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world-of-virbrisk · 1 year ago

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"String of Stars"

Before there were stars, there was only the moon. But before there was the moon, there was only an empty night sky and a lonely goddess.

TW- implied abuse near the end

-2.1k wip-

written by @invisiblehoman

Mori sometimes could still remember when the night sky didn't have any stars. She remembered the emptiness of it all. The long time that nothing occupied it the way the sun did for the day. The darkness that filled the land, making it near impossible to see. Something was missing but she never knew what. It pestered her as she stared into the void of the sky. Stared as it changed colors into her beautiful morning, colors she created filled her eyes. Every night she watched, waited for her solution to cross her mind on why it felt wrong. Surely her day sky wasn't this empty?

She can't remember when it happened, but eventually, there was light one night. A soft, light, gentle, it almost rocked her to sleep with how calming it was. It was comforting, just enough dark to encourage rest, and just enough light to bring a sense of safety.

Sitting in the grass fields that swayed at her very breath, she stared off into the distance. The horizon line went on for miles.watching as the grass formed waves among itself. To one side lay a warm figure in the cool, crisp air. Damir, She could see the soft light that emitted from his eyes faded under his lashes. The middle of his back pressed against her hip as she sat. Her knees pulled up to her chest. The fabric of her dress bunched up with goosebumps across her arms.

She remembers Damir always seeming so peaceful during the night. Instead of the furrowed brows and crossed arms, he lay relaxed. All tension gone, his face becoming soft and tranquil. Something that she only saw of him when he thought neither she nor Suwon were looking. She smiled at that, a warm memory of its own.

But it was at this moment she realized that her vision of him was much clearer than before. What was once only a small portion of his face illuminated from his own light was now nearly his entire side. With shadows that hid away from something. Something from above her. In quick realization, she looked up, but this time, something stared back. It was pale and quite round. It emitted such a soft glow. Near impossible to look away from, and yet she felt that she didn't want to.

månsken is what she called it, Lunae lumen even later on in her life.

In her opinion, it was beautiful, and even thousands of years later, she finds herself gazing at it. Highlighting the white snow caps of her mountain.

The memory of being sad when it finally lowered was one she could remember clearly. The rise of Damir telling her that the night was officially over. It would have been a shame if not for the fact that just lightly, she could still see it. Faded behind a translucent curtain of soft blue. It didn't leave, and she hoped it'd stay like that forever.

That next night was when she finally saw Suwon again. He sat beside her as Mori watched her Luna, or måne at the time.

Suwon was a cold creature, chilling to the touch but thrumming with life and magic under his thin skin. He looked a little different than her or Damir, but in her opinion, it was just as delightful. His face was long, parts of it hollow, instead of eyelids and lashes his eyes were sunken. The only thing visible was a small dot that moved around in its dark cavity. His hands were different, but so were Damir's. While she had rounded fingertips with what she dubbed nails that stayed transparent to a degree, Suwon had pointed ends, a hard nail thicker by three times her own. His hands were thinner, quite elegant compared to Damir's strong and wide ones. Damir nails layer like her own, just on top of boxy fingertips. But his nails are a solid black color. they matched Suwon and her hair almost perfectly.

They felt familial in a way,she knows they've always been there, can't even remember a moment where it was just her in the lonesome space of void and matter. Even long before, there was a ground to stand on.

A soft nudged to her shoulder cause Mori to look at her brother (she doesn't remember when she started calling him brother)

"Do.. you like it…?"

His voice was soft, filled with a sense of worry. She could feel the buzzing of his head as he waited anxiously for her response. She couldn't help but smile at him, a full joyous grin of teeth, her eyes squinting close as she looked at him.

"She is lovely, I don't think I could go back to existing without her again"

The hard line of Suwon's back dropped almost immediately, Mori could feel the energy of his nerves come off him in massive waves. He hadn't misjudged her desires, and for that, he allowed himself to relax.

As Mori turned to look back at her Luna, she could see Suwon reach behind her, and a gentle hum from her other side was made. Damir didn't care much for the sky the way that she and Suwon did. His developing domain resided underneath hundreds of layers of vegetation and rock. At first she thought he was strange for this, but as she visited his home, she understood why he chose it. While not completely comparable to her sky, the caverns had their own beauty. The way the water flowed down the cliff like edges, past layers of colorful stone. Strange but vibrant plants filled out areas. It was nice, exciting sometimes, so Mori never judged his disinterest in her sky.

Ignoring the small movements from both behind her and to her other side, she turned back to Suwon. Damir let out a small huff as he gently sat up himself. His long limbs were not quite sure what to do with themselves. He also turned to Suwon.

Suwon’s magic was always strong, Mori could feel it even as he simply sat next to her. And it was clear he wished to show them both something.

"I was thinking about how to fill out the sky within my domain and I discovered something" As Suwon talked his hands started squeezing the air, at first he did it carefully but then as he pressed his palms together a small surge of energy was created. He began squeezing harder before a small ball of light was formed. It grew until it was just smaller than his palm.

A quiet huff before he spoke was made. "I discovered that I can make these, and that they can be made huge, even float extremely well once they become a certain size."

"They float?" Damir was the first to question, his body now leaning closer just over Mori's shoulder.

"Yes! It's what I did to create that!" In quick movement, Suwon pointed to Mori's Luna. He then continued his explanation.

"That is made of a solid rock, but this," he looked down at the ball of light in his hand. " It's like your sun, it would be called a stjärnor ,and instead of being super big and close they can be far away and-" The ball was pushed in the woman's hands as Suwon began to spin out a fine thread of magic. He then took one and wrapped it around the sphere in his sister's hands. "I discovered that if I attached it to another one I can make what I call consolations, the threads won't be visible but I saw that for the few that I placed my Valdarin started making shapes from them!"

Suwon seemed to almost shake with excitement. This explained where he had been for the past few days.

"They connected them?" Was Mori's question.

"Yes, yes! And then they started creating stories! Some of them even began using them to navigate the abyssal sea."

There was a pause. He seemed to remember he needed to tell them something.

"When I was figuring out how to make your måne I realized it would look lonely by itself, so I started coming up with other things" another small pause before he held up the thread with the ball of light on it.

"Once I realized that it would take a long time to fill both yours and my sky, I thought we all could do it together and make the shapes for our creatures to discover."

Suwon’s voice wobbled just a bit near the end of his sentence. It was clear he put much thought into this but was afraid of being shut down.

"I bet I can make better-looking consolations than you both can." Mori jabbed at her companions.

Damir jumped at the sudden excitement in his sister's voice. He looked between the both of them. They stared back at him with pleading gazes that he had joined them.

A puff of air left him as he chuckled at their antics, moving himself closer to the smaller man.

"You both and your skies are something else. Alright, show me again how you did that"

Mori pulled her hair to one side as she began mimicking Her middle brother's motions from before, listening to Damir's quiet exasperation of struggle, forcing his own magic to behave. Laughing out loud as she watched him use too much physical strength and completely crush his first attempt. Even Suwon had to turn away and giggle as their eldest sibling dusted the magic powder off his face.

Not even Damir could hide his own amusement at his goof up.

~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~

Thousands of centuries later, and their constellations still stand. Except now as Mori sits next to her window, a book lays on her desk filled to the brim of human stories about the stars. Across from her sits, a woman who she never thought would be willing to be this close to her.

Wendy.

She watched as the young woman tried her best to compress the air between her hands. The solid force that would just barely start forming would crumble mer seconds later and disperse into the air again.

Mori could feel the frustration building within Wendy, but what confused her was the feelings of sadness, fear, and guilt that came off in various waves. She did her best to remain positive as an attempt after an attempt failed. Each time, Wendy seemed to become more and more distressed.

"Wendy honey, it's okay. If you want, we can try again tomorrow. Maybe today is just a bad day for your magic."

Instead of calming down her guest, Mori's words seem to cause even more distress. In one last attempt, the girl started pressing the air, trying to concentrate her magic into it.

Finally, a small speck of light started forming. It grew very slowly, but it was enough that mori truly believed Wendy might actually make a star today.

Until her hands collapsed on it, and small sparkly dust went everywhere.

The emotions from Wendy hit Mori hard. When she expected anger, she was met with fear and guilt. It was when she noticed Wendy shaking as she kneeled on the floor. Her voice cracked as she tried to apologize to Her fellow goddess.

"I.. can do..i-it, I can..please.. I can….I-"

There were tears forming at Wendy's hollow eyes, her white pupils growing in sizes as she seemed to become fearful of her surroundings.

Mori got off her seat and knelt in front of Wendy. As she went to gently wipe tears away from her eyes, she froze.

Her guest had flinched almost aggressively, her ears pinned back, and her face turned away. As if she was expecting to be hit. Her pleas continued but much quieter.

It was then that Mori remembered something the eldest God told her about this young woman.

Changing her hand position to an open palm and holding it just a few inches from the younger goddess face. Mori waited gently, cooing Wendy into looking at her.

After a few minutes, Wendy finally did look at her, ear pensively pinned, eyes clearly searching for something that wasn't there. Mori felt her heart ache just a bit as she watched the goddess study her and then look down at herself, then the hand near her face. Her breathing labored, but still restrained, as she finally looked back at the elder goddess. The white dots of her eyes faded as she very carefully allowed her cheek to press into the offered hand.

The tears streamed almost non-stop, quiet whispers of I'm sorry and I'll do betters were lost to the rooms, books and carpets. Her body shook as a hand reached forward and grabbed Mori's dress.

Wendy's face was brought into the taller woman's neck. Her own face is framed by the tall antlers. Her other hand gently rubs the top of the girl's back as the girl's hands clutch and claw as the fabric between them.

Making stars could wait until tomorrow.

#virbrisk #original story #blood god #bone god #flesh god #ocs #orignal content #writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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damneddamsy · 6 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

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evilminji · 1 year ago

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( o.o) okay... so...

I am loosely basing this of how one of my OCs powers work? But... can Overgrowth make ANY plant? Past, present, future? Possible, probable, hypothetical? ANY any plant?

I ask this, because Humans? NOT born from a plant.

Buuuuuut they COULD be.

Of course they could. The plant would be a dead end. Unable to reproduce or cultivate without humanity. Just? The most costly, ungainly, unnatural plant imaginable.

Which is WHY it doesn't exsist. Why it will never exist.

But COULD it? Oh easily. Child's play. There are countless billions of billions of plants that COULD exsist. From benevolent to world ending. But why would Overgrowth give a shit? Why MAKE such pointless things?

Well... Sam wants a kid.

Full stop.

She wants a kid and is NOT about to do that whole "risk her life and irreversibly change her body with child creation" thing. So? How does one have a child with two fathers, one mother, who was not carried to term inside said mother? A surrogate perhaps?

Naaaaah.

No, no. It's time to get the machete and go Bully God(tm). Specifically THAT God, over there. The plant one. Give her the nonexistent child creating plant or Snippy Snippy, Overgrowth, you fuck!

Sam. Sam, please. Begs her beloved husband's. But until THEY can carry Child, they can shut up and help menace a Deity. Dani, her beloved S-I-L who's just here for adorable future munchkins and general Chaos, agrees. Square up, boys.

She obviously, gets her plant.

It's an abomination.

Just? THE nightmare of a tree. Oozy tar like bark, sickly appearance, bone colored needle like leaves. Single, giant, blood red "fruit". They have to feed it ectoplasm, their own blood, and basicly everything to make a body. Meaning flesh, bones, blood, nutrients and minerals.

Proper horror movie.

Sam? Fucking LOVES her Baby Tree. It's name is Mortica.

Now, OBVIOUSLY, everyone in Amity? Knows to mind their Business by now. The Fenton-Foely-Manson throuple or what ever order they've decided on today, are both terrifying and willing to throw down. Fenton is Phantom. Manson is Samantha Manson. Their husband will laugh at you instead of help. Not worth it.

But OUTSIDERS? Tourists passing through and cousins come to visit?

They see a huge, fuck off, nightmare tree straight out of Poison Ivy's fever dreams. Do the reasonable thing. Call the Justice League Help Line.

So NOW JLA Dark is sitting Very Nervously, in this terrifying throuples home. Trying to ask HOW they got the Tree. Trying to ignore that one of them is a ghost of incredible power, the other an Avatar of the Green, and this nice man is just? Cool with having a nightmare tree baby? Yeah. Of course.

Just... just please tell them if it's gonna eat people. Yes or no.

@nerdpoe @hypewinter @ailithnight @hdgnj @the-witchhunter

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #tree baby au #sam and her Concerning Nightmare Tree #named after her favorite Addams #they got a nursery all ready and everything

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fangdokja · 1 month ago

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Her Hell, His Heaven (4H): Pain is a Love Language.

His wife was never meant to be free.

She tells herself otherwise, whispers lies between bloody teeth, carves escape routes into the flesh of dying worlds. But no matter how far she runs, how deep she buries herself in the arms of false hope, he always finds her.

Her husband. Her captor. Her ruin.

He wears many faces—an emperor who chains her to a throne of gold and blood, a regressor who unravels time just to break her again, an assassin who carves his devotion into her skin with a steady hand. The same psychopath who cradles her between cruel fingers, smiling as she begs for mercy that will never come.

His love is a brand that sears her raw. His touch is agony, pleasure, punishment—tangled so deeply she no longer knows where pain ends and pleasure begins. He teaches her with chains, with teeth, with hands that force obedience into her bones. And when she trembles, when she sobs, when she comes apart under the weight of his cruelty, he only tightens his grip.

She should hate him. She should claw at his throat and spit in his face. But the way he looks at her—like she was made to kneel, made to scream, made to take everything he gives—drowns her in something thick, something dark, something she should not crave.

She fights. He laughs. She bleeds. He licks the wounds clean. She begs for escape, but in the end, she is always exactly where he wants her. On her knees. Beneath him. Bruised, wrecked, trembling—his.

She calls it hell.

He calls it love.

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Trigger Warnings (Dead Dove): Explicit non-con, gore and extreme violence, sadist x masochist BDSM, psychological and erotic horror, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy relationship dynamics, underage sex and minor characters, major and minor character deaths, psychological and mental health issues, heavy manipulation and abuse, identity erosion, and a love story that should not exist—but does.

♡ A/N. LORD, help me with this. I've written a lot over the years. But... this one. I'm genuinely dreading and scared of writing this story for once. But, I love my husband, so fine, I'm doing it! AHHHH. Also based on the polls, am I that obvious on my personality and tastes?... God please, I can't believe I just revealed my private shiz *dies*

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Table of Contents

♡ Characters x OC. This is a canon-divergent fanfiction exclusively featuring Various! Yandere! Characters x Original Character. Characters included are those I have NEVER written for in any of my reader inserts and other books.

♡ Ao3. Most of the content will only be posted in Ao3, due to to restricted Tumblr content guidelines involving minors, suicide, mental health issues, etc.

♡ ⭐. Author's Personal Favorites. ♡ 🔞. NSFW / extremely explicit themes (non-con, sexual torture, dangerous edge play, degradation, humiliation, BDSM, etc.)

♡ Schedule. The following stories are released or scheduled for release:

....

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on this post. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Her Hell, His Heaven.”:

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

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remembrancer-of-heresy · 5 months ago

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(Not) Salvation

AU Reverse Therapy

Next Part: New Home

Summary: One of the agriworlds is attacked by heretics and the young girl finds salvation in the arriving Space Marines. Not suspecting that it was they who brought death to her planet.

Pairing: Chaos!Lamenter/fem!OC/Chaos!Flesh Tearer

Characters: Malina (fem!OC), Luka The Angel (OC Chaos Lamenter), Virgil (OC Chaos Flesh Tearer)

Warnings: yandere, violence, cannibalism

Word count: 2244

Author's note: In this part I wanted to focus more on the space marines and the atmosphere of horror. Hope you were interested in my OCs. In future there will be more interactions between this trio but here only meeting.

Song: Inkubus Sukkubus - Wild Hunt

It was scary. Screams were heard everywhere. The air smelled of blood and burnt flesh. From afar came cries and pleas for help, the hooting laughter of heretics. Someone was less fortunate than her. No one had found her yet.

And it is unlikely that they will.

“God-Emperor, do not abandon me, guide me to the light, I will not fear the darkness for I believe” - she repeated the prayer dryly, like a memorized text from school.

Because it was a lie. Of course she were afraid of the darkness. Afraid of death. And even more so of torture. The endless pain that the enemies of the Imperium promised to bring with them. Yes, the clergy would say that she was a heretic. But in the last hour, she did not want to lie, at least to herrself.

Soon her agri-world will drown in the blood of its inhabitants. And if the Imperium returns the planet to its bosom, resumes the delivery of food, then other people will do it. Your fate is to become meat in the hands and mouths of heretics.

She felt new tears running down her cheeks. They haven't found her yet, but soon, soon they will find her small and weak body. Soon they will tear her apart, eat the meat, throw away the bones, and put the skin on thier armor like a cloak. She already saw how the heretics did this to an elderly couple.

Sudden steps pulled her ark thoughts and returned to an equally dark present. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. These were too heavy steps for a human. Too metallic a sound. The smell of imminent death hit her nose and she held back from screaming in horror at the imminent meeting with the most terrible shame of the Imperium.

A Chaos Space Marine.

And at that moment, when the legionary appeared before her in full height, when she almost bit her lip until it bled, just to keep from screaming... only then did she notice the armor. Golden as the sun, with a distinctive sign in the form of a bloody heart. The Lamenter.

She burst into tears like a little girl.

“The G-God-Emperor h-heard m-my prayers.” - her world was under siege, she had already managed to lose loved ones, she had the right to tears, but she still tried to wipe them away. - “I-I am too weak to walk. Please save the others.”

The Space Marine did not say a word, listening to her sobs. He came closer until he knelt down on one knee next to her. Only then did she notice that his armor was covered in blood, and in some places there were signs drawn that were unfamiliar to her. If she had any doubts, they were dispelled as soon as the Astartes removed his helmet.

He was quite handsome. Pale-faced, with a snub nose, a scattering of freckles and bright cheeks. His wheat-colored hair barely reached his shoulders. His face was clear and bright, with only one scar crossing his left eyebrow. But what stood out most about the young man were his eyes. Blue as the sky of her planet until the heretics attacked it and it turned red.

“You really are an angel.” - she switch to a reverent whisper. For the first time, a happy, albeit tired, smile appears on her face. Her eyes are still shining from recently shed tears before she plunge into the saving darkness. She could no longer remain conscious after what she experienced. She were too tired.

For a second before she finally lose consciousness, it seems to her that the Astartes' ears are red. Like an ordinary young man who heard a compliment from a pretty girl.

Hah, what a heresy.

***

The mortal soldier of the Corpse on the Throne writhed helplessly in Virgil's arms, unable to resist him. In truth, Virgil would not have minded playing with his victim, but the thirst for blood was stronger. But it doesn't matter. The planet they had landed on promised rich loot.

Quite a long time had passed when he joined the Red Corsairs. And when he realized this delightful feeling. The ability to not pretend. The ability to kill as he pleased, torment as he wanted. Maybe the Black Thirst was a curse, but such an opinion was imposed on him. The veteran never thought so.

"Virgil!" - a completely joyful cry rang out across the battlefield.

But having a roommate like this one is a curse. And to his great dissatisfaction, quite scary and uncontrollable. Although a narrow-minded mortal would probably think that a flesh tearer covered in someone else's skin is more dangerous than a lamenter with an angelic face.

But to be fair, he thought so too.

The veteran sighed and threw the soldier's body away from himself. And judging by the convulsions, he was still alive despite the loss of blood. On another day Virgil would have liked to watch mortal’s suffer longer, but the plundering had only just begun, and man had to deal with the young pup before he did anything wrong.

“Vergil, look who I found. She mistook me for a loyalist.” - the young man, unusually softly holding the limp body of a mortal girl, looked at her face with almost love in his eyes. - “I saved her.”

Vergil rolled his eyes, scratching his poor bald head. Why, why, did he get Luka?

“Of course she thought so. Not only did you not change your armor, but she also apparently passed out before you spoke.” - the lamenter, to Vergil’s irritation, ignored the fair remark. - “Why did you even bring her here?”

“What do you mean, why? I saved her, now I have to marry her.” - the blond answered as if nothing had happened. Seeing how his pale partner’s eye began to twitch involuntarily, he raised his voice in displeasure. - “Don’t look at me like that! She will behave well.”

“Like the previous girls, huh?”

“First of all, I liked them, but I wasn’t going to marry them. Secondly, we met when they already knew which side I was on.” - Luka again gazed tenderly at the sleeping girl, burying his nose in her cheek. - “And she said that I looked like an angel.”

A little more and Virgil would throw up, he was sure of it. Of course, he was a sadist. He liked to torture and torment. He liked to hear screams. And yet, when it came to intimacy, it was unnecessary. The cultists screaming in strange ecstasy irritated. Some went completely wild, so after a couple of blows, he had to fucks their still warm corpses.

And the captured slaves... well. They cried. Of course, it was beautiful, but their constant attempts to escape and crawl away also irritated the man. Why couldn’t they just lie quietly and wait for him to finish his business? Why are they all so disrespectful?

It's annoying. Everything annoys him.

But the girl's calm, sleeping appearance was apparently one of the few exceptions. Virgil would even say that he liked the way her eyelashes twitched slightly, and her lips parted just a little. Serenity itself. Innocence itself.

Even as a loyalist, Virgil didn't care much about mortals. But still, even in such a callous person as he, there was a hidden desire to protect the innocent. Now he likes to torture them more (everyone, to be precise). But after his desire was returned, the need to possess lovely ladies settled in him. Alas, but he no longer serves the Emperor, and the girl expects exactly this from them. Luka, an idiot, does not understand this and dragged her to her death.

Although-

"Let's tell her that we are fighting for the Corpse on the Throne."

"What?"

“You just said that she took you for a loyalist. So why try to convince her otherwise?” - the veteran smiled with all his sharp teeth, enjoying his genius. - “She has had it tough enough as it is. Let’s lock her in the quarters. She will see and listen only to us.”

The boy stared at him blankly for a while until the whole plan dawned on him. Luka opened his mouth joyfully, causing the blood of the dead to slowly flow inside. Virgil involuntarily stuck out his black mutated tongue at the sight. Hmm, he would have to keep that abomination in his mouth if he didn't want to scare the girl ahead of time.

"Oh, that's a great idea. She'll be so thrilled to have ended up with the good sons of Sanguinius. But, Virgil, what if she finds out that we're fighting against the Imperium?" - Luka hugged the girl tighter, burying his nose in her hair. - "What should we do in that case? Will she cry? Hate us? What if she wants to run away??"

"By that time, she'll be used to us and her new home. She'll come to terms with it, you'll see." - the veteran growled with displeasure and slapped the blond on the back of the head. - "And stop squeezing her like that! You'll break all her bones."

"B-but she's so pretty!"

He was right. She really is pretty. By the Ruinous Powers, Virgil hated the False Emperor and the Imperium. But he had to admit that some of its citizens were better looking than the cultists.

"Don't. Squeeze. Control. Yourself. Or better yet, drag her on board before she wakes up."

The blond immediately went thin. The veteran involuntarily cringed as he saw tears gathering in his blue eyes. You wouldn't know from Luka that he was wreaking heretic.

"But we've only just begun the massacre! I've never even come across any children!"

You wouldn't say he was a pervert either.

"Then it would be in your best interest to quickly take her to the flagship and return to us. I don't know how you'll do that. But since you've picked up the girl, have the respect to take care of her."

“Fine! But then I’ll choose her name.” - the blond possessively hugged the limp body and headed towards the ship. Virgil only sighed heavily, raising his red eyes to the sky. How hard it was sometimes with the young man.

But on the other hand, he was still useful. The idea of playing the role of the Emperor’s loyal servants was hilarious in itself. And an unhappy and lonely lady in distress was an extremely pleasant bonus after the massacre. Surely, such a good girl was followed by crowds of vile fanatics of the Corpse on the Throne. But never mind, now her saviors will take care of her.

“We are the Emperor’s Angels after all.” - Virgil muttered under his breath, pleased, turning his attention to the soldier who dared to shoot at him. It seemed he would finally change his cloak.

What a great hunt they made on this world.

#au: reverse therapy #yandere space marine #space marine x reader #space marine x oc #warhammer x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #the bloody trio #oc: Vergil #oc: Luka the Angel #tw: yandere #tw: cannibalism #tw: violence

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happyhauntt · 1 year ago

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and i am coming home to you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: there are some things that cannot be saved. nikolai swears she won't be one of them.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: serious angst, pre-established relationship, descriptions of injuries, blood and torture, oc was held as a prisoner of war, allusions to ravka's war with shu han, suicidal thoughts if you squint. trauma. fluff & romance but in an angsty way. nikolai is so in love and so am i.

─── word count: 2.5k.

There’s a soft, dusky twilight bleeding in through the window. The last few seconds before the sun goes down, and the shadows stretch like yearning fingers out of all the cracks and crevices.

Anya used to love the sunset. Used to lay in her bedroll beneath the trees and wait for the world to go quiet. All the colour would bleed away until the blue and black and stars were the only witnesses left.

She loved the sunset until one day, the darkness came and never left. It settled over her like a second skin, and that once-familiar comfort became something she feared she’d never shake off. She feared she would die there, in the dark.

Once or twice, she even wished for it.

The dark comes calling again, now. It no longer feels like an old friend. The light fades from the window, cloaking the cabin in a strange half-dark. The waves crashing against the sides of the ship are a dull roar in the back of her mind. An unwelcome accompaniment to the rest of her terrible thoughts. Her head aches. Her skin burns.

He saved her, but what was left of her to save? What is left of her now but a ghost, a corpse, a pile of skin and bones and blood that can do nothing else but scream and scream and scream?

That's what it feels like. Her body. Her heart. Little more than a carcass left to rot, picked over by crows.

She would love him if she could. A fierceness rests between her lungs, the single spark of life left within her after they stripped her of the rest. This, she'd cradled close, clutched between gnarled, bloody fingers. This is his. This, they couldn't tear from her if they tried.

And they had tried.

The bed rocks beneath her. After so long trapped in a dingy cell, the mattress should feel like the height of luxury, stuffed with goose feathers and lined with linen, but it all feels like stone. She tastes blood in her mouth, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own. The silk sheets ghost over her flesh, feeling sharp as razor blades.

Anya never learned to love her cage, but she doesn’t trust freedom, either. Not yet.

It's not that he's the reason she lived. He isn't her reason to keep breathing. Anya Kamenev is her father's daughter, and has endured untold horrors, and if there is one certainty in the world, it is that she is not weak. She survived for herself, for her parents, for her country. She wanted to be home again. The trees blossoming in the summertime, fresh ripe fruit on her tongue, winter air that smells like snow.

She wouldn't die like this. Not at their hands. Anya would go quietly in her bed at a ripe old age, surrounded by people who loved her. Or she'd go to her knees on a battlefield, still screaming as the bullets rip her wide open, and with her last breath, she'd take them down too.

Not like this. Not in a dark laboratory, or a torture chamber. Not at their hands. Anya is stubborn. She'd bleed green if someone told her she was wrong. She'd make it true.

But he loves her. He loves her, and that is everything. He’d appeared before her like a vision sent by the Saints, like something holy in a place she knows no god would ever touch. Like a miracle. On the bad days, his love is blossom trees and fresh fruit and winter air combined. He has held her hand through darkness, guided her through battle, and even when he left for his apprenticeship, he'd kissed her like it was a promise.

They'd taken everything else. Broken her bones and slashed her skin. Wrought her apart to scratch at her soul. She'll bear the scars for the rest of her life, long after the wounds are healed. Her body will never be the same. Her mind may never recover.

But this wasn't hers to give up. This is his. Loving him had been a candle in the darkness. A reminder that she was human still. A reminder that even in the blackest night, dawn will come again.

But now, lying alone in his bed in a dim cabin, Anya grows restless. The mind is a strange thing, and something about this safety feels foreign to her. There are voices in the walls. The shadows have eyes. The ship lurches in the waves and she swears there is a hand right there, reaching out—

She's on her feet before she realises what she's doing. She never was a girl built to run — her instinct has always been to stay, to fight — but this is different, and blood doesn’t always feel like blood when you touch it.

Her knee buckles beneath her the moment she puts weight on it. A strangled shriek escapes her lips as pain streaks through her like lightning. The cabin door slams open, and Nikolai appears. His tailored-red hair glows in the candlelight, a halo of bronze. His face is still different, crooked nose and freckles and green eyes, but he will never be unfamiliar to her.

He crosses the room in two strides and falls to his knees beside Anya. His teal overcoat has been abandoned, and what remains is a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, still speckled with her blood. Her stomach twists at the sight of it as his hands find her shoulders. Something solid, finally; her guiding light once more.

The chill that had stolen over her body vanishes where he touches her, and Anya leans into him heavily, her face pressed into the warmth of his shoulder. An agonising moan rises up within her, but she holds her breath. She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

"You shouldn't be up, love." His voice is still the same soothing cadence in her ear. One hand brushes through ragged, tangled girls. It seems someone tried to brush her hair while she was unconscious; bathed the worst of the blood away, changed her into fresh clothes, but the scent of iron still lingers on her skin. His fingers catch in a knot, but the sharp spike of pain on her scalp goes unnoticed. The rest of her is screaming too loudly.

"I cannot be in that bed any longer." Anya shakes her head, once, and breathes in the salt-and-cedar scent of him. Hands outstretched, clawing blindly, she grasps him tightly and swears she'll never let go again. "I cannot be here."

How long had the Shu held her? How many days have passed since they killed the last member of her unit, since his cries grew too quiet and she'd been left alone with her worst nightmares? Had anyone notified her parents? What will they say, when they learn the truth? When they discover their worst fear has come to pass, and their darling daughter was tortured for being Grisha?

"You cannot be anywhere else, Nastya," says Nikolai. He sounds like aching. His lips brush against her temple as he speaks, voice soft as silk. His hands are gentle, too, as he scoops her up from the floor and settles her back onto the bed. She holds herself stiffly, choking back another scream as her knee jostles and jerks.

He winces as if every choked-off cry is a blade through his heart. He murmurs sweet apologies as he readjusts the pillows and perches on the bed beside her, close enough to touch, wary of disturbing her leg any further. His hands linger on hers. The tips of his fingers trace light patterns over the inside of her wrist.

For a moment, nothing has changed.

"Do you need anything, Captain?" The voice in the doorway is a little startling, and for a second Anya is back in that cell. She stiffens as the woman watches them both, a soft frown toying at her mouth. Golden eyes shine with pity.

Nikolai rolls his lips together for a moment. "Perhaps some water, please, Tamar." The woman nods, and tugs the door closed behind her as she departs, leaving the pair wrapped in stony silence.

Nikolai's eyes trail over Anya, searching, inspecting her injuries as if committing every scar to memory. He cannot count how many times he has done this since he found her. Sitting on the bed just like this, close enough to feel the warmth of her, counting each breath as if they might be her last. His eyes harden at the bruises on her throat, the gash across her cheek. Sweeping lower, his gaze settles on her knee again. He swallows roughly. Darkness sweeps over him like a burial shroud.

The skin of Anya's leg is mottled, black and yellow and purple, a medley of half-healed bruises intermingled with fresh ones. They hurt her. They broke her. And for the first time since he left Ravka, anticipating a bright and shining future filled with adventure, Nikolai is drowning in regret.

"Tolya did his best, but he's not a healer." His throat feels tight, like there's smoke in his lungs. Her skin is littered with newly-pink scars and stitched-up wounds. Her leg is the worst of it. Nikolai doesn't recall seeing injuries like this, even in the army. "We'll get you healers when we dock. The best healers. They'll be able to help with the rest of it. They'll be able to—"

"Fix me?" Anya sounds hollow. His eyes snap to hers, and he finds someone staring back at him, but it isn't Anya. It isn't the girl he fell in love with. Somewhere within, she might be hiding, but here and now, he's faced with a ghost. "I lost count of how many times they broke it. Sometimes they'd drag a healer in to mend the bone, and then... snap. Other times they'd just leave it. There are some things that can't be fixed if you break them enough."

A rough shake of his head. His heart sits like lead in his chest. "We'll fix it. You'll be good as new in no time, Nastya, I promise you."

Silence falls over them for a moment, filled with nothing but crashing waves and crackling candles. His fingers keep drawing circles over her wrist, and her pulse flutters gently beneath his touch. Her hands remain in her lap, pale and thin.

"How long was I gone?"

He doesn't need to ask what she means by that. His heart squeezes. "Six weeks, we think. They reported you missing-in-action when your unit didn't reach the checkpoint."

Nausea rises like a tidal wave in Anya’s throat. Six weeks? Every horrible moment had felt like an eternity, and yet she never believed, never could have guessed it had been that long.

"Sturmhond came to find me. Why?"

An old fury lashes through him, one that had only settled when he laid eyes on her, half-dead in that dingy cell. Fingers curl into trembling fists as that anger rises again, unbidden, but not at her. Never at her. His jaw ticks at the memory. "Command thought attempting a rescue would be too... risky." He spits the word through gritted teeth. The Saints only know what he’ll do the moment he gets his hands on the First Army General responsible for that decision. "They couldn't prove you were in Shu Han, and crossing the border to rescue you would have risked an international incident."

A necessary sacrifice. Collateral damage. A most unfortunate loss. That's what the bulletin had read, when he finally received it. Sturmhond kept up-to-date on Ravka, its military engagements, its economy. When he'd docked in Os Kervo eleven days ago and sent the twins out for supplies and information, the last thing he expected to hear was that a scouting group had gone missing near the Shu Han border.

His last correspondence with Anya had mentioned that she was being deployed there, that she'd been tasked with leading a reconnaissance mission with the aim of finding new ways around the Fold. It had only taken a little digging to discover the names of the personnel who'd gone missing.

He sees Lieutenant Colonel Anya Kamenev: MISSING IN ACTION every time he closes his eyes. It might be seared onto his brain forever.

Anya’s eyes fall closed. Her jaw is tight. With pain or anger, he cannot tell. It was a sound tactical decision, she thinks. She cannot blame them for that. She might even have made the same call.

But her leg screams at her. Nikolai's hand squeezes her own. Your country abandoned you. The words ring through her mind like a death knell.

"You disagreed with their decision?"

That familiar crooked grin slips over his face. He almost looks like a boy again, and not the man who loves her, made world-weary by the things he’s seen. They could be home again. It almost makes her cry. "Ravka was concerned about tensions with Shu Han. Nikolai Lantsov was unable to risk an international incident. Sturmhond had no such concerns."

A ghost of a smile. His heart twinges at the sight of it. "Your letters never mentioned why you chose the name Sturmhond."

"I'll tell you some other time, darling. It's quite the tale." He leans and kisses her forehead, lingering a few long moments just to breathe her in, feel the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

She'd been so pale when he found her. So cold. He thought he'd been too late. Every moment of the past eleven days had been agony as they docked in Shu Han and scouted out any scrap of intel they could find about Ravkan prisoners of war.

"We'll dock soon. I sent word ahead to the generals, to let them know you've been liberated. I'll take you home."

Home. A long journey around the Fold, most likely through Fjerdan territory, and then a trek up to Balakirev, and yet— A whimper escapes, almost too quiet to hear. Home. She thought she'd never see it again.

"They'll want to question me, though." The thought of interviews, of recounting every detail of her torture, of having to admit that she's Grisha, that they killed the rest of her unit but spared her for experimentation, it all makes her sick.

Nikolai shakes his head. His eyes are steel. "If they want to try, they'll have to go through me. Now sleep, love. Rest. I'll be right here."

When sleep comes for her, finally, it does not come with those long, yearning fingers. Anya fears she will never love a sunset again, nor wish for the blissful peace of the night. But Nikolai lies down beside her, wraps her up in warm, solid arms, his chest beneath her head. She hears him breathing in her ear, a slow and steady rhythm, though she knows he isn’t sleeping.

He’ll stay awake the whole night, to keep her demons at bay.

#* chapter update.#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov oc #nikolai lantsov fanfic #shadow and bone oc #shadow and bone fanfic #nikolai lantsov x reader #grishaverse #six of crows fanfic #grishaverse fanfic #* fic: gold rush.

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asnowdriftsomewhere · 4 months ago

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Wild Heart

An OC character study

Helion/Oc

Read on Ao3

Summary: The grand, final ballad was reaching its crescendo and I didn’t want to miss one note of it. This last perfect song that played along his skin, it danced through his hair and whispered in his eyes. I heard it now, the chords I'd been looking for all my life… It wasn't a melody at all but a soul that matched my own. This male, whose name I did not know, belonged to me, and I would destroy myself before I let any more harm befall him.

Warnings: HURT/COMFORT, angst, War, mention SA, mentally disable character, aphasia, suicidal thoughts, mention torture, abuse,

(let me know if i should add others)

Word Count: 3619

A/N: takes place in that little pocket of time just before Amren destroys the Hybern army and before Feyre and Rhys fix the Cauldron.

I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know what you think!!

Beta read by: @queen-vessaraia-ashlynne

Sometimes, the beginning is not the beginning. Sometimes, the beginning is the middle, and the story is told in both directions at the author's will. Sometimes, the beginning is the last ordinary day lived before everything changes, when life is not happy, but peaceful and quiet. Sometimes, the beginning is war and blood and chaos. The complete destruction of serenity. Sometimes, the story begins with the shattering of a soul. The rending of a person's psyche until they are not who they were before but are born again within the shadows. Until they are reforged by the fires of hell and emerge as something new, something to behold.

And sometimes, sometimes the story begins with the end. When the author has woven their tale and the tapestry can no longer be altered. When the players have been sealed within their fates and cannot be saved.

Sometimes, there is no happy ending, only the beauty of the story told along the way.

My story began with amber eyes meeting mine across the killing field. He was on his knees, the Hybern Commander above him preparing the killing blow of a magic so great that it turned my head, even amongst the chaos reigning around me. I didn't know what it was, I didn't understand what pulled me into the middle of the battle like a siren's song sung to my soul, a call to the hunt that I could not ignore. But I stumbled through the dirt and the mud, the bodies and viscera coating my bare legs in blood and gore as I moved mindlessly through the violence unfolding around me.

Steel clashed against steel. Fae males and beasts alike roared their fury into the skies - but I wasn't listening to them. There was music in the death blooming like a field of wildflowers around me, a song in the rage like the ash in the wind. I felt it in my bones, and I followed it through the fighting until I saw them. Two fae males locked in a battle of magic, a mountain of bodies between them. The lives of those foolish enough to step between the wielders of fate were now nothing more than corpses, ragdolls at their feet as they faced off against each other and bent reality to their will.

The magic was a melody I'd been waiting to hear for what felt like forever. My fractured mind watched their spells like they were notes of a chord that surrounded and enveloped me. It soothed my sensitive skin and eased some of the weight I felt hanging heavily around my heart. I followed it like a light in the shadows until there was only a few scant yards between us.

The Hybern Commander I recognized. His was a face I saw in my nightmares; I knew what his hands felt like on my body, what his magic did to my being, and I smiled softly at the disheveled state of him. He was bruised and bloody, a trail of rubies leaking from his nose and down his throat. I wondered what gems he would spawn if someone split his skin from ear to ear. I wondered if his bones would shine like ivory or were they black as sin beneath his robes. Who would he beseech when I peeled the flesh from his limbs? Which of his Fae gods would he beg to intervene on his behalf? After all, he knew I had no one to cry out for when he entered my cell night after night. He knew there was no one to save me as I was dragged through war, from camp to camp. Thrown into his tent as a personal plaything, a gift from the King himself. I wondered if he would beg, as I had, to see just one more sunrise. I wondered if he would dream of possibility. If he would marvel at the birth of a young god or ponder when his story began - when the end would come.

Something was building in me as I considered what shape his screams would take, if his fear would heal some small piece of my sundered spirit, if - in the end - it mattered at all. Like a tidal wave cresting through my body, I plucked the notes from the skies until a shattered refrain danced around me, ready to impose just a fraction of the pain I'd suffered onto the male who had inflicted it. I walked across the bottom of an ocean and dragged the weight of it behind me like a cloak of retribution to be unleashed upon the world which had scattered me to the winds.

The other male fell to his knees before the Commander. Blood was splattered across his dark skin like rose petals, staining his white robes. His hair was braided back, a ribbon the color of sunbeams tied at the end, drifting in the wind that circled him. It matched his eyes.

Eyes that were staring at me.

Everything stopped. The universe held its breath, and the music changed. The song of war and reckoning that had led me here faded, and a new melody played between our souls. A softer chord to caress my jagged edges and cradle my fractured mind. This male was the beginning of me, the sunrise that promised possibility, and the song I could always hear but never find. Like a dream brought to life, the music shifted and settled within me and the Hybern Commander drifted away like a fine mist in the wind as the world began again.

He watched me, amber eyes locked with mine as we studied each other. The war raging around us was little more than white noise compared to the song singing in my blood. My heart was a drum in my chest and my breath came in ragged pants as I stood frozen amid the death. The shattered refrain around me still hummed in my veins and I felt it crash against my edges. It was a force that would not be ignored, that demanded to be unleashed. It would turn everything around me into dust - as it had done to the Commander - only now I didn't want to recklessly rip apart this world that had destroyed me. I didn't want to kill this male who felt like hope when there had been none for so long. I didn't want to extinguish the life and joy his eyes promised me before I even got the chance to know him.

The refrain bent and groaned within my iron grip and a scream shattered my bones as it ripped its way out of me. I shoved the music back down, drowned myself in the ocean of my power and collapsed into the mud and gore as my blood turned to fire and smoke poured from my lips.

“Release it!” A voice I didn't recognize shouted as hands clasped my shoulders and my head snapped up to see amber eyes so close to mine. For a moment, I felt like I was walking across the surface of the sun. Like a solar flare had wrapped around my body and ran fingers through my hair. I felt like I was adrift in a sea of warmth and care, where nothing could hurt me and music flowed like a promise. But the hands that gripped me squeezed and shook and a baritone breeze danced down my spine, “Release the magic, or it will kill you!”

And wouldn't that be fine? To die among the dirt and the chaos of a war I tried to stop? My mind flashed to a dark, deathless room and a power that prowled along its edges, as if deciding who it would strike. I'd just watched two women be thrown into the Cauldron like lambs slaughtered in sacrifice. I'd watched from my place at my sister's feet, bound and gagged as the Spring Lord was across the room, tears streaming down my face as I saw my failure unfold before me. I had tried to stop this, tried to get my sister to see reason, and when that failed I had tried to take her crown and put an end to it myself. But she discovered my treachery, she put me in irons and dragged me here, saying I'd understand once we were made Fae. Once we became young and beautiful forever I would be grateful for all that she did to get us here…

The Cauldron's waters felt like ice in my veins. Like the cold of a winter that would never end crystallized along my bones and ripped my mind to shreds as it screamed in agony. Something had been taken from it. So it took something from me in return.

My mind, once a steel trap of facts and knowledge, fractured like light through a prism. A kaleidoscope of color and emotions that crashed against itself from one moment to the next, it never settled long enough to take in the picture - to understand the thought - and words became weapons pointing in. Sentences were a blade against my throat and my broken brain couldn't comprehend why they couldn't understand. Why did they look at me like what I was saying didn't make sense?

It wasn't until the first Queen emerged as a withered old crone that they realized something was wrong, that the Cauldron was taking more than it was giving and that I was not whole where I lay curled into myself on the floor. The Prythian Fae had long since fled, and Hybern had no answers for my sister who demanded them. I watched her and the other Queens gather to leave - she did not reach for me, and in that moment my rage erupted around us.

The stone beneath me cleaved in two and the wind that whipped through the room stole the air from their lungs. Lightning crackled at my fingertips and through the water soaking into the floor; no one dared to come closer to try and stop me. I would have torn the castle down around us. I would have buried myself and every monster I saw so deep into the earth that there would have been no chance of anyone surviving.

But that clever King would not go quietly into the night. He waved his hands in front of his body, and I watched as he plucked magic from the rock and wind and the dark places around us. I saw the melody he composed unfurl around me, a noose at my neck, until my fury evaporated like smoke in the wind and I shattered once again as the blackness consumed me. When I woke, I was in a cell with a Commander watching me from beyond the bars and that was when I learned what the ‘hell on earth’ truly meant.

And now here I was, so many months or years or weeks later, dying as the magic I'd spent all that time gathering to me burned me from the inside out. I refused to unleash it, so it turned that destructive force inward. I could feel it as, cell by cell, piece by piece, I died in this male's arms. He looked so… panicked, so fearful of something- I didn't know what, but he pulled my small body against his as if he hoped to warm my chilled skin. As if he believed he could squeeze life back into me now that the sun was setting on my final day.

It was so silly - and he was disrupting the song. The grand, final ballad was reaching its crescendo and I didn’t want to miss one note of it. This last perfect song played along his skin, it danced through his hair and whispered in his eyes. I heard it now, the chords I'd been looking for all my life… It wasn't a melody at all but a soul that matched my own. This male, whose name I did not know, belonged to me and I would destroy myself before I let any more harm befall him.

“You are mine,” he whispered against my cheek. “Do not leave me when I've only just found you. Let it go.”

Something like a whimper shuddered through my body and hot liquid dripped from my lips. I can't, I wanted to tell him. I can't control it, it will kill you- I can't… But my words were trapped as they had been since my mind fractured apart that day in Hybern. I felt them on the tip of my tongue, but my mouth would not do as I wished. I screamed into the wind as smoke billowed out of me.

“Thesan!” my male made of sunbeams, shouted into the chaos. Tears like diamonds streamed down his cheek as he frantically searched the killing field. “Kallias! Help!”

“Helion?” Someone I couldn't see spoke and my body twitched as lightning sparked in my veins. “Who-”

“She's burning up- the magic- she won’t release it,” he spoke quickly, sharply. Every word was a blade turned into a bird that flew into the wide open eternity. I watched them land on a fae male carved from ice, his blue eyes like stars. He knelt beside us in the mud, cold finger clasping around my ankle as his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Let me see her,” another voice, a voice like the first rays of dawn, approached and I was shifted until my head rested in my male's lap and my body was accessible to these strangers. I might have begun to struggle then. My feet kicked and my nails scratched until he took my head in his hands and he leaned closer to place his lips to my temple.

“Be still my Wild Heart,” he whispered to me. “They only want to help.”

They can't help, I wanted to scream even as my body obeyed the dominance in his tone. I will die. No one can change that. The sun was setting for the last time, and all I wanted was to watch it vanish in his eyes.

A noise like a murmur hissed through my lips and two new songs joined the chores. The first was a melody of ice, inching its way across my skin and seeping into my bones. It was light and airy, like the chiming of bells on a clear winter's day. The second was deep, the drumming of magic through all living things. The rhythm of a healthy heart and a spirit unbroken.

“If she doesn't release her power then the magic will boil her alive,” the male of the dawn grimaced, his hands glowing like tiny suns as they passed over my bruised and broken form. “We can only maintain this for so long before our magic is depleted-”

“You must let it go, Little Light,” he ordered me as he sat up so his perfect face above me was all I could see. “The magic will kill you-”

No, I thought, fighting against the instincts to listen- to obey. The new fae part of me that bowed to power beyond my own wrestled with my human soul and a snarl came out in response. Two wolves rolled through the trees behind my eyes. One was made of light and life and the other of shadow and doubt, and they ripped and clawed and bit each other until they both lay in pieces around me.

“She can’t control it.” A voice like the darkest part of the night enveloped us and I felt star kissed talons glide across my mind. Instinctively, the storm of magic in my bones shifted to wrap around my psyche and force the intruder out into the sky. Like a stone returned to the child who'd thrown it. “She can't speak. The magic will destroy everything in its path and she doesn't want to hurt you, Helion.”

My male's eyes shot to mine, understanding blooming in these amber depths like a rose unfurling in the light. He lifted me so that I was sitting in the mud across from him, knee to knee and soul to soul. “I can control it,” he whispered, a dagger appearing in one hand before he sliced a fresh wound across his palm and reached for me. “You let it go, and I will make sure it doesn't hurt an innocent soul.” My gaze narrowed on the rubies dripping down his arm and I almost didn't notice as he cut a matching line into my hand before pressing our wounds together.

The sun erupted as the storm burst out of me and there was only us. Me and him and the song of our souls colliding in the daylight.

Butterflies of light danced at the edges of my vision as I sat before him. Our hands clasped together, the magic passed through our bodies and the rain fell in a deluge that soaked us to the bone. I pressed my brow to his, inhaling his scent of sandalwood and dragon's blood. I let him cloud my senses, absorb my thoughts, as he pressed his free hand to my face. His thumb stroked my cheek and I felt a smile like a warning bell pull at the corners of my lips.

And I saw us, saw us sitting atop golden thrones, books and scrolls passed like secrets while he held my hand in his.

I blinked and we were lying in bed amongst the clouds, limbs tangled beneath the sheets and bliss reflected in our faces.

I blinked again. My male was sitting at a desk, his chair turned to the side so his hands could roam my pregnant belly as I stood beside him and smiled.

Images of a life, a promise of eternity, played out before my eyes and all the while the melody of us swelled in my ears. I could hear the inevitable end, fast approaching even as the magic was siphoned out of me and my body was healed.

The sun was still setting.

The beginning was the end.

Fate had already been written.

And I knew it wasn't fair, but I knew that what was broken inside of me was too much for anyone to have to bear. It could never be undone, I would never be whole as I appeared in those visions of the future, and I would always be a burden to this male made of magic and sunshine. My wings were stuck - clipped before I'd ever had the chance to fly.

It was not for myself that I reached for the knife he'd discarded in the dirt beside us. It was for him, to free him from my shattered melody so that he would never know hardship at my hands. Music sang between our souls, but even that could not overcome all that lay between us.

Fast as lightning, I turned the dagger to my own heart - only for the Lord of Night to grasp my wrist and twist until I let go of the blade. A hiss of outrage slipped from my throat as I flashed my teeth at the male. “Let the fire fly away,” I snarled and his expression softened. I growled with frustration.

Words! They were just words and yet my tongue was a foreign entity in my mouth. A stranger that refused to translate and my mind was a cage around me. A collection of colors with no discernable pattern and the rain slowed until it stopped.

I closed my eyes as the flames in my lungs turned to flowers blooming up my throat and I choked on the petals. My male cupped my face in his hands as words drifted out of me like dandelion fluff and I wondered if he could see them fly away like clouds of wishes into the summer sky.

He looked at me like I was a miracle.

I looked at him as if I were already dead.

“They threw her in the Cauldron after Nesta,” the Night Lord murmured, snatching his hand back as I reached for the dagger once more. “It broke her mind like it took the Queen's youth and beauty.”

“Gems dance in the light,” I growled, lunging for a nearby sword only for my male to wrap his body around me, pinning my arms to my sides.

“What was broken can be healed,” He whispered fiercely into my ear and the song between us thrummed in answer. “And if not healed, then accommodated. You are mine, body, soul, and fractured mind. So be mine, my Wild Heart.”

“Wild Heart,” I answered, my voice as soft as a diminuendo and I closed my eyes to listen. The war was ending, the songs were changing. And this male in my arms was a sunrise of possibility that I reached for in the dark. A thread of gold that guided me towards the light - that I followed through the fire and shadows until I emerged, reforged into something new, something to behold.

Wild Heart, he called me - and it felt like the name of a young god pulling me out of hell and into the light of day.

A human soul, a shattered mind, locked within a fae body - but these things did not feel like a weight around my heart while I was cocooned within his arms. It felt like strength, like the promise of another sunrise and another sunset and an eternity to learn how to unclip my wings. It did not feel like the end - the tapestry could still be altered, our fates were not yet sealed.

We were a beautiful story, waiting to be told.

And this…

This was only the beginning.

#fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar #ao3 #helion spell cleaver #helion x oc #helion #helion acotar #hurt/comfort #angst #emotional hurt/comfort #mates #hope #music #disabled character #aphasia #driven by character not plot #character exploration

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libraryraccoon · 5 months ago

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Overblot!OC (and some lore) [TW : bad english, it's not my first language, Major Character Death]

Spencer Crow Tsukimi come from a world where magic exist, but nobody is born with. You learn magic with books, you use magic through rituals, by reciting spells, by making potions, or by making a deal with a supernatural entity.

When he end up in that twisted world, he didn't remember how he came here.

He didn't know that searching the how and the why would do this.

Crowley was always giving him things to do, his duties as director, and forcing Spencer to do them.

The drops started falling every time Crowley asked him to do it after Azul's Overblot.

Ace, Deuce and Grim were always making problem, and all the blame was always on Spencer. Even when he wasn't there when they caused trouble.

The drops were falling every time this happened after Jamil's Overblot.

The Overblots' injuries left him with scars that refused to go away. Many stared at him because of this, and he was advised to cover them with makeup to hide them; but Spencer preferred to keep them in plain sight. (A reminder of what they had done to him.)

The drops fell with every negative comment/'advice on how to hide them' about their scars after Vil's Overblot.

The stains accumulated with scars, stains filled with hatred and pain. He wanted to leave, never come back, forget.

But, when Malleus' Overblot end, the night, he remembered. Remembered all that happened that night.

When his older sister killed him.

-----

They were on a rooftop, Spencer didn't remember how they end up here, but they were.

His sister, older and stronger, held him by the collar over the edge.

He remembers begging his sister not to let him go, that she was making a mistake, that she will regret it. He remembers praying to gods he didn't even believe in, praying to the Universe that he would survive, that it was in reality just a bad dream. But it wasn't. It's was the real reality.

He remembers his sister letting go of him, he remembers the wind hitting him during the fall. He remembers the impact.

He didn't die instantly. He remembers being conscious, feeling all his bones breaking, his ribs puncturing his lungs, some bones puncturing his flesh and organs. He remembers the blood coming out of his body, touching his fingers. The pain was strong, but at the same time so distant as Spencer's eyes were focused on this beautiful starry sky.

He had reached up to the sky, refusing to close his eyes. And as a shooting star passed by, he made a desperate wish to not die, to live on. Black spots obscured his vision as he stared at the sky, trying to imprint that image in his head until the black spots had obscured his entire vision.

Thinking back, maybe that shooting star was actually a warning, a sort of last resort to not end up here, in Twisted Wonderland. Maybe, if he didn't have made any wish, or just wish to die fast, maybe he won't be here ? Not knowing all this pain ?

But it's too late.

-----

He was in the schoolyard when it happened. Deuce, Ace, and Grim were arguing about something, although Spencer didn't know what it was. He could feel the Overblot coming, the rage and the pain swirling throughout his being.

"And what do you think, Henchman ? I'm right, aren't I ?" Asked Grim.

"Hah ! You wish !" Laughed Ace.

"Henchman ! Tell hi-" Grim couldn't even finish his sentence before Spencer started to speak.

"Can't you just shut the fuck up ?" It was rude, he didn't want to say it like that.

"Spencer ?" Asked Deuce worried.

People overblot for more than that, more than a petty little argument.. How pathetic was he ?

He doesn't remember what happened exactly. Just that the rage and the pain had taken over. Everything had gone black for a moment before everything cleared up.

But he wasn't himself anymore. He couldn't control his emotions anymore, and his appearance had changed too much, looking like a mix between an angel and a crow. Or was it a fallen angel ?

All he know was that he was Overblotting and that suddently, he had magic. A blood magic. It reminded him strongly of the blood and death witches spells of his world, except he needed neither ritual nor book for using it.

He had screwed up by overblotting, he knew it, he knew there were going to be consequences, but for now, he didn't think about it. Instead, he focused on his rage and pain as he began to fly into the sky, aiming to hurt everyone who had hurt him, to give them the same scars as him.

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst #twst yuu #twst x reader #twst x male reader #twst oc #twst angst #twst dire crowley #deuce spade #ace trappola #grim twst #Raccoon is writing #Raccoon oc

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screechingsandwichhologram · 1 year ago

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I've realized that i havent properly introduced my ocs yet so. here is a BASIC rundown of my ocs & who they know/are related to & who they are. im going to try to keep this as basic and simple but its kinda hard for me to do that

first things first: they are dsmp worldbuilding ocs. they have very little to do with the actual canon, but you will recognize some things. also I've kinda repurposed some characters for my own lore

also : techno is NOT the blood god. he's the blood god's champion. the blood god is a separate god

okay so lets get into it

EROS : she/it/love. she's the goddess of love, and is also a war god (War of Love). love is c!ranboo's mom. she is married to Erebus, and is queen of the end. she does very little politics, and is more into outreach than policy. she is very kind and gentle, but can be terrifying. she is immortal. she is the child of Hysteria and the Blood God. because of this, it is not an ancient god, and therefore isn't extremely powerful. she's a shapeshifter. love lives in the End

EREBUS: they/she. she's the ruler of the end. they are a very good and fair ruler. she is the twin of z. z & erebus overthrew the old ruler. they are married to Eros, and are c!ranboo's other mom. they are the child of an enderman and the god of the void. they are immortal. they live in the end.

Z: they/them. they are erebus's twin. child of an enderman and the god of the void. they live in the end. they are a scholar and a scientist. they helped organize the people for the rebellion to overthrow the old king

^these guys all live at the same time and regularly interact !!!!

CRESSIDA: she/her. she's the child of the goddess of the nether and the blood god. she is very kind and extremely loyal and protective. she is also a badass warrior. she died during battle protecting her sounder (shes a piglin hybrid btw) which made her ascend to godhood. her physical body became jewels and precious metals and stuff (why piglins love gold) so as a god she doesn't have a physical form. like if she tries hard enough she can appear in dreams but it takes a lot out of her. she died a long time BEFORE eros & erebus were even born so they never met

OBERON: he/they. he's the child of hysteria and some (probably) forest nymph. he lost his memory, so he doesn't remeber his past at all. he was found wandering the nether by cressida. she brought him into the bastion and helped him gain his feet. he was head over heels in love with her. she eventually becomes good friends with her. she's also aroace (it's okay tho cause they r lithoromantic so it works out). she is his everything. he struggles a lot with his mind bending powers from their dad (hysteria), and cressida grounds him. when she dies, he looses it and decimates the nether with his powers. using cressidas teachings, he manages to control it to a forest he grew, thus becoming the god of warped forests. he lives in self-imposed exile, away from anyone.

^cressida and oberon are BEFORE eros & erebus & z!! they don't interact with them.

THE GOD OF BLOOD, FLESH, AND BONE: aka the blood god. they/them mainly but also chill with it & he. an ancient god (original). born in the overworld. made a deal with the goddess of the nether to live there. domain is the physical body. also a war god (War of Bloodlust). often appears as a piglin or piglin hybrid. patron god of piglins. eros & cressida are their only children. was much more affectionate, but when cressida died they became cold and antisocial. by the time c!ranboo was born, they were like. warming up again. c!techno is their champion (person chosen to do their bidding and they have special gifts and stuff). they have a very strong grudge against hysteria.

HYSTERIA: he/him. the god of the mind, emotions, and sanity. patron god of humanity & the arts. the third (and final*) war god (War of Power). lives in the overworld. a slut. has tons of children that he does not keep track of or take care of. also an ancient god. a shapeshifter. again, by the time c!ranboo was born, he was getting a bit better about the whole "caring for other people thing". has a very strong rivalry with the blood god.

^these guys exist throughout the story!!! they interact with both cressida & obereon and erebus & eros (though not much)

#*in a au there is a fourth war god !!! not revealing that here because it brings up a lot of questions but mentioning that #anyway i have a ton more ocs in this world but im not mentioning them here because im mostly going to be talking about these guys #feel free to ask questions tho !!!#rain feathers dsmp #oc : eros #oc : erebus #oc : cressida #oc : oberon #oc : the god of blood flesh and bone #oc : hysteria #rain feathers original #ocs #oc backstory

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lomahdu · 17 days ago

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A court of blood and fire

☀︎—pairings:eris!vanserra x oc character

☀︎—warnings:cannibalism, swearing

☀︎—Lena's note:English isn't my first language so i apologise if i made any mistakes

☀︎—Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Celeste POV:

Another day drags by, slow and merciless. The air is thick, stale—unchanged for gods know how long. The only sound that breaks the silence is my ragged breathing, shallow and uneven, and the relentless, maddening drip of water echoing through the tomb.

That damned sound… drip… drip… drip… It burrows into my skull, a cruel and constant reminder of time slipping through my fingers like sand.

How long have I been hearing it?

I have no idea.

I used to count, once. Back when I still had the energy, back when my mind wasn’t drowning in this eternal emptiness. I kept track of the days, the days—7065 of them, to be exact. After that, I stopped. I got lazy. I gave up. I'm pretty lazy so that's understandable.Honestly, I surprised myself that I had the patience to keep track for that long.

That’s 19 years and 356 days.

What can I say? I’ve always been pretty good at math.

What I wouldn’t give to read a book. Or to eat some hot guy. Either one would do just fine.

The damn water keeps dripping, over and over, and right now, I swear I’d claw out my own brain just to make it stop. I glance down at my hands—or what’s left of them. Bone, rotted flesh, a few scraps of skin clinging on for dear life. I turn my head—wait, correction—I turn my skull, with what little decayed skin and a few pathetic strands of hair still attached. A ghastly face stares back at me. Or, well, what’s left of it. I gnawed it clean a long time ago.

The hunger gnaws at me, deep and unrelenting. It has been my only companion in this wretched place, a constant, aching reminder that I am still here, still bound to this miserable existence. I press my teeth together—or rather, the bones of my jaw clicking dully. I used to chew the bones left behind, grinding them to dust between my teeth in some pathetic attempt to feel something. But bones are useless. They don’t satisfy the hunger, don’t ease the agony that festers inside me like an open wound.

Every so often, some idiot stumbles in, crossing the threshold of this tomb despite the warnings. Do they not read? Do they not understand?I don’t get it—do these people not have a single functioning brain cell?The signs are everywhere. Do not approach within 5 kilometers of the tomb. Danger to life. And yet, they come.Well, they don’t have brain cells anymore—quite literally.

Curiosity. Stupidity. Arrogance.

It doesn’t matter.

Because when they step inside, they don’t leave.

The moonlight slips through a crack in the tomb’s ceiling, casting a soft glow on a bone lying in the dirt. A leg? An arm? Hard to tell. It’s been gnawed down to almost nothing. I remember chewing the bones to dust at some point, but when I realized it wasn’t doing any good, I stopped.

I used to think the hunger was the worst part. The endless, gnawing agony, the feeling of being hollowed out from the inside, like something vital is being ripped from me over and over again.

But hunger is nothing compared to what I’ve become.

A nightmare wrapped in rotting flesh. A corpse that refuses to stay buried. Jesus fucking Christ is really hate being ugly like this.

I really hope those cunts suffer a slow, agonizing death.

Third Person POV:

Azriel and Cassian flew through the cold night air, their powerful wings slicing through the wind as they approached the tomb—the prison of the blue-eyed witch.

The journey had been silent, thick with unspoken tension. This wasn’t just another mission. This was her.

They had all agreed that Azriel shouldn’t go alone. Not because he wasn’t capable—he was, more than anyone. But none of them knew how she would react. Five centuries had passed since he last saw his sister. Five centuries of silence, isolation, and starvation. What had that done to her?

They reached the tomb just before midnight, landing in front of its entrance. It was an ominous place, carved into the jagged mountainside, surrounded by twisted, blackened trees that looked half-dead. The air was unnaturally cold here, sharp and biting, as if the land itself rejected whatever was locked inside.

Azriel landed first, his boots making almost no sound against the rocky ground. Cassian touched down beside him, folding his wings as he scanned their surroundings. They both knew better than to step forward.

The tomb’s entrance gaped before them like the maw of some ancient beast, nothing but pure blackness inside. They couldn’t see the magical barrier that kept Celeste trapped, but they could feel it—a force humming in the air, unseen but impossible to ignore.

Azriel stayed just at the edge, careful not to cross that invisible line. If he stepped inside, he would be trapped, just like her.

Cassian, too, held his ground.

The cave was silent. Empty. Lifeless.

And yet, they could feel her watching them.

The weight of her gaze was suffocating. It was sharp, piercing, hungry. Even without seeing her, they could sense her eyes on them, scanning them, assessing them like a predator watching prey.

Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his fingers. He could tell Azriel wasn’t ready to speak. So he did.

“You want to get out of here, huh?” he asked, his voice casual as he stretched his wings slightly.

Silence.

For a moment, the cave remained deathly still. Then, from within the shadows, a voice emerged—smooth, melodic, and deceptively sweet.

“Only if it means leaving with your bodies in pieces.”

Cassian exhaled sharply. Of course.

Her voice was the only beautiful thing left about her.

Sirens lost their beauty when they starved—flesh rotting away, bodies withering into grotesque husks. But their voices? Their voices remained perfect. Preserved by dark magic to lure in the foolish, the desperate, the unfortunate.

Cassian tilted his head. “Hate to break it to you, Ariel, but getting out of here is going to require a deal.”

A low, amused chuckle echoed from the cave, soft at first, then growing louder. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was hollow, sharp—like something that had long since forgotten how to laugh properly.

“Enlighten me, Cassian,” she purred. “I see you haven’t gotten any smarter over the years.”

Cassian growled, fists clenching. He wasn’t known for his patience, and she was already pushing it.

“We need you to break a curse,” he said bluntly. “You get out, but only after we make sure you won’t harm anyone.”

Celeste hummed, as if considering his words. Then she let out another laugh. “You do realize that’s not going to happen, right?”

Azriel, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was calm, controlled, but edged with something sharp—something dangerous.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

Celeste clicked her tongue. “Aren’t I? You are the ones desperate enough to come here. That tells me you need me more than I need you.”

Cassian growled again, his patience thinning.

“Listen to me, you blood-sucking bitch,” he snapped. “We will get you out, and you will break the curse. But first, you’re going to make a deal—you won’t touch the people we care about."

She clicked her tongue, the sharp, wet sound cutting through the cold, stagnant air of the tomb. They couldn’t see her, but they heard it—an ugly, grating noise that sent a shiver down Cassian’s spine. It was the sound of impatience, of amusement, of something ancient and bitter twisting beneath the surface.

A soft exhale followed, and then her voice—smooth as silk, but laced with venom.

“Only the ones you care about?” she mused, the mockery dripping from every syllable. “Gods, and ya'll call me the cruel one. Your moral compass is seriously fucked up.”

The words echoed through the tomb, lingering like a whisper against the stone walls. She wasn’t wrong, but they wouldn't admit it.

Neither of them answered.

Azriel’s expression remained unreadable, a mask of cold detachment. Cassian, however, felt his jaw tighten. He hated that she had a point.

Celeste let out a low, breathy chuckle from the shadows, the sound devoid of warmth. “Ah. I see. No comebacks? No self-righteous excuses? Interesting.”

Still, silence.

The wind howled faintly outside, rushing through the trees like distant whispers. Inside the tomb, the atmosphere thickened, the weight of her presence pressing against them, probing, waiting.

Then, after a pause—

“You are desperate, aren’t you?” she murmured, almost gently. “How amusing.”

Azriel’s hazal eyes remained locked on the darkness, unreadable, unwavering. “Do you accept it or not?”

Another pause. Another hum.

Then—

“Fine,” the siren purred, and though they still couldn’t see her, they could feel the grin in her voice.

“But before I step out of here,” Celeste continued, her voice like silk, “I want food. Bring it to me first.”

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

The moment the word left his lips, a sharp, searing pain flared across his wrist. He sucked in a quiet breath as the magic sealed itself into his skin, branding him with the deal he had just made.He knew she felt it too on her own arm

A new tattoo bloomed on his already-scarred hand—thin, twisting lines of flame.

Celeste hummed. “Flames. How ironic.”

Neither male responded.

Celeste, like Azriel, bore the mark of fire on her hand.

She had been only fourteen when their brothers gave the order. Burn Azriel, they had told her. Make him suffer. Prove your loyalty.

She had refused.

So they did it themselves.

They had pinned him down, ignoring his struggles.And when Celeste still would not obey, they turned on her too.

Both of Azriel’s hands had been set ablaze that night, flesh melting, bones scorching beneath the unbearable heat. But only one of hers.

Because, they said, she was still family.

Unlike him.

It was meant to be mercy. A twisted kindness. But Celeste had never seen it that way.How could she.She begged them to stop as her flesh and bones melted.

To this day, Celeste couldn’t stand the sight of flames.

She never flinched at the memory of pain—pain was familiar, expected, something she had learned to swallow whole without complaint.

But the fire had left more than scars on her skin. It had seeped into her mind, curling around her thoughts like unseen smoke, suffocating, choking.

Azriel had healed. The burns had become part of him, buried beneath layers of hardened will and quiet vengeance. But Celeste…

Celeste still saw fire in her dreams.

Still smelled the acrid stench of burning flesh if she let her guard down for even a second.

Still felt phantom heat licking up her arm, cruel and all-consuming.

It was why she never lit candles before she was trapped in here, why she avoided hearths, why even the flicker of torchlight made her stomach tighten with something she would never name as fear.

She was one of the greatest witches but still haven't learned a single fire spell.

Because fire didn’t just burn.

It took.

Without another word, they turned and took off, heading back toward Velaris.

The two Illyrians landed outside the townhouse, shaking off the night’s chill as they stepped inside. The Inner Circle was already gathered, along with Nesta and Elain.

Rhysand’s violet eyes locked onto them immediately, sharp and questioning. He didn’t have to say a word.

“She agreed,” Cassian said, his voice gruff. “But before she comes out, she wants to eat.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“How many?” Elain asked softly. “How many will she need before she… leaves?”

Azriel met her gaze, unreadable. “No idea. We’re guessing around three hundred.”

Nesta scoffed. “If she’s as powerful as you say, why hasn’t she just walked out?”

Mor sighed, crossing her arms. “The tomb was sealed with magic older than our world. Yes, she created black magic, but the spell binding that place has nothing to do with her.”

“Then how exactly are you going to break it?” Nesta asked, her tone laced with doubt.

Amren, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her silver eyes flashing. “The tomb’s magic blocks anything inside from casting spells, foolish girl. Not the other way around.”

Nesta tensed at the insult, but before she could bite back, Rhysand held up a hand. His voice was calm, but firm.

“Enough. Azriel, round up the worst criminals you can find. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done—give them to her. Do it quickly.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He only gave a sharp nod before vanishing into the shadows.

Azriel returned to the cave, moving without hesitation, his steps silent as death itself. In his grip, he dragged a prisoner—a fae male who had long since lost any hope of salvation.

The fae wasn’t particularly large or muscular, appearing no older than twenty-five in human years. But that hardly mattered now. His once-fair skin was marred with bruises, his ribs—several of them—cracked and broken by Azriel’s own hands. Blood, dark and dried, clung to the golden strands of his matted hair. His clothes, once fine, were now nothing more than shredded fabric barely hanging onto his battered frame.

He had been useful once, this man. Had held information that Azriel had needed.

Now, he was nothing.

Now, he would serve a different purpose.

The prisoner’s legs trembled as he stumbled forward, barely able to hold himself up. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as he turned desperate eyes toward his captor.

“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. A plea, fragile and broken.

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t even blink as he shoved the male forward.

The fae staggered, his foot crossing the invisible threshold of the tomb.

And then he felt it.

His eyes widened in terror as he turned back, hands slamming against the air—against the unseen wall of magic that now trapped him inside. He pushed, punched, clawed at it, but the barrier didn’t budge.

“Please,” he whimpered again. “I’ll do anything.”

Azriel only watched. His expression remained utterly unreadable.

A shuddering breath left the prisoner’s lips. Then—movement.

Not from Azriel.

From within the tomb.

Someone yanked him back—something unseen, hidden deep within the swirling shadows. No—something .

A scream tore from the fae’s throat, raw and shrill with terror. Bones cracked with a sickening crunch. The sound echoed off the cave walls, followed by the unmistakable gurgle of a man choking on his own blood.

And then, silence.

Where the light of the moon still touched the ground, a dark pool spread, creeping past the magical boundary. The fae’s blood, soaking into the earth.

Azriel had seen enough.

Without a word, without a single backward glance, he turned on his heel and vanished into the night, already planning his next move.

She would need more food.

tags:@seassttar

#eris vanserra #eris acotar #azriel acosf #azriel shadowsinger #eris x oc #original character #siren #witches #acotar #rhysand #vanserra brothers #vanserra family #fanfics #acotar fanfiction

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redwayfarers · 6 months ago

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house of grief and sunlight

fandom: wayfarer ship: cassander/aisanne characters: cassander inteus, aisanne bjornsdottir rating: gen words: 1625 note: this is my entry for @idrellegames' three year anniversary event! prompt i'd chosen is paramour - expected of me, i know - but i've hardly written about cass' bisexuality and i felt like it needed to be written about! excuse the ya-sounding title lmao i could not resist also, aisanne is a gw2 oc that i've ported to wayfarer. she lives over on @i-mybrunettelady most of the time :) divider credit

I am tired of grief. I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of it. It’s summer, though, and a part of me feels like the sun will chase it away, if only for a day or two. Our house needs the sun right now. Grief hangs over it like a veil, and we don’t speak of it, but maybe the rays that come through our window each morning help.

Or so I hope. Hope’s a stupid thing by and large, because every time I hope something happens it decidedly doesn’t, as if the gods above or whoever sits and watches this farce of an existence keeps laughing at me and says, “Add more!” But I can’t help but wish, in my heart of hearts, that sometimes, maybe one day in this lifespan that’s entirely too long for one guy, I don’t feel like a tossed out, crapped on kitten on the streets.

It’s summer. That feels important to repeat to self. I am feeling a little less grief. The room around me is loud and messy and sounds jump from one place to another like rabbits, in a cacophony ruled over by the harmonious noise of music. Sanne’s the one behind the harp, golden under the candlelight, and if she was a different woman, she’d be singing in a Meissandic temple.

She cares little for the traditional rites, though. She cares little for the chants I’d attended once or twice when I was a kid. She looked at me all confused when I told her how courtly, Vestran services happen, and said, in a strange tone, “I don’t understand how people like that.” I don’t understand either, and thank fuck I’m not a Vestran aristocrat anymore.

Her place is telling stories of heroes and events long gone, to be a musical wayfarer. She’s doing that tonight. I was drunk when we first met here and she had to hold my hair while I was throwing up, apparently. Can’t say I remember that attractive trait about myself. I’m not drunk right now, however, sitting near the small wooden stage, taking small sips of my cider. The drink is irrelevant; she captures my attention more than any alcohol could.

She’s radiant and shiny, half covered in shadows, which makes her golden crest stand out. The bright sheen of her golden hair disappears and reappears after the movements of her head. I can’t see her freckles clearly from here, but I can see the ink on her neck, the roundness of her full lips, an occasional yellow in the blues of her eyes when the candlelight reflects off them. I’m not blind to beauty, but there’s beauty in a way a finely made building is beautiful, and a way a person is beautiful.

You don’t wanna fuck buildings, do you? And if you do, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Others are looking at her too. That doesn’t matter, because it’s my bed who she comes to tonight. Or is it me coming to hers? Not fucking important.

These feelings are new. For most of my life, interest like this fell to men. Part of me wonders if I’m just that desperate for any kind of tenderness in my life that my head would start making up attraction; but the way this feels can’t be anything but a solid fucking reality. Women were always beautiful the way buildings were, but now they’re flesh and bone and soul and personality and there’s something so weirdly appealing about that that it catches me off guard.

Not all women are your mother, you dumb fuck.

I know, but women have never been.. This. I think about Sanne when she’s away. I watch her practice for the performances, mesmerized. There’s peace and blood rushing to my face when we’re laughing in bed, or making lunch, or eating, or just existing in the same space. My insides get all twisted up, like I’m a kid again crushing on older Wayfarers. It’s like Senna again, and I simply forgot how it feels like to be crushing on someone this bad.

Nothing will ever happen between us, however. It would be so crappy to prey on a widow’s feelings. She rarely speaks of her dead husband, but he’s not even that cold as far as dead people go; maybe a little more than us Wayfarers, but not by much. Our living together is a result of loneliness, desperation, not a desire to find a partner again. But I was dumb enough to pretend I didn't see it.

She’s cooking, some days after her performance. Sun is shining through the window, leaving her figure in semi-shadows and catching on the ends of her shiny, metallic hair. She’s not as glamorous as she was at the show; right here is a Sanne that’s more down to earth, more solid, dressed comfortably, not worried about how she’s perceived. I’m folding clothes nearby and doing a half-assed job of it, too. It’s hard to concentrate some days over the deafening noise of all this fucking attraction confusion business.

Every so often she turns back to look at me with a strange smile on her face. “That’s what I wore to Kiaran’s funeral,” she says suddenly. I jerk and drop my gaze to the dress in my hands. Sunlight washes away its dark color in places. There are little holes in it that I want to sew shut, but I don’t have her consent to. She’s weirdly sentimental about it.

My Spire didn’t have a funeral, and us survivors only have ashes as funerary garb.

“What’s this stain again?” I ask, raising the dress and jerking my head in the direction of the big, grayish blob on the skirt. “I keep forgetting!”

She sighs and throws a full, peeled onion at me. It hits me right in the forehead and the poor plant, already under threat, pricks my eyes. “You’re horrible,” I say in mock offense. “You don’t want your dress to stink, do you?”

“I’m not burying anyone anytime soon,” she says lowly, in a tone that implies I’m hitting a boundary. I wince and put the dress down, careful of the location of the onion.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I approach, gently placing the vegetable on the table. She gives me a hard look. “I shouldn’t have joked about the dress. It means a lot to you and I tend to joke around, right, about the things that I’m sensitive about so people don’t attack me for it first? Offense is the best defense kinda thing? And I forget that sometimes - a lot of the time - people don’t function the way my fucked up head does?”

Shut up, Cassander. You’re making it worse.

Something tightens my throat, like hands choking me from the inside out. I grip the table and swallow thickly. My stomach twists up, and the smell and feel of onion fills the kitchen and I can only focus on the dents in the dark wood beneath my fingers and the uneven pattern freckles of my hand.

“Cassander,” Sanne says. Her tone is too much for me to analyze right now, try as I might. “Cass.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Picking at your scar. Stop it.”

I lower my hand from my face and grip the edges of my tunic. The edges of my braid - I need to take care of those ugly fucking ends one of these days - tickles my hand. You’re scaring people. Enjoy your lifetime of solitude, whether you’re actually into women or not. Who would want someone as shaky and deranged as you are?

Vestra should’ve killed you, if you were so determined to go back.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my feet.

“I’m not angry. If you pushed, I would’ve been, greatly so. But you didn’t. Stop shaking like a leaf.” There’s something in her tone that feels like cold water to the face. I breathe out and blink away a small selection of tears. Saltiest one always drops first! I’m imagining a little tear race now, little tear spectators cheering the racers on, tear savants testing the levels of salt in each one. The thought makes me giggle and I bury my head in my hands as I laugh.

“I’m not angry with you,” she repeats, gentler than before. Her voice is still as steely, though. “Go finish the laundry while I make lunch.”

Without a word, I retreat to my location at the corner of the room, where still wet clothes wait to be sorted and hung to dry. I put the dress to the side and continue sorting through the clothes; sometimes, I look at her, her back turned to me, and the shaking of my hands grows for a split second.

I try my best not to cry. Better save that energy for the worst of the shitshow that I know is yet to come.

I’ve forgotten that this is a house of grief and no sunlight can fix it. And I’ve walked over her grief in the same way I would walk over my own, but where I’m used to it, she isn’t. And even when we go to the same bed that night, seemingly forgetting what happened, and even when the sun rises the morning after, this is still a place where two grieving people decided to seek comfort because being broken together is somehow better than being broken alone.

No summer nor new kinds of sex can fix the holes in your heart.

I am tired of grief. I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s everloving and everlasting sake, I’m so tired of it.

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #wayfarer mc #inspo birb has come to town #cassander inteus #aisanne bjornsdottir #elf oc #my writing #wayfarer fic #wayfarer writing #wanted bisexuality.. got bisexuality and anxiety #two for the price of one!#also opinions written about here are not mine! i am not my characters!#just so we're clear. i am not my character. neato? neato #i know y'all are nice about it but i feel like it needs to be here #also i will cheat and use my europe timezone to post this now bc it's the 9th <3 #wfr anniversary

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dizzydoyer · 1 month ago

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The Housing Association AU

Okay, so instead of this being a true "Alternate Universe" where all the characters are different looking or act in their own way. This is not that. Everybody is the exact same and acts as they always would.

The biggest thing is Wally. He is the leader of the housing association and most importantly isn't innocent. Unfortunately he has the most restrictions of anyone in/of Home.

Home was a physical theater house built on top of an elder God. Miles deep under the earth, seeping into ground water and way in the middle of nowhere. Wally's family owned the land originally, therefore he is the current caretaker and vessel of Home itself.

Any and all OCs that are added send an application looked over by Wally. It is up to Home ultimately on who to keep, but Wally conducts the interviews. First by phone, then in person if they are accepted. The secondary interview is pure formality. YOU (that oc or whoever else) are supposed to think you're able to leave. That's kind of the main point.

Once anyone new is in town then it's show time. Everyone pretends everything is normal, and they are who they are.

Howdy knows how Howdy is supposed to act and who he is as a person. As does everyone else. They know their character, and everyone is in character. But don't think they are actors.

You start as a human being applying to a new home in the 70's. You find and explore an abandoned theater, which is covered in Welcome Home branding. Not long after exploring the floor falls out. Just like Alice off to Wonderland, you are spit out in the world of Home. You are now a puppet. But you know you've always been a puppet. You don't have teeth. You don't bleed. If you ever think or ever question if you were anything other than that? You get headaches, nausea, and vision that blurs like a television set. You are a thread and cotton puppet made with love by Home. But Home does not tell you that, you remember your character and story. You just moved here after all.

Wally was born into this. He father died a failed puppeteer that drug his mother into this. They died young, Wally doesn't remember them. Sometimes he wonders if this all didn't start with him and that his parents were a fantasy. Not that he particularly cares.

You cannot die. Not unless Home does not want to play with you anymore. You have wooden bones, your real flesh and blood is slowly rotting away to feed Home. It spits out your mind like leftovers.

If You or any other neighbor figures out what's going on or plain can't take pretending everything is okay anymore you are sent on "vacation".

Wally is overtaken by Home and talks to you about it. Home is your friend. Home only wants you to be happy and why aren't you smiling? Home is always willing to provide. If you can't be convinced? You get a dip in the blood of Home (that black goo Wally is filled with) and start over. When you come back you were on vacation and can't wait to see your neighbors! They all missed you so much. How long Home keeps you for depends on until you learn your lesson. You can always be a better you.

Consider this your brand new eternal hell.

Those that are an animal: Barnaby, Poppy and Howdy are products of Home. They exist within Home's world, they are the only ones that can actually leave. But why do that? The only reason Poppy might is because she feels bad and tries to make other's lives better, unfortunately she tends to crack under the pressure.

They can die. They can bleed. Unlike you. But sometimes it's easier to forget. Think of them like demons, but not.

If you have questions, I always have answers.

#personal pet projects #welcome home au #welcome home #The Housing Association #welcome home headcanons #headcanon

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justcruisingaroundrevived · 22 hours ago

Text

A Love this Deep, Won't Stay Buried

Summary: Julie's been feeling a bit woozy, but that won't stop her from having fun at this year's Zombie March! (or become patient zero)

Word count: 2.6K

TW/CW: graphic descriptions of a sick person, explicit violence, implied and explicit cannibalization, blood, guts, imaginations of strangling, lesphobia (briefly), VERY light fluff at the end

A/N: I'm surprised on how I wrote about this simple prompt. Also, this is the first time one of my other OCs make an appearance, and I'm so excited for you guys to love her as well!

Reblogs are appreciated!

Opening my eyes, I could feel my body immediately turn into a living bean bag. The ceiling fan swirled around like usual, but instead of feeling the cool air against me, all I felt was sweat. It pooled down to my chin, and I felt it under my skin. It was like I was a living, breathing water balloon.

I stood up and headed over to the bathroom. My mirror told me a worse story. While being correct about the excessive amount of sweat, what wasn’t accounted for was the rest of my body being in a similar state. My hair was in some sort of bird nest, almost going in every direction. My eyes were bloodshot. I could see every red vein, it was that bad. Couldn’t even see myself honestly; my legs and arm shook vigorously.

I dropped to my knees, feeling last night’s dinner coming out. Throwing up doesn’t feel, well, I know throwing up isn’t pleasant, but this…this was different. The steak and mashed potatoes felt like toxic waste coming up, and the vomit itself trickled to the floor.

“O-oh god.” I mumbled. Crap, even my voice, it’s so raw. Using the toilet bowl to pick myself up, I quickly wiped off the vomit and walked over to the kitchen.

“Hey sweetie! Are you excited for the Zombie March?” My mom sweetly asked. She made my siblings and I some chicken and waffles.

“Oh…OH!”

The Zombie March. An annual event where zombie and horror lovers of the like gather at the local pier with their best zombie impressions. It’s mainly a place to show off your makeup skills, but also a social event.

My zombie outfit was somewhere. It was a crop top with a red heart in the middle. Pants were a simple oversized khaki, and I even chose my favorite shoes: black and white checkered vans.

Even my face reflected that; I had it straightened and got frost tips to pull the whole outfit together (except it was now lost to my frizz).

“Y-yeah, mom. I’m totally excited for the event.” I replied. Could barely even hide my nasty cough.

Her facial expression shifted to concern. “Julie, are you okay? You look so sick.”

“I’m fine mom. Just practicing my zombie moves. You know, ‘Rahhhhh, brains.’ Hehehe.”

“Yeah, mom! She looks more like the dead than she already was!” My little sister, Katrina, laughed.

“Shut up, Katy!”

“Well…just call me if you feel not like yourself.” My mom sighed.

Not like myself

You know, a month before, I had to break up with my boyfriend. He was just so negative, and every time I was near him, my life force was drained. All he did was complain; the new comics, the old ones, movies he’d already seen, movies that had just come out, the weather, the sun, the moon, the air that he breathed.

Fuck, not even his friends liked him, and that’s saying a lot, cause they’re assholes too. My head pulsates every time I think about us arguing over the new “Superman’s Death” issue. It isn’t my fault that I didn’t read it yet! I was busy doing an art project (which got in the state level competition).

It’s so exhausting, honestly. His constant nasalizing, him smelling like musk and Cheetos dissolving in Mountain Dew, his quick to anger attitude, even his fashion sense!

I sometimes wish he got a taste of his own medicine, yeah. Just wrap my hands around his neck and hear him struggling to rant about Emma’s Frost new look, or even better, bite him. Feel his flesh on my teeth, sinking into the skin, fat, muscle, and the bone. See the terror in his eyes as he tries to scramble away, and I just pull the flesh off of him, and don’t get me started on his insides…

“Julie, you’re drooling over the plate.”

I looked down and saw my half eaten steak was now coated in saliva. I barely even touch my eggs on top of that.

“Sorry. I’m just so excited to go to the Zombie March.”

Before my family could say anything, I ran up to my room and started to get changed.

…

“You got that shit on!”

Sydney insisted she come with me, and honestly? We’re killing the costume.

I managed to straighten my hair enough for the frizz to go away, and my frost tips are killer! Not to mention, I was able to break out my best FXS work: after studying my horror films, I accurately made my guts spilling over my belt. Not to mention, my eyes were “popping” out of my socket. Even my cheeks showed my fake muscles, gum and teeth!

Sydney was just as impressive. Her box braids beautifully woven with blood red threads. Her “prom dress” had rips, showing off her “exposed” muscles. The grand surprise was her leg: she was able to make it look like it was eaten clean, only leaving the skeletal remains. She was even limping to really sell the effect.

“I’m surprised your mom allowed you to go out like that!” I laughed.

“She loves horror stuff like this. It’s her speciality honestly. Anyways, I’m so happy you came out. I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks.” She replied.

“Yeah, well, I only thought about him once, and it was this morning, so I’m doing really well.”

“And you’re really selling the zombie look! I mean, look at those bloodshot eyes! You could scare teenagers with that look!”

“…I didn’t do anything with my eyes…”

Sydney simply stopped in her tracks. Her brown eyes widen as she examines my face.

“Julie…are you okay?”

“Yeah! I mean, I was a little woozy in the morning, but l-look! I’m here!” I chuckled.

“…I can see your veins, Julie! I know you didn’t use any makeup on your face. They’re pulsating! Oh god, Julie, what did you do?!”

“Nothing! I stopped eating the Barbie cereal, like everyone told me! Sure, I’ve been sweating a lot lately, not focusing on what's in front of me, and YES! I’ve been thinking about eating human flush, including my ex-“

“YOU’VE WHAT?!l

“…forget it. I’m going home.”

“Julie! Listen to yourself! You’re really sick, and you know-“

“FAST MOVING ZOMBIES ARE BULLSHIT!”

Pause. That heavy New York accent rang through my ears.

“Julie…this isn’t worth it.”

Looking over my shoulder, I can see H I M. His skin was painted a slight grey. His hair a mess, “blood” pouring from his mouth and staining his shirt. His clothes were slightly ruffled.

What does that son of a bitch think he can do, waltzing around here with his friends. Does he know how much he’s hurt me?! The days I’ve spent crying on my bed because I was concerned about if he was ever going to talk to me again? Walking on eggshells around him? Dealing with his friend’s misogyny, getting into fights with him?! Does he think about the many people he’s hurt with his rotting face?!

“Julie, let’s go.”

Fuck Bill! Fuck him and his mom and his sister! Watching his flesh move around his body. It’s so stiff, and yet I bet it’s so warm. I bet if I got closer, I could feel his blood running inside my mouth.

Ohhhhh yeah, and I bet his fat and muscles taste delicious. He’s a lean son of a bitch, but I bet his diet makes him fatty and delicious!

And his brain…so much knowledge of his comics, superheroes, covers, The Crow…

I want Bill’s brain, you hear me?

I WANT HIS BRAIN!

BRAIN!

BRAIIIIINNNSSSSS!!!

….

“Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod-“

Sydney hid behind a random postal building. The once packed pier, now only occupying what she can only describe as “the living dead”. The corpses surround the area, indicating which one died after they were bitten or worse: which ones were the main course.

Her only weapon at this point was a wooden stick she found lying around. It wasn’t much, but she was able to sharpen it and poked some zombies’ eyes out before they could do anything.

All of sudden, she turned to see a bystander (business man) being chased into a corner. His designer shoes were ruined beyond repair, but that didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that his body was slammed into the pier’s fence and he had to look up at patient zero.

From the back, it was still her. Just some ripped pants and some bruising on the front, but Sydney knew what the front looked like. Her shirt would’ve been stained with the body part of her latest victim. Her eyes, now cloudy and lifeless, and her mouth? Simply hanging open and stained with muscles and blood.

Sydney can feel her heart racing seeing her approach the unexpected victim. It was like she knew the perfect move, just from her first kill:

“Julie, let’s go.”

Sydney watched Julie just stand in place. It was almost a scary stillness, considering everyone was still walking around her, some bumping into her.

Her hands twitch at Bill’s direction. It was like they were reaching out to him…her mouth opened slightly, and Sydney could see the saliva pouring out of her mouth. God, her breath stinks.

Then, she ran. It was like Julie was a train, pushing people out of her way to get to her target. Sydney ran after her, pushing more and more people out of her way, but Julie was already near.

Jerry was the first one to notice. His eyes widened seeing getting closer and closer.

“Uh…guys?” Jerry said, tapping on Pete’s shoulder.

“God dammit, Jerry! Was just about to go on a passionate rant about the worst thing in zombie movies!”

“She’s coming straight towards us!”

“Who?” Josh asked, but immediately groaned when he saw the figure. “Aw FUCK! Bill, it’s your stupid fucking ex.”

Bill was the last one, and there was nothing in his face to indicate any emotion from seeing her. Well, not until she came right up in his face.

SLAM!

At this point, a crowd was forming around them. The rest of the club stepped back and watched the leader immediately get body slammed into a wooden pole. As for Julie, her grip on his shirt was immeasurable. Sydney swore she could see Julie’s nails dig into Bill’s flesh. The rest of her body remained so stiff, it was almost mannequin like.

“Jesus FUCKING CHRIST! What do you want, you crazy bitch?!” Bill screamed. Julie just didn’t respond. She simply tilt her head to meet with Bill’s eyes, and by that point, Sydney stepped in.

“I’m so sorry, Bill. Julie, this isn’t worth it, let’s go home.”

Julie simply just turned to her friend and said her final cohesive message. Sydney wishes she took this as a warning. Maybe she could’ve picked up a weapon and smacked Julie’s head against it, or push Bill to the ground and got the both of them the fuck out, but no.

Instead, Julie stated “I want to make him suffer like I have.” With that, she grabbed a fistful of Bill’s hair, angling his head to wear his exposed neck, and sunk her teeth in.

Bill’s reaction was almost a delay. His group gasped in horror, watching his ex biting at him. This was no ordinary bite: it was the type you do when you are eating. The Zombie March almost came to a halt, watching this crazy person start to tear the skin off of Bill.

“GUYS! GET HER OFF OF ME!” He cried. Actual tears poured down his face, and he was finally able to get Julie off of him.

She grabbed Julie and held her in place. Bill sunk into the ground while blood pooled all over his clothing. Josh and Jerry ran over to him and picked him up (the fact he was able to immediately stand at this point should’ve been a red flag).

Pete walked over to the both of them, and stared down.

“I should kill you where you stand.” He simply put.

“And you have every right to, but please! I think something’s wrong with her-“

“Ya fucking bet! This psycho bit my fucking friend!”

“WE KNOW THAT! This group of people tells us so, but she’s never done anything like this! I think she needs to go to the hospital!”

“Nah, fuck that shit! What she needs is a good beating to the fucking head. I’m not afraid of curb stomping a bitch.”

“Well, let this bitch go!”

“FUCK YOU! Acting like her lesbian lover or something! Let me show you both a good time, since this will be the last of-AAAAAAAA”

Somehow, Bill managed to wrestle out of Josh and Jerry’s grip and run towards Pete. His dirty hands gripped Pete’s hand and bit right onto his fucking head. Bill pulled out, but only to crunch on the bones and brain tissue. What was left is an exposed part of Pete’s skull, and an immediate drop to the floor.

Screaming. Full on bloody screaming. The group tries running away, only for a punk zombie to get bitten in the ankle by a crawling Pete.

At this point, Julie pushed Sydney away and went after Jerry, who managed to outrun her. The same can’t be said about Josh.

Now Sydney is here. Watching Julie corner another victim. Luckily, he pulled out a pocket knife and quickly slashed her face, leaving a nasty wound from her left ear all the way to her cheek. That didn’t stop her. She pounced on him, sitting right on top of his chest.

“G-get off of me…GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME! HELP! HELP!” He screamed.

He used his hands to push her body off of him, and it was working! Julie growled as she pushed herself more onto him. It was like the most intense stand off, except this was actual life and death. Julie drooling all over his clothing, and him just pushing her off when he needed to.

That was, until a pair of hands grabbed him and pulled them up to his head. This allowed Julie access to his stomach, which she happily obliged. Her hands were like claws; scooping up the remnants of flesh and swallowing it whole. Sydney swore she could see her even licking the fingers clean, she was getting into it.

The prior business man went into overdrive; kicking and screaming, but his arms were still pinned to the ground. Eventually, he went into shock, and that got the other zombie a couple of bites in as well.

“…wait. Is that?”

He looked even rougher than usual. His shoes were ripped beyond repair, letting her see his rotting toes. His clothes were ripped in every direction, some showing an indication of struggle. Even his glasses were broken, but the worst was his first. Like Julie, he was drooling all over the place, except he knew when to keep his mouth shut (like when he was eating the now fresh corpse). Both of their hands grabbed onto every last muscle they could find. Heart, lungs, intestines, kidneys, and finally, with enough force, they cracked open his head, exposing the “juiciest” part of the meal: his brain.

It wasn’t fast. It only took about 5 minutes, but those five minutes made Sydney feel woozy and disgusted. She didn’t even notice her hand being grabbed and pulled away.

“Jerry? What the-“

“C’mon! I know you don’t like me, and I don’t like you, but c’mon!”

That was that. Sydney turned around and saw something that made her stomach drop:

When the skull was licked clean, both of the zombies looked at each other. Despite not knowing their exact facial expressions, both of them immediately grabbed each other’s hand and ran in the opposite direction.

The worst part? It looked like both were smiling, forgetting about any troubles they had in the past week, month, possibly their whole lives. They were now two infected people in love; they’re going to cause SO much chaos.

#the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville #eltingville club #bill dickey #eltingville bill #bill dickey x oc #the eltingville club bill #bill eltingville #eltingville oc #eltingville self insert #oc x canon #self ship #self shipping #yumeship

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