head first, sword in hand.

You had lost sight of Arya an hour earlier. Your little sister was probably fighting for her life in the corridors. You prayed for her. You prayed for Jon, who was fighting the Night King. You prayed for Theon and for Bran. Most of all, you prayed for Sansa, imprisoned in the crypt, perhaps the only place in the North where the dead did not yet walk.

Your thoughts drifted to your father, whose remains lay among the women and children, the weak and the new, the Ancestors and Descendants. As foolish as it sounded, seeing him reborn, even for a moment, in the skin of a White Walker, would give you the courage to fight.

The Old Gods knew you sorely needed it.

You shut out your memories and stumbled to the entrance of the tower. Above your head, arrows pierced the wind and stuck into the ground made of flesh and blood. Enemies, allies, the dead, the living, all merged into one agonising, shapeless mass. Miraculously⏤perhaps the Gods had heard you⏤you managed to reach the tower and immediately rushed down the stairs. You stepped over the fallen bodies, for Death had already stained the stones of the castle, and counted the remaining steps.

It would only take a few minutes to reach the lower rooms.

Of Winterfell, you remembered everything. Seven years had not been enough to erase the precious memories of your childhood. It had gone too quickly, tainted by the horrors and scheming of the South. For a long time, you had wondered what had killed your carefree spirit.

You had first thought your childhood had been crushed along Bran's legs but⏤forced to flee King's Landing at a mere four and ten because you were seen not just as a bastard but as the bastard of a traitor⏤you had soon realised the truth.

Your innocence had died the day Jon Arryn had been murdered, for Death brought naught but bad omens and destruction.

The Starks had gone South and, in doing so, had sealed their doom.

You longed for the years before Robert Baratheon had visited and destroyed everything you knew and held dear. You⏤eager to forget the ravaging war⏤closed your eyes and let yourself be basked in what had been and would never be again.

Sheltered by the porch at the entrance to the Great Keep, Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Father were discussing the affairs of the people. You, seven years younger and sitting next to Arya and Sansa, were trying to embroider a flower without pricking your fingers and lamenting over the fact that you could not join the boys who, further down in the courtyard, were practising their swordplay with Rodrik Cassel. Bran was still walking. Robb was breathing and Theon had not yet betrayed them. Familiar faces were everywhere: Hodor, Mikken, Farlen, Hullen, even Gage the cook. House Stark was alive, far from the shenanigans of the Lions and the capital that had damned them.

In the distance, a frail voice mumbled tales from another age.

Old Nan would always knit far-fetched stories.

Except they were anything but. The Long Night had well and truly begun again and, in its darkness, it would swallow up everything you loved: your family, your friends and your people, if they were not already walking with the dead.

A growl echoed through the corridor. You raised Endbringer, ignored the trembling in your hands and continued forward⏤to stop was to die, you told yourself. In silence, you plunged in the darkness of Winterfell's corridors. You squinted your eyes, trying to make out a silhouette, a noise, anything, but the dead entangled on the floor remained dead.

For how much longer? you thought darkly.

Another growl, close by. You swallowed and turned. Two sparkling blue eyes were staring back at you. Shivers ran down your spine. Your hand trembled around your sword⏤your lifeline and perhaps your only chance of escape. You thought of Old Nan and, with only fear and adrenaline for a brain, attacked.

The White Walker let out an inhuman scream, somewhere between a shriek and a hiss.

The sound of Death.

It was tolling your bells.

It put so much force into its blow that you had to take several steps back when you parried it. For a brief moment, you wondered whether Endbringer would resist. Was Valyrian steel mere iron in the face of Death?

Your years of combat training seemed to disappear. No reflexes, no tactics, just your survival instinct to guide and defend.

You did not stand a chance.

The pack survives, a voice whispered to you. But where was Sansa? Arya? Jon? You were the only one in the corridor⏤a Lone Wolf against Death.

You raised Endbringer and brought it down hard on the Other's shoulder. It split the air and the putrid remains of flesh. Its arm fell to the ground, but it began to twitch and reached for your ankles. Its fingers snaked to avoid your heavy sole and came dangerously close to your heel.

A kick and the arm disappeared further away, entangled in a pile of bloody limbs, but you knew it would be back, disturbing as that thought was.

Exhaustion made you heavy and slow. Your blows grazed the creature in front of you without ever bringing it down. Death never wavered. It delivered blow after emotionless blow, the only evidence of the soul that once resided in its body being those two big blue eyes, too bright to be the work of the Gods.

A guttural howl split your throat. Then came a stabbing pain, which burned through your flesh and blood.

The Other had thrust its sword into your shoulder.

You felt the blood trickle down your collarbone, colonising your flesh and armour.

Then you heard it. Above you, a desperate voice screamed.

Dracarys.

You stumbled to the wall and snatched the nearest torch, throwing it at the White Walker. Immediately, the creature writhed in an agony that might have been pleasurable had you had time to admire it, for you seized your only chance of survival and, ignoring your heart pounding against your temples, ran.

You ran and never looked back. To look back was to die, you repeated to yourself. And you, Y/N Snow, were not done with Life yet.

Death would have to wait.

The thick walls of Winterfell were not enough to drown out the shrill cries of the dragons. They shook the centuries-old walls around and above you. The smell of burning flesh tickled your nose and stirred your stomach. The terrible smell reminded you of funeral pyres.

Winterfell was nothing but a pile of rumble and dead, you realised as you passed the disjointed body of a young soldier, too young to fight. You prayed to the Old Gods to spare your twin, your other half, and continued your journey to the lower halls. You passed the library, stepped over more disfigured bodies and made your way through the burnt carcasses of the Others. Everywhere, fire and death embraced in a touch that gave you goosebumps.

The journey from the tower to the halls took an eternity. Fear and fatigue slowed you down, as well as the weight of your armour on your slumped shoulders.

Your body was giving up.

At the turn of yet another corridor, you finally came across a small room, which you hastened to enter. Glancing around, you realised it was meant to be used by servants. The mattress still retained the shape of a body, which was probably no longer breathing.

A sudden howl ripped through the corridor and startled you. Someone banged on the door but you threw yourself against it and held it shut. With a trembling hand, you closed the latch, then the chain, and kept your shoulder pressed against the wood.

"Help me!" someone screamed. "Please! There's too many! I've got a wife... A boy… My boy… Please! Have mercy! Let me in!"

Already, the cries of distress had mingled with inhuman gurgling. You turned your head and closed your eyes before sliding back against the door and bringing your hand to your trembling mouth.

Valar morghulis.

You soon lost track of the minutes, as you weaved your agony through the darkest hours of Westeros.

Other soldiers pounded on the door, but all died at its threshold. Their bodies, still warm, rose up immediately, animated by an evil and ancient force. You ignored their nails scratching against the wood and the inhuman growls that shook it. Blood stained the stone-floor and snaked its way up to you, further staining your already-crimson armour, but you kept your eyes and lips closed. The black behind your eyelids was only slightly different from the Long Night, but it gave you an illusion of protection you could not refuse.

With a trembling hand, you wiped your face, bathed in tears, blood and mud, but the wounds on your cheeks remained open and your tears, wet. The ringing in your ears continued to torment you.

"Pull yourself together, damn it," you whispered angrily.

But already your vision was blurring. The adrenalin had left your muscles, leaving you paralysed with pain and fear. Soon came the sobs that shook your shoulders and tore at your lungs.

At last, your body and mind were coming together to cry out their agony.

A whistle pierced the din of your sadness and put an end to it. You raised her head, frowning. You turned and, just in time, avoided the axe that suddenly slashed the door.

You screamed.

The blade disappeared, leaving a hole large enough to see blue eyes, and came down on the wood again. A hand reached into the hole and tried to grab you, but you threw herself to the floor and crawled away. You clung to the mattress. Behind you, the growling intensified and sent shivers down your spine. No human could make that noise.

The walls of the room closed in on you.

The Old Gods had exhausted their mercy.

It was time to die.

The axe whistled through the air and lodged itself in the mattress⏤a mere centimetre away from your hand⏤scattering strands of straw and bits of flesh on the floor.

How many men had lost their lives on that blade? How many throats slit? Decapitated heads? How many mutilated bodies?

Your hands fluttered around your belt. Your fingers brushed against all the weapons within your reach without ever grabbing one. You looked up. The door wouldn't hold for long. The White Walker was pounding on it relentlessly.

You grabbed the dragonglass dagger Jon had given you⏤I won't be there to protect you. Come back to me alive, he had told you, unaware of the years you had spent defending yourself alone in Westeros. Trapped in the cold at the Wall, how could he have known? How could he understand what had happened to you?

You shook off these thoughts and took a deep breath before standing up on trembling legs. The biting north wind blew through your armour and chilled you, but the sweat dripping down your back still clung to your skin.

You had to leave, but where? Your childhood home, reduced to a graveyard of endless rebirth, was falling into ruin. Soon, the White Walkers would have invaded every room and soaked the stones in blood. How many of your brothers in arms had already joined the Night King’s ranks?

On the other side of the door, the Dead was going mad, his movements, more abrupt. You clamped your hands over your ears and curled up on the floor. You let the dagger drop. Your breathing quickened. You were going to die. Like all the others.

Robb was dead. Rickon. Father. Uncle Benjen. Catelyn. Was Arya still alive or had she abandoned you too? What about Jon? What was the point of staying alive when everyone else was dying?

Another knock rattled the door. You jumped and stepped back, but your shins collided with the mat.

You did not stand a chance.

The door burst open.

The wood exploded in deadly splinters.

The White Walker pounced on you.

An unparallelled smell enveloped you. You screamed and struggled. You clawed at mouldy flesh, struck fragile bones and tore off dirty rags. Blood beaded on your fingers as you deflected a blade from your throat, which the creature's rotten teeth lunged at. You pushed against it with all your might.

The Other fell to the ground and stopped moving.

Your breathing was all you could hear as your heart raced. For a second, you thought it was over, but the White Walker suddenly stood up and crawled towards you.

Death never tires.

You tried to fight it off, kicking it wherever you could reach: on the head, on the shoulders, in the neck... but the creature kept moving. Axe in hand⏤when did he get it back?⏤its skeletal arm split the air and scraped your ankle. You fell to your knees screaming and, in a desperate move, plunged your dagger into its accursed blue eye.

The creature exploded into fragments of ice. A few of them grazed your face.

You swept them away with a wave of your hand.

Down here, caught between your Ancestors and the Dead, victory had a bitter taste. You limped out of the room and wandered through the corridors, which you did not recognise. Winterfell was becoming unknown before your eyes, ravaged by Death and the despair of the unlucky Survivors.

Several times, lone White Walkers blocked your path. You managed to get rid of them, but never escaped unscathed. Their dull blades always pierced your armour and flesh, leaving you aching.

It was not until you reached the west wing of the castle that the screaming stopped and, at last, the calm of the North enveloped you in its thick cloak. The silence made you shiver. How it contrasted with the din of war... It was almost terrifying.

Finally, at the end of a staircase, a new door.

You wasted no time in entering and barricading the room. You slid the wooden palisade into its notches and stepped back, frightened to see a new axe appear.

When you turned round, you gasped at the awful sight the Gods had painted for your eyes. The fireplace at the back of the room lit up a pile of tangled bodies in one corner. The shadows played and illuminated the severed arms, the decapitated heads, the men turned into trunks. Nothing on the canvas was complete; everything had to be put together to become human again.

You staggered back, nauseous and swore before pressed one hand against your stomach. The other covered your mouth in a last-ditch effort to save you but the smell of decay, so characteristic of death, delivered the fatal blow. You turned your head and bent down to vomit your guts out.

"A Wolf far from her pack," a seductive voice said. "Snow seems to have numbed the blood."

You spun around and squinted but could only make out a red cloak. The flames swirled and licked at its ends, but always left the fabric intact. The stranger stepped forward and revealed a familiar face, a worrying face. Her eyes sparkled, hiding secrets that made you shiver. Stories of New Gods and diabolical powers, everything you hated⏤for you were a child of the North and the North prayed to nameless Gods.

You placed one hand on Endbringer's pommel, sat down against the wall⏤opposite the bodies⏤and wiped your lips. The steel of your armour was an icy kiss against them. You relished in the sensation and remained silent. You no longer had the strength to answer riddles. You no longer had the strength for anything.

You just listened to the Living and the Dead killing each other, head against the wall, eyes closed to ignore reality.

Minutes passed, until finally you grew tired of the sound of swords and the agony of men. You opened your eyes and immediately met the gaze of the red witch. Melisandre, you remembered. Ser Davos had said that name with such that you could not have forgotten it even if you wanted to.

You jerked, your armour digging painfully into your ribs, and cleared your throat, but the witch's gaze never wavered.

In the distance, a man screamed for his life. You winced and finally broke the silence.

"I hear the clamour of battle, the cries of pain, the prayers shouted over the blows of swords, but the Night does not give way and the Dead still march. We won't win," you murmured.

You met the witch's eyes but quickly looked away, towards the fireplace where the flames were still dancing, untouched by the torments of men.

"Can't you ask your Lord to save us from this hell?" you mocked.

"The Lord of Light does not interfere with destiny," replied the sorceress, who chose to ignore your blatant irony. "The New Gods weave everyone's prophecies and they have seen just to–"

You scoffed. Your chapped lips stretched into a smirk. You shook your head and laughed. Your lungs hurt like hell but the hilarity made the pain sweet.

"The Gods," you giggled. "Old... New... Seven or one... The Gods abandoned us to our fate a long time ago. Perhaps this is our punishment... to die here without even the comfort of Faith. Our shroud shall be neither prayer nor forgiveness, only the putrid smell of death and the warm bodies of our fallen brothers. Isn't it time to just give up?"

"Why aren't you out in the courtyard then? Among the corpses, looking for Death you so desperately seek? Why are you hiding in this room when your sister and twin are fighting hard against it and heading off to their destiny?"

You looked up at the witch.

"Arya?" you whispered hoarsely. "Did you run into Arya? Is she alive? What of Jon? Why is he here? Wasn't he riding Rhaegal just a few minutes ago?"

The witch sighed, suddenly so human, as terrifying as it sounded, and knelt down in front of you, who watched her with teary eyes. The red-haired woman took your hand and clasped it in hers. Her cold skin sent shivers down your spine, but you made no attempt to free yourself from the embrace.

"Rhaegal is no more. Even dragonfire is no longer enough against the Night King. The darkness is already feasting on his scales."

You pressed your hand against your chest. A nameless agony seized you and tore at your heart. Poor beast, you thought.

There was a time when dragons would only fly from verse to verse in the history books you loved dearly, the ones recounting the fables of the Targaryen dynasty. How many times had you told their fables to Arya, when your sister could not yet read?

Dragons had danced in your imagination throughout your childhood.

Then, miraculously, they had danced over Westeros, brought back to life by Daenerys Stormborn, whom your father had spared. You had not believed the tales at first and had regretted it when the dragons finally danced over Winterfell.

Tonight, dragons no longer danced. Like everything else, they were dying. A tear rolled down your cheek. You wept for this majestic creature, who had also fallen victim to the War of Men.

"No one is immune to the vicissitudes of fate, Rhaella, not even dragons."

You blinked, frowned, and tore your hand away from the witch's grip before grabbing Endbringer.

"My name is Y/N," you corrected, your voice sharp.

"Are you quite sure? Didn't your twin tell you? Of his discovery? Of his destiny? I've told you. No one is immune to his vicissitudes," the witch repeated. "Not even you."

"I don't understand..."

The witch moved closer and took one of your hair, wrapping it around her finger. You clenched your jaw but made no move to interrupt her. Don't struggle or it'll be worse, a snarling and masculine voice whispered. You closed your eyes and tried to bury the painful memories that were clawing to the surface. Hands on your body and in your hair. On your lips and cheeks. Under your dress...

"Did you never wonder where that colour came from? Such white…. You don't see hair like this in those parts. Even your grey eyes, no doubt those of the Wolf, can't hide the warm blood that runs through your veins. Your twin was luckier in that respect, I must admit."

You violently shook yourself off and stood up, your eyes raging, vile memories once again buried deep.

"You do not know what you’re talking about, witch," you spat out the last word. "Flames make your head spin. My father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King. My mother was but a whore whose true name was lost when that cunt Joffrey Lannister killed my father. Stop this nonsense, or I'll not hesitate to kill you."

"And this fiery rage, this bloodlust? Does it come from the Quiet Wolf, whose honour and calm cost him his head?"

You growled and grabbed the woman's hair. You drew your dagger and pressed it against the woman's milky throat, ready to draw blood. Would it be the singular colour of flames or the common red of mortals?

The witch grabbed the dagger with her bare hand and deflected it. Her fingers remained intact. No blood spattered against the flesh. You blinked, but the skin remained white, immaculate.

Impossible, you thought.

"I can show you. The truth, first. Your destiny, then."

You did not understand at first. It was only when the witch moved towards the fireplace that your eyes widened. You sheathed your dagger and took three large steps back. Your back hit the wall with the sound of steel and for that you were thankful.

"I have no use of your false God."

The witch ignored you and pulled a coin from her cloak before turning to face you once more. It looked like a Gold Dragon, worn and battered.

"Perhaps you would prefer to play a game, then. A game the gods have been playing for centuries, long before you were born."

The witch threw the coin at you. You caught it by reflex and turned it over to look at it. For a while, you caressed it and enjoyed its rough surfaces. The dirt, which the endless passing of hands had collected, masked the King's head, but you knew it was neither that of Robert Baratheon nor of Cersei Lannister's Bastard. Frowning, you began to scrape the coin with the tip of your fingernail. It first revealed a notched crown, then a lean neck, long hair and, finally, a name.

A familiar name, engraved just below the royal silhouette.

A series of shivers ran down your spine as your lips formed the cursed name.

AERYS II.

The Mad King.

"What are you waiting for? Flip it," Melisandre asked.

You opened her mouth, ready to insult her and demand her to stop jesting, but growls cut you off. You turned around.

In the corner of the room, bodies were stirring.

The coin was soon forgotten.

You unsheathed Endbringer, but the sword had lost its frightening glint. It was a miracle of the Gods that it did not slip from your weak and trembling hands. You could feel the burns and wounds that lacerated your palm and weakened your grip.

"What's going on?" you asked as panic ran up your spine.

Fear had already taken hold of your soul and made your knees buckle. Your stomach churned but you swallowed down the nausea.

"The Dead are waking up," the witch simply said.

You could not find the strength to scream. A feeling of despair crawled through your body and numbed your mind. There was no respite from the horror. How much longer would they have to fight? How much longer before everything died and was reborn as something evil?

The flames in the fireplace were still dancing. You glanced at the witch, but she was muttering unknown words, her hands clasped around her necklace.

She wouldn't be of any help, you realised. Already, legs and hands were emerging from the hill of flesh. They charged at you. You stabbed them with your dagger and ran to the fireplace. Growls rose up behind you but you ignored them and buried your fear deep inside before glancing over your shoulder. One of the Walkers was already hopping on one leg in your direction. Melisandre still hadn't woken up from her lethargy.

You did not have much time.

You turned back to the flames, which seemed to whisper incantations to you. They glowed brighter, twisting in a hypnotic dance and brushing against your armour.

Dracarys, they screamed at you.

You did not think, for there was no time, and plunged your hand into the fire, grabbed a burning log and turned to throw it into the pile of Dead. You clenched your fist and watched as the flames engulfed the rag of one of the bodies before spreading to the rest of the pile, turning it into a pyre.

The Dead began to sing out their agony.

You begged them to shut up but they never did.

Several creatures managed to escape the deadly embrace of the flames but, each time, you were there to stab them with your dagger or sliced them with your sword. You defended yourself for what seemed like hours, throwing torches and firewood at the crawling corpses, stabbing the few spared with your dagger and even decapitating the rare bodies that were still whole.

The Dead stopped singing after several long minutes and, at last, the pile of bodies came to rest. This time for good, you hoped. A naive thought, really.

Down here, the Dead never stayed silent for long.

You turned frantically towards the witch.

"We must lea–"

Air ran down your spine. You met Melisandre's wide-eyed gaze, fixed on a much lower point, and followed it. A blade was protruding from your armour. Not your dagger. Not Endbringer. A rusty, broken blade. You frowned and looked up at the witch.

"What is–"

"Do not speak," she ordered.

You touched your lower abdomen, suddenly dizzy. A warm liquid stained your fingers. It was only when you brought them into view that you realised what it was.

I was blood.

Then came the pain.

Everywhere.

Unprecedented.

"J... Jon..." you hiccuped. A wet cough shook your lungs. Drops of blood stained your lips and the witch's porcelain face. "I want... Jon."

Before your frightened eyes, the witch picked up the coin from earlier and placed it in your palm. She closed your fist and enveloped it in hers. You watched her do it, eyes blurred by the pain. Your body was already giving out on you. It was cold, too cold…

Winter is coming, your father said.

My father is dead, you replied.

"Āeksiō ōños."

A voice pierced the fog that was gradually inhibiting all your senses. You blinked.

"W-what are you...?" you managed to whisper between coughs. "... doing?"

Your breathing quickened. Your knees buckled. You tried to free yourself but the witch dug her nails into your hand.

"Stop!" you screamed, terrified.

"Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños!"

In your grip, the coin caught fire. The flames devoured the Mad King's head and, with it, your palm. You screamed, feeling your skin getting torn apart by the fire. Nausea turned your stomach. You choked on a mixture of blood and bile and staggered backwards, but the red witch did not let go.

"Obūljagon se jēda se ānogar. Kostagon se mele zokla lilagon isse vīlībāzma se ērinagon toliot vējes. Lord of Light! Come to us in our darkness. Cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors!"

Everything went up in flames.

When you opened your eyes, the dead were no longer singing. An entirely different cacophony resounded. Swords and screams deafened you. You tried to speak but your body, numb, remained motionless, your mind, confused, your lips, closed.

Had the Long Night ceased?

The lights were blinding.

There was no light in Winterfell.

Nausea turned your stomach in waves. Too weak to lift an arm, you let yourself drown in it and choked on your vomit before closing your eyes.

"...ko...b…sa?"

Someone was talking to you, you realised, but you did not have the strength to find out who.

"Skoros aōha brōzi issa?"

Your voice faded in your throat. The metallic taste of blood colonised both your palate and tongue. You coughed, the wet sound hurting your chest, and tried to sit up but could not find the strength to do that either.

"Stomach... Blood..." you managed to stammer out before everything went black. Again.

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peachesofteal · 1 year ago

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Crane your Neck

"And I placed my palm upon your collarbone, and I wished to fall asleep deep in your marrow, as gently as a mouse curled up in a ball, as gently as a mouse until tomorrow" - Lady Lamb

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/female reader 2.1k words Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Violence, blood, gore. Injury. Medical inaccuracies. Hurt/comfort. For @glitterypirateduck's Gazfest One shot/safe house + "I'll take care of you"/"Just like that"

The fire rages.

It burns across the field, flames licking into the sky, smoke blotting out the sun until he’s not sure whether it’s night or day. Until it’s all he can see, all he can feel, the burn of carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, seeping through his skin to his bones, burning into the whites of his eyes until he has no choice but to blink them closed, over and over.

He ducks in between the row of houses, seeking shelter from the ash that falls from the sky. It’s not much, but enough, and he sticks close to the crumbling brick wall, debris and bodies and chunks of homes cluttering his route.

He holds his weapon steady in front of his body. They come in waves, and he extinguishes each one, step by step, eliminating every single body between him and the last house on the left.

Your last known location.

One gets the drop on him, from behind, to his left. The man is fast, but not fast enough, nor skilled enough, to take him in close combat. A blade twists, there’s a flash of metal, of silver, before a prick of pain against his ribs, and then he’s burying his own knife into the man’s neck, seeking the soft spot beneath his jaw and ear.

His blood spurts like a fountain. Kyle presses on.

His mind is so focused, so dialed in, that the pain in his side is barely a hum. It sings with the throbbing of his knee, the song of the torn ligament in his ankle. They all come together to fade into the darkness, not even a thought.

His brain will carry his body until he cannot walk. Cannot fight. Cannot breathe. It is his most powerful weapon. His sharpest tool.

His radio is gone. The last crackle carrying just the hint of Price’s voice through to him before it chirped a final transmission and went dark.

“- safe house.”

He’ll make it.

But not without you.

"What is it?"

"What's that?"

"You're... staring at me." you motion with the rag you've got in your hand, and he can't fight the smile that pulls at his lips.

"'m not." He lies. He is, and has been, for the last hour. Staring at you, sitting in the bed of the truck, polishing some arbitrary piece of equipment while he sits and counts small pieces of parts. The sun has started to sink below the horizon, and it bathes you in a rainbow of orange and pink and red, dancing across your skin like a kaleidoscope, ever changing, but never less stunning. He's staring, because he's memorizing it, like a photograph he'll never get to take, something to hold close, to hold on to, to see again and again when he closes his eyes. When he's away from you, or across the room. When he's on a different continent, or buried in a shallow grave.

He finds you exactly where you said you’d be. Laid up in the kitchen of the last house on the left, your favorite LMG clutched in one hand, the other pressed to the wound just below your navel. There’s another body with you, an enemy’s, a man’s, facedown near the table.

Your blood fans out beneath you, staining the worn linoleum of the room, a room that once probably, held happiness and sorrow. Family gatherings or quiet meals, tears or moments of joy. Now, all it holds is you and the dead man beside you. One in the grave, and the other, clinging to life that spills from a wound like water.

“D-damn, Gaz. Y’come all this way for me?” You cough, lips splitting wide to showcase a bloody set of teeth. You’re playing with him, as you’re prone to do. Fucking around, like you usually are with him, with Soap. It’s something he looks forward to, most days. The sound of your laughter, the way your voice changes when you’re telling a joke or, even better, the way you giggle when you’re laughing about something he’s said.

“You’re a fucking riot, Garrick.” You’d wipe your eyes, pretty grin stretching across your face while you shook your head. It made him swell with pride, whenever it happened. Whenever he got you to smile like that.

Now, your smile does nothing to hide the glimmer of fear in your eyes. The panic that ebbs and flows in the room with you, riding the tide every second you draw breath.

You’re in bad shape.

“Couldn’t leave without my favorite sparring partner.” He kneels, wrapping strong fingers around your wrist. Your own dig into your jacket, trying to hold onto the wound, trying to keep him from lifting your palm.

“Don’t.” You warn and he shakes his head. “I’ve got it. Let me see.” His words are insistent, but patient. He won’t force you, but he’s got more strength, more energy than you. You both know it.

“It’s bad, Kyle.”

“Can’t be too bad, you’re still giving me shit, yeah?” He smiles, and you heave a sigh.

The exchange is quick. He’s got your hand free in one moment, enough time for blood to slick across your clothes faster than he likes, and then his hand covering it in the next.

You weren’t wrong. It is bad. Bad enough that one look at it is enough to tell him it needs to be cauterized, and he curses himself for not getting here sooner.

“What was it?” You grit your teeth.

“Knife.” You jerk your foot towards the body a meter away, and he tries not think about the struggle that happened.

“Got one of those too.” He motions to his ribs, and your face screws up into something stricken, something worried.

“You should have gone right to the safe house.” You hiss, and he ignores it, switching his hand with yours again to source something from the kitchen.

“Hold pressure.” He instructs, and your head wobbles when you see the glint of the knife in his hand. “It’s too late for that-“ you mumble, but he shakes his head in denial.

“Wait here.”

“Obviously.” A half smile cracks across your face, and he returns it easily before slinking off into the back of the kitchen to find a burner.

It’s the screaming, that he cannot bear. The act itself is not without struggle, but the sound of your voice breaking, again and again, would be too much for anyone to stand. The smell of your flesh searing is rife against his nose, worse than the smell of the ash and blood that permeates the air outside the door. The sounds of your screams are worse than the struggle of your body beneath his strength, the push and pull of your chest against the arm that pins you down, tries to hold you still.

“I know, I know.” He murmurs, trying to comfort you, the blade still pressed to your skin as it finishes. “Breathe.”

The raw scrape of your voice pains him, flickering down into his heart, past everything he’s built to keep you out, everything he’s built to keep his brain focused, to keep himself on point.

“Almost done, love. Almost there.” He promises, letting the forearm that presses against your chest relax slightly as the knife begins to cool, pulling it away to reveal the burn that will undoubtedly scar and most likely get infected unless he gets you to the safehouse.

The screaming has already burrowed itself beneath his skin, scarring him the same as you. Something he’ll carry always, the memory of your agony. The sound of your pain.

He lets you rest, for a few minutes. Sits there in the house against the wall with you, your thigh pressed to his, your lashes sticky with tears. He watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, your deft fingers still woven with his. You haven’t let go, even when he repositioned you to rest more comfortably, even when he went to pull away. You kept your grip tight, your eyes trained on the ceiling.

It feels like a good sign. Good enough of a sign that he’s ready to move the two of you.

“Got a radio?”

“Negative.”

“Alright, then. Ready?” He shifts onto his feet, knees flexing as he hoists one of your arms around his shoulder.

“You can’t be serious… I wa-was been bleeding for too long. It’s too far.” He’s a logical man. An intelligent one. He’s very good, too good at calculating the risks, and evaluating opportunities for success. He excels at his work. He strives to ensure his mind is sharp, that his tactical ability, his awareness, is just as on point as it ever was.

You make this a challenge. More than he cares to admit to himself, to his captain, to his team.

“Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” He volleys and you scowl. “Let’s go.” It’s firm, and he’s adamant. He cannot be soft now, even though it’s what he craves. What he dreams about at night, in the room across the hall or the tent across the path from you. He dreams of folding your body into his, of holding you tightly against him, stroking your skin and pressing his lips against yours, plucking delicate sounds from your mouth with fervor.

He wishes, so badly, to be soft but he cannot. Not if he wants to save you.

And he will. He’ll get you there, to the safe house. There is no other option.

Your legs kick out from underneath you while you try to push upwards, and he uses your grip to leverage you against him, leaving you standing but pressed to his hip, his hand still cradling your stomach.

You’re close enough to him now that he can feel your ribs expanding and contracting next to him, their slow and steady draw enough to settle the dark tendrils of fear that have sprouted in the back of his mind, quieting the thump of panic in his heart. “One step at a time.” He encourages, and you glare.

“Easy for you to say.” You protest, but you do it anyway, syncing your movements with his.

“Just like that.” You nod shakily, and he shoves down the urge to press his lips to the side of your head, to breathe you in. “That’s good.”

“It’s too far.” You tell him again, but he rebukes it.

“It’s not. Hardly a click.” The lie doesn’t go unnoticed, but neither of you speak on it.

You collapse after a click and a half. Your weight sinks into his, head lolling back until he’s lowering you to the ground, squeezing your shoulders and shaking your body to jog you into consciousness.

“Wake up, love. Come on.” He barks it, unable to be calm, desperate to get you to focus on him.

Explosions boom from the north. Red streaks across the sky.

They’re moving closer. The risk continues to rise.

“Come on, come on!” You blink at him, a little out of focus but conscious, and he doesn’t bother to fight himself anymore, he strokes a hand across your cheek, rubs your temple with a thumb and the sweeps his palm over your forehead. “There you are.”

“Kyle.” Your color is off now, changing rapidly, and even in the glow of the fire, he can see how your eyes struggle to track him.

You’ve lost too much blood. Even with the cauterization, there’s no reversing what happened before he found you.

“Think you’ve got ‘nother click in ya?”

“Kyle.” It’s a no, it’s a request, a protest. You want him to leave. You want him to run. “You have to-“

“Don’t.” He spits. “Don’ even bother, you hear me?”

“I can’t walk.” You insist and he shrugs.

“I’ll carry you.” Your mouth forms an o, and then closes, before you shake against him. Your fingers tighten in his tac vest, and he pulls your knees and torso towards his body, curving your spine to be carried against his chest. “I’ve got you, alright? We’re almost there.”

When he breaches the door, it’s with a kick. Your breathing is shallow, and you stay curled beneath him, your head tucked under his chin, arm limp.

Soap jumps to his feet with a shout, and then he’s clearing a table, helping Gaz lay you flat.

They’re not medics, none of them have enough field medical training to do more than what’s already been done, but at least they can radio an evac and give you a sedative, some antibiotics.

Your brow creases in pain. He strokes your cheek.

“We made it.” He murmurs, and you nod weakly into his hand.

Soap approaches from the other side with a needle, drawing up a vial while you stare up at Gaz.

“Medevac?” you croak, and he squeezes your hand.

“Yes, love. We’ll get you back, get you into medical. And- I’ll… I’ll take care of you.” You smile, teeth still splattered with blood. Smeared with it. “I’ll be with you, the whole way.”

“Promise?” you slur out. Soap stabs your wound with the needle, but you don’t flinch, don’t even react.

You just keep your eyes on him, until your lashes are fluttering shut with the weight of the sedative.

He smooths his hand over your head, before leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead with a whisper.

“I promise.”

#peaches writes #gazfest #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x you #gaz x reader #gaz cod #gaz mw2 #kyle garrick x reader #cod

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 1 year ago

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Undead Heart

Astarion x Y/N - drabble - 1.4K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: necromancy, defensive reader, Astarion being a supportive little baby (he is so precious), doubt, reassurance, flufffff, kinda angst? idk

———————————-

Astarion laid his head on your chest, smushing his face in for good measure. You let out a breathy laugh. It was still early, the birds hadn’t graced the winds with their songs yet. The sun hadn’t peeked over the horizon to start the new day. You held Astarion close, one hand gently caressing his soft curls at the base of his neck - the other drawing circles on his bicep that was holding your waist. For a creature who didn’t sleep he appeared pretty dead to the world currently. You listened to the little breaths that left his mouth. You watched his eyes move beneath his closed lids. You loved looking at him, especially when he was like this. His face was calm and smoothed over with rest. Nothing could hurt him here, you wouldn’t let it.

“Staring is rude.” he mumbled into your chest, somewhere between sleep and wake.

“It’s not staring, it’s admiring.” you whispered into his ear, kissing the side of his face softly. You could feel a begrudging smile form on his face for a moment before his breathing evened out again.

You slowly slipped away from him. You were a necromancer, of unknown origin. Your past was muddled but you had found histories of yourself at the citadel from the far reaches of Faerun. You had lived a life. Full of good and bad but your future was yours alone to define. You were ancient, you never aged. The years, for the most part, had been kind to you. Your powers were unmatched and your beauty was unparalleled. Slipping out of the tent you walked out of camp through the fog of the early morning. You could feel the sweet dewdrops kissing your feet as you walked barefoot to the cemetery you had passed yesterday before setting up camp. The souls there called to you. They wished to be released, to visit one another after an eternity apart. As you walked to the center of the graveyard you felt your powers start to flow from your palms. Black smoke and glowing green light emanated from you, swirling and twisting about. Figures started to arise from the graves, transparent and ghostly. You kept your concentration as the ghosts mingled. Laughing and dancing with one another as if they were in the midst of a ball. Your power enveloped the graveyard in a shimmering light, as if millions of little sparkles had graced the small event you created. You walked through the endless rows of graves, quietly admiring everyone. Out of all the things you could do with your abilities, this was always your favorite. Reuniting old friends, families, lovers. Even some enemies who decided to call truces due to their undead circumstances. Everyone always looked so happy, so relieved. The ghosts could see you just as you could see them. One floated through you before another held your hand, spinning you about to the quiet tune that drifted through the air. An enthusiastic bard playing his instrument, as if he had never put it down all those centuries ago. You knew the sight was strange, and that people often found you strange yourself. Death did not scare you. You were its equal and enjoyed teetering that otherworldly line.

You had never shown this power to Astarion, concerned he would find it odd. You had been together for a few months. He knew you were ancient and powerful but beyond that you tried to be quite vague. You continued to smile and laugh amongst the ghosts, feeling relieved to use your powers. In battle you were skilled with necrotic and psychic attacks along with general melee fighting but this is truly what you enjoyed using your powers for. Bringing peace, unity. After a while though, the air shifted. You felt eyes watching you. You searched for the source, eyes finding a very much awake Astarion leaning against the graveyard gate.You jumped, sucking in a shocked gasp. You made the shimmer fade, the swirling slow, the smoke dissipate. The ghosts slowly drift back to their respective graves, solemn looks on their faces. No amount of time living or dead would be long enough with each other. And yet, you felt their appreciation radiate to you. You felt pale, almost sickly. Astarion was going to think you were some sort of freak, you just knew it. You slowly made your way to him, keeping your head low and arms tight across your chest to protect yourself from some unknown threat.

Astarion’s face wore a slight frown, his eyebrows drawn up in a furrow “Little love, whatever could be the matter?”

Your heart raced at the pet name. “How long have you been standing there?” you asked, walking past him, heading back to camp.

He trailed after you, “Long enough. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” he quipped. There was no malice in his tone, nor teasing but it made you cringe internally anyways.

“I wish you hadn’t.” you whispered, walking into your tent.

Astarion felt confused, he tried to follow you into your tent but was stopped by a similar shimmering force at the entrance of your tent. He stepped back, he could still see and hear you but he couldn’t get to you, couldn’t touch you.

“I would like to be alone.” you said picking up a book and sitting down, eyes never meeting him.

“Darling…” Astarion said quietly, noticing a few tears on your face. “Please let me in.”

“Why?” you spat, you wanted to fill your heart with anger in preparation for the negativity you were sure you were about to receive.

“I let you in.” he spoke softly, you knew he wasn’t just talking about his tent. He had shown you every facet of himself, the least you could do was let him into your damn tent.

He slowly pulled the book from your hands as he sat down, attempting to take them in his own. You pulled away quickly, crossing your arms over your chest. He felt a pang of hurt within him but pushed it aside. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Well, get on with it…” you huffed out shakily.

“I have to say… that was pretty powerful magic you were doing back there…” you snorted a bit at his comment. ‘If only you knew’ you thought.

“Freaky, right? Strange? Unnatural? Unholy?” you rambled off sounding angrier by the second. Your walls were building back up at breakneck speed, preparing for the worst.

“My sweet, why do you sound so upset? I thought what you were doing was quite… amazing. Honestly… everyone looked so elated, thanks to you.” your eyes flicked to his.

“I know it’s weird to be so… involved with the dead. I never wanted you to see me doing anything like that… but they sounded so sad, so lonely…” you tried to explain yourself.

Astarion chuckled, causing you to snap your head up. “My precious, you do realize I am undead? I think I might understand better than anyone why you wanted to give those souls a reprieve. It was… sweet of you.” he smiled at you tentatively, hesitantly going for your hand. He smoothed his thumb over the back of it.

You wanted to trust him, to believe him. Yet a voice still tugged at your mind. “You think so?” you whispered.

“Darling you gave them a few minutes of life, do you know how sacred that must be for them? And you did it out of the kindness of your heart. Now that, is truly meaningful. That shows the soul you possess.” Astarion moved his other hand to cup your cheek, tilting your face to be level with his.

Your eyes were glossy, “I just don’t want to be too different. Too strange.”

“You are quite strange… it’s quite possibly my favorite thing about you.” he smiled, his fangs peaking out a bit. “Do you know why I rest on your chest so much?”

You shook your head ‘no’ at him.

“I do it so I can listen to your heart. I feel almost as if mine beats with yours for the first time in centuries when I hear it. Strong. Compassionate. Wonderful.” you tilted your head into his hand, kissing his palm.

“I love you.” you said quietly.

Astarion smiled, you had only said those words to each other once before when your emotions became too much to hold inside.

“And I you, endlessly my strange little love.” he kissed you deeply yet gently before laying you both down. He settled in his usual spot, listening to your heart. Strong, even, calm.

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Naboo's Note:

Hello! I hope everyone likes this piece, it came to me suddenly as I am in fact writing and posting it at damn near 2 AM #worthit. I think I might try to write another this weekend but I work tomorrow and have been pretty exhausted (mentally and physically) as of late so idk, no promises. Anyways - thanks for all the likes comments, reblogs, and requests! Ilysm xoxoxoxo, talk soon.

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thekadster · 1 month ago

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such a pretty house (a silent hill 2 oneshot)

Fandom: Silent Hill 2

Word Count: 1,304

Content Warnings: Grief, mourning

Summary:

James didn’t really know what he wanted anymore. He wanted her—he always would. But he had been given a second chance. (Or: James' inner thoughts about grief and parenting after he adopts Laura)

also read it on ao3!

Of course he’d have nights like these again.

Black and white static flickered on the TV, gentle shapes dancing across James’ face. The channel had gone dead while he was asleep. Now, he was sitting on the couch, hunched over, propped up by his elbows on his thighs. He stared at some distant point on the carpet. The house stood as silent as the grave, save for the falling and rising of his chest.

The noise in his ears brought a certain solace; it seeped into his mind, filling in tiny networks of cracks and fissures. It reminded him of the sea. It had been ages since he went to the beach. The last time he’d gone was with…

Ah, there it is.

A familiar ache bloomed in his chest. He used to wince at the sensation, but these past few weeks might as well have been years. Guilt and shame had become two of his best friends and worst enemies. Ever faithful like the stars, they never failed to remind him that they were always there, looking out for him. That he could turn to them—whether he wanted to or not.

James didn’t really know what he wanted anymore. He wanted her—he always would. Gods, how he wished she were here. He could almost imagine the weight of the couch shift beside him. Maybe, if he stayed still like this for long enough, he could feel her hand on his shoulder, hear her whisper to him.

But heaven knows he lost his chance. They lost their chance.

No matter what they did, perhaps it was always going to end this way.

“James?”

He nearly jumped at the sound. Looking up, he saw Laura standing in the doorway. His gaze softened. “Laura, what are you doing up so late?”

“I just wanted a glass of water,” she answered, holding the half-empty glass in question. “What are you doing up so late?”

James paused, glancing away for a moment. “I fell asleep.” He switched off the TV. “I was just watching something.”

Even in the dim light, he could tell Laura wasn’t entirely buying it. A pit settled in his stomach; this kid had been able to see right through him since the day they first met.

“I bet you haven’t brushed your teeth yet.” She took a few steps towards him. “I bet your breath smells gross.”

The beginnings of a smile appeared on his face. “Lucky guess.”

“Ew!” she laughed, the sound bubbling through the room. Even with her mockery, it helped lift James’ spirits slightly.

He shook his head. “I’ll be up soon, you go on back to bed.”

But she remained there, taking a few more moments to look at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. “Are you okay?”

His heart skipped a beat. Such an innocent question froze his world in its tracks. “Yeah, just… tired.”

Laura may have been young, but both of them knew she wasn’t stupid. The lines on his face, the grain in his voice, the burden in his eyes—they told enough. It didn’t take an eight-year-old to figure it out.

“Okay,” she mumbled. She stepped back and gave him a little wave. “Well… goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, returning the gesture.

Once the pitter patter of her feet faded away, his eyes scanned the room. His mind lingered on the girl’s gaze. He hadn’t expected nor wanted her to see him like that, especially not after the hotel. He couldn’t help but wonder how he looked through her eyes back then—what monster did she see?

Did she see it again tonight?

James heaved a sigh as he leaned back in his seat. His eyes landed on a framed photo on top of the television. He swallowed a lump in his throat. The picture was of him and Mary, posing together next to some railing overlooking a river. He remembered that day—the sun in their eyes, the ice cream, the big blue sky. They got lost on the way there; in classic husband fashion, he’d insisted he didn’t need the map. After they spent ten minutes in the winding forest and missed the turn two towns over, she eventually convinced him to follow it. Frustration and reprimand were evident in her voice, but neither of them stayed mad about it. It was their day, after all. Mistakes happen, and they’d only lost so much time. As the sun went down, they laughed about it on the way home.

Now, he didn’t even have a map. He’d never felt so out of place in his—their house before. They had long dreamed of having a child, and in some twisted way, James had gotten his wish. He wondered what she’d say now, what she’d tell him to do. She knew Laura better than he did, anyway. All while he stewed in his own impatience and hate, the two forged a connection greater than anything he could ever hope to see. In what little time Mary had left, she made a family of a stranger. And he never bothered to notice.

But that didn’t matter now. He’d been given a second chance, thrust back into a world now both familiar and foreign. While Silent Hill still sometimes haunted him in the unholy hours of the night—visions of the park, the nurses, that damned pyramid-headed freak—it couldn’t hurt him anymore (physically, at least). He had stepped into that town and walked away alive—and with company, too.

For himself and Laura, all they had now was each other. After the nightmare was over, she had nowhere to go, no one waiting for her, and he couldn’t bear to leave her alone. It took a while to organize the adoption papers, but she was now a Sunderland. Still, he knew well that she had her own reservations about him. He didn’t expect her to totally forgive him for what he did to Mary. Truth be told, neither did he.

Her letter sat safely in his bedside drawer. He hadn’t reread it since he got home; he felt he would crumple instantly. All the same, whenever James needed her the most, it always rang out to him. It wrapped its arms around him, laid its head on his shoulder, traced the bags under his eyes with gentle thumbs. Every line, every letter reached out to hold his hand, to remind him that their marriage, while doomed, remained a wonderful thing. That he had her blessing to go on.

And so, with trembling limbs and gritted teeth, he would. Come hell or high water, he was determined to fulfill her final wish. Though he was still reeling from the fact that he was now technically a father, he resolved in his heart of hearts that he was going to give Laura the best damn childhood he could. He’d take her to school, help her with homework even when he may not understand it. He wanted to eat ice cream with her on a sunny day, to walk with her in the rain, to hold her when times got harder. He would make sure her glass would always run over.

The future was wide open, almost swallowing him whole. His sins had shattered all he knew into angry, dreadful shards. But he continued onward, stepping over jagged fragments. Day by day, he would pick up the pieces, even as they cut his fingers, and reassemble what he could. His chest stung at the very thought, but at least he knew that grief wore the same face as love. Part of him was glad it smiled at him at all.

James was going to live for himself, and for others. James was going to live.

But first, he needed to sleep.

#silent hill #silent hill 2 #sh2 #sh2 james #james sunderland #sh2 laura #mary shepherd sunderland #silent hill 2 remake #silent hill 2 spoilers #silent hill fanfic #fanfiction #light angst #sulat ni kad

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elenavr13 · 1 year ago

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Darkiplier/Damien Playlist (Updated)

172 songs

Evermore- Dan Stevens

Everybody Wants To Tule the World- Lorde

Control- Halsey

Gasoline- Halsey

Dynasty- MIIA

Judas- Lady Gaga

Take Me To Church- Hozier

Castle- Halsey

Sing To Me- MISSIO

Kamikazee- MISSIO

Panic Room- Au/Ra

Isolate- Sub Urban

Elastic Heart (Rock Cover)- Written by Wolves

Crossfire- Stephen

Dead!- My Chemical Romance

Stressed Out- Twenty One Pilots

Look What You Made Me Do- Taylor Swift

Smooth Criminal- Michael Jackson

The Voice of Darkiplier- Markiplier

I’ll Be Good- Jaymes Young

I Wanna Be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

Do I Wanna Know- Arctic Monkeys

In His Eyes- Jekyll & Hyde (musical)

Can You Feel My Heart- Bring Me to the Horizon

Feeling Good- Michael Buble

Can You Feel My Heart x Favorite Dress (slowed)- Miro remix

My Demons- Starset

Achilles Come Down- Gang of Youth

Monster- Skillet

What’s the Use of Feeling Blue- Caleb Hyles

Where I Want to Be- Chess in Concert

Can’t Help Falling In Love- Ice Nine Kills

The American Nightmare- Ice Nine Kills

A Grave Mistake- Ice Nine Kills

Left Behind- DAGames

Farewell II Flesh- Ice Nine Kills

Below the Surface- Griffinilla

The Wrecked and the Worried- NateWantsToBattle

You Can’t Take Me Anywhere- NateWantsToBattle

Goner- Twenty One Pilots

You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid- The Offspring

Fake You Out- Twenty One Pilots

Miss You- Corpse

Epoch- The Living Tombstone

In the End- Linkin Park

Me, Myself & Hyde- Ice Nine Kills

The World In My Hands- Ice Nine Kills

Popular Monster- Falling In Reverse

Monster- Imagine Dragons

What I Could Have Been- Sting

Hushh- AViVA

Phantom of the Opera

Darkside- NEONI

Broken- DNMO & Sub Urban

Killer In the Mirror- Set It Off

Doubt- Twenty One Pilots

I’m Not Okay- My Chemical Romance

Friends on the Other Side- Princess and the Frog

Poison- WE ARE THE FURY

Apologize- One Republic

My Lullaby (metal cover)- Jonathan Young

I See Red (slowed)- Everybody Loves an Outlaw

Tear In My Heart- Twenty One Pilots

I Hate Everything About You- Three Days Grace

F.L.Y- Ice Nine Kills

Migraine- Twenty One Pilots

Car Radio- Twenty One Pilots

Demons- MISSIO

Snakes- PVRIS & MIYAVI

Villain- KDA

Royalty- Egzod & Maestro Chives ft. Neoni

The Red Means I Love You- Madds Buckley

Loser- Neoni

Not Ready To Die- Avenged Sevenfold

I Want You- Mitski

Poltergeist- Corpse

Life Waster- Corpse

All Of Me (slowed)- John Legend

Young And Beautiful- Lana Del Rey

Dark Paradise (slowed)- Lana Del Rey

How Villains Are Made- Madalen Duke

Love and War- Fluerie

Dark Things- Adona

Wicked Game- Ursine Vulpine

Neptune- Sleeping At Last

Enemy- Tommee Profitt

Far From Home (The Raven)- Sam Tinnesz

City Of The Dead- Eurielle

Throne- Saint Mesa

Paint it, Black- Ciara cover

Man Or A Monster- Sam Tinnesz

Dark On Me- Starset

Hell’s Comin’ With Me- Poor Mans Poison

Wires- The Neighbourhood

Liquid Smooth- Mitski

Little Dark Age- MGMT

Devil In Disguise- Elvis (LLusion)

Toxic- 2WEI

Dark Room- Foreign Figures & EJ Michels

Heathens- Twenty One Pilots

Dance With The Devil- Breaking Benjamin

Black Out Days- Phantogram

Somewhere Only We Know- Keane

Monsters- Ruelle

Whispers In The Dark- Skillet

Salvaged- NateWantsToBattle

Saint Bernard- Lincoln

F*ck You- Silent Child

I Know Those Eyes/This Man Is Dead- Thomas Borchert, Brandi Burkhardt

Broken Inside- Broken Iris

Sweet Dreams- Besomorph

EVIL- AViVA

Saints- Echos

Screaming Bloody Murder- Sum 41

Dandelions (slowed)- Ruth B

Master Mirror- Ashley Serena

Everyday A Little Death- The Count of Monte Cristo

FREAK- Jordan Friction

Broken (slowed)- lovelytheband

Michelle- Sir Chloe

Like A Villain- BAD OMENS

If It’s Vengeance You Want- Unlike Pluto

Monster- Fight The Fade

Listen Before I Go- Billie Eilish

Mary On a Cross (slowed)- Ghost

R.I.F.P.- MOTHICA

Nervous- Lola Blanc

Unravel- Johnathan Young

Lost In Paradise- Evanescence

Lies- Evanescence

Haunted- Laura Les

Dread- Unlike Pluto

Monsters- Shinedown

Black Soul- Shinedown

Sorrow- Sleeping At Last

Seeing Red- Saint Chaos

Villain- Bella Poarch

Lithium- Nirvana

Smells Like Teen Spirit- Nirvana

Down With The Sickness- Disturbed

Animal I Have Become- Three Day Grace

Greed- Godsmack

One of Us is the Killer- The Dillinger Escape Plan

All The King’s Horses- Karmina

Gilded Lily- Cults

Haunted & Unwanted- NateWantsToBattle

Symbol of My Regret- NateWantsToBattle

In My Head- NateWantsToBattle

Vendetta- Unsecret & Krigare

Nothing To Me- NateWantsToBattle

Chasing Cars- Sleeping At Last

Villain- MISSIO

Used to the Darkness- Des Rocs

Unforgiven- Ghost Nation

Monster- Starset

Eight- Sleeping At Last

Already Gone- Sleeping At Last

Devilish- The Phantoms

Motherland- Reach

Falling Away From Me- Korn

Just a Man- Jorge Rivera-Herrans & EPIC Ensemble

Something Wicked- Starset

Darkness in Me- Fight The Fade

I Would Die for You- In This Moment

Eye For An Eye- Rina Sawayama

Psycho in my Head- Skillet

Done With Everything- Line So Thin

Monster- Besomorph

Twisted Games- Night Panda, Krigarè

Killer Inside of Me- Willyecho

King For A Day- Pierce The Veil ft. Kellin Quinn

someone i’m not- Layto

#markiplier #youtuber ego #darkiplier #a heist with markiplier #ahwm #ahwm darkiplier #darkiplier x y/n #darkiplier x da #markiplier damien #damien x da #damien the mayor #who killed markiplier #wkm #wkm darkiplier #wkm damien #character playlist

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swanmaids · 1 year ago

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Idril counted the steps under her silver feet as she climbed the Tower of the King. As she counted, she tried to settle her thoughts.

One, two; I’ll tell father this evening.

Seven, eight; the gifts that I neither ask for nor desire, the stares, the presence itching at my mind, looking for a way in. The constant, constant pestering.

The way it makes me feel - cold, and afraid.

Thirteen, fourteen; once I’ve told father he’ll make him stop. He'll put an end to it.

There; she had done it, she had made a desicion. She imagined her plan as a physical thing, solid and unbreakable as the statues that danced and hunted and worshipped along the streets of Gondolin.

It had been a while since she had seen those statues, each one hidden by dark oiled cloth as they were. The tower too was dark as she climbed. The vibrant tapestries that normally adorned the walls had all been removed. After a battle so dreadful it could scarcely be spoken of, the city and her king were once again in mourning.

Would she really disturb her father in his grief with something so comparatively trivial?

Nineteen, twenty; what am I thinking? No, I won’t say anything.

Twenty four, twenty five; I can’t put yet more pain on my father.

Twenty nine, thirty; Maeglin and I are all he has left. It would break his heart once more to turn him against my cousin.

She felt faintly sick. What was wrong with her? To complain of recieving unwanted gifts, of all things, when Beleriand was in ruins and her father had watched in helpless agony as his last brother was crushed by their enemy right before his eyes - she must be the most spoiled, selfish woman in the world to even think of it.

Idril sometimes feared that she was evil. That there was something rotten within her which she had somehow concealed from the world, that festered nonetheless. Such pathetic concerns felt like proof.

She thought to turn back and flee to her own apartments, but her father had summoned her and so she walked on, and with every step she took, the knots tied around her heart became yet more tangled.

Forty, forty one; but I don't know how much longer I can bear things as they are.

By the time she had reached the three hundred and eighth, final step, Idril's chest and head hurt. She felt as though she was once again a small girl, one who wanted to wail and cry and be comforted. And she felt like a child once again because she had nothing in the world to cry about.

Her father's face was grave when she saw him. Dressed in simple dark robes unbefitting of the king of the Noldor and with his hair pinned under a hairnet, Turgon was the picture of austere mourning, but he embraced her tightly when she entered.

"Idril," he said as he released her, and then paused for a long moment. "I called you here because I owe you an apology. I have not been... present with you, as of late. I have neglected you, my daughter, in favour of the dead, and for that I am sorry."

There was a stone in her throat. There was a needle in her heart. Idril looked at her feet and mutely shook her head over and over. She could not trust herself to speak, but this could not be allowed to stand - she could not have her father place even more blame upon himself, not when things were already so dire.

"No," she managed eventually, "no, you haven't done anything wrong. Nobody could begrudge you your grief, father, myself least of all."

"But you are hurting too," he said, "many have noticed. Won't you at least tell me how I can help?"

An unwanted tear ran down her cheek. "I -" she cut herself off. She could not form the words - she thought of voicing her cousin's name, and it stuck in her throat.

"Is it- is it about Galdor's boys? Is that what's hurting you- I know you loved them - I loved them too, and you must know that it crushed us all to leave them," Turgon asked quietly.

Idril felt herself start to cry harder, as though she was observing her own reactions from outside of herself. What sort of a person was she, so concerned over her cousin's attentions, when her friends had suffered such a terrible fate? Surely Hurin and Huor would have traded anything to be in her place.

Her father looked panicked. "Oh, now I've made you feel worse - come here, sweetheart -" he took her into his chest, and tucked her head into his shoulder, stroking it gently with a large hand. "My precious princess," he mumbled into her hair.

She wept into her father's arms for what felt like the longest time, but when she finally raised her head, seemingly all cried out, she saw through the window that the sun had barely moved down in the sky.

"If you don't want to tell me... that's alright too... well, it's not alright, but..." Turgon trailed off.

Idril stood back and steadied herself, slowly and deliberately taking a shaky breath. She imagined herself gathering up all of her fears about her cousin and locking them in the small box deep within her heart where she kept her memories of the Ice and her longing for her mother, never to be opened.

She clasped her father's hand in hers and summoned up a smile. Up close, he looked more exhausted than she could remember seeing him this side of the Ice. Idril may have been weak and selfish, but she did not think herself cruel. She would give him nothing more to worry about. No more tears.

"Please, father, don't trouble yourself. I promise, I'll be just fine." She smiled as hard as she could, though he did not look convinced. "Nothing at all is wrong."

#idril #turgon #my fic #my post

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adventure-showdown · 1 year ago

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What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

ROUND 2 MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

The Book of the War

Synopsis

The Great Houses: Immovable. Implacable. Unchanging. Old enough to pass themselves off as immortal, arrogant enough to claim ultimate authority over the Spiral Politic.

The Enemy: Not so much an army as a hostile new kind of history. So ambitious it can re-write worlds, so complex that even calling it by its name seems to underestimate it.

Faction Paradox: Renegades, ritualists, saboteurs and subterfugers, the criminal-cult to end all criminal-cults, happy to be caught in the crossfire and ready to take whatever's needed from the wreckage… assuming the other powers leave behind a universe that's habitable.

The War: A fifty-year-old dispute over the two most valuable territories in existence: "cause" and "effect."

Marking the first five decades of the conflict, THE BOOK OF THE WAR is an A to Z of a self-contained continuum and a complete guide to the Spiral Politic, from the beginning of recordable time to the fall of humanity. Part story, part history and part puzzle-box, this is a chronicle of protocol and paranoia in a War where the historians win as many battles as the soldiers and the greatest victory of all is to hold on to your own past…

Propaganda

Is it about Dr Who? I mean, sort of. Arguably. You could say the Doctor is present in it. Somewhat. Not by name tho because that would be illegal. But definitely there are uh. well. there's definitely stuff in it that's DWesque. It's Dr Who Adjacent. It's Dr Whoish. Strong Dr Who vibes. (@eighthdoctor )

Experimental sci-fantasy that defined the Time War and started a whole series of its own. (anonymous)

The City of the Dead

Synopsis

“Nothing can get into the TARDIS,” the Doctor whispered. Then he realised that Nothing had.

New Orleans, the early 21st century. A dealer in morbid artefacts has been murdered. A charm carved from human bone is missing. An old plantation, miles from any water, has been destroyed by a tidal wave.

Anji goes dancing. Fitz goes grave-robbing. The Doctor attracts the interest of a homicide detective and the enmity of a would-be magician. He wants to find out the secret of the redneck thief and his blind wife. He'd like to help the crippled curator of a museum of magic. He's trying to refuse politely the request of a crazy young artist that he pose naked with the man's wife.

Most of all, he needs to figure out what all of them have to do with the Void that is hunting him down.

Before it catches him.

Propaganda

It has dark magic and someone is hunting the Doctor in his dreams. Also great worldbuilding. (anonymous)

#round 2

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pensivegladiola · 7 months ago

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The Balm: A Short Story

There is an old woman who runs a shop in the little town of Zeledovo. The locals call her Babushka, but her real name is Nadia.

The rumors say that Nadia once had a daughter, more beautiful than freshly fallen snow. Little Mishka and her long blonde braids made a wholesome picture amongst the flowers and trees she wandered. Sweeter than local honey was what everyone called her.

But the rumor also says that one day a passing soldier came across Mishka and her round childlike face in the forest where she played.

When the Rusalki of the local river found her face down in the water, he enveloped her in his arms gently and introduced her to her elder sisters.

They say that Babushka went to the river’s edge. Raged and screamed and sobbed and tore at her clothes. Demanded the Rusalka return Mishka to her arms. But it could not be done.

The river guardian took pity on the grieving mother and spit into her hands.

“Put this in the soldier’s drink and when he is no longer among the living, bring him to me for my daughters to feast upon. And when the moon rises high, you can visit this river and see Mishka’s long blonde hair float among the reeds. Her teeth are sharp now like mine, but part of her will still be yours.”

They say that Babushka’s back is bent not from age, but from the strain of dragging a dead soldier to the river in the dead of night. Now women and girls come from far and wide to Babushka’s apothecary seeking cures for their poor husbands who have bruised their knuckles upon the faces of their wives. Their bodies don’t suffer under the strain of life for long after one of Babushka’s balms is applied.

If you go down by the river at night, you might spy Mishka luring men into a dance which fills their lungs with water. And you might see Babushka gathering herbs while she watches.

There is an old woman who runs a shop in the little town of Zeledovo. The locals call her Baba, but her real name is Yeliza.

The rumors say that Yeliza once had a husband more loyal than the bond of moss to a tree. Love filled their home with light and warmth. And many a day was seen where her husband plucked blossoms from the ground to grace her hair.

But the rumor also says that a passing sickness found its way into her beloved one’s lungs.

When the God of Pox found the man drained of all the heat of the long fever, he took the man into his arms and carried him into the black.

They say that Baba went to the shrine of the God of Pox. Raged and screamed and sobbed and tore at her clothes. Demanded the God return her beloved to her arms. But it could not be done.

The God of Pox took pity on the grieving widow and spilt blood to pour into her hands.

“Put this in the soup that feeds your neighbors. You cannot see your beloved again, but with this you will not stand alone in the wake of death. And when you visit his grave, you will know that his love for you has saved you the loneliness that may have come in his wake. For you will be surrounded by the lives you have saved.”

They say that Baba’s hands are arthritic not from age, but from the toil spent nursing the town back from the brink of that great blackness. Now people come from far and wide to Baba’s apothecary seeking cures for their loved ones who have weakened under the weight of that God’s beckoning. Their bodies don’t suffer under the weight of illness for long when one of Baba’s balms is applied.

If you go to the shrine in the early morning, you might see the God of Pox shaking his head at the many lives which have slipped from his fingers back into life. And you might see Baba gathering herbs while she watches.

Enemies might be too strong a word, but when one apothecary’s business is death and the other apothecary’s business is life, conflict is bound to occur. They had not much in common except the aches and pains of age and their business acumen.

It wasn’t uncommon to see the women cross paths in town and give each other a disapproving glance. The town’s wise grandmothers often quarreled. After all, there are only so many herbs to be sourced in the forest.

But that’s not entirely true, they did have one more thing in common: their love of their craft.

And rumor had it, a man from the capital had come to town. The townspeople were aghast. Imagine. A wealthy bureaucrat from the city becoming their mayor. What did the capital know of their daily lives? They preferred the answer to be a simple one: ‘nothing.’

There were many ways of dealing with problems in the country that were not acceptable in the capital’s eyes. But the new regime was the kind that likes to reach its fingers into the many nooks and crevices of the country. Prying into the private lives of its citizens to ensure that they were well-behaved patriots. For why was the tailor stocking blue cloth when the color of the flag was red? Suspicious, yes?

The townspeople watched with dismay when the new mayor entered town, caravan of baggage in tow. He chose the nicest house and stocked it with the nicest things. Dressed his daughter in the finest dresses.

The dresses were pretty and all, but where was the girl’s mother? The townspeople speculated on this topic at length. For rumor had it that he had informed on his own wife. Loyalty to the state over loyalty to one’s spouse? My, what a dangerous place the capital was becoming. And now the danger was arriving in their town.

Poor poppet. The girl always looked downtrodden despite the finery she was surrounded by.

Now, if the man had simply chosen to rest on his ill-gotten laurels and minded his business perhaps his story would have ended differently. But rumor had it that the capital had built a vast and horrible war machine to conquer its neighbors and as you surely know, such a machine operates at great cost.

The townspeople gritted their teeth under the weight of the new taxes. It was burdensome, but they dared not attract the attention of the capital by protesting. Perhaps more sedate festivities would take place during the town’s founding festival this year. They could endure that.

Babushka and Baba were not pleased that capital officials were suddenly looking closely into their business dealings. They still remembered with unease when Mara, the old witch of their youth, had suffered an ugly death at the hands of outsiders. Those days were long gone now, but Babushka took care to hide her more poisonous plants and Baba stashed away her shrine offerings. Customers still came, but wearing warier expressions after seeing the capital’s flag on the mayor’s front porch.

When the next tax came down from the mayor’s mouth, it was no longer a tax on money. But on food.

War makes for scarce eating on the front and weren’t the townspeople eating a little too comfortably while those brave conscripts starved? Their children grew lean under the austerity measures. They noticed that the mayor himself did not. But there are often times of famine. Babushka and Baba had both lived their youths in the time where the wraiths of starvation had wandered the streets. These pithy meals were unsatisfactory, but were meals nonetheless. Not the kind of bony hunger which attracted such terrifying creatures.

They wondered if the mayor knew such things lurked here. This was not the capital after all.

When the conscript officer arrived with soldiers in tow, the rusalkas were the only ones that ate well. The captain in his fine regalia seemed to think that his men had gone and drowned in a drunken accident. Only the townspeople knew that little Mishka’s belly was full and sated.

Regardless, he persisted in examining all the young men in town. Poking at protruding ribs and writing in illegible script on his ledger. He left without taking any young men with him, but fear grew in the hearts of their parents that he would be back.

When the illness hit, even the mayor began to feel nervous. No longer did he open his doors wide to show off his exquisite furniture. The front had not arrived to the town, but the soldiers’ trench cough had. Baba did her best, but this was not one of the old familiar foes that she knew. Even the God of Pox worried in his shrine, for the first time considering the possibility that he might be replaced by a newer and more potent ailment.

When the conscript officer did return, he kept a harsher grip on his men. The rusalka’s teeth could not reach that far from the river. But the men’s hands did reach for local girls and women. They came to Babushka crying in fear after one too many close encounters.

Babushka and Baba met for tea in the dark, cold of the night by candlelight.

It was time to cure for the town’s ailments.

They say that the mayor of the town of Zeledovo who sends reports to the capital is actually a young girl impersonating her father. Rumor has it that she did her best to protect her father and visiting soldiers from illness by procuring a potion from a local apothecary and feeding it to them during a banquet. It’s a shame that they died anyway.

Passing travelers report that she is apprenticed to two old women and may one day inherit their businesses when she retires from politics. The town surely is in good hands with such a talented young entrepreneur.

If you’re hungry or feeling ill, Zeledovo is a great place to stop. The Rusalka is well fed so it’s not hard to catch fish. And the God of Pox seems to have received quite an offering because no one is ever sick.

My, what a wonderful place, that Zeledovo. But if you’re going to wander there, be sure to be polite. Nobody likes an outsider who doesn’t respect local customs.

#short story #original fiction #writeblr #writing #flash fiction

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saphirered · 2 years ago

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Fall For Me: Chapter 4

//Summary: The fallen stranger makes your life just a little more difficult. A fight later, and bonding over the digging of a grave leads to revelations neither of you are ready to admit to. There's more to this meeting. Are you willing to admit what you already know? Perhaps not but you'll have to. He'll have to.

You try to take a step back towards the door but to no avail. There’s no escape. The soldier is faster and grabs you by your arm, pulling you out in the open. You don’t very much like this close proximity to someone you feel safe to consider an enemy and when you feel the push of something cold and sharp against your side, you make a poor judgement call and decide fair is fair. You stick the blade into the thigh of the soldier who did not see your attack coming and buckles over. The blade cuts but damage is minimal. A scratch and you’re more annoyed with the fact you’ll have to mend your clothes. What you are far more annoyed with is a tearing sound that sounds all too familiar to you when it is accompanied by the sound of beating wings and the cut-short scream of another victim now dead. One of the soldiers charges at the overgrown bat and you pick up the knife the soldier you stabbed dropped, and hope for your aim to be true, take a breath and then throw it. You’re no knife thrower but its hit is true enough to cause a distraction and give your winged guest the opportunity to finish the job. Not that you think he needed your help in the first place. The blank expression on his face so calm and collected is a terrifying one, as is the ease he slits his enemy’s throat with.

Azriel deals with the hunting party quickly, with some minimal help from you. He didn’t even notice you were there, you might as well have blended into the shadows when you moved. It’s beyond him how you’re so quiet and when you threw that knife, yes your aim could use some work, and your knife skill in general, he would not have been able to dodge the blow had you not stopped that soldier. He started this. You could have stayed back and kept your hands clean but you didn’t. You don’t owe him anything. You’re not loyal to him. You chose to help him Why? The thought is cut short when you reach for the soldier you took down to assess the damage. Azriel is before you in a second and pulls you back before a knife finds its way into your thigh.

You gasp and stumble falling flat on your ass. By the time your senses are gathered there’s not but deafening silence and the pounding of your own heart in your ears. Another corpse lay at your doorstep and cold dead eyes stare back at you. You feel something brush against your arm, something cool and feather-light like what one could imagine clouds could feel like had they not the scientific mind to grasp its truth. The touch spooks you to your feet and tumbling over the body behind you. You crawl back and away from the bodies being mindful not to touch anything, to not leave a single trace. You scurry away. Again that soft cold brushes against you and you think it may have wrapped around you when darkness dances at the edges of your vision. It’s only then when it squeezes to tightly around your arm circulation might as well have been cut off, you realise you’re not breathing. You suck in a sharp breath and bend over. The air like knives fills your lungs and the shadows fade, or at least some do. Others stay.

“Get back inside.” Azriel orders as he looks over the bodies carefully. Their faces he had memorised. They are the ones that shot him but there was more of them. This only bought him a window of time. You move or rather stumble, hesitantly towards your home and then you clock him, the wing that drapes limply. He tries to lift it but can’t fight the slight grimace as he does.

“My needlework.” You mourn exasperated. For whatever reason Azriel thinks it’s almost cute. You limp past him, give him a once over and enter your home. You don’t close the door like he expected you to do. You don’t close him out. You don’t run or call him a monster. You don’t attack. You take a shaky breath and ball your fists. Once you’re out of sight your rummage through some things and grumble to yourself. His shadows inform him you’re going through vials and jars and books. Azriel piles the bodies. He takes a shovel from outside your house and begins digging at the edge of the forest. Not long after you exit. Not long after he feels light headed. You throw him some bandages and he looks at you strangely. You tap your own thigh. It entirely slipped his mind of the hit he did take. Nothing too serious. He notes you’ve bandaged yourself up too, given the fresh clean white showing through the tear in your earth tone attire.

You watch him as he wraps his leg, puts pressure on the wound but through your huffing and puffing it seems you’re less than satisfied with him, likely more so his handiwork. You sit near the grave he’s digging and look down. For some reason Azriel does not know, his shadows inform him in detail how the sun bleeds through the trees and hits your features just perfectly, as you sit there crosslegged elbow on your knee and supporting your chin atop your balled fist. He remarks you look just perfect, though that’s not just the lighting. Even disheveled, still covered in dirt and grime and a dissatisfied frown on your brow, there’s just something about you that makes sense in this senseless world and he can’t quite place it. Perhaps it’s plausible deniability. Perhaps it’s sheer stubbornness.

“If you have something to say then say it. It’s never stopped you before.” He grumbles as he wraps the bandage and goes to tie it off. He’s noticed the comments you’ve tried to keep to yourself, or at the very least the face you make when something’s on the tip of your tongue. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. For some reason he can just get under your skin. It’s not that you mind. What you do mind is the fact that you don’t mind while you should. All these little things start adding up and you don’t like the conclusions your mind is coming to. You’ll keep pushing the theoretics of your mind and careful analysis aside in favour for the here and now, in favour for the medical malpractice this oversized bat is engaging in. You hum to yourself but can’t stop the remark from slipping past your lips. Something about this man just makes you talk, makes you spill and not able to hold back any dirty little secret you might have. You’re sure if he asked the right questions he might have you talking. All it takes; the right words. You don’t know if you like that.

“Oh nothing. Just a thought.” You start but the look he gives you does exactly what you hoped wouldn’t happen. “Well you know, at least you’re digging your own grave too. Still not looking forward to dragging all the other bodies over here after you go into cardiac arrest due to a blood cloth.” You bite your tongue when he turns on his heels, slam the shovel into the dirt to make it stick and takes the tender few steps over to you. He’s at eye level with you. Your breath catches and you can’t help but notice the deep hazel and near golden hues of his eyes, or the lines of his face, each little detail. There’s just something that sends shivers up your back in this close proximity, something that tells you both to run far far away and get closer. His hard expression seems to falter for a second, his lips part slightly, and then it just turns to exasperation and a raised eyebrow.

His body is screaming. He’d been ignoring the signs of physical damage like his has been prone to do. He can worry about that once he’s back home in Velaris. But then there’s you. You. Damn you. He turned and stepped closer to you. Everything about you, the closer he got the stronger it got. He made a mistake. All this pain he’s been suppressing, it comes running in hot, not in a crippling way but in the way he allows himself to feel alone when he’s home and no one is there to see him. They count on him. He needs to be the one that can carry the damage. He’ll bear it on his own until it’s too much. He’ll bear it until no one else sees the damage it does and he’ll recover before he sees them again. Why do you make him feel this way? Why does it feel you’re a safe haven when no where has been that, nowhere but solitude? Why do you make him feel vulnerable-no not vulnerable, You make him feel at home, like himself, like he is not alone in his solitude. You are like the dancing shadows in his confinement. He studies you closer once more.

His third mistake in the last minute. Your eyes, they are alive, but resemble those of the nocturnal creatures, they seem the kind alive with light even in the deepest of dark. Your features, perfect and shaped, your lips slightly parted. He notes every mark, distinguishes every speckle of blood from freckle and spot. He notes the gentle point of your ears, your hair; the length, the colour and for a brief moment imagines what it would feel like to run his hands through, to grab onto the roots and pull you clo- No that’s enough. He shakes it off. He’s completely and utterly fucked. Screwed in every single way possible. He fucked up. He fucked up big. You’re… You’re- no, it can’t be. You shouldn’t be. You’re not. But you are, or so his shadows keep whispering to him. He silences them. He’ll not deal with this now. He can’t find himself leaving your proximity for some reason. For some stupid reason he’s enticed and he can’t back down.

“Well since you seem to know so much better; heal me.” Your shoulders tense and you suck in a breath when he takes a step to your side and lifts himself out of the freshly dug grave. “Or you’ll have another body to bury. Like you said; at least I already dug you the grave. You’re welcome.” You shake out of it and manage to will your eyes to follow him; you look up. He offers you his hand and you note the somewhat drooping wing behind him, angled awkwardly as if it’s too heavy to keep in place and he’s slouching. You suppose it’s what one would look like when limping after an injury. You hesitantly take the hand and allow yourself to be pulled to your feet.

Your touch hits him like lightning striking him in the sky. Cauldron he didn’t expect such a simple tiny thing to knock him off his axis like so but here he is, here you are. Fucking hell. If this is only the beginning, he doesn’t know if he wants to find out what happens next, if anything at all. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. These instincts keep coiling around in his body and make him feel dizzy. Perhaps that’s the bandage around his thigh he indeed did tie far too tight and might just be cutting off his circulation. It takes him a solid second that with this close proximity, with what’s going on, that he might not be able to deny this obvious thing anymore. This constant instinct to run, isn’t his. It’s yours. You feel the pressure. He decides to pry, try to pull on that tether but it slips his grasp the moment he does, like the hare escaping the arrow. Dammit.

“You help me bury the bodies first. Then I’ll decide what to do with you. Gods, you should take some healing classes because if this is how you do a patch job… atrocious. Get inside.” His order turned against him. You can’t help that swell of brief satisfaction or perhaps enjoyment when you see something spark in his eyes, that makes you able to look past the cracked mask of indifference. You let go of his hand, and find yourself missing the pleasant warmth. You take to clasping your own hand as you enter your humble abode once more, with the warrior in your shadow following closely behind. He closes the door. You note the open window. Your heartbeat stops for a second; ‘he knows’. that’s all that runs through your mind when you go to close it once more. You don’t twist the key to lock it this time. You meet his eyes when you turn around again to face him and gesture for him to sit back down as you look over your supplies once more and clean your hands. It’s a mutual understanding it seems. The window remains unlocked. You can’t help but notice this weird feeling in your chest, like an lace being tightened and squeezing, something akin to hurt at mistrust of another. You push the feeling down. It clearly doesn’t belong in your head.

#azriel x reader #acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotar azriel #azriel x you #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar #azriel #acotar fic

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