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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 · 2 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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remembrancer-of-heresy · 2 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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vampire-exgirlfriend · 8 months ago

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All of my work is rated M or E (18+ only. If you’re under 18 this isn’t the space for you) and is ofc or xfemreader unless otherwise noted. Mind the tags. No use of y/n. You can also find me on ao3. My Misc. Masterlist is here and Star Wars Masterlist is here.

I do not give permission for any of my work to be translated, reposted, or plugged into AI.

Aemond Targaryen

they say I killed you (haunt me then) - Aemond x ofc Wylla Karstark | completed | Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy even. She has everything she ever thought she needed. Until Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy.

Paper Crowns - mafia au | Aemond x ofc Viserra Velaryon | Completed | Viserra Velaryon has never buckled under the weight of her legacy, of all that she stands to inherit. The oldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she has always understood her place in the world, in her family. But when her grandfather passes, leaving behind an incomplete will and a bloodthirsty widow intent on securing her children's inheritance, she finds herself in the middle of a war that she isn't sure how to fight. Her enemy? The boy she once loved, the man she's learned to hate.

Iron and Ash - When he looked at you it was as if he had peeled the dress from your body, the skin from your bones; you had never felt more bare than when the prince gazed from across whatever room you were in, his eye fixed on you and you alone.

You've Got My Body (Flesh and Bone) - Her violet eyes crashed against his like waves against a rocky shore and the mismatched jewel tones of his gaze had her feeling dizzy; she could just make out her reflection in the facets of the sapphire he wore in place of his right eye. Without thinking, she raised her other hand, tracing the line of his scar even though she knew he couldn't feel it beneath the knot of roughly healed tissue.

Shimmer - He was hot to the touch, as if he burned with fever, and you supposed in a way, he did. He burned for you, he burned in the way that only a dragon could, with the same fire that you felt heat your own

Daemon Targaryen

Meet Me In the After - Daemon Targaryen x oc Sabitha Blackwood | upcoming | The realm holds its breath as Queen Aemma approaches the end of her pregnancy. The king proclaims loudly to any that will listen that she will finally give him a living son, an heir, and all around him rejoice. But Aemma knows, after two stillbirths, three miscarriages, and a son lost in the cradle, that Viserys will not get his wish. Dreams plague the queen, dreams of fire and blood and a dead boy in a cursed crown. Sent to court to attend Queen Aemma two years prior, Lady Sabitha Blackwood is privy to all the queen's fears, to the anxieties that plague her daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and the pressures of court that eat at her dear friend, Lady Alicent Hightower. Stuck in a loveless marriage with a husband who grows crueler with each month that passes without an heir of his own, Sabitha finds herself preening under the attentions of the king's brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen. As the two fall deeper into a torrid and dangerous affair, the worst comes to pass.

The queen is dead, the king's heir with her, and all eyes fall on the young women closest to her. Will Rhaenyra truly be named heir? Why do the king's eyes follow Lady Alicent? And what does Sabitha know that puts her in the gravest of danger?

When It Comes To You (My World Is Deep Red) - “Is that what you seek? A great love story?” she asked with a raised brow, dismissive of the notion that Daemon Targaryen would be swayed by something so simple as that.

Salt in the Wound | completed | There was a reason they said the Targaryens were closer to gods than men; it wasn’t just their dragons that held them separate, that held them above. No, it was the way that once every handful of generations, one came along that held the ability to tear the world apart with their bare hands, to rend it with their teeth, to melt it down and attempt to recreate it in their own image.

evening star | Daemon Targaryen x Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen | A queen, locked high in her tower, a rose in a glass case.A knight in the form of a sharp tongued, silver-haired princess.A violet-eyed villain who speaks like a lover. Alicent has hardened herself against the promise of a gentle touch. Daemon has learned to taste love in the blood he licks from his blades. And Rhaenyra, lost in the fog of her father’s neglect, finds that she is the tie that binds. What does it mean for the realm when the Queen in Chains, the Realms Delight, and the Rogue Prince come together to create a light in the dark?

Jacaerys Velaryon & Helaena Targaryen

For the Love of a Princess - “Your fascination with me will be your death,” she said, arching up toward him, his shaky exhale ghosting over her face. She had no idea why she said it, though surely her mother would call for his head if they were caught, a replacement for the eye her desperate bid for justice could not procure.

The Conquerors (Visenya, Rhaenys, and Aegon I Targaryen)

Afterlife - She was not the wife he had wanted. He was not the husband she had wanted. All that connected them was lost now. “It should have been me.” The words came out in a whisper and Visenya wept.

Aegon II Tagaryen

Lips Like Lightning (Skin So Sweet) - This moment was just a miniscule light in the dark. But any light was better than none. Tomorrow she would leave, heading home to Volantis to start the new year back in her real life. And Aegon Targaryen, whoever he was, would go back to the people in the pictures.

heaven is not meant to house a love (like you and I) - Aegon Targaryen and his wonderful, fantastic, very good day. A they say I killed you (haunt me then) outtake, set one year before the main story. A birthday gift for @emilykaldwen

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sm0lprism · 7 months ago

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Bite-Sized (10) - A G/t BG3 fanfic

This contains g/t (giant/tiny content) so if that isn't your thing, then I suggest you stop reading. Thank you!

Read on ao3

Chapter 1 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Series master list

Summary: Ria awaits her impending fate inside Astarion's mouth. Will this be the end for her or will Astarion surprise her?

Pairing: Astarion x f!borrower!oc (Tav/oc) (slow-burn)

Warnings: MOUTHPLAY WARNING!!! If you are uncomfortable with mouthplay or vore-ish themes, then DO NOT read this chapter! No actual vore occurs but mouthplay is VERY prominent and makes up the majority of this chapter. Swearing/course language.

Word count: 2.5k

EDIT: shoutout to my good friend @smolgloves for coming up with one of the ideas for this chapter!! (you know which one hehe)

It took every fibre in her being not to scream as Astarion’s lips passed over her body, pulling her inside his open maw. Before her eyes could adjust to the change in lighting, she was suddenly pressed to the roof of his mouth as he took a loud gulp and swallowed the remaining beer from his cup. She remained motionless as the giant fleshy muscle held her in place, all she could do was watch in terror as the liquid disappeared down his cavernous throat in a matter of seconds. All it would take was one swallow, and she would disappear down his gullet too.

His tongue suddenly relaxed, the beer now gone down his throat, and she found herself lying on the expanse of his wet, warm tongue. The scent of beer was heavy in the air, but it chilled her to the bone when she could also smell the metallic scent of blood hanging evidently in his mouth too. Tears burned her eyes and she stifled a sob. Her breathing came out in raspy gasps as dread hooked its claws into her once more as she attempted to process what was happening.

Gods, is he going to eat me?! Will I die like this?

Her mind immediately flickered back to when she had first met Astarion, how he had been so intent on eating her, how he had tasted her blood, running his tongue over her arms, and held her squirming in his cold fist like she was nothing but a mere piece of meat ready to be eaten. Fear clung fiercely to her heart and it quickly spread to the rest of her body like wildfire, smothering any other rational thought that was left in her brain. How could she sit idly, inside a vampire’s mouth, and not do anything? If she didn’t do something right now, she could be taking a trip down his throat very soon. She refused to wait around to see what would happen if she chose to remain idle.

My dagger.

As soon as the thought struck her brain, she hastily reached for her tiny dagger that Dammon had so carefully crafted and gripped it firmly in her trembling fist. Without a second thought, Ria drove her dagger into the flesh of his tongue and began stabbing the muscle multiple times as pure adrenaline clutched onto her hungrily with a vice-like grip. No sensible thoughts crossed her mind as she stabbed relentlessly, all she could think about was how much she didn’t want to go down Astarion’s throat and into his waiting stomach.

“Let me out!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, blood from his tongue now splattering over her clothes as she continued to stab the wet surface, tears streaming down her face. “I haven’t come this far to be eaten by the likes of you!”

The fleshy surface beneath her suddenly tensed before pinning her to his palate once more, an audible grunt resonating loudly from the back of his throat. In the confusion of the moment, the dagger slipped out of her grasp and clanged against his large molars before falling and wedging itself between some of his pristine teeth that were dangerously close to the back of his throat. All she could do was watch in stunned silence, aside from the gurgling noises coming from the back of his throat, as her only means of defense was completely out of her reach.

Shit. Shit. SHIT!

Now she was quite literally at his mercy.

Perhaps stabbing his tongue so persistently wasn’t a good idea after all.

Sealing her eyes shut, she waited for the dreaded moment where he would swallow. Surely after her outburst of frequent stabbing, he would be done with her and gulp her down with no hesitation. Her body trembled as more sobs racked through her core violently as she waited for the end. But moments passed, and she was still pinned to the roof of his mouth as his tongue firmly held her in place.

What is happening?

Opening her eyes, her gaze scanned her surroundings and she was soon greeted with a formidable wall of teeth. She shuddered as her eyes fell on his fangs, so large that they could impale her entire body if he so pleased. Those same fangs had almost ended her life only a few weeks ago, and now she was face to face with them once more inside the vampire’s mouth. Chills snaked down her spine, suppressing another shiver, as she recalled those memories yet again of that fateful night. However, this time was different to when she had first met him – she was alive and inside the vampire’s mouth now, and surprisingly not halfway down to his stomach.

Why hasn’t he eaten me yet?

She wriggled around against his soft tongue, wondering if he was simply tasting her before the inevitable happened. Surely if he was going to eat her, he would’ve done so by now – right? His tongue barely moved, cradling her delicately against his palate, and it showed no signs in flicking her body down his throat. All she could do was wait painfully to see what he would do. Her heart pounded relentlessly against her ribcage, threatening to burst right out of her chest, her stomach dropping like a stone. If Astarion didn’t end her soon, the sheer suspense of the moment would.

After what felt like days, his tongue slowly relaxed and lowered her down until she was resting on the bottom of his mouth again. She didn’t dare move a muscle as she quivered on top of his tongue. Seconds turned to minutes, but still nothing happened. His tongue was surprisingly still as well, holding her as if she was as fragile as glass. While she sat in the vampire’s mouth, her overwhelming fear started to slowly dwindle. Her body was still frozen in place, refusing to move, worried that if she attempted to move again, he would squash her to the roof of his mouth, or even worse, swallow her whole. While she laid on his tongue, the only noises she could hear was the bubbling noise at the back of his throat. It certainly unnerved her listening to his bodily functions, a constant reminder of where she could easily end up if Astarion willed it.

Saliva coated her entire body, drenching all her clothes until they were a sodden mess. She sniffled as she realised that if she survived this, her clothes were completely and utterly ruined. There was no way she could walk out of this with any dignity left to her name, if she managed to get out of this at all. At least it was…pleasantly warm inside his mouth. It shocked her that while Astarion himself was icy cold to the touch, his mouth was surprisingly cosy. It pained her that the thought even crossed her mind, but the warmth that radiated from his mouth could only be described as such. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. She recalled Astarion winking at her moments before he slipped her inside his mouth, and how he had looked almost apologetic. Maybe she would be fine after all. And maybe stabbing his tongue had been incredibly stupid of her, but in her defense, after everything that she had been through, stabbing him was a perfectly reasonable reaction to the situation. Or at least that’s what she would keep on telling herself.

Pools of saliva had now started to gather around his tongue, steadily increasing by each passing second. A small yelp escaped past her lips as the fleshy muscle suddenly pinned her against his teeth, his throat releasing a very loud swallowing sound as the gathering pools of saliva vanished down his throat in a matter of seconds. Panic fluttered in her chest like a swarm of butterflies as she watched the liquid disappear so quickly down his gullet, and she shivered, thinking how easily that could’ve been her.

He…he still isn’t swallowing me.

His tongue soon relaxed, no longer pressing her against the wall of giant teeth. She inhaled a shaky breath, attempting to calm her frantic beating heart as she slowly accepted that perhaps she was safe after all. Why would he deliberately avoid swallowing her multiple times if he wasn’t going to do it? Especially after she had stabbed his tongue so harshly, she had expected him to swallow her almost immediately after doing something like that. But despite everything, he was holding her on top of his tongue like she was some kind of prized jewel. She was surprised that the vampire could be so gentle, especially in his mouth of all places where his dangerously sharp fangs could easily tear her in half.

Does he…care about me?

As soon as the thought entered her brain, heat blossomed across her face and her heart almost skipped a beat. Maybe he did care about her somewhat, after all, she had persuaded the group to allow him to feed on bandits and other thinking creatures. He had expressed gratitude towards her, and he had even thanked her for it the previous night. But she still couldn’t believe it.

No, that can’t be right. There’s no way that he could, especially after everything that’s happened…

The burning blush on her face only deepened and she knew for a fact that he could feel her tiny heartbeat pounding fiercely against her chest. She needed to get out of there quickly. She wasn’t sure just how much more of this she could take without turning into a complete mess.

Gods, why me? Why did I have to suggest the alcohol idea in the first place?

As if her prayers were answered, light suddenly showered down on her small frame as his lips parted open. A startled squeak jumped out of her throat as pale, cold fingers gripped her waist and pulled her out of his mouth and into the cold air from outside. She shivered as the freezing air caressed over her saliva-coated skin, and for a brief second, she almost wished that she was back inside the warmth of the vampire’s mouth.

Before she could even process the thought, silky fabric smothered her entire body and gently massaged small circles into her drenched skin and clothes. She was completely numb to it all, her brain still attempting to comprehend what was even happening, but through all her mixed and flustered emotions she gathered that Astarion was attempting to dry her with what seemed to be a handkerchief of some kind. He continued to softly dry her soaked body, including her little head, his saliva and drying movements causing her hair to stick up in utterly ridiculous angles. Her face burned with embarrassment as he continued to dry her body and she was a little grateful that he couldn’t see her face during that moment.

The fabric soon pulled away, revealing Astarion’s piercing red gaze that settled on her small frame as she quivered in the palm of his hand.

“Well.” Astarion’s tongue swiped over his lips, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “That certainly got a lot more intimate than what we planned for, didn’t it, darling?”

She opened and closed her mouth, but no audible sound registered on her lips. How was she supposed to talk after going through all of that, and then have him say that to her? Not to mention the way he ran his tongue over his lips – although she couldn’t tell if that was deliberate or not, it sent her heart spasming in her chest. Her mind failed to string together a coherent sentence as her lip trembled.

Astarion faltered, clearly seeing the look of distraught across her puffy face made him rethink what he was going to say next. His usual cheeky demeanour soon faded and was quickly replaced with a look of worry that once again surprised her.

“I do apologise for…uh…that.” He cleared his throat, his sanguine eyes staring at her with a soft warmth that was much unlike his usual piercing glare. “Holding you in my mouth was not my intended plan at all.”

He paused for a moment, his eyebrows knitting together as he cradled her in his hand.

“Are you alright?”

Her throat felt as if it were being crushed by some unseen force, tears pricked at her eyelids as her gaze darted away from his face to look at the floor below her as she sat in his cold palm. She didn’t know how to respond, after being faced with death once again and having those memories resurface, all she wanted to do was to run away and hide.

Of course I’m not alright. After all that, how can I possibly be?

“Ria?” Astarion’s voice rumbled all around her, startling her from her thoughts.

“Put me down,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

Both of his eyebrows shot up upon hearing her request. “Ria, we can ta-”

“I said put me down!” she exclaimed, tears burning her cheeks, her face swollen and puffy from crying. “Please. Now.”

He didn’t question her further as he dropped to one knee and lowered his hand to the ground. Immediately she hopped off his palm, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand as she blinked back more tears.

She angled her neck upwards to look at him, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her tiny body as she swallowed back her rising fear. Now that she was on the ground, she was reminded once again just how small she was compared to him and everything else.

She needed to get away from him.

Before he could say anything, she sprinted away from him in the opposite direction. The ground trembled as his footsteps shuffled around on the dusty ground, and that only made her run faster.

Maybe it was utterly foolish for her to run away from her only means of protection, but she couldn’t bear to be around him in her current state. For her own sanity, she needed to get far away from him. They were still outside the Goblin Camp, the noises of the cheering from the goblins celebrating their latest kill rung heavily through the air, but she ignored it and continued to sprint towards the main building.

“Ria!” Astarion’s voice boomed from above, rattling through her very core and sending adrenaline spiking through her bloodstream. His large footfalls sent trembling earthquakes through the ground and she forced her legs to continue to run with all she had, not daring to look back.

In front of her she saw a small hole encrusted in the wall of the main building, just the right size for her to crawl into. She dashed inside, briefly feeling Astarion’s fingers brush past her hair as he made a failed attempt at grabbing her.

“Wait, just hold on!” Astarion shouted from outside, his voice piercing her tiny eardrums and she flinched from the intensity.

She ignored his words and instead ventured into the depths of the Goblin Camp.

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happyhauntt · 9 months ago

Text

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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lottiecrabie · 2 years ago

Text

to dust and bones. part one – matty healy

they cross paths at a bar. he’s out for blood, and hers beat tantazingly beneath her flesh. (or the worst people you know are in the worst situationship in existence)

warnings: 18+, power games, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, choking, dom!matty, bratting, general toxicity, mentions of drug use, oc

part one of two

6521 words

Alana shoots back the bitter tequila, licking hot sauce off her sweaty hands. Her face scrunches in pain, head shaking. Her sinuses clear; her thoughts leak out of her head. There’s ear-splitting music ringing around her— some god awful EDM shit she’s drunk enough to dance to.

Crowded bodies push against her. She sways to the beat, hips rolling to some seductive rhythm drumming in the deepest parts of her heart. Her skin-tight black dress rises up her legs, revealing inches of tantalizing skin.

Alana feels rugged hands graze the outside of her thighs. She smirks to herself, leaning back against the hard wall of body behind her. Fingers climb up instinctively to her waist, spreading across her stomach, tugging her into him until they’re flushed together, indistinguishable from the other.

Black curls tickle at her cheek. He’s familiar against her; the muscles and dips of him unfortunately memorized in a corner of her brain she hasn’t managed to blitz out even with all the coke.

Matty Healy. Dark angel leaning over her, nosing her perfumed neck.

“Buy a girl a drink first,” Alana whispers. Thankfully he’s close— too close to breathe properly, to make sense of her scattered thoughts— and he manages to hear over the DJ’s techno beats.

“Why would I?” Matty bites back, breath blowing against her ear. Alana forces down a shiver. “I can have her without.”

She whips to face him, a furious dash between her eyebrows. Rage climbs up her spine, taking over her head, and it’s only the second most familiar emotion she feels with Matty Healy. What an insufferable asshole, looking at her all smug when he sees the anger spreading through her veins.

Cheeks red, head swimming with the alcohol and the drugs and the deafening music, Alana tries to come up with some scathing reply. She wants to leave him burning, skin red and raw where she lashed at him. Wants to dig her nails into him, tear his beating heart from two fragile ribs.

“Fuck you,” is what she manages, of course, because the world is a blurry daze around her, and her brain is working slower than her tongue.

Matty smiles saccharine sweet at her. It feels awfully condescending on the cutting traits of his face. “But you have, princess.”

“You’re—” He cocks his head, encouraging her with gleeful eyes. Alana breathes through her nose. “—not worth my time. Go do your horny act somewhere else.”

She flips on her heels, marching determinedly to the crowded bar. Matty is hot on her trails, of course, leaning into her to tease, “Horny act? I barely even touched you.”

“The most you will.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Alana pushes her way through the swarming crowd, digging her elbows in unfortunate places to get an in. People turn to her with a snarling face, but most seem to back down at the sight of her. Perhaps they recognize her, with flushed cheeks and cleavage dipping low. Perhaps they recognize the man towering behind her, following her godly parting of the sea of bodies like the privileged kid he’s always been.

She finally manages to get to the bar, hands slamming the counter victoriously. A pretty bartender bounces to her, upping her chin in question. “What can I get you?”

Alana opens her mouth. Instead, Matty cuts in, “Dirty vodka martini for her and a gin tonic for me.” The bartender nods, getting to work.

Alana’s head flips to him, daggering him with a murderous glare. “I can order for myself.”

Matty scoffs. “You practically begged me to buy you a drink.”

She stumbles over the words in sheer offense, shrill as she gasps, “Begged— Oh, you fucking asshole.”

Two drinks slam over the counter. “Put it on my tab,” Matty says, kidnapping her martini and making his way out of the crowd. Alana follows him bitterly, already planning to rack up his bill now that he’s so stupidly offered it to her. She’ll buy rounds for the whole club just to ruin him.

He leads them to the VIP lounge, nodding at the bouncer as he moves to let them in. What a douchey move, she thinks, climbing up the staggering stairs, holding the skirt of her rising dress.

The lounge is drenched in red light. Black leather couches and satin cushions scatter the place. Gray cigar smoke lingers above their heads. Some softer RnB plays, and Alana’s ears find momentary relief. She bites her lip to contain a pleased moan.

Two dancers, impossibly tall and svelte in white lingerie dresses, move against two poles on a small stage. They’re languid and confident, swaying to a temperature rising rhythm, effortlessly seductive.

Matty sits in front of the dancers, legs spreading as he makes himself too comfortable. He rests the two drinks on a black table in front of him, looking up at the girls with a cheeky, provocative grin.

Inexplicable fire twists up in her guts. Alana drops beside Matty, practically sticking to his side, one leg crossing over the other to faintly kick his shin, which he takes in chuckling stride.

Her arm reaches over him to grab her martini. She places it between her lips, glass knocking her teeth gracelessly. He considers her, eyes following the land of skin she's uncovered through her new pose.

“Aren’t you gonna say thank you?” He teases as she finishes a new mouthful of her cocktail.

Alana offers him a deadpan look. “No.”

He rolls his eyes, grabbing his gin tonic, leaning an arm over the back of the couch. “Brat,” he shakes his head.

The lightning is low, casting red shadows over his face, but she can still see his dark gaze, hungry for flesh and those pathetic whines she can never hold back when he’s knuckles deep inside of her, penetrating through her skin. She draws a finger around the rim of the glass.

She hates it most when Matty gets that way, intense and greedy and so fucking clear. His stare is predatory, watching her every little move to pounce on. The game feels instantly more dangerous. Anxiety spikes; some fight or flight response she never chooses right.

Matty downs half of his drink, conspicuous Adam’s apple bobbing. She watches it religiously, remembering the purple stains she scattered around it just a few days ago.

“Don’t drink so fast. We just got here,” she says warningly. She knows why he’s speeding this up.

Matty lowers his glass just enough to offer a burning stare, hotter than she can handle in this stuffy room.

I’m gonna fuck you is written bright and clear in his eyes.

He finishes his gin tonic in another long sip, licking the last drop from his red lips. Heat spreads through her abdomen, clenching it guiltily. She flexes her hands around the stem.

Slamming the glass back on the table, Matty adventures two fingers over her naked leg. It tickles, raising the hair of her skin as she shivers openly. His palm swallows the meat of her thigh, the tempting skin she so freely offered him. His hand is cold, glacial against the fire licking up her limbs.

“Drink up,” Matty whispers, a devilish smile catching his cheek. She shakes her head, words completely lost to her.

“I’m not thirsty.” Alana’s heart smashes against her ribs. Uncontrollable thing, careless thing. It always throws her into the worst situations, leaving her sober head to clean up its mess.

“No?” Matty pouts, climbing his hand to the hem of her dress. “You look a little flushed.”

“It’s the light.” She stares up at the red fluorescents to prove her point, like he couldn’t see the mood lighting reigning over the room.

“I think you’re scared,” Matty says. He’s never been one to stretch his words, coat them in syrup to swallow easier.

She racks her throat. “Why would I be scared?” Although she promised herself not to give him an inch more, Alana gulps some of her martini to shake off the nerves (not fear, just some pesky anxiety from the lingering drugs). Matty smiles at the action triumphantly.

“Because you left me naked and tied up to my bed last time.” He leans into her, whispering playfully into her cheek. “Because you didn’t let me come, and now you’re afraid of what I’ll do to you.”

More backless bravado than sense, she grins cheekily. “It was funny. It’s not my fault you can’t take a little joke.”

Fingers dipping under her dress. Alana bites her lip, hiding the breathy moan that wishes to slip her lips. It’s useless; he sees right through. “Oh, I’ll make you laugh.” He bites at her jaw, not enough to sting, but enough to know he’s serious. She scrunches her nose, tilting her head into him.

Matty leans away, grabbing the martini from her hand. He places it between her lips. Instinctively, Alana opens them, and he tips the glass into her mouth. “Good girl,” he teases as she drinks. Her eyes snap to his dangerously, some unmasked threat that she’d spit it in his face if it wouldn’t ruin some really good vodka. “So feisty,” Matty tsks, amused.

He takes the glass away. She licks at the rim, catching some droplets as it falls down the cone. Matty swirls the leftover martini, staring down shamelessly at her wet lips.

“I could fuck anyone here,” he whispers. Clarity strikes through the flames, shaking away some of that daze. She frowns at him, taking a self-conscious peek at the pair of girls still twirling around their pole. Of course, Matty catches her moment of weakness, grasping it greedily as she scowls. “Yes, especially them. Have them bent over the other for me, cunts opened for my cock. Couldn’t you just see them, screaming in my sheets, rutting against each other?”

“You overestimate your skills,” Alana bites, though it’s mostly from anger at the unwelcomed images he’s forced inside her brain. “You couldn’t handle them.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Like I can’t handle you?”

She purses your lips, face crisping. She wishes it was true. That he didn’t have enough hands and tongue and cock to work with all of her, with the mess of hair she throws back carelessly as she rides him, with the nails digging into his back mercilessly, with the hips he grasps between heavy hands as he bruises her skin. That the rage and the hatred and the head-twirling passion she throws at him wouldn’t be caught, wouldn’t be swallowed to spit back tenfold. That he wouldn’t know what to do with all of her.

But he does. Goddamit, he does like no one else ever has.

Alana refuses to dignify him with an answer. Still, Matty doesn’t need one, dipping the leftover martini in her mouth. His breath is hot against her ear, sticking on her sweaty skin.

“I could fuck anyone here,” he repeats, probably to martel home some complex she’s not interested in diving into. “But I want you.”

She’d bite back something cheeky and snobbish, something near of course you do or who doesn’t or some other grand words to deflect. Right now, she’s too busy obediently swallowing what he’s giving her, but she’s sure he reads them anyway in the burn of her stare.

As if to plead the last of his case, he raises his cold hand to the final stretch, meeting the black lace of her panties. Alana moans, alcohol dripping down her chin from the startled jump, something else dripping where his fingers meet the apex of her thighs.

“Let me fuck you,” Matty breathes, biting her jaw, this time to sting, to tear apart.

Finished with her drink, he slams the glass beside his, turning back to her quickly, afraid to miss even the smallest of shivers. “Begging already?” Alana pants, out of breath.

His free thumb wipes the alcohol off her chin, bringing it back to her lips, forcing them open. She sucks his finger into her mouth. He presses against her tongue, heavy and undeniable. Drool sticks to it as she releases it, red lipstick staining the knuckle.

His other hand, much more occupied, teases a delicious rhythm over her wet panties. She leans further into the cushions, manually stopping herself from dropping her legs open for this whole lounge to see.

“Don’t give me ideas,” Matty warns. “You know how I enjoy you begging. All those pretty sounds you make, whiney and pathetic.”

His spitful hand racks through the sweaty mess of her hair, tugging at the roots. Her head bends, throat barred. He grunts at the sight.

Matty can’t stop himself any longer. He crashes his lips to hers, licking into her open mouth. It’s a messy thing, more teeth and spit than anything romantic, hands still buried in her hair. He tugs it harshly, swallowing the pitiful moans she releases.

Alana clings to his shoulders, afraid she’d drown in the satin if it wasn’t for his buoyant body slithering around her. She curses his jacket, bulletproof vest to the claw marks she’d litter on his skin. Black nail polish tainted red by the end of the night— but he’s safe for now.

Matty bites her lower lip, dragging it from her. She shudders in his arms, head swooping ecstasy climbing up her thoughtless brain. It must be the martini downed too fast. (It’s him. It’s always him.)

His hand releases her hair, finding the slope of her neck instead, digging into the skin. His thumb presses meanly at her jaw. Alana wonders if it’ll bruise.

He pushes her further into the sofa, practically swallowing her whole under his lanky limbs. She can’t make sense of the edges of him. He’s everywhere, invading her flesh, slipping under her very skin, to the beating parts of her she wishes to banish him from. Hot pleasure drips down her veins.

Matty licks into her lazily. He tastes like gin, which he knows she hates. He does it on purpose, buying drinks she’d never put to her lips just to spit it in her mouth. Alana can’t stand the taste of it. She doesn’t know why she craves the taste of him, faintly smokey from some expensive cigarette.

He thumbs at her clit vaguely, more as a smothered promise of what he could do than any real attempt at skill. Still, it’s enough to make dangerous fire course through her veins. She clenches around nothing, groaning.

“Are you gonna fuck me in front of everyone?” Alana rasps, biting and mean like he’s not playing her like his favorite puppet.

Matty hums indulgently. He presses his index into her clothed entrance, wet and sticky for him. “Do you want me to? Let them know how good you are for me even with all that talk? All those sounds you make just for me?” He nips at her jaw, climbing up to her ear. “We can give them a show.”

Alana’s heart slams against her ribs, begging to be let out and fall to his booted feet. She breathes heavily, head falling as he continues some slow circle on her clit, never enough to wipe from her head the outrageous knowledge that it’s Matty Healy blowing the flames.

“Bathroom,” Alana gasps, eyes scrunched close.

Matty laughs lowly, shaking his head in the side of her neck. “Coward.”

Still, he sits up, dragging her body with his. Her brain knocks against her skull as she comes back, taking a deep breath of air. Reality feels very far away from the tip of her fingers. She’s drowning in him, in the smell of his cologne and that awful taste of gin clinging to his lips.

The walk to the bathroom feels like a dreamscape maze, more colorful mood lightning and stepping over leather shoes than any tangible thing.

The room is dark and clinical. The floor is black marble, sleek and easy to step on, heels clicking as she adventures further into the bathroom. The light is low. Alana has to squint to make sense of Matty locking the door behind them. He turns back to her, lion stride as he loosens his tie.

He’s gonna eat her alive.

Matty crowds her space, pushing her against the sink’s countertop as he noses her cheek. Alana’s thighs hit the cold marble, shivering at the contrasting temperature. The tip of his fingers find her skin again, climbing up the goosebumps, driving under the hem.

Alana’s own hands bury in the mess of hair at the nape of his neck. Black nails dig into the unruly locks, tugging vaguely. She breathes with him, the only surrounding melody in this musicless room. What a strange feeling to be so thoroughly abandoned by distractions.

Tired of wasting time, Matty grabs her thighs, throwing her carelessly on the marble countertop. Her legs spread wide, welcoming him in the middle of her, black heels kicking beside his knees. Hands rise to her waist, trailing greedily over her skintight dress. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

Alana grins. Compliments are always the worst moves, climbing up to her head and loosening whatever miraculous hold he had on it. She leans away against the gray tiles of the wall, cheeky and devilish, fingers slipping from his mane to the muscles of his shoulders. “Say that again.”

Matty tries to dip for a kiss instead, but she dodges easily, turning her head into her shoulder. He groans at her childish antics, digging his nails into her ribs. “You’re fucking annoying.”

“‘S not what I asked.”

Matty buries his face in her offered neck, leaving wet kisses as he scales up her jaw, up her cheeks. Alana giggles, wrinkling her nose, shifting in her seat. “You’re beautiful,” Matty finally whispers in her ear, gently biting the lobe. She hums, nodding at him. Roughly, he warns, “And if you keep playing these games, I’ll leave your ass so red you won’t be able to sit for days.”

The threat should make a spike of anxiety hit her. Instead, languid fire pools at her stomach. She moans, closing her eyes, pushing her hips further into his. The angle is a little awkward, just slightly too high to really get anything working. She manages to roll her pleading hips on his belt buckle.

“Greedy thing,” Matty tsks. “So fucking impatient.”

“It’s not my fault you’re all talk.”

Matty scoffs. “You’ve got a death wish.”

Alana flutters her eyelashes at him, pouting. “I thought you could handle me.”

He groans, hands burrowing back into her skirt. Calloused fingers grab at her hips, digging into the black lace of her panties. He drags it out slowly, smirking down at her as Alana scoops herself up to help him. A brief ceasefire, just because he knows all the parts of her to press into.

She giggles in his open mouth, finding him again, embarrassingly giddy. Thrill beats in her veins, cunt throbbing for him, for the good part of this relentless chess match. He kisses her indulgently, shitty grin undeniable against her lips. Alana doesn’t even have it in her to care.

In the corner of her eyes, she sees Matty shove the lacy thing in his pocket. She releases his lips like he’s burned her, scowling petulantly. “You have to give those back. I’m running out of underwear.” Every time they fall back into this poisonous push and pull, Alana loses a pair of her favorite lingerie, forgotten in the endless pockets and sheets of Matty Healy. She’d consider going commando just to spite him if he wouldn’t like it so much, love knowing he’s gotten under her skin, made her change some known habit.

Of course, Matty shakes his head with a teasing grin. “No.”

“At least buy me new ones.”

He cocks his head, considering her. “Are you gonna try them on for me?”

Alana rolls her eyes, just a little bit turned on at the idea of it. “You’re such a boy.”

Cockily, he racks her to the edge of the countertop, finally pressing her against his hard cock. Alana gasps at the sinful feel, eyes rolling back for completely different reasons. He grinds into her, the rough material of his trousers rolling against the most sensitive part of her. A traitorous whine leaves her lips; she bites it shut just a little too late.

Matty whispers smugly, “I’m a man.”

What a fucking douchebag. Alana can’t handle this back and forth he coaxes out of her, always swaying between burning anger and choking desire like the world’s most on-beat metronome.

She gracefully lets him have this one. Doesn’t even come up with a jab or a glare in bitter answer. Of course, that might be because he’s sailing up her thighs, thumb pressing into her clit as jaw-dropping relief climbs up her spine. Her head falls against the backsplash, lips parted, rolling her hips against his fingers as he circles lazily at her.

He’s fucking perfect. She wants to cut his fingers clean off, curse them for ever making her feel this way. Peeking her eyes open, Alana swears he knows this, gathering a pool of her arousal to smear it over her bundle of nerves. She gasps in the quiet air, uselessly kicking her feet.

“You’re so wet for me,” Matty says in wonder, eyes locked to the way she grinds for him, dripping on the black marble.

“First time making a girl wet?” Alana tries to brat, but it comes out weak between two moans.

He smirks condescendingly at her, tracing her swollen lips with the tip of his free hand, coating her chin with tacky lipgloss. “We both know the answer to that.”

Without warning, he thrusts two fingers into her. It’s embarrassing how quickly her cunt welcomes him home, insides rearranging to make room for him dutifully. Her face scrunches, crying against his jaw.

“Fuck, Matty.”

“Yeah?” He arches an eyebrow, curling his hand to draw a feverish wave of ecstasy out of her.

She grips his shoulders, pushing the jacket off of them, trying to sink her claws into anything. He’s relentless between her legs, thrusting and circling and working magic. Pressure builds inside her abdomen. She's mewling in his neck, panting in his ear.

Matty stares down at her in hunger. He’s got her right where he wants her, Alana knows this. But why does he keep watching her like he’s about to rip into her throat? Smug and dangerous and voracious?

An inexplicable strike of nerves hit her. His fingers dip into her faster, swiping at her clit. The cold sink and his warm body and the feel of his rough fingers inside of her are too much. Pathetic moans spill from her lips, overflowing out of her. She wrinkles her face closed, then forces it open again. Just to keep an eye on him, on his flexed arm as he wrecks her from the inside. Bliss threatens the edges of her. She tastes it on her tongue

Alana cries, “Are you gonna make me come?” It’s pathetic to ask. She’d demand it in normal circumstances, holding onto his arm, a ruinous hand over his own guiding him into her sopping cunt.

But— She left him hard and sticky last time, screaming after her as she touched up her lipstick. And now he’s looking down at her like he’s got her exactly where he wants, brain melting out of her ears, begging for him.

He leans into her with a trickster smile, licking his teeth. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Never.”

He pumps harder inside of her, adding a third finger. The world blurs around Alana. She screams, digging her nails under his white shirt. Right—

Matty thrusts out of her as quickly as he entered. A guttural cry rips from her throat, head banging on the wall from the stolen orgasm. Soaked fingers fall limply on her thigh, drying the slick on her skin. He grins, smacking her cheek with a sweet kiss.

“You fucking asshole,” Alana bites, out of breath, fury swirling around her dazed head.

“What?” He finds her lips next, catching them with a biting kiss. “Were you close?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’d like to watch you try.”

Matty pushes the cups of her dress down, revealing her tits, flushed and peaked for him. He twirls two fingers around her nipple, greedily watching as another wave of pleasure hits her, as the uncontrollable rage smothers for ecstasy.

Alana is half-pissed to lose that sharp sense of anger, something to strike through the blur of him, to hold onto. Pissed that he can melt away all her hatred, make her putty in his expert hands.

He dives for her breasts, biting and licking and sucking on them like a starved man. Muted pain stretches over her chest. Alana racks a hand through his sweaty curls, gasping.

“Are you gonna ask nicely?” Matty whispers, starting that torturously cycle on her clit again. “I like when you ask all sweet and desperate.” Alana shakes her head, sloppily kissing at his jaw as he teases a finger over her entrance again. “Come on,” he chuckles lowly. “Beg for it.”

“Screw you,” Alana bites, legs spreading wider for him in complete contradiction.

“Yeah, I bet you want me to.”

Matty dips a finger inside of her, pumping slowly, unbothered by her rushing him. Her hands are everywhere on him— the mane of his black hair, the cut of his jaw, the buttons of his shirt, undone by her sloppy hands, the muscle of his working arm, the belt at his hips. Pressing and clawing and tugging at him, pleading with a silent hand to work faster.

He’s uninterested in listening, especially when her mouth still refuses to grant him the sweet nothings she always moans for him. His pace is steady and consistent, entirely not enough. She smacks the counter uselessly.

“You’re the worst,” Alana whines, head flopping around her neck. Tension builds meticulously slow inside of her. She throbs around his finger, wishing for more, but he continues to deny her.

“I just want you to be good for me,” Matty breathes, holding her head up with a heavy hand.

“Just fuck me, Matty.”

Trying to speed it along, Alana pounces on his belt buckle, frantically trying to undo it with trembling fingers. It’s a messy affair; he pries them away easily. His jaw clenches, clearly unhappy with her. He exhales through his nose. The air grows electric. Alana’s pussy shamefully clenches around him.

Matty is a fucking sight. She desperately wishes it wasn’t true, that he wasn’t perfectly sculpted to fit around her stained palms. A fallen angel crashed to Earth just to lick the vodka and red off her lips.

“Can’t you ever listen?” His hand moves again, slithering around the front of her throat. He presses meanly at the sides, blood rushing away from her head. Alana’s lips part, but only quiet spills from them. “That’s all that ever shuts you up, isn’t it?”

Alana laughs gleefully at his anger, managing a choked, “Not even,” just to spite him. He digs into her arteries, surely leaving a constellation of bruises for her to cover up.

“Fine, princess,” Matty grunts. “We’ll do it your way.”

In a second, he’s got three fingers back inside of her, fast and hard, curling just right. It’s miraculous how he manages to be everywhere inside and outside of her, how he drowns her in the feel of him.

Her head disconnects from her neck. She gasps for air, purring in their shared breaths. Euphoria coils around her belly, hot and sticky and so, so close. Sweet oblivion. She barely remembers their names, barely remembers what—

“Fucking hell, Matty,” Alana screams, slapping his shoulder with no force, missing his gone fingers. “Just— Just let me come.”

“Brats don’t deserve orgasms. I thought you learned your lesson.”

Matty takes a clinical step away from her. Breathing harshly, she tries to reattach herself to the firm reality that exists around her and not this dreamed-up land the cliff of a shattering climax brings her to.

He’s so proper, still dressed while her dress bunches useless around her waist. So put together as she drools and drips and pants for him, unhinged and unmade. How fucking embarrassing.

She’d lash at him in retaliation, bring him down to her dirty level, make him feel crass inside. She has the urge to on the tip of her tongue, feels the burn all the way to her throat.

But what would Matty give her in return? Not what she wants. Not what she craves.

God, Alana hates when she has to fucking listen.

“Matty,” she sings, finding the lapels of his shirt and tugging him back into her. She flutters her eyelashes innocently at him, licking her lips. “I’m sorry.” He snorts at her. It’s another bruise to heal tomorrow. “Please, I mean it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She grabs his cheek with one hand, kissing the other one religiously. “Fuck me. Please, please, Matty, fuck me. I need you.”

With her free hand, she coaxes him back between her legs, spreading his long fingers over her sopping hole. “It’s all for you. It’s always just for you.” She licks his jaw, biting his earlobe. “You’re the only one who can make me feel this way.”

Alana presses his fingers into her entrance. They enter her together, a delicious stretch that has her sighing in relief. It’s crowded and nasty and, oh, my fucking god, she’s fingering herself with fucking Matty Healy.

He seems to be thinking the same whirlwind of thoughts, locked gaze on the spectacle of them between her thighs, working together for perhaps the first time ever.

Alana puppeteers him, pumping their joined fingers together. She’s quick to drive herself to the edge, already so restless and aware and turned on, constantly teetering the cliff he refuses to give her. She knows her best spots anyway, knows how to get herself off quick and easy.

“Are you gonna come for me?” Matty asks, still reveling in the sight of them. Alana nods eagerly. “Are you sure?”

He rips their fingers out of her again. Alana smothers a sob, pain tingling the tips of her. She wants it so badly.

Matty sucks her wet fingers clean, twirling his tongue around her metal ring. “Come on, Alana. Don’t you trust me?” She shakes her head childishly.

She thinks she might go insane. How fitting, completely going off her rockers because of Matty fucking Healy. Her entire body is in a frenzy, feverish and electrified, buzzing with stolen orgasms. He could blow on a bitten nipple and she’s half convinced she’d come on the spot.

But he’s not going to, is he? Alana pouts pitifully to herself, cursing the chess games she plays and then has to suffer from. She knows she put herself in this situation, pushed him too far and now has to watch as he whips back tenfold like a tense elastic.

All she can do is follow along, pleading and praying and begging for a release he’s just not giving her.

“Oh, baby, it’s okay,” Matty coos.

“Please. Please, I can’t—” Alana shakes her head. “I’m so close. Please, let me come.”

He racks two hands through the tangled mess of her hair. “You’re so pretty when you beg. If only they could hear you. If only they knew how fucking pathetic you are for me.”

Alana cries, nodding just to please him, “I am. I am.” She throbs around nothing. “Fuck me, please.”

Matty pouts at her. “See, it’s not so hard.”

He pushes her from her perch on the countertop, catching her as her legs tremble beneath her weight. He leaves her no time to adjust to gravity again, turning her hips around and bending her over the sink.

She gasps at the cold feel of the marble on her tits. His hand presses strongly between her shoulder blades. Alana manages to throw a look back his way, mesmerized by the way he undoes his buckle with one hand, by the strings of curls falling over his forehead, by his swollen, red lips parting as he pants.

By his cock as he pushes his trousers just down enough to reveal it, hard and leaking, swerving just right.

Alana bites her lip, eyes rolling at the sheer idea of it.

“‘Gonna fucking ruin you,” he mutters more to himself than her.

Of course, she can’t stop herself from breathing back, “Haven’t managed to yet.”

He tsks, spanking her naked ass. It rings deliciously down her leg. “Can’t ever stop bratting.” She giggles giddily, shaking her head.

Matty grabs himself by the base, guiding himself between her thighs. His tip rubs at her dripping entrance, still teasing her when she’s near ready to explode from the lack of him.

“Matty…” Alana warns.

He chuckles. “God, you’re impatient.” He thrusts into her, bottoming out.

A scream rips out of her throat. Alana slams her hand against the counter. How fucking right he fits, curving just perfectly inside of her. She bites her tongue, bliss loosening all her tense muscles.

No matter how fucking shit this thing with him is, this, him inside of her, will always be holy.

Matty grabs her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and pounds into her. He has a wild, brutal rhythm going on, sliding in and out of her before she can register any of them, until all she knows is to moan, pleases and so goods and mores falling off her lips before she can think them.

His skin slaps against her, the rough leather of his belt hitting her ass with each stroke. Mostly, he’s silent for once, too. Pretty, mean words robbed from his throat as he grunts and whines openly. How victorious it makes Alana feel, drowning in the sounds of him like he’s not invading every inch of her. Like she’s won.

Her tongue burns. Ecstasy weeps down her spine. She clenches around him, again and again. “Matty—” She warns, out of breath. She’s learned her lesson. “Matty, I’m—”

“I know, baby.” He whispers hotly, driving into her faster. “What a good girl. Are you gonna say please?”

“Please,” she yells, face scrunching, cunt throbbing as she—

Her walls close around nothing. Alana chokes at the lack of him, too sudden and too quick for her to register until it’s too late. Matty robbed her of an astronomical orgasm again.

She lays there pitiful, pillaged of all fight. Her cheeks feel wet and scratchy and— oh, God, she’s actually crying.

“Oh, baby,” Matty coos, taking her arms and dragging her into the warmth of his body. Her head rolls on his shoulder, letting him play her like his favorite ragdoll. He wipes at her tears. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s too much.”

“You can handle it.” He grabs a handful of her tits, using his other hand to guide her vision to the bathroom mirror. “Look at you,” he whispers. “Look how fucking beautiful you look.”

Alana’s hair is a nest, pretty layers tangled around her face. Her face is flushed; eyeliner dripping down her eyes, lipstick smearing her chin, cheeks red from leftover blush and those pathetic tears. Her chest is blotched scarlet, freckles of growing bruises littering her skin. She’s a mess.

Yet, Matty looks at her with devotion. I’m beautiful. I’m beautiful.

He works slowly into her. His hips grind against her ass, deliciously reverbing in her cunt. Just this is enough to send burning ecstasy down her limbs. It’s this heady mix of pure pleasure and the striking fear that he won’t let her have it that reigns over her head.

Matty makes heavy eye contact in the reflection of the mirror. Pupils dark and penetrating, watching her every hitched breath with fascination. He wants her so much, it chokes her.

His strokes grow faster. Alana whimpers, gripping his arm, terrified of the orgasm building inside of her. She’s run out of words to beg with. All there’s left is pleading eyes, still wet with tears.

Matty sees the message loud and clear. “Shhh,” he whispers. “Trust me. You have to trust me.”

Alana shakes her head. Trusting him is an impossible task, bigger and grander than he’s ever demanded of her. She can’t. She can’t let herself.

He snaps inside of her, cruel and relentless, building her back to that epic cliff. He noses the side of her neck, moaning over and over, “Just trust me. Come on, baby. You have to trust me.” He licks her cheek, shushing in her ear. "Just trust me. Just trust me."

She thinks it’s the meanest he’s ever been with her. Demanding her to trust him at her most vulnerable when it’s him— and it’s her— and she can’t— and she has to.

He's irredeemably cruel. Doesn't he know that he's asking the world of her? How can he ask her to just trust him?

Still, that incessant burning edge. Pression building in her stomach. He presses over her belly, cooing, “Pretty girl.”

She wants it so bad. She wants him so bad. He'll give it to her. She just has to believe that he'll—

Her face scrunch and—

Wiping waves of oblivion. Her head falls into his shoulder, jaw growing slack. Hot, white pleasure strikes the deepest parts of her. Her fingertips buzz, oxygen just a little sweeter, just a little lighter.

Her brain loses all coherent thoughts. She’s a mess of burning fire, licking up her limbs, screaming uselessly Matty, Matty, Matty. It’s all her heart can chant, crashing down a cliff. She smashes to the ground, gracelessly and furiously. Doesn’t stick any kind of landing; just pure, unfiltered ecstasy.

This is why Alana falls into him all the time. Why she keeps this ridiculous tango, choking and poisonous. For the momentary relief of not existing, of just being a body in his skillful hands. She purrs, relieved of any burden, relieved of him, even.

Matty follows quickly after her, spilling inside of her with the sweetest moans she’s ever heard. She laughs happily, gravity still very far from her.

He lingers inside of her, dropping his head on her shoulder, breathing heavily against her naked skin.

“Fuck, Alana.”

“Fuck, Matty.” He chuckles, rubbing his forehead lazily against her. Alana peeks one eye open, nervously watching the ruins of them after their catastrophic pass through each other. “We’re a mess,” she laughs.

It’s always strangely like this when they’re done. Light and breezy. Easy.

Matty smirks, kissing her shoulder. “Mostly you.”

She slaps him, laughing an offended gasp. “Shut up!”

He thrusts out of her. Cum leaks down her thighs, which only makes her vaguely blush. Matty tucks himself back in his trousers, buckling his belt. He works at his half-unbuttoned shirt next, then his forgotten jacket kicked at their feet. Alana watches him solemnly.

When he’s done with himself, he turns her back to him. With gentle fingers, rough at the tips but oh so careful with her, he lowers the skirt of her dress, raising the cups over her bare breasts again. It’s weird to have him like this. Sort of sweet.

He kisses her nose, then smiles ruefully. “See ya.”

Alana frowns as he steps away from her. “What? That’s it?”

He looks back at her, tightening his tie. He arches a bored eyebrow. “What? Did you want to suck my dick clean?”

Alana’s lips part in affront. Fucking Matty Healy. Asking her to trust him just to slap her in the face. She can't believe she considered him any kind of sweet. Considered them anything but an unwatchable forest fire spreading in front of their very eyes.

“Only to bite it off,” she spits, fists clenching in anger.

He smirks. “Kinky.” He opens the door, stepping through. It slams behind him.

It’s dark and cold in the bathroom. Alana crosses her arms, craving a drink and a cigarette. God, she’s a fucking mess.

#THIS IS FOUL #terrible people being terrible and sexy together!!#goodluck yall #matty healy smut #matty healy #matty healy x reader #matty healy imagine #the 1975 #the 1975 smut #imagine #smut #writing #to dust and bones #ewb

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screechingsandwichhologram · 1 year ago

Text

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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asnowdriftsomewhere · 14 days 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 · 1 month 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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redwayfarers · 3 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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