#READ THE BEAST ABOUT TO STRIKE ON AO3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

perfinn · 6 months

Text

let neptune strike ye dead

merman!din djarin x lighthouse keeper!reader - chapter two

wc: 4.4k

summary: you confront the inevitability of your insanity, and finally meet the elusive entity that's been leaving you gifts

cw: nsfw, female reader, DUBCON based purely on lack of communication, paranoia, isolation, oral (f receiving), once again lighthouse keeping inaccuracies, biting, ummmm... monsterfucking?

chapter one, read on ao3, divider by cafekitsune

You hadn't thought too much about the mythosaur since Captain Fett had told you about it. It had been a short conversation, really, something easy to forget. But you remembered it, always clinging to his stories to think back on later when you truly have nothing to do.

“That? That’s pounamu,” he’d said initially, gently picking it up to show it to you. “Greenstone, if you like. It was my father’s.”

“Ah,” you’d responded, not disinterested in the material but more focused on the carving itself. “What's the symbol?”

Captain Fett had given you a vague huff of amusement. He handed it to you, and you’d gently trailed the calloused pad of your thumb over the surface. “It’s a mythosaur.”

“A mythosaur? That's creative.”

“A great sea beast,” he’d continued on. “Said to be extinct. But the story goes that when they were running amok, it was merfolk that tamed them, or culled them to extinction. Spared both the land and the ocean of their dominion either way. The skulls are supposed to be their symbol now.”

“Merfolk?” You’d echoed with a chuckle, handing the mythosaur back to him. “So it’s not real then?”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t rule it out completely. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a mythosaur myself, but then they’re meant to be extinct.”

“What then? You’ve seen a mermaid, captain?”

He had smiled, that mirthful chuckle that had been plaguing your late night fantasies rumbling in his chest. “Never can be quite sure what it is you’ve seen out there. Sailors are a mad lot.”

You remember blithely telling him that you must be a sailor too, then.

You stare intently at the cowrie shell cradled in your hands, trying to force yourself out of what surely must be some sort of hallucination. But you can feel it, you can trail your fingers over the carving and feel every little notch that seems to have been etched with such care.

(You think tactile hallucinations are a thing, aren’t they? But you’re not certain they're meant to manifest like this.)

There’s obviously the potential that it belonged to another sailor, that it had dropped off their ship and washed up onto your dock in the chaos of the storm. That’s perfectly reasonable. Maybe it’s the answer you would settle for if not for the seaglass and the fish and that tail you’d seen in the water.

With all that in mind, and the echo of Fett’s words in your head, you know there’s only one answer.

You don’t know if you can let yourself accept that, though. It would be an irreversible acceptance of your complete insanity. There’d be no calling your mother to trick your brain into believing you have company. No satiating the lonely ache with Captain Fett’s occasional company. You’d be well and truly cracked.

But even so, even if you accept that there may be some degree of merperson out there, that doesn’t explain the offerings. You’re not exactly an expert on the extensive lore regarding merfolk, but from what you can tell they’re elusive and solitary creatures. It doesn't seem exactly in their nature to leave gifts to a human. You briefly consider the option of some sort of siren– but then why not just sing to you, drag you to your watery death and be done with it?

No, it feels like… you’re being wooed.

This doesn't feel at all like a creature baiting you into a horrible death so they can store you away in their lair and eat you. It feels borderline romantic. Pretty gifts to decorate your home, fish to feed you.

(The cowrie shell feels a bit like a proposal, doesn't it? Or is that your fractured mind, making sense of the senseless?)

The morning after the storm, the weather isn't much improved. Though the wind has died down some, it still rains lightly and the sky remains overcast. It’ll be clear enough for the fishing boats to go back out, so it's clear enough for you to get to work. No doubt the storm has wreaked some havoc, and you’ll need to tidy up and ensure everything is still in working order.

So you tuck the shell into the pocket of your raincoat, pull on the matching hat that always makes you feel a bit like a toddler, and head out into the pattering rain.

You wander through the mud and down the hill that the wretched tower sits on, watching as your boots get covered in the muck. Sometimes there are puddles, and you indulge yourself by jumping in them. But today it's all just sludge, begging for you to step wrong and slip right onto your backside.

You make your way along as carefully as you can bear, feet carrying you to one of the cliffs at the edge of the island. One of the shorter ones, short enough that you could probably jump and the only risk would be rolling your ankle if your foot landed wrong between the rocks. It's the same cliff the seaglass had been on.

You gaze out at the watery horizon, hoping to catch sight of any passing ships. A fishing boat, maybe. None would be so close as to be able to see the people aboard, but the implication of their presence would be enough.

At this point, just the notion of other people existing would ease your mind.

You don't find anything but the empty horizon and the somewhat tumultuous waves and you sigh, lowering your gaze to the bank of water beaten rocks below you.

Sometimes there are seals there. You like to throw fish to them, enticing them to come back and entertain you with their ridiculous little behaviours. You’d like to start naming them, and you would if you could get close enough to tell them apart.

You think that's something that people on the mainland would call crazy in a quirky way. In an ‘I’m so crazy, I talk to my cats!’ way, a way that indicates they have no understanding of what it actually is to descend into complete and utter madness.

You can be assured that you know exactly what an actual descent into madness is, because there's no seals on the rocks today.

There's a merman.

You’d be inclined to think he hasn’t noticed you, or else he’d have disappeared back into the waves to avoid detection, if he weren’t looking right at you. He’s staring, eyes intent and boring right into yours.

He’s gorgeous, mind you. His skin is tan and his wet brown hair is slicked back by the rain – and presumably the ocean. Though you hadn't been able to make out a face from high up in the lighthouse, he’s almost certainly the head and shoulders you’d seen last night in the water. His tail, huge and strong, lays against the rocks, and as your gaze trails down to his tailfin, you recognise it as the very same one you had thought you’d hallucinated off the dock. His body of his tail is massive, about three times the length of his upper half. The whole thing might even be longer than you. It’s a dark, teal colour– it’s really no wonder you were hardly able to spot it in the waves. His top half looks almost entirely human, the only deviation being the gills that cut along his ribcage.

Slowly, on the edge of the cliff, you crouch, closing the distance between you both by a few meagre feet. It feels too close, and at the same time it feels like miles apart. You move slowly, wary of spooking him and scaring him away. Even as you inch into a crouch, he shifts, looking as though he’s about to make a break for the waves.

(You’re not certain why he’s so shy if he’s the one that’s been offering you all these gifts for so long. Though, you suppose you’re much the same when it comes to flirting. And generally, you don’t flirt so much with species that have a mythology of hunting and killing your own either.)

You still when you’ve fully crouched above him. He’s close enough to touch now, if both of you were to reach out. You’d like to. To touch him, to know that he’s real.

(Tactile hallucinations, you remind yourself. It would feel just as real as any visual and auditory hallucination might.)

The two of you stare at one another in silence for a while longer, and you assume that he’s trying to take in the sight of you up close as much as you are to him. You feel a bit jealous, knowing that he must have been watching you so long, getting to enjoy the sight of you when you didn’t even know he was there.

If this had happened maybe six months ago, you’d still have been sane enough to be frightened by this prospect of a silent watcher, leaving you dead fish and most certainly hearing you pleasure yourself loudly at night. Now, the horror you should probably feel doesn’t even occur to you.

“You’re the one who’s been leaving me gifts,” you say, quiet as you can manage in the pattering rain, wanting to be heard but not wanting to startle him. “Right?”

The merman gazes up at you, and there’s only a slight incline of his head in response. You’re not sure how to take it, but it’s not really a question you needed much answer to. More of a conversation starter than anything. Otherwise, he doesn't reply. You wonder if he even speaks your language, if he’s even capable.

You reach into your pocket, movements slow and cautious. You’re petrified of startling him as you take the cowrie shell from your pocket, turning it over in your hands before holding it out to him. He seems to perk up at the sight of it, shifting slightly so he’s propping himself up on his arms. You look down at the shell again, running your thumb over the mythosaur, before stretching your arm out, offering it to him.

His expression shifts minutely, into a frown. His dark eyebrows pull together, and he reaches up a hand. You think he’s going to take it back from you, but when his webbed fingers touch yours – he’s so warm, part of you expected him to be cold blooded – he closes your fingers back around the shell. You meet his eyes, and his intent gaze has never left you. His hand lingers on yours, and for a moment his thumb rubs over the side of your hand. His gaze finally drops, taking in the size of your hand cradled in his. His fingers are tipped off with dark talons that brush over the calloused skin of your hands.

He feels so real. Something so real, so warm and wet and rough and perfect, your brain couldn't make that up. He’s here, in front of you, touching you. It has to be real.

Then, he murmurs something so quietly that you almost don’t catch it over the soft patter of the rain.

“Mesh’la.”

Your eyes dart to his mouth, you catch a glint of sharp teeth behind soft lips before they pull into a smile. And his smile… God, unsurprisingly it’s made him even more gorgeous. It may be the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen.

Mesh’la. It’s certainly not any language you know, but it’s a sound you could make. So he is capable of speaking human tongues, maybe he just doesn’t know any of yours. You think briefly that mesh’la might be his name, but the way he said it doesn’t seem that way. It seemed like he was saying it to you, about you. On his tongue, it must mean something.

“Mesh’la?” you say back to him, unsure of how to convey your confusion without overwhelming him with words he doesn’t know.

He only offers you a hum in response, still trailing his fingers over your skin, as though he fears the thought of pulling away.

“What’s your name?” You ask him softly, clearly as you can manage. You place a hand to your chest and slowly recite your own name, hoping he’ll understand.

(You think, if it turns out he’s perfectly able to understand you, you probably look like a complete idiot. But then, with how long you’re certain he’s been watching you, he’s likely watched you make a fool of yourself several dozen times.)

He seems to catch the hint you’re throwing and after a moment’s hesitation, he speaks again, “Din.”

You breathe the name in a murmured echo, adoring the taste of it on your tongue. You dart your tongue out to wet your lips as though you might catch a lingering taste of the syllable. Part of you had expected something difficult to pronounce, using sounds you’re not even able to make, but Din is simple. It’s beautiful.

You think you hear a soft rumble from his chest, but it’s hard to tell over the rain. He lowers his hand, leaving droplets of water on your skin. Instinctively, you go to follow him, tilting forward a bit and losing your balance. You yelp, and wave your arms around as you desperately try to avoid toppling onto the rocks below.

You manage to regain your balance and fall onto your backside, but when you look back down Din is backing away, slithering across the rocks and toward the water. You startled him, just as you had so desperately hoped you wouldn't. Foiled by your own centre of balance. You scramble to get back on your feet as he pulls himself away, eyes wide.

“Wait!”

He glances back at you just once before he disappears into the foamy waves, leaving you alone on the edge of the cliff. Leaving you reeling, and suddenly desperate for his return. Din, the merman.

Part of you is imagining telling Captain Fett what you’ve seen, but a bigger part of you knows that you can never tell a soul, lest they think you a madwoman.

(Which you most certainly are, but they don't need to think it.)

You stand back up as the waves crash over the rocks, erasing all traces of Din except for the droplets on your hand and the memory of him that you’re sure is reflected in your eyes. You’d love to dwell on it, to wish him back and stare out at the waves forever, but there’s still work to be done. So you have to go about your day as though you haven't just met a merman.

Din makes no more appearances for a week. He leaves you no gifts, and drops no hints that he’s there at all. It’s devastatingly lonely, even with a phone call to your mother. It only lasts fifteen minutes this time, as you have nothing to update her on and the drama with your aunt has simmered to a cool cold shoulder stage.

(Of course, you could update your mother on the merman, but you would like for her to think you’re only slightly unhinged at most.)

You’ve completely integrated Din into your fantasies, at least, and that's added an impeccable spice to your nights. There was even one night, when you were fighting particularly hard to reach a new record for amount of orgasms, when you included both Din and Captain Fett. You went blind that night with how hard you came.

Funnily enough, it's the next day when Din finally makes another appearance. You’ve got a spool of rope heaved over your shoulder and you’re trudging up to the shed when you spot his head at the end of the dock. It takes all the dignity and sense you have not to drop the rope and sprint toward him like he’s your long lost lover. No, this time you won't startle him. So instead, you wave to him and calmly make your way down the old dock.

He seems to hesitate before he waves back, as though he’s unfamiliar with the gesture. You surmise that he’s seen it before and guessed that it's a human greeting, but he’s simply never had the need or opportunity to use it.

“Din,” you greet as you make it to the end of the dock. Today’s a clear day, the clouds are sparse and the sun is blessing the both of you with its warm shine even in the frigid salty air.

He murmurs your name, webbed hand resting on the dock. He looks infinitely more stunning in the clear sunlight, his skin somehow sunkissed, despite his dwelling somewhere with so little sunshine. You crouch slowly and set down the rope, smiling at him.

“You disappeared,” you say, thankful when your sudden proximity doesn't make him retreat. “I’m sorry I scared you last week. I guess I got excited, and… you can't understand me, can you?”

Din smiles at you again, giving you a full view of his sharp and pointed teeth. They’re almost sharklike. He reaches up, taking your hand carefully, like he’s nervous.

You think he might be– you think that might be the explanation for his strange behaviour. Maybe it isn't just the nature of merfolk, maybe Din is just shy. The thought makes you smile, the idea that this gorgeous, dangerous creature could be shy or nervous. It's more than a bit endearing.

Then he speaks again, and even the rough timbre of his voice can’t ease the shock at the word coming from his soft lips, “Fuck.”

Your brows knit together as you tilt your ear toward him, certain you’ve misheard. “Sorry?”

He says it again, seeming insistent. He gently grabs your ankle, guiding you to sit down on the dock. You’re still reeling from his sudden cursing, too shocked to stop him as he moves you so your legs are dangling off the edge of the dock.

“Where did you learn that?”

(He probably learned it from you, shouting it late at night while you touch yourself, but you don't really have the brain function to piece that together while you're still reeling from the fact he's learned it at all.)

He says it again, and as he begins to tug your shoes off you begin to think he may know exactly what it means. He sets your boots down on the dock and looks intently at you, resting his hands on your clothed thighs. For a creature you’ve decided is shy, he’s being awfully bold. You stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips, willing him to suddenly know your language so he can confirm your suspicions.

“Yes?” He prompts, and it's well enough.

And really, you should probably say no. You don't know him. You don't know where he’s been. You don't know his actual intentions. He could be asking permission to drag you under and eat you. But it's obvious what he’s asking, right?

And god you want it, you want it bad. It's been so long since anyone else touched you, and at this point you’d take it even if it meant drowning. Especially coming from such a gorgeous creature. There are worse ways to go.

So you nod, hurriedly undoing the clasps on your overalls and shifting away from him so you can take them off, leaving you only in your t-shirt and panties. They’re not exactly sexy, but judging by the lust darkening Din’s eyes, your fishy partner doesn't much mind.

He trails his wet hands over the expanse of your thighs, taking in every inch of them. It takes you a moment to realise that he's probably never been this close to any legs before. He’s admiring them and amazed by them, and you shiver when he drags his tongue over the skin.

(Or, he’s seen plenty of legs before from drowning and eating people, and he’s savouring the taste of them before he bites a chunk out of you. He’s got those sharp jaws for a reason. Still, you somehow don't mind if that's your fate.)

His tongue is long and wet, noticeably longer than any human tongue. It would be easy, from this angle, to forget that he has the bottom half of a fish until he opens his mouth. But his tongue laving over your thighs and the slight scrape of his teeth wrenches you back to the reality that you may be about to let this supposedly-mythical beast eat you out.

Or… maybe you’re just letting him lick your thighs. He doesn’t seem to be paying much mind to your pussy at all, actually. You think it’s possible he may be fooled by the concept of underwear. So as he damn near gnaws at your thigh, you shift slightly to tug them aside. Din sees your movement and pulls away from your leg, brown eyes filling with lusting curiosity.

His eyes are on your fingers as you pull your panties aside and tuck the crotch of them between your pussy and your thigh. Din’s eyes dilate, and you can tell he recognises just what it is. It's just what he was after, to eat in one way or another.

Before you can do much else Din grabs your legs, talons digging ever so slightly into your thighs but not breaking skin, and tugs.

You yelp, scrambling for purchase as he yanks you off the edge of the dock– this is it, you think, you’ve just invited this creature to drag you to the depths to your unfortunate wet death.

As you begin to come to terms with your imminent end, though, he stops, leaving your top half still above the surface. You’re distantly thankful that it's a somewhat warm day so you won't get hypothermia from the water if you end up surviving this.

With more careful hands, like he heard your frightened yelp, Din turns you around so you can brace your arms comfortably on the surface of the dock.

Oh, you realise. He wasn't trying to drown you. He was only trying to do this in his domain. If you had the brain for it you might think it were some territorial thing, which it is, but any thoughts in your head are melted away by the sudden drag of his lengthy tongue through your folds.

A strangled sort of noise leaves your throat, and your eyes pop open at the hot muscle dragging appreciatively along your pussy. Even if he hasn't ever seen a human pussy before, it evidently can't be much different from a mermaid’s from the way he seems to know what to do with it. His arms wrap around your thighs to hold you in place, and you’re left digging your nails into the worn down wood to hold you up.

Because you’ve forgotten how to be, you’re far from quiet. You cry out when his tongue brushes over your clit, the strange feeling of it being played with underwater like this heightening the feeling.

(Somehow it's so much more than when you touch yourself in the bath, maybe because the water is cold, or because it's a foreign body, or maybe because the man doing it is used to doing it underwater.)

His tongue is rough, like wet sandpaper (but of a low, worn-down grit), and it laps reverently at your clit. Din’s mouth refuses to leave your pussy, and the delighted shouts of pleasure refuse to stay in your mouth. You think that he can probably hear it beneath the current, because he only begins to suck at it more fervently.

“Fuck!” You hear yourself scream, before Din finally leaves your clit so just his nose bumps against it. He gives you barely a second of soft licks at your hole before he’s plunging his tongue into it. Your nails drag against the dock as your scream of delight is trapped in your throat.

How is it that Din’s tongue delves so much deeper than your fingers ever have? It prods deeper than anything that's gone in there in months, fills you more perfectly than several of your fingers ever have. It’s like his tongue was made just to fit in your pussy, to find the spot that drives you insane with such little effort. You can't even begin to wonder about his cock.

He laps at your hole, his large nose prodding against your clit as your entire body goes tight. Your thighs clamp around his head and you sob his name.

“Din!” You scream, body trembling. “I’m-”

There’s no sense in warning him when it hits you so suddenly, probably more surprising to you than it is to him. Your vision goes white and you let out a guttural groan, forehead banging down against the wood as you writhe in pleasure, pussy trying to milk Din’s tongue.

(You won’t have the cognitive function to realise it until hours later, but his tongue has stopped moving for how hard your cunt is clamped down on it.)

When your vision returns in spots and you find the ability to breathe again, Din’s tongue continues. You whine, scrambling against the dock to pull your oversensitive cunt away from his mouth. His arms only clamp down harder on your thighs, holding you in place.

You gasp, tears blurring your vision as you manage to reach down into the water and tug harshly on his hair. That seems to give him the hint he needs to give your poor pussy a moment to breathe. In a second, his mouth has pulled away and left you dreadfully empty. With gentle hands and strong arms, he lifts your body back onto the dock and rolls you onto your back.

You stare at the blue sky, panting. His hands trail gently over your thighs again, rubbing them in soothing circles. You lift your head just in time to see him press a kiss to your sensitive pussy, like a kiss to a lover. You can't help but feel a bit charmed by the gesture, until he suddenly clamps his jaw down on your inner thigh. You yelp in an odd mix of pain and offence, but before you can say anything, he’s slithering off the dock and back into the water.

You want to scramble after him, but your limbs feel like lead– which is quite the accomplishment considering you’ve built up the stamina for several orgasms in one go. So, instead of fruitlessly trying to draw him back to the surface to tell him off, you flop onto your back and close your eyes, too pleased to really process that you just came on a merman’s tongue.

#to the person who said they'd love a slow burn sorry but we r eating pussy!!#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin/reader #merman!din djarin #din djarin #my work #the mandalorian #the mandalorian/reader #smut #din

94 notes · View notes

sotwk · 9 months

Text

Transformed (Gelir Thranduilion x femReader )

Fanfic Request from the @fellowshipofthefics's AU-gust Mashup Event

Prompt: Gelir, son of Thranduil (SotWK OC) + Mythical creatures + “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Summary: A Mirkwood huntress is attacked by a mythical beast and begins a slow and gradual transformation into a monster herself. Prince Gelir helps her through the frightening ordeal by overseeing her care.

Requested by and Dedicated to: @laneynoir I am so thrilled (and relieved) that I was finally able to complete one of your requests! Thank you for being so patient with me, and for giving me a chance to finally write an insert starring one of my OC Thranduilions. (How self-indulgent and exciting!) Love you, darling!

Word count: 2.4k

Content: AU, werewolf lore, romance, angst, mild gore, hidden feelings, oblivious to love

Rating: T (Teens and up)

Warnings: Mild sensuality, mention of blood and mild horror/violence

To Read on AO3: Link

Transformed

Third Age 1554

Mirkwood

Legends had people believing that werewolves could shift from human to lupine form within a matter of minutes at the strike of the full moon. But legends, merely stories passed down across generations by word of mouth, often got certain details wrong.

As was the case with you.

The long iron chains that connected the shackles around your wrists to the wall clinked softly as you raised your loosely bound hands to your face. You brushed your fingers over the coarse hair that covered your neck, its growth making the slow, tedious crawl upward to your jawline, where a soft fuzz had developed overnight. By tomorrow, you would likely wake with your cheeks entirely covered in fur…perhaps among other worse changes.

Heightened senses had manifested first, long before the physical changes began to show, and so the distinctly heady scents of warm rain and spring grass identified your visitor before he ever stepped through the door. But there was also the fact that hardly anyone else had dared to step foot into the same room as you, ever since your condition was identified. Despite folklore attesting that the mysterious affliction could only be transmitted by a creature’s bite, all the other elves were behaving as though merely breathing in the same air would get them infected.

You were grateful that Gelir had never behaved very much like all the others. Still, the carefree boldness you had always admired in him now worried you.

“You really must stop coming here,” you mumbled, just barely raising your gaze towards him. He was a Prince of Eryn Galen, yes, and the leader of your company besides. But you had known each other for far too long to put on pretenses with each other. "I could lose control of myself any moment now and hurt you."

"You could try to hurt me," he countered with a smirk. "You would not succeed." He folded his arms over his chest and ran his gaze all over you, his unfailingly keen eyes assessing the physical changes that had occurred since his last visit merely a few hours ago.

You turned away in a futile attempt to escape his stare. Gelir meant well, and was the only one whose concern for you overrode any instinct for self-preservation, the latter of which he never possessed much of, anyway. But even in your weary sadness and pit of despair you were embarrassed about being seen like this, especially by him. Your childhood friend who had always sauntered around oblivious to how annoyingly, stupidly, breathtakingly handsome he was.

"I am serious," you said sharply, vaguely conscious of the feral rush of anger in your gut, rising into what sounded like a rumbling snarl in your throat. "I will not be responsible for inflicting this curse on the King's son."

"If hurting me is your main concern when you are the one suffering through all this…" Gelir shook his head, his face suddenly and uncharacteristically somber. "Then you are still very much like yourself and I have nothing to worry about."

You sighed and slumped back down on the edge of the bed. King Thranduil had decided you would be kept comfortable in a palace room instead of the safer and more practical choice of a dungeon cell. The cells are for prisoners, he said sternly, and would abide no more of your protests.

A month into the ordeal and they were still tending to you like a guest, changing your bed linens like clockwork, bringing you water and fresh towels to clean yourself with, dropping off three meals a day along with stacks of books and paper and quills to help you pass the time.

“You have not eaten all day.” Gelir gestured at the untouched dinner tray on the low table. "Nor did you yesterday. Or the day before that."

“I feel no hunger.”

“You must eat,” he said firmly. “Whatever appeals to you, tell me and I will send for it."

"What point is there? Perhaps starving myself is the best and cleanest way to end this mess."

"The point is I will not have you losing hope while the rest of us hold fast. The healers have not ceased tearing into the creature's corpse for answers. Must I remind you that both Arvellas and my mother are leading the efforts to find a cure?"

Tears sprang to the corners of your eyes. Knowing the royal family was devoting their time to helping you really was what kept you going through the moments of despair and self-pity. But it was hard not to question what made you worthy of such attention, even though the King and Queen were well-known for regarding every subject in their kingdom as family.

The subtle shift of the firm mattress under his weight drew your thoughts to the fact that he had sat down next to you. On impulse, you shrank away to take back the distance that safely separated you from the elf-prince.

Gelir frowned, and you immediately held up both your hands to remind him of how they had gruesomely mutated over the past week. When you first noticed your fingers begin to stiffen at the joints and curl inward to your palms, until it pained you to fully stretch them, that was the first time you broke down sobbing over your condition. The ugly hair that sprouted at unsightly places all over your body to suffocate your skin had bothered you much less. But your hands-- lithe and strong and skilled with bow and knife and craft--those were your treasures. Now they were malformed and good for nothing except perhaps wanton slaughter, the only possible use for the razor-sharp claws that still continued to grow out of each fingertip.

"I dare not have you within reach of these, your Highness,” you whispered, steeling your face against the threat of another breakdown. “Please."

Unsurprisingly, Gelir defied your plea. He reached out, and before you could resist--yet did you even attempt to?--one of his strong hands closed around your wrist, and he guided the deformed monstrosity to rest against his open palm. You flinched as the points of the claws touched the prince’s skin.

"I am no delicate flower," Gelir said loudly. He pushed one of the sharp tips into the flesh of his palm, where it found resistance as hard as stone: a warrior’s hand inherited from his great forebears and strengthened by centuries of training and battle. "And I can protect myself, even from you, no matter what form you take."

The mere thought of attacking him sickened you, and brought your mind back to that dark cave where you had recklessly given chase to an already dying orc. You had been so focused on revenge, on seeking payment for what the filth had done to your comrade, that you did not detect the more dangerous beast lurking in the deep tunnel until it leapt out at you.

Your struggle with the creature lasted a mere few seconds before an arrowhead burst through its eye, forcing its jaws to release your bloodied forearm. Gelir’s enraged scream echoed dreadfully through the cave as he threw the monster off you and ended it with a single swing of his longknife, nearly cleaving its midsection in half.

Those images sent a shiver down your entire body. You pulled your hands away to wrap your arms around yourself, and stood up to pace alongside the bed. After a moment of Gelir just sitting there quietly watching you wrestle your anxiety, you stopped to face him and blurt out:

"And when I become too much of a threat, how will you deal with it then? Will you kill me too?"

“Do you feel an urge to attack me?” Gelir rose slowly, keen green eyes searching your face. “Right now, at this moment? Are you overcome by a desire to rip my throat out?”

You stared at him, so handsome and flawless and immaculate a figure, the dream of many an elf in the kingdom. Such beauty and light was so loathed by the Darkness, that any evil festering within you would surely rise to try and destroy him.

But as you stood within arm’s reach of your friend, close enough to inflict serious damage if violent impulses demand it, all you could feel was the same thing you had felt for him since the day he first made you laugh. When you thought you would never laugh again after the raiding orcs claimed your family’s lives.

“No,” you finally mumbled. “Not at this moment.”

“Until then, I forbid you from even imagining me harming a hair on your body.” He caught your gaze and smiled. “Even though you certainly have more of it now than you did before.”

Laughter rang clear from your mouth, and went on so heartily and for so long that it blurred your vision and emptied your lungs. By the time you regained your composure, you noticed that Gelir had remained oddly silent the whole time, and returned to staring at you.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because I need to.” He exhaled softly, as an archer might to reduce tension in their body before loosing an arrow. “To remind me of why I must speak up now, and delay no longer.”

The softness with which Gelir spoke your name was so abruptly different from the more common noises of his boisterous shouting and laughter. As noticeably different as a midday summer blaze was from a dawn’s early rays.

Suddenly you realized how badly your heart was racing, and how loud it must sound to his ears.

"This ordeal has changed nothing in the way I view you. This… this accident…” The bitterness of self-hate, a self-blame that you have repeatedly failed to talk him out of, cut through his words. “This threat to you, has only forced me to stare down a truth that I have ignored for too long. Before I do this, I wish to make that clear.”

Your speeding heart came to a sudden halt, as did the world around you. "Before you do what?"

The moment his hands cupped the sides of your face, his fingers threading into your hair, you were trapped. All hesitation, all fears and worries, extinguished like a wavering candle against a sudden gale as his mouth descended on yours. Valar, his lips were so soft. They moved tenderly against yours, confident in their conquest yet pleading for requital.

And answer it you did. The wild joy and thrill and desire that had long been locked up in a cage of denial within you now broke free, and you kissed your Captain and Prince. You felt the slight tremble of his jaw and heard the faintest of moans from his throat as you deepened the kiss, tasting sweet mead from the sweep of his tongue.

More. More. You craved more, and a fierce hunger for him exploded from your chest past your torn defenses.

And suddenly you tasted blood.

With a wail of shock and despair, you withdrew and lurched away from Gelir, watching in horror as he touched the bleeding cut at the center of his lower lip, where you had bitten him.

“Eru what have I done?! I am so sorry, Gelir, I--”

“Stop. It’s all right…” He tried to say, but his calmness in the situation aggravated you. How could it be all right? How could you be so careless with the one you loved?! You tried to withdraw to a corner of the room, to get as far away from him as you could, but the limits of your iron shackles prevented it.

“I swore I would not let this evil touch you and now I--” You could barely find your words, you were breathing so hard, so infuriated with yourself.

“And I swore that I would never let anything happen to you,” Gelir cut in heatedly. “Even though it was a vow I made only to myself, I swore. Yet I failed, and this is how I choose to right that wrong.”

He called out to you repeatedly, your name like a hymn on his lips with the warm timbre of his singer’s voice, and it soothed you enough that you allowed him to come near, to take your hands in his again. "When I assured you that you would not face this alone, I meant it."

"B-but the King… the Queen…" It broke you to think that you had failed them as well, after everything they had done for you your entire life.

"...knew exactly what they were risking by permitting me to come here." He brushed the heel of his palm over your cheek, his thumb catching a stricken tear before it could fall. “They have known far longer than I have, longer than either of us, that my heart has been yours for years. Meleth nin…”

He placed your grotesque, beastly hand on his chest, and you marveled at the strong, steady beat of his heart underneath your misshapen fingers, which did not hurt nearly as much anymore.

“Whatever this disease or curse may be, it shall take neither of us, or both of us. But it will not take you from me.”

On the other side of the chamber doors, out in the hall, Elvenqueen Maereth gave her lord husband’s arm a squeeze. “Let us allow them their privacy; they waited so long for this moment,” she whispered. “An hour perhaps, to sort through these revelations.”

Thranduil smiled wryly. “Nothing opens a fool’s blind heart like the terror of loss.” He reached out to wrap an arm around his own beloved. “You are overspent, Endanya. Take your rest. I will send Arvellas to deliver the news to them later.”

Knowing it was fruitless to argue, Maereth allowed her husband to lead her in the direction of their rooms. “Gelir will likely insist on us testing the cure on him first, but it will be more effectively done on her, with her symptoms being so much further along…”

“He will do as he is told,” said Thranduil flatly, giving an impatient shake of his head. “It should be enough to satisfy him that their fates are now surely tied.” He paused, revealing the smallest of cracks in his nonchalance. “Are there concerns of the process being dangerous or painful?”

“It will certainly not be easy. But she is strong,” Maereth said with a faint smile. “And they will be strong for each other.”

“But the cure will work.”

“It may take time, but I have faith it will.” The Queen laced her fingers through Thranduil’s, seeking the comfort she always found in his hands. “If we have learned nothing else these past centuries, aran nin, it is that the Darkness can never prevail against light such as this.”

SotWK Fancast: Sam Claflin (Daisy Jones and The Six) as Prince Gelir Thranduilion

Elves Tag list: @quickslvxrr @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @tamryniel @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @aduialel @scyllas-revenge @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @tamurilofrivendell @guardianofrivendell @asianbutnotjapanese @ratsys @conversacomsmaug @lemonivall @lathalea @heilith @absentmindeduniverse @heranintomyknife23times @entishramblings @stormchaser819 @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @freshalmondpandadonut @beekieboo @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @talkdifferently6

For more of my stories, please see My Masterlist.

If you would like to be added to my tag list, please sign up here: Tag List Sign-Up.

#sotwk fanfiction #fanfic request #gelir thranduilion #sotwk oc #gelir x oc #thranduil #thranduil headcanon #legolas #mirkwood #mirkwood elves #lotr #the hobbit #unnamed oc

109 notes · View notes

ladyduellist · 4 months

Text

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Astarion makes an offer to Tav, later succumbing to his hunger.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 3: Thirst

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 7k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexually Explicit Language, Blood, Act 1 Spoilers

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

He loved her right away. Her smile. Her creativity. Her heart most of all. He told her he used to have dreams about a woman before he met her, one fitting her description. It seemed like fate when they finally met. They both shared the same affinity for music. When he wrote her a love letters in the first few months of their courtship, he knew she would be his. She thought someone finally understood her. 10 years of a life together. 10 years of the dual natured beast that would wound. 10 years of love and honey of the cycle in between. Until she was numb.

— Evenlit (mother of Tavelle), diary entry 523

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

“Ah, my favorite traveling companion, do you have a moment to, well, chat?” Astarion’s voice was less theatrical—more thoughtful—than usual as he saddled up next to the bard.

The crew had been traveling on foot again since early morning, deciding not to veer from their previous path. Searching for any signs that could point them in the direction of a healer that could excavate the worms inside their brains, hadn't yielded any results so far.

Tav nodded to Gale and Shadowheart, gesturing them to travel ahead, sensing Astarion needed privacy. The wizard shot her a prudent look under the guise of respecting her quarry to speak with the pallid elf alone.

Astarion didn’t strike her as the kind of man that would revisit a situation once he was rejected. No, he didn’t even seem wounded. Presumably, he would continue to carry on, his pretty lips sheen with dialogue prepped for the next casualty. Sure, it seemed suspicious enough, but if he had already moved on from their ordeal in the temple, there was no reason she should continue to dwell on their—misunderstanding.

Still, there was an awkwardness Tav buried behind her faint smile and neutral eyes. The want to restrict the memory of a foretoken graze of his willowy hands.

As Tav finally regarded him, her thoughts still flickering back to their time in the ruins, she met the garnet of his vision with a cautious gasp stuck in her throat as he stepped closer. The sun’s beams creating a halo around the feathery wisps of his curls, presented Tav with the imagery of an angel that had flown down from the heavens to gather her into his arms. Back arched, pecking along the top of her bosom—a holy sacrament that could convert her to him.

Thy will be done.

Her mouth felt dry. “Of course.”

Their boots slowed, equally matching each other’s footsteps in the dusty loam of the earth. Astarion stared ahead of them, his vision fixed on their two companions, likely watching their distance.

“To be quite frank, I read our little predicament wrong yesterday and took advantage of it without due respect to you. I’m sure that seems a bit odd coming from the likes of someone like me—considerate as I am—but I think we got off on the wrong foot." He absentmindedly scratched his neck. "I suppose even a charlatan like myself can get it wrong sometimes."

Tav was skeptical of his accountability that seemed less than straight-laced. But, it did dawn on her that she may have misjudged a few circuits that intersected within his heart. That, yes, while he seemed to live submerged in coquettish self interest, in this moment of letting her walls down just enough to scramble through some of the thickets of his inner mechanisms, he may be showing an ounce of authenticity.

Yet, there is an element to the contrition of her heart that she dare not speak. To utter it with a covetous breath would mean to give it truth. That while she seduced her thoughts of being filled in ways she had never known within the margins of a romantic relationship, that she was terrified to completely expose herself to another.

Astarion was indubitably beautiful, charming, and humorous. But, beyond those surfaces, she sought connection—maybe just enough to avoid more conflicting emotions to sow. In the minutes, hours, weeks she could stand, she knew love could be cutthroat and messy. Its afflictions: hail and brushfire, a constant bickering. She was unsure if she could ever love or be physically intimate in the way of it crossing the universe again.

The risk was so very grave. No matter the man present in her life, her interests must remain just that—interests.

For she, too, spits the saliva of the devil’s lies to guard the silly thing that is her heart.

“It isn’t as if I told you to halt as soon as it happened. I think we were both caught up in the moment and lust can be a powerful drug.” Her tone was so sickeningly gentle and candid with him.

“Is that a confession?” the man teased.

The songstress jokingly rolled her eyes. “Pfft. Hardly! Astarion, I am 91 years old. You are scarcely the first to try and seduce me.” She looked at him earnestly. “I’m sorry I let it go as far as it did; I have no desire to lead you on. I am attracted to you—gods, how couldn’t I be—but I...”

A silent awareness of their near intimate rush within the dank crypt walls hung thick in the air. Of the primal urge that can arise during traumatic events. The need to rake nails down another’s back. Foreheads slick with sweat. The smell of salt and sex in the air. To live inside one another’s flesh.

The impact of surviving: release.

He crossed his arms. “Enlighten me then. What is it that you’re seeking?”

Tav stayed silent. The truth crippled her heart. She didn’t even know if she believed such a concept existed anymore, belonging solely to romantic folklores of lovers supping droughts of poisons in order to meet one another again in the afterlife.

Astarion searched her face. “Something you think I’m incapable of?”

“I think it is something you’re not accustomed to,” she answered flatly.

“Then, it wouldn’t hurt to aid me with a hint. At the very least to prove you correct.”

Silver tongues belonged to silver serpents. And this, may be a game for him. But, self preservation could be the royal quandary of boundaries and she had already revealed enough. The vulnerability was there, ripe for the winnow of another’s cup, but she couldn’t bear it. Not yet.

A quietness slipped between her lips, the storm of her optics solemn. “…we do not know each other adequately yet.”

Astarion held his chin between his fingers, deep in thought. He reminded her of a scholar that endlessly agonized over scripts with his rumpled skin set amidst two silvery brows.

“Hmm. Tav, you’re really overthinking this. What I am offering—and desire, mind you—is a distraction. A short term fling to take us away from all this madness we’ve found ourselves in. But, if you prefer a less invasive course: what about friendship?”

“Annnnd, if you find yourself wanting that distraction, the offer will always be available,” he added swiftly with a quick wink.

The bard couldn’t help but laugh loudly. “You’ll be the first gentleman I’ll call upon in that case then! But, as for a friendship with you…I’d like that. A lot, in fact.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, mouth perfectly molded into that of the trickster. “This whole conversation has been enlightening. In the spirit of ‘friendship’ and since we have gotten those unpleasant decrees out of the way, I believe this requires a bit of a reintroduction." He ceased his steps, placing a hand on his hip, while the other crossed over his chest. "My name is Astarion. I was a magistrate back in Baldur’s Gate. I enjoy a needle and thread, gilded chalices, and whatever other indulgences I can sink my teeth into. And you?”

And there was that darling blush creeping up the tenderness of her neck anew.

With all that hubris, Tav was amazed his head didn’t inflate thrice its size. Still, she played along, not discounting the potential for this being a gateway for better camaraderie.

A huff accompanied a subtle smile. “My name is Tavelle, but Tav is generally preferred by most. I was a traveling bard. I lived in Baldur’s Gate for the past year before the mind flayers came. I enjoy reading, a fine glass of bourbon, and the art of sword-fighting.”

“A bard? My, my. I’m sure the patriars just adored you, darling! To live in the Gate for that amount of time without winding up on the streets with folded hands begging for coin or between the sheets of some foolish braggart that doesn’t deserve your affections, warrants much more credit than I afforded you earlier,” he appraised her wryly.

Tav giggled coyly. She observed the high elf momentarily permitting himself to study the lifting of her own crinkling vision, down to the demure smile she flashed him.

“It seems you’ve misjudged me sir magistrate. A lady never reveals how she’s managed to work the entire city fawning over her! Though, I will say, it surely isn’t because of anything I’ve worked towards. I shudder to think I have any actual real prowess worth speaking about,” Tav bantered back sarcastically.

Bantering was not her typical forte. She had a quirky sense of humor about her, albeit a bit dark at times—she certainly wouldn’t consider herself to be an expert in the art of wit—but Astarion was bringing this side of her to light out of the blue. It was fun. Playful. An escape of sugary and sour amusements reserved for them alone. She couldn’t get enough.

“And where, my dear, has all this surprisingly sharp humor clawed its way out of? You’re typically so quiet of nature. Who knew our songbird had so much to say!” The way his mirth emerged itself when he bared his teeth to her in a dashing simper, caused her heart to skip a beat.

He tilted his head and grinned more broadly, as if there were an inside joke he had immediately recalled. Like he had heard the hiccup of her bloody organ.

“I may be introverted, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy talking to others. Especially if it’s someone as charming as youuuu.” Another melody of a titter, her eyes so exceptionally spirited.

They both laughed.

Stepping closer to him, her fingers twiddled with the thrown plait of dark ash brown over her shoulder. She casted her steely blue gaze downward before raising them to his face, the lower portion of her lip bitten in thought.

“Thank you for speaking with me and trying to understand. Truly.”

Bong! The bell’s toll striked and the hunt began. With teeth real sharp and a charming grin.

Tav noticed his pupils track her teeth wedged into the soft plush of her lip as he swallowed gradually. ”Hmm? Yes, of course. Now as much as I’d enjoy teasing you relentlessly for the rest of the day, we should probably get moving.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

As eventide washed over the land, the party decided on a night of respite before their visit to the Grove. Now aided by the addition of Lae’zel, the githyanki warrior, their dreadful circumstance had become notably strenuous. Two wary tiefling guards from a place called Druid's Grove, had captured her in a cage, frightened of the havoc she may cause. Her claim to have access to an apparatus that could rectify their tadpoles was a chance they could not all agree would be worth investigating, but Tav insisted they listen to the information she volunteered, offering her space within their elusive band.

However, she did not mince words once they were around the comforting light of their nightly fire. The flames casted a glow of saffron and tangelo reflecting onto the group’s complexions, bathing them in balmy heat. Shadowheart and the gith were standing near with arms crossed and irritated voices. Round green eyes narrowed on darker buttery skin. Razor teeth gritted and ready to spit.

“My people possess a cure for this infection. We will interrogate this Zorru at the Grove about where he saw my kin—unless you wish to sacrifice yourself to ghaik?” She was irrefutable in her credence, hellbent on reaching the githyanki crèche she deduced was nearby.

“Tav, she sees your kindness as a weakness. She will exploit it,” Shadowheart warned, pointing a finger at the bard.

Astarion slid past them, finding Tav sitting atop a massive piece of driftwood log by the fire. Her doublet was unbuckled, revealing a thin cream linen shirt underneath, tied lazily near her neckline. Relaxed and humming a whimsical tune, she had been pulling the last of her plait out while she seemed to be ignoring the two women's altercation.

She did not greet Astarion, instead resigning to a serene smile with a faint sprinkling of pink upon her skin as he watched her focus on running her fingers through her tangles. Even when his lissome form sat down beside her, fingers unknotting a snag, she still held the same expression.

Until out of nowhere, her voice caught him off guard, puncturing through the air between them. “Good evening, magistrate.”

Oh, did he ever bask in hearing the use of his former job title as if he still held a position of power. A fantasy of Tav pecking the coolness of his knuckles in reverence. “You’re not a monster, Astarion,” she’d whisper. The sly minx. He twitched in his pants.

The vampire bent down, his breath brisk against the point of her ear, inhaling the scent of natural oils from her hair. He was automatically taken back to their short affair inside the temple as he watched her skin prickle. Part of a plan failed, but not lost.

“Lae’zel is delightful. In a very ‘look at me twice and I’ll dismember you’ kind of way—of course,” he whispered.

Tav dramatically scoffed. Her hand drifted next to his bicep, placing it reservedly on him. She was climbing, climbing, climbing up, spreading her warmth over the sleeve of his jacket. It was seeping through—she was seeping through.

Her lips were a mellow heat and soft hush near his lobe. “Sounds like a challenge, Astarion. You have my support. Don’t let her get away!”

He modestly turned his head at the precise moment she descended from his ear to see her bottom lip swiftly bitten in a carefree simper. The same as she had done during their earlier conversation.

But, if he lifted the frail veil over her face, would he find her lips murmuring in prayer for him? For his cuspids to glide across her soft flesh. Mouth open and wet. On your knees, sweetheart. I will save you.

Then, there was a hunger present. A vivid thought of his teeth, latching onto that same part of her lip. Licking. Sucking. Kneading. His cock half erect. Until he bites into it and…

He cleared his throat, forcing the impure fantasy to subside, begging whatever divine beings that would consent to listen to not let their mind worms connect at that precise moment. If he didn’t gain momentum on the aching thirst he felt, everything would be lost.

Astarion leaned in closer, one of his longer curls unfurling, brushing against the side of her forehead like a feather landing in a dusting of snow. He delivered another punchline within distance of her temple. “You wretch. How could I ever say no?!”

Then, his voice was a purr. A final insert, one that neither the gods nor he can help himself but to taste on his tongue. “Though, quite recently, I’ve found my attention has been fixated on the enjoyment of wordplay with a friend.”

He could feel Tav shift nervously at his side, removing her hand calmly from him, folding it with the other in her lap. She turned her head halfway, peering over towards where Gale had been cooking their evening meals. There was a plume of flush resonating from her neck to her cheeks, contrasting against the ivory tone of her skin that sent a devil’s smirk on his lips.

All was not lost, after all, he thought.

“Gale appears overwhelmed. I should probably offer my help,” she muttered considerably, without acknowledging Astarion further.

Tav stood, placing the length of her wavy locks to hang like a waterfall down her back. She drifted towards the other side of the flames. Astarion watched her stroll towards the wizard, hips swaying like branches in the night’s breeze. Those same hips that were only inches away from him a few moments ago—inviting and wide.

Astarion leisurely rose, walking back to his tent to procure a bottle of a long forgotten red and a dingy goblet. He could overhear Tav and Gale discussing plans to prepare a suitable meal for their entourage with items from the packs they had picked through.

Gale appeared quite accustomed to cooking, skilled in frying meats to that perfect amount of crisp—or at least he had boasted. He passed along an enticing grin with a wiggle of his eyebrows towards Tav when he flipped a piece of sliced sausage midair and it landed right back in its starting position.

Tav beamed, "I see you are a man of many talents. Please never ask me to cook food so acrobatically for you. I promise it will not end well.”

“I fear, after this, I may have unofficially put myself in the position of ‘Camp Cook’ for our group. Food tricks and all. Though, let us resign from asking Lae’zel to help with food prep. I fear she’d insist on using that massive sword of hers on a poor tomato.”

“Not to worry, Gale. We’ll be sure to find you an apron and embroider your new title upon it so that everyone knows what you’re truly here for.” Tav appeared at his side, teasingly patting his arm.

Astarion cocked his brow, casting a sneer towards the two chefs before taking a large sip from an matured cup of wine. He disappeared behind the flap of red linen to change into a set of clothes that were more casual.

Folded neatly on his bedroll was an old ruffled shirt. Beloved and cared for over a long period of time. Multiple tears were visible, but each was stitched up with such precision, one would have thought they were graced with the surgical deftness of a doctor. Removing his intricately detailed coat, he carefully put the shirt over his torso and rolled the length of his sleeves up to his elbows—a particular piece of flair he added over an age.

This shirt was one of the few things that belonged to him in some fashion. When it was handed over to him as a “gift,” Astarion was aware that he would receive no other unless his behavior was considered favorable. For he would never be glorified for his contributions to his “family.” No, his tears were the sapid dessert that he demanded.

"Ungrateful boy. Your sobs will serve as my music tonight. Now bend over and cast your eyes to the hells for want of a contract with a hellion that will never save you from the flay."

Astarion crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself. A chilled sweat trickled down his forehead. Four walls baked in musk and blood: the kennels. His usual practiced breaths became gasping and erratic. He felt light-headed, needing to escape. His head started to scream louder than a harpy’s screech.

Yet, her mellifluous voice was sneaking into his ears, smoking out the curse that haunted him. It swirled around his body, protecting him, tugging him towards the source.

“Astarion. Astarion? Are you okay?!” Tav called out to him in concern.

He ran his fingers through his curls. Steady. Slow. The fabric walls of his tent come back into view.

Then, the roguish rake scratched its way back up his throat. “Ah, my sweet songbird! To think you left your handsome wizard to come sauntering all the way over here to look for me. You must be looking for refinement after all!”

He opened the flap to his tent dramatically like a ringmaster inviting patrons into a circus. Only, when he stepped out to face the bard whose voice granted him redemption, her appearance was perturbed.

Tav appeared sickly, like the blood had been drained from her upper body. A visible worry inscribed into the fine lines by her nose. She stood still and lifted her arm. Then, opened and closed her hand several times as if she wanted to reach out to touch him before deciding to rescind it entirely.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought you were hurt. Your breathing…I thought I heard you in pain.” A tiny bit of breath left her mouth as if she were relieved. “Dinner is ready. I’ll give you time to collect yourself and head back.”

The elf bowed his head in her direction. “I assure you, I am fine. Run along; I’ll be right behind you.”

And then her smile was suddenly the first day of Spring. “You better or I will drag you over there!”

Precious angelic lark. Do not despair. Your wings will serve as the gateway for those that capture you.

Astarion wondered if he had chosen wrong.

No. He was rarely—if ever—wrong about his targets. Tav just presented more of a challenge. Had he not succumbed to the numbness he enacted to conserve what was left of his mental state long ago, guilt may have plagued the bits of humanity he plummeted away from Cazador.

She did possess a certain loveliness to her. Not in the way of grand belles he’d bedded in the past, but one that’s described in poesy passages of endearing semi-guileless women, whose beauty shines through beyond being skin deep. Anyone would be a damned fool to think otherwise. But, an intangible hole existed inside her beating elvish heart that had not yet fully healed. Only, the path to her is strewn with meteors and fragile stars. An unanticipated detail overlooked, one he did not predict as he tried to lure her in the ruins with the aphrodisiacs' of his actions.

He sighed. Had this been one of his usual haunts on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, with less time to devote to his victim, he could easily capture another with memorized lines and rehearsed “fuck me eyes.” All he knew were the instincts of a man that seduced centuries worth of people, using his body to be the prostitute his master commanded.

Where Tav was involved, simply uttering honeyed speeches or licking an oath of exiled pleasures she had never experienced in a stripe along her slit, would not be enough.

But, what of trust?

Ah. Now trust carried power. However, the caveat to such an assured reliance was the privilege of obtaining it. Trust gleaned through lust was manageable. But, trust through measures of safekeeping another’s hope and beliefs came with greater transactions.

If this songbird meant to be Astarion’s silver lining, then he would make her sing.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Their lifeblood waits for you.

“Astarion, I don’t believe I’ve seen you eat a single morsel since you’ve been with us. You must be hungry? Here, there’s plenty to go around.” Gale brought the skillet over, sliding a portion of the food onto the remaining plates as the high elf approached.

You’re hungry.

He peeked over at the food sardonically. “As scrumptious as I’m sure—whatever all that—probably is, I will have to...decline. I have other sources of food stowed away. Regardless, you have my thanks.”

Starving.

Gathered around the campfire, they finished their meals while listening to Lae’zel speak about her crèche, K’liir, in the Tears of Selûne. Astarion couldn’t be less interested. He had no real family to speak of anymore—not that he remembered them—probably perishing many moons ago as it were. And the only place he called home, was the necrotic palace encased in stone towering over the lower city of Baldur’s Gate where dreams of a life go to wither.

”Your path is paved in blood. Your body does not belong to you. It was created to tempt. It is food created for anyone that craves it. Fuck your prick into anything that wants it. Your lips to press to whatever rotted or young flesh that desires it. You will never be anything more.”

Astarion refocused, nursing a goblet of wine as he leaned back against the log he had previously sat on with Tav. He caught the jovial expression on her face as she focused on each of them as they spoke—primarily that obtuse magician. The fucking gall of that wizard. I bet he gloated about his ‘mage hand’ all evening, he seethed.

Blood. You need to feed.

He needed to distract her. To cull her affections and isolate them on this farce of a relationship, ill-conceived by his want to survive.

Her. Your fangs want to be inside her, tearing at her throat. To taste the aurora of her voice as her blood warms you.

“Tav, dearest, why don’t you sing us a song from that arsenal of ballads you keep in that pretty little head of yours?”

The bard perked up, turning towards Astarion, her blue-gray depths wide as a doe. She was one of the moving pieces on the chessboard he satiated himself with.

Take her.

Though his request seemed innocent enough, the slithering leer of his gape seemed to make her feel abashed by the way she regarded him with her stare. This was all part of his cunning gambit of word wrestling they had begun to establish. And she knew what he was doing—of course she had to know. Astarion had the gumption to detect that she was conscious, but still uncertain, if he had only meant to tease her, to see her nonplussed in the moment, or if there laid an alternative motive to the glint of his impish smirk.

Her rosy lips parted slightly, a paltry excuse upon her tongue. “My lute perished in the crash.”

“Come now, it is not your lute that beguiles your audience with its voice. Do not keep us waiting, friend,” he winked, ushering her forward with a flamboyant wave of his hand.

Hunt her.

Tav did not argue. Perhaps to avoid further complications of the night or maybe because she recognized her talents had the ability to bring about a halcyon wave to their troubled comrades.

Though, as the first few notes she gifted to them uncurl like clear bells on silver tinsel decorating the reticence of the camp, her audience was now hers to command.

Taste her.

Tav's voice was ethereal, knitting together a story through the eyes of a traveler discovering fealty to happiness itself. She sang as if she were a holy entity within a chapel alone. The poetry of her words, the flames that would light the candles to the gods.

The winds spun around them, carrying her tune in ripples. Confidently, her eyes passed over to Astarion with a radiant warmth and he was motionless. As she reached a fluttering note, the bluish vein of her white satiny neck—a visible interference—caused an unexpected delirium.

Yes. Her blood will be the sweetest.

She had managed to do the impossible and hypnotize him entirely.

He had to have her. Just a taste.“Magistrate, please bite me.”

She’s yours. She’s yours. She’s yours.

The thrumming of his soul mate mark was a tittering of butterfly wings behind his ear. Astarion touched the sensitive area, crimson view darkened. Tonight. Tonight he would damn himself and be set free.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

”I love you, birdie,” he breathed into the nape of Tav’s neck.

The sunlight had just broken through with the dawn, casting illuminating golden beams onto their naked bodies. They were entangled with one another. Limbs thrown over limbs. Algos, her lover, spooning against her back. Pale and ruddy against his farmer’s tan.

He moved her cool brown locks away from her neck, placing a tender kiss near her hairline.

“Mmm. You spoil me,” she sighed lovingly.

“Not nearly enough.” He grabbed her chin, pulling it towards him.

Tav turned onto her side. She trailed her fingers daintily up his arm, then to the soft skin around orbs of near obsidian that were his eyes. If only she could freeze this moment. Collect it in a bottle and bury it within herself so the details, this exact moment, would never shift.

She scooted closer to him, the weight of her breasts hanging off to the side squishing them together. Her lips so soft, pliant, pressing to his own. They were slightly chapped, but doughy. The dreamiest of exhales left her nostrils.

He leaned in to kiss her back. One peck after the other, along her jaw, her chin. An amorous embrace accompanied by the heat of his breath kindling her neck again.

“Taste me, Algos.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Astarion hovered over Tav as she awoke with his mouth wide open, crisp air caressing her neck. His lips receded past their gums with teeth a pearly sheen in the light of the candle she had lit inside her tent.

“...shit.” He cursed.

Her eyes opened wide in confusion, watching Astarion swiftly backing away from her. She was furious. “What the FUCK are you doing?! Explain. NOW.”

Tav grabbed the rapier she kept at her side while she tranced and brought her wobbly self up to nearly her full height without hitting the tent's ceiling. Her body’s temperature was still cool from resting, leaving her partially disoriented. She was dressed in nothing, except her smalls and a gauzy linen shirt that barely reached past her bottom.

“No, it’s not what it looks like! I swear. I’ve never killed anyone—at least for food. I wasn’t going to hurt you!” He was crouching, his hands up in surrender.

There was a disbelieving jeer she hissed out. “No?! Do not play these games with me, Astarion! I am not an idiot. It looked like you were either going to bite me or assault me. I will run this rapier right through your ribs if you don’t leave immediately!” She pointed it towards him aggressively.

His voice was an octave above a shaking whisper, rounded eyes staring at her shamefully. “Wait, please! I just needed—blood. For food. I’m far weaker than I’d like to acknowledge. It’s pathetic.”

Then, when he altered his weight onto his other hip, the fine lines around his mouth having grown from their stressful interaction, she finally noticed. Astarion's lustrous teeth had sharp fangs, one on each side in place of a human’s usual canines. His pallid color looked even more unnatural than she paid attention to previously. The bluish hue bags of his eyes, a bit darker—presumably from lack of food.

A slave to his sanguine hunger.

Her voice was suddenly breathy. And then, as quietly as she could manage, she fanned out an unsettling laugh. “A vampire. Of all the things…why didn’t you tell me?!”

Astarion opened his mind and bid Tav to connect with his tadpole. She saw it unfolding. He held back some of the pieces that fit into the jigsaw that was him, but then there was something hungry and on edge removing parts of himself he’d never get back. His mind opened further revealing quaking, ruptured memories of tyrannical eyes commanding him to eat the only creature he was allowed: rats.

Then, the connection dissipated.

“You were forced to eat them or else you would have to starve? By the gods, Astarion,” she heedfully replied, lowering the rapier and propping it against one of the tent walls.

Tav registered she’d wept a few tears when a salty one dipped into the cupid’s bow of her lips. The raw mental images he shared with her were intense. This was not what she had expected from him, regardless of him being a vampire or a mortal. Her heart ached for him and if she knew he would have allowed it, she would have pulled him into a hug, muttering that he was safe into the crown of his hair.

“I—yes. Whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. I hope this explains why I was slow to trust you,” he hesitated awkwardly, adjusting his stance to try and relax his arms at his side. “But, right now, I do trust you. And you can trust me too. I may be out of line in asking you to trust me further, but if I only had just a little blood, I could fight better and my mind would be clear. Please.”

Tav considered his proposal, the desperation in his presently softer accent. If she consented to him feeding from her, she ran the risk of him killing her—either on purpose or by accident if he could not control his hunger. However, she cannot deny this may be one of the first times since they’ve interacted that he was being ethically truthful with her. That he was aware of the risks if he did take her life. There would no longer be the presumption of his security nor the help of removing their worms.

The decision to be made was dangerous; she would not have much time to decide for the sake of herself, Astarion, and their sordid companions.

“You wish to feed from me, correct? But, not my neck. Not yet, anyways. Not until I know you’ll abide by your words in the future. Because you know as well as I do, that you certainly have a way with them,” she unexpectedly jested. “Will my wrist suffice for now?”

Astarion nodded quizzically. “I would only need a taste and not a drop more. If I wind up with a stake in my heart, well, I probably had it coming,” he chuckled. “That being said, your wrist is more than fine. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

Tav shook her head to reaffirm her consent and proceeded to sit on top of her bedroll in a cross legged pose, her shirt resting high above her pale thighs. The rosy buds of her nipples had pebbled, poking through the shirt’s fabric. Her areolas, a delightful crepe pink, faintly visible in the light.

Slowly, she rolled up the left sleeve of her shirt, revealing tattoo work inked intricately up the length of her arm. On her forearm, half of a falcon’s bust sat—mastery in keen observation—with iridescent blue and brown feathers. Up further, a white fox glared, clever, yet ready to strike. Each adorned in ornamental elven helmets surrounded by nature’s leaves and flowers only adding to the woman’s earthly beauty.

Astarion bent down to rest on his knees in front of her, the smooth leather of his pants tantalizingly grazing against her shins. She could see him studying her figure, switching to view ink on her arm. Then, he lingered on the shape of her breasts through her shirt, and back up to the flush that was spreading over her cheeks. He held out his arm towards her, his hand facing up.

“Whenever you’re ready.” His voice was soothing, humble even, gently inviting her to sacrifice herself to him.

May your blood be consecrated, the sacrament fulfilled. Waste not, want more. For you give yourself willingly for his power and nourishment. The gods be with you.

She extended her arm, first dropping her index finger into his palm, then tip-toeing the rest of her digits until her hand fully rested on his own. The glacial temperature of his skin flowed through her body entirely like titillating electricity. Tav bit back a moan when his other hand covered hers and moved up to the inside of her wrist, caressing the silky skin.

It had been years since she was touched so intimately by a man. The sensations with each movement of his fingertips rubbing circles into her skin, caused her to swallow down a gasp. Every instinctual nerve inside of her was at war, either to push him away to the far reaches of Faerûn or to offer her blood to the man that somehow made her feel virginal by the swipe of his lithe fingers across her palm.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m nervous and you're cold,” Tav uttered with a shudder.

“Hmm.” Astarion continued massaging, occasionally feeling the throb of her pulse. “Where are you from originally? Your birth place.”

“Wha—the Dalelands,” she managed to answer.

“And which of your parents is a high elf?” he continued.

“My father. My mother is a wood elf. How did you know?

He smiled tenderly. “I could tell by your fair features.”

She tilted her head towards him. Was he trying to distract her? The efforts were working.

He lifted her wrist to his faded pink lips, placing them airily on the stretch of her visible veins. A chilled breath exhaled through his elegant nose. “Why did you move to Baldur’s Gate?

Arrhythmia started overtaking the organ in her chest. She fisted the edge of her shirt in her free hand, sighing heavily. “I needed a change of scenery—to start anew.”

Astarion pecked her wrist. A shallow gravel of his throat vibrated against her skin when he lightly started to suckle on the outline of her vein.

She cried out sweetly. Her chest swelled in tandem with the swift movements of her breathing, but not from the nervousness she thought would plague her stomach with knots. No, it was from the longing ache of skin to skin contact he had unknowingly granted her.

"Shhh. Shh. We wouldn't want to wake anyone now would we?" He lightly bit her finger in warning and then slid his tongue back up to her wrist.

Tav was wet. Considerably so. She felt the petals of her cunt drench in want the longer he prolonged his desires for her blood. It occurred to her that he may be waiting for her to give him the final confirmation for him to bite her, but oh hells, when she noticed his bulge straining in his pants, she conjured up a reverie of her climbing into his lap and grinding herself up and down his length begging for him to take her.

Astarion moaned into her wrist. He had trailed his left hand up to hold her elbow, while the right still held onto her hand, waiting patiently. Her clit was throbbing; she would have given anything to move even the slightest bit to feel pressure placed upon it. Any sort of relief to wash over her to abate the shivers of her flesh, to shake the image of him biting and sucking on her breasts.

Eyes half-lidded, she willed herself to speak. “Astarion?”

Rubbing the point of his fangs in contact with her flesh, his tone was huskier. “Yes, Tavelle?”

Dear Oghma grant mercy on this woman!

It had been the first time he had mentioned the full length of her name and it was as clear as a magical forest revealing a trail to honeyed fruits that she should not partake in. What kind of man could be capable of appearing as both a divine creature and one that could lure her into the shadows?

Burning, burning, burning.

“Bite me.”

The sting of his fangs entering her wrist was like two icy shards stabbing her. Her blood filled his mouth in short spurts and he had trouble containing it all. At the corners of his mouth, two streams of her red essence dribbled down towards his chin.

Astarion gripped onto her arm tighter, involuntarily pulling her closer to him. Greedily, he gulped her down, sometimes stopping to lick at the puncture wounds before wrapping his maw around her wrist once more to swallow her down. He hummed in pleasure the longer he drank, possessed by the taste.

Tav felt lethargic. “ ‘Starion.”

He didn’t hear her. The scarlet of his eyes had grown foggy with a glaze of something voracious and abysmal. Guttural sounds accompanied slurps of her blood as his fangs dug in deeper.

Tav’s head fell forward meekly. She grasped onto his silvery curls with the strength that was slowly being depleted and tugged. “Astarion you must—NO MORE!”

All at once, he released her, falling backwards onto his elbows. He licked his fingers with a pleasing noise, as if he’d just treated himself to an extravagant feast.

“You were—you tasted amazing!” Breathing in quick shudders he added, "I feel…happy. Strong. My mind isn’t clouded.”

Still slumped over, she attempted to placate the vertigo that was causing her head to swim by regulating her breathing. She sounded raspy. “Could you please help me to lay down?”

“Ah! Yes, but of course. It’s the least I could do after that invigorating experience.”

Astarion crawled over to her. Cradling her against his torso, he considerately brought her down to rest on her bedroll. It was flattened, probably uncomfortable, but to Tav and her ailing situation—it felt perfect.

“Are you alright?” he asked, leaning over her, wiping her sweaty bangs from her face.

His scent rolled over her, lulling her to enter a trance. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, perhaps from her adrenaline spiking, but it was pure heaven. Bergamot, rosemary, and smokier warm notes.

“Mmhmm. A bit weak is all.”

She reached up and wiped the drying blood from his chin and lips with her sleeve, providing him with a tired smile. “Astarion? Thank you for trusting me tonight.”

He tensed as she touched him. Jaw tight. A furrowed brow. His eyes moved back and forth, searching hers. Something uncharacteristic briefly showed behind his inspection of her, then fleetingly faded away.

Strange.

Standing upright, Astarion turned to leave her tent. He looked over his shoulder, his voice a serious temper. “Rest well. I still need to hunt to fill myself completely, but this was a gift you know. I won’t forget it. ”

Snuggling into her blankets, she recalled the events of the night. The bizarre appeal of his icy breath. The arousal she felt when he stroked her. The pain mixed with carnal desire as he bit her. The weight of truths they shared. His unforeseen concern for her comfort. A veracity of his soul, bared to her before he left.

And as her lashes laid in long weaves along the edges of her closed eyelids, her last thoughts as she drifted off to enter the dream realm, were about the closeness Astarion unintentionally gave her that she hadn’t felt in years.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion acunin #bg3 spoilers #bg3 tav #bg3 #baldur's gate #epistles of saints & sinners #bard tav #spawn astarion

47 notes · View notes

athena-xox · 5 months

Text

Rating Cerise Hood ships

Cerise/Raven: this is actually really cute. I definitely see Cerise pinning a little bit. But I just love the idea of them. 8/10

Cerise/Daring: even as a kid I saw them as platonic. No chemistry. Some good fics tho. I don’t like it sorry not sorry 0/10

Cerise/Cedar: I have so many hcs about them. Like Cedar finding out Cerise’s secret and then learning how to tell misleading truths and Cedar specifically becoming a real person for Cerise! Otp 10/10

Cerise/Kitty: I’ve posted about them before. Like yk how parents say that boys pick on girls because they have a crush on them? That’s what Kitty would be like to Cerise. And then in exchange Brooke being a nuisance to Kitty by narrating her feelings. 10/10

Cerise/Maddie: not my thing personally. I see them more platonically. 2/10

Cerise/Darling: athletic girls who hid that they are>>> locker room 🤨. I read a rappel fic where Darling had a crush on Apple and Cerise had a crush on Raven and then the two of them made some bad choices together. Cute 6/10

Cerise/Rosabella: I just like the idea of Rosabella being with someone ‘beastly’. 5/10

Cerise/Charlotte Step: this is such a rarepair but like in once upon a twist the clock strikes Cupid, Cupid sees Charlotte play bookball with some girls and then in Cerise and the beast Cerise plays bookball with some girls. And her and this one girl are lowkey flirting the whole time. And I like to believe that that one girl is Charlotte and I’m pretty sure this is implied because one; clock strikes Cupid and Cerise & the beast are the first and second books in the series and it is confirmed that all the miss matched fairytales can all interact with one another in Rosabella and the three bears. 9/10

Cerise/Briar: way more popular than it should be. It’s not that popular but there’s still way too many fics about them. They don’t really have any interactions and they’re just not an interesting dynamic. 2/10

Cerise/Romona: 🤮🤮🤮. So gross. Im not even putting it here for scare factor they are genuinely shipped. I talked about Cerise/Briar having too many fics but they really take the cake. The amount of fics on ao3 with them tagged is insane. -♾️/10

Anyways here’s how I’d rank these ships:

Cedar>Kitty>Charlotte>Raven>Darling>Rosabella>Maddie>Briar>Daring>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>(honestly shouldn’t even be mentioned)>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Romona

#cerise hood #eah #ever after high #eah ships #raven queen #rerise #daring charming #darise #cederise #cedar wood #cedar hood #cerise wood #kitty cheshire #darling charming #rosabella beauty #maddie hatter #madeline hatter #Romona Badwolf #Charlotte step

42 notes · View notes

the-lonelybarricade · 10 months

Text

A Ripple, A Tidal Wave - Part I

Summary: An AU where Feyre encounters a very different faerie in the woods. One she decides not to kill.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023. Starfall = fallen star = sad, injured bat, right?

Read on AO3

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

Feyre flexed her fingers. They’d gone stiff from the cold. The worn leather from her father’s old carving glove hardly fought off the chill of the gusting wind that cut through the clearing, lashing against the thicket of trees at its parameter where she had been crouched for the better part of an hour.

It was impossible to keep her hands from going numb in these conditions. Still, she flexed them, praying for the blood to rush back into the fingers she had curled around her drawstring. Feyre had overheard the village’s hunters in the marketplace, talking about the wolf tracks they had seen. Pawprints as large as your head. An embellishment, surely, but that didn’t change that the wolves would only come this close to the village for the same reason that Feyre would delve this deep into the woods.

They were hungry.

Winter was harsh for everyone. Even the forest was restless—too quiet, too still. She wouldn’t have risked coming here, knowing there were wolves, if her family wasn’t desperate. As far as they were concerned, Ferye would either return with food, or be taken by the forest so that they had one less mouth to feed. It was favorable for them either way.

Unless Feyre returned empty handed, which was looking more and more likely the longer she crouched in the snow, watching the sun’s slow descent across the horizon through gritted teeth. Only a few more hours left of daylight. Soon she would need to turn back lest she try to navigate her way in the dark and double her chances of getting eaten by wolves.

In the back of her mind, she could already hear Nesta’s disapproving snort. The way her vicious eyes would cut immediately to Feyre’s empty hands, how she’d cross her arms over her chest and hurtle all number of accusations without saying anything at all. Nesta had a gift for communicating her every hostile thought with one single, withering glance. Feyre had witnessed her sister grind men to dust without so much as opening her mouth.

Sometimes, pinned beneath that look, Feyre wanted to cry to her, then why don’t you do it?

But Nesta wouldn’t. And neither would Elain. And their injured father couldn’t. So it was Feyre, stalking through the woods, letting the ice soak into her bones. One day, someone would ask what had turned Feyre Archeron so cold and she would point to the forest. It was here her heart had frozen over. It was here, she’d traded her innocence for survival.

Here, it was kill or be killed.

Feyre began rising from the snow-heavy brambles, stifling a groan at the protest of her stiff limbs. She froze, mid-way through stretching, as a great, terrible noise erupted through the forest. It was pure, blood-pumping instinct that threw Feyre’s body back to the ground, covering in the bramble like she expected blowback from the sound. Like the warning rumble of thunder before the lethal strike of lightning.

The howling wind stilled. There was no mass retreat of wildlife, no birds escaping to the skies. It was like everything held its breath, terrified of being caught by the creature as it bellowed another anguished roar.

It wasn’t like any wolf Feyre had ever heard.

She needed to leave. Now.

Still ducked beneath the bush, Feyre angled her head towards the forest, eyes darting across the tangled roots and underbrush to chart the best path back to the village. One that would offer coverage, would give her a fighting chance if the beast—whatever it was—decided to pursue.

The noise came again. Softer, now, more wounded. Had it been attacked? Or was it mimicking injury to lure its prey closer?

Her heart was beating so quickly that each beat leapt into her throat. The brush rustled on the other side of the clearing. It was coming towards her. It was too late to run. She drew her bow, ignoring the tremble in her fingers, how the air was collecting in front of her in short, breathless exhales.

Feyre peered through the thorns.

The wings stood out to her first. Large, membranous bat-like wings. They had been what caused the rustling, for they dragged against the ground, catching on the underbrush.

More startling than the wings, however, was that they belong to a man. No, a faerie. He was too far away to glimpse his pointed ears, but the wings certainly gave it away. He was stumbling forward, an arm slung protectively around his bleeding stomach while the other pushed aside the wayward tree branches. His entire body slumped inwards, around the wound at his center that trekked blood in a ruby-red path behind him.

When he made it to the center of the clearing, his knees gave out, and he stumbled face-first into the snow. Feyre held her position for several breaths, eyes fixed intently on his shoulders, watching their shallow rise and fall as pool of blood collected beneath him.

Her arrow was still notched, still aimed at him through the brush.

He was a faerie. She should have killed him for that fact alone.

His body twitched, then stilled.

Maybe he was already dead. Maybe she should shoot him, just for good measure. Put him out of his misery.

It would be a waste of an arrow, she decided. He looked dead. Besides, there was still the threat of whatever had done this to him. She pushed her aim higher, monitoring the thicket he had come from. She should be running. She should be gone.

Her aim dipped back to the male lying helpless in the snow.

Snow-tipped wind nudged playfully at the wisps of his blue-back hair. It was the color of the night sky when no stars touched it.

From the amount of blood coloring the snow beneath him, he was almost certainly dead.

Feyre lifted from her crouch. The icy snow crunched under her fraying boots. Her mouth felt dry.

He looked so… so still.

She drew her knife and edged closer, more of him coming into view. Those wings were so much larger—so much more stunning, more horrific—up close. Now, she could see the sun warming their leathery surface, glinting off the sharp claw that rested at each apex. A useless part of her stirred, the part that was fascinating by colors and shadows and the way the sunlight illuminated the veins in his wings. She felt oddly tempted to reach her hand out and touch them.

Except they twitched, and Feyre faltered a step back, nearly stumbling.

Not dead yet, then.

Her grip on the knife tightened. It was difficult to tell with his face in the snow, but Feyre thought he looked young, not much older than Nesta. Though the fae were immortal and he could just as easily be centuries old.

For a creature that could defy time itself, he didn’t look very intimidating now. If she looked past the wings, she could almost pretend he was just a wounded man. Someone who was suffering with every slowing breath. Someone who… someone who needed help.

Inwardly, she was screaming at herself, wondering why she didn’t just bury the knife in his back and run. Or better yet, the asharrow that had sat unused in her quiver for the last three years.

She touched his hair. It was soft, silken yet damp from the snow. She tightened her fingers and used that grip to, as delicately as she could, turn his head to the side. He groaned, a barely conscious sound that told her he was still alive.

For a moment, Feyre could do nothing but stare at the face before her. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, even with the sweat and snow clinging to his skin, and the way his face pinched in pain. He had full, sensuous lips that she ordinarily might have been tempted to study, were they not parted open to expel slow, shallow breaths.

His eyes were shut, and behind his eyelids she could see his pupils moving rapidly.

It wouldn’t even be necessary to stab him. She could leave him here and he would undoubtedly be dead by morning, buried beneath layers of snow. No one would miss him, certainly not in the mortal village. And judging by the mortal wound his own kind must have dealt him, Feyre doubted he would be missed beyond the wall, either.

She stared at him, feeling an unexpected sense of dread, of pity, rise within her. Objectively, she knew that it was absurd to feel bad for him. He was a faerie, and if he weren’t gravely injured, it would likely have been her blood seeping into the snow.

But no one would care if she didn’t come out of the woods, either.

It could have been her laying face down in the snow. No one would have bothered to come looking for her. No one would have helped.

Praying for mercy from the long forgotten gods—as if they would even indulge her for being so foolish—Feyre sheathed her knife. Their options were limited. Sundown was fast approaching and he was… he was ginormous. It wasn’t as if she could run to the village for help, they would sooner finish the job. And he was too heavy to carry back to the cottage. Not that she would. Nesta and Elain would never agree to help him.

No, she needed to take him somewhere close and out of the snow so that she could take a closer look at his wounds. The only thing that came to mind was a small, deserted hunter’s shack further in the forest, leftover from a time when humans felt comfortable enough to venture that close to the wall. Or a time when they were desperate enough to risk it.

The first difficult task would be getting him onto his back. She’d need to drag him a way’s through the forest and she couldn’t risk the dirt and undergrowth catching in his wound. With the wings, turning him over would be a cumbersome task—especially given that they looked heavy.

After several moments of deliberation, puzzling over the best approach, Feyre decided to forgo caution and just move him. It was better than letting him bleed out in the snow. But the second her hand curled around the edge of his wing, his eyes snapped opened.

Feyre dropped it immediately, letting the massive appendage fall back to the snow with a soft smack. He groaned.

His eyes fluttered shut again, giving her the confidence to step forward. “I’m trying to help you,” she said to him. “I don’t… I’ve never met someone with wings before. So you have to be patient with me.”

He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, like he was choking on something liquid. Then a moment later his wing fluttered, trying to lift it, and Feyre decided she could meet him halfway. With the faerie taking some of the weight off, she was able to fold the wing to the side.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, “If you thought that was bad, this next part isn't going to be very fun.”

Feyre could almost mistake his answering grunt for a laugh. She took that as permission to haul him upwards from beneath the shoulder, trying to both lift and roll him onto his side. He hissed—a weak, agonized sound that raised every hair on her arms.

“You’re almost there,” she said, not letting the noise deter her movements. If she did, it would only prolong the pain. “Just suck it up a little more.”

It felt like pushing a boulder up a hill. Feyre was panting by the time she got him propped on his side, and from there it was only a matter of letting gravity do the rest. She rolled him, inelegantly, onto his back, wincing at the way his wing had folded under him. It wasn’t perfect, or comfortable, but nothing about this experience would be.

He slumped into the snow once it was done, tilting his head back in exhaustion like he had been the one to lift a male twice his size. Though, from the wounds splitting across his torso—the worst of them a deep gash stretching from his sternum to his naval—Feyre supposed she shouldn’t be complaining.

The sight of the gore made her feel dizzy. She turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth like it might do anything to ease the rising bile in her throat. Feyre swallowed, trying to steady herself. Would whatever creature that had done this to him come for her next for trying to help? Would they come for Nesta and Elain?

“Rh—ys.”

It took Feyre a moment to register that he had spoken. Or tried to, at any rate.

“What?”

“Rhys,” he choked out, eyes opened to barely-there slits.

“Is that… your name?”

He just huffed, which Feyre took to mean yes.

“Well, Rhys,” she said, stepping around his body to kneel at his head. Her arms slid under his shoulders, securely his body beneath his armpits. “I hope those wings aren’t sensitive, because you and I have a long journey to make through those woods.”

#A Ripple A Tidal Wave #Feysandweek2023 #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #feyre x rhys #rhys x feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre

61 notes · View notes

sun-and-moon-mushroom · 4 months

Text

Day 16: Came Back Wrong

AO3 link

(Continuation of Day 4 and Day 6)

Shen Qingqiu wasn’t sure how long it took for him to escape the Endless Abyss. Even with his knowledge of the monsters that roamed within, even with his knowledge of the route the original Luo Binghe had taken in the novel, he still struggled and suffered as he tried to reach his way out — the resting place of the demon sword Xin Mo. He couldn’t imagine what it might have been like for Luo Binghe — at least his sense of pain was dulled by his undead body.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t really like to think about it — the fact that his body was now technically a corpse. It had benefits — he no longer had to eat or drink, even without the use of inedia, and the System let him trade the points he collected from fighting various monsters and completing missions based on what Luo Binghe originally did in exchange for repairing and maintaining his body. He could remember a few healing plants within the Abyss, but it seemed like they only worked on living beings, so he was reliant on the System until he could find a method of his own to regrow a limb that got eaten by an opportunistic scavenger. He couldn’t believe he’d once been worried about Luo Binghe tearing his limbs off — it seemed almost mild compared to what he’d experienced in the Abyss, which he supposed had been part of the original reasoning for it…

When he finally found Xin Mo, he hesitated for a moment before taking it. Wasn’t this the sword destined for the protagonist? Would taking it for himself throw the story even more off the rails? No — Luo Binghe had already escaped the Abyss arc, so if he was ever going to get Xin Mo himself and complete his destiny of becoming an all-powerful demon lord, Shen Qingqiu would have to take it out of the Abyss himself. The moment he took hold of it, he could feel the demonic energy rushing through him — he had read the description of it, but it didn’t match up to the pain he was feeling now, the first true sensation he’d had in a long time, almost refreshing with it’s sharpness. Raising the blade up, he cut down, a dark portal opening up before him, leading to the human realm.

—

A few hours later, he was cursing that decision as he dodged the attacks of a group of Huan Hua cultivators. Apparently, his impulsive return to the human realm had brought him into their territory, and sensing the sudden burst of demonic energy from a portal to the Abyss opening, they had decided to check it out — only to find a powerful fierce corpse nearby. Shen Qingqiu would have just fled, but his time in the Abyss had taught him to always strike back, to make sure his enemy wouldn’t follow him and attack when his back was turned. Those battle-honed instincts kicked in the moment he was confronted by the cultivators, and before he knew it, three of the five were already dead on the ground, so much weaker than the beasts he was used to taking on that he forgot to try and hold back.

Now the remaining two were trying to corner him, and the idea of being pinned between two enemies set his nerves on edge. Then he remembered that he now had a sword, and drew it — the demonic energy of Xin Mo immediately throwing them off-guard and giving him the opening he needed to cut through them, ending the threat. In the aftermath, he looked down at the bodies, part of him still expecting to feel some sort of guilt for killing them. It never came.

[ Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Important thing must be said three times! User has unlocked the achievement ‘Came Back Wrong’! User can now absorb the golden cores of powerful cultivators in order to heal and maintain his body! ]

The familiar sound of the System sung out, the familiar blue screen hovering above the corpse. Shen Qingqiu considered it for a moment but — well. They might not have a need for them any more, but part of him still shuddered at the idea of treating a fellow human like that. Even if he wasn’t fully human any more…

Turning away, he decided to head to the demon realm instead, at least until he could get his instincts more under control. It was a pity — he’d really wanted to see what Luo Binghe was like, all grown up, and without a traitorous master betraying him. Maybe another time…

#svsss #svsss au #shen qingqiu #my writing #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024

20 notes · View notes

rottenaero · 1 year

Text

Part 7 of the roommates idea!

This stands at the longest part so far, at 2k words.

Ao3 -(Includes about 6 chapters instead of part one so I’d recommend reading there, but Tumblr updates faster.)

Part 1

Part 6

Part 8

CW: This chapter includes the demo-bats, and if you’ve seen canon, you know how that goes.

He feels it, every inch of the ground dragging against his back, the debris squishing it’s way into the now raw and chafed flesh.

The intense stinging is almost enough to distract him from being let go,

Almost.

Steve gets up slowly, looking forward. Trees, forest, dry lakebed which is, yup, much higher up than the original lake. There's a dock with broken boats and-

It’s definitely Lover’s Lake, just wrong. A strike of lighting catches his attention and he turns around. The sky flashes red, and he squints at the movement he sees in the distance.

Is that a bat?

He steps backwards, glancing around and-

There's another one.

He spots a boat close by and rushes towards it, grabs the oar sitting inside, and when one of the flying creatures get to close, he slams it to the ground with the head of the paddle.

The motion moves some of the scuffed skin on his shoulders, he winces at the feeling.

That wince gave the bats enough time to swoop in, and one grabbed his neck with it’s tail.

Steve let out a choked gasp as he fell to the ground from the sheer force it pulled him down with. He grasped at his neck, trying to wiggle some room to breathe.

More beasts circled around him, watching, taunting.

The bat around his throat began trying to drag him and he swiped at it with his free hand.

The other creatures took it as their sign to strike, tiny teeth biting into his stomach. He kicked his feet, hoping it would scare them off.

(It didn’t)

His eyes squeezed shut when he caught sight of some flesh being pulled up, eaten. He grit his teeth together and his vision blurred, stay awake stay awake stay awake.

The bet on his left got hit off by a oar.

It scrambled to fly away.

He blinked and looked up.

Nancy.

She huffed as she aimed the oar to hit the other bat eating at him.

Robin stomped a foot onto the start of the one’s tail that was choking him.

Eddie stood near his legs, wide eyes flicking between him and the girls, and around the area.

The bat that had ran before came back, swiping at Eddie, who hit it with the paddle in his arms.

Another swooped in towards Nancy and latched onto her back, Robin shrieked, turning towards her and trying to pull it off.

Steve’s eyes watered as his arms struggled to claw the creature off his neck, it was too close to his head, too close too close too-

He bit it’s tail.

Blood, thick and chunky, filled his mouth, it tasted like iron.

It screeched and let go, attempting to fly away, he didn’t let go.

Steve flipped his body onto his stomach, and began to stand up. He turned, and slammed the thing into the ground.

His mind barely registered its screams and cries, or the others defeating their bats, and kept throwing its body to floor.

Up, down, up, down.

It stopped moving, and he placed his bare foot on it’s body, using his full weight. As he pulled it’s tail upwards, it stretched out as far as it could.

The bat squealed, and then it’s body snapped.

The blood from earlier dripped down his chin, mixing with the spit and dribble already in his mouth. He threw the lower half of the creature’s body over his shoulder.

“Steve! Oh my god…” Nancy yelped, and she rushed towards him. She glanced down towards the wounds. His hands hovered over them.

Eddie gagged, “Jesus H. Christ, Stevie what the fuck.”

Nancy looked up, “ Are you okay?” She asked. He almost snorted if it weren’t for the immense pain in his sides distracting him. “Probably took about a pound of flesh, but aside from that,”

He casted her a glance, “Yeah, never better.”

Robin crouched down over the upper half of the beasts corpse, nose scrunched as she flashed a light over it.

“Uh, do you guys think these bats have rabies?”

His brows furrowed, “What?”

She sighed, “It’s just that, rabies are like my number one greatest fear, and I think that we should get you a doctor like really soon, because when the symptoms set in you’re already, like, dead.”

“Robin, not helping.” Eddie said from behind Steve, placing a hand tentatively on the road rash lining his back. He hissed.

Screeches and squeals bounced through the air, and the group collectively looked up, spying a swarm of more bats.

They all perched on the edge of the gate, looking in or, guarding it?

“Alright, there’s not that many.” Steve panted, putting himself in front of the group. “We can take ‘em, right?” He didn’t know if he was assuring himself, or Eddie who was shrinking towards the back. Hell, he didn’t even know if it was an assurance.

More screeches filled the air, and another group of bats appeared.

“You were saying?”

“The woods, come on!” Nancy yelped, as she began to run to the side. Steve began to follow after her, barely making out Robin saying something about running.

They made it to Skull Rock before Steve had to stop. He leaned against the rocks and gritting his teeth at the pain.

“Shit! Steve, hey, hey it’ll be okay.” Eddie’s voice filled the air, and he appeared in-front of him. His arms were held up, like he didn’t quite know where to put them.

He turned his head. “We have any bandaid? Or anything close really-“ Nancy began to rip off the hem of her shirt before he stopped talking and passed it to him.

He muttered a quick thank you before he bent down. Steve lifted his arms up, and grinned.

“If you wanted to get on your knees for me, all you had to do was ask.” He huffed. Eddie made a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat, as he began to wrap the shirt around his middle. Steve hissed at the cotton touched his wounds, and ran his hands through his hair.

“Jesus, Steve! PG-13, please.” He squawked, “Also, definitely not while you’re bleeding out, God.”

His smile widened, before falling because ow that fucking hurts, “So, some other time?”

Eddie’s nose scrunched, and he tugged on the end of the fabric, checking it was secure before tucking it under the other bundles. “Shit, sure.”

Nancy let out a puff of air and- Oh yeah there are other people here.

One being his ex-girlfriend.

Great.

Robin sent him a tiny thumbs up.

Eddie stood up and backed away, climbing up onto the rock. “So, basically, this place is Hawkins, just with monsters and nasty shit?” Robin affirmed him before tutting, “Oh yeah! Don’t step on the vines! This place is a all hive-mind.”

“A- What?”

Steve snorted, “All the creepy crawlies around here, step on a vine, you’re stepping on a bet you’re stepping on- Vecna.” He huffed.

Eddie made his way back down, “Well, shit. That’s totally not fucking creepy at all.”

The name pinged in the back of Steve’s mind for some reason.

Vecna.

Vecna, the guy was meant the be the villain for Eddie’s last campaign, he was meant to make a comeback before Steve had-

He winced.

Eddie had been so excited to end the campaign, and he ruined it because he wanted to bring him to Lucas’s game.

Fuck.

Robin started speaking and he looked up at her, “ Everything from our world is still here, right? Except the people.”

He shrugs, “As far as I understand it, yeah.”

“So, theoretically, we could go to the police station and steal guns and grenades and whatever we need to blow up those bat things guarding the gate!” She grinned.

“I highly doubt the Hawkins PD has grenades, Robs. But guns, yeah, sure.” He huffs.

Nancy perked up, looking between him and Robin, and moving to his side, “We don’t have to go all the way downtown for guns, I have guns, in my bedroom.”

Eddie gives her an incredulous look.

“You…Nancy Wheeler, have guns, plural, in your bedroom?” Robin cackles, “Full of surprises, isn’t she?”

Nancy ignores her, “A Russian Makarov and a revolver.” Shes says crossing her arms.

Steve snorts, “Yeah, you almost shot me with that one.” She turns to look at him. “You almost deserved it.“

Her blue eyes bore into his, and the intensity reminded him of Eddie.

Eddie who just slammed his battle vest into his chest, looking between him and Nancy with something akin to-

Oh.

Was that jealousy?

“For your modesty, sweets.”

Before he had the chance to tease Eddie, the ground began rumbling throwing him off balance.

He fell backwards, grunting as Eddie fell on-top of him.

When the ground stopped, he sat up, not getting far with half a human on him.

“So guns seem like a pretty good idea to me.”

“Yeah, me too.” Eddie huffed.

“So, what are we waiting for?”

“Eddie!”

The metalhead slowed down, waiting for him to catch up. He grinned, “Eddie, hey man, uh…” Steve trailed off before puffing out some air.

“I just want to say thanks, for saving my ass back there.”

Eddie scoffed, bumping his shoulder, “Shit, you saved your own ass. I mean, that was a real Ozzy move you pulled back there.”

His brows raised, and he grinned. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah!” Eddie exclaimed, pulling a strand of brown hair in-front of his face, like a shield. “Kinda had me all hot and bothered.” He said, fanning a hand near his head.

"Mhm."

“Seriously! You are dangerous, Stephano. Charisma stats like that? What’s a fair dungeon master to do?” He asked, glancing at Steve from the corner of his eyes.

Steve smiled, cheeks flushing.

“You could ask me out? Instead of dancing around it.”

Eddie gasped, letting go of his hair and giving a scandalous look. “Oh but I want to be wooed! Roses and all!” He hopped around, arms spread wide.

“Make it a dream, get some chocolates, take me to Enzos, confess your undying love.” Eddie snickered.

Steve raised an eyebrow, “Am I in a lot of your dreams?”

“Meh, only when you’re not in my bed, if you are then it’s my fantasies.” He finished with a flourish, gesturing broadly. He cackled, before cutting off abruptly and bringing a hand up toward his neck.

“That may have been a little- I promise I don’t- God why do I do this…” Eddie mumbled, massaging his forehead with his other hand. “I’m such a freak man, forget I said anything.”

Steve frowned and nudged his shoulder, “Hey, no, don’t do that man. You’re not- That’s cute, really. I like when you ramble, and do your dramatics.” He assured, laying a hand on the older’s shoulder.

Eddie huffs, “You’re so fucking unbelievable.” He stated, dragging both hands down his face before turning his body fully towards Steve, who stops.

He rests both hands on Steve’s arms, rubbing his thumbs in circles over the denim, “So goddamn unbelievable.” He mumbles, before leaning in and kissing Steve.

On the mouth this time.

A real kiss.

He leaned into it, cupping Eddie’s face, and humming when his arms moved back to connect behind his neck.

They disconnect after a few seconds, they are still in the upside down, and if they got too far behind they could get lost.

“Wayne’s gonna be excited, said he was tired of my pining. The band however, will be pissed, because they’ll have to listen to me talk about you twenty-four-seven.” Eddie snorted, stepping carefully over a vine.

The effort was apparently futile because not even two seconds later the ground started shaking, and fell backwards onto it.

Eddie gritted his teeth, “Here we go again.”

#and then they kiss #gasp #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things ficlet #st4 #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #stranger things fic #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #ficlet #crisisinverted17 #crisisinverted17's roommate au

147 notes · View notes

tamurilofrivendell · 1 year

Text

Beauty and the Beast | Chapter 15

Previous Chapters [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14] Read on AO3 [x]

Pairing: Thranduil/Fem. Reader Summary: A Beauty and the Beast inspired tale with Thranduil the Elvenking and a human reader from a nearby village Taglist: @captainchrisstan, @rebleforkicks, @yjrevolution, @majahu, @honey-wine, @accio-boys, @achromaticerebus, @solomonssimp, @tired-ass-show-girl, @dreamlessnight, @daddy-long-legolas,

“We have been in this damn, cursed forest for two days!” Oeric cried, kicking at a large tree root that was sticking up from the ground beneath his dirty boots. He had followed your father and Vermund in here to look for you, though he didn’t particularly care whether you were in town or you weren’t. Still, he was one to blindly follow Vermund, not having it in him to say no to the other man.

“Come, Oeric. Keep your wits about you, we must be getting close.” Vermund stated, though he was secretly frustrated himself as he eyed the back of your father’s head in front of him.

“Keep my wits...” Oeric muttered darkly, scowling at the ground as he continued to put one foot in front of the other. He could barely see and his head felt all heavy, like some enormous weight was pressing down upon him, trying to bury him beneath these trees. “We’ll be lucky if we last another night, we’re running out of water.”

“Ah, there’s a river somewhere, I’m pretty sure.” Vermund said loudly over his shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to try and practice any stealth since coming into these woods, though he didn’t really want to run into any of the Woodmen... or the elves, particularly, though he was mostly entertaining your father’s delusions. He was pretty sure you were not with the elves. They would not have let your father go if they’d had him. Vermund was pretty sure your father was just losing his mind - he’d been cracking for years now in the eyes of the townspeople, and you’d been following in his footsteps with your ideas and your silly hobbies. He’d be sure to knock that out of you when he finally found and married you.

Your father, who had been frantically staring ahead of him trying to keep his mind steady, came to a sudden halt and whipped around at the words that had left Vermund’s mouth. His thoughts took him back to the river he’d stopped to drink out of when he had gotten lost in these same woods. “No!” He practically shouted. “That river is cursed, you must not drink from it!” He insisted. “You will lose your mind!”

“Hey, hey. No need to shout, old man.” Vermund held his hands up in mock defeat, really just wanting to strike the man across the face but that would only get in the way of his plans to take you as his wife. “It is only water, do not--”

“No!” Your father shouted again, desperation in his eyes, as he stepped forward and grabbed hold of the collar of Vermund’s shirt to give him a shake. He had to understand that would only lead to madness! It had caused him to do things that he would never have done and he regretted hurting that fair-haired elf.

“Get your hands--” Vermund never finished his sentence because in the next moment, an arrow was aimed directly at his left eye and another was aimed at the back of Oeric’s head.

The library was silent and you kept shifting uncomfortably, fidgeting as you did your best to keep your gaze trained upon the book you were holding. You had been entirely engrossed in it before Thranduil had come into the room and you probably would still be if he had actually left you alone. You knew that you could stand up and leave any time you liked (right?) but some part of you was determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were uncomfortable because of his presence.

He had allowed you access to this library and had let you wander fairly freely after returning to his halls, but you still weren’t sure if you could trust him. You were having a hard time matching up the arrogant, cruel king who you had first met, with the kindness the same man had shown you only days ago. Still, you registered, you were no longer terrified of him.

Thranduil was watching you from the corner of his eye, though you would not have been able to tell. He was thoroughly amused by the way you seemed completely unable to sit still and, yes, he knew the reason. Truthfully, he couldn’t have given a reason for his staying here if he had been asked. He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to give a reason for his intercepting Myleth and the tray of food either. He could easily have allowed her to continue and deliver the meal to you herself and you would have been none the wiser.

Eventually, you could take it no longer and gave up the fight, closing the book and standing up to return it to the shelf you’d gotten it from. Thranduil didn’t move a muscle as you turned to glance at him just briefly. You hoped he didn’t notice but he absolutely did, though the only movement he made was to lazily turn the page of the book in his hands.

Swallowing, you eyed the tray and decided that you shouldn’t leave it there. Not only was it rude, it was disrespectful. You weren’t here to live, you knew you were still technically a prisoner here and even if that weren’t the case, he likely viewed you as beneath even his lowest staff member.

You turned to pick the tray up, careful as you turned around to make for the door. You didn’t think you would be able to find your way to the kitchens so you decided you would just take it to your room and Myleth could help you in the morning. Once you were on your feet, you were suddenly aware of just how tired you were and how late it must be.

Stifling a yawn was your undoing.

Before you even knew what was happening, the tray was slipping from your grasp and you could feel your legs giving out beneath you. A curse slipped from your mouth as you did your best to steady yourself before you hit the floor. Though you needn’t have bothered as, a second later, strong arms were circling your waist and pulling you upright as the contents of the tray scattered across the floor.

After a brief shock, you looked up to once more meet Thranduil’s gaze, this time seeing mirth shining in his eyes as he looked back at you. At least he doesn’t look angry, you thought. With any luck, he wouldn’t tell you off too badly for the tray. You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you looked at him, realising just how close he was actually holding you. When he’d caught you, your hands had come up to clutch his forearms and you hadn’t let go yet. When you realised you were still gripping him and that too many seconds had passed to make it appropriate, you immediately let go and lowered your gaze.

Holding in a chuckle, Thranduil lowered his arms, letting you go. He stepped back and turned his head, surveying the mess. “Perhaps it would have been wiser for you to have retired for the night sooner?”

Biting your lip, you willed your cheeks not to flush with pure embarrassment, and turned in the direction of the mess. “I.. I apologise, Your Maj--My King.” You quickly corrected yourself in a panic, remembering his conversation with you in the throne room after you had traded places with your father. You did not need to give him any more reasons to hate you, you needed your life here to be as easy as it possibly could be... for someone trapped here. “I will clean it immediately.”

Thranduil winced inwardly as he listened to your nervous rambling. His face remained impassive as he studied you. He watched you move to bend down so you could clean up the tray you had spilled but he stepped forward again, taking hold of your upper arm - gently - and pulled you back. When you looked up, he shook his head. “Somebody else shall see to it.” He told you. “You should rest.” There was another silence as he let go and moved towards the door and pulled it open, glancing back towards you. “Allow me to escort you to your room.”

#thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil fanfic #lotr x reader #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #hobbit fanfic #hobbit x reader #beauty and the beast

124 notes · View notes

tugoslovenka · 6 months

Text

Sanguinans

Summary: Tephraxa had never thought of blood afflictions much, not until a pale elf by the name of Astarion came into her life. She now craves the feeling, and longs for the full moon when the vampire is at the height of his bloodlust.

TW: Blood stuff, knife play, some gore

Sanguinans adjective san· guin· e· ous bloodthirsty; of, relating to, or involving bloodshed; of, relating to, or containing blood

A/N: This is an edited re-post after I fixed up some stuff that I didn't originally like. This is one of the more hardcore smuts I've done so, I suppose read at your own disposal?

Also available on AO3!

Tephraxa had never pondered about the smell of blood.

She used to quickly tend to cuts, knowing the dangers of leaving an open wound to fester for too long. She didn’t mind the metallic taste that occasionally tinged her tongue when she accidentally bit the inside of her cheek.

Yet, life’s crimson elixir was a fragrance she now carried. A path of punctuated passion trailed from the crook of her neck down to her lower belly, where it ended in a deep gash. The pooling was thick at the surface, scarlet in color and running hotter than the heritage she inherited from Zariel.

It was comforting to her now, the sight of her own injuries.

The pale elf she had the fortune of meeting taught her many things. She wasn’t innocent in pleasures of the flesh, but what he offered was akin to the celestial delights people spoke of in the Upper Planes.

The first time his fangs found their mark was during a desperate plea for aid, a starved beast that craved food for sustenance, lest he die. Tephraxa wasn’t too keen on the idea, but ultimately decided to give in. What felt like an ice pick jabbing at her skin soon turned into a numb pain that overwhelmed her—and ultimately scrambled any sense for self-preservation. She wouldn’t dare admit her stifled moans as he drew blood, though she was almost certain he was too busy to notice. What surprised her was that she was his first—more than a rotting rat found in the lowest depths of the Lower City.

That night marked the beginning of a twisted relationship that would reshape her forever.

During a particularly rough fucking, Astarion told her he would keep suckling at the memory of her even after she was long gone. Even in a thousand years, when he would all but forget how to love, it would be Tephraxa who would flit back into his heart.

If she didn’t offer hers on a platter before that, she thought.

Toxicity manifested itself in many forms. While she was familiar with numerous ailments that caused physical suffering due to it, what they both shared could undoubtedly be categorized as such.

Bloodlust had been an alien concept before meeting him. The nocturnal creatures typically associated with such cravings lurked in the shadows, seeking a quick fix when no one was looking—which was especially heightened during a full moon. She soon learned however, that a full moon held a special place in his tragic history.

Astarion had passed during one. Centuries of torment had blurred some of the details, but he could still recall the pale moonlight gently kissing his skin on that fateful evening, when a group of Gur took issue with his rullings. The high elf used to be a magistrate with a power to strike down those who the Council saw as disposable, she learned. Cazador was his savior the same night, rescuing him from the vagabonds with an offer of eternal life.

An offer he would come to regret, realizing how long "eternity" truly was. Two centuries he spent trapped beneath the Szarr estate, sustaining on diseased rodents and long-lost memories of a once he once led.

It was during a full moon that he was turned. He could barely remember the blur turning into blackness as his life drained alongside the only self he knew himself to be. From that day forward, he would be known as Astarion, the charming servant who had served the Szarr family.

Hence, every full moon ushered in an animalistic, voracious side of Astarion that stripped him of all reason. His charming demeanor gave way to an insatiable hunger, rendering him more beast than man. She witnessed his struggles to restrain it during their first month of travel. Whether due to trauma or sheer habit, his fangs grew sharper, nails longer, eyes ruby red at the sight of the smallest droplet of blood—like the one that had trickled down Tephraxa's skin when she injured herself in battle.

It took every bit of his control to stop from gnawing at her arm, as he had later confessed.

In the second month, she watched as he savagely tore animals apart in the forest, drinking their blood until he fell unconscious from the copious amounts he had consumed. At the time, she had already agreed to becoming his bloodbag—a term he detested—and she couldn't help but wonder if her consistent feeding was contributing to his further descent into madness.

Tephraxa couldn’t remember when this blood sharing turned into something more perverse. Maybe it was the hardness she felt against her thigh as he latched onto her neck that ignited something inside her. Even in her weakened state, she reached out to touch it, which elicited a moan so delicious, she had it etched in her mind ever since.

It began slow, noviced even. His fingers were deep inside of her, exploring her cunt with three digits while his fangs worked her throat. A drawn out moan had him momentarily lose control, driving them deeper until she swore he could feel him biting into her vocal cords.

The dagger came next. He used it as a way to tease—mostly himself—preventing his throbbing fangs from finding release as he made shallow cuts on her body, using his tongue to trail the blood that trickled down her purple skin.

What Astarion hadn’t mastered however, was the ability to feed while he was buried inside her. By the time their foreplay finished, he already had her blood coursing through his veins, content enough to not require more. The only goal he was preoccupied with was to fill her to the brim—an exchange, he had called it—her blood for his seed.

There was something invigorating about slowly growing fatigued, limbs shaking from lightheadedness as she felt the suckle of his teeth take from her life force. Heat occasionally escaped her body and for a few moments, she was as cold as he was. She was completely at his mercy, weakened, pale, with every nerve screaming for pause.

But she wouldn’t give in. All she needed was his touch. It was the only refuge she sought.

“What a delectable sight," Astarion commented, dragging his thumb softly over the gash on her lower belly as blood began pouring out. The tiefling used her tail to balance herself, hands bound together by rope so as to prevent her from moving. "You love to be defiled, don't you, my sweet?"

Astarion’s voice was sickly sweet, speaking in a tone one would to a dim-witted mutt. He reached a hand over the cut, pressing down and eliciting a loud yell from Tephraxa. She began shivering, feeling a cold sweat build up at her temples and drop down her body.

He smoothed an adoring hand over her hair, coating it in blood as he tutted in disapproval. “Though I adore your pained screams, darling, I do believe you are making too much of a fuss.” He reached down to grab her smallclothes, bunching them into a ball before shoving it in her mouth.

She could taste the earthiness on them and almost gagged at the grassy texture on her tongue. Astarion had kneeled before her, admiring the laceration that was yet another decoration added to the collection of many depraved memories they shared.

His lips began kissing one end gently, coating his lips in blood as he looked up at her. She was completely paralyzed. Had it not been for the tip of her tail keeping the slightest bit of stability, she would have keeled over from exhaustion.

His tongue curled, licking away at the now-dried blood below her abdomen and seeking out the crimson heat as it was continuing to pour from her bowels. “Delicious as ever, my love,” he purred, grabbing a hold of her hips and keeping her steady as he hungrily lapped.

It felt like an eternity.

For a brief moment, Tephraxa was certain they had gone too far. She could no longer feel his tongue or touch, and she swore she lost her hearing when he dipped his tongue inside her injury. It was only when she felt two fingers reach for her cunt that she jolted awake, a shot of adrenaline coursing her to blink to attention. Astarion began pumping his fingers—coated in her juices and blood—keeping her balanced with his other hand while his tongue was licking her injury clean. Her eyes shut, a mixture of pleasure and pain overwhelming her. She began fighting her constraints, willing closure, but the elf had ensured she remain firmly restricted.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Astarion’s focus on her. His eyes were glazed over, and she wasn’t sure if they had turned completely black instead of the scarlets that commanded her.

He reached forward and with a small tug, her smallclothes fell to the ground as a string of spit followed suit. Quickly, he took her lips in his, immediately tasting the metallic flavor of her own blood as he did so. She moaned in response, not hesitating to allow his tongue to coat her insides with more of it.

The restraints on her lower body had loosened a moment later, Astarion having expertly unhooked them during the passionate kiss. It was only then did she realize just how weak she was, as in an instant, she began falling forward, legs too weaked to support her weight.

“Easy now, darling,” Astarion whispered, cupping the sides of her hips as she crashed her body into his. “I may have indulged a little too much.”

“No…” Tephraxa immediately retorted, weakly looking up in his direction to find his eyes. “No. I—I’m fine.”

He smiled in return, an expression she could only recognzie as a challenge. He often pushed his darling to her limits, making sure to take her to the point of no return before giving her a release. “The little death”, he called it, and it was only a matter of time before she thought they would go too far, make an unfixable mistake that would bring about her doom.

But they never did. It was as if he knew exactly when to stop.

A hand pet the top of her head, lightly adding pressure until the tiefling understood his hint. With shaky legs and some steady guidance from him, Tephraxa lowered herself until she was at eye-level with the crotch of his trousers. She barely had time to steady herself before her hands grabbed at the bloodstained leather that already revealed the outline of his cock.

She flinched when she felt his fingers tug at her hair, aiming her gaze towards him. He looked demonic—pale and bloodied—breathing heavily as he bared his fangs. And yet, she still felt a gush of heat between her legs, a depraved response to a horrifying sight.

In one swift motion, he had dropped his trousers on the ground as the gleaming head of his cock collided with her nose. She looked at the tip, and then back at Astarion before reaching her tongue out for a tentative lick. She ran it across the whole length with the direction of his grip, before stopping at the head.

The pressure increased on the back of her skull as she pushed herself forward until her nose reached his abdomen, choking and gagging as he groaned in pleasure. He held her there, tears forming in her eyes from the pressure in her throat. She was too weak to protest—not that she would want to—the usual playfulness of the tease being taken over by a need to follow his animalistic whims.

And then, his grip loosened, disappearing entirely as he ran the same hand through his curls while fixated on her. Tephraxa opened her mouth wider, sucking more of his length back inside as she bobbed her head, making sure to dart her tongue out just as he had instructed the first time they did it. His unconscious thrusting eased her efforts, and she could feel saliva running down her chin, mixing in with the dried blood from the kiss.

Astarion gave no warning before fully pushing back in and almost knocking the tiefling into the ground. She felt the tip hit her tonsils, immediately prompting a gag from her as her throat convulsed around him.

“Remember to breathe, my love,” Astarion reminded her, thrusting with slow and deliberate strokes as he let his palm graze down her face.

She took in deep breaths from her nose, knowing it would help her take more of him in. Whether it was the cut or her lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, the tiefling felt like her body was on fire. Reaching out to claw at his hips, she heard Astarion hissing and moaning as he neared his release.

He suddenly grabbed a hold of his cock with one hand while another craned her neck back up. He let his wet member rest on her cheek as tears fell, a sly grin on his face, satisfied with his work. “You take me so well, devil," he cooed.

She knew better than to ask for her own pleasure. Challenging him at the height of his bloodlust was a mistake, since he would probably opt for teasing her to the point of hurting instead. It was best she allowed him to decide when he would give her a release, even if her cunt was throbbing with need.

He set another brutal pace then, hand now gripping her hair so tightly that she was sure a few more thrusts would scalp her. A flash of steel interrupted her thoughts, and she saw the blade that left many decorations on her body rest below her chin.

“No choking,” Astarion warned.

Tephraxa nodded as he continued to pump into her throat. Every signal in her body was asking for relief, though she knew she would receive none. More brain fog occupied her as the elf quickened his pace, and she soon started seeing spots of darkness as she felt dangerously close to passing out.

Astarion seemed to have other ideas, however. The tiefling felt empty as his cock retracted violently from her mouth, leaving her agape and staring up at him like a dumbstruck animal. He kneeled down, using one hand to push her forward, and it didn’t take much before her back hit the cold dirt.

Hitching her legs up until they were hooked over his waist, he began licking down her navel until he reached the wound. He spent some time taking in the scent and admiring his work, his hand gently going over the hardening skin.

“Beautiful...” he breathed, mostly to himself. His eyes briefly met hers, before he bared his fangs, angling his head down until it reached the inside of her thigh. He had bitten there many times before, with bruises now faded enough so that he could create new ones.

It was a much smaller puncture wound as he drew the blood. He had once told her she tasted sweetest there, something about the heat coming from her core. He didn’t spend much time, knowing she had already lost too much blood already.

With no small effort, he pulled himself from the bite with a gasp, panting heavily. He slid down until he was laying on his stomach, assessing the area. Tephraxa was at a loss for words and breath, with only a whimper escaping her lips, barely.

She couldn’t find the strength to say anything. Not to scold, or compliment.

Taking hold of her knees, he pried her legs open and leaned forward. With the grip he had on them, she knew he was trying to steady himself into control. She could hear him swallow before his lips touched the wetness on her clit. She was certain the gush had turned into a flood, because the sounds he created while lapping were similar to a full tankard of ale.

She spread her legs further, allowing him better access while barely making any noise. He pulled her hips forward, mixing in the blood trickling from her thigh with her juices, coating the slick flesh with the sin of their deed. Astarion knew better than to ask her to speak, knowing the squirming and barely-audible murmurs escaping her lips were enough praise.

He exhaled slowly once he reached either side of her slit, muttering a silent “Gods, you are delicious,” before pushing his tongue inside. Her aching entrance received some release, and his thumb found its way on her nub, massaging in slow, circular motions—just the way she liked.

Unsure of the source of her sudden strength, she began grinding her hips against his face, angling him to other bits of her wetness. The undignified whine that escaped her lips was nothing short of embarrassing, even more so considering how he had literally cut her open to bleed in the middle of it.

The sting from his fangs almost made her heart leap out of her chest. He occasionally warned—promised, to bite her cunt, never enough to actually cause injury, but the threat was enough. With a small chuckle, he continued tasting her, savoring every bit of her heat as she tightened her legs around him, squeezing weakly.

“Is my sweet ready to come?” he asked, continuing his ministrations once he heard the first audible moan escape her lips. She had enough energy to bite at her lips, feeling her pulse quicken until she could hear ringing in her ears.

“How I love that feeling,” Astarion hummed. According to him, the intensity before her orgasm quickened her pulse so much that he could feel it on his tongue. It ached in his fangs, and he had to exert inhumane levels of control to not dig them into her soft flesh when it happened.

Tephraxa threw her head back in pleasure, the dizziness making her go temporarily blind. She came undone around him with a sob, releasing mews as the aftershock of her orgasm made her body twitch involuntarily. She lay there, completely frozen, muscles shaking vigorously as Astarion continued licking, pushing his tongue in her entrance as she continued to clench.

When her breathing had finally stabilized, he released her cunt with a pop, resting his head on her thigh while grinding into the ground. Whatever blood was mixed in his hardness demanded he find release, but he would allow Tephraxa a moment before he buried himself to the hilt.

“Ast—Astar—“ she began, a series of incomprehensible sounds following what he could only discern was a compliment. The tiefling was pretty sure he was going to break her one day, but she would have lived a happy few years nonetheless.

He crawled up her body until he met her lidded gaze, a hand following to wipe away at the blood, spit and come on his lips before leaning down to give her a kiss. She didn’t respond, her withered state disallowing any muscle on her body to move. Astarion often told her she looked particularly adorable when she was flushed, a purple flush covering her cheeks—and oddly enough, the tips of her horns.

She noted the strained erection on her lower belly, gently rocking in an indication of his desire. Tephraxa hissed when she felt his sharp fingernails dig into her skin, dragging down until she felt the familiar drizzle of blood follow. Astarion’s hands patted over her flesh, covering his hands entirely before moving them between his legs.

Her clit was sensitive, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her involuntarily buckle when she felt his hand there. His other hand moved to his cock, and her eyes followed his movements until she saw him mix his pre-come with her blood—something he found surprising pleasure in.

Once he was satisfied, he pushed the head of his cock on her clit, looking down to admire his work. “I will never tire of the sight,” he muttered. He leaned down, sinking his teeth into the dip between her neck and shoulder, not to draw more, only a moan from Tephraxa who was unsure how she was able to produce any sound at all.

With a thrust, he was inside her. Her tight ring of muscle accepted him without much resistance, and Astarion roared into the cold air of the forest as he began to thrust. Tephraxa watched as his muscles flexed with each push, noting the veins that were more visible in the moonlight now that he had her blood pumping in them. She could never get used to his cold length, not entirely. Shivers ran up her spine as he rutted aggressively, opening his mouth to show fangs that must have been hurting from use.

“Mine, m—mine...” Astarion kept repeating, his eyes not leaving hers as he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. She knew she belonged to him in a way, forever bound to his needs by her blood alone—and while a much younger Tephraxa would be disgusted at the thought, she had no protests being Astarion’s bloodbag until he no longer had any need for her.

With one push of her leg, he had it hooked around his waist as he sought for depth, making sure to slow down every once in a while to admire his work. She could feel his balls slapping at her cunt when he did so, and her mouth drooled at the thought of him releasing inside her soon. It was something she learned to crave since meeting him—to be coated in his seed.

Sometimes he would choose her face to paint over. She eagerly would lap at the string of saltiness coming on her face, before he forbade her from doing so, stating that a piece of art should be kept untouched. Instead, once he was satisfied with the sight, he would feed her his spend from his own fingers until they were licked clean.

Her mouth opened in silent pleasure as he continued, now pinning her further into the ground as his thrusts became erratic, no longer rhythmic, control leaving his body entirely as he sought for release.

Tephraxa’s own body was shaking. The pain that she initially felt was now completely numbed, a pleasure washing over her that made any other sensation pale in comparison to what she felt when the full moon couplings came. Sometimes, she thought about becoming a spawn herself, if only to experience the joys that he did. But she knew he needed her for sustenance, and she was content with it.

Raw, undiluted pleasures of the flesh were no longer something she was satisfied with. Astarion had shown her a world of perversion that she would crave for the rest of her life. Even if her body was marked from his scarring, his bites, his vampirism—she wanted nothing else.

With a loud groan that echoed in the wind, Astarion’s movements suddenly halted. She felt the warmth of his seed, moving deep inside her until it coated every part of her. His cock was throbbing deep inside her, much stronger than she had ever felt before, and it was the sight of him that was her undoing as well.

She released in silence, her voice no longer being capable of making sound as her legs began to shake underneath him. She thought about the mix of her and his come, their spit and blood, and it made her tremble uncontrollably until she too, stopped moving.

Astarion would be her death, figuratively or literally.

And she would have it no other way.

#astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x original female character #astarion x ofc #my fics

22 notes · View notes

jinxedruby · 2 months

Text

Febuwhump Day Twenty-Nine: Not allowed to die

Featuring Warriors. Conclusion of days twenty-seven and twenty-eight (the ones where Hyrule and Warriors get attacked at some ruins)

Starting and ending with Warriors, perfect. And uhh no one look at the date, it's fine, don't worry about it haha. I was not expecting to actually be able to do (almost) all of this! Thanks to everyone who read at least some of this beast, I appreciate the support :)

Heads up for major violence and major injury in this one. Little extra emphasis on the "major" this time around (it's the last day of febuwhump, I had to go all out lol)

AO3

First part | <- Previous part

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

“Traveler!”

A stalfos lunged at Warriors before he could even get the full yell of alarm out as the aeralfos dragged Hyrule away. He twisted to block the stalfos’s sword with his own, metal clanging. He shoved against the monster with a grunt, trying to force it back to give himself the opening needed to go help Hyrule. A second stalfos darted in the moment the first one stumbled, replacing it. Warriors parried the blow with his shield, followed up with a slash. The stalfos leapt over his sword. The first one reappeared with no warning, sword streaking toward Warriors’ side. He twisted to block it, the weapon clanging against his shield. He delivered two rapid strikes, both scoring the stalfos’s ribs before it had the chance to dodge. The second one attacked, forcing him to go back on the defensive while the first one recovered. A particularly heavy blow cost him some balance. He took a half-step back to regain it. His heart jumped into his throat as his heel tipped back over empty air. He leaned forward, attacking viciously in an attempt to push the monsters back and give him room to move away from the edge.

Rapid flapping to his left served as his only warning. A blur of green and orange slammed into him before he could even turn his head. The impact knocked him to the side. His boots slipped off the ledge and he yelped. Pain burst in his shoulder and neck as he hit the stairs at an angle. The world flipped and flipped again, the edges of the steps jabbing painfully against him. His shoulders hit the floor hard, head snapping back and banging against the ground. Stars burst into his vision, prickles of pain radiating out from the back of his skull. He groaned, the sound muffled by the faint ringing in his ears. He blinked and dragged himself upwards.

He whipped his head up at a screech from the top of the stairs. The aeralfos dove and Warriors scrambled back, hand darting out, fingers scrabbling as he searched for his sword. His fingers wrapped around the hilt just as the monster reached him. He wrenched the sword up. The aeralfos’s blade crashed against his, shoving down against him. He braced his right hand against the flat of his blade. The monster shoved harder and his arms shook, head throbbing sharply as he struggled. The metal of the aeralfos’s blade crept closer to his throat and Warriors gritted his teeth. He tensed his core, preparing to try and kick the monster off of him. Abruptly, it ducked its head, looking back at the entrance through its legs. It shrieked, planted a foot on Warriors’ chest, and sprang over his head. The action knocked the air from Warriors’ lungs and he wheezed, the frantic skittering of the monster’s claws against stone growing fainter as it ran. He pressed a hand to his chest and managed up onto one elbow, squinting through blurry vision at the stairs.

A bomb sat at the bottom, hissing as its lit fuse burned shorter and shorter. His eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, twisting around and dashing away from the bomb. A blast of heat and an ear-splitting BOOM collided with him simultaneously. The explosion launched him forward, limbs splayed, eyes screwed shut on reflex. He hit the ground face-first, temple cracking against the stone.

****

Ash dragged into his lungs with each breath. He coughed weakly, something wet spraying from his nose. He peeled his eyelids apart, vision blurry through the soot and concussion. Pain pulsed in his head so sharply he thought he might be sick. He drew in careful breaths, slowly trying to move his limbs. He wiggled his fingers and toes carefully, felt them move against his gloves and boots. His shield weighed down his right arm, thankfully having stayed strapped to it through the explosion. Something burned dully across his back and shoulders, aching along the backs of his legs. He took a deep breath, immediately regretting it as it triggered another wracking cough that dug shards of glass into his brain. Forcibly swallowing the coughs back, he carefully bent his arms, wincing as the movement tugged at abused skin. He placed his palms flat on the ground under his shoulders. With a groan, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees, head pounding the whole way. His vision swam, causing his grayish hands to swim before his eyes. He stayed like that for a long moment, watching as little beads of blood dripped sluggishly from the tip of his nose and splattered onto the stone between his hands. Even that appeared oddly gray.

Once he could almost convince himself that he felt marginally better, he pushed back to sit on his knees. He nearly overshot, throwing out his arms for balance. The world spun around him and he narrowed his eyes further, determined to remain upright. He briefly considered using the fairy he had but ultimately dismissed the notion. He only had one and wanted to save it for when he was truly on the brink of death. This was only a concussion. And explosive damage to his back. He’d survived worse.

He struggled to his feet, using the wall to drag himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut against the rush of nausea and spiking pain, leaning heavily against the wall. After several deep breaths that hitched against the ash in his throat, he opened his eyes and looked around. Rubble filled the tunnel behind him where the stairs had been. His eyes widened at just how close he’d been lying to the debris, barely a foot away from being crushed. The rubble completely sealed the entrance, trapping him inside. A glint of metal in his peripherals caught his eye and he turned to see his sword discarded beside him. He stooped to pick it up, head throbbing at the change in pressure. Frowning, he stood back up. No sunlight could possibly get through all the rubble, which begged the question as to how he could see.

Claws skittered against stone. He whipped around, the motion driving a spike of pain through his head. Blinking the blurriness from his vision, he saw a blob of color sprinting toward him, wings flapping. He yanked his shield up. The aeralfos slammed into it, throwing him back against the rubble. He somehow managed to stay on his feet, shoving the monster back and sending a thrust toward it. A wave of dizziness washed over him, bile crawling up his throat. He clenched his jaw, willing his vision to steady as the aeralfos lunged. Its blade smashed against his shield, the impact jolting through his arm and stinging the burns on his back. He struck with his sword, scoring a gash on the aeralfos’s shoulder. It hissed and leapt away. He only had a moment before it swooped in again, lifting off the ground and flying toward him despite the close quarters. He tried to time his attack to cut the aeralfos’s wing but missed, sword stabbing empty air under the limb. He managed to deflect the blade with his shield but couldn’t dodge the claws that sank into his tunic. The aeralfos yanked back on him, lifting him off his feet. It slammed him down onto the ground, perched on his chest. He sent a wild swing toward it. He managed to clip its arm, but not enough to keep it from dragging him up and slamming him down again. He grunted, the pain across his back increasing tenfold at the repeated blows. Blackness pricked at the edges of his vision.

The aeralfos lifted him a third time but he was expecting it. He folded his legs under himself, planting his boots on the ground. He wrenched his torso upright, throwing the monster off-balance. It floundered in the air, trying to keep its hold on him and regain its balance at the same time. He stabbed it through the underarm, the tip of his sword jutting through its collar just beside its neck. It screeched loud enough to make his ears ring, black blood spurting from the wound and coating his sword. It thrashed madly, blade smashing against his shield, glancing over the top and nicking his cheek. He yanked his sword free and prepared to strike again. The aeralfos shrieked and lunged in a blur. Pain burst through his arm as the monster’s blade sliced through his skin, his sword slipping from his grasp. He somehow managed to block the next blow but the aeralfos collided with him all the same. It twisted its hand into his hair, claws digging into his scalp. He didn’t even have time to try and free himself before it wrenched him sideways and slammed his head against the wall with a sickening crack.

His vision blackened, limbs numb. The abyss of unconsciousness grabbed him for only a moment. He awoke immediately to the aeralfos’s sword stabbing through his collar and down into his lungs.

For a moment, the pain didn’t register. His chest grew heavy, ice and fire spreading through his veins and seeping into his skin. Then the sword twitched as the aeralfos adjusted its grip and Warriors screamed. The sound split in his own ears before cutting off into a choke as something bubbled up his throat and over his lips. The monster tore the sword from him and he didn’t have the air to scream a second time. Hot blood rushed from the entry wound in his collar, chest burning. At some point, the aeralfos released his hair and he sank to the floor. He clawed at his chest, trying to suck in a breath. Blood pooled and hitched in his lungs, spraying from his mouth when he coughed reflexively. His vision wavered and dimmed. Distantly, faintly, he remembered the fairy in his pouch. He took a hand off of the wound in his collar, blindly reaching for his pouch somewhere at his side. His fingers touched something cold, stuck strangely to it, slipped off of it, and time suddenly felt like a very distant concept. Moving too slow and too fast and his thoughts unraveled in his head as his hearing muffled to the point of deafness.

This is bad, managed to be the only coherent thought he could maintain a grasp on. The dark shapes making up the remains of his vision shifted abruptly. A shearing agony cleaved through his throat and the thought repeated itself. Instincts screamed at him in garbled syllables that made no sense. Gravity shifted, tugging him onto his side. His body felt leaden and light. Darkness flooded the ground and he sank into it. And he drifted.

And drifted.

Feeling roared through his limbs. Pain screeched along his nerves in the instant before a pink light smothered it. Something fluttered through his chest and neck, tingling, warm. He’d hardly realized he couldn’t breathe until the ability abruptly returned. Air tumbled down his throat, catching and choking on the way to his lungs as the pink light carefully sealed the holes in them. His vision returned, dim and hazy, head throbbing fiercely. Everything before his eyes blurred into a grayish blob, the colors rusty and reddish at the left edge. His fingers twitched. Nausea scrambled up his throat. Just as he felt the need to move, the pink light zipped to hover before his eyes, something tapping frantically against his nose. His brow twitched and he narrowed his eyes slightly, focusing just enough to see the transparent wings fluttering at the back of the pink light. His vision wouldn’t expand past the sea of black dots prickling at the edges, but it was enough. A tiny hand pointed somewhere above his perspective and, with great effort, he lifted his eyes.

Colors separated more properly as he woke more, enough to make out the vague shape of the aeralfos stalking down the hall, tail lashing. A low scraping sound rang through the cave as it dragged its sword along the ground beside it. The blade left behind a trail of blood on the stone. The monster chittered and growled, clutching at its wounded shoulder with its other hand. It turned abruptly and he snapped his eyes back to look straight ahead of him. He halted his breathing, staying as limp as he could, ignoring the throbbing in his head.

The aeralfos growled again and the scraping resumed. He cautioned a slow glance upwards, or left, rather, as he realized he lay on his side, the world turned sideways in his view. The aeralfos continued walking farther away from him, down the hall. He drew in a thin, careful breath, making sure to remain silent. He looked around with his eyes, trying to find his sword. The aeralfos thought he was dead. He could grab his sword, surprise it. How… how wasn’t he dead? Only then did he fully register the pink light. The fairy. As he looked around, he caught sight of glass shards scattered across the floor, a cork strewn among them. He had managed to get the bottle out, then? Then he dropped it and it shattered, releasing the fairy. He could’ve laughed.

Just the slightest tense of his abdominal muscles brought the nausea crashing back. He bit down on his lip, forcing it back, suffocating the involuntary flinch. Sword. He had to get his sword. Right now. He continued looking around, each flick of his eyes sending needles into his brain. He spotted it to his right, lying in the middle of the hall where he’d dropped it earlier. He cast another glance at the aeralfos. Still trudging its way down the hall with its back turned. Slowly, he tested the movement of his limbs. He folded his legs and had to stop due the nausea’s return. He took a steadying breath and moved again, gritting his teeth and rolling silently onto his stomach. His head throbbed fiercely, a shiver fighting to be released from his nerves that he managed to suppress. Something lukewarm soaked in his clothes. He risked a glance down to see a pool of his own blood covering the stone ground. That would explain the nausea and blackness persisting at the perimeter of his vision, then. And the still muffled hearing.

After another glance at the aeralfos, he ventured pushing himself to his hands and knees. He let out a slow breath as he moved, arms shaking, balance threating to buck at any moment and send him back to the floor. His stomach rolled and he froze. He took shallow breaths through his mouth, ignoring the urge to cough. The scraping sound stopped and he looked up. The aeralfos had halted in place, dropping its sword to apply better pressure to its bleeding shoulder. He needed to move quickly. It could turn around at any moment and see that he was still alive. He turned carefully but quickly, reaching for his sword. His hand closed around the hilt and he lifted it directly off the floor, not allowing the blade to scrape along the stone. He sat back on his knees, hugging the sword to his chest. He cautiously picked himself up, rising to his feet.

The nausea spiked in his throat just as he stood, head spinning, hearing muffling. He stood stiff for a moment. The nausea only got worse. He needed to move now, right now, or he was going to throw up and the aeralfos would kill him. With practiced efficiency, he clenched his jaw against every signal his body sent him to get him to lie down. He hunched low, gripped his sword, and sprinted.

The aeralfos whipped around with a craw at the sound of his boots pounding against the stone. It shrieked, reaching down to grab its sword. He drew close enough to see its eyes bug out of its head. Its clawed fingers closed around the hilt. Warriors leapt with a crackling shout. His blade slammed down on the aeralfos’s crown and embedded deep in its skull. Instantly, it crumpled. Its sword fell from its grip, hitting the ground with a clatter. He lost his grip on his own sword, stumbling forward as it fell back with the aeralfos, lodged in its head. Then he immediately fell to his hands and knees and threw up so hard his abdominal muscles cramped.

He spluttered and gasped, tears stinging his eyes. He let out a hoarse sob between heaves for air. He clawed at his chest, felt at his collar and neck. Slick blood met his fingers and he choked on another cry. The wounds were gone but goddesses, goddesses-

A sorrowful chime rung in his ear, muffled and tinny. He lifted his head, struggling to get his desperate gasping under control. The little pink fairy from earlier bobbed beside his head, speaking in pitched chimes he couldn’t understand.

“You’re st… still h-here?” he croaked, voice cracking with every syllable.

The fairy’s wings slowed and it sank through the air a little before darting upwards again. It zipped from wall to wall, giving distressed sounding rings the whole time. Warriors fell back into a sitting position, just barely keeping himself from tipping over and landing on his back. He looked to the rubble still blocking the entrance.

“Oh,” he rasped. “Yeah, k-kinda forgot we’re… we’re trapped.”

He pushed himself back so he leaned against a wall. He let out a long sigh, popping a knee up and resting an arm on it. His stomach still churned and he let his eyes slide shut, head thudding back against the wall. Soft tinkling filled the cave. He cracked his eyes open to see the fairy settle onto his knee, folding its wings.

“Thank you,” he said. “F-for sav… saving me.”

The fairy’s wings fluttered and it chirped quietly.

“That was…” His voice stuttered to a halt. Pain ripping through his chest, burning, burning- He squeezed his eyes shut until little stars winked behind his eyelids. “…pretty rough.”

The fairy chimed gently. Little hands tapped his cheek and he opened his eyes to see the pink glow hovering in front of his face. It chimed again with a bit more pep, pink sparkles drifting from its fluttering wings. Warriors allowed himself a small smile, lifting a hand for the fairy to land on.

“I can’t… can’t understand you,” he said. “But thank you.”

The fairy gave its wings a flutter before sitting on his finger. He carefully moved his hand to rest on his knee again, tipping his head back against the wall with a sigh. His heart fluttered too quickly in his chest, trying to make up for the lack of blood. He took deep breaths, not letting his eyes fall shut if only to try and keep himself awake. He needed to figure out how to get out of the cave, but the mere thought of moving right then made his stomach churn. In the meantime, he grabbed his water flask with shaking fingers, taking small sips. It felt like more water stuck to his dry throat than actually made it into his stomach, but it felt heavenly all the same.

The fairy lifted off his hand at one point, drifting farther into the cave. It froze abruptly in the air some distance away. It dropped a few inches before buzzing its wings again. It chimed loudly, zipping back to Warriors. It bounced up and down a few times, glow too bright for him to make out its figure at all. It darted down the cave and back again. He understood that, at least.

“Okay, just… give me a-a second.” He put away his flask then leaned forward. He planted his feet on the ground and slowly pushed himself up. His stomach didn’t protest quite as violently as before but his head still spun, vision shrinking slightly. He braced himself on the wall then began to gradually make his way deeper into the cave. The fairy zipped back and forth as he went, seemingly impatient with his slow progress. Or maybe just excited. Hard to tell without a reliable method of communication. The ambient light of the cave seemed to brighten the farther he walked. He was too exhausted to puzzle out how there was light at all. Then the columns finally came into view.

Several stone pillars stood in the center of a depressed section of ground. Small arches connected the tops of the pillars, forming a semicircle on the outskirts of the shallow pit. Statues depicting a head and wings stood in the middle of a few of the arches, looking very similar to the full statue of the fairy above ground.

“Huh,” Warriors said, slowing. The fairy chirped excitedly and fluttered ahead of him, sparkles trailing behind it. “I guess… guess it is a fairy fountain.”

He trudged forward as the fairy darted around between the pillars, chiming loudly. As he drew closer, he saw that the fountain sat empty of water, the stone dry. The pillars had a few cracks zagging up them, the stone old and worn just like the ruins above. He stopped at the corner where the wall turned to open up to the larger, circular room, not trusting his ability to walk without something to lean on. The fairy continued to fly around, chimes turning frantic. Looking for others, he realized with a small pang in his heart. The fountain seemed to have fallen to ruin long ago. Any fairies that had been there were long gone. The fairy, seeming to realize this, slowed its desperate searching. It hovered in the middle of the fountain for a moment, sinking as its wings drooped. Then it drifted back over to Warriors, who held out a hand for it to land on. It settled on his finger with a low chirp, glow dimming.

A drip echoed through the cave. Warriors turned, the fairy standing up on his finger. Some kind of black goop wormed its way through the rubble blocking the entrance. Bits of it wriggled free and fell to the ground with drips, the liquid continuing to writhe on the floor. He stilled, watching as more and more of the viscous fluid squeezed its way out of the rocks and into the cave, forming a dark pool on the ground. The fluid stopped seeping through the cracks after a few seconds. Then the surface of the puddle rippled unnaturally. An arm clawed its way out of the surface, landing heavily on the ground with a slap, scattering droplets of ink.

Warriors stiffened and quickly moved around the corner, out of sight. He peered back around to see a second arm emerge and brace against the ground. A head came up, then shoulders, then a whole body as the creature dragged itself out of the pool. The puddle shrank as more and more of the monster emerged until none remained, all of it serving to form the body. It stayed huddled on its hands and knees for a long moment, heaving haggard gasps. The blackness began to fade and grow patchy, leaving behind dull color. The creature stumbled to its feet before it was finished fully forming. Warriors swiftly ducked back behind the corner, holding the fairy to his chest and cupping his other hand around it, partially to protect it, partially to hide its glow. The fairy dimmed its light as if sensing this, going very still on his finger.

The creature coughed wetly, the distorted sound bouncing off the cave walls. Warriors heard a shuffle, a slither, a hiss. It coughed again. Something splattered to the floor. Warriors inched away from the corner as silently as he could, quickly looking around. His sword still sat embedded in the aeralfos’s head leaving him with only his shield. The cave dead-ended at the fountain, giving him absolutely nowhere to hide. He had no idea what this monster was. He was in no state to fight, even if he did have his sword. His heart hammered against his ribs and he let out a slow breath, wracking his brain.

Muffled voices seeped through the ceiling. Hope rose in his chest as he strained his ears. He couldn’t make out words and the voices were too quiet to recognize, but they were human, that much he could tell. A low growling sound left the creature, followed by stumbling footsteps towards him. He sank his teeth into his lip, breaths quickening.

“Captain!”

He sucked in a breath, eyes wide. Traveler. Voices spoke after the shout, too quiet for him to understand. He couldn’t call back without the monster hearing him. He couldn’t risk it finding him too soon before the others had a chance to get to him. The creature’s footsteps had stopped. He heard a very quiet sloshing.

“He…ro,” a deep, otherworldly voice snarled. The steps continued again, faster. His blood. The creature had seen his blood pooling in the hall of the cave. Which would lead it to the body of the aeralfos. And his sword. And it would know he was unarmed. He stuck a hand into his pouch, desperately searching for anything he could use. The voices above grew louder. Then quieter. He bit back a curse, hand darting from item to item. The footsteps grew closer. His fingers closed around his bow. He yanked it out then guided the fairy to sit on his scarf. It nestled into the folds of the fabric, wings folded flat against its back. Silently, he pulled out an arrow. He winced at the soft twang of the string snapping into the nock. The footsteps seemed deafening. He pulled back the arrow.

A shadowed, hunched form with blazing red eyes lurched out of the hall and into the fountain. He loosed the arrow. It slammed into the monster’s face, sinking into its cheek. Black blood flow around the arrow as the creature stumbled back with an ugly screech. Warriors quickly drew another arrow before allowing any time to process exactly what it was he was shooting. The creature ducked under the second projectile, whipping around to face him with a snarl. His heart stuttered, eyes widening briefly at the distorted interpretation of his face. The features grew clearer as he watched but he shoved down the shock. He drew back an arrow, backpedaling as fast as he could without falling. The monster, the shadow, growled and lunged. He clumsily fired the arrow as he darted to the side. The yowl of the shadow told him he must have somehow hit his mark. He twisted to face it but the movement cost him his balance. He staggered as he wildly attempted to regain it, back hitting one of the fountain’s pillars. Black splotches danced in his vision, blending with the dark patches on the shadow’s body and clothing. His body and clothing.

The shadow dove for him before he had the chance to nock another arrow. He scurried to the side. The monster crashed into the pillar and shoved off of it just as quickly, careening toward him. His head spun as his knuckles whitened around the bow. As the shadow approached, he planted a foot and sent his fist into its cheek, just beneath the arrow still lodged in its face. Its head snapped to the side and it staggered. Somewhere through the blood rushing in his ears, he thought he heard Hyrule call his name again.

“Down here!” he screamed as loud as he could, voice cracking. While the shadow recovered from the blow, he traded his bow for the knife on his belt. He slashed in an arc in front of him, forcing the shadow to stay back. It growled, pausing for a moment, watching Warriors as he carefully held his stance and struggled not to waver. He didn’t have to win. He just had to stall long enough for the others to reach him. Assuming they’d heard him.

The shadow darted forward and he darted back, swinging the knife and keeping it at bay. It repeated its attempts to get close to him a few more times, Warriors warding it away each time with the knife. Then it snarled dangerously, hunching down. It lunged. Warriors swung again, the knife slicing along the side of its neck, but it didn’t seem to care. It collided with him and the world flipped as it brought them both crashing to the ground. His head smacked against stone, starkly reminding him of his concussion as pain split his skull in half. He swung blindly, feeling resistance as the knife sank into the shadow’s side. The monster hissed but didn’t move off of him. It snatched his wrist, twisting his hand, trying to get him to drop the knife. He held on until it smashed his hand against the ground. Something cracked and he cried out, the knife jerking from his grasp and skittering away across the floor. Then hands wrapped tightly around his throat, squeezing and cutting off blood and airflow.

He choked, clawing at the shadow’s forearms, fingernails sinking weirdly into the gloves. His already darkening vision darkened even faster, rapidly shrinking. Sharp chiming reached his ears as the fairy darted out of its hiding place in his scarf. He could just make out the pink orb zipping up the shadow and battering itself incessantly against its head. But the monster paid it no mind, only tightening its grip on Warriors’ throat. He kicked as he struggled to breathe. He took a hand off the shadow’s arm to grasp at its face, trying to jab it in the eyes. If he succeeded, the shadow didn’t even flinch. Pressure built in his head, senses growing fuzzy and distant. His heart beat frantically in his chest as his struggles slowed. Something loud jammed into his ears but he could no longer discern any noise aside from the dull roaring. His hands went numb and tingly, fingers slipping off of the shadow’s arms. A manic grin twisted into the murderous rage on the shadow’s face. His vision shrank to a pinprick, eyes lidding.

Something shifted. The pressure released. His vision flooded back and blood rushed into his head once more. The shadow screeched, the sound dampened by the muffling in his ears. Something grabbed his shoulder and he thrashed, or tried to. His fist connected with something before the hand vanished and didn’t return. Air raked through his throat as he sucked in a desperate gasp. It burned in his lungs, a fit of raspy coughs spilling out of him. The shadow screeched again and he struggled to pry his swollen eyelids apart, adrenaline blazing through his veins.

His eyes opened a crack, just enough to see Hyrule straddling the shadow on the ground, sword gripped tightly in both hands, whaling on the shadow’s head. Black blood splattered with each strike, the creature shrieking. Another sound layered over the shadow’s voice and it took Warriors a moment to realize it was Hyrule screaming. Another shout joined the cacophony and Wild sprinted over to them. He deftly dodged Hyrule’s haphazard strikes and grabbed the traveler’s wrists. Hyrule’s head snapped about to face him, eyes alight with rage. Wild’s words drowned under the ringing in Warriors’ ears, but Hyrule’s face froze then collapsed. The shadow went still and melted out from under him, the pool of black blood seeping into the ground and vanishing.

A hand landed on Warriors’ shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin, attempting to roll to see what touched him, which only resulted in triggering another coughing fit. Air streaked through his throat and lungs like lava, each cough only making the pain worse. He struggled to get the fit under control, dragging in thin gasps that didn’t carry nearly enough oxygen into him. As he lay on his back, tears stinging in his eyes, struggling to breathe, a low, rumbling voice reached his ears. The words were muffled to the point of incomprehensible, but he recognized the voice as Time’s. The fight drained from him the instant he did.

He forced his eyes open to see Time kneeling over him with a stricken expression. The old man’s face went in and out of focus, the room dimming and brightening at random intervals. Warriors tried to say something, but only a harsh croak left his lips, scraping against the inside of his throat. Time looked away from him with a hardened expression that badly masked his panic. Warriors let his eyes fall shut again, feeling the timbre of Time’s voice in his ears. Someone shook his shoulder and he blinked to see all three heroes suddenly crowding him. Words passed over him that he could almost make out, between Wild and Time, but his gaze drifted to Hyrule. Aside from the black blood splattered across his face and arms, deep red blood also stained the midsection of his tunic. Warriors reached for Hyrule with numb fingers, grasping at the traveler’s hand and trying to convey his worry despite not being able to speak.

Hyrule grimaced and closed his hands over Warriors’, giving them a squeeze. I’m okay. His lips moved before the words disentangled themselves in Warriors’ head.

“-said she already spent her magic healing him before,” Time was saying. Warriors looked over to him, sound still muffled but at least making sense.

“B-before?” Wild replied. “So, then, all that blood-“

“Is- is his, yes.” Time sounded ill.

A pink glow flitted across Warriors’ vision as the fairy landed back down in his scarf with a mournful chime. Warriors gave a brief effort to sit up, if only to reassure the others that he wasn’t dead, but just attempting to lift his head caused the room to careen and tumble nauseatingly. He closed his eyes with a soft hiss, waiting for the pounding to subside.

“Traveler, can you heal him?” Time asked.

“I- n-no, I’m out of magic,” Hyrule stammered. His hands tightened around Warriors’, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“You have more potions, Champion?”

“Plenty.”

Warriors winced at just the thought of trying to swallow anything. He pried his eyelids apart, opening his mouth to express that. His voice barely squeaked in response. Shaking his head caused needles to stick into his neck, so he settled for grimacing and weakly pushing the potion away when Wild offered it to him.

“Captain, you gotta drink it, you’re hurt,” Wild insisted. Warriors pressed his lips together and pushed the potion back again.

“Captain-“ Time began.

“Guys, I don’t- I don’t think he can,” Hyrule said hoarsely. “Look at his neck, it- it-“

Time and Wild’s gazes both dropped below Warriors’ chin. Judging by their expressions Hyrule didn’t need to further explain himself. Warriors relaxed slightly, giving Hyrule’s hand a grateful squeeze. The fairy nuzzled against the skin just beneath his ear and he let his eyes slip closed. Snatches of conversation jumped back and forth over him, a heavy blanket over his ears muffling them as exhaustion pulled at the backs of his eyes. Just before he slid under the gentle waves of unconsciousness, hands grabbed at his shoulders and arms. The world tilted and he groaned, or tried to, too-tight throat pinching off the sound. A sturdy arm looped around his back, holding him upright.

“Just lean on me, Captain, we’re going to get you out of here,” Time murmured beside his ear.

A second arm wrapped around Warriors from the other side, Hyrule taking his left arm and draping it over his own shoulders. Then he and Time lifted him up. Warriors’ legs gave out from under him immediately, the world pitching abruptly, gravity pulling at his stomach and the center of his skull. But Time and Hyrule were ready, already supporting all of his weight. They practically carried him between them as they made their way out of the fountain and through the hall. He tried to walk with the movement, but he mistimed nearly every step, boots tripping and dragging the whole way. Light flooded the hall that Warriors hadn’t noticed before. He lifted his head just enough to see the rubble strewn about the cave instead of plugging up the entrance. Wild, he thought with a resigned sort of fondness as he let his head lower again. He had very little doubt the champion would be the one to come up with the idea to blow up the cave-in that had been caused by an explosion in the first place.

A soft splash sounded underfoot as Time and Hyrule stepped into a puddle. Hyrule sucked in a shuddering breath and Time’s arm tightened around Warriors. Warriors blinked, convincing his eyes to focus for long enough to make out the pool of his blood. And the blade driving down through his chest, ripping apart his lungs- He tried and failed to suppress a shudder, turning his face into Time’s shoulder. Time said nothing, only holding him even more securely.

“Time,” Hyrule began in a rough voice, distracting Warriors from his memory. “Captain, I- I’m sorry for insisting we look around. If I hadn’t, then- then you wouldn’t have-“ A shaky inhale interrupted him. “And I’m sorry that I left, I didn’t- had I known, I never would’ve- I- I should’ve realized something was off sooner, but I-“

“It’s not your fault, Traveler,” Time cut into Hyrule’s quickly spiraling apology. “You were tricked. It could’ve happened to any of us. I don’t blame you. I’m sure the captain doesn’t, either.”

Warriors couldn’t nod, so he just squeezed where his hand gripped Hyrule’s shoulder in agreement. He hadn’t seen what happened to Hyrule after the aeralfos dragged him off, but he knew Hyrule wasn’t the type to abandon his brothers.

Hyrule made a choked sort of sound, squeezing Warriors in return. A blur of blue appeared on Hyrule’s other side, Wild falling into step with them and resting a hand on Hyrule’s arm. The light grew brighter as they approached the entrance to the cave. It stung Warriors’ eyes and he blinked, squinting against it. Time and Hyrule picked their way through the rubble, carefully keeping their holds on Warriors as they did. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, readjusting so they were basically fully carrying Warriors. Then they helped him up the ruined steps and out into the light of day.

#holy shit this is long #linked universe #linked universe fanfic #linked universe fic #ruby writes #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #lu warriors #lu time #lu wild #lu hyrule #every time i use the word pain take a shot #you'll be dead by chapter three #i use pain 150 throughout this whole thing fun fact

11 notes · View notes

dovithedarklord · 7 months

Text

Age of Monsters - Chapter Nine

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

...................................

Author's Note

Leona gets involved in an exciting adventure and receives surprising help.

Hello!

I have a few Trigger Warnings for today's chapter: Blood, violence, weapons, gore, viscera, death, and extensive injuries.

Have fun!:)

I.M.L. - Infected mammalian lifeform

I.H.L. - Infected humanoid lifeform

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Nine

..........................................

Everything is happening so fast that I can only stare in shock at what unfolds before my eyes through the binoculars. A whole dozen deformed creatures emerge from the smoke rising after the explosion, and they throw themselves among the debris of the street at such a speed, that the soldiers who took cover hardly have time to retreat before one of the beasts, which looks as heavy as a small elephant, snarls and throws itself at the wreck that has served as a hiding place for them. And it's only thanks to MacTavish's lightning-fast reflexes that the bear-like monster doesn't tear one of the scattered soldiers apart, because the Hunter appears in front of the mutant so suddenly, that I'm unable to follow him with my paralyzed brain. With his bare hands, he fights back the shovel-like, huge paw that is about to strike, so that when the enraged creature stands up on its two hind legs and attacks again, he hits the vital organs with a couple of well-aimed shots and takes the behemoth down.

However, they don't have time to enjoy this small victory, because more and more I.M.L.s appear, and as I glance at the entrance to the nest, I realize that, judging by the number of mutants constantly pouring out, they certainly won't have a chance to rejoice for a while. But if this all continues like this, it's also doubtful whether anyone will survive long enough to see a happy ending. A desperate fight begins, and the soldiers flee to get some cover behind the many ruins spread out on the street, from where they attempt to pump the monsters galloping towards them full with bullets. And I'm trying to process what happened through the astonishment taking over my limbs. The I.H.L.s walked through those fucking bombs, willingly and with great joy, to defuse them for their friends who showed up next. Not only did the I.M.L.s not kill the humanoid abominations, they welcomed them into the warmth of their nice little family, and now they even seem to be working together. Which is a fucking wild assumption, even for my imagination running rampant with stress, because so far there has been no example of this in the last fifty years. These bastards are incapable of intelligent actions, let alone outmaneuvering those who hunt them. What the hell is going on here?

"It's Hunter 0-15! Everyone stays in position! They can't go any further!" I hear Riley's command on the radio, and the raw anger in his voice is the testimony that the hell that broke loose has also caught him desperately unprepared. All calmness is lost from his words reaching my ears, and because of this, my pulse skyrockets and tries to breathe some life into me, because it slowly reaches my awareness that the situation will soon become difficult for me as well, even though I am far away from the events.

MacTavish's little soldiers continue to fire at the mutants from behind the rubble, and although they are surprisingly effective at killing the demonic creatures, and they manage to eliminate some of them, this isn't nearly enough for most of them to stay on the ground permanently. Again, a loud explosion shakes the street, which has turned into a picture of frenzied killing, and I'm also forced to close my eyes for a moment from the flashing lights. And by the time I turn back to follow the actions, the foglike smoke that has appeared lulls me into a false calm with its immobility. Because when it starts to disintegrate, it reveals the corpses of the monsters torn to pieces, but soon more of their friends arrive to take their place. It's as if they are besieged by an endless stream, and despite the soldiers fighting and shooting at them incessantly, the dozens of monsters that keep popping up create this feeling, which causes unimaginable panic to run through my every nerve fiber. As if the mouth of the nest would open straight into hell, where more and more vermins ready to kill would pour out. And the whole struggle suddenly seems like a completely hopeless suffering.

Maybe that's why the Hunter with the mohawk can decide to take matters into his hands and rush towards the beasts alone, entrusting his team's survival to his abilities. He can also guess that if even one of the I.M.L.s gets close enough to his comrades, that unfortunate person will suffer the most painful death imaginable. And although he has the repertoire with which he can take out these bastards, his lethal power is in vain if he is outnumbered by the enemy. And this isn't a good thing, to say the least.

"Cover me!" MacTavish says on the radio to his comrades behind him, who obey his instructions without hesitation and get ready in a second to target anything they can. And as the man steps out of his cover and sets off towards the diabolic creatures with a determined momentum, my stomach shrinks from some unknown unpleasant grip, because the only image that appears in my mind is the promise of the Hunter's dead body frozen in blood. And although I trust him and his experience, I'm unable to banish this simple intuition from my subconscious, which is slowly torn in two by the claws of worry and terror.

Despite all the risks, he directs his weapon at the incoming beasts without a moment's delay, hitting them with brutal precision before they can get even a little close enough to attack. And when one of the degenerates, throwing itself over the defeated cadaver of its companion, comes within arm's reach of the Hunter, he frees one hand and swings his fist at his attacker, and hits the brute’s bare, skull-like head with such force that even though I can only see the image through the lens of the binoculars, but in my ears I hear the imaginary crunching of bones. The I.M.L. falls to the ground, and as it lies down in the dust, I see its blood-soaked face, mangled by the blow, in which MacTavish makes a hole with a well-aimed shot just to be on the safe side.

Even I'm amazed at the efficiency with which he exterminates the wretched swines, an although they continue to advance towards the small group with unstoppable anger, still hope awakens in me when the man I have known so far as harmless and friendly shows that it’s no accident that he belongs to S-class. Even though it seems stomach-churning, as minute by minute he enriches the road decorated with black blood and wrecks with more and more unrecognizable limp bodies, I still hope that this pace won't leave him and he sends all these bastards to the other world.

Still, when a mutant larger than its previous buddies appears and, pointing its horns at MacTavish, rushes forward, cutting through the carcasses lying in the filth, my blood runs cold. A skillful little soldier begins to shoot, but it doesn’t make a difference, for the beast charges forward furiously and unrelenting toward its goal, and when it arrives and strikes with unstoppable momentum, it's just a hair's breadth away from slicing open the chest of its victim, who is lucky enough that his vest absorbs the lion's share of the attack. Taking a few steps back, the Scotsman lowers his weapon onto its sling, then pulls himself together to grab the bone growths that are about to strike again, before it can stab him. He fixes his booted feet on the ground to hold back the enraged monster, who tries to push forward toward his chosen prey with muscles tensing under the pale, scarred skin. For a nerve-wracking moment, when the Hunter's legs slide backward in the dust, it seems that he might lose his balance and the fiend will get to him, but this horrific illusion lasts only for an uncertain second. In the blink of an eye, he regains control and pushes his attacker by its horns, then reaches into his tactical vest, grabs a large hunting knife from there and places it in the head of the mutant. The blade sinks right up to the hilt into the creature's skull as easily as if the man just wanted to cut a birthday cake, and he pulls it out with at least that much ease, so that he can continue the fight undisturbed.

And as soon as I see the large body spread out on the ground, I let out the air which I didn't know with what despair had stuck in my lungs until now. I hastily shift my gaze through my binoculars to assess the less-than-ideal state of the battlefield, because at this point the eventual outcome of this fight becomes highly doubtful. And I'm not greeted by a prettier sight from the intersection either, and although I see some of the monsters fall on the road limply, another one inexplicably appears in its place, which throws itself to the soldiers firing from their hiding places. And even my mind, confused by the chaos, knows that we have stepped into a real wasp's nest, because it has long since gone beyond the limits of a routine nest extermination. This is something completely different that we walked into completely unprepared.

I continue to observe the chaotic scene of the battle, and I'm just about to make up my mind to create some workable plan that could help me to survive, when something in my periphery suddenly moves on the battered roof of one of the ruined buildings. Reflexively, I turn my head in the direction of the phenomenon, and concentrating all my attention there, I try to assess with my sharp little eyes, what the figure slowly creeping out from the shadows and appearing almost out of nowhere could be. And when the silvery light of the moon finally envelops the stranger, my eyebrows meet in confusion at the sight materializing before me. Because for a split second, it occurs to me that I might have fallen victim to a hallucination caused by fear and stress, because I can't find a sane explanation as to why the I.M.L., with a body woven with lean muscles, appears with a human-like creature on its back peeping ever so slowly through the stumps of half-destroyed walls covered with vegetation.

But, when I understand what I'm seeing and my brain starts to work on interpreting the visual stimuli received through my eyes, a completely new kind of astonishment comes over me. It defies all known facts as the mutant and its rider stalk towards the edge of the building with almost stoic calm, and just the wording of this observation is enough to make me lean forward, holding on to the handrail, to see if I can get a better look at this impossible picture. The I.H.L. sitting on his cute little pet looks down on the events taking place in the turmoil of the street as superiorly as if it were just watching a movie, and although I can't see its face clearly, I can still perfectly measure up that its features have remained much more human-like than those of its other infected friends. While the other infected humanoid creatures only resembled their late selves in traces, and like the other monsters they took on an amorphous form littered with ulcers, growths, and superhuman muscles, which probably makes their appearance resemble a wraith from a nightmare, this individual remained surprisingly human. Only a few tumors and scars decorate its body, swollen with developed muscles, and its unwavering and proud posture is definitely different from the horrible nest dwellers.

However, I don't have time to analyze the creature any further, because when it raises one hand and points it towards the soldiers and Scottish Hunter fighting at the end of the road, I suddenly forget to muse on the events that took place so far. Because at least a dozen I.H.L.s drag themselves out of the alley that runs next to the building with slow movements, and at the silent instructions of their leader puffing above them, they begin a clumsy but all the more determined stealth towards the unsuspecting troops. And at this point, my mind finally snaps out of the paralyzed contemplation and instead postpones my further smart observations, and my hand hastily reaches for the radio resting on my tactical vest so I can warn MacTavish before the bastards can surprise them.

"MacTavish! I.H.L.s are approaching you from behind!" I shout with an almost desperate urgency, and I tensely aim my eyes at the man, who continues to fight with restless momentum against the ever-coming mass of enemies. An icy terror shoots through me when I don't see any reaction from him, and only one of the soldiers turns back for a moment to check the authenticity of the information coming from me. And when he notices the lanky figures slowly emerging from the shadows of the walls, he quickly spins around and waves his hand to the rest of his comrades who have retreated to cover.

"They're behind us!" I hear the soldier's nervous voice in my ear, and now they all think it's better to turn around and deal with the new threat that is approaching them with dangerous certainty. Even so, the restlessness of the soldiers doesn't break the Hunter from his murderous activities, and he continues to wipe out the monsters showing up from the intersection, despite the fact that by now he is doing this by himself. And I frown in confusion, since he gives no sign of being aware of the catastrophe that will soon begin.

It seems I'm not the only one who notices this, because one of the soldiers hiding close by suddenly jumps up and motions towards the Hunter, no doubt trying to shout over the noise of the active battle. And when he doesn't succeed, he hastily leaves his hideout and sneaks closer to try to warn his superior again. This message finally reaches its destination, because the Scottish man puts down the mutant coming towards him in a fraction of a second, only to look back and face the creatures that are about to pounce on them.

But then it's too late, because the monstrosities, who have been advancing calmly up to this point, suddenly find their anger and attack the small group with all their uncontrollable bloodlust, and the Hunter and his men are now forced to defend themselves from two directions. The soldiers immediately start firing, but all efforts and even the Hunter fighting at their side are in vain when a handful of people don't stand a chance against these wretches. Since when the I.H.L.s reach them, the real carnage begins, and in the blink of an eye, the hopeless struggle thus far turns into total hell. They unstoppably burst into the combatants, and as one of the deformed creatures throws itself at the man shooting from behind a chunk of concrete, it grabs its victim by the neck with indefensible speed with its grotesque, spider-like long arms, and tears off the unfortunate soldier's head with playful ease, as if it had just tried to rip off a piece of grape from its cluster. And the acid rises in my throat at the sight with unforgiving force, and holding my hand in front of my mouth, I swallow back the contents of my stomach that want to burst out, which was led toward the outside world by fear so graciously.

I can't hear it, but it's enough to see MacTavish's mouth open in agony to feel the surprised fury in the scream that leaves the man's lips. But the fun isn't over yet, as the chaos of the night that turned into bloodshed is cut in two by a bone-chilling roar that draws my attention back to the unknown being who started this whole fucking event. And that bastard climbs down the side of the building where it had been observing up until now, sitting on top of the mutant behemoth, and gallops towards the group fighting desperately with its chest out. And my hands reflexively find my radio to do something, to warn someone who knows how to prevent the horror that is slowly unfolding before my eyes.

"MacTavish! There's one more coming up from behind!" I yell into the device at full volume, and I look again for the mentioned person, but instead of responding to my call, he throws himself into eliminating the beasts with even more aggression than before, like a cornered wild animal. And the unpleasant realization dawns on me that this cannot be the work of chance, and that he is not deliberately ignoring my call, but that some accident has happened with his communication device. And this, if possible, pushes me even further towards complete panic, the like of which I wasn't lucky enough to feel even in the forest. That's why I decide it's time to tell someone else about the mess the team got into.

"Riley!" I call for the masked Hunter, ignoring the panic that mixes with my voice that breaks through the radio. Because my instincts are taking over my brain, and it screams inside my skull that if my Scottish friend doesn't get help soon, I'm going to watch with my own two eyes as that fucking beast-riding mutant bastard guts him. And this is just enough to drive my body to the verge of dizziness. "MacTavish's team is surrounded, they need help!" I exclaim, and I shift my frantic gaze to the intersection through my binoculars, just in case Riley and one of his partners appear in the heat of the madness and rush to help.

However, for a nerve-wracking moment, no answer comes, and although I can hear the soldiers messaging each other in broken voices, none of them are the deep, British-accented ones I'm looking for. And that disgusting foreboding creeps into my skull, which tells me that something terrible might have happened to the other man, which prevents him from answering. And this possibility triggers even more ominous thoughts in my brain, which is already falling into a deeper pit of stress. But, when I hear the crackling of the radio in my ear, I almost instinctively feel a sense of relief, because I wouldn't be able to process so much crap in one night.

"Roger that. Stay where you are." Comes the rather concise reaction, and while his tone doesn't surprise me at all, his words are even more so. There is such a measured indifference radiating from the man over the line as he directs this firm instruction at me, that it instantly raises my blood pressure. Because I get the feeling that, he's belittling my concerns and disregarding my observations, and ignoring my entire report, as if it were nothing more than the unnecessary squealing of a silly little girl. Although I can accurately assess the superior confidence with which the demonic monster approaches our mutual friend, who is slowly running out of space to protect himself from threats.

"Riley, I'm not fucking kidding!" I snap at the man fiercely, and my fingers tighten around the radio with such force that I'm afraid it will crack in my grip. "There's a fucking I.H.L. riding a mutant, and it directs the other bastards there and they're cornering MacTavish and his team!" I explain to him, leaving behind all my pride and arrogance, which I have been so happy to convey to him during our conversations. With this, hoping that he will also understand the seriousness of the situation and will finally rally his people, and help the Scottish man so that we can get out of this cesspool together. Because the only chance of survival here is to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Whether this is the orderly and correct step or not.

"Continue to observe and hold your position!" He raises his voice now, informing me of his previously perfectly worded order a little more irritatedly, with which the problem so far wasn't that my brain cells couldn't process it. And I stare blankly into the distance, with my flaming eyes fixed on the man even through the ruined buildings covered with plants, because I'm unable to understand what is so damn hard to understand in the fact that without his help, his friend will soon kick the bucket. As I take another look at the battle taking place in the street, and see how the multitude of monsters and degenerate creatures are slowly closing in on MacTavish and his two companions who are still alive, my chest tightens with a stabbing pain. Too many enemies are arriving, and there is no end in sight to the bloody mess, and although the Hunter is heroically trying to stand his ground, it's perfectly clear that their chances of survival will soon be zero if something is not done urgently. And it seems that the man is also aware of this, because he nervously turns his head behind his back, looking for an escape route, so that when he notices the entrance to the small alley stretching to the left, he signals to his men to order them behind him. He keeps his weapon on the beats attacking them, trying to hold them back until he manages to fish out a grenade from his vest, and then throws the useful little bomb into the small gang of mutants. The force of the explosion causes the bastards to fly apart like startled birds, and those who are still hit by the detonation are blown into discrete pieces. It seems that MacTavish takes advantage of this momentary distraction, because by the time the dust and smoke clears, there is no sign of him and his friends. And even though I lose sight of them in this way, it still makes me more anxious to wonder how much time they will gain with this stunt before their pursuers catch up with them again.

My concerns are soon answered, because the mutant-riding I.H.L. stands only with immeasurable calmness at the edge of the scene of destruction, only to retreat for a fleeting moment, surveying its sweet little beasts with quite deceptive apathy. It gives the impression as it runs its milk-white gaze over its remaining bloodthirsty companions, as if it would just count how many chess pieces it has left, which it can mobilize in order to inflict maximum damage. And when it’s convinced that there are still enough scumbags that it can unleash on its victims, it once again directs the dozens of monsters towards the escape route used by the Scotsman with that eerily sensible gesture, and the brutes throw themselves onto the designated path with murderous enthusiasm. But it doesn't stay idle either, no. As soon as the last of its kind is swallowed up by the darkness of the side street, the monster below it suddenly moves and dashes after them with amazing speed. And it doesn't take much logic for me to figure out that this is going to be a hide-and-seek with an easily fatal outcome. And this gives me enough justification to try asking for help again.

"Riley!" I call for the man again, and I know that there is real desperation and anger in my voice, but the urgent feeling that with every passing minute, we are getting closer to the bloody highlight of this whole nerve-racking mission doesn’t let me rest. And when a few painfully long seconds pass and there is still no answer, my teeth clench so nervously that my jaw almost aches from it. What the fuck?

"MacTavish has left his position and is now being chased by a herd of mutants. If someone doesn't help them, they will most certainly die." I try again, now perhaps more impatiently than necessary, emphasizing each word separately. But again, I don't get any reaction, from which I can directly conclude that the man is probably swimming up to his knees in the carcasses of the beasts, and thus he can be in exactly as dire of a position as his friend with the mohawk. Because I know he wouldn’t deliberately ignore my warning about the suffering of his dear friend, considering how fiercely he defended his little unit from my harmful little scheming.

From this whole helpless situation, the image of MacTavish's mangled body, lying in the dirt swimming in blood while a beast feasts on him, flashes before my mind's eye inexplicably. The vision projected in my imagination seems so real that the pressure, which was benevolently suppressed by the compulsion to follow the events, once again returns to its well-accustomed place in my throat. Just the thought that the life of the man, who effectively sneaked into the corners of my dark little soul even during our fleeting time together, would die in such a violent and painful manner fills my limbs with unbearable pain.

And as I take in the sight of the gaping nest at the intersection and the monsters rampaging around it through my binoculars again, the very definite idea begins to take shape in the winding paths of my gray matter, that maybe it's time to leave my position that lulls me into the illusion of safety. Although all my survival instincts protest against the idea, I still have the best chance to rush to the aid of the Scottish Hunter, because his other comrades, just like him, are still fighting desperately for their lives. And this simple fact seems like such a logical step, which nevertheless sufficiently triggers the raging waves of adrenaline in my body. And the smile that makes its way to my face breaks out of me almost hysterically when I realize how far I have strayed from the selfish little ideas of my former self at this moment. Because while previously no one could have persuaded me to commit such a stupid and irresponsible move, now the voice in the deepest part of my skull is reviving, which drowns out the sounds of my selfishness, and which screams for me to pull myself together and finally do something. I've never been a coward, I've always been manipulative and calculating, so it's time to act before the terror in my stomach wins. Shit.

"I'll go after him." I announce my sudden decision with surprising ease, as soon as my fingers find my radio again. It's quite obvious that even though I could flee in silence and maybe even survive, every cell in me is furiously protesting the fleeting idea, as if the suggestion itself were a disgusting disease. And thinking rationally, I'm most definitely not going to get out of here alone tonight, so it would be best if I would actively do something so that I and my little friends can get through the night. Even if I put my own skin at risk.

"I told you not to leave your position! This is a command!" Riley's voice suddenly echoes in my ears, and I find it quite funny that breaking his instructions is what finally prompts him to react. I'd like to think he's sounding so aggressive over the radio because he's worried about my safety, but I know he probably just wants to avoid explaining how I died if I would actually bit the bullet during my rescue operation. And while my realistic self understands why he insists to idle my time away here, the fact that he would rather keep me at this fucking observation point than let me do what I'm willingly offering helps the poison spread through my veins. Now is not the time when he can flaunt his dominance, because once I have a rock-solid determination, very little will distract me from it. And the role of the strict Hunter is not one of them.

"I couldn't care less about your order, Riley." I throw my remark at him determinedly, and although I know that this will probably only fan the flames of his temper even more, unfortunately, this die is already cast. "I won't let him die." I explain to him my brief reasoning behind my sudden decision, and before I can even wait for his answer, my hands glide with automatic movements towards the communicator hidden deep in the side pocket of my pants, and with my clever little fingers I call up the map of the whole damn city so that I can look for the man with the mohawk on it. And when the little red dot marking him with his call sign appears, as he flees diligently heading west, then I already know what the target direction of my little action will be.

"Woods! Stay in your fuckin' position!" The masked man reprimands me again, but I only deal with this matter with a sarcastic snort, because at this point he already should know that he won't stop me with this, because he hasn't been able to divert me with his threats so far either. And only a hidden corner of my consciousness grasps the unknown and impatient tension, which until now I haven't heard in his deep voice, but I don't pay any importance to it now. After all, at this moment, the interpretation of his behavior, unfortunately, fell back in the order of priority. And because of this, I decide that I'd rather not waste any more words on this futile verbal battle, because I will get to where I need to be that much later.

"I'll let you know when there's a new development." I send him one last message, so that I can finally surrender to the impatient nervousness in my muscles, which pushes each of my limbs towards action. And although panic is still actively working in my veins, my realization gives me enough impetus to finally move. I push myself away from the handrail that has provided me with firm support until now, and sliding my binoculars back into their holder, I turn my back on the active battlefield, where the sound of loud gunfire and inarticulate howls still fills the space. I grab my assault rifle slung over my shoulder and start with hasty steps towards the stairs leading down from the overpass, crossing the broken concrete road. Even I'm amazed at how springy my movements are, as I take the steps in twos, only to start running immediately after a final check of my communicator.

I decide that I might have better luck avoiding the monsters whose after MacTavish if I try to approach them one street up, because the mutants are definitely working on cornering him. And if the beast-riding bastard is there with them, then unfortunately for the Hunter, but to my luck, maybe his trashy friends won't wander away from there. Because, even though I was suddenly promoted to a one-man relief army, my common sense and will to survive didn't leave me. I run across the wide road, from the end of which the sounds of the battle still reach me, and even though I still hear the memory of Riley's deep voice filled with anger, I only take one last look at the events taking place at the intersection. I will care about the man's rage when everyone is back in the safe and calm confines of the base. Maybe I'll even be happy if he scolds me.

A narrow stretch of road between ruined buildings appears in front of my eyes, and when I realize that the next part of my journey will lead to it, I double my speed and throw myself into the side street surrounded by crumbling walls. I'm greeted by nothing but ominous pitch darkness, and my nose is suddenly filled with the smell of wet vegetation and gunpowder traveling on the back of the wind, but I'm not deterred for a moment by this archival horror movie environment. It takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the world of the alley dominated by shadows, and for the few seconds until this happens, I continue sprinting without waiting, because my heart beating in my ears and the adrenaline bubbling in my veins tells me that there is no time to hesitate. But thanks to fate, my pretty little eyes overcome this obstacle after running a few meters blindly, and from then on I continue on the desolate road with full confidence.

My lungs are filled with decades of dust kicked up by my steps, and the fine crumbs of plaster peeling off the crumbling walls slowly fill my mouth, but even in spite of this, I hurry along the narrow and ridiculously long street. Sometimes I jump with the elegance of a gazelle over the many abandoned belongings and objects lying on the ground that are rotten beyond recognition, and my mind, focused on the task, doesn't stop to think about what a piece of cloth of dubious origin or an obscure outline that appears suspiciously might be. And I'm terribly grateful for that, because now I don't feel like getting into that kind of nostalgia.

When the claustrophobic feeling from wandering in the depths of the alley would finally start to get on my nerves, my small path suddenly ends and I get to another wide concrete road, in the middle of which an overturned large vehicle is lying still. And although most of the paint had peeled off, there are still a couple of yellow scale-like remnants left on it, from which I can deduce that it must have been a school bus once. And I prefer to direct my gaze to the hologram glowing in blue on my communicator, rather than to the windows that look like many screaming mouths, through which I catch the decaying frames of the torn seats for a moment.

I search for MacTavish's blinking little dot on the map again, and when I find it three streets down, pulsing unmovingly in one place, worry fills me. Because the fact that he decided to take a rest in the middle of his escape can mean two things. Either he managed to kill all the mutants, or something is actively preventing him from leaving. And if it's the latter, then I have to hurry because it could lead straight to his death.

I quickly identify the small, one-way street where I will continue my way, which is located one street directly above the position of the Hunter, so that I can leave behind the haunting ruins of the school and begin my frenzied sprint once again. My whole body continues to be doped by the ever-growing waves of adrenaline, which drives away the dryness that bites my esophagus, the burning tension in my muscles, and every other sensation, and pushes me further into the emptiness of the seemingly endless street. The moonlight colors the once serene surroundings in silver and lends a quite eerie atmosphere to the silence, which slowly envelops everything. The sounds of the battle in the combat zone behind me had long since disappeared, and nothing remains but the dull noise of my boots pounding on the concrete and the sound of my hurried breathing.

Every minute, I return to the map looming in blue with my eyes, and as the red dot marking the man with the mohawk, still blinking frozen in place, gets closer and closer, my heart rate soars to dangerous heights. Because I have a strong suspicion that my first hypothesis was correct, and that the being leading the mutants really directed all of his minions towards the Hunter, and that's exactly why MacTavish has been stalling in the same place for minutes, and that's why luck has so far spared me from running into stray I.M.L.. And this realization is a sufficient warning for caution, because at this point it becomes clear that I will have to come up with a tricky little tactic if I want to save not only the man and his friends, but also my own skin.

And when I finally see the end of this damned street, I rather take back my momentum, because I hear the unmistakable deep, rasping and definitely otherwordly grunts and growls, the likes of which only a single lifeform can emit. With cat-like steps, I sneak closer to the end of the street to look for a temporary hiding place, snuggling up against the side of a building dotted with decaying old plaster. I slowly and silently slide my communicator back into my pocket, as I suspect it will be obvious where the Scotsman and his companions have been confined. Resting my palm against the wall, I lean out of the my hideout, and when I see the mob of beasts, my eyebrows nervously furrow. Because a good thirty meters away, they are peacefully huddling in front of an alley, from which the muffled sounds of fighting are heard. And they have every reason to be calm, because the mutant-riding I.H.L. does the same, and observes the events of the battle that emanate from the dark alley with deep indifference. As my gaze glides across the gathered herd to assess how many of them are there, I see a small group of monsters circling the ground with great interest. And as soon as one of them moves, I can finally see what occupied them so effectively. Although there is only a blood-soaked, mangled corpse lying on the ground, I only need to look at the uniformed leg dangling from one of the beast's sharp, needle-like teeth to know that by now MacTavish may be the last survivor of his team. And I thank the stress hormone working in me for kindly suppressing the first friendly waves of nausea, because I don't want to be caught just because I do a technicolor yawn.

And before I can analyze the situation further, I hear a loud bang of a gun firing, which is followed by sick silence. It seems that the little fucker riding the beast could have been waiting for this, because it seizes this opportunity and decides to join the party, raising an object that looks terriby close to a spear in its hand. My chest suddenly tightens as my brain takes in the facts, and then the decision is born in me that I have to act now, or the Hunter, who may have run out of ammunition and weapons, and may be injured and exhausted, won't be able to stand his ground against this scumbag. Even if every fiber of my being hopes the contrary.

And this, instead of causing me to fall into despair, in some inexplicable way rekindles the bubbling energy in my veins that I last felt when I locked eyes with that fucking wild boar. And although I thought that my body wasn't shaken for a moment by that faithful meeting, I'm still glad that this image is etched in my memory. Because now at least I will benefit from the unquestionable determination that once again overwhelms me, and now even though not my survival depends on it, I let this unknown force lick my insides with angry flames. And my brain in a heightened state magically comes up with the plan that I have to implement. And for some reason, I have no doubts about its success.

My fingers nimbly fish out the flash grenade resting on my vest, and its other two much more destructive brothers, because it seems much more logical and poetic to shred these garbage into confetti, as they did with the unsuspecting soldiers. I emerge from the cover of the wall for the last time, and I see that the monsters are still waiting for me at their dinner table, stuffing their faces, and this suddenly makes me want to kill them even more. My body moves almost by itself, and I aim my weapon with automatic movements, then throw the flash grenade between the gathered mutants with such precision as if I had been doing this all my life. I quickly hide myself behind the wall again, and the bastards don't even have time to process what's happening, because as soon as the sneaky little gadget hits the ground, the blinding light that escapes from it momentarily covers the entire ruined street. And when a deafening whine-like sound erupts from them, I know that my vile little distraction was effective.

I grasp the opportunity, and I don't give them time to recover from this, but I activate the two companions that are more powerful than the flash grenade, and I send them flying on their destructive journey straight between the paralyzed, frozen creatures. And although I once again retreat to the protective shield of the building, when the hand grenades land, they explode with a well-known boom, after which nothing remains but the air movement and the mass of dust flying with it. Thus, even in the shelter of my hiding place, I hear the wet splashing of torn bodies of the beasts and the sharp thump of the debris hitting the ground, and I take this as the sign that I can finally make my entrance on the blood-covered stage.

I step out onto the concrete road with every inch of my body filled with determination, and I see, through the dispersing smoke, that my little surprise has indeed achieved the necessary effect. The remains of bodies mutilated beyond recognition lie on the ground, and even the luckier ones, those who are still moving and writhing on the mangled leashes of their own limbs, will no longer pose a threat. I briskly cross the street that has become the site of bloodshed, and my boots clatter with a disgusting sound in the dirt soaked with dark body fluids, but instead of being repulsed by the whole sight, a small joy awakens in my soul, because they all deserved it. Each and everyone of them.

It doesn't take long for me to reach the entrence of the alley, and when I arrive, I lose momentum for split second, and I pause to survey the scene unfolding before me. MacTavish might have been able to struggle heroically against the enemy until now, because the narrow street is covered by the many lifeless corpse of I.M.L.s, and it must have been a miracle of God that he survived in this hot water until now. But now, backing towards the end of the dead end alley, his hands are pressed to his stomach, where the remnants of his tactical vest and T-shirt hang in jagged pieces, giving a clear view of the long, claw-like cuts that run across his torso. A painful moan escapes the man, and his gaze glowing with weak red light is fixed on the beast towering over him, and on the deformed creature sitting on it, who is preparing to finish its cruel work with its spear raised high. And this awakens such anger and hatred in me, the heat of which burns my insides alive, and along which the energy burns even more strongly in my veins, sending a single message to my brain. Kill it. And it doesn't have to be said twice.

Before the scumbag can even make its next move, I grab my assault rifle and aim it without hesitation to pump the bastart full of bullets. My gun fires with a series of loud bangs, and I manage to surprise the mutant, because by the time it realizes what's happening, the fired bullets are already piercing through its body, and maybe even Riley himself would be proud of how efficiently I take I.H.L. down with my sharpened senses. A shrill scream erupts from it, then with a dull thump the human-like creature turns from the throne it had occupied until now, and as soon as it sprawls on the dirty ground, its pet also notices that something is very wrong. The mutant turns with such fervor, as if it were genuinely enraged by my intervention, which it might be. But I'm not frightened by the way it snarls and focuses all its attention on me, because when it lunges towards me and wants to get up on two legs to throw itself at me, I deploy my mean little rifle again and shoot the fucker with deadly efficiency, focusing on its chest, because the useful wisdom that I learned during my training appears in my brain. And I know from this that if I cause enough damage, it will fall to the ground. I don't have to be disappointed in the knowledge I've acquired from my teachers, because when a bunch of bloody gaping holes cover the brute's broad chest, it falls in the filth next to its master. As I unwaveringly walk towards it, and when with its last breath, the milky white eyes resting on its wrinkled, tumor-distorted head look up at me, then I decide to take pity on it and free it from its suffering, and I present it with one last bullet to its skull. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that it's over and I've killed both of them. And then the murderous red fog clears from my mind, and all my attention shifts to the Hunter kneeling at the back of the alley.

"MacTavish!" I shout, and I don't even try to get rid of the worry in my voice, because my nervous system is too overloaded to be able to work on such stunts. Instead, my body moves almost automatically, and I hurry through the narrow alley covered with corpses, shoving my weapon over my shoulder. And the closer I get, the more my anxiety increases, because this way I finally have the opportunity to measure the man's not-so-rosy state in detail.

"Woods... " He moans, and as he looks up at me, and the reddish glow in his eyes suddenly dissapears, which prompts me, when I finally reach him, to stumble and fall on my knees next to him, frantically directing my bright eyes at the injuries on his stomach and chest. “Why are you here? " He asks the completely logical question, yet impatience awakens in me from the way he is trying to question my actions through his pain.

"I came to save you." I tell him quickly and matter-of-factly, pushing his body back towards the wall of the alley with trembling hands so that he can rest while I assess the damage. The large cuts on his suntanned skin show off in an angry red color, from the deep furrows of which crimson blood gushes out, soaking what is left of his clothes. And as soon as I see the characteristic texture of the raw meat emerging on his belly, I don't hesitate any longer, I pull myself together and finally get to work. I can now perform what I was brought to do. Fuck!

"Leave me here..." He pleads with a his face distorted by pain, and as he closes his eyes, his head falls back and connects with the bricks with a soft thud, then I place my palms on his wounds without any delay, and fixing my gaze on his body, I aim the tensely bubbling waves of my energy towards him. "Go... Run..." He starts again with the martyr, self-sacrificing speech, and my teeth clench with such force from frustration that I feel my jaw ache from it.

"Shut up, Soap!" I glare at him, and even I myself don't notice what's slipping out of my mouth, but it's just enough to grab the Hunter's languid attention for a moment and snap him out of his self-pity. Only the beginnings of a cheeky smile appear on his lips, but before he can share his witty comment with me, suffering takes over his features again. And I take advantage of his silence to focus all my attention on healing, and as the complicated system of blood vessels, muscles and organs appear in my brain, and then the gaping cuts running across them, I close my eyes and cling to the damaged tissues with my own energy. In my mind, I watch how the torn blood vessels slowly but surely connect again, and I see how the torn fibers of the tissues intertwine, and gradually everything takes on its original, undamaged and flawless state. As the gashes of his wounds slowly disappear under my palms, the muscles that have been tense from agony also relax, and when a relieved sigh escapes from the man's mouth, I know that this will be enough for now. He probably won't die now, and although he still will be weak from the blood loss, he's just well enough to make a break for it. Because my womanly intuition tells me that my entrance was so radical that it will soon attract the scumbags who might have been idly looking around the area until now.

"Pull yourself together, MacTavish, we've got to go!" I warn the man in a firm voice, and shuffilng next to him I reaching under his arm to help him stand up by spreading my hand on his back. Surprisingly, the Hunter obeys my request right away, and hisses as he struggles to a standing position with me, putting his weight on me until he manages to pull himself together ready to go. "We have to get to the cars!" I tell him the facts, which represent the only possibility for survival, and which our other comrades have probably already set their sights on.

MacTavish acknowledges my proposal with only a weak nod, then sets off with me towards the entry of the alley as fast as he can, and I hastily lead him over the cadavers of so many beasts lying in the dust. As we pass the monster-riding F.H.L., I take one last look at its lanky, frighteningly pale body. And so, up close, it's even more unnatural how humanlike the mutation of the virus left it. I can't think of a reasonable explanation for this phenomenon, but since now is not the time for scientific reflection, I will save the whole problem for a later date. In my small room at the base, after a warm shower, I will stretch out in my bed and create hypotheses.

But when we reach the opening of the alley, the demonic growling sounds reach my ear canals again, signaling the approach of another fucking difficulty. These damned bastards never seem to run out, which awakens the suspicion me, that by size of the nest here, something really shady is behind the whole operation. Because it's quite certain that it wan’t the magically accelerated development of the virus that caused this whole tragic circus.

But before my thoughts can go any further, we step out into the street, and with that, we come face to face with the reception committee, who, breaking out of their mourning over the remains of their dead comrades, fix their eyes on us. And when the angry bloodthirst flares up there, I already know that there is still one more obstacle to go before we can even get to the end of the whole pile of shit. I push MacTavish's body against the wall of the building lining the side street, and he just leans against the hole-filled plaster with a weak groan full of suffering. He tries to say something to me, but before he could even start his sermon, I already have the gun in my hand again, and with all my remaining concentration I try to shoot down as many of the beasts swinging towards us almost simultaneously as possible.

And when life intervenes, and after a few shots I run out of ammo, I reach for the supply on my vest with hasty movements, but when the new magazine is just in my grasp, a beast appears in front of me, and I reflexively jump back before it could cut me open with its knife-like claws. And even though I thank the reflexes of my kind, my joy doesn't last long, because during my little maneuver, my foot skillfully finds one of the many pieces of debris lying on the ground. And as the piece of stone drifts under the sole of my boot and knocks me off my balance, I fell on my ass in such a beautiful curve that under other circumstances I would surely get a funny remark from my Scottish friend. But he holds into against the brick wall, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, and doesn't pay attention to my clumsiness.

I fix my eyes on the monster attacking me, who has now been joined by a couple of its no less-dangerous friends, to end my life together. And I, keeping my eyes on them, reach for another magazine, because I cleverly dropped the previous one in the middle of my landing and released it somewhere among the other rubble. But by this time, the stress makes my movements properly uncoordinated, and although my mind is clear and continues to urge my body to act, my fingers suddenly become clumsy, even though I have already done this a thousand times with my masked trainer. It shouldn't be a problem for me to change a magazine, but as my brain takes in the mutants who are menacingly stalking towards me, waiting to pounce, then almost a short circuit occurs in every corner of my head. And the sly little voice in the back of my skull tells me that the effect of the adrenaline is diminishing, and that the energy I spent on healing the Scottish man is slowing me down at the moment.

However, after a few torturous seconds, my hand finally succeeds, just as the beast that wanted to slice me up gets tired of the slow, sinister stalking and swings towards me, springing into the air. And I aim my weapon at the monster as fast as I can, but before either of us can succeed in executing our attack, a metallic flash appears out of nowhere and hits the monster's head with such force that it splits apart with a gut-wrenching crack like an overripe melon. The dark blood of the mutant splashes on my face, but I'm unable to deal with it, because my mind is much more occupied by the very sinister figure that appears behind the beast falling to the ground.

It takes me a moment to comprehend who has come to save us, and when I finally realize that it's Riley, an indescribable shock washes over me. Because despite the fact that I voluntarily put my life on the line against his firm orders, I'm sufficiently surprised that he's still here. And as his furiously widened, red-glowing eyes survey my form sprawled among the debris, and then move on to his friend, who has fallen to the ground along the wall behind me, dirty with blood, then such a dangerous, ice-cold fury begins to flow from him that it freezes the blood in my veins. And although only the pale shine of the moon gives us some light, I can still clearly see the strained line of his broad shoulders, which makes him look quite like a predator ready to pounce. Even though for a fleeting moment it seems as if he wants to say something, he turns without a word in the direction of the mutants who are still carousing here, and then concentrates the poison that is surely raging inside him on them. And that's when I manage to observe what did he use so skillfully to free me from the bastard attacking me, and his makeshift weapon makes my eyes widen in an almost comical way. Because he lifts the traffic signpost with such ease, as if it were a twig, and with even more effortlessness and faster than that, he hits the devilish creatures leaping towards him with the piece of concrete at its end. And when I understand that this guy tore a fucking traffic sign out of the ground with his bare hands, in order to continue fighting with it, then, in addition to the surprise, something completely different reaches my nervous system, which is struggling to process the events. Because there is something quite animalistic in the way his body pulsates with power as he kills his enemies with the brutal strength and unstoppable momentum of a big cat. I feel a dull tingle in my stomach in an irrational way, and my mouth besomes dry in a fucked up manner as I stare at his strong figure rampaging and killing.

And scolding myself, I divert my attention from the massacare unfolding in front of me before I can even analyze how artistic I find the line of his broad back in the middle of the fucking bloodshed, as he beats down and degrades the I.M.L.s that come in front of him to pulp. Instead, I break out of my observation and get up on my feet again to hurry with quick steps to MacTavish, who is now lying limp at the bottom of the brick wall, immersed in the beneficial darkness of unconsciousness. My fingers carefully slip on his neck, and as I feel the slow, even pulse under the urgent searching of my energy, I calm down and turn back to our savior.

Riley takes care of all the mutants present with surprising speed, and then, when he has mutilated them all beyond recognition, he casually throws away his weapon and it lands with a loud crash on the street, which has now turned into total bloody chaos. It seems that he was able to release the accumulated tension, because when he turns his gaze to us again, he looks far more relaxed, and he strides towards us with confident steps, sizing up our little couple with his eyes. And when he stops next to me, he bends down without comment to throw his Scottish comrade on his back with a rather light movement, as if the well-built man was nothing more than a rag doll. And this is probably the case, if I only consider the way he got his previous weapon.

"Let's go. The others are waitin' for us at the edge of the combat zone." He says briefly, and even I'm surprised at how flat his deep voice sounds, despite the fervor with which he began the slaughter just minutes ago. And I'm not going to present him with an apt remark, but with a silent nod, I agree to his suggestion, because I also can't wait to finally be able to leave this fucking place. And if he hastened so enthusiastically to save us, then I won't talk back to him, thanks to whom my head is still in place. At least for a while, for sure.

The smoldering eyes of the masked man scan my face for a fleeting second, as if searching for something, but then, after a brief nod, he sets off in the direction of the road back, and starts running as fast as if he hadn't fought for half the night and wasn't weighed down by the one of his companions. And certainly, for a Hunter belonging to the SSS class, all of this doesn't pose any particular difficulties, yet for the first time, I'm amazed at the cold professionalism with which he handles this whole situation. After all, it occurs to me that this whole mission ended in a complete disaster, which no one could have predicted. The responsibility for this rests on his shoulders, despite the fact that even he can't predict the future, and even his super-sharp Hunter senses couldn't foresee the series of mishaps and sad accidents that would follow each other during the night. And the fact that we are now in the ruins of the deserted city, fleeing together towards the edge of the combat zone, is also only thanks to the immeasurable benevolence of fate.

We get back to the road we marched down at the beginning of our operation surprisingly quickly, and I'm filled with immeasurable gratitude that I can finally leave this godforsaken pile of ruins behind me, which only enriched me with a lot of new and quite pleasant experiences. Without a doubt, I overachieved the task imposed on me in a quite reckless manner, and I have no doubt that because of this, the man who continues to advance steadfastly in front of me will have an unsolicited word or two for me. But that's the least of the problems I experienced during the night, because his small punishment is dwarfed by what I saw. Because here something quite large had slipped by the wayside, which even Laswell's omniscient little information couldn't have avoided. And suddenly I remember the camera still merrily recording on my chest, and I thank my foresight and her clever procuring skills, because if Price doesn't see with his own eyes what MacTavish and I were able to experience in this goddamn place, then he won't believe it. If someone were to tell me that the I.H.L.s and the I.M.L.s united under their mutant-riding leader and surprised a team of trained Hunters and soldiers who had been through dozens of missions, then I would also offer that person a special medicine to stop imagining things. But this was different. This was reality. And nothing proves it better than the unconscious Scottish guy traveling on the back of the masked Hunter, who suffered this story firsthand. And the dull throbbing in my limbs, left behind by the long-gone adrenaline, is a very nice reminder that I, too, was lucky enough to admire this horror on several occasions. And although, for now, my brain can't dwell on this, I'm sure that I will have a thousand assumptions while watching the nice little recordings. Because we need to find an explanation for this.

When we finally arrive at the edge of the combat zone, and the waiting vans appear in front of me, my heart beating in my chest finally slows down a bit. The members of the Watcher team anxiously survey our arriving small group, and I look at the handful of survivors who remained from the original fifteen-person team that sneaked into the city with a similar gloom. And these four unfortunates have also seen better days, and even though all their limbs are intact at least, I know that as soon as we return to the base, I need to treat them immediately, because they have plenty of injuries to take care of. And this is another cruel stab in the festering wound caused by the events.

"Start the countdown when we leave. We don't leave it up to chance." Riley gives his first instructions to one of the soldiers left behind, who with a quick nod pulls out his remote control and then jumps into one of the vehicles with his companions. And I follow the masked man, who opens the back door of the other car with fast movements, and then, entering, lays his friend on the ground as carefully as if he were made of glass.

None of us waste any more time waiting, because the next step is to escape from here. We also get into the van, and after I find my seat, I lean forward and slide my hand on my patient's neck again, checking his vitals in a quick second, which flickers reassuringly steadily under the curious touch of my energy. Fortunately, I arrived in time to save him, and thanks to Laswell's pampering, I came here full enough to be able to save the man's life. But if I got there even a minute later, or Riley didn't come after us to help my stupid self stuck in the corner, things would be different now. And now, for the first time, I don't find it difficult to admit that even though I don't regret for a minute that I defied him, my dark little heart beats gratefully that nevertheless he rushed to our aid. Even if his efforts were more for his partner than for me.

And instead of brooding, I decide that it's time to regenerate the man with the mohawk a little, because by the time we get back, he should be alert enough to stand in as a witness to tell the story of what happened tonight. I gently place my palm on his neck and direct my force in even waves toward the unconscious MacTavish to breathe life into his exhausted body again. And when Riley throws himself down in front of me after the van takes off with full throttle, my troubled gaze meets his now familiar chocolate-colored eyes. And with an almost habitual sense, I decipher the thoughts swirling in them, which now pose even less of a challenge. Because in his stare, there is exactly the same grim restlessness that has settled in my head.

For a moment, an orange light paints his face as the bombs left behind explode in the distance, and none of us need to say a word to know that tonight is just the beginning of something terribly messed up.

22 notes · View notes