#they are sometimes a shadow in a cloak or the cloak itself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soursherbat · 13 days ago

Text

LAMB X BISHOP MASTERPOST YEAAAA!!!

(original template link)

this genuinely took me so long but i needed to explore my ship dynamics with ramzi and his bishops! more details under the cut if you want to know more- warning this post is LONG!!!:

[edit: i was obviously rlly sleep deprived while writing this so im editing it for better readability, including using more consistent pronouns for everyone bc reading it back this post. was very hard to parse 💀]

in order, just adding notes and addendums :3c im super sleep deprived so im trying my best but i need to yap about them

ramzi's pronouns are it/he/they!

narinder;

initially a very slow burn relationship, this sheet shows them at their peak. it takes a very long time for the lamb to forgive narinder, and vice versa, but once they're over their differences they're committed.

notes;

he/they for narinder :3c he's bisexual with a preference for masc presenting people! (using he/him for this post)

prefers to be the big spoon but will allow ramzi to take that spot if it really insists on it

reaallly loves to wear the lamb's fleeces and cloaks (the only clothing of theirs that will fit him) but is too proud to directly ask for them

narinder really does not like most people- the only ones he usually socializes with are ramzi and his siblings, possibly a follower he can tolerate for a few minutes. if ramzi is talking to others while narinder is shadowing him he tends to just flick his tail and sulk quietly until his lamb gives him attention again

narinder isn't great with words, he prefers to show ramzi his love with physical affection (in private) and acts of service, while ramzi is more than willing to shower narinder with loving words and acts of devotion

ramzi refuses to confess its feelings to narinder first, full stop. narinder waits and waits, but eventually gives in and tells ramzi how he feels first- ramzi is still feeling bitter and betrayed by narinder, not appreciating them snatching it from its peaceful death to be a tool in his games. they're both incredibly conflicted, it takes a long while for them to work their differences out. its not something that can be solved with a single conversation, but eventually they come to terms with everything that's happened and make amends

ramzi wouldn't actually squash the bug- it'd prefer to just grab it and take it out of whatever space its invaded, narinder will just smack it and be done with it

im just applying the driving one if i ever make a modern au lmfao

narinder cannot cook to save his damn life after being locked up for so long- ramzi had to learn quickly being raised by ratau, i'll be real i dont think that rat knows how to cook

that prickly cat would prefer not to show his love for the lamb in public, but he might sneak a kiss while no one is looking... ramzi however doesn't care, though it does like to fluster narinder a little by flirting while others are around

these two would kill for each other, narinder is practically begging the lamb to let him do so actually- nari is described as the lamb's shadow (affectionately) by most because of how often he's seen just following it around the cult. god help you if you confess your love to the lamb while he's around- though ramzi does get pretty jealous if it sees anyone making eyes at his special kitty...

nari is 4,000 years old virgin to me lmao. ramzi has had a few relationships before narinder, it actually marries shamura before nari- they're not beating the toxic yaoi allegations any time soon they were still battling their resentment around that time

i'll touch on the spicier dynamics in a dedicated post sometime >:3c that'll apply to the rest too-

i wouldn't describe narinder as being awkward, but moreso stoic and lost really. he's also just incredibly pissed off with ramzi, feeling robbed of his rightful status as a god and feeling jealous of everything its built for itself in such a small amount of time- later on he's more flustered than nervous or awkward because that damned lamb wont stop flirting with him

gods help you if narinder even sees you making eyes at the lamb. he's incredibly possessive over his former vessel, its perceived rejection of him made something in him snap and they want to possess it, even if he knows that's not exactly plausible... he's normal, i swear (<-lying) ramzi returns some of that energy, it really does not like followers flirting with its favorite cat- i'll be the first to admit that they've got some toxic codependency going on

leshy;

leshy uses any pronouns! he really just don't care that much, same with his sexuality (using he/him for simplicity for this post)

these two fight over who gets to be the big spoon, since they're nearly even in height (leshy tries to argue his branches make him taller) it makes it easier for them to trade big/little spoon positions- but theyre so competitive they end up wrestling over it

leshy can't even see the clothes he's wearing, but he likes the idea of ramzi matching with him, even if he won't directly admit that

ramzi is rarely called by name when leshy is around, it's always 'lambzi', 'lamby', 'cottonball', or any other seemingly sarcastic pet name he can come up with for it- meanwhile ramzi often calls him 'wiggler' or 'wormy'

compared to leshy, ramzi is a little less outgoing. leshy loves to be the center of attention, he loves to pull pranks and cause mischief whenever he can.

ramzi's quick to let leshy know he is loved through any means, though surprisingly leshy is a bit more inconspicuous about showing his affections for his lamb through old traditions it clearly has no clue about but leshy gets a bit of joy watching its confusion (shamura tells it later-)

these two have a pretty easygoing relationship, at first leshy is upset about his lost godhood but he quickly begins to like staying with the lamb when he learns how accommodating and, frankly, extremely chaotic it is- they get along very well and have a teasing, poking and earnestly soft relationship rather early on. leshy admits his feelings first, mainly getting fed up that ramzi hasnt confessed that it obviously likes him by that point

neither of them mind bugs, leshy actually likes them quite a bit. they'd prefer to catch and release rather than smash them

the poor worm is blind of course he cant cook!! he might be able to if he really focused on building muscle memory and focusing his senses but he's honestly just too lazy to bother, heket's cooking is better anyway

leshy doesn't care if anyone is looking, he loves his lamb! he gets a little embarrassed when they know its siblings are around, but she does get a kick out of knowing he's making narinder jealous

ramzi would lay down his life for his precious chaotic grub, it knows leshy is more than capable but it can't help but worry sometimes- leshy knows ramzi can handle itself so he's pretty relaxed about everything, unless ramzi comes home particularly hurt

i like to think leshy was a bachelor in his time... why not?? he's the bishop of chaos, im sure he's started a love triangle intentionally to watch them fight over him- ramzi however is a little less experienced in romance

leshy has not an ounce of awkwardness in his body, ramzi's a little awkward when he says something particularly unhinged but otherwise they match each other's freak a little too well

leshy would never admit to ramzi that the smell of anyone else stuck to his wool makes leshy a little jealous... another reason he likes to lend his clothes to ramzi, really-

heket;

she/they/he for heket, she's bisexual with a preference toward women (using she/her for simplicity on this post)

heket is the big spoon, no questions asked. she loves to cradle that lamb in her arms and it is NOT one to complain about that

heket doesnt lend out her clothes very often, but she likes to see how baggy they are on ramzi- she quite likes seeing it wake up wearing her shirts...

ramzi is incredibly formal with heket, usually referring to her by name or some honorific to show its respect (something she appreciates greatly)- meanwhile heket is always referring to the lamb by anything but its name, really

heket's level of social battery depends on the day, some days she would prefer not to speak to anyone, others she's more outgoing

heket shows her affection by making sure ramzi isn't overworking itself, making sure it's eating and sleeping- she knows it can care for itself, but she just wants to protect her lamb.

there's absolutely no way heket would swallow her pride and confess her brewing feelings for ramzi, she waits very patiently for it to finally get its nerve up and admit that it wants to pursue a relationship with her- after (mostly) healing her throat, she doesn't feel so lonely in the cult once her voice returns and she begins to feel conflicted about ramzi... she wants to hate him, but it's doing everything they can to help her siblings and she can't help but respect and admire it for that, she would admit that she would never consider it if she was still a god-

heket thinks bugs are cute, she'll either catch and release them or keep them in a little container for a bit (she's never beating the weird little sister allegations to me)

ramzi's cooking definitely is not as good as heket's, if it cooks a meal the whole cult is asking when it's heket's turn next LMAO-

PDA ruins heket's cool and stoic exterior in her eyes, though she can't just say that to the lamb- she'll gladly give it a hug or a kiss when nobody's looking, though

honestly, ramzi is just protective over all of the bishops. it feels terribly for killing them repeatedly and making them suffer in purgatory, and it never wants to see them suffer again- heket knows the lamb is strong, she's seen it with her own eyes. that doesn't stop her from worrying for it a little when it leaves on a crusade, however...

heket has some relationship experience, though its been a WHILE- forneus and ramzi are her most recent romantic endeavors and she's incredibly awkward about both of them

heket is insanely awkward, she tries to maintain a cool exterior but it's so hard when that damned lamb is so cute and that sweet cat mom is so kind and shaped- whats a woman to do in her situation??

she can get a little bit jealous if her buttons are pushed on the wrong day, but other than that ramzi and heket have a pretty open relationship

kallamar;

any pronouns for kallamar! though he/she are most preferred, she's very lax about his gender and loves to experiment (using he/she interchangeably, lamb is referred to by it/its for simplicity)

despite being nearly a full foot and a half taller than ramzi, kallamar loves to be its little spoon! he feels so safe in his lamb's embrace, she would never leave if it was possible

none of her clothes would fit the lamb, but he does have clothing made for it often! he'll be damned if he lets ramzi walk around looking anything less than presentable, even if its naked it must be TASTEFULLY naked- (though his definition of what that means is a bit nebulous. ramzi's convinced he just wants to ogle)

they love to make up pet names for each other, 'mari' and 'kallie' are ramzi's favorites to use for its precious husband. kallamar is particularly fond of calling ramzi his puppy, often flustering it-

kallamar is a YAPPER and she will not shut up about how much he loves her lamb! ramzi doesn't mind it, but she's often talking so much that it can't properly find the words to express it back- so it gives gifts often, knowing how much its wife loves to adorn himself in jewelry and silks!

ramzi is actually a little bit intimidated by kallamar's experience in love and how pretty he is, kallamar ends up making a very dramatic love confession in front of everyone, totally flustering ramzi (though it has to admit it really loves the dedication!)

he is TERRIFIED of bugs kallamar will shriek so loudly if she finds even a small beetle anywhere near her living space- ramzi often finds itself catching the little bugs while kallie screams bloody murder in the corner

kallamar absolutely can cook but he doesn't want the responsibility of cooking entire meals for the whole cult so she intentionally cooks like shit to avoid it- ramzi catches onto that pretty quickly though

these two need to get a ROOM the confessional is NOT to be used in that way!!!

kallamar's overprotective attitude mainly comes from a place of not wanting the lamb's image to be ruined, he'll tend to its makeup and wardrobe, even helping to enforce loyalty amongst its flock to keep its image pristine- and kallamar is just an easy bullying target, ramzi is Very quick to put an end to that!

kallamar is absolutely more experienced than ramzi, though he's no less dedicated to it. it makes their relationship very calm, there's very little tension between them!

ramzi is very awkward around kallamar at first, he's pretty indignant and a bit cruel to it during the first few weeks- once ramzi begins offering him gifts and praise she warms up rather quickly, however. ramzi's disarmingly cute appearance and dirty mouth tends to make kallamar a nervous mess sometimes, though...

there's not a single ounce of jealousy between these two 🧍‍♂️ they both understand that they're dedicated to one another, and can dedicate themselves to others without compromising their bond

shamura;

they/it for mura! i feel that they enjoy experimenting with their clothing in relation to their gender, but they prefer neutral pronouns (using they/them for mura and he/him for ramzi for readability)

these two take turns on who gets to be the big spoon, though usually shamura claims that spot

shamura loves to weave clothes for ramzi! they enjoy seeing his face light up when they incorporate designs ramzi has shown them that sheep often wore, wanting to keep that memory alive for him

they're pretty formal at first, but the two of them can't help but call each other by loving nicknames once they've become comfortable with each other- ramzi often calls shamura 'softie' or 'dearest'

shamura prefers to keep to themself, though they've grown rather attached to webber. they've basically adopted the little creature, that's their son...

once clarity has returned to shamura through ramzi's healing, they have a better grasp on their words- but they still struggle to word their feelings a lot of the time. they try their best, but they find it easier to give gifts or show their affections with physical intimacy when words fail them

shamura is incredibly paranoid and wary of ramzi's presence when they're first indoctrinated, until they finally break bread and reach an understanding, shamura doesn't even consider the lamb could feel anything but hatred and resentment toward them. they assume that he wants revenge, but learns that he just wants to help them- it takes a bit longer for the fear to truly leave shamura, but when they never feel that dagger in their back, they begin to soften he clearly isnt lying to them, he's helped all of their siblings become as happy as he can- and he asks nothing in return of them? it feels too good to be true, but they can't help but trust him eventually ramzi confesses first, and is initially (softly) rejected... but theyre not entirely opposed! mainly conflicted, for a while-

they both love bugs, obviously- though sometimes ramzi gets bitten while trying to show shamura the little spiders he's captured

shamura likes to cook but they prefer liquid only foods- it's not horrible, but sometimes they want more variety

shamura is a bit shy about their relationship with the lamb, they're the least experienced with this sort of thing out of all of the bishops- war and reason have no room for love and compassion, after all. they're learning, with ramzi's help

if someone even LOOKS at ramzi the wrong way, shamura is the first to come to the lamb's defense. both a form of devotion, claiming ramzi as their charge they'd guard with their life, and a form of facing their grief- they'd ended ramzi's life once, they don't want to see it hurt anymore

these two match each other's freak so well its scary- you dont wanna see what happens in the mating tent when these two are in there!!

after shamura's initial wariness and shortness with ramzi fades, they become incredibly shy and awkward- they don't know how to navigate all these new feelings, and they don't really know who to turn to for advice

shamura is very possessive of their lamb- they were the first to be wed by him, after all- not to mention i personally think them being a spider influences this quite a bit,

WOAW THATS IT!!! holy shit thats a lot of text.... anyway if u have any questions abt any of them or want more clarification feel free to send me asks i love to yap abt them all <3

oh boy im not looking forward to putting all the tags on this

522 notes · View notes

boobav · 7 days ago

Text

I'm not ready for act 3 😚

People go missing sometimes.

It's a part of modern life. Even in a city as enforced as Piltover, a city as patrolled and watched as Piltover- it happens. There are still monsters that roam alleys, or wear uniforms as camouflage. There are still tragedies in everyday life. Despite seeming so very distant when they're plastered on newspapers, or milk cartons, they happen. They're real.

But people like Jayce are not supposed to go missing.

Maybe it's selfish to say that. Maybe it's something that's meant to go unspoken, the fact that some people are considered more important by society. That some people have more privilege, more protection from the uncaring nature of catastrophe.

And yet, despite Jayce's renowned status, the man of progress, despite him holding the gaze of Piltover itself- he's gone missing.

You're not sure how long it's been. How many sullen days have passed, searching, even in the unlikeliest of places, for a sign. A message. A murmur would do. The weeks have simply collapsed into each other, a sinkhole of hours.

You too, following the hours, have collapsed into yourself. The days spent wrapped in cloak roaming Zaun for information have little difference to the days spent curled in bed like a discarded child's toy. Every minute is one, bound together by pure desperation, utter confusion, and endless despair.

Because how could he have just... Vanished?

Just like that, a man of yesterday. It seems that the city is too caught up in political tribulations to care about his disappearance. Some haven't even noticed it. On your endless quest for information, more than once you've received the response, Jayce Talis? I didn't even know he was missing.

But you haven't given up. Not yet. Despite the circles under your eyes, the new strain in your shoulders. Despite the ever-growing pit in your stomach. For what else is there to do but search? Even if you 'gave up', you'd be looking for his shadow in the street, searching for his image in the crowd whilst trying to wipe it from your memory.

You run a hand down your face, curl into the covers that bit more. A knock at the door forces your tired eyes to re-open. Fatigue in your very self argues against moving, and for a a few moments getting out of bed seems the most difficult task in the world. But the knock comes again, harder. With some garbled noise you crawl out the covers as though emerging from a cocoon, movements lethargic like those of a dying animal.

The first lock comes undone with the work of your fingers. Then the next. Your hand hesitates, though, as it grasps the doorknob, your mind considering the swathe of potentials, an unwanted bouquet of sorts. A sales pitch? A concerned visitation? An enforcers questioning eye?

Or- maybe, a new lead. Unlikely, but it's enough to force your hand.

What greets you is none of those things.

You don't recognise him at first- what, with the tattered clothing, the deep-set frown, the beard as messy as his hair.

As soon as he looks up, though, when those terribly familiar eyes reach yours, the confusion evaporates. Boils away to unearth a passion you can hardly hold; it makes your hands shake, your eyes line with tears, your mouth dry in wordless ecstasy. His name leaves your lips as a whisper, and his gaze falters from yours, the soft reality at complete odds with the one he's settled in. The one with sharp edges, with blood and steel as key elements, not butter and affection.

Jayce's face twists, the onset of tears, and all at once he reaches forward to pull you into himself. Hides his sadness in the crook of your neck, his hammer clunking to the ground beside him. You hadn't even noticed he was holding it. His hands run to your waist, pulling at the fabric to ascertain its reality, but he finds it inadequate. He reaches under your shirt, his warm hands against your skin, and he sighs instead of sobbing.

He's not sure if he can anymore. If that part of him survived the Arcane.

But he's here, now. With you. His hands roaming your back, your arms thrown around his neck. Like the pose from a romance novel. The thought drags some whimper of humour from him, and he thinks that's a good sign.

He smells of oil and iron. Earthy. He mumbles about how much he missed you, right into your ear, breath hot. You think you're crying, though you're not entirely certain. The sensations in your body, your mind, overlap into something abstract to the point that crying seems like a spiritual experience. Like the word crying is unable to describe the motion, the true feeling.

You pull him inside, the door slamming shut a reminder of reality, the loud noise binding you to earthly sensation. The questions that fall from your lips are boundless, piles upon piles of vocalised mysteries that Jayce can't seem to answer coherently. You sit him down, push his hair from his face and cup his jaw tenderly. Tenderly as though he could break any second, but from that newfound fire in his eyes, from the dirt staining his skin, you know such a thought is ludicrous. Peeling off his tattered overcoat and the flimsier shirt underneath reveals bruising you could never even picture before now. The curves and hard muscle of Jayce now stained purple, now scarred in places that'd been smooth perfection beforehand.

A part of him, he thinks, should perhaps be insecure of your wandering eyes, your wandering fingertips. He's changed. His body has been torn, battered, bruised. No longer made of marble, but of flesh.

But your eyes are gentle. Concerned, but gentle. When you settle into his lap to hold him close again, to press desperate kisses against his lips, against his neck, he feels he can never leave your side again. Feels an avalanche of guilt for doing so in the first place, despite the decision not exactly being his own.

Whatever comes next, he knows he'll have you. You know you'll have him. And in this moment, your foreheads together, eyes searching each others for the things that can't be felt with words, you both know that it'll be enough.

#arcane #arcane x reader #jayce talis #jayce x reader #jayce talis x reader

228 notes · View notes

connorsui · 2 months ago

Text

A Love Long Denied

Astarion x reader

synopsis: Astarion finally drops his guarded facade, allowing you to see the depths of his affection and vulnerability as he admits that, for the first time in centuries, you’ve given him not just freedom—but a reason to truly live.

Genre/warnings: mentions of past trauma and abuse (astarions enslavement), themes of healing and redemption, mild angst, Fluff intertwined with emotional themes, he deserves all forms of love …

Note: I ain't gonna lie astarion gives me the type of man who would gladly talk with you over sum cup of tea and gossip ..like yes darling tell me about the foul co worker Samantha that you hate – I can't... I apologize

w.c: 1.5K

The night was painted in silver, the moon hanging like a sentinel above, its soft glow spilling over the landscape in a delicate embrace. The world around you seemed to fall away, fading into shadows as Astarion stood beside you, his pale skin luminous beneath the moon’s tender gaze. His eyes—deep and glowing like garnets, rich with secrets—held yours with a gaze that made everything else disappear. Time itself unraveled when he looked at you this way, his usual mischief melting into something unguarded, something fragile. It wasn’t in words where the truth lived, but in the silence between your breaths—a confession that passed unspoken, a feeling he barely dared to understand.

Love, he often mused, was as dangerous as it was intoxicating.

A force that threatened to undo him entirely, to strip away the careful façade of wit and charm that had shielded him for centuries. But you—you had seen past the veneer. Seen the man behind the mask, the one buried beneath layers of pain and self-preservation. It was terrifying to be so exposed, to be so thoroughly known. And yet, what terrified him more was how deeply he now craved it—craved you.

The rogue would never admit it—not in a thousand lifetimes—but the moment your touch met his, a thrill so sharp, so visceral, rushed through him that he swore, for an instant, his heart beat again.

A beat meant only for you.

“You’re staring again, Astarion ” you teased, your voice a soft murmur as you turned to catch his gaze.

Astarion’s smirk flickered into place, quick as lightning—effortless, practiced—but beneath it, something flickered. A brief hesitation, like a shadow darting through the light. He leaned against a nearby tree, arms folding across his chest with the lazy grace of someone who seemed to command the world around him, yet cared for none of it.

“Am I?” he purred, his tone velvet-soft. “Can you blame me? After all, I’m simply admiring a rare and priceless beauty. It would be a crime to do otherwise.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, you know,” you replied, arching an eyebrow playfully as a smile danced on your lips. “But I suppose it’s nice to be appreciated. Just don’t forget that I’m not as easily swayed as your usual admirers.”

Astarion chuckled, a low and smooth sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “Oh, darling, I would never dream of underestimating you. In fact, that’s what makes you all the more intriguing.”

You rolled your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but there was no denying the warmth blooming in your chest. It was a feeling that had grown with each passing day—a gentle flutter that accompanied moments like this, when his affection, though cloaked in jest, revealed itself in the spaces between words. Behind the veil of his playful flirtations, there was something else—a quiet truth that surfaced in glimpses, like sunlight breaking through the cracks of a long-forgotten temple.

Astarion had lived behind pretense for so long—surviving on wit, charm, and carefully crafted words that kept others at bay. But for you—for the one who had broken through the walls he had spent centuries building—he found himself wanting to be known. Not as a game, not as a means to an end, but as the man beneath it all. Flawed, fragile, and desperately human.

Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, when the world was still and you lay beside him, he would watch the rise and fall of your chest, your breath steady and comforting. Those were the moments when Astarion allowed himself to feel it fully—allowed the emotion to flood him without shame. He marveled at how the warmth of your body bled into his, even when he himself no longer held such warmth. He was cold, yes, but you

... you were a flame.

A flame so heavily enticing that made him feel as if the meaning of being alive was far greater than the touch of the sun.

And yet that thought both thrilled and terrified him. For years beyond counting, Astarion had been shackled—body, mind, soul. He had been a creature of darkness, bent to the will of others, his own autonomy a distant memory. Then you had come along, a spark of light in the gloom, and he had tasted freedom for the first time in centuries. It was because of you he now walked free. And what a strange thing freedom was. How it made him yearn for more than just survival. It made him yearn for you.

One evening, beneath the stars, the two of you found yourselves alone, away from the others. The air was cool and crisp, and a gentle wind stirred the trees. Astarion, true to form, was weaving one of his fantastical tales—a story spun from equal parts truth and exaggeration, designed to amuse and distract. But tonight, there was a seriousness to him, something unspoken but weighty between the lines of his words.

You listened, smiling at his antics, but you knew him well enough by now to see the shifts in his manner. The way his eyes darted to yours, lingering just a second too long, the way his voice, though playful, held a tremor. And then, he fell silent. The kind of silence that stretched and expanded, until it filled the space between you with unspoken things.

Finally, you spoke softly, breaking the stillness. “You have been silent for so long…I know that mind of yours must have something to say? —”

He hesitated. A moment of vulnerability flickered across his face before the mask fell away, if only for a second. His eyes—once so sharp and predatory—softened as he gazed at you.

“Astarion? –”

“ — My apologies, my love, but you’ve given me something I never thought I would have again,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. “A feeling such as freedom...”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. For so long, Astarion had been defined by his chains, by the weight of a past that refused to let him go. But with you, he had tasted something new. Something precious.

“But I suppose it's more than that,” he continued, stepping closer, his hand reaching out, though he stopped just shy of touching you. “It’s not just freedom you’ve given me. It’s… it’s life. A reason to want to keep living. To truthfully enjoy it as it is”

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice, the sincerity that was so rare for him to reveal. You reached for him then, taking his hand in yours. His fingers were cool, but they tightened around yours with a desperation that belied his usual bravado.

“And I'll admit I never expected this,” Astarion admitted, his gaze locked on your entwined hands. “ — To feel that is .. about anyone, after so long.”

“Astarion...” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion as you tightened your grip on his hand. “You deserve this—you deserve to feel loved, to feel free. No matter what you’ve been through, none of that defines who you are now.”

You stepped closer, closing the final space between you, your free hand gently cupping his cheek. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a shuddered breath escaping him as though the weight of your words had lifted something he hadn’t realized he was still carrying.

“Let yourself have this,” you murmured, your forehead now resting against his. “Let yourself feel it—feel us. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is this.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and for a moment, there was no pretense, no mask. Just him. And in that moment, you saw the depth of his love—the love he was still learning to express, still learning to accept for himself. It was a love that scared him because it made him vulnerable. But it was also a love that he had come to crave, more than he had ever craved anything in his long, dark existence.

Over time, Astarion’s love for you grew. Not in the sudden, burning way that love often does, but in slow, steady increments—like the tide rising against the shore. It was a love that surprised him in its constancy, in its ability to endure even in the face of his own fears and insecurities.

He had learned to show it in small ways. In the way, he would linger by your side just a moment longer than necessary. In the way his hand would find yours, even in the quietest moments. In the way he would watch you, when he thought you weren’t looking, with an expression that could only be described as awe.

And though he would never say it aloud, not in a thousand years, Astarion knew, deep down, that he had never loved anyone the way he loved you. You were the first to break through the walls he had built, the first to show him that he could be more than what he had been made to be. And for that, he would be forever grateful.

191 notes · View notes

decagondice · 1 month ago

Text

༓ Foul & Fair ༓

༓ 'The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.' [Macbeth, William Shakespeare]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Wife!Reader

༓ Synopsis. In a kingdom ruled by the feared and ruthless King, his reserved queen harbours a deadly secret. Devoted to her husband and his reign, she begins to punish those who defy him in the shadows, her hands stained with blood he never commanded her to spill. As guilt consumes her, she spirals deeper into madness, terrified of what Sukuna will do if he discovers the truth. But Sukuna, the King of Curses, knows far more than she realises. In a chilling confrontation, she must face the dark question: Does Sukuna's love run as deep as her sins, or is there something far more dangerous waiting in the shadows?

༓ Content. Inspired by Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' (Very loosely), sfw, Dark romance, Medieval Era, F!Reader, King/Trueform!Sukuna, Angst w/ comfort, Anxious & spiralling reader, Reader could be classed as a yandere (?), Protective Sukuna (?), Possessive Sukuna (?), Yandere (?) Sukuna, Emotional distress, Slight fear of abandonment, Spiralling, Mentions of death, Talks of violence, Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Mentions of Blood, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 3.5k

༓ A.N. I thought I should contribute to the spooky season, though exclude spooky and scary and replace them with anguish and spiralling madness. I had another random thought, drawing inspiration from Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth scene at the sink where here reader is secretly taking down those who reject Sukuna (and his rule) whilst spiralling into chaos but he finds out. [As, you already tell I am horrendous at tagging and disclosing content, let me know if I have missed anything out :)]

[Artwork by Gustave Moreau - 'Study for Lady Macbeth', 1851]

The night was thick with the weight of silence, suffocating and tense, pressing against the castle walls as if burdened by secrets of its own. The grand, cold castle loomed over the kingdom like an ever-watchful beast, its towering spires stretching into the night sky as shadows pooled beneath its battlements. Pale moonlight cast silver streaks across the stone floors, spilling through the halls and filling them with a ghostly light that seemed to intensify the gloom. The oppressive darkness was alive, seething in the corners of vast chambers and dreary corridors, pressing into every crevice like a silent judgement.

At the heart of this silence reigned the feared King of Curses, a sovereign whose iron and stone throne stood as a testament to his ruthless rule. His dominion was absolute—unyielding in cruelty, yet disturbingly effective. The people despised him, their whispers venomous, though none could deny that under his iron fist, the kingdom flourished. The harvests were plentiful, the borders secure, and enemies scattered like ash in the wind. But for all its prosperity, the kingdom lived under a cloak of shadows, a foreboding silence settling over its people and their ruler.

In the dim chambers of your own quarters, the same darkness felt suffocating, wrapping itself around you like a shroud. The air was heavy with the sharp, resinous scent of burning pine, mingling with the faint, metallic tang that clung to your skin as if it knew what lay on your conscience. You move through the pale light, haunted by the shadows of your deeds, the stone floors beneath your feet feeling cold and implacable, much like the guilt gnawing at your insides.

Enveloped in an otherworldly pallor, the room stretched vast and hollow, its walls draped in tapestries that told of battles long past, of victories soaked in blood. The heavy curtains, embroidered with dark emblems of power, hung motionless, like sentinels guarding the space. Their once grand opulence seemed stripped bare, eclipsed by the sins you carried, like spirits bound to your very soul. Every step you took echoed with the voices of those who had spoken against Sukuna—voices you had silenced and condemned in his name, though he had never commanded it. The room spun, your vision blurring as fragmented memories of punishment and blood swirled in your mind, sharp and piercing like shards of broken glass.

Outside, the wind’s mournful wail, weaving through the stone halls like a restless spirit, moaning for the damned as it rattled the iron-framed windows. And beneath that same iron sky, Sukuna—the man both feared and beloved—remained vigilant, a dark watchful presence in a kingdom thriving and suffering under his reign.

Yet, even the most powerful rulers had their shadows.

You were his wife, the queen who moved with silent grace through the corridors of his court, always by his side, always poised, always watching. While others feared his wrath and kept their distance, you remained the only one to whom he showed an unspoken tenderness. It was an odd love, one not built on affection but on something far deeper—an understanding of the cruelty of the world and the weight of power. He never uttered words of devotion, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they did on anyone else. And in that silence, you found a bond that could not be broken.

But bonds can fester, too, like wounds left unattended.

You stood at the ornate sink, water spilling over your trembling hands, though it did nothing to wash away the sins embedded in your skin. The marble basin beneath felt cold, unforgiving—a stark contrast to the marks you bore. The faucet, carved like a serpent’s maw, hissed ferociously, its flow indifferent to how furiously you scrubbed, how raw your hands had become. The blood was gone, dried long ago, but its crimson stain lingered vividly, as though it had seeped into your very soul. Each drop of water that fell seemed as though it should run red—a silent stream of accusation pooling at the bottom of the basin.

The mirror before you reflected a woman you no longer recognised. Your eyes were vacant, dulled by sleepless nights and the weight of your actions. Gaunt, pale, like the ghost of someone you once were. You wanted to scream and tear the image apart, to erase what you had become. Your chest tightened with the growing sense of dread. You could barely meet your own gaze, knowing full well what you had done, fearing that the reflection might whisper your wrongdoings back to you. And the fear—always, always—the gnawing dread of what he might say when he finds out. What would Sukuna, your husband and king, think of you now—his dutiful wife—tainted by the very blood you sought to cleanse? What if he cast you aside, repulsed by your actions, leaving you to languish in the darkness of your own guilt?

The truth was, you weren’t sure if you feared his anger more, or his indifference.

The misdeeds you had carried out—the punishments you had dealt out in the dark corners of the kingdom—had begun to claw at your mind. Those who rejected Sukuna, who cursed his name in the streets, had found themselves at your mercy. You had killed for him, with a coldness that even now frightened you. You did it not for the kingdom, not for the crown, but for the man behind the title. The man who held your heart in his calloused, monstrous hands—hands stained with bloodshed far beyond your own.

The footsteps came as they always did, slow, methodical, echoing through the cold stone halls long before he arrived. You stiffened, your ragged breath catching in your throat. Sukuna’s presence was like the weight of the kingdom itself—a force of nature, dark and indescribable, and you, standing there with blood on your hands—both literal and imagined—felt like a creature awaiting judgement. His judgement.

The door creaked open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop as his towering frame filled the space. Even without seeing him, you could feel the sheer power he radiated, a terrifying, inescapable darkness that made him the ruler he was. He was feared, hated, worshipped, and he wielded it all with a ruthless hand. You loved him, too, though that love came with its own shadow, twisted and warped in the way only power could corrupt.

He didn’t speak at first, letting his slow and deliberate gaze sweep over you, the tension in the air thickening with each passing moment. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, taking in every trembling movement, every faltering breath as you bore the burden of your sins, and it was clear that none of it had escaped his notice. His crimson eyes, sharp and unreadable, lingered on your hands, red from the water and from your desperate attempts to rid yourself of the evidence that existed only in your mind. The faintest twitch of his brow was the only sign of his reaction.

“Why do you trouble yourself, wife?” His voice, low and gravelly, cut through the silence like a blade, but not without an unexpected softness that hung in words. He stepped forward now looming over you, and you felt the pull of him, the dark magnetism that had drawn you into his orbit long ago. “What is it you hope to wash away?”

You froze, your heart thundering in your chest. He was too close now, his reflection joining yours in the mirror. His gaze was unflinching, cold yet calculated, as if he already knew the answer. Of course, he knew. Sukuna always knew, far more than he ever let on. He was not a man to be easily deceived, and yet you had tried—foolishly, pathetically—to keep your deeds hidden, believing that the blood on your hands would go unnoticed by a man who had waded through rivers of it. You had not yet answered him, but in the oppressive stillness of this chamber, he would draw the truth from your lips as certainly as the sun would rise.

The question hung between you like a blade suspended in midair. A thousand excuses raced to the tip of your tongue but none seemed sufficient. What could you say to him now? How could you confess the blood you had spilled without admitting the fear that drove you to it? That you thought you could act without his knowledge? That you could shield him, or worse, act in his stead?

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, the lie burning your throat as it left your lips, trying to force the words out as calmly as you could. “I’ve been restless, that’s all.”

He said nothing at first, his eyes—a deep, glowing crimson that burned through the dim light— narrowing with a terrifying patience, as though waiting for you to trip over your own words. His silence felt more damning than accusation, and you couldn’t help but shift under the weight of his gaze. Still, you dared not meet his eyes in the mirror, fearing what you might see there—disappointment, perhaps, or worse, apathy.

“Restless?” He repeated, his voice curling around the word like a snake tightening its coils. There, behind you, his presence was solid and immovable, much like the great stone walls of the castle itself. His hand had moved to your shoulder, heavy and possessive, his fingers cold against your skin. Deceptively gentle, his touch held an unmistakable strength, an authority that demanded answers.“You lie to me.” His voice was dark velvet, smoothing over the jagged edges of your panic, but each word sliced through the air, leaving you feeling bare, exposed.

With a gentle motion, he turned you to face him, his gaze capturing yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. His hand, large and rough from countless battles, brushed against your cheek, pushing aside a strand of your hair dampened with sweat. The gesture was too tender, too human for a man like him—a man who slaughtered thousands without a second thought, whose name was a curse on the lips of his enemies. And yet here he was, gentle with you, the only one in his kingdom to receive such mercy.

You leaned into his touch, a broken sigh escaping your lips as your knees threatened to buckle. Your body, fragile and trembling, was held up only by his presence. His hand, firm yet careful, traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing against your pulse that fluttered like a trapped bird.

“Look at you,” Sukuna’s voice rumbled low, carrying an edge of something you haven’t heard before. Could it be…concern? “You’ve grown so pale.”

Your breath faltered, and you felt the sting of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The lie had been pitiful, and now the truth hovered on the edge of your lips threatening to unravel everything. He knew already, didn’t he? Sukuna was no fool, and here you were tangled in your own web of fear and love, too afraid to admit what you had done. But now, standing in his shadow there was no escape.

“What have you done?”His voice was quieter now, but there was a dangerous sharpness to it, like a blade glinting in the dark..

His gaze shifted to your hands again, and the faintest frown tugged at the corners of his lips. He took your hands in his, lifting them from the water, the cold droplets running down your wrists like tears. He studied them, turning them over, his fingers tracing the raw skin where you had scrubbed at invisible bloodstains. The touch was almost reverent, as though he understood, in some unspoken way, the burden you carried.

"You've stained them for me." It wasn’t a question, but a statement. His voice was rough but slow, as if he were working through something. He could see the turmoil in your eyes, the haunted look that came from guilt and fear—fear of him.

How could you not fear him? He, who had bathed in the blood of his enemies and found joy in their screams? He had no right to judge you, to be angry or disappointed. He had slaughtered far more than you ever could, his hands forever soaked in the blood of the innocent and the damned alike.

“I…” you started, your voice shaking, “I only wanted to protect you.” The words came out too quickly, too desperate, and the moment you spoke them you regretted them.

His fingers traced a path up your neck, curling under your chin, forcing your face upward with his scarlet eyes boring into yours. “Protect me?” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr, the barest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. “You think I need protection?”

“No,” you whispered, trembling now, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Not you…but those who sought to challenge you.” You swallowed hard, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop it. “The ones who spoke against you. They…they cursed your name. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t let them defy you. Not with their worthless lives and their petty defiance.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, low and humourless, vibrating through the air between you. His hand slipped from your chin to your shoulder, his grip tightening slightly, enough to make you feel the control he had over you, the power he held. “And so, you thought it was your place to end them?”

The pain came suddenly, like a hot blade piercing through your skull, leaving you gasping for breath. You pressed a trembling hand to your temple, your vision blurring as the world around you wavered. The familiar, nauseating throb of the headache began to claw at your mind, the weight of your guilt manifesting in sharp, crippling waves.

And then the memories came—hazy, fractured, like fragments of glass slicing through your consciousness. You saw flashes of faces twisted in agony, the sound of desperate pleas that had fallen on deaf ears. The crack of the whip as it tore through flesh, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Their eyes—wide, terrified, as they realised their fate. The words they had uttered against Sukuna, the defiance that had sealed their doom. You had watched, cold and distant, as their lives bled out before you, justifying it all in the name of loyalty.

Blood. So much blood. It stained your hands, dripping from your fingers, soaking into the earth. You tried to wash it away earlier, scrubbing frantically, but it clung to you, thick and accusing. The cries of the condemned echoed in your ears, haunting and relentless, as if they would never leave you. You saw the moment their eyes dimmed, the light of life snuffed out, and the weight of their deaths settled on your soul like an iron chain.

You blinked, the vision dissolving into the present, the pain still pounding behind your eyes. Your breaths came in shallow gasps, your body trembling as the memories faded, leaving you hollow. The room spun around you, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse under the weight of it all—the guilt, the shame, the horror of what you had done. Even now, even with his touch grounding you, the wrongs you had committed refused to let you go.

As you fought to regain your breath, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone, and your fingers dug into the edge of the sink, your knuckles white. “I thought… I thought you would be pleased,” you admitted, the words brittle and frail. “I did it for you.”

His gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment, something passed through his eyes—something that might have been understanding or amusement. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar coldness. “You think I would have been pleased with your disobedience?” His voice was calm, yet it dripped with dark promise, a reminder of the power he wielded over you and the consequences that could follow.

“I would have thought,” he continued, “that you would come to me. Yet here you were, washing away the evidence of your transgressions as though I wouldn’t have known.”

You flinched at his words, the accusation clear, your heart hammering against your ribs. He was a king of slaughter, a creature born in blood. How could you have thought to deceive him?

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “I thought I was doing what you would have done.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “You misunderstand, wife.” His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers weaving through your hair with a possessive grip. “I kill because it is necessary. You kill out of fear.”

Your pulse quickened, panic rising in your chest, but his hand tightened just enough to keep you grounded, his voice softening as he spoke. “Do you think I wouldn’t have known what you have done? That I would let it pass unnoticed?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “I know everything, even when you think you hide from me.”

Tears stung your eyes, and your lips parted, but no words came. He had known all along. He had watched you unravel, had let you dig yourself deeper into this darkness, even expecting you to come to him on your own. But you hadn’t. Instead, you had fallen deeper, spiralling into this madness, desperate to protect him, to prove your loyalty to a man who needed no protector.

He raised his other hand to your face, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, almost tender in the way they brushed aside the tears that spilled down. “You should not have feared me,” he said quietly, the darkness in his voice replaced by something softer, something that felt almost like affection. “I have bathed in blood far worse than this.”

He understood what you feared, even if you couldn’t say it aloud. You thought he would cast you aside for this—for acting in his name without his consent. But you had no reason to worry. Your actions, though misguided, came from a place he knew all too well—love, twisted and warped by power. And for that, he could not fault you.

His thumb grazed your trembling lips, silencing the sob that threatened to break free. And then, slowly, his hand moved upward, covering your eyes with his fingers pressing lightly against your eyelids, casting you into a sudden, terrifying darkness. You stiffened, but his touch remained gentle, his palm resting delicately against your skin as if to protect you from the weight of your own actions. You felt a moment of peace, of quiet—a reprieve from the torment that had consumed you.

“You worry for nothing,” he whispered against your ear, his voice low and intimate. “It is not judgement you should fear. Not from me.”

His words settled over you like a balm, easing the weight on your chest. He would not leave you. He had never intended to. Even in your spiral, in your darkest moments, he would not cast you aside. He, the king of slaughter, had already known what it meant to live with blood on his hands.

And then, you felt his lips brush against the corner of your mouth, a touch so soft, so delicate. You shuddered under the weight of that moment, the fear that had consumed you slowly dissipating like mist in the light of dawn. It was not a kiss of anger, nor of passion, but a dark promise, a reminder that you were his, bound to him by blood and love, no matter what you had done. You would always be his.

His hand slipped away from your eyes, and when you opened them again, you were left feeling exposed, raw under his gaze. Yet, there was no signs of disgust in him, no fury. He had known all along, had let you descend into this unravelling, but he had not abandoned you. Sukuna, the King of Curses, the tyrant feared by all, had always been waiting, knowing that no matter how far you strayed, you would always return to him.

“Come,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble, commanding but not unkind. “Leave the water behind. It cannot wash away what we are.”

He took your hand in his, pulling you gently away from the sink, the water long silenced behind you. The shadows whispered, but their hold on you had weakened. Sukuna had pulled you from the darkness you had created, and as he led you from the room, his grip firm but reassuring, you knew that whatever sins lay on your hands, you would not bear them alone.

A.N. I don't know how to feel about this piece, whether I hate it or like it. I also felt like I was descending into madness trying to bring this idea into fruition. Anyways, Happy Halloween :)

130 notes · View notes

alittlebitofloveliness · 3 months ago

Text

@zvoiderror000 @sipping-wxterfalls @obsessingoverl This is the full fic that goes with the out of context snippet you all seemed excited about

***************

Darry hadn’t been sure it was even worth putting together the funeral. After all, few folks had loved Johnny Cade, and even fewer had loved Dallas Winston, and most of them were the five who remained, all but three of whom were unemployed. He’d managed to scrape together money for headstones, albeit cheap ones, but a funeral- even a joint one- so soon after mom and dad was more of a strain on the budget than Darry could realistically handle, even with Soda and Steve offering to pitch in.

Then the parents of all those little kids Johnny and Pony saved had contacted him out of the blue, offering to help cover expenses and for all his pride Darry didn’t have it in himself to turn them down. Johnny and Dal deserved a proper burial any way he could manage to make it happen, and if that involved taking a bit of charity, well, for once so be it. It sure as hell wasn’t like Mr and Mrs Cade were going to pay to make sure Johnny was properly laid to rest.

So he’d taken the money and made the same terrible phone calls he’d made eight months ago, contacted the same vendors, and booked the same small room at the same small funeral home, feeling sick to his stomach the whole time. Pony had helped, more than he had eight months ago, had chosen Johnny’s casket from the few they could afford and written a eulogy he refused to show to anyone until the service itself. Darry didn’t begrudge him, trying to tamp down the guilt that came with the relief that cut through him every time he looked at his baby brother. It felt wrong, planning the funeral of two of his best friends, knowing that if the universe had offered him any sort of choice, he'd have still chosen Ponyboy and doomed them both anyway, every time. It’s a hard truth, a horrible one, but Darry has grown used to confronting such horrible things as of late, even if he can only ever confront them in his own head.

After a few weeks of planning, the day of the funeral seems almost underwhelming. Soda and Ponyboy are once again dressed in the outfits they wore to mom and dad’s funeral, Ponyboy somehow looking twice as lost as he did then for all he’s grown almost half a foot taller. Soda is a shadow of his usual self, drawn in behind the careful mask he dons when he doesn’t want anyone to see what he’s really thinking, but the cigarette in his hand is enough to give Darry a good idea of his tenuous mental state.

Pony climbs the steps of the funeral home in the same dreamlike manner he’s adopted since the night of the rumble, the same cloak of oblivion he’d shrouded himself in for months after mom and dad passed, the one he’d only just started to lift off himself before Darry ruined it all with his temper and that slap. Sometimes he thinks he will never truly be able to undo the damage he caused that night, all the consequences of one despicable rash action.

Soda loiters near the stairs, Steve a supportive, grim faced pillar beside him, their shoulders pressed together and pinky fingers linked in a way they probably think is subtle. Darry wants to tell them they’re too close, warn them yet again about being in public and what people might think, but today he doesn’t have the energy. Besides, it’s not like there's anyone coming. All of them, from Two-bit to Ponyboy, know the only folks this funeral is for is them, the gang. If anyone else shows at all it’ll be a miracle. So he leaves Soda and Steve and the obvious, secret love that could kill them both by the door, and goes inside to check on Ponyboy.

His younger brother hasn’t stepped into the small chapel yet, instead he’s sitting with his back against the wall and his legs sprawled out, half hidden behind a small side table. The picture of Johnny that is supposed to be beside the guest book is clutched in his hands, and silent tears are running down his face, his tiny form shaking violently with suppressed sobs.

Shit. The sight of it chips another shard off of Darry’s thrice broken heart. This poor kid. This sweet, sweet kid, who’s been through more in the past year than most people go through in a lifetime. Darry can’t help but wonder if his baby brother is ever again going to know a life without pain.

“Hey little buddy,” Darry’s knees crack as he kneels down beside him, tossing an arm around his brother's shoulders, “how’re ya doin’?

It’s a stupid question, and they both know it, but it startles a choked off, surprised laugh out of Ponyboy, and it feels like a bigger win than winning the state football championship back in high school.

“M’alright,” Pony glances around as if making sure they’re alone before snuggling into Darry’s side a bit. He’s been awful cuddly since he got back home, but fourteen and a greaser is still fourteen and a greaser, and Darry knows Pony would die before he let anyone outside the gang find out about his newfound clinginess.

“You sure?” Darry tightens his grip on Pony and drops a kiss on his gelled hair. Today is gonna be a hard day for all of them, but things like this always hit Pony worse, and he’s worried about him. He’s still so young, only fourteen. Darry himself had seen some rough stuff by the time he was fourteen- you couldn’t grow up in their neighbourhood and not see some stuff you wished you hadn’t- but back then he’d had dad to talk things through with and mom to lie to him and promise everything would be okay. Compared to that, Pony has nothing, just two brothers who love him but can’t protect him, and now a dead best friend to mourn on top of his parents.

“No,” Pony shakes his head, letting out another watery laugh, this one verging on hysterical, “no, I’m not okay. Sometimes I think I’m never gonna be ok again.”

“Baby…” Darry doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t cut out for this, isn’t meant to be a guardian or a parent or whatever he’s become, and he’s never been good with emotions anyway. It’s always been Soda’s job, since their parents passed, to deal with the feelings while he deals with the bills, but Soda is his little brother too, has decided not to feel today so that he can cope, so Darry is once again all Pony has. He wishes he could be enough, or at the very least think of something to say, but he isn’t and he can’t. Instead, all he can do is rock Ponyboy as he cries and wish the world wasn’t so horrifically cruel. At the very least he wishes he could reassure him…but Darry doesn’t like to lie, and the truth is that lately he isn’t sure Pony will be ok. Lately, his brother seems uniquely broken in a way Darry isn’t sure he can fix.

Johnny would have known what to do. He and Pony would have gone for a smoke on the porch and talked in low voices, and somehow whatever he’d said would have brought Ponyboy back to himself. But Johnny is gone, isn’t coming back, and Pony might just stay this empty shell because of it. The thought makes something dark and cold creep into his chest, but Darry is a realist and learned a long time ago that ignoring uncomfortable things does not simply make them go away, as much as he might wish they would. Johnny is gone, and Pony is different, and things will never be the same as they were. That’s that.

“I just…” Pony manages once he’s cried himself out, “he- he was the only person who completely knew me without me havin’ to tell him. I’m never gonna find anyone like that again in my whole life I don't think, and that…that’s terrifyin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pony nods fervently, almost begging him to understand, and fuck it, Darry is trying because he isn’t Johnny and he isn’t Soda but he’s still trying his best, “I miss Dal too, of course I do, but losin’ Johnny is just- different. He dug me and I dug him and I just-I’m really gonna miss him. “

“Sometimes,” Pony’s voice breaks, but he soldiers on, “sometimes I wish I coulda died in his place. Or Dal’s. That way we’d at least be together.”

“Don’t say that!” Fear so cold it burns flashes through Darry, and he squeezes Pony tighter, as if the mere thought is a blow he could shield him from, “Please baby, don't ever say that, I couldn’t survive without you. Soda would go clean crazy I-”

“Cool it Dar,” Pony shakes him off, “I know that. I ain’t stupid and I don’t got a death wish either. I just miss him and I…wonder, sometimes. That’s all.”

“Well quit your wonderin’,” Darry scolds. He can hear himself getting harsh, the way he always gets when he’s worried, and tries to even out his tone, “that sort of wonderin’ does more harm than good. I wouldn’t trade you bein’ here for the world and I know for a fact Johnny and Dal wouldn’t neither. Savvy?”

Pony looks at him for a moment, and there’s such fear in those eyes, such grief, and yet so much trust it makes Darry’s heart ache in a completely different way.

“I savvy.” he says at last, and Darry internally sighs in relief. This conversation isn’t over, and Ponyboy has never been one to let things go, but at least, for the moment, he is safe.

The door opens then and Soda and Steve reappear, flanked by Two-bit with his mom and sister. Darry climbs to his feet, pulling Pony up beside him and they take a deep breath and all enter the chapel together.

For a second he stands there frozen, completely caught off guard, heart swelling with an odd mixture of gratitude and something else that isn’t quite grief, but has the same bittersweet tinge.

There are more people inside than Darry expected, which is to say, there’s people there at all. He’d fully believed the only ones who’d bother coming to Johnny and Dal’s funeral would be the gang and Two’s family, but Tim Shepard and a few of his guys are clustered near the back door, looking uncomfortable, and Sylvia Devares is as cold eyed and sour faced as ever, but present nevertheless, sitting in the second row of chairs, glaring at Dally’s casket as if she expected him to sit up and start cussing her out any second. There’s no sign of Mr or Mrs Cade, but there’s a dark haired girl probably a year or two younger than Ponyboy sitting next to a tired looking man in his forties that Darry remembers Johnny staying with sometimes when he was really little, before Mrs.Cade cut her family out of her life for good. It’s strange, Darry thinks, seeing the love people don’t express until it’s too late. It has to have been nearly a decade since Johnny last saw his uncle and baby cousin, yet here they are, waiting to say their goodbyes.

Darry speaks quietly with the funeral director and the service begins, some local pastor kicking things off with a short sermon. Darry knows Dally probably would not have chosen a clergyman to speak at his funeral, but he also probably would have told them to have a beer in his honour and chuck him in the ground; and knowing how much Johnny had liked going to church with Pony, the sermon seemed appropriate. If he’s being quite honest with himself, Darry isn’t at all sure heaven or hell exists, but he also isn’t willing to gamble when it comes to Johnny and Dally’s souls. If a qualified preacher putting in a good word with the big man could get them a chance at eternal happiness, Darry would gladly sit here for fifteen minutes listening to him talk. If Darry’s being honest, if Dally’s gonna get into heaven, his soul needs all the help it can get.

It’s after they’ve all said a final amen, but before Pony has managed to start the eulogies, that the door creaks open and one final mourner slips inside. She’s clearly trying to be inconspicuous, but the timing of her arrival and the fact she clearly isn’t from around here make it so every eye in the room turns directly on her the second she gets through the doorway.

The first thing Darry notices is how skinny she is. He’s known a lot of folks in his time that are somewhat underfed, but this woman is better described as emaciated. The second thing he notices is how sick she looks, with her pale face, puffy eyes, and hunched posture; and the third is her white blond hair and pointed ears, two features he’s only ever seen on one other person.

“Who’s the junkie?” Tim Shepard sidles over and murmurs in Darry’s ear as the woman takes a seat in the second row of chairs, and Ponyboy clears his throat and starts Dally’s’ eulogy.

“Hell if I know.” Darry murmurs back, and it’s true. Dallas never mentioned anything or anyone from his past, and the gang had always respected that. He has no idea who the girl might have been to Dallas, just figures there must be some sort of familial relation.

“Well damn. Mighta been useful to know he had family who like smack,” Tim shrugs, “coulda got her a decent price at least.”

Darry glanced at the girl’s slumped posture and the way she kept scratching at her arms, and winced. Drugs are an aspect of the east side he’d always found particularly unsavoury, simply based on how visibly they could destroy someone. There were slower poisons, yes, like booze and gambling and hate, but drugs were simply more obvious. There were plenty of addicts that bummed around the train tracks or out near Brumly territory, and much as Darry hated to admit it, Tim’s assessment of the blonde was spot on. She was clearly hooked on smack, and from the looks of it, had been for a while.

Pony finishes the eulogies, voice shaky but more composed than Darry would have expected, but he barely hears him. All he can see is the back of the girl's blonde hair and the points of her ears. For some reason it had been easier to grieve Dallas when he felt like one of the only people who could mourn him properly; but this girl has clearly travelled who knows how far to attend this cobbled together funeral, and now some part of Darry feels like maybe he should have publicized it wider, spent some time really looking for Dallas’ next of kin. Not that he would have known where to look, but maybe it was selfish to just assume their ragtag pieced together family was truly the only family Dallas had. After all, everyone comes from somewhere, right? Maybe he should have tried to learn more about Dallas’ somewhere.

A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Dallas himself tells him not to be stupid, that Dallas was a kid who’d left where he came from and never looked back once, a kid who had died after losing the only person he couldn’t stand to lose. This girl may be here now, the voice says, but whoever she was clearly meant nothing to the person Dallas was when he died. It still does little to assuage the guilt slowly curdling in Darry’s heart.

The funeral director smoothly wraps up the ceremony without Darry having to do anything, mentioning the refreshments in the other room and reminding everyone to say their final goodbyes as they’d be closing the caskets in half an hour before moving to the graveyard. There’s a part of Darry that’s grateful that making the announcement didn’t fall on him, and a larger part that dreads the next half hour but dreads the minutes after it even more fervently.

A line at the caskets forms quickly, the scant mourners each taking a turn to say their own goodbyes, and it would be almost sweet if it wasn’t so grim.

Mrs. Mathews and Susie go first. Neither one of them glances at Dally for long, but Darry can’t really blame them for that, considering they hardly knew him. Both women linger longer next to Johnny, and Susie drops a tootsie roll into the casket with a sniffle. Those two were buddies, Darry knows. Johnny used to crash at the Mathews’ place almost as much as he crashed at their house, and Johnny and Susie’s matching gentle souls had bonded them quickly.

Tim and his guys go next, and they linger longer beside Dallas. None of them say much really, but there’s a tightness in Tim’s jaw that speaks more to regret than anger when he finally mutters an ‘asshole’ under his breath and stalks away, his gang following behind. Darry doubts he’ll show up to the cemetery, but can’t exactly begrudge him for it. It was good of Tim to come at all, mostly because if the roles were reversed and it was Tim lying there instead, Darry isn’t at all sure Dally would have done the same.

Sylvia goes next, and her glare doesn’t waver, but whatever rant she’s murmuring to Dallas seems heartfelt for all of its rage. She doesn’t even glance at Johnny on her way out, and it should make Darry’s blood boil, but it doesn’t, not really, because everyone knows Sylvia Devares doesn’t care about anyone but herself, so if Dally meant enough for her to show up at all then she really must have cared as much as she could. Those two were a dumpster fire even at their best, and nothing about them ever gave the impression they were in love, but Darry knows better than anyone that you don’t need to be in love to love somebody in a way that could destroy you.

Johnny’s uncle and cousin step up the small dais, and the old man says something in the language Johnny’s mom stopped letting him speak the same year she stopped speaking to her family, the one Johnny tried teaching to Ponyboy just to spite her. Whatever he says, it’s a blessing meant only for Johnny, but Darry can feel the weight of it, the love, the regret, the pain, just from the man’s tone. Johnny’s cousin glances once more over her shoulder as they leave, black eyes twinkling just the same as Johnny’s used to, and for a second it’s hard for Darry to breathe.

Now it’s the hard part. Ponyboy, for all his evocative words and stubborn strength, has not looked at Johnny’s body since he stepped into the room, and the second he does he lets out a horrible sound, something between a choked off whimper and and a sob, before darting from the room like something is chasing him. Maybe something is. Darry knows all about how memories can be specters.

“I’ll go,” Soda stops him from following after Pony with a hand on his shoulder, “you say your goodbyes.”

Dary almost protests, almost tells him to say his own goodbyes while he still can, but there’s shadows in Soda’s eyes, and a strickenness to his face. Suddenly, Darry remembers the way Soda had panicked back when they closed the caskets on mom and dad, how his face had turned white as harsh breaths forced their way through clenched teeth, and he realizes that maybe this is Soda trying to save himself; so he nods and offers him the closest thing he can manage to a smile before Soda turns and follows Pony out the door, leaving Darry with Steve and Two-bit.

Two-bit is blubbering where he stands in front of Dally, and Steve is misty eyed beside him with a hand on his shoulder. Darry knows he should comfort them, play big brother to the brothers who are still his, just not by blood, but there’s something about watching the other people who cared say goodbye that is healing a piece of him, and he can’t bring himself to move. Not yet.

Eventually, Two-bit’s sobs give way to hushed murmurs and begging, Steve’s solemn facade cracking a bit as a single tear finally traces down his cheek. Darry swallows against the lump in his throat, wishing there was a way to make this easier for them and knowing there isn’t. This is one of those things they’re just going to have to feel.

“We’ll see you out there, Superman,” Steve claps Darry on the shoulder as he guides Two-bit out to the parking lot, the redhead already in the process of lighting a cigarette. Not for the first time, Darry is inordinately grateful for Steve Randle and his unmatched ability to be supportive without ever being overbearing.

He steps up the dais, steps muffled by the cheap carpet of the funeral home, but seeming to echo nonetheless. Johnny and Dally are arranged side by side, cleaner and more put together than they ever were in life. Darry hadn’t had any nice clothes to send for them to be buried in, but they wouldn’t have wanted them anyway. They’re both in jeans, Dally in a black t-shirt, and Johnny in a blue one, his jeans jacket pressed and arranged neatly around his small frame. There’s the same uncanny wrongness in their corpses that there was in mom and dad’s that make it impossible for Darry to be able to pretend they’re sleeping or any other such platitude people try to lie to themselves with. Dally’s skin, while pale in life, is now so white it’s waxy, seeming even more stark against the contrast of his shirt. Johnny’s unnatural stillness is so unlike his constant fidgeting it’s almost startling, and his face so peaceful is eerie. Jumpy, gentle, fierce Johnny Cade never looked so calm in life as he does in death, and the realization is a whole new kind of sickening.

A presence at his shoulder is the only thing that keeps a tear or two leaking out. When Darry looks over, the blonde girl from earlier is standing quietly a half pace behind him, her sunken eyes fixed on Dally with such sorrow it’s hard for him to look at.

“You knew him.” Darry says. It isn’t a question.

“I did,” The girl agrees, “or at least I used to.”

When he was alive, even after years in Oklahoma, Dally’s voice always kept a burr of the yankee accent but this girl is full Brooklyn, and the oddness of it to his country bred ears almost has Darry laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. Luckily, the girl doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes still locked on Dallas, for all she’s conversing with him.

“How?” Darry wonders. “How did you know him, I mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” Not anymore, at least. Not that it had mattered before, but he’d always been curious about Dallas, the only one of their gang whose background was a true mystery.

Silence reigns for a minute. Darry watches a wasp buzz around the flowers on top of Dally’s casket.

“He’s- he was- my brother,” the girl admits, voice breaking, and Darry can’t keep the shock off his face. He’d thought, based on the resemblance, that she might be a cousin or something, but a sister?

“My baby brother,” the girl repeats, almost to herself, and Darry’s heart clenches. It isn’t just the bone deep anguish comprised in those three words, it’s the way they force Soda and Pony to the forefront of his mind. Sure, Dally wasn’t anything like either of his hard headed, stupid, secretly sweet brothers, and it’s clear whatever relationship Dally had with his sister isn’t anything like how Darry’s own is with his, but this girl has still lost her baby brother. Darry had got a taste of what it was like to lose Ponyboy for a week, and it nearly killed him. He’d been lucky enough to get Pony back. Dally’s sister will never get him back.

“I..I’m sorry,” Darry chokes, “I didn't know. I would’ve tried to invite you or let you plan stuff, I-”

“Don’t.” She cuts him off, and for a second its Dallas glaring at him. Then he blinks and her glare has faded, and he can breathe again, “You did the right thing. There’s a reason he left New York. He wouldn’t have wanted me anywhere near the planning of this.”

She doesn’t say he wouldn’t have wanted her there. Darry figures it might be implied anyway.

They lapse into silence again. The air in the chapel smells like incense and cleaning chemicals, a stiff, heavy, artificial mixture that seems like a strangely fitting smog over the day.

“He wasn’t always like that, y’know?” Dally’s sister bursts out, like she’d been trying desperately not to say it and been unable to keep silent anyway.

“Like what?”

“Like..he wasn’t always the way he was when he left. The way he was when he found you guys. He didn’t always hate everything.”

Darry tries to picture it, a Dallas Winston who wasn’t jaded and callous to the point of cruelty sometimes, a Dallas who lived instead of just surviving. Try as he might, he can’t quite manage it.

“What was he like? Before?”

“Quiet,” The barest trace of a smile tugs at her chapped lips. “Smart. Kind, before he forgot how to be.”

“He didn’t forget,” Darry tells her, thinking of the million and one ways Dally had helped out the gang, refusing any and all thanks for it, “he just wished he could have. But he was still kind. In his own way.”

“Well that’s something, I guess,” the half smile fades and she sighs, gazing down at Dally’s still face with so much regret Darry could drown in it. “He deserved better.”

“They both did.”

“Before he left I mean. He deserved a chance, and I…I couldn’t give it to him. Not since that first hit.”

“Oh,” For a second Darry thinks she means an actual physical hit- then he realizes, “oh.”

He’s never been good with words, and right now is no exception. He doesn’t have a clue what to say. Luckily, she just gives him a sardonic grin and keeps talking.

“I was ten when Dally was born. His mom left when he was like, two, and our dad is a fucking asshole, so I kind of raised him. I had to. But I was ten. I didn’t know what I was doing, and he always wanted to know.”

She shakes her head ruefully.

“‘Raya,’ he asked me once, ‘how come everyone else has a mom and I don’t?’ I didn’t know what to tell him. Then it was ‘Raya, how come Joey’s dad never hurts him like dad hurts us?’ and ‘Raya, what’s in dad’s cigs that make them worse than yours?’ and on and on until he stopped asking because I never had a good answer. Then he started going out by himself, and getting mixed up with the wrong people and then it was too late. He was, what, seven? maybe? the first time he got jumped, and he wasn’t even the littlest kid in our neighborhood it happened to. He never really had a chance. And then I went to that party, and-and I-I couldn’t…and he left. And he never came back.”

“Sorry,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes, “I didn’t mean- I just- I think you were good for him. Better than I was. You and your friends. I saw the pictures of you in the paper, after the fire and the shooting and everything, and there was one…he was in it, with this one,” she nods to Johnny, “and the other little one, and he was smiling. He didn’t smile much, even when he was real little. I figure anyone who could get him to smile and who bothered to plan a funeral must have been good for him.”

“Sounds to me like you did the best you could,” Darry tells her, because hell, he does the best he can and fucks it up, and so does Tim Shepard, and so does every older sibling who has ever had to be a parent when they themselves were still a child, “I think you were good for him as much as you could be.”

“Maybe,” Raya says, “maybe not. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

“It matters,” Darry says, because he’s seen too little love to not know how important even the imperfect kind can be, “you loved him, so it still matters.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Her lips purse, causing her sharp cheekbones to stick out even further.

“I need a smoke,” is all she says, casting one last look at Dally’s still face before turning on her heel and stalking out the door without looking back.

Darry doesn’t follow her, even though it feels like maybe he should. He’ll see her when they end up at the graveyard and if he doesn’t, well, he’ll have known she’d said her piece.

He turns back to the caskets, taking in one unloved boy and a boy who wasn’t loved enough. Boys he’d loved like his own family. Boys he’d let down, no matter how hard he tried not to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it isn’t enough and it never will be but what else is there to say? “I tried.”

He stays there until the funeral director comes, shutting the coffin lids, locking two more of Darry’s family away from the world that never treated them right.

He squares his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. This day isn’t over, and his surviving family still needs him.

Darry Curtis goes back to trying his best.

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #johnny cade #dallas winston #steve randle #two bit mathews #tim shepard #sylvia x dallas #sylvia the outsiders

93 notes · View notes

flowerbetweenfangs · 6 months ago

Text

To The Wolves

This was written as an entry for a contest. The theme was "masquerade" I played fast and loose and just focused on the "mask" part. It was a lot of fun. This is a Red Riding Hood retelling.

CW: Attempted non con, (Not by the narrator) Knot, beast form.

Originally On A03

Every year, once harvest was done and winter was about to begin, the village I watched over would perform a ritual. With the crops now reaped, they would sow the seed of their unions, in the hopes that their pack numbers would increase.

I was an ancient One. Older than the fields I roamed. Larger than the village itself. While such a form would be cumbersome, I took up space elsewhere.

I was a whispered prayer. The howling of wind. A burnt offering. A scratching at the shrine door. A carving on a wall. A shadow moving across the ground. An image in a scroll or book. A sight just out of the corner of an eye.

They called me “Hunt” and “Harvest”. But the few who had laid eyes on me called me by another Name. I answered to all of them. For what is a God without believers?

As Winter’s chill settled in, I could see the villagers tirelessly working. They carved wood into masks. Many used the pictures of me in ancient texts as reference, but each one had their own unique form. A symbol of their devotion. Once they wore it, they would be acting on my behalf. While not as powerful as a direct offering, it was a gesture I preferred.

They had chosen a woman to don the vestments this year. Not a maiden, nor a crone. Young enough to run and be free, but old enough to know what she was getting into. Unclaimed and untethered.

She worked with the matriarch of the shrine, creating cakes that could fit into the palm of her hand. Each one was prepared and placed in a wicker basket. They called the older woman “Grand Mother”, for all her work in keeping up with the myths and offerings.

Those who weren’t taking part had to be shut inside, threats of me gobbling up any one who disobeyed. Sometimes a bit of fear was necessary. While I had never harmed a human under my protection, no one wanted to be the first.

As darkness fell, Grand Mother went on ahead. She vanished into the treeline, the light of her lantern bobbing up and down until it faded from view. When she arrived at the shrine, she would wait there until morning.

The Mask Makers followed shortly after her. Some howled, some sang, many simply panted and grunted with the effort of the sprint. Soon, their voices also vanished into the night.

The woman had been stripped of all her earthly belongings and name. She was given the basket and a crimson cloak. It fell over her shoulders, and hung just above the ground, but did little to preserve her modesty when she walked.

Bare feet kicked up dirt as she walked to the edge of the village, the basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. She would not even be allowed sandals for her journey, only her faith to protect her from what lay within the woods.

A howl in the distance signaled that she was to start her journey.

At the edge of her home, she paused. The light of the moon illuminated her path. While she had grown up near the forest, it was a different thing entirely to see it at night.

Once she got to the treeline, I could see her resolve waver. While she didn’t slow, her steps became more cautious and calculated. Shoulders slightly raised, jaw clenched, she listened.

Clutching the basket close, she allowed herself to shiver. The chattering of her teeth filled the empty night.

Bringing her hands to her lips, she held them close and continued to walk forward. A harsh wind whipped the cloak around, nearly ripping it from her shoulders. The force made her gait more serpentine, but she managed to right herself.

The first one came from the trees, his eye holes slightly too big. I could hear his panting as he stalked closer to her, taking care to not snap a twig or step too heavily.

She saw him in time, her body going stiff. One hand snaked into the basket.

When their gazes locked, he stood upright, eyes greedily studying her form. He took a few steps closer to her.

“Lady Red, Lady Red,” His voice was muffled by the mask, but it was clear enough. “What have you to eat?”

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from the basket. A small cake was in her palm.

Holding it out to the man, she cleared her throat.

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.” Her whole body was shaking. Whether from the cold or fear, it was hard to tell.

The cake nearly fell from her grasp before the man finally took it. Clutching it tightly, he ran off back toward the village. I could taste its sweetness as he gobbled it down. My power increased slightly, tethering me further to the land.

She watched him run, before rolling her shoulders and pulling the hood of the cloak up. Back straight, she began to walk again.

Her steps, no longer cautious, were still slow. Calculated. The gait of someone determined but not reckless. The residue from the cake still clung to her hand, but she didn’t seem to care. Now that it was over, she allowed herself to feel relief.

But it was short lived.

I could hear the whispers as the others began to move. Some closer to her, some toward the shrine. Plans being made. I followed their words, and I could tell they knew I was listening. Shivers went up spines, some slapped the back of their necks when they could feel my breath on it. A few jerked their heads in my direction when they caught a glimpse of my shadow.

One sprung forward, jumping into her path. The ears on his mask were slightly too large, making him look more like a coyote.

She slowed to a stop, eyes wide like a doe. Breath came from her lips in a foggy cloud. Goosebumps traveled across her flesh as she stared.

“Lady Red, Lady Red,” The voice rumbled from behind the mask. “What have you to eat?”

This time, she stood firm and didn’t hesitate. Once more, she pulled out a small cake from the basket. While it didn’t shake in her grip, there was a bit of reluctance as she extended her arm out to the man.

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.”

The man stared at her a moment longer, then leaned forward, shifting his mask up. She averted her eyes, holding the cake out insistently.

He took the cake directly into his mouth, lips brushing against her hand. A few strands of drool remained on her palm, which she discreetly wiped on her thigh when he turned away. I could taste it again, and found my own mouth watering further.

Once he had devoured the morsel, he stared at her once more, before dashing off back to the village.

She put a hand to her chest and let out a sigh of relief. Her stride picked up again, and she seemed more determined than before. The light of the moon seemed to shine brighter than before, bathing the entire area in a silvery glow.

I had been watching her so closely, I almost didn’t see the man in the bushes. But I did see the chips in his mask, where the mouth would have been. The jagged edges poked into his lips, a few drops of crimson welling. He followed behind, not announcing himself like the others had.

Putting a hand over his mouth, he stifled his breath and continued to keep pace with the woman. Every so often, he would reach out, his hand brushing against the cloak’s fabric. I knew a hunter when I saw one.

We all stopped at the same time.

Craning her neck, she looked for her pursuer. Her eyes widened. Clutching the cloak tight, she attempted to draw it closed around herself. I could tell she wanted to call out to the man, to get him to come into view. But the words seemed caught in her throat.

I saw him shift his form, starting to rise, and for a moment I felt relief.

However, rather than announce himself, he pounced on her. The action was so sudden she didn’t have time to draw in a breath and scream. I don’t think she realized what was happening until he was on top of her.

Armed with only her faith, she finally cried out the ancient name I’d been known as:

Warg .

The basket snapped in two, cakes spilling all over the forest floor. Steam curled off the top, and they blackened.

I hadn’t taken on a physical shape in years, but I found myself coming out from behind a tree. To not frighten her, I took on the body of a human male in a rather intricately carved wolf mask, furs wrapped around my torso. Amusingly, the pelt’s tail dangled between my legs where one would be in my other form.

The tree groaned as I rested a hand on the trunk, nails far too long to be human digging into the bark. A growl rumbled in my throat, tearing through human muscle that hadn’t used it before. It became more of a death rattle, and I worried I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Compressing my being down to a form so small had me ready to come apart at the seams.

But I wasn’t one to ignore an offering.

Pausing, the man looked up at me. I could see beyond the mask, the thoughts racing through his mind as he attempted to place who I was. Muscles went taut, and I could see flight or fight warring as he weighed the options.

I strode closer, jaw clenched to prevent another snarl from escaping my lips. Even though I was around the same size as him, he seemed to notice the power rolling off me.

Slowly, he slipped off the woman and scrambled away apologetically. The words became curses as he scurried away, the Grand Mother’s title on his lips.

The woman stayed on the ground, eyes still wide. Each action that followed seemed to be a struggle with how much she shook. Finally, she turned on her side to face me. Attempting to stand, she sucked in a breath when her knees gave out.

I stood back, debating whether or not to offer her my hand.

Shivering, she managed to struggle to her feet.

Upon seeing the ruined basket, she covered her face. Suppressed sobs shook her, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Through no fault of her own, the ritual had been halted.

While she had no idea that she had summoned me prematurely, it was obvious something had gone wrong. If the next harvest failed, she would bear the guilt. Although I knew her attacker would be punished, by myself or by the other villagers.

Picking up the remaining pieces of the basket, I offered it to her. Once she took them, I could feel a shift in the wind. The scent of the approaching men.

They’d heard the commotion and came running. They went to call her old Name, but stopped themselves.

Despite my better judgment, I snarled. It ripped through my very being, and I could feel myself starting to become undone. I debated on changing my form right then and there, but I didn’t want to frighten her more than I already had. Instead, I began to walk.

I could smell the fear. The confusion. The worry.

Who is this stranger in our woods? What has he done to Lady Red?

In the light of the moon, I could see the shadow of my true form. A fierce wind howled, and I followed it, vanishing from sight.

I could hear her running steps. No longer afraid, or maybe more so than ever, she sprinted for the shrine. All that needed to be done now was for her to make it inside. Hopefully the broken basket would be explained away and the night could come to a close.

I could hear her voice call out for the Matriarch.

“Grand Mother? Are you there?”

Silence answered.

I saw more fear take over her face. Confusion. This was clearly not the way things were supposed to go.

Peering inside the shrine, I saw the cushion, where the elder had been kneeling, was empty. Sniffing, I followed the scent out the back and into the woods. The smell of gold was strong. The scent of the Broken Mask clung to it.

Sneaking through a window, I slunk through the Holy Room. Masks from previous years lined the shelves, along with baskets, cloaks, and old recipes. The hearth was still warm, the embers from the fire still glowing.

Growling, I resisted the urge to run out of the shrine and chase down the pair.

Once more, Lady Red called from outside the gate.

Behind her, I could see the approaching silhouettes of the masked men.

I felt my form shift again, taking on a smaller, more delicate shape. I’d only seen the Matriarch a handful of times, but I hoped darkness would conceal me better. Taking one of the vestments, I wrapped it around myself.

Kneeling on the mat, I faced the front room.

“In here, dear!”

The door opened and she came inside. Through labored breaths, she attempted to tell the events of what had just transpired. Before she could get to leaving the village, I saw her stiffen at the sight of me.

The longer she stared at the disguise, the more it seemed to fall apart. I could feel the power rippling off me, filling the room. I fought between compressing myself and holding up the illusion, or giving in and letting my true form come forth, consequences or not.

“My, what big eyes you have.” She said, voice shaking. Still, she took a step closer and squinted at me in the dark.

“The better to see you with.” My throat was scraped raw from the words

“What big ears you have,” She continued, teeth chattering.

And yet, she came to the side of the mat. Close enough I could smell her breath and fear. Kneeling next to me, she rested at the edge of the cushion. It was just enough to tilt me, ever so slightly, in her direction.

“The better to hear you with.” Once more, the voice coming from my form was not made for a human throat, and I could feel it becoming raspy.

“... And what big teeth you have.”

We stared at one another. I could feel her warmth, despite the shivering.

A knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. I expected fear, anger, worry.

But there was none. Her eyes were wide as realization of what I was dawned on her. Lips parted slightly as she took in a shallow breath to steady herself.

I allowed the form to unravel. While I still would have been bigger than the shrine in my truest form, I allowed myself to appear as something closer to my nature. Wind whipped through the air, stoking the embers back to life. As the orange glow mingled with silver, I saw my lupine shadow dancing on the wall and carvings.

My tongue lolled out of my mouth as I inhaled her scent. White fangs flashed in the dark, saliva dribbling onto the floor.

Despite the warring emotions, I managed to keep my mind.

“Lady Red, Lady Red, what have you to eat?” My true voice rumbled from deep within.

Her eyes went down to the ruined basket, then the old offerings lining the shelves. However, she quickly made up her mind. Untying the cloak, she let it fall to the floor.

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.”

The hands that had been trembling only a moment before were steady as they cupped my jaw. Fingers buried themselves in my fur, nails far too short to ever be a threat scraping against my skin.

I wasn’t one to ignore an offering.

I licked her palms, tasting the residue of cakes and dirt. Making my way up her arm, I stopped at the crook of her elbow, the scent of the town still clinging to her. I moved across her waist, leaving a glistening trail.

I made my way down to her navel, letting my breath roll over pebbled skin. Condensation formed, a few drops mixing with forming sweat and rolling down.

Parting her thighs, I lapped at the growing wetness between them. Fingers tangled in the scruff of my neck as her breath caught. She fell back on the mat, legs splayed open for me. Trickling folds invited me to devour them further.

Massive paws were on either side of her, claws tearing through the fabric of the cushion. I continued to lick, fangs ever so slightly teasing at flesh. Despite my best attempts at being gentle, I still left marks. Nothing a human could ever leave. Soon, she was covered with them.

If she felt pain, there was no sign. In fact, her legs wrapped tighter around my head. I growled a warning, but the noise only seemed to excite her more. Moans and sighs echoed off the wooden walls.

Such a tribute wasn’t one to be devoured in a couple of bites. I paced myself, drawing out each roll of my tongue, pressing a paw onto her when she attempted to make me speed up once more.

Once more, she was quaking. As she shivered around my tongue, I could feel a need rising inside both of us. The seeds of harvest needed to be sowed.

She must have noticed me dripping, because I was finally released. I stared at the dripping wet, panting heavily. My tongue was close enough to tease it, making her back arch and a shuddering groan escape her.

Without a word, she rolled over onto her stomach, presenting herself to me. Once again, instinct threatened to take over, and I forced myself to remain in control. The literal earth shattering strength I had would make short work of a delicate human body.

No sacrifice had ever been put through such a trial of faith before.

Despite all the preparation and her resolve, she was tight around me. Almost too much. Fists gripped the cushion as she gasped in surprise. This was no human male rutting while wearing a mask. And if I had my way, no hands but mine would ever touch her in this way again.

Once I was inside, my body moved of its own accord. Thrusts were punctuated with grunts and pants, paws covering her hands. I could feel myself being drawn back in when I attempted to pull out, almost like a game.

The motion seemed to help her regain the ability to speak, and soon she was calling out my name over and over. Her hips rocked back, taking me in deeper than before. Initial resistance turned to eagerness, almost too much.

As she came back onto me, I met her with a rhythm of my own. My name was called more times in those few short moments than it had been whispered that entire season.

Such piousness should be rewarded.

I leaned down and licked her cheek in an attempt to be tender. Salt tinged my tongue. Although I knew she wasn’t weeping from sorrow, I still forced myself to slow. My efforts only made her more wild, and she hilted me.

My head shot up toward the moon, and I had to resist the urge to call out and stake my claim. I was glad she was facing away from me, because I worried what would happen if she realized that she could make a God see stars.

The thought of her becoming more bold made me shudder. With fear or excitement, I couldn’t say. It was a line that was easy to to blur.

I ground my hips against her, and felt the release. As it filled her up, I felt a clench that held me fast. I swelled as she did, knotting. Our cries of ecstasy became labored gasps. The sensation sent another shock through me, spurting more into her.

As she came down from the act, I took her into my arms. Despite being slick with sweat, she was all too eager to huddle up against me while I was still inside her. My hand went down to her stomach, and she shivered at the touch, still tender.

I knew the villagers would be coming to the shrine in the morning, to see the result of the ritual.

The seeds had been planted. The sowing had begun.

I wondered what they would reap come next harvest.

Something told me that my own pack would be growing soon.

122 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 1 year ago

Text

The Man with the Bloody Sword

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, bloody sex, fingering, profanation, smut, angst, violence, beheading, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He remembered little of the moment of their nuptials and coronation itself, hearing only the loud thumping of his heart, a host of doubts running through his mind. He had waited so many years for this moment that he decided it couldn't be real, that something had to happen to shatter it all.

He thought that her younger brother would not bend the knee, that he would have to kill him and then she would hate him, that he would have to take her as his wife by force and watch her wither and fade before his eyes for the rest of his days.

He could not describe the relief he felt when he heard the loud words from outside the temple of young Lord Walford announcing that he was relinquishing his claim to the crown, only to see his sister a moment later in the gown he had gifted her, red and black, the colours of his house.

He lifted his chin higher, looking at her with a kind of pride − she looked beautiful and dignified, not a trace of fear or doubt on her face. She was looking only at him − he could see in her eyes that she was doing this of her own free will and he allowed himself to be enveloped at last by the peace he so much desired.

The crown that Criston had placed on his head appeared heavy and uncomfortable, but he thought that was what it was meant to be, to remind him that nothing was certain and given forever, that he had to be vigilant, that he could not afford to put his mind to sleep like his father.

Riding his horse towards the fortress amidst the cheers, he imagined with a tightened throat that his mother was already waiting for him there, ready to throw herself into his arms and embrace him, telling him how proud she was of him. He pressed his lips together and swallowed loudly, lowering his gaze, knowing it would never happen.

That night her body and her closeness blurred in his mind the weight of his crown, the grief of feeling lonely and empty, her warm hands clenched on the skin of his back as he rooted into her again and again, his lips joined with hers in lazy, hot, sticky kisses, her soft, firm breasts pressed against his chest in the tight embrace of their arms.

His restless nights were filled with silence and warmth; he was finally able to sleep again, and although he was sometimes awakened by nightmares, seeing and feeling her body snuggled into his, he only sighed with a sense of relief, pressing his face into her hair, thinking only of her scent and the softness of her body until his eyelids closed again.

To him, his wife was like a lit candle in the dark, cool chamber of his heart, emanating a warm, pleasant light that did not blind him, but showed him the way, made him regain his sight.

Watching the helpless efforts of the ladies of the court to catch his attention, he felt amused − their desperation made him grin ironically, causing them to blush in embarrassment, their cheeks rosy with shame.

They did not comprehend his nature, the darkness that lurked in the corners of his mind, his coldness and distance, his bottomless desire to remain in the shadows, to hide even as he remained king.

His wife understood him, his need for solitude, allowing him to spend his days on his duties, patiently waiting each day for the evening when they were reunited.

Although he would never admit it openly, he adored missing her, adored suffering at the thought that, however much he wanted to, she would not come to him without a reason, would not interrupt his training or council, would not seek his attention, focusing on her own affairs.

A few hours of anguish without her presence each day was enough that when he saw her lying in his bed, bare, waiting for him, he would simply sink into the pleasure and relief of her body.

Being deep inside her, he felt safe.

She was his refuge − inside her he would hide when the heavy crown he carried on his head overwhelmed him.

Apart from her, he had nobody and trusted no one.

It seemed to him that she was a lost part of him, that years ago something inside him had shattered into pieces and it appeared that what was left of her fitted into his parts, creating something entirely new and satisfyingly certain.

He appreciated the strength of her character, her maturity and her wisdom, the fact that she knew when to be silent and when to speak, that she never undermined his authority, that she always listened to him with concentration, advising him as best she could.

"All Lord Marrey wants is gold coins. He flaunts his wealth and his position at court. However, that is not what worries me, but what will happen if someone dares to offer him a better price."

She said wrinkling her eyebrows, her face turned to him in profile − she gazed thoughtfully out of the window into the night, stroking her arm involuntarily, her body clad in a richly decorated gown of blacks and reds, her beautiful shoulders bare, her sleeves reaching almost to the ground.

He lifted his gaze to her face, stirring with his hand in his goblet the remnant of wine that was left there, only to lift it to his lips and tilt it, drinking all that was in it, setting it down with a loud clink of steel on the table.

"What do you propose, wife? Should I, in your opinion, kill or lock up anyone who might betray me in the future?" He asked coolly, leaning against the back of his chair with a loud creak of wood, stretching out on it comfortably, the wine he had drunk so far making him feel warm.

Although he tried for a moment to focus on what she was saying, his gaze stopped on her bare back, emphasised beautifully by the bold line of her gown, wondering if she had been walking around the fortress like this all day, letting the guards shamelessly stare at such a large part of her exposed flesh.

He licked his lower lip at the thought, running his hand over his chin musingly.

"Aemond." He heard her impatient voice and felt himself shudder, lifting his gaze quickly to her face − it was extremely rare for her to speak to him like this − she only did it in private and only when he frustrated her with something. "His case really worries me. If you wish, I'll speak with him myself."

He pondered her words in silence for a moment, tapping his fingertips against his armrest.

"And what are you going to do? Ambush him?" He asked impassively, crossing his legs with a loud creak of his chair, leaning to the side with a loud sigh of fatigue, looking at her back again.

Just like when he had the mask on, he could watch her all day from hiding, look at her expression, her profile, her long eyelashes, her eyes and mouth, her agile, light movements full of dignity and serenity.

While he was like an aggressive flame burning everything, she was like the surface of a lake, letting him extinguish himself in the coolness of her reason, in the tenderness of her heart, making him manage not to cross the thin line that separated him from madness.

"I can propose that his daughter become my lady in waiting, and also suggest that I help him find a suitable candidate for her husband." She said calmly, playing with the three ruby teardrop necklace that adorned her beautiful long neck, his gift to her after their wedding night.

He loved fucking her when she was wearing nothing but this, the colour of their red combined with the black of her hair and the light of her body beneath him made them glow with fire in his eyes, the same kind he felt when their bodies connected in a tight, sticky, hot embrace.

He hummed under his breath, lowering his head, looking away, staring at his hand, playing with his fingers.

"Do as you see fit, wife. I will not interfere with your choice of ladies in waiting or the reasons that guided you." He said lowly, rising from his chair with a loud creak of wood and approached her with a confident, lazy step − her eyes grew large, a warmth and trust in her gaze, something that invariably surprised him.

He grasped her chin in his palm and lifted it slightly, stroking her skin with his thumb.

"Let's go to bed. There are a few things I want to convey to you. Among them, what I think of your bare back."

The next day there was to be, as there was every month, a gathering in the throne room, the lords and the townspeople could bring their issues and problems before him.

His Queen, to his satisfaction, willingly attended these meetings, at first standing by his side.

Later, however, he found it undignified that his Queen was not allowed to sit for so many hours, so he ordered a smaller throne to be created and placed next to his, on which she took her place from then on.

She never interjected without being asked, only speaking up when he requested her opinion in public, which was often when the matter was delicate, involved someone's hurt and misfortune and required a more understanding, compassionate approach.

He was pleased each time to hear that the words coming from her mouth were thoughtful, filled with wisdom but also with empathy and concern, without sounding hysterical or despairing, maintaining the solemnity of the situation.

He knew that outside the walls of the fortress, despite the fact that many lords were hostile to her, the people of the kingdom feared and respected him, but it was her they loved, seeing in her gestures of mercy and her support for the poor her value, which he also recognised.

He raised an eyebrow when a woman was brought before them, surprised that from afar he could see how unnaturally green her eyes were, her gaze sharp and assured, her black hair loose, her dress, though the garb of a typical bourgeois woman, perfectly accentuated her mature, feminine shapes.

"Your Grace. This woman I present before you is Alys Rivers, better known to some as the Witch of the East. She is known to foretell the future. I have brought her here because I thought the skills of someone like her might be of use to our King." Said Lord Ronwell, the same one who expected him to marry his daughter.

He refrained a grimace of amusement with the last of his strength, finding it difficult to restrain himself from glancing at his wife, knowing that a fire that could burn cities down probably shone in her eyes.

His words seemed to him a poor excuse for what he had been trying to do for a long time, which was to lessen her influence over him as Queen, to divert his attention towards another woman.

He hummed under his breath, crossing his legs, stretching comfortably on the throne, deciding he would take his time with the situation − the thought of his wife, whom his guards were surely thinking of at night, being jealous of him pleasantly tickled his ego.

"Speak, Alys, Witch of the East. Foretell me my future." He said with a sneer, cocking his head − he heard his wife let out a quiet breath of air with impatience.

She knew why he was doing this, that it wasn't even about this woman, that he was teasing her.

Alys Rivers walked boldly forward, climbing step by step higher, startling him and his wife, a brazen look on his face. He pressed his lips together, feeling discomfort and rage, wondering whether to stop it or not, and then the woman spoke.

"Your Queen will bear you a son with dark hair, a future King, beloved by the kingdom. You will have six children, but only two with your wife." She said softly, looking at him with a slight smile. He felt a squeeze in his throat, involuntarily glancing sideways − his wife was pale, her eyes open wide, her lips clenched into a tight line.

He laughed, running his hand over his face, unable to believe that she had allowed herself to say such a thing in her presence.

"And the daughter of which lord will experience the pleasure of carrying my children inside her?" He asked with a sneer, guessing that she had surely been ordered to say such a thing.

"I shall receive that honour, my King." She said with a sensual smile and he froze, lifting his gaze to her in disbelief, looking at his wife again, regretting that he had allowed her to speak at all. He licked his lower lip, feeling discomfort in his lower abdomen, looking away with rage.

"Hold her." He said dispassionately to his guards, rising from his throne − they immediately grabbed the woman by the shoulders and forced her to kneel, her gaze changed, her confidence gone from her face, her breathing loud and ragged.

"− my King − I −"

"− give me your sword −" He ordered dryly, extending his hand to Criston, who looked at him horrified, but reached for his blade without a word and slid out his weapon with a loud clatter of steel.

"− please, my King, have mercy − I have been ordered to say so −" She mumbled out, seeing the determination and coldness painted on his face.

The most important thing he had learnt over the years of observing people was when they lie.

When she stood in front of him she was not at all frightened, what she said was not uncomfortable for her − she truly believed that with her words he would destroy his wife's trust in him and eventually become his lover.

He was not going to rely on fate in this matter.

However, it was not his opinion or her plea that mattered to him. He looked over his shoulder at his wife's face − she was staring at him, pale, her eyes red, full of tears, full of pain caused by this cruel humiliation she had suffered because of him, her breasts rose and fell quickly in a shuddering breath, her nostrils twitching restlessly.

I will kill with my own hands anyone who dares to offend my Queen.

He had never lied to her.

"Who ordered you to say such things, woman?" He asked impatiently, leaning the tip of his sword against the stone floor, placing his hands on the hilt, towering over her, complete silence reigned around them.

The woman swallowed loudly, no longer daring to look at him, feeling that he stood over her like an executioner.

"− Lord − Lord Ronwell −" She mumbled quietly, all around them he heard sounds of disbelief and argument − someone shouted that Lord Ronwell was a traitor, the man however shook his head.

"This woman lies, my King!" He said enraged and horrified, clearly not suspecting that the situation would take such a turn.

Loud arguing and shouting echoed around him, which quietened immediately as his blade swished through the air and the woman's head tumbled down the stone steps to the floor below, several ladies of the court squealed loudly, horrified by the sight.

"Her every breath would be an insult to my Queen. Let this be a lesson to anyone who tries to plot against her. Guards, lock Lord Ronwell in the dungeons until she decides what to do with him." He said extending his hand with a sword towards Criston, surprised and horrified, his tunic all dirty with blood.

He turned to look at his wife's reaction − she was staring at him with her eyes wide open, her lips parted in disbelief, the heat in her gaze from which his cock throbbed hard.

She wasn't disgusted or afraid of him.

She understood that he had defended her honour.

That he had done it for her.

"My Queen. Forgive me that you had to listen to those disgusting words. Take her body and let us move on." He said indifferently, sitting down on his throne again, expecting them to continue as if nothing had happened.

His wife surprised him as soon as they were alone in his chamber, clinging greedily to his lips, grasping his cheeks in her hands − he groaned low, feeling the throbbing in his breeches, reciprocating her kiss with a loud click.

"− let me wash my hands − they're filthy −" He breathed out into her mouth, but she shook her head, grasping his hand in hers and pressing it to her face, in her eyes heat, longing, gratitude and desire from which he felt himself get completely hard.

His thumb, all slick with the blood of this brazen woman ran over her lower lip − he shuddered when he felt her run her moist tongue over his skin.

"− fuck −" He growled, grabbing her jaw with his hand, clinging aggressively to her lips. She bit him and he groaned low, surprised, lifting her gown, hitting her bare buttock with all his strength. "− how dare you − how fucking dare you treat your King like this −"

He hissed, turning her violently to face the table, clamping his hand in her hair, forcing her to bend over, her cheek pressed against the table top. She panted loudly along with him as he lifted the fabric of her gown with a swift movement, revealing her naked hips before him, her womanhood all pink and swollen, glistening from her moisture.

"− fucking knew it − my little wife is bloodthirsty, hm? − isn't she? − so jealous −" He gasped feeling his heart pounding like mad − he slid his finger deep inside her without warning and groaned weakly, feeling how her walls clenched around him, how aroused she was, her thighs trembling whole before him.

"− please, husband − please, I need it −" She mewled sweetly, innocently, her face and buttock dirty from the blood from his hand − there was something frightening and at the same time so arousing about the sight that he felt like his cock was about to explode.

"− what do you need? − speak, sweet wife, your King listens to you intently −" He said mockingly, sliding his finger in and out of her, once in a while pressing and massaging the spot hidden between her folds, each time bringing out of her a loud, pathetic cry, her body trembling all over, her lips parted wide in pleasure.

"− g-gods, take me − fuck me − please −" She begged desperately. He gasped low at her words, unable to deny her, sliding his finger out of her, quickly untying and lowering his breeches − she whimpered loudly when his swollen manhood slapped against her buttocks.

"− quiet − lay still and let me in −" He growled, with a sure, deep thrust of his hips pushing the head of his cock into her hot interior. He clamped his hands on her buttocks and began to slam into her with a loud moan of relief − she whined loudly in pleasure, clenching her fingers on the table top, her eyes squeezed shut, her eyebrows arched as if in worry.

"− gods, you're leaking − the sight of me beheading that whore made you so fucking wet? − hm? −" He gasped, rooting into her even faster, squeezing her soft buttock with his hands, watching with delight how his fat, swollen manhood stretched her tight, fleshy core with his every thrust.

"− p-please, don't stop, keep going −" She mewled, responding with her body to the movements of his hips, her wet, hot muscles sucking on him greedily, wanting to keep him inside − he was horrified at how sacrilegious and intense this experience was.

"− I'll kill anyone − anyone, gods, just say the word − I'll give you everything −" He burst out and she sobbed loudly. He felt a wave of pleasure shake her body, her walls were clenching around him so tightly he was running out of breath − he slammed into her like mad, his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a loud clicks of her moisture.

"− my beloved King −" She whimpered with difficulty quivering all over, his heart pounded so hard he felt like it was going to rip his chest open, a convulsion shook his body.

"− just like that − oh, fuckkk −" He exhaled, clenching his eyes and tilting his head back, panting hard, feeling a wonderful, overpowering relief, his seed spilling deep inside her at last.

They were both breathing loudly and shaking, unable to believe how strong their fulfilment was − he put his hands on either side of her head, trying to calm himself, his cock twitching all over deep inside her.

"− good gods − are you all right? −" He asked horrified, breathing heavily, reminding himself that they had fucked each other so hard that they could barely get the words out.

He sighed in relief sliding out of her when she nodded, he heard her hiss quietly. He stared for a moment wordlessly at the trail of his spend that trickled down her thighs, his hand reached up to her hot buttock and squeezed it tentatively.

"Let's take a bath."

____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

255 notes · View notes

cantstoptheimagines · 2 years ago

Text

Curador (Muerte | Puss in Boots: The Last Wish)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Muerte aches at the sight of you whenever he comes home.

Warnings & Other Tags ➳ Soulmate AU; helping a lover with their injuries (includes mentions of blood); established relationship; takes place directly after the movie; writers’ law states that every time an animated wolf comes into existence, I must write a fic; in my opinion, we should be calling him ‘Muerte’, so that’s what I’m going with; a huge thank you to my dear friend, Yoshino, for helping me with the Spanish translations.

Notes ➳ Word Count is 639. ➳ Reader uses feminine pronouns (she/her). ➳ You will receive the same injuries as your soulmate (unless deadly). ➳ Since Muerte is Death (straight up), why not make Life? I envision the Reader in this to be a spotted deer, who will be referred to as ‘Vida’. And who knows? I might turn this into a one-shot series if people enjoy it enough. Let me know what you think!

The slamming of a door made your ears twitch. You paused, eyes narrowing as you listened to the creaking floors within your home. A damp cloth was pressed against the corner of your lip, dotted with small specks of blood.

Footsteps slowly grew closer to your room. A quiet sigh escaped your lips when you realized who they belonged to. Having a lover with nearly silent movements did nothing but cause you panic sometimes.

You returned your attention to the small mirror in your grasp. A shadow moved about the room and a cloak was tossed next to you on the bed. Looking up at the towering figure in front of you, your gaze found red eyes staring back at you. More specifically, staring at the cloth against your lip.

“El gato lives,” he muttered, his deep voice sending shivers along your spine. “I have given him another opportunity to prove himself.”

A small smile made itself known, “Is that why your attitude seems so foul?”

He hummed quietly, ignoring your teasing remark about the infamous Puss in Boots, whom he had been chasing for some time now. His startling eyes were still zeroed in on the cloth.

“You really need to stop playing with your food, Muerte.”

His eyes snapped to yours. They narrowed into slits, shining with irritation. He snapped his jaws to the side, huffing loudly as he looked away from you. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing quietly.

His claws wrapped around the hilt of one of his sickles. The mirror was quickly tugged away from you and tossed onto the bed. Your head was forced to tilt backwards as the sickle’s sharp blade was placed beneath your chin.

Anyone else may have had fear coursing through their veins. You, however, weren’t worried at all.

Muerte stepped closer until his paw could replace the blade. The sickle was quickly returned to its sheath while he looked down at you with a blank expression. You allowed him to tilt your head back even further as he took up the space between your thighs.

“Cállate, Vida,” he ordered.

His claws wrapped around the cloth, finally removing it from your lip. It, much like his cloak and your mirror, quickly disappeared from sight. Your injury reflected his own, signaling to the world that the two of you were a perfect pair.

“It hurt when you got it,” you said. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

His expression softened. You leaned into his touch as one of his claws caressed your cheek.

“Lo siento, mi amor,” he muttered.

You gave him a small smile, along with a shrug of the shoulders, in an attempt to make him feel better, “It’s okay. No harm truly done.”

His grip loosened, allowing you to take his paw into your grasp and hold it in your lap instead. He lowered himself to his knees. Due to his tall stature, kneeling allowed his gaze to become even with your own as you sat on the bed.

“Ojalá tuviéramos un vínculo menos doloroso,” he continued. “Por tu bien.”

“I don’t,” you replied, squeezing his paw tightly.

His brow furrowed and his eyes searched for any sign that you may have been lying to comfort him, “Mi corazón—”

“It lets me know you’re still there,” you whispered. “It lets me know you’ll be coming home soon.”

He tried to hide a smile, looking away from you. That only lasted for mere seconds, however, since he couldn’t resist your gaze for very long. His red eyes explored your features. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the cut on your lip.

“Déjame ser tu curador,” he muttered, and then he kissed you again.

“Always, Muerte,” you whispered, reaching up to stroke his cheek and pressing a gentle kiss against his nose. “Always.”

Spanish Translations, In Order of Appearance: ➳ Curador (de enfermos) — Meaning “healer (of the sick)”. ➳ Muerte — Meaning “death”. ➳ Vida — Meaning “life”.

➳ “El gato...” — “The cat...” ➳ “Cállate...” — “Shut up...” ➳ “Lo siento, mi amor.” — “I’m sorry, my love.” ➳ “Ojalá tuviéramos un vínculo menos doloroso... Por tu bien.” — “I wish we had a less painful bond... For your sake.” ➳ “Mi corazón...” — “My heart...” ➳ “Déjame ser tu curador.” — “Let me be your healer.”

#2023 #vida y muerte #death imagine #death imagines #death x reader #death x oc #muerte imagine #muerte imagines #muerte x reader #muerte x oc #the wolf imagine #the wolf imagines #the wolf x reader #the wolf x oc #puss in boots the last wish #puss in boots the last wish imagine #puss in boots the last wish imagines #puss in boots the last wish x reader #puss in boots the last wish x oc

2K notes · View notes

y-rhywbeth2 · 1 year ago

Text

D&D Vampire Lore Dump #4

Weaknesses and Cures Featuring that pesky sunlight problem, and how to get around it. Overview of other limitations and weaknesses of their condition (running water, invitations, etc) and how to get around those, vampires being extremely annoying to kill and how to make them stay dead, and the four ways I know of that can cure vampirism.

OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER FOR FIRST TIME READERS: D&D is decades old, spans five editions, several settings and hundreds of writers. One guy establishes a piece of lore, and then the next picks it up goes "nah" and writes something else. I collected info from four different source books, all from different editions, which naturally don't entirely agree on how vampires work. Lore never stays consistent and may contradict itself. You may see information somewhere else from a source I don't have that contradicts what I wrote here. If you read this and like some of this stuff but not other bits, take the good and ditch the rest. Larian themselves have not written BG3 totally compliant with some established D&D lore or the original games. If you want canon to work a certain way in your headcanons/fanfic, go ahead.

Feeding | "Biology" | Hierarchy | Weaknesses and Cures | Psychology

Sunlight is basically instant death and will kill vampires within moments of touching their bare skin. Even if vampires can walk in sunlight, vampires can't access their abilities while the sun is still in the sky. A sunstone, if left in the sunlight to "charge" take on an energy that will rebuff vampires with an effect much like sunlight exposure (but weaker) if they attack an individual wearing/holding the gemstone. This disorients them, cuts them off from many of their powers and inflicts a small amount of damage.

There are ways that allow vampires to walk in sunlight, although their powers will be disabled during daylight hours.

Liquid Night is a vampire sunscreen that will protect the wearer from sunlight.

Clearly, going off of BG3, the Netherese had magic that could do it. (Netheril, according to one story, was an empire whose initial magical foundation was specifically the school of necromancy, under the guidance of the priests of Jergal/Withers)

Fiends are happy to take/destroy your soul in exchange for the ability to walk in the day, as the Greater Vampire creating succubi can attest.

Vampires grow more powerful with age. One of those ways used to include that they became increasingly resistant to sunlight with age, and by the time they were 1000 years old they were fully immune to it. After almost two centuries of undeath, Astarion may be strong enough to avoid immediate death and this may be why he doesn't burn to a crisp immediately when the netherbrain dies.

Necromancers can create enchanted objects that protect vampires from the sun. One example being the Cloak of Dragomir in BG2.

They can also just keep to the shade or wear clothes that provide enough shelter to keep the sunlight from touching them. A deep hood or a parasol can help.

Vampires don't usually consider such things worthwhile, as they don't see much point if they lose their powers. They generallyhave no desire to be in the sunlight for its own sake as most vampires instinctually hate sunlight.

Vampires instinctually recoil from mirrors and hesitate to step in front of them. This hesitation will typically pass in seconds or moments. In 1e they had reflections, but their reflection turned the hypnotic properties of their gaze back at them or at least, they thought it could. After that they lost the reflections, and it's thought that the absence causes an instinctual distress for the remnants of the vampire's human psyche (reminding them that they're an accursed dead thing who's lost everything).

In a similar manner to their lack of reflection, vampires also do not cast shadows upon their surroundings.

Vampires who don't rest in/on their dirt-bed (usually a grave or coffin, sometimes a bed with a mattress stuffed with the appropriate type of soil) are destroyed. A vampire that can't get to its sanctuary before sunrise is utterly screwed. They tend to have multiple safe havens with prepared resting places, just in case. Vampires who will be traveling sometimes use a bag of holding, essentially taking their grave with them.

Some have suggested that the dirt dependency is actually just superstition and a vampire can sleep wherever it wants, but nobody's successfully convinced a vampire to take the risk of testing that.

As said previously, vampires are healed by negative/necrotic energy and harmed by positive/radiant energy (including heal spells)

Holy symbols can repel them, but the specifics can vary based on source. On the one hand there's one that says that the faith and belief in the holy symbol is what gives it power, and on the other there's one that says that the symbol is only useful in the hands of a priest. Only the symbols of Good and Neutral aligned deities have repelling properties. Evil clerics can still try to Command Undead however (the evil variant of Turn Undead - instead of repelling/destroying the undead you seize control of them.)

In terms of clerics and paladins attempting to Command/Turn Undead, vampires are susceptible to it, but are also the most resistant of undead, so it's difficult and risky.

Vampires are repulsed by garlic - it doesn't harm them and can't keep them at bay forever, but a vampire will hesitate before approaching. Some vampires also randomly develop other "allergies". Salt, rose petals, rice, mistletoe, lilies, small children singing, dove feathers… could be anything, really. It's generally linked to the individual vampire's own personality and beliefs. If they believe it should repel them then it may have warding powers against them.

Vampires will dissolve in bodies of running water like rivers or the ocean, because the running water forces them to turn into mist and washes them away. However, running water's only a problem if they're immersed in it. They can fly over it (be that with the fly spell or by shapeshifting into a bat), be carried over (bodily carried by a person, or in a boat, or by bridge, whatever) or use the water walk spell and just walk across like a basilisk lizard.

They are however, blocked from crossing a body of running water over three feet wide in mist form, for some reason. There's no answer for this, but I'd guess the vampire cloud picks up water particles and grows heavier, eventually sinking onto the water or something...?

At least 3/4 of the vampire's body must be submerged for it to count as immersion - and it must include the entire torso (the heart in particular must be below the water). The vampire must be held under for three minutes. It doesn't exactly kill them, but as their body is now thousands of particles distributed through the waterways, unable to reform, the vampire is effectively gone for good.

Vampires are also extremely annoying to kill. They can only be damaged with enchanted weapons or weapons plated with silver.

Upon death their body turns to mist and they return to their resting place, where they reform their physical body but are rendered vulnerable. A vampire can be paralysed by piercing their heart with a wooden stake... and then, sometimes, you get the unusual ones who need to be staked with a specific wood...! Once they've returned to their coffin the body must be damaged enough to be considered destroyed. Decapitation is a favourite method, but the main point is just to inflict as much damage on them as possible. Vampires begin to regenerate once they return to their coffin, and need to be dealt with quickly, hence the stake to pin them down while you start hacking them apart. Luckily for their would-be-killers they often wake up disoriented.

Vampires can't enter houses, or holy sites of residence like monasteries without permission, and can't enter sanctified graveyards of religious organisations. They can't enter temples, as these count as the residences of the deity worshipped there. A guest cannot invite somebody in, the invitation must come from a permanent resident.

Unless the owner of the house is the one who extends the invite, the invite only counts as a one time offer and the vampire needs to be invited again once it leaves the premise - so you can get invited in by a child, but for the ability to come and go as they please, a vampire needs permission from the parents/guardians in charge of the family and house. An invitation taken through use of enchantment magic or just plain coercion counts as a legitimate invitation.

They can also just take a third option and find a way to kill everyone inside from afar and then just walk through the door once there's nobody left alive to own the property. Also if the building no longer exists, for whatever reason (like if it mysteriously burns down), then they don't need an invite to get to whatever's inside. Or buy the building - if the vampire legally owns the house, and the residents are their tenants, then the vampire does not need an invite.

Public areas, inns, public graveyards and non-residential buildings do not count. Vampires can come and go as they please here.

Other people's graves can also count as privately owned residence upon which the vampire cannot intrude, hilariously. The final resting place of the deceased counts as belonging to them - providing they received burial rites. Vampires can however just animate the corpse and have it leave, at which point it ceases to be a resting place and they can do what they like. It's not stated whether they can also use speak with dead to ask permission.

---

There are four ways off the top of my head to cure vampirism. Most of them aren't cheap:

Firstly is the wish spell, which can be used to cure vampirism in one of two ways:

Using the spell to rewrite reality. You force reality to bend to your will and turn the vampire into a living being. Using wish this way is extremely taxing on the caster and may harm them permanently. They will basically be bedridden for a given amount of time and there's something around a one in three chance that you'll never be able to cast the spell again.

In its 5e variant, wish can replicate the effect of any spell below 8th level (including resurrection) while ignoring all the requirements of the spell itself.

Next up is divine intervention. Deities can remove vampirism, though the extent and conditions may be limited by their portfolio.

Amaunator (the ancient Netherese sun god, precursor to Lathander) had a temple over in Amn. You have to take the vampire and the heart of the vampire who turned them to the statue of the ancient sun god in an abandoned temple, place the vampire in the arms of the statue with the heart and it completes a ritual that restores them to life. This was part of a quest in Baldur's Gate 2 where your love interest (who may have been Jaheira) was turned into a vampire and needed curing.

Eldath, a minor goddess of peace, has also been known to restore some level of mortal life to unhappy vampires.

And then resurrection spells. The time limit on resurrection exists because when calling a soul back to its body there are numerous obstacles.

The body needs to be in a state fit to go on living. If it's too damaged or decayed putting the soul back is a waste of time.

The soul must be both willing and able to return. It has to still exist, to start with. If the soul has a new life it probably can't be recovered (be that by being sent back to the material plane for reincarnation in another life, or remade as a fiend or celestial). If the soul has been absorbed by their deity or into the fabric of the planes it can't be recovered. If the soul has been destroyed then you're shit out of luck.

The longer the target has been dead, the more likely the above scenarios are true and that the spell will fail. Also restoring a body and calling a soul from across the planes is extremely powerful, taxing magic that's hard to pull off, which makes it harder to succeed. Hence the time limit.

Vampires have the advantage that their body is perfectly preserved and intact and the soul is still on the material plane, and there's an argument to be made that this makes them resurrect-able.

Greater vampires are not resurrect-able as their soul is either annihilated or has been taken to the Lower Planes and tortured until the person has been turned into one of two varieties of barely sentient blobs of rancid flesh trapped in eternal agony. Wish may still work, but it may have a 50/50 chance of failure.

There's also the elven High Magic spell Gift of Life, which as it says on the tin, restores an undead being back to life. The catch with this one is that knowledge of high magic is dying out, so finding an elven archmage who can and will cast it on you is extremely difficult and probably involves a lot of favours and proving yourself.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #excuse me while I have flashbacks to the vampire crypts in BG2 #Cazador you're such a fucking disappointment of a vampire villain #WotC DE-NERF THE VAMPIRES #Half of playing D&D is arguing about the Rules As Written VS The Spirit of The Rules

206 notes · View notes

marigold-hills · 6 months ago

Text

june 3: library | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 599 PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART • FIRST PART

They’ve used the map for a very many purposes, some nefarious, some less so, but never usually like this: to stalk one of their own.

Not stalk, Sirius reasons, with himself, because such distinctions are important. Search for. Keep track of. In a friendly, concerned manner.

Because it’s 2am, and Remus isn’t in bed, and he came out of the Potions exam looking pale and a bit defeated in his Moony way: withdrawn, shoulders narrowed, crease between eyebrows. And so, so tired.

Sirius finds the tiny set of footprints with Remus Lupin attached to them in a corner of the library. Not surprising, to find their Moony there, but the library closed at the reasonable hour of 7pm and as much as Remus was being a bit obsessive over studying, he didn’t usually go as far as breaking and entering.

So Sirius is concerned. Sue him.

James and Peter both fast asleep (and how could they be, when one of their own was missing!), Sirius pilfers the Cloak and makes his way through the castle.

The library smells like a part of Remus, an integral inch of him – books and parchment and ink, dust with magic interwoven into its particles. Moonlight falls through the tall windows, the only light, except…

There, in the alcove Remus favours, a single lit oil lamp casts a soft orange glow. Remus is always the comfort of autumn but doubly so now, lit up like this, his curls golden and the light touching him like rays of a sunset and Sirius feels it, this want, this urge he can’t name that makes him want to bite or to tattoo stages of the moon against his sternum. Remus deserves good things only – care and gentle affection – and Sirius fears this thing that sometimes overcomes him, how it wants to break Remus just to hide inside of his marrow.

Remus must hear his footsteps because he turns towards Sirius, profile in a sharp contrast of shadows and light, and Sirius thinks oh, thinks I don’t understand.

“What are you doing here, Pads?”

“How did you know it was me?” Sirius wanders, removing the Cloak.

“I’d recognise your smell anywhere.”

“I smell?”

“No, you dumb thing,” exasperation and fondness, “comes with the territory. My little secret, of the furry variety. Remember?”

Right, if course. The moon is looming, soon to be full. It accounts for some of the renewed darkness underneath Remus’ eyes. Sirius hasn’t seen the full moon with his human eyes in a long time, but he remembers it was beautiful. He remembers the shadows on its face, craters left over by something ancient and savage, and his Moony – their, their Moony – is like that too, shadows on brightness and scars as memories of pain.

“Why aren’t you in bed, Moons?”

A shrug, a nonchalance. “Fell asleep revising. Figured I might as well keep going instead of trying to cross the castle back without any of our helping aides.”

Sirius reaches out. It’s not unusual. He’s. Touchy friend. But he presses the pads of his fingers into the divot underneath Remus’ left eye, soft and slow, and it’s not like any touch he remembers ever giving.

“You need to take care of yourself,” he says, or maybe he doesn’t because the words are a swallow and a stone and they don’t cross the distance between their eyes, locked onto each other.

(Sirius thinks there’s something here I should pay attention to. Important. Open your eyes.)

“Guess you can be right sometimes after all, Pads. Come on then, take me to bed.”

(And he thinks: oh.)

NOTES:

this is part tree of a 30-part series of shorts: I’m aiming for them all to be readable as standalone but are a part of a bigger story (better read together and in order, in my opinion) if it doesn’t make much sense by itself do let me know, I want to give this a good go :)

i wish we saw more of the library in the movies. I mean, a magical library? Amazing.

@bowielover420 @tealeavesandtrash @digital-kam @moon-girl88

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

#remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #dead gay wizards #fanfic #marauders #marauders era #wolfstar microfic

103 notes · View notes

inoreuct · 1 year ago

Note

Headcanons for Zoro and Sanji as Hades and Persephone? 👀

HERE WE GOOOOO. buckle up. this is LONG.

sanji’s persephone. the breathtakingly beautiful god of spring, kind and charming with wit sharper than a grain scythe and a marvellous capacity for divine rage. he’s a whiz in the kitchen (it’s sanji. duh.) and has a green thumb to boot; up on the surface he has a garden that’s his pride and joy, where he grows his own fruits and herbs and vegetables and rare blooms, occupying a plot of land together with the cottage that he and zeff (more on him later) stay at whenever they can.

zoro’s hades. intimidating as all hell (heh), has a MAJOR resting bitch face, and a three-headed dog with the heads named wado, kitetsu and enma. he’s a good man, just VERY emotionally constipated and he’s never had to woo anyone before; it should be illegal for someone that powerful to be so awkward but he IS.

he goes up to the surface one day to take care of underworld business, something about dead souls escaping— and he sees sanji in his garden, on his knees in the dirt, gathering herbs with his hair a mess, golden as the sun and all over his face and when he flips it aside to talk to zeff his smile is even brighter. zoro feels his heart lurch so hard he wonders if he’d gotten cardiac arrest.

and as previously mentioned, zoro has NO IDEA how to talk to this beautiful— god? nymph? human?? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t care. he wants to get to know his mystery guy but he doesn’t want to freak him out, so he just thinks FUCK IT I’LL BRING HIM TO MY HOME AND FIGURE IT OUT FROM THERE. totally not a bad idea.

zeff’s demeter. protective, sometimes TOO protective, the god of agriculture practically raised sanji himself; barely anyone even knows that he HAS a son. he has fields upon fields of grain; rice, oats, wheat, whatever sanji requires to cook and bake to his heart’s content. the entire valley where their cottage resides is known to be zeff’s territory, and he doesn’t hesitate to rain holy vengeance down on whoever trespasses.

which is why zeff is so mad when zoro pops out of the literal dirt and whisks sanji away. it’s not fun for any of the human farmers on earth that day.

when zoro brings him to the underworld, sanji’s pissed as fuck; kicks and yells the whole way down, then knees him in the balls and nearly rips out one of his earrings before strutting off like he already owns the place. what about his garden? zeff? all the humans he has a soft spot for?? who the fuck does this king of the underworld think he is, plucking sanji out of his life like this?

meanwhile, zoro lies there curled up on the ground as wado licks at his face, and for the first time in his life he wonders if making a plan would have been a better idea. he asks his shades to gather information and learns that sanji’s the god of spring, zeff’s son in all the ways that matter; but even if he hadn’t been a god, zoro would have easily made him immortal if he’d wished. the thought is wild and so out of character for him that he sits there for even longer until the shades tell him that sanji’s demanding to talk to him.

sanji finds the throne room but on the way he’d already passed multiple chambers filled with gold, crystals, extremely rare night-blooming plants— he walked by a cave with its walls encrusted with rubies as big as his head. but he misses the sun. he misses his flowers and his herbs and fuck, he had a bundle of rosemary drying in the kitchen. he really hopes he’ll get to see it again.

the shades are all polite, if a little wary, but they seem to relax more when he smiles at them. the throne room is massive, a cavern with stalactites dripping from the ceiling and ending in wicked points, and the throne itself is a twisted amalgamation of iron and volcanic glass, gold and bleached bone and pure, sparkling diamond.

he doesn’t even flinch when zoro enters with his sweeping black cloak and his liquid, inky shadows, just pulls his lip up in a sneer; he doesn’t give a shit who this big shot is. doesn’t care for the crown of ivory and obsidian set atop his brow. he knows where he is, knows exactly who he’s dealing with, and he stomps right up to zoro, shoves a finger in his chest and says, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

the shades obviously didn’t see the whole getting-kneed-in-the-family-jewels spectacle, because there is a collective audible gasp. the court goes deadly quiet. zoro feels his shadows subconsciously swirl around him, building the silhouette behind his back into something out of a nightmare, but he makes an effort to disperse them as soon as sanji looks.

“i want. to court you,” he ekes out, eyes big and mouth pinched, and sanji suddenly realises that this man is just very, very awkward and obviously has not interacted with many living people for a very long time.

and no matter about anything else, zoro looks earnest. he takes a deep breath and his shoulders shift beneath his cloak, lifting his chin— but his expression screams pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes and sanji… doesn’t have the heart to say no. what will a few days hurt, right?

so they come to an agreement. sanji will spend a month in the underworld and allow zoro to court him, and if by the end of that time he doesn’t want to stay, zoro would personally see to it that he got home safe. he isn’t a prisoner, either; he is free to wander in the upper world for half the day. twelve hours of sunshine, and twelve hours in zoro’s domain.

if sanji’s honest with himself, the underworld honestly isn’t bad; zoro spares no expense to ensure he's comfortable even though he doesn't come see sanji himself very often in the beginning.

(sanji doesn't know it yet, but it’s because zoro's deathly terrified of sanji genuinely hating/fearing him or the underworld, or not being happy. he'd brought sanji down because he'd fallen hard and fast in love but if sanji ever truly did want to leave, it wouldn’t be a question. zoro would send him back up with his weight in jewels and gold as recompense.)

it's a little lonely, but not horrible; sanji befriends the shades and talks to the passing spirits, and word spreads that the king's crush (oh, zoro would have a conniption if he heard) is to be treated with the utmost respect, not just because of the order zoro proclaimed but because he deserves it. sanji is kind and understanding and snarky and fun to be around, but he also gives solid advice and he's a good bit more emotionally aware than zoro. the shades haven’t gossiped this much in years and honestly zoro’s concerned about their work ethic, but he walks past a tea-spilling session one day and hears sanji giggle and all thoughts of stopping it fly right out of his brain.

zoro snoops around secretly and finds out that sanji’s birthday is within the month. the last day of their stipulated month, in fact. so he calls in a favour from luffy (apollo!! the sun god!! his best friend!!). he spends two weeks, almost three in a cave he’d picked out, carefully pulling gemstones and groundwater to the surface, getting his shades to bring down soil and seeds and consulting with dead farmers about how the hell he’s supposed to pull off what he wants to pull off, because he HAS to pull it off.

all the while, he’s still courting sanji; having tea with the god of spring, trying not to embarrass himself and mainly just trying to win sanji over. he gets so enthralled by sanji recounting a story once that he drops an entire crystal teapot, heart hammering as one of his shades phase through the ground and catches it before it can shatter. sanji looks a little perplexed about how it suddenly disappeared, but zoro urges him to go on and he lets it go.

(zoro had never been that panicked in his entire immortal life.)

i can’t believe it WE NEED A PART 2 I’M OUT OF CHARACTERS

(part 2 here)

#zosan #op zosan #one piece zosan #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece sanji #one piece zoro #black leg sanji #one piece #zosan au #ask box #ino’s ask box

284 notes · View notes

cemeteryspider · 8 months ago

Text

Dearie~ Part 2

Alastor x Singer! Reader

Summary: Alastor waits for his chance to finally be reunited with you

Trigger Warnings: Violence, blood, exploitation, manipulation, revenge, and overall dark themes

Word Count: 1224

Previous | Next

Alastor woke up on the cold concrete with crimson blood spilled around him. A note lay in front of him but he remembered the conversation quite well.

See you never, Has-Been ~Vox

Swiftly, Alastor conjured inky black tentacles that snatched up and tore apart the note. He let the torn up pieces be carried by the wind into the sky. This would not be the end of the Radio Demon and his love. Nor would this be the last Vox saw of him.

With a sinister resolve, he cloaked himself in shadows, transporting to an old friend.

~~~

As the years rolled on, you found yourself relentlessly passed around by the Vees, each day ensnaring you in a new performance or appearance dictated by their capricious desires.

Under Vox's control, you were forced to guest-star in an array of macabre shows, becoming the centerpiece of his infernal entertainment empire. Many ads starred your shining face and within a year the once all-powerful overlord was replaced by an actor who lived life through others.

For Velvette you modeled at every show and ad campaign she wanted you in. It could range from the ugliest costumes to the skimpiest lingerie Hell has ever seen. You were ripped to shreds in every fashion talk show and magazine only to be built back up to be torn back down.

For Valentino, you took care of his highest profile clients. Avoiding videos or pictures was imperative, safeguarding your image as Hell's coveted poster girl in the twisted realm of infernal celebrity. After all, you were bad but not that bad.

The relentless passage of time bore down on you, the weight of each day settling not just on your shoulders but seeping into the marrow of your bones, a haunting exhaustion. You found yourself wishing for Alastor's return, but alas the cards were not stacked in your deck, only in the Vees.

You worked tirelessly and kept up with Hell's most influential people despite being on a short leash. You talked to many people, and you knew how to get what you wanted. You spoke to talk show hosts about current events and who was most powerful and how Hell changed with each passing day. Fellow models usually gossiped about frivolous things, but sometimes they would slip up useful information like when overlords fell and who died during the extermination. Some wealthy clients talked business when you were around and you became an encyclopedia of who was connected to whom.

Not to mention that you met very important demons through your jobs and gaining allies was becoming a more useful skill with each passing day.

~~~

After dealing with his employer Alastor was finally back in the Pride Ring. New and improved some may say. Screens, like omniscient sentinels, adorned almost every conceivable surface, projecting Vox's influence across the sprawling canvas of the Pride Ring. Clearly time had been good to him.

Alastor on the other hand had used his time to plan. Time for the revenge to simmer and brew into something truly utterly bitter. Seven long years of watching his Darling be used by the demon who managed to best him, allowed him to draw up his sinister plot.

Unbeknownst to Vox, a shadow was casting itself over his dominion. Nothing seemingly stood in Alastor's way, yet the impending storm was invisible, silently gathering its strength.

A sardonic smile tugged at Alastor's lips as he wove the threads of his revenge, exploiting the very vulnerability he had once sought to assist Vox in overcoming during their fleeting acquaintance.

He stood by a screen watching Lucifer's daughter pitch her hotel. Very unsuccessfully.

Amidst the towering screens broadcasting Vox's shows, Alastor sensed the malevolent pieces of his grand design falling into place, each detail a shard in the mosaic of his revenge. Every detail and nuance aligns to bring about the demise of Vox and the liberation of his Darling.

~~~

One part of being so successful is to be able to get things quite easily. Stealing wiring from vanities and circuit boards from old televisions.

Though it was supposed to be hush hush, many of the powerful people couldn't help teasing you that her boyfriend was back in town to get his ass beat again to be saved by another girl, Charlie Morningstar.

That's when you started to assemble a makeshift radio, a desperate attempt to breach the infernal walls that separated you from Alastor.

It took many weeks of stealing small items and talking to Vox about wiring to finally complete a (Semi) working radio.

With the makeshift radio finally assembled, you anxiously tuned through every channel, the urgency in your actions mirroring the desperation to reconnect with Alastor.

~~~

Alastor, with a determined focus, waded through the channels, guided by Angel Dust's cryptic hint that someone sought to reach him. Angel wasn't sure whom, due to the fact that the information had -passed through many to get to him. The static crackle of the radio filled the air.

Nothing was working until he heard the voice of his sweet angel.

"Fools rush in to where angels fear to tread and so I come to you my love my heart above my head"

Your voice was melodic and each note held perfectly in tune. You sang with gusto and a sadness that he knew came from your heart.

"If there's a chance for us then I don't care. Fools rush in where wise men never go, but wise men never fall in love so how are they to know"

His smile became more real. Realer than it had been in all of his seven year absence. He was closer than he was to getting you back yet still through the radio your voice felt so far away.

"When we met I felt my life begin again, so open up your heart and let this fool rush in"

As the song's final notes lingered, Alastor's voice, a lifeline through the radio, faded into a slight crackle. He felt the weight of anticipation, a heartbeat frozen in the ether between separation and reunion

"Dearie, how I have missed your gorgeous voice"

A sharp, audible gasp reverberated through the airwaves, a sound resonating with the weight of revelation. He heard your heels clicking over to meet him.

"Alastor, Darling?, Is that really you"

"Yes my love and do not worry, we will be together again soon"

"Alastor, I've missed you so. I feared the cruel silence would be our only communication, that I'd be forever denied the sight of you."

"Trust me, Dearie, you will be freed soon enough. Nothing can keep us apart"

A frantic tapping could be heard from your side of the radio.

"Alastor, I need to go, I love you Darling"

"I love you too mi amor"

With a slight crackle he stopped broadcasting his voice over the radio and he heard the radio on your end being shoved under something so it could not be seen.

~~~

"Sugar, who were you talking to"

Alastor seethed at Vox's voice. He would pay in due time.

"No one, just fine-tuning my chords for tomorrow's performance."

"Good good, sweetheart, keep those chords moving"

He chuckled but not a single peep came from you. Your conversation with Alastor caused a shift in you. Maybe soon Vox would fall. Maybe there was still hope yet.

~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

The song you were singing is called "Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread" by Ricky Nelson, it is a great song and it is worth a listen. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and are enjoying this story so far.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hellaverse #alastor #hazbin #valentino #vox #hazbin hotel vees #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel 2024

71 notes · View notes

asumofwords · 2 years ago

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: This is my first time ever writing fanfic. I have been reading fanfic on this godforsaken app since I was 12, and have been encouraged blindly by my best friend to post this. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2: Steam

The walk back to your chambers was a quick journey. The hair on your arms stood up, as the ever present feeling of being watched surrounded you. The soft sound of your footfall echoed in the mostly empty wing of the Red Keep where your chambers resided.

The art on the walls of the Keep had been changed to Queen Alicent’s tastes. Bland colours and entirely not Targaryen, replaced the once brightly decorated halls and walls of your old home. You followed the torches until you reached the heavy oak of your doors, having them opened by a Knight of the Kings Guard; his white cloak standing stark against the dark corners of the corridor.

As he pushed open your door you asked him to summon your maids.

“Could you please fetch Aella and Saria for me? Have them prepare some water for a bath.”

He bowed his head, “Yes, my Lady”, pulling your doors shut.

Your chambers were the same as the ones you had as a child, most of the furnishing and decor had not changed, though some things had. The room, however you could tell, had been unused since your departure many years before.

The windows looked out towards the sea, the moon softly reflecting on the water, flickering with the waves. A shadow could be seen above, a great beast flapping its wings to push itself and its rider higher into the sky. Its looming shadow slipped between the clouds rolling in, and you prayed a storm would blow in from the sea and knock Aemond off of Vhagar and into the ocean below him.

Vhagar was the largest dragon in the world, fitting for your uncle as he had the largest ego in the world. You often joked to your brothers that he was most likely compensating for his manhood. Unlike his brother, you had not heard of his conquests with any women, or men. He was entirely elusive, a man with little or nothing to say, that many knew naught about except for his anger.

Lost in your thoughts, Aella and Saria knocked on your chambers and you bid them to enter. Aella was young, no older than two-and-twenty. She had bright curly red hair that was always tightly pulled away from her face in braids that formed a low bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a deep brown and she had a dusting of freckles upon her nose and cheeks.

Saria was the opposite. A few years older than you, her hair was as black as night, and silky smooth, worn in a similar style to Aella, but with flowing bangs that framed her face. Her eyes were a bright blue and her skin was a deep olive.

Aella and Saria came with you from Dragonstone and had served you for many years. Both were kind and trustworthy, and you would sometimes dare to call them your friends.

The girls carried two large metal buckets each; steam rising high out of them. The two maids walked across the stone floors and placed them against the far wall. More maids walked in, carrying more steaming buckets of water and a large metal tub, placing it next to the burning fireplace, and began to fill it.

“Will you be joining the King for dinner, My Lady?” Aella asked, lifting one of the buckets letting the water carefully fall in as to not splash upon her or the ground.

“I will,” You replied, “I have not seen my Grandsire the King for many years. I’ve missed him,” You paused and thought, “and Prince Aemond extended a very warm invitation for me to join.” You looked up to see Aella and Saria give you a knowing look.

They had both witnessed the one-eyed Prince torment you since your recent arrival, and have listened to your younger selves stories of his sudden random bullying before the loss of his eye. Such a sudden shift in him which had surprised you both.

Some days it was as though he had forgotten that he hated you then, talking to you excitedly about something he had learnt in the library, before realising his mistake and scowling, stalking off away from you.

You had never truly understood the shift, but it was only ever in the open, before the eyes of court that he did it. If you were tucked away in private, he would speak to you kindly as he always had. You had shrugged it off as a child, but as you had gotten older, you realised that perhaps Alicent had been the reason for it.

“I wish to look my best this evening. It has been a long time since I have been in the presence of my family, and I want to make sure they know of how I have grown.”

Saria came behind you and began to unlace your dress, pulling it softly over your head.

Your slip was loosened by a tie at the front and it dropped down, pooling at your feet. The large copper tub had steam rising over the top, the light from the fire reflecting off of its side created a beautiful light that danced upon the wall.

Lifting your foot you stepped over and into the water, letting the stress and anxiety of the day melt away as you sank deeper into the tub. Leaning up against the high lip of the back, Aella lifted your braids from your neck and over the top, slowly untangling your hair and brushing out the strands.

Saria walked across the room and over to a large wooden wardrobe, which sat beside the bed. Dancing dragons were carved into the doors, with the faint remnants of paint covering them, with soft gold leaf detailing lining the trim of the wardrobe.

It was one of the last things left in this room that was yours, making you think that perhaps Queen Alicent did have a heart after all. Opening the two doors, Saria reached in and began pulling out gowns to present to you.

“What about this dress Princess?” She held a deep red gown with a high neck. The shoulders pointed upwards and held the sleeves of the gown together with gold chains. The long sleeves were inwardly lined with a golden silk and there were black embroidered Godswood branches reaching along the hem and bust of the gown.

“Beautiful but no, I am wanting black for this evening.”

Aella continued to braid your hair back, whilst you rested in the tub.

Saria went back to the wardrobe and brought forth another dress. This time it was a black, short sleeved one. Gold embroidered flames licked at the bottom of the gown, which split at the front up towards the fitted corset of the waist. A golden skirt peeked through the split, which shimmered like the fireplace.

The neckline was modest and although it was one of your favourites to wear back home in Dragonstone, you felt that the dress was more of a summer gown, and the coolness of the night that nipped at you made you think this dress would be too thin.

“I think I want something more mature. They haven't seen me since I was young, I am older now and wish to show it.”

You closed your eyes sinking further into the water to think for a moment, Aella pouring oils into the bath to soak your skin.

“Are any of the new dresses from Dorne?” You inquired, opening one eye to look at Saria.

The dark haired girl paused in thought, then hurriedly walked back to the wardrobe.

The next time she stood before you, she held a new gown you had not worn nor seen before.

“This is new from Marba, the tailor in Dorne.”

It was a dark black, sweeping gown. Its neckline plunged sharply into a deep V, dark black leather wrapped tightly around the waist and was embroidered with black vines that looked like dragons tails. The sleeves were long and open, that hung off by the shoulders that were lined with drooping gold chains. The inner lining was a deep blood red.

It was unlike any gown you had seen before.

Slowly you stood, Aella holding out her hand for you to take to help you out of the tub. Steam slowly rising off of your body as she pressed a warm towel to dry you, softly pushing your undergarment over your head to wear. You walked towards Saria, who held out the dress for you to inspect.

Up close, the black embroidery shimmered like threads made of Onyx, and the leather was finely stitched together to pull the waist into a tighter shape. The chains on the sleeves were thin and wound together like long chainmail braids, so delicate it draped softly and weightlessly as to not misshape the gown.

The plunging neckline was like most dresses witnessed in Dorne, but not nearly as often in King's Landing.

“It is beautiful, thank you Saria.” You smiled, “Help dress me, I’m sure they are expecting me soon.”

Saria held the gown and helped you into it, lifting it over your head and pulling it down. The inner lining was soft on your skin and the leathered waist was a new but not unwelcome weight against you. Slipping your arms through the sleeves you heard the soft jingling of the chain detailing, they looked similar to a warriors chainmail, and you thought for a second that you looked as if you were dressed to go to war.

Though this thought was not entirely unsubstantiated. Queen Alicent, your two uncles and aunt all still to this day wore green, were referred to as the Greens and were still waging a silent war against your mother and you all.

You thought of how your uncle Aemond would react to seeing you in a dress like this, but that thought was short lived as Saria began to tighten your gown, pulling in your waist which then lifted your breasts. You giggled at the prospect of irritating the prudish Queen Alicent, as Aella began to fuss with the finishings of your hair.

The dress fit you perfectly, and your hair was swept back in small intricate braids which were held together by golden charms, the rest of your hair sat softly down your back.

“You look beautiful Princess,” Aella spoke breaking the silence, “they are sure to see how you have matured with your years away from the Keep.”

She and Saria smiled softly and dabbed small drops of perfumed oils behind your ears and upon your wrists.

Ensuring that you were ready, Saria and Aella began to clean your chambers as you walked to your door, having the Knight open them for you.

Taking a deep breath you stepped out and began to walk behind the Knight. His white cape swayed behind him as you walked down the corridor to feast with your family again after many years apart.

637 notes · View notes