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gaysindistress · 4 months

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Limits of a Fae Heart - one

All ive been reading is ACOTAR fics for the last 9 days so here’s a lil something for our shadow baby boy Az. two | three | four | five | six

“We’ll take it from here,” a rich smoky voice calls from behind me. The two sentinels shuffles around, nervous with this new arrival and both reach for the swords strapped to their hips. I look over my shoulder to see a shadowy figure emerging from the treeline. From this distance, all I can tell is that it’s a towering form blurred by a vaporous mist that blends in with the darkness around us. A shiver pricks up my spine at the sight of the mist as memories of the King of Hybern’s men chasing me come flooding back. They never spoke to me, only jeering and laughing, so I know that this figure isn’t one of them but the fear still finds a home in my stomach.

My hand itches to reach for the black blade I used to wear but there’s nothing. I have no weapons and am only clothed in a thin white nightgown, making me feel vulnerable in a way that I detest. All I have is my body language and my words so I straighten my back and square my shoulders before turning to face the figure.

“Stop where you are. You are not welcome here,” the taller sentinel shouts to the shadowy figure and it stills a few feet from me.

I can’t see much without the sun but the lightning illuminates enough for me. The first thing I see is the small smirk that plays on parted pink lips, revealing straight white teeth.

“I am welcome anywhere that I please,” that stupidly smooth voice response and my eyes tear away from the lips to meet a pair of stunning hazel eyes that I will never forget. From beneath long lashes, the most soul piercing eyes make me their sole focus. In them green outer rings fade into golden brown pools that reminds me of the trees back home. Something about them warms the freeze that’s set into my body while also setting off every alarm bell inside of my head.

“Leave before we escort you back to your court of nightmares,” the sentinel shouts again but neither the figure nor I acknowledge her.

The figure takes another step towards me so I can see more of him as the sky streaks with more flashes of lightening. My eyes fall to the ground from the bright light and they land on his feet. Black leather boots cling to his legs while leathery scales act as a second skin and protect every inch of his body. He’s wearing Illyrian fighting leathers.

The recognition of my people’s armor stings worse than it did when I was cut down.

His skin is a golden tan, only furthering my suspicion that he’s Illyrian but the massive wings that sprout from his back are the true indicator. I pry my eyes from them and continue to take in every detail as I reach his face. Short dark hair falls over his forehead and curls over his ears as the sharpness of his face becomes too perfect. He is tall and sculpted, honed muscles seem to make up his entire body. Everything about him is too perfect, too sculptured, too attractive. The hair on the back of my neck stands on high alert and I find myself backing away from him without realizing.

The sentinel voice breaks my trance, “Shadowsinger, leave at once.”

His smirk turns into a devastatingly beautiful smile at the mention of his name as his eyes shift over to the men but they find me again within seconds.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Y/N,” he says to me and me alone. Once again a hand is offered to me but this time I want to take it and I almost would have if someone hadn’t seized me from behind. I let out a shout, albeit cracked from being silent so long and struggle against the strong arms that encircle me.

“Quiet, we’re helping you,” a low male voice whispers into my ear.

“Don’t move,” he mutters to me and pulls me further away as the sentinels frantically look between the two Illyrian males and me.

“Hold onto me,” he instructs as he flares his wings out and spins me so we’re chest to chest. This male has the same hazel eyes and tan skin as the other but there’s a roughness to him. He winks at me, no doubt teasing me for staring and then he shoots up into the sky. He takes us high above the island that I must have been buried on and only stops to hover when we are a safe distance away. Below us, the sentinels and the other male are but specks of light and dark.

A flash of lightening strikes close to us and the male holding me curses under his breath. He mutters an apology to me before we’re encased in a cloud of black mist and my knees meet cold stone floors. I tumble out of his arms, gasping for air and gagging all at once. His muffled chuckle makes me more angry than I am sick and I clamor to my feet. Searching for something to use as a weapon, I find a vase on a nearby table and hurdle it at him. He ducks and the other male appears behind him, subsequently being hit with the vase. He’s able to cover his face and it shatters on his forearms, sending shards of clay everywhere.

A third male voice calls out, “I specifically remember telling you to not piss her off, Cassian.”

A shudder races across my body at the sound of his voice. The High Lord of the Night Court comes to stand beside the rough male, Cassian while the other, the one the sentinels called the Shadowsinger brushes off hits of clay.

“I didn’t do anything,” Cassian says with his hands held up in defense and shakes his head. “We willowed here and she probably got sick, hence throwing the vase.”

The High Lord arches a dark brow and turns to the other male, “what about you, Azriel?”

Azriel.

The Shadowsinger. He is name is Azriel.

Now I can see that the black vapor around him are really shadows, twisting and moving around his body. They reach towards me as a hum begins to vibrate in deep inside the void of my chest. Long ago a similar hum lived there but the male it was tied to had done terrible things and destroyed it. The golden warmth that once filled me was stolen when he betrayed me and left me to bleed out on that island.

I narrow my eyes at the shadows and Azriel sucks in a sharp breath, causing them to flinch away. Rhysand glances between us, obviously sensing the internal conflict happening between us and opens his mouth to speak.

“You should’ve left me alone,” I hiss before he can say anything.

Azriel stiffens and Cassian steps closer to him. Rhysand clears his throat and speaks, “we need your help.”

“Whatever trivial matter you’ve gotten yourself tangled in isn’t any of my concern. You should’ve left me alone on that island.”

“You were stuck between…” Rhysand tries again but I interpret him.

“I may have been stuck between this life and the next but at least I wouldn’t have been mates with yet another male who just wants to use me.”

Azriel blinks slowly at me and his jaw tightens at my words. Cassian and Rhysand both draw in sharp breaths. They shoot confused glances to each other before Cassian grabs ahold of Azriel and attempts to drag him away.

Rhysand steps towards me, placing himself between me and his brothers. His voice is quiet and softer than I expected as he asks, “You have a second mate?”

I don’t answer but my fleeting glance to the silent male behind him is enough.

“Impossible,” he mumbles under his breath with a shake of his head. His piercing violet eyes find mine, searching my hallow ones. “That’s impossible.”

#azriel x reader #a court of thorns and roses #azriel acotar #azriel imagine #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #shadowsinger x reader #azriel spymaster #spymaster #limits of a fae heart az x reader

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sas-soulwriter · 7 months

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Fantasy place (which you can use for your story)

Some fantasy places you can use for your next story .

Luminoth Hollow: A subterranean cavern filled with glowing crystals that emit soothing light. Luminoth Hollow is home to a race of peaceful, bioluminescent creatures who communicate through light patterns.

Zephyria: A floating archipelago of lush, skyborne islands, tethered together by colossal, living vines. Each island has its unique ecosystem and is inhabited by winged creatures who navigate the skies between them.

Aurora Glade: A tranquil meadow hidden within a giant, sentient tree. The glade is bathed in eternal twilight and inhabited by gentle, dreamweaving creatures who protect the dreams of those who visit.

The Obsidian Spire: A towering, black monolith that pierces the heavens. It's said that at its peak lies a portal to another realm, guarded by enigmatic sentinels who test the worth of those who seek passage.

Eldertide Marsh: A mystical swamp where ancient, sentient trees rise from the waters, and luminous fireflies lead travelers along phosphorescent pathways. It's rumored that the marsh holds the key to unlocking forgotten knowledge.

Clockwork Citadel: A colossal, mechanical fortress powered by intricate gears and steam. Clockwork automatons serve as both guardians and caretakers, and the citadel houses a library containing the accumulated wisdom of the ages.

Whispering Sands: A desert where the dunes are constantly shifting, and the winds carry the whispers of long-forgotten spirits. At its heart stands an oasis of liquid crystal that reveals glimpses of the past and future.

The Eternal Library: A massive, floating island covered in towering bookshelves. Each book contains the life story of an individual, and the library is said to grant the power to rewrite destinies.

Gloomwood Thicket: A dense, enchanted forest perpetually cloaked in twilight. Within its shadows reside shadowy creatures that can manipulate time, making it a place of both wonder and danger.

Abyssal Abyss: An underwater realm where bioluminescent flora and fauna thrive. Merfolk and other aquatic beings have built stunning, glowing cities within deep-sea caves.

Sylvan Skylines: An archipelago of floating islands inhabited by tree-dwelling, bird-like beings who harness the power of wind and weather. They craft intricate bridges and pathways connecting their aerial homes.

Whispering Peaks: Towering, mist-shrouded mountains said to hold the knowledge of the cosmos. Monasteries and meditation chambers dot the landscape, where monks seek enlightenment through quiet contemplation.

The Emberforge: An underground forge where skilled blacksmiths craft legendary weapons and armor imbued with the essence of fallen stars. The air is filled with the sound of hammers on metal and the crackling of celestial flames.

The Crystal Canyons: A network of canyons adorned with enormous, glowing crystals that resonate with hauntingly beautiful melodies when touched. Nomadic crystal herders roam the canyons, taming the living crystals.

The Dreamer's Archipelago: A series of islands, each representing different dreams and nightmares. Travelers can enter these dreamscapes and interact with the inhabitants, who are manifestations of dreams themselves.

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callofdudes · 1 year

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People always talk about how Alejandro went back into the burning building for Rodolfo, but are we going to talk about how Rodolfo was ready to straight throw hands with Graves' on his own.

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Alejandro is just sitting tied up in a cell with Graves.

"got any info for us? Or will you continue to play it the hard way Vaquero?" Graves' clicked his tongue and leaned off the metal desk inside the dark room. He uncrossed his arms to kneel in front of Alejandro, his smirk burning a fire deep into Alejandro's gut.

"Vete a la mierda." Fuck you. He hissed. His glare pierced through his eyebrows, frown deepening into an unholy sneer.

Graves sighed, of course he wouldn't go easy. Who was he kidding thinking he could get info from this idiot? He grabbed Alejandro by his hair and brought his face down against his knee with a harsh crack. The sound, finally, a pained hiss came from Alejandro. Blood dripped down his nose, pain coursing through his face.

"Anything at all?" Graves tried again.

"Vete a la mierda." Alejandro repeated, shakier than before.

"No one is coming to get you Alejandro! Might as well give up before I kill you. This is all a big waste of time in the grand scheme isn't it? Come on, I don't want to waste time hurting you." Graves took Alejandro's jaw in his hand and turned him up to meet his gaze.

"You're all alone. Just tell me."

Alejandro remained quiet. His lip quirked up and his eyes seemed to ignite with that same fire Graves had attempted to stomp out of him.

"I'm not alone pendejo. Rodolfo knows. And he will not let you get away with this."

Graves scoffed. "What's Rodolfo going to do? Call me up and beg with that timid little voice? Honestly Alejandro you should keep the good ones. So long as you recruit people who intend to use you as a meat shield you will continue to fail."

Alejandro growled. "You know nothing."

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

"¡Cabrón! ¡Te hará pagar por hacernos esto a todos!" Fucker! He'll make you pay for doing this to all of us!

Graves only laughed again. He shook his head as he left the cell and locked Alejandro back into silence. The seething man struggled in his bindings. He twisted and coiled his wrists until his muscles were burning. Rodolfo would come. He knew Rodolfo better than anyone, he would be here.

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"Get the rest of the men some food. Maybe they will be more inclined to release information." Graves instructed two guards outside the compound.

"yes sir." They grabbed their weapons and left from their position. As soon as they turned the corner a red sight dot focused on one of them. "What-"

His partner snapped to look as soon as blood splattered from between the first man's eyes. His body fell to the ground with a thud, his face exploded from the impact of the bullet. "Hey-" The dot focused on the second man and no sooner did he feel a flash of pain before his brain exploded and he landed in the dirt.

Rodolfo jumped down from the base watch tower. With three of the sentinels already taken out, getting to Alejandro would be easy. He slipped along the shadowy night over to the two bodies. He huffed and kicked them into the corner where they would be less noticable.

His gun flew back into his hands as he turned the corner. All clear. He knew exactly where Alejandro's cell was. As soon as he got him out they could free the rest of the Vaqueros.

He walked slow and steady down thick metal wall to the inside of the compound. Fifty yards away was the large electric fence of the outskirts building. Two large trucks were parked by the entrance. Three men walked the entrance, talking to themselves as smoke drifted into the air. Two had cigars lit from the first two mens mouths while the third sat by the door cleaning a blade.

"Heard of that Ghost guy? Ya think he's comin' round here?"

The closest to the car scoffed. "Yeah, because he's gonna waste his time with the puny Vaqueros. As far as I see it they'll send the tiny one. Soap bar?"

They burst into laughter, giving Rodolfo the chance the scoot up against the first car. He aimed his gun around the rim and flipped on the red dot. The one puffing his cigar choked when he saw it aimed at his buddy. "Hey-" He was to slow to grab his gun when the shot was made and the operator fell to the ground.

The one cleaning his knife looked up just as the second man fell. His cigar rolled from his fingers and stopped at the man's boot. "Hey!" He twisted his blade and got to his feet. Rodolfo rounded the truck and met the man. The operative swung his blade as Rodolfo ducked. He slammed his fist into the man's gut and grabbed the straps on his hips.

Rodolfo pulled them both to the ground and grabbed the knife from the Shadow's hand. It fell to the ground and rolled by the truck tire.

"little rat!" The Shadow hissed. He flipped Rodolfo on his front and got him in a headlock. Rodolfo grabbed the man's elbows. He struggled underneath the bigger man who held him down into the dirt. "Who are you here for, eh?" Rodolfo choked. He grabbed the shadow's sleeve and pulled it up to reveal his bare skin. Rodolfo sunk his teeth into the man's arm and pulled the flesh. The Shadow cried in surprise and let go enough for Rodolfo to kick him off. He reached for the knife and plunged it into the man's shoulder. Blood splattered across Rodolfo's gear. He pulled the bloody blade from the Shadow's muscle and slashed it across his throat and dug it into his jugular.

He stood and grabbed the shadow's limp body by the jacket and threw him under the truck.

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Alejandro spat thick blood at his feet. He looked up at the shadow in front of him without a word. The shadow stared back with his bloody fist raised, knuckles rough.

"This is too much fun." He chuckled and swung again.

"We'll see..." Alejandro hissed.

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Rodolfo slammed a shadow sentinel against the wall and put a bullet in his brain. He dropped the soldier and grabbed his ammo charges. He reloaded his gun and turned down the busy hallway. Shadows marched as he turned. He unloaded the silenced clip across the hallway and watched bodies drop. A loud alarm went off but he was barely bothered as round after round went into the Shadows bodies. The sounds of yelling from down the hall could be heard as more soldiers were caught in the gunfire.

The shadow locked in with Alejandro turned. He looked up and pressed his hand to his radio. "Thompson? What's going on out there?"

A voice went to respond before being cut off in an angered cry. "Thompson!?" The soldier turned back to Alejandro who smirked.

"They're here." Alejandro said.

"Shut your mouth!" The soldier hissed. He turned and grabbed his gun. He swung open the door. A figure launched at him and threw him back into the room. He cried when a boot stomped into his stomach and a clip was emptied on his face. Blood splattered across the walls. Rodolfo slammed the door shut and turned to see Alejandro.

"Rudy!"

Rodolfo smiled. He dropped his weapon and ran to Alejandro. "Are you alright?" Rodolfo cupped his cheek and examined his bloodied face and split lip. "Bastards. I'll kill them all."

"I think you already did. Where are the others?"

Rodolfo moved around Alejandro and cut through the ropes around his wrists. Alejandro sighed and rolled his wrists, slowly moving his arms again. He stood on wobbly legs and took Rodolfo into his arms. "I missed you." Rodolfo smiled and hugged Alejandro tightly. "I missed you too." Alejandro kissed his husband's forehead and wiped the blood from his cheek. "Where are the others?"

Rodolfo paused. "Well... About that..."

Alejandro looked into Rudy's eyes. "You came alone?"

"I- yes. I couldn't leave you with them. And Ghost and Soap weren't exactly at my disposal."

Alejandro gasped softly. "Oh Rodolfo." He hugged him tightly and rubbed his back. "Foolish my love."

"I couldn't leave you."

Alejandro felt tears in his eyes. He missed Rodolfo and held him on his arms. "You surprise me all the time, you know?"

"Come on, I know a way out." Rodolfo handed him one of the Shadow's guns, making Alejandro smirk. "That's my Vaquero." He kissed Rodolfo's neck and pushed the door open and they both moved into the chaos.

They had some explaining to do when they both got back.

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This idea is in my head. I want to make a fic or art of this scenario. I think it's cute.

#writing #alejandro vargas #alejandro x rodolfo #alejandro x rudy #rodolfo parra #alerudy #call of duty headcanons #headcanon #Rudy was ready to pop off yknow?

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bookished · 7 months

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MOONLIT NIGHTS: THE CABIN CHRONICLES

ㅤㅤㅤNEXT PART

MASTERLIST | INBOX | TIP ME

-> Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x f!reader witch

-> Summary: Geralt of Rivia faces the impossible: he is defeated by a monster and, in the middle of trying to escape after being severally wounded, finds a cabin, where a witch who knows what he needs, cures him.

-> Rating: +18

-> Word count: 2.2k

-> Warnings: smut, kinks including breeding, rough sex, neck biting until blood comes out, degradation, domination, a little bit of praise kink, dirty talking

-> Notes: i've been rewatching the witcher and reading lots of fanfics, i got so in the mood of writing a piece and i hope you enjoy it! <3

Geralt of Rivia rode through the dense, ancient Caed Dhu forest, his silver hair glistening in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He had been on the path for days, following rumors of a dangerous creature that plagued the nearby village.

As he ventured deeper into the woods, he couldn't shake the feeling that this particular hunt would be different.

In the heart of the treacherous Caed Dhu, Geralt of Rivia, the renowned Witcher, found himself in a dire predicament. A contract had led him deep into the ancient woods, where he faced a foe more formidable than any he had encountered before. The beast, a grotesque hybrid of wolf and wyrm, had proven to be a match for Geralt's skill and swordsmanship.

As the moon hung low in the night sky, Geralt's silver sword clanged against the creature's impenetrable scales. The battle had raged for hours, and his strength waned with every strike. Blood oozed from numerous wounds, staining his armor and leather boots. His trademark white hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead, and his golden eyes burned with determination.

But in a moment of miscalculation, the beast lunged forward, its jaws snapping shut around Geralt's forearm. Pain seared through his body as his bones cracked, and he let out a roar of agony. With a swift, desperate maneuver, he wrenched his arm free, leaving shreds of flesh in the creature's maw.

Battered and bloodied, Geralt knew he was outmatched. With a heavy heart and aching limbs, he made a fateful decision. He turned and sprinted through the darkened forest, leaving behind the monster he could not defeat. His every step sent waves of agony through his injured arm, but he pushed himself to the limit.

As he escaped, he couldn't help but reflect on his countless battles, his victories, and his unshakable resolve. Yet, this time, survival took precedence over valor. The Caed Dhu closed in around him, a labyrinth of twisted trees and shadowy threats. Geralt, the fearless Witcher, ran for his life, vowing to return to face the beast another day, once he had healed and prepared for the inevitable rematch.

Deep within the heart of the dense and mysterious Caed Dhu, Geralt of Rivia stumbled upon an unexpected sanctuary. The cabin's solitude was a haven for a Witcher in need, a sanctuary where he could mend his battered body and prepare for the inevitable return to the treacherous wilderness.

The cabin stood as a solitary sentinel in the depths of the forest, its timeworn facade hidden beneath a canopy of thick foliage. With aching limbs and a resolve unyielding as steel, Geralt pushed open the creaking door and stepped into the dimly lit interior.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs and alchemical concoctions. The flickering candlelight revealed a modest yet well-equipped witch's lair. Shelves lined with vials of potions and bundles of dried herbs stretched to the ceiling. A cauldron simmered with a mysterious brew, its aroma tinged with both magic and healing properties.

He needed rest and healing. Inside the cabin, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room. The scent of herbs and potions filled the air, a telltale sign of a fellow witch's presence. He knew he wasn't alone.

From the shadows, your hooded figure emerged, revealing the gentle features of a young witch. You had been tracking his progress and had prepared the cabin for his arrival.

He got a closer look of you, which allowed him to see the medallion of the Viper, which matched your dark green eyes, that were glistening under the candle's light. You were, definitely, one of the few Witches left after the Trials that erased most of them from the surface of Earth.

Without a word, you approached Geralt and began to help him remove his clothes, your touch gentle yet firm. As the clothing fell away, his battle-worn body was exposed, covered in cuts and bruises. He hissed in pain as you examined his wounds.

"I'll take care of you, Geralt," you murmured softly, your voice soothing. You mixed herbs and applied salves, tending to each injury with practiced care. Your fingers moved with a grace born of years of training.

Geralt watched you work, silently grateful for your presence. The pain began to ebb away as your healing magic flowed through him, knitting his flesh together.

Once the wounds were tended to, you stepped back, your eyes meeting his yellowish ones with a warmth that belied the harsh world they inhabited.

"Rest now," you said, guiding him to a nearby bed. "You've earned it."

As he lay down, his body slowly relaxing, Geralt couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the kindred spirit who had tended to his wounds. In a world filled with darkness and danger, he had found a glimmer of light and solace in your healing touch.

Also, your touch brought up a slow burning fire within him, making him feeling the need in his body to bring you closer, to lick you, to taste you. He needed to show gratefulness by giving pleasure to you after healing him with such care and knowledge... as if you knew exactly how his body reacted to each one of the remedies you were using. That made the White Wolf groan in approval.

He couldn't help but grab your wrist before you stepped back, not applying so much pressure to hurt you, but enough strength to keep you where you stood. Your breath hitched in the back of your throat, making you stare back at his intense stare.

He started slowly and gently rubbing your inner wrist, where your pulse was accelerated, with his thumb calming it, you, without words, and no further movements needed.

"You're safe, Geralt. You made it home. Let me go, and you rest." You whispered, not wanting to break the calm and enchanted ambience. You don't know how you managed to sound firm, calm, steady and confident, but your tone left no doubts.

He kept staring at you, his jaw tense while the candles in the cabin lightened his skin, and you couldn't help but break eye contact and admire his body. His injured body. But, also, his fit figure.

Suddenly, Geralt pulled you into him without effort, and a groan escaped from him, low and deep. Something that made your body really happy, but you knew you couldn't risk hurting him more than he already was. You needed him fully recovered.

"If you want to keep that hand and arm, I'd suggest you let go." You had no choice but to warn him.

"I can smell you, Witch." He simply replied, his voice low and raspy, while not letting you go. You swallowed the lump in your throat, as you smelled his arousal, too. There was no possible denial in what was going around between you two, in that cabin, as the darkness of the night and the moonlit mixed with the candles surrounding you both.

With his other hand, he grabbed the Viper medallion hanging from your neck, pulling your face closer to his while keeping his firm stare at you. You could even notice the smallest of the dilation of his pupils in that position.

"After taking care of me, let me take care of your needs, witch." Geralt whispered. You knew fighting him was useless, and you couldn't deny the way your body was craving him, either. He tilted his body, not giving a flying fuck about his fresh wounds.

You stared down at his lips, and back to his eyes. He grinned a little before grabbing your medallion and pulling you close until both of your lips were a wet mess against each other, not even letting the air pass between you two.

You moaned against his lips, your groans and whines making him feel rougher and animalistic each passing second. His hands were everywhere on your body, not allowing even one millimeter of skin escape from his touch.

No previous warning, he ripped your dress from behind and continued tearing off your undergarments. You were speechless as you could only feel him. You tried touching him, but he didn’t allow that. He had you naked in front of him in a matter of seconds.

Furthermore, you looked into his eyes, waiting for his next move. "Geralt-" You were anxious for more of what he had to offer.

"You're exquisite, aren't you, witch?" He was appreciative of your exposed body in front of him, meanwhile using your condition as a pet name, which didn't annoy you at all.

He took your silence as an invitation to switch positions, grabbing you by a fistful by your long hair, having you bent over the same surface he was laying on not long ago.

Geralt directed his right hand to your pussy, moving his fingers between your folds while humming appreciatively at your wetness. The sounds filling the room, and the sights you had thanks to the little mirror that wasn't too far away on the wall in front of you, were too much to handle. It didn't take long for your thighs to begin to shake, and the White Wolf knew it too.

His hand, which was teasing you, was now wrapped around your small neck, pushing you down, taking out his digits, spreading you apart with his large girth, and slamming into your cunt.

As you wrapped your small hand around his, he tightened his hold on your neck, taking your gesture as an invitation to be rougher.

He tilted his body on top of your back, replacing the hold of his hand on your neck with his teeth burying in the delicate spot of your skin, as he kept slamming into your wetness, and you could feel his medallion swinging over you as his movement fastened, and his cock was buried deep, still pounding, into you.

"Ah, fuck, Geralt." You mumbled, not being able to keep your eyes out of the reflection in the mirror. The candles lightning his sweated skin, you underneath him as he dominated you on that unstable surface and his aura surrounding your senses.

Your hips began to move on his, as you needed that sweet relief. Geralt's bite on your neck became harder and you could feel and smell a bit of blood running down your skin, which heated up both of you even more, if possible.

His groans were louder against you, the slamming of his cock inside of you more frenetic and he dug his nails into the sides of your hips to keep you steady. He let go of your neck to press his mouth on your shoulder. "You're so fucking tight and behaving like a good girl," he moaned. "Keep milking me, witch, so I can breed you and fill you up with my cum until it oozes out."

The way he was talking to you, saying those things, had you closer to the edge. You needed to feel his cock pulsate inside of you, stretching you out and getting you full of him. Your moans were unstoppable as nonsense dripped out of your mouth.

"I wanna see those pretty thighs of yours covered with my cum." Geralt wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you in place as he circled your nipple with his thumb and index, pinching it.

“Yes, Geralt, yes." Your mind was blank, dazzled with lust and desire, almost making you forget your own name.

Your thighs began to shake, and he felt them, “Yes, witch, come all over my cock.” His encouraging, husky voice praised you. You called out the White Wolf's name, your orgasm hitting hard and uncontrollably, your head dizzy as you saw stars and lights in your vision.

You felt Geralt exploding inside of you, with a few more snaps of his hips against your ass you felt his girth tighten up, and a few more spurts of his cum filling you up as you rode off your orgasm.

"Fuck, you milked me so good, you emptied me, didn't you?" He moaned and grunted again as he felt your pussy tightening lightly on him. "What kind of witchcraft did you use on me, huh?"

He let go of your breast, not moving his position so you were still under his dominant figure while his cock rested inside of you, feeling your thighs sticky of his cum and other mix of fluids.

"Well, you loved the way I was curing you earlier and the attention I gave you, didn't you, Witcher?"

"I'm not one to turn down a healing session when I'm offered one." Geralt whispered in your ear, still not getting off you. "But what's the catch?"

You smiled, feeling chills down your spine. "The catch is, I get to pamper every inch of you and make sure you're completely healed."

"I think I can handle that kind of catch."

Did you enjoy it? Please, consider leaving a comment, reblogging, sending feedback in any way or buying me a coffee. If you would like to request something, go and message me. Also, if you'd like, you can check my masterlist or send me any prompts. Happy reading!

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #uservolkova #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia smut #kinktober #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x f!reader

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darknesseddiem · 2 months

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𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐳: 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝟔𝟔

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the shadowy annals of crime, a figure emerges, casting a chilling pall over the world. Eddie Munson, infamous for his macabre deeds as a serial killer, now stirs fear with an unprecedented proposal. Like a sinister weaver, Eddie prepares to embroider a fabric saturated with long-held vengeance. Whispers of his scheme cloak his intentions in darkness, leaving observers to ponder the depths of his depravity.

Each stitch in his plan weaves a sinister narrative, drawing the curious into the abyss of his psyche. As intrigue mounts, the world braces for Eddie Munson's cryptic request, poised to unravel reality itself, ushering forth chaos and terror.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18 MDNI, gore, mentions of blood; violence, descriptions of torture and death, Eddie is a serial killer, cannibalism, cruelty, mistery, Eddie is on the death row, mentions Chrissy's mother and allusion to her death.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Please be advised that this series of stories delves into darker and more disturbing themes than my previous works. The content will include highly sensitive and grotesque subject matter. If you find yourself uncomfortable with such material, it's perfectly understandable. Your well-being is paramount, and your decision to refrain from reading is respected.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,4K

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

Fell free to support my works with some 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢!

In the somber depths of the penitentiary's labyrinthine corridors, where the very air seemed to congeal with foreboding, the flickering glow of pale moonlight dared not venture. Within these subterranean confines, an imposing edifice of concrete and steel stood sentinel, its walls steeped in the crimson stains of untold atrocities perpetrated by the merciless hands of those who had transgressed against the sanctity of innocent lives. This fortress, a bastion of unforgiving incarceration, cast its shadow over all who dared to tread its bleak corridors, an inescapable abyss of despair and anguish.

Descending further still, into the bowels of this infernal domain, lay the deepest recesses of confinement - a purgatory reserved for the most depraved and desolate souls. Here, shrouded in perpetual darkness and devoid of even the faintest glimmer of sunlight or human contact, languished men and women so irredeemably profane that they had become naught but spectral echoes of their former selves. Condemned to an eternity of solitude and torment, they withered away in the suffocating embrace of isolation, their existence a cruel mockery of the vibrant world they once knew.

Amidst this realm of despair and desolation, a singular figure loomed in the shadows - the enigmatic inmate of Cell 66, a nameless specter whose very presence invoked dread and apprehension. Eddie Munson, a man cloaked in the chilling aura of mystery, stood as an epitome of cold-blooded savagery, his nefarious deeds shrouded in the veils of silence and secrecy. For a decade, he had steadfastly refused to divulge the twisted tapestry of his dark past, his lips sealed with an iron resolve that defied the relentless interrogation of law enforcement.

Eddie Munson, age of 28, stood accused of crimes so heinous and grotesque that they defied comprehension - murder, slaughter, torture, and the ultimate depravity of cannibalism. The latter having as victim his father, William Munson, the man had his heart ripped out of his body while he was still breathing, and eaten by his own son.

His victims, numbering unknown, bore the indelible mark of his sadistic cruelty, their anguished cries silenced forever in the abyss of oblivion. Yet, despite the relentless onslaught of interrogation and torture, Eddie remained an impenetrable enigma, his psyche a labyrinthine maze of madness and malevolence that confounded even the most seasoned investigators.

In a desperate bid to extract the truth from him, they exhausted every tool in the arsenal of human torment. Shock therapy surged through his veins like bolts of lightning, while hypnosis sought to unravel the tangled web of his mind. Sleep deprivation gnawed at his sanity, each minute stretching into an eternity of agony. Temperature manipulation plunged him into the icy depths of despair, while purposeful drowning submerged him in a watery abyss of terror.

Yet, despite their relentless efforts, the truth remained elusive, shrouded in the darkness of his twisted psyche. As the investigators and police faced the grim reality of their failure, they reluctantly conceded defeat. With heavy hearts and haunted souls, they consigned him to the unforgiving confines of death row, where the specter of execution loomed ominously over him like a shadowy executioner awaiting his final reckoning.

Perched upon a cold, unforgiving chair, Eddie Munson found himself shackled before a cadre of stern-faced law enforcement officials. The putrid hue of his garb, a garish orange jumpsuit, seemed to mock the gravity of the situation, its color reminiscent of flames licking at the edges of his very existence.

As he awaited his fate, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air, a palpable presence that suffocated the room with an oppressive sense of dread. The gaze of the officers bore into him with a mix of contempt and morbid fascination, as if they were peering into the depths of a bottomless abyss, searching for a glimmer of humanity amidst the darkness.

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the chamber as the handcuffs tightened around his wrists, a stark reminder of his loss of freedom and impending doom. And yet, despite the grim tableau unfolding before him, Munson remained eerily composed, his eyes betraying no hint of remorse or regret, but instead, harboring a chilling calmness that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"I, Judge William Bennet Carver," the judge's voice reverberated through the solemn courtroom, each syllable weighted with the gravity of the impending verdict, "sentence Edward James Munson for the heinous crimes of murder, slaughter, cannibalism, torture, concealment of a corpse, violence, and femicide, to face the ultimate justice: the electric chair."

The resounding thud of the judge's gavel against the polished wood punctuated his decree, sending a chilling ripple through the hushed chamber. Yet, amid the somber atmosphere, a twisted smirk danced upon Eddie's pallid visage, his lips curling into a sinister grin that betrayed a morbid amusement at his own demise.

The dim light of the courtroom cast eerie shadows across his features, accentuating the gleam in his eyes that flickered with an unsettling blend of defiance and derangement. To Eddie, the solemn pronouncement of his fate seemed to serve only as fuel for the perverse amusement that bubbled within him, a dark amusement born of a mind steeped in darkness and depravity.

As the weight of his sentence settled upon him like a suffocating shroud, Eddie's gaze remained locked upon the judge, his expression an unsettling mixture of defiance and amusement. For in the face of impending doom, he found only a perverse delight in the twisted game of fate that had brought him to this chilling juncture.

Before the attendees could muster the resolve to depart the trial chamber, a chilling silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Yet, amidst the palpable tension, a voice shattered the eerie stillness, cutting through the air with an unsettling cadence that sent shivers down the spines of those present.

It was Eddie, his voice devoid of the usual satisfaction that accompanied his macabre deeds, each word dripping with a cold detachment that belied the horrors lurking within his psyche. As if emerging from the depths of a nightmare, his utterance hung heavy in the air, a spectral presence that seemed to linger long after the sound had faded.

The unexpectedness of his speech sent shockwaves through the gathered throng, their eyes widening in disbelief at the audacity of this monstrous figure to break the oppressive silence that had enveloped the chamber. And yet, despite the chill that coursed through their veins, there was an undeniable allure to Eddie's words, a morbid curiosity that compelled them to hang upon his every syllable, like moths drawn to the flame of his dark presence.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a harbinger of terror, his voice a haunting echo of the abyss from which he had emerged, leaving all who bore witness to wonder what other horrors lay concealed within the depths of his twisted mind.

"Before you lend me to my inevitable fate," Eddie's voice sliced through the heavy air, his tone carrying an unsettling calmness that seemed incongruent with his looming demise, "there is a final thing I must ask."

The twisted curvature of his lips formed a grotesque grin, a stark contrast against the grim backdrop of the courtroom. His smile, more akin to a rictus of madness, sent shivers coursing down the spines of those assembled, each icy caress leaving behind a trail of apprehension and dread.

The macabre spectacle of Eddie's grin seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, casting a pall of unease over the room as if the darkness within him threatened to consume all who dared to behold it. And yet, despite the visceral discomfort it elicited, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, drawing the gaze of onlookers like moths to the flame of his twisted charisma.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a specter of malevolence, his smile a haunting reminder of the horrors that lurked within the depths of his depraved soul. And as the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, the gathered throng braced themselves for the chilling revelation that awaited, knowing all too well that whatever he had to say would only serve to deepen the darkness that enveloped them all.

“Nothing you say will save you, Mr. Munson.” Judge Carver said seriously.

"Indeed, Judge Carver," Eddie's voice echoed through the chamber, carrying an eerie calmness that seemed to mock the severity of his situation. His gaze, like obsidian pools devoid of remorse, bore into the judge with an unsettling intensity, as if daring him to peer into the abyss of his twisted psyche.

A grim chuckle escaped Eddie's lips, its echo reverberating off the walls like a sinister melody. "Save me?" he mused, the words dripping with a venomous disdain that sent a shiver down the spine of all who heard. "Oh, dear judge, salvation is but a distant memory in the shadowed recesses of my existence."

The air seemed to thicken with tension as the weight of Eddie's words hung heavy in the room, casting a pall of unease over the gathered throng. And yet, despite the palpable discomfort that permeated the chamber, there was an undeniable allure to his defiance, a morbid fascination with the darkness that lurked within him.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a testament to the depths of human depravity, his words a chilling reminder of the horrors that lay concealed within the darkest corners of the human soul. And as the judge's stern gaze bore down upon him, Eddie met it with a steely resolve, knowing full well that no words could save him from the abyss into which he had willingly descended.

"I want my story to be told to the world," Eddie's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere of the courtroom, each syllable laden with a sinister promise that sent a shiver down the spine of every witness. Gasps of shock rippled through the room, eyes widening in disbelief as if Eddie had uttered a profanity that defied comprehension.

"But... on one condition," he continued, his words hanging in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating all who dared to breathe in their ominous implications. The palpable anxiety in the room intensified, a suffocating weight pressing down upon the gathered throng, rendering them paralyzed in a state of morbid anticipation.

The silence that followed was deafening, a tangible presence that seemed to fill the room with a foreboding sense of dread. Each heartbeat thundered in their ears like a drumbeat of impending doom, the rhythm echoing the pulse of their mounting fear.

And then, with a voice that cut through the silence like a blade, Eddie delivered his chilling demand: "Bring her to me." The words hung in the air like a curse, casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of his request sank in. In that moment, the darkness that lurked within Eddie Munson's twisted soul spilled forth, enveloping all who bore witness in its malevolent embrace.

As Eddie's demand reverberated through the room, a hushed murmuring rose among the spectators, whispers of unease intertwining with the palpable tension that gripped them all. Judge Carver, his brow furrowed with concern, exchanged a glance with the bailiffs, uncertainty etched in their solemn expressions.

Suddenly, from the back of the courtroom, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadows and bearing an aura of ominous dread. It was a woman, her features obscured by darkness, yet her presence radiated an eerie calmness that seemed to quell the rising panic.

With measured steps, she approached the bench, her gaze fixed upon Eddie with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And as she drew closer, the dim light revealed the haunting familiarity of her visage—a haunting resemblance to one of Eddie's victims, long thought to be lost to the annals of his depravity.

A collective gasp swept through the room as the truth dawned upon them all, a revelation so horrifying that it threatened to shatter the fragile facade of their reality. For in that moment, it became clear that Eddie's request was not merely a macabre whim, but a sinister plot to unleash a new chapter of terror upon the world—one that would plunge them all into the depths of darkness from which there could be no escape.

"It's about time I found you, Munson," the words cut through the air like a frigid wind, each syllable dripping with a chilling resolve that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The voice, belonging to a middle-aged woman, resonated with an underlying tremor, hinting at the depths of her pent-up anguish and fury.

Eddie's gaze locked onto the woman, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a flicker of recognition that danced behind his steely facade. The name she uttered—Selenne Cunningham—stirred a distant memory within him, a memory veiled in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness.

A sinister smile curled at the corners of Eddie's lips, a perverse amusement twinkling in his eyes like the glint of a predator stalking its prey. "Ah, Selenne Cunningham," he purred, his voice laced with a venomous edge that mirrored her own icy tone. "Your daughter... such a delicate flower, crushed beneath the weight of my artistry."

The room fell silent, the tension thickening with each passing moment as the gravity of their confrontation hung heavy in the air.

With the first thread of Munson's sinister plot meticulously woven, the tendrils of his malevolence unfurled like a dark shadow, poised to ensnare those who unwittingly danced within its grasp. The nefarious machinations of Eddie Munson, honed to a razor's edge, stood poised to carve a path of unfathomable destruction through the lives of all who had dared to cross his path.

As the tendrils of his wickedness coiled with calculated precision, a palpable sense of foreboding descended upon those ensnared within the web of his deceit. Edward Munson, a specter of malevolence risen from the depths of darkness, loomed large on the horizon, his presence casting a long shadow that threatened to engulf all who stood in his wake.

With a chilling resolve that echoed through the corridors of fate, he returned from the abyss, his resolve steeled by the bitter taste of past failures. This time, there would be no room for error, no margin for mercy.

Eddie Munson had returned, and with him came a reckoning so dark and terrible that none would emerge unscathed.

#darknesseddiemfics #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddiemunson #dark!eddie munson #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #bestfriend!eddie munson #older!eddie munson #eddie the freak munson

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labrxnth · 9 months

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Prison Break- Part 4 (Leon Kennedy x Reader series)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

CW: Death Island spoilers, suicide thoughts/intentions

WC: 2572

Summary: You and your co-worker Leon Kennedy are sent on a mission to rescue a kidnapped robotic engineer Dr. Antonio Taylor. The journey for him leads the two of you to somewhere you thought you would never go, Alcatraz.

A/N: I guess Tumblr fucking shadow banned me. The last part got flagged. Idk if this part will or not so.... have fun I guess. Also, remember how at the beginning of this fic I said that this was me trying to remember the lines from a month ago? Yeah… it’s really starting to show now

─── ･｡ﾟ��: *.☽ .* : ｡ﾟ☆. ───

“Leon?” Jill asked, her eyes looking over him. The pair stared at each other, trying to process the words that they were thinking.

“You got a gun?” Leon asked.

“No,” she replied. Leon’s hand went into his vest, pulling out a handgun and twirling it, so the hand grip was facing her and he was holding the barrel.

“Now you do,” He said and lightly smirked.

“Thanks,” she replied, taking the gun and making sure it was loaded.

As if on cue, an infected stumbled through the waterways towards them.

“Uh Jill, any idea why that’s here?” Leon asked, firing bullets at it and the one behind it.

“Those… used to be tourists,” she replied, shooting them as well.

“That’s some fucked up tour,” Leon retorted and watched the two go down.

A slithering sound cut across the water of the sewers. Both of their eyes darted to where the sound came from. The sewers were dark, the few between lights on the cobblestone being the only source of light.

Leon could’ve sworn the light was playing tricks on him as he watched something emerge from the water.

The creature crawled up onto the stone walkway, on all fours. It’s brain was exposed and it didn’t have any eyes.

A licker was the one thing that Leon could’ve gone his entire life without running into again.

Scratch that, there were multiple things that Leon could go his entire life without seeing again. But lickers were definitely high on that list.

It crawled towards Leon and Jill, almost sniffing the air trying to get their scent. They were completely still, looking at each other in agreement to deal with it quietly. The wet footprints echoed through the hall as it made its way towards the two.

After it got a little too close for comfort, they aimed their guns at the licker’s brain and unloaded their bullets. As if their day couldn’t get any better, the licker growled at them and started running.

“Uh oh,” Leon said, taking aim at the creature.

More shadowy figures emerged from the water and like ants, more lickers joined the one. Eyes widening and curses flowing, Jill and Leon turned tail and ran down the walkway.

“How many are there?!” Jill yelled as they ran, ocasionally reaching behind herself to fire a bullet.

“I ain’t stopping to count!” Leon replied, almost scoffing. Ahead of them, Leon saw a box with a hazmat symbol on it- a flammable hazmat symbol. “Move!” He said.

Jill rounded the corner coming up and Leon dropped the box to the ground. With a light kick, he sent it down the hallway. His eyes tracked the barrel with the sights of his Sentinel and he pulled the trigger, quickly dodging around the corner.

Licker corpses, flames, and smoke flew past them, Leon’s hand going up to shield himself. After the chaos died down, Leon took a few deep breaths.

“Zero,” he said and looked around the corner.

Jill, who was also trying to catch her breath, looked at him confused. Her eyes squinted and brows furrowed. “What?” She asked.

“You asked me how many there were,” Leon replied, a slight smirk on his face as he leaned against the brick wall.

Jill blinked a few times, looking at him, not believing how he could be like this. They took a few more seconds to recoup and got moving again.

Footsteps echoes through the waterways at the two of them kept moving. “So, how the hell did you get dragged into this?” Jill asked, looking ahead.

“Me and my field partner are tracking down a robotics engineer who was doing some black market trading, the usual,” He replied.

“Field partner? I don’t see them,” Jill said, her interest piqued. Her head turned towards him, expecting him to answer with an explanation.

“It seems like I lost her,” Leon said. “She’s tough though… she’ll make it through.”

Jill scoffed a bit, in a friendly manner. “If she’s the agent that Chris has told me about, then she’ll be fine. She can handle herself,” Jill said.

“She can,” Leon said determined. “I’m in for an earful about us getting separated though,” he added, slightly chuckling.

“I like her already,” Jill retorted.

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“Antonio Taylor? No his name is Tony Ramirez,” Claire said, staring at you. She coughed, leaning forward, leading you to sit next to her with your hand on her shoulder.

“No, me and Leon are tracking him down, he’s definitely our guy,” you replied gently.

Your eyes stared at the man across the cell from you and Claire. He was older, balding, and looked terrified. His eyes were almost shaking in their sockets.

“We’re all dead…” he whimpered, crawling more in the corner.

You rolled your eyes and looked at the top of the cell, trying to find any faults in the bars. “Chris, when did you two get grabbed?” You asked, wondering how much time they’ve been here for.

“About 15 minutes,” Chris gruffly replied. His voice was as tired and strained as Claire’s. The clock was ticking for all of you and your hope was in your partner.

“Don’t worry…. Leon will get to us,” you said, smiling a bit at Claire.

Your hope for Leon never faltered. Not since your first mission together, especially not after the mission in New York. You knew that Leon always found a way, no matter the stakes.

And he always found his way to you.

“Hurry up Leon…” You said under your breath.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* : ｡ﾟ☆. ───

Leon and Jill were making their way to the others, the walkways had turned into tunnels they had to crawl through. He pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, putting it in one of the pockets on his tactical vest.

The only light in the tunnel was from their flashlights as they made their way through.

“So, your black market engineer… gonna tell me more?” Jill asked, trying to pass the time. She looked ahead the best that she could with Leon in front of her, trying to find any shapes in the dark. Having someone with her helped, but her brain still played out the worst scenario possible. Either the night in the Spencer mansion, September of 1998, or Wesker brainwashing her plagued her vision when she was alone.

“Taylor? Yeah. He was making robotics for the government then decided to sell U.S. secrets to anyone willing to pay,” Leon replied, trying his best to look ahead. “And I guess ‘Bounty Hunter’ is a part of me and (Y/n)’s job description now. Why are you here?” His voice cut through Jill’s thoughts.

“Me, Chris, and Claire are here tracking down some virus readings,” Jill replied. “Claire found some virus culture on a whale and double checked it with Rebecca. She roped me and Chris into looking into it.”

“It seems like our cases are intertwined,” Leon replied.

Jill looked at the tunnel they were crawling through, her eyes climbing up the brick walls. “What were these tunnels even made for?” She wondered out loud.

“They were munition tunnels made back when this was a fort,” Leon answered without skipping a beat.

“Didn’t know you were a tour guide,” Jill replied.

Leon’s chuckle cut the tension in the tunnel. “I’ll be putting ‘your guide on me résumé,” he chuckled. Jill almost bumped into him when he stopped short, his hand going in the air.

“What?” Jill whispered.

“Can’t you feel it? There’s a draft…” Leon replied, his hand moving to right to feel the stone bricks. Feeling around them, he found one that gave when he pushed in. “Bingo..” he added and pushed it in, it falling to the ground.

Jill got the idea and started helping him clear the poorly set bricks, making an exit for them.

“After you,” Leon said, gesturing for Jill to go first.

“Ladies first,” Jill replied and gestured for him to go.

“Fine,” Leon grumbled and crawled through the exit.

His feet hit regular concrete flooring and he was able to fully stand up. Shining his flashlight around, they must’ve been in a storage room. “It’s clear,” he said back to Jill who followed him.

The two walked towards the door, opening it to a room with monitors and control panels everywhere along a wall. File cabinets, pipes, and white board adorned the rest of the room.

Leon walked to the middle of it, looking around to try and find a clue about his missing doctor. Jill joined him, looking around the console.

Suddenly, the PA system came to life and a voice cut through the room over the speakers. “Well if it isn’t Jill Valentine and Leon Kennedy,” the voice said.

Jill and Leon stood back to back, their guns drawn faster than the blink of an eye.

“Well, if it isn’t… whoever you are,” Leon replied.

“Come on out and we won’t bite,” Jill said.

“Meet me in the holding cells.. I have a few things, sorry, people, that you’re looking for,” the voice replied and the speakers turned off.

Leon and Jill’s eyes locked and they ran towards the holding cells.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* : ｡ﾟ☆. ───

Over the past ten minutes, you and the Redfields had definitely deteriorated. Your breathing was more labored, feeling the shortness in your lungs, and you felt fatigued, sluggish. Every once in awhile, a cough escaped you, it ringing in your ears and chest.

Looking across the cell from you at Claire, you could tell she wasn’t doing well either. You could only guess what Chris was like on the other side of the wall Claire was up against.

You heart the sound of two pairs of boots hitting the ground, rubbing towards the cells.

“Chris!” You heard Leon say. As he got closer, he saw Claire and you in the cell. “Claire, (Y/n)!” He said and ran over to the bars. Reaching through the rusted iron bars, his hand felt your forehead, then your cheeks, checking your temperature.

“Shit, you’re burning up,” he said.

If you weren’t so pressed for time, you would’ve been thankful for him. He looked like an angel swooping down from heaven to save you. In your delirious state, you saw how his shirt sleeve was tight around his bicep muscles and took a mental picture. Claire coughing snapped you back to reality.

“I’m fine,” you said and pulled his hand away, coughing into your elbow. “Claire and Chris have been here longer…” you added.

“Are you okay?” Leon asked the two of you.

“I’m okay,” Claire replied, obviously lying.

You were about to say something when the sound of a door opening caught all of your attention. Leon and Jill pointed their guns towards the balcony and you and Claire only had the strength to look in the direction.

Out walked two figures, one you had met before. The same, blank face that you met on the highway yesterday. Maria stood next to a man that you had never seen before in your life. He looked around Chris’s age, his hair was medium length and dark. He carried a cane with him that he rhymically tapped on the ground; the sound on the metal catwalk pierced your ears.

“I wouldn’t point your gun at me,” he said, looking at Jill and Leon. “Claire and (Y/n) are both infected, in a cell with Dr. Antonio Taylor. Soon enough Claire will turn, killing Taylor and eventually (Y/n) if she doesn’t turn fast enough.”

Your blood ran cold as you thought about this being how your life ended. You spent the past few years trying to defeat the virus, only to be infected in the end. That and you could t even confess your long time feeling for your work partner. This was a shitty way to go.

Claire looked up at you, her eyes conveying everything you needed to know. She was exhausted, and rightfully so, but somewhere deep in that exhaustion was the usual Redfield determination that could move mountains and punch boulders.

“I wonder… will you shoot Claire and (Y/n)? Shoot just Claire and let your partner turn, or let them both turn and watch them rip Taylor limb from limb?” The man on the balcony asked.

Leon looked in the cell, the gears in his head obviously turning and quick. He couldn’t shoot you even if you were turning and begging him to. You were his one weakness in the world, he couldn’t lay a finger on you to hurt you.

And Claire… the two of them had been through hell and back, being two of a handful of survivors of Raccoon City. They were friends, thick as thieves for awhile. Letting the two of you get taken by infection wasn’t what he wanted, but he couldn’t shoot either of you.

“Leon… it’s okay… do what you have to,” you said and coughed, looking at him. You knew what the correct choice was. Death by infection plagued your nightmares over and over again as you fell asleep. It was a scary possibility for the job you had, and now that possibility was your reality.

“I can’t…” he said quietly, looking at you. The rhythmic tapping from the man’s cane hit the balcony again, making you wince.

He pulled out a revolver and shot it towards your cell. Instinctively, your arms went around your head, to somehow protect it, but you felt nothing. Your blood went cold as you thought of the possibility of him shooting Claire. Shaking, your arms went down to find Claire staring back at gou, equally as fine and confused. You two turned to look at Dr. Taylor and saw a gun shot wound in his chest. The man fell over, collapsing to the ground.

Leon grunted in pain, his hand swatting his neck. Maria vaulted over the balcony and landed on the bottom floor, her eyes dead set on Leon. She punched Jill in the stomach and kicked Leon in the torso, sending him flying into the bars of your cell and laying on the floor. His back was right up against the bars.

She went to kick him again, but the man’s voice cut through the room. “Leave him, the infection will kill him,” he said. Maria glared at you and Leon, then made her way back up to the balcony.

“Leon…” You said and grabbed his arm through the bars. He wiggled his arm out of your hold and replaced it with his hand, looking at you.

Your forehead leaned against the bars, almost like it was against his forehead. His head leaned up against the same ones and it felt like you two were the only two in the room. Everybody else faded away as you could still hear talking and everything melted away until it was just the two of you. You heard the familiar cadence and tone of Leon’s voice, he was talking, but you couldn’t make out what it was. His eyes were still locked on yours, wincing every once in a while.

Just like the mission in New York, it was just the two of you.

And just like that mission in New York, you could’ve sworn you meant the world to him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* : ｡ﾟ☆. ───

Catch this early on my AO3

#resident evil fanfic #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil fanfiction #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy #slow burn #leon s kennedy

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coffeeanddonutscafe · 3 months

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Cold Comfort

Astarion has a nightmare and fluff unfolds.

Summary:

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?"

Notes:

I plan to make this a fluff fic, with a mix of introspections, pondering and some deep self-reflection from Astarion's point of view. I do want to envelop him into the gentle world of fluff, like a warm hug he deserves so much.

Chapter 1: Nightmares of the Past

Astarion had a nightmare again. It was as though the cruel hands of the past had woven together the threads of his torment into a ghastly tapestry. As he awoke, his chest was gripped by an icy fear... The spectre of his most malevolent tormentor, Cazador Szarr, haunted him once more, like a relentless ghost in the recesses of his mind. The horrors of those centuries clung to him still. His chest was bound tight with the remnants of panic that had gripped him in his meditative slumber.

In the stillness of the night, Astarion's undead heart seemed almost eager to escape its cursed confines, to flee the unending torment of its existence. It was almost aching to free itself from the relentless grasp of its vampiric origin.

His once-sharp memory, a wellspring of snarky retorts and witty observations, had now become a Rolodex of agonizing recollections. Each year spent serving his monstrous master etched into his consciousness like a scar that refused to fade.

"More like - slaved my ass out," Astarion murmured, the words like a breath of frost. He hesitated for a moment, his mind still reeling from the horrors of his nightmare, before finally summoning the resolve to open his tent flap and peer out into the night. With a heavy sigh, the vampire spawn emerged from his tent.

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness, the silence punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fire, a lone sentinel against the encroaching dark. The night's tendrils clung to the trees, weaving shadowy tapestries upon the forest floor. It was a scene both haunting and beautiful, a fragile barrier between the world of the living and the realm of the supernatural. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. He felt a maelstrom of emotions churning within him. Disgust gnawed at him for the unspeakable acts he had been compelled to commit, anger simmered for the powerlessness that bound him to this cursed fate, fear coursed through his veins at the mere thought of Cazador Szarr, and shame weighed heavy for the ceaseless humiliations he had endured.

It was in this state of inner turmoil that Astarion's gaze fell upon the tent before him. HER tent. His mind raced to quell the rising suspicion that he had strategically chosen this spot, that he yearned to keep watch over the inhabitant within. Of course, he couldn't admit to himself that he found comfort in her presence, a small ember of relief amidst the encroaching darkness.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye, a subtle shift in the fabric of the aforementioned tent. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. The sight of her face peeking out agitated something in him. Astarion couldn't help but think that she looked utterly adorable in her sleep-induced dishevelment. A smile, unbidden, crept onto his lips.

Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?" Tav, still lost in the haze of sleep, squirmed slightly and blinked her bleary eyes at him. It took her a moment to register his presence. "I'm thirsty," she mumbled, her voice heavy with drowsiness. "Mmm...water."

Tav's response, half-mumbled and sleepy, pulled Astarion from the clutches of his own nightmarish reverie. She was the anchor he hadn't known he needed, a soothing balm for his troubled soul.

He smiled and gently touched her shoulder. "Well, darling, why don't you stay here in your bedroll, and I'll bring you some water," he suggested in a tender tone reserved solely for her. She yawned, giving a lopsided blink, before nodding in agreement and crawling back into her tent. Astarion's eyes lingered on her retreating form, admiring the delicate curves of her figure and the grace she brought to even the simplest movements.

As Tav disappeared from his view, the enchantment of her presence seemed to dissipate, leaving Astarion once again ensnared by the spectre of his night terror. He huffed in frustration as the pain in his chest tightened a visceral reminder of the torment that continued to haunt him. With a sigh, he rose to fetch water from the camp's supply.

As Astarion approached the camp's water source, he undid the cap of the tank, only to find it empty. His irritation flared, and his anticipation for a quick and easy retrieval of water was swiftly quashed. Fetching water for Tav in the nearest spring water source, was an inconvenience he'd hoped to avoid, as it meant she would have to wait a little longer, and that unsettled him.

He couldn't bear the thought of her trudging to the nearby stream, especially in the middle of the night. She needed her rest, and she needed someone to look out for her, she deserved someone who cared for her needs. The same way she cared for everyone, Astarion included.

Tav had taken it upon herself to be the camp's beacon of hope and light. A task made all the more challenging by the peculiarities of their situation. Her efforts were tireless, a testament to her kind heart and unyielding spirit. Astarion observed her interactions with the others, noting the care with which she tended to their individual needs.

Wyll, burdened by his own demons (quite literally), found solace in her gentle words and comforting pats on the back. Shadowheart, often stoic and reserved, seemed to find a confidante in Tav, sharing her thoughts and concerns, well whenever she felt like it. With Halsin and Lae'zel, Tav posed questions to draw them out of their moments when their moods turned sombre. And Gale, ever in need of encouragement, was the recipient of Tav's unwavering support.

Tav's efforts were nothing short of remarkable. Her resourcefulness in their daily travels and on the battlefield drew Astarion's admiration. He recalled with a hint of amusement the impromptu dance-off she had orchestrated with Karlach recently, a move that had brought mirth and merriment to their camp. The laughter that had ensued had been a rare and precious gift in their grim circumstances.

With a resigned sigh, Astarion retraced his steps, returning to Tav's tent. He gingerly opened the flap and peered inside, revealing Tav in a state of half-sleep, waiting expectantly. Crawling into her tent, he whispered to her as he crouched by her side, "Darling, the water tank is empty. I'll have to make a trip to the nearest spring. Tav let out a cute huff of frustration but managed a sleepy smile, whispering her understanding, "Okay."

Astarion's hand found its way to her cheek, a touch both tender and reassuring before he scanned her surroundings and procured Tav's leather water flask, making his exit. The night enveloped him as he ventured out. The sky was adorned with stars, and the crescent moon cast a gentle glow upon the camp's periphery. Although his vampiric night vision rendered the need for artificial light obsolete, the ambience of the night still held a certain charm.

It was a calm walk to the water spring. Astarion admitted to himself that it was very pleasant. Pleasantries like these were a rarity in his undead existence. Each step he took through this benevolent realm with Tav and the group, felt both uncomfortable and disconcertingly new. The effort it took to acclimate to such kindness, to a world that offered gentleness instead of brutality, was not lost on him. The scars of his past still pulsed within him, a constant reminder of the wounds he carried.

The path to the spring was a brief one, a mere five-minute stroll. It was a relief, for he didn't wish to keep Tav waiting for long. Her eagerness to cater to his needs, to sate his hunger as soon as she sensed it, struck a chord within him. He wanted to do the same. The desire to bring her comfort became a yearning he couldn’t deny.

As he pondered the depth of his desire to please her, he couldn't help but marvel at the power she held over him, a force that transcended the boundaries of their tangled fates.

______________________________________

CHAPTER 2: Sleepy Solace

My other Astarion-related fanfictions. Introspection

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haenypages · 1 year

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A Heart Of Steel

Assassin! Lucerys Velaryon x Targaryen! Reader

Summary: Before the incident, Lucerys and the youngest daughter of Viserys & Alicent were secretly dating. Now he has come to seek revenge upon her, thinking she was the cause of his near death.

Wordcount: 2.5k

Warnings: blood, fluff, angst, minor spoilers of Aegon & Aemond in S2 based on the book

Reader's POV

It was all a misunderstanding. I did not expose nor betray Lucerys' location to Aemond. I have no notion of how he ended up alive and the fact that he joined an assassin guild to learn the ways of killing just to take avenge for himself.

I wept for him everyday thinking that he was dead in the hands of my brother, or rather his dragon until this very moment, after nearly one year in which The Dance of the Dragons has entered into an intense stage.

This is definitely not the Lucerys Velaryon I've known. The sweet dragon prince as if straight out of the folk tales was gone. It was the hour of the wolf. I'm heading back to my bedchamber in the Red Keep when I saw a figure in a shadowy corner, another figure that I reckoned a sentinel lying on the bloodstained floor, motionless. Dead.

The hooded figure slowly approached from the shadow and abruptly I gaped in disbelief, not trusting the face I saw under the hood. "Luke." I whispered, knowing him from his scent and form although his gait has changed from stiff to seemingly nonchalant.

I wanted to run to him, embrace him until I saw a glint of iron in one hand and an impassive face. "What are you doing here?" I involuntarily backed a step. Silence. No response. His slow creeping started to turn into a walk. That's when my mind tells me to flee, so I did what it's told.

"I'm going to kill you, dārilaros (princess)!" he said without preamble. He ran after me. "What why- I don't understand!" Panting heavily, trying to find anyone in the hallway for help while trying to further the gap between Luke. "You knew exactly why! You'd told Aemond that I'm at Storm's End."

Luke acquired a throwing knife from the inside of his boots. It whistled past me, making a gash at my arm, blood trickled from it. I resorted to yelling since there was no one I could see, my sprint slowed gradually and he was increasing.

He's closing our gap! I'm about to veer around another corridor until I feel a hand clasping around my wrist firmly and another clamping over my mouth. My screams were muffled. Without thinking, I bit into the hand that covers my mouth, drawing droplets of blood.

The hand let go, the dagger releasing an audible clunk when it hits the stone floor. Lucerys hissed in frustration. The sound has drawn its attention. Voices! Footsteps! Someone is coming this way!

"HEL-" Lucerys pushed me against the wall, causing me a concussion before I could fully utter the words. Stars were forming. My head, shoulders, and back were in agony. The knife was back in his hands and immediately at my throat, drawing a thin line of blood. I struggled feebly in his grip, feeling helpless. "Please Luke, this is a mistake." I looked into his eyes one last time before the world around me went black.

Luke's POV

She slumped into me after she passed out. I carried the unconscious y/n away with me before the night patrol could investigate what had happened. For the present, they had interrupted my attempt at assassination. I searched for her chamber that we had our fun times together in the past. Seven be damned! Stop dwelling on those memories!

Winding through the familiar corridors, I finally found the quarter I am looking for. I unlatched the door with my nimble fingers, hinges creaking. After I was certain that the door was shut securely, I placed her on the bed. Binding her wrists together at one of the bedposts with hempen ropes and gagging her mouth.

I have made the decision of interrogating her when she's awake, giving her a chance. My current self may be ruthless, but there is still a tidbit of kindness in me that has been cultivated by my family, the family that thought I was dead and mourned for me.

I went to her bookshelf straight away, knowing well this is where her mind often wanders into, as well as mine. She was always intrigued by the stories of the dragonlords of Valyria before the Doom.

She once requested that I read to her more frequently from books and scrolls because she enjoys my Valyrian accent, therefore I did mostly each day just to lull her to sleep with my soothing voice. Unfortunately, that is not happening again. She broke my heart.

I skimmed through the pages, missing the smell of papers and inks. Books are barely seen in the assassin guild since weapons were the only thing we would require. After some more skimming, the groaning from the bed eventually distracted my attention. Immediately, I put the book down on the table. Walking towards her, dagger poised.

She slowly opened her eyes, examining the wounds on her throat and arm as she attempted to break free of the binding before her eyes landed upon mine. For a moment she froze like a frightened animal. My tutor taught me not to trust anyone. Told me that expressions could be a farce for sympathy. So I did not fall for that. But her feelings somehow look true to me.

"Good, you're awake. And no screaming." I took the gag off her and then sat down on the bed beside her. Knife dangerously close to her cheeks, then tracing her cheekbones with an air of disinterest as possible. She gulped.

"So tell me, how does Aemond know of my whereabouts? You're the only Green who knew I'm heading for Storm's End trying to make an alliance on my mother's behalf." I intoned, eyebrows furrowed. She began stammering for a second and eventually calmed down a little. "It was Aemond. Before I had the opportunity to take the parchment from the raven, he took it first." I frowned at her, she averted her gaze, looking at her lap and fidgeting with her fingers. "I should have locked the door. I never thought he'd sneak into my room. I'm so sorry." My heart softened without my mind's consent.

I am still hesitating about the things she confessed to me. It was just words. How could I trust mere words? At the mention of Aemond, my uncertainty was briefly replaced by an inevitable rage. I'd heard that he's come back from the raids at the Riverlands to continue his rule as regent. It was said that after the battle of Rook's Rest, following Aegon's disappearance, Aemond was named as regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I'll deal with you later when I finish that kinslayer." I announced, walking to the door. At the same time, I unsheathed the sword at my hip, checking the sharpness. I nodded with satisfaction.

"You can't just leave me here being tied up! You can't find Aemond without my guidance anyways." She pleaded. I stopped abruptly, knowing it was true. I needed her guidance to seek Aemond before dawn. I rolled my eyes and went back to her, loosened the ropes to the bedpost, and gripped both of her wrists, pushing her along as a signal to stride in front of me. Then we were out of the chamber.

Reader's POV

Whenever I walked slowly, Lucerys would thrust the tip of his blade into my back. I winced, not believing he would truly do this to me. I did not hesitate to go to the throne room first. Aemond may be sleeping in his bedchamber at this hour, but he's infatuated with the Iron Throne lately. Luke would stay alert and call for a halt to hide whenever he senses someone was around.

I led him down a series of spiral stairs, out of the holdfast, through a bridge, walking by courtyards, and eventually reaching the building in which the throne room was situated. "There's two sentinels in there guarding the hallway, I hope you're ready." I turned to look at him, expecting to see an anxious face. But instead, he looks prepared for the upcoming predicament. The doors were ajar so we sneaked into it.

Before the guards could take out their swords from the scabbards, Luke hurled a throwing knife into one of them. Hitting him in the ribs. The other one rushed to Luke, their blades collided together making sparks. After a few more exchanges, Luke found a chink in his armour and strike hard and fast. The guard collapsed.

"What is all the commotion?" The double doors to the throne room flew open, revealing my uncle Gwayne Hightower and the other kingsguards. How can Lucerys defeat them! He's doomed. "Uncle!" Walking to him but Lucerys pulled me back, placing me right in front of him while the sword he was holding raised to my throat defensively making me his hostage. Swords were drawn out.

"Sheathe the steel or I'll kill her." Luke said. They all gave each other apprehensive glances before taking a few steps back. But not my uncle who stood at the doorway. "Ah, aren't you Rhaenyra's boy? This is hardly an act of reverence for the princess, lad." The two of them stare intensely at each other until Luke breaks the staring contest. "It would please me if I could see the regent." For my sake, my uncle moved from his spot at the doorway and led us into the room with a high ceiling.

Luke's POV

Aemond was sitting upon the throne, legs dangled from one of its arms. A few of the council members were there discussing important matters with him. The discussion stopped when we arrived. My presence seemed to leave Aemond totally dumbstruck. Good.

"Nephew, did the Seven send you back to me? You should put that pointy thing away from my sister by the way." y/n casted me a side eye. Aemond grinned a mirthless grin, there was no true joy in it. "The gods have sent me back for vengeance, uncle." I said with an emotionless mien. "Ah yes, I hope the skills you've been honing were worthy of a vengeance. How can I assist you, my dear nephew?" Obviously teasing about my skills in arms.

"I demand a court of swords. A fight to the death." Everybody in the room tensed. "What." Aemond's face twitched. y/n shifted in my grasp uncomfortably. "You and me. No one else. If I kill you, you'll die. If you kill me, you'll get y/n." Making my point clear. Aemond stood up from his seat and started pacing back and forth, pretending to be considering my request. He stopped his pacing. "Deal." His head snapped to me, giving me a murderous look.

While he slowly walks down from the dais, away from his precious throne, one of the kingsguard escorted y/n away from me. She gave me a tight squeeze of my hand before I let go of her wrists, unsure what it meant. Good luck? Aemond is too good for you? The others walked away from the center, making space for the fight. We came face to face at the center, staring at each other from opposite sides.

"Any last words?" The regent chuckled. "Go to seven hells." I replied. I heard y/n coughed. Within a dozen heartbeats, Aemond's sword came down from above. I blocked the overhead strike that will likely deeply injure me if I didn't deflect it. After a series of attacks, Aemond scowled. Not expecting that I'm still standing. Smiling, a new surge of energy coursed through my body. I fight my way for vengeance.

Reader's POV

I stand in one corner, witnessing the scene unfolding before me. One is my brother. One is my lover. I didn't want to lose either of them. Lucerys seems to be under control, attacking and counterattacking the whole time. He suddenly slipped into Aemond's guard and a thin line formed at my brother's thigh. Blood dripped from it.

Brother looked up from his injured thigh and started bombarding a whirlwind of attacks toward Luke. Anger rose within him. Luke tried to parry all the blows but one had slashed him across his shoulder, causing him to stagger. Aemond continued his furious assaults without giving Luke a moment of respite. I can see the energy that seems to course through him was gradually seeping away.

Before he can regain his previous confidence, Aemond sliced another cut at his sword arm. He swung his sword desperately at Aemond, trying to do some damage to my brother to no avail. His sword arm was injured. He can't fight. He's faltering. I need to do something.

My brother raised his sword, ready to strike diagonally at Luke. For a second, Luke gripped his sword two-handed, trying to heft it. It lifted, but I know that it won't make it in time to deflect the upcoming blow. I am aware of the amount of force Aemond is building up for that specific attack.

Before the sword landed upon Luke, I hurtled myself towards the fighting ground. I heard my uncle yelling. And then the kingsguards and councilors. My back facing Aemond, the blade came down from above and slashed a long cut across my back. I dropped to one knee and yelped.

Three wounds in one night. Given by two people I love. The boys' eyes widened at the sight. The fighting ceased, Aemond was transfixed by the affliction he caused upon me. "Please, I beg both of you to end this feud." I said. Elsewhere I heard my uncle ordering someone to summon a maester.

The once sweet boy came to me, swords trailing behind him. He dropped to the floor beside me, putting his sword down and arms wrapping around me. "Why?" He said, his eyes brimming with tears, but he forced it not to pour out. "Se ra gaoman syt jorrāelagon (The things I do for love)" I beamed weakly.

Then tears fell from his face, dropping into mine. He pressed his forehead against mine. His curly hair prickled me, but I didn't care much about that. I miss his hugs. I can feel the wetness soaking my back. I can get a whiff of the metallic tang of blood. I am exhausted. I fell asleep in the arms of Lucerys Velaryon.

Epilogue (Reader's POV)

I opened my eyes groggily, looking around my bedchamber. Sunlight filtered through the window filling the room with warmth. Luke sat on the bed. I used my elbow to raise myself into a sitting position, he gave me some assistance. I can feel the bandages wrapped around my torso, probably done by the maester.

We stared at each other for a long moment before he smiled. He smiled! Such a wondrous thing! After that, he gave me a gentle peck on the lips, which I did not expect. A faint blush materialized on my cheeks and he indulged in that.

He told me of Arrax's sacrifice, how he was rescued by a fisher family from the shore, his life after he joined the assassin guild, and how he didn't reacquaint himself with his family and watched them from afar whenever he was at Dragonstone. He does love his family. I listened to him intently.

He told me that he would leave me soon, that this is no place for an assassin. "We could fake my death. I want to be with you, away from war and court intrigues. Kill me." I demanded. Lucerys smirked.

#lucerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x y/n #lucerys velaryon #hotd fic #hotd x reader #lucerys velaryon one shot #hotd one shot #lucerys velaryon imagine

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dustyandash · 1 year

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when Susan was old and weary she lay on her deathbed, a brittle smile on her lips and her eldest daughter’s hands wrapped around hers. her daughter pressed her forehead to their clasped hands and asked in a reverent manner, “tell me one last story, mother.”

Susan sighed, letting bone sink down to earth and lips gape wide, searching for word and memory. “i was young as you once,” she began, shifted just so that her gaze skittered across the rest of her family gathered around her like solid sentinels and past to the ghosts waiting for her in the corner.

“i was as young as you once, and i was a queen.” her daughter chuckled lowly, dreary grief tainting the noise.

her son reached forward as if to silence her, or perhaps just hold her words close, but Susan plowed on.

“they called me the Gentle. your aunt and uncles ruled with me. Peter was a tall towering figure by the end of our reign but when he began he was scant few years older than your youngest, dear daughter. High King Peter the Magnificent. we, his beloved siblings, would follow him to the ends of this earth and the next, same as his armies. King Edmund was Just, a sly creature, my brother, always talking his way out or in. and Queen Lucy. She was Valiant, so young no matter what age we found ourselves. i miss her wildness.”

her daughter leaned forward, forward, pressing the hands firmer to forehead. “don’t leave,” she begged, tears dripping past her lips, gathering on her chin.

Susan smiled, warm, brittle, overjoyed. “i’m going Home. you wouldn’t deny me that, would you?” her son doubled at the waist, as if her words were a sword pierced through his gut.

Susan closed her eyes, her son’s weeping and her daughter’s gasping breaths a gentle melody to the lull of Death.

Peter smiled at her, a hand outstretched, shadowy figures peered at her from over his shoulder. figures as familiar to her as her own.

Susan clasped her brother’s hand. and Narnia welcomed her Home.

#death and dying #the chronicles of narnia #the pevensies #susan pevensie #peter pevensie #prose #narnia

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heroesofcrash · 10 months

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7/15/23 - Costume Party Wallpaper!

TheHeroesOfCRASH.com

Ken Bailey's prize request is now a treat for you all before I take a quick vacation: a wallpaper available for download right now! Comic fillers will resume July 29th.

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heldenherzchen · 5 months

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my secret santa gift for @square-braxket 🎄🎁💖

On a dreary evening in the idyllic town of Sandford, Detectives Cartwright and Wainwright found themselves grappling with a perplexing case. The relentless rain drummed against the umbrella as they scoured the scene for clues. Wainwright, with his trademark cigarette, pored over the evidence with a furrowed brow, the wisps of smoke blending with the rain.

Amidst the downpour, Cartwright's concern for the case weighed heavily on his mind. He paced the dimly lit alley, his footsteps muffled by the rain, his thoughts consumed by the gravity of the investigation. The chilling rain mirrored the unease in his heart as he grappled with the intricacies of the case, each raindrop a poignant reminder of the urgency to unravel the mystery that had befallen their town.

As the night wore on, the pitter-patter of the rain served as a haunting backdrop to their relentless pursuit of the truth. Wainwright's cigarette burned like a lone beacon in the darkness, his focused demeanor a stark contrast to Cartwright's restless unease. Together, they braved the storm, their resolve unyielding amidst the downpour, determined to bring clarity to the shadowy enigma that had enshrouded their quaint town.In the heart of the tempest, amidst the haze of smoke and the deluge of rain, Detectives Cartwright and Wainwright stood as sentinels of justice, their unwavering dedication to the case unbroken by the tumultuous weather.

For in the face of adversity, they remained steadfast, their pursuit of truth unwavering, and their partnership unshakeable.

#cornettosecretsanta2023 #hot fuzz #my art #square-braxket #i hope you like it!!#i really enjoyed drawing them <3 #i hope i got the mood across #asdfjkl #also i know that cartwright is technically taller but he's hunching forward and the perspective and the colours are kinda hiding that #so pls just ignore that lmao

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deathbypixelz · 3 months

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No Sister Left Behind (4.3k)

New one shot :) This one details Tarinne's escape from the Alliance outpost in which she'd be imprisoned and interrogated during the Third War. It's from the perspective of one of the Sentinels attacking the outpost during the recovery mission.

If you haven't already, read this post I made on my WoW/OC sideblog, as it explains a headcanon/AU thing that's central to this one shot.

AO3 link in case anyone (with an account) would prefer to read it on there.

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It’s been only months since the humans and orcs landed on Kalimdor’s shores, with the Legion and Scourge not far behind. The Sentinels are spread thin and losing ground in Ashenvale. Every victory against old enemies is matched by a loss to new ones. But unlike the Legion, the humans take prisoners. Now, two weeks after a midnight ambush on a human encampment went catastrophically wrong, it’s time to free one.

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World of Warcraft | Original characters

Be warned for: graphic violence, some elements of horror, and torture (not shown directly)

Under the light of two crescent moons, the forests of central Ashenvale were silent as a songbird watching a circling hawk. The star-soaked sky was cloudless. The wind held its breath. The trees stood still as stone, not risking even a whisper in their creaking voices. They only stood and watched the hawk's nest in silence.

It was an ugly thing – a stockade of stripped timber encircling a cluster of square buildings. All were squat and perfectly square, save for the watchtowers -- one east, one west -- which loomed over the torchlit outpost as if to mock the trees around them. A single, wide gate to the north was the only entrance and exit. At present it was closed. Deep ruts scarred the earth with a path winding north into the forest, marking where wagons and armored machines of war had crawled to and from this outpost in the preceding weeks.

The orcs and humans had made landfall only a season before. This compound was less than two months old. But the destruction around it would've easily fooled anyone.

The outpost sat at the center of a circular clearing, the dusty earth dotted with tree stumps and pockmarked with pits left by explosive charges. If one looked closer, they would see the broken arrow shafts still in the ground. The splintered wood that was the only remains of a glaive thrower.

And to the south, a shallow pit filled with dark, unmoving forms: at least a dozen bodies still wearing the leather and fur that had failed to save them.

With some effort, Sentinel Runa Stillblade dragged her eyes from the pit and stuck them firmly to the outpost. She blew a measured breath into the balmy air. She shifted her weight, the thick oak branch beneath her holding strong.

From here, she could see over the stockade and most of the western side of the compound. The buildings along that side of the stockade had dimly lit windows. No movement inside. The alleys between them were empty. Near the gate: huge, eagle-headed, armored machines. The siege engines that had doomed the attack two weeks before. But it was not them that concerned her; her eyes were on the watchtowers and the shadowy figures inside.

Her foot started to tingle and she shifted her weight again, forcing herself to relax her grip on her bow.

‘Don't overcomplicate this’, her superior had said just hours before. ‘Getting her out is your first priority.’

Runa ran her free hand along her belt, verifying for the umpteenth time her dagger and horn were still there.

‘You said you wanted a chance to make things right after falore An’ethella couldn't be recovered. I'm giving you that chance.’

Movement in the air above the outpost shook Runa from her thoughts. The hand on her bow clenched again before she recognized the shape of a short-eared owl.

The owl circled above the buildings on the western side. Twice it pitched down towards something near the largest one before rising again. Then it dove and disappeared behind the stockade. A few seconds later it reappeared, climbing higher and higher with deep, silent wingbeats. Once it rose above the light of the torches and was only a shadow against the stars, it turned and glided south. Runa watched it until it disappeared into the trees.

She counted to ten in her head, then let her form solidify from the shadows of the oak's boughs. She kept her eyes on the branch beneath her to hide their shine.

A second weight alighted on the branch, and Runa looked up into the owl's golden eyes. Surrounded by black feathers on a round, near-white face, they almost appeared to glow.

Runa smiled softly and held out her left arm. Kim'shalla, her companion of nearly a decade, climbed onto her forearm, its claws scratching the thick leather of her bracer. It looked down at her bracer as it shuffled its feet to find a comfortable grip.

She waited for Kim'shalla to settle, then she clicked her tongue. Paused. Then clicked it twice more.

Kim'shalla's head turned to face her. It blinked a slow blink, looked back at the outpost for a beat, then down at its feet as it adjusted its grip again. But this time, it moved its talons with purpose.

A-L-I-V-E, the short taps and longer holds spelled out letter by letter. Q-U-I-E-T. A-L-O-N-E.

Kim'shalla repeated this message once, then settled down again and puffed out its feathers, its task complete. It looked at Runa expectantly.

She nodded in thanks... and relief. She reached around and took a small piece of rodent meat from a pouch on her belt.

Kim'shalla pecked it from her palm.

Runa waited for it to swallow its treat, then clenched her left hand into a fist. With a disgruntled clack of its beak, Kim'shalla left her arm and glided a few trees down.

The beat of its wings blew a strand of curly black hair into Runa’s face. She brushed it away and began shuffling backwards along the branch, her split-sole boots giving her a sure grip. Her form faded back into the dark air. When she reached the trunk, she rapped her knuckles thrice on the lichen-spotted wood.

Prepare to move.

She held her breath and perked an ear to wait for the response.

From a branch above her, two taps: Understood.

She responded with three taps in a different rhythm — wait for my signal — and again the scout above responded with two.

In one smooth motion, she plucked an arrow from her quiver and rested it against the bowstring. Her gaze once again on the eastern watchtower, she waited.

And waited.

For nearly two hours.

~~~~~

It was not until the moons reached their apex that the watchman abruptly stood from his chair.

Runa tensed.

A second guard’s head appeared as they emerged through a trapdoor in the floor. The new arrival climbed up.

She forced herself to keep still as they began to exchange words, despite how her fingers tingled with the urge to let fly.

The new lookout made vague motions with their hands, then the first laughed and punched the second’s shoulder in response to some jest. The first moved past the other and began climbing down the ladder.

The moment his head disappeared from sight, Runa loosed her arrow. The new watchman dropped without a sound.

On the other side, the watchman in the western tower dropped as well.

A storm crow swooped out of the branches above Runa, silent as thought, trailing tail feathers shimmering blue and purple. A second followed just a few wingbeats behind. Then a third.

They dove over the stockade and out of sight.

Please let this be easy.

Over the top of the stockade, Runa saw the crows land on the roof of one of the buildings on the western side. It was taller than the rest, with large double doors — likely a storage barn.

They sauntered as crows did to the edge of the roof and dropped down. She caught a glimpse of something metal partially covered by canvas beside the building’s north wall.

Now they will break the lock and reshape the stockade to allow them all out. Once she is free, we can-

A soldier carrying a lantern pulled himself halfway through the trapdoor — Runa had been so focused on the crows she hadn’t seen the light growing in the ladder shaft.

The soldier froze at the sight of the body. He got out half a warning shout before Runa’s arrow sank into his chest.

Shit.

He gasped, coughed, and dropped the lantern, which bounced off the wooden floor and back down the entry shaft. A second later, glass shattered far below. The soldier grasped for the arrow in his lung, then toppled backwards off the ladder. Another second, then a hard thud.

A shout below, then another, and another, and another.

Shit!

Two more storm crows dove out of the tree above Runa. Their forms began to change midair. Their bodies grew, their feathers shrank, limbs lengthening, joints popping, until they solidified into two kaldorei men in leather and fur — one bald, the other with a thick, dark braid running from the top of his head to his waist. They hit the ground and ran to the stockade, cloaks of black feathers shimmering behind them.

They stopped at its base and the bald druid raised an arm towards it. The other mirrored him, then they both set their feet as if to put their weight against a heavy object, and began murmuring words Runa couldn't catch over the growing sounds of alarm.

Dead leaves and dust began to circle them as their words became a chant. Their voices rose, they lifted their arms, the leaves and dust following. Then the air between them solidified and slammed into the stockade. Solid timber shattered like glass.

Runa yanked the horn from her belt and blew a long, deep note, though it was more a formality than anything. The Huntresses and their sabers below were already leaping through the breach.

Runa leapt from the branch, rolled across the dirt, and vaulted over broken timbers through a cloud of swirling dust. More storm crows swooped past her like whistling arrows. A saber sailed through the dust and splinters an arm’s length from her, all muscle and claws, its rider’s glaive flashing.

To the north, an enormous crash as the druids blasted the gate to splinters.

Distant lantern light turned the dust to orange, silhouetting the dozen or more soldiers that had circled the breach. Mostly humans, and a few of the shorter beings called dwarves. They shouted orders in their strange language, heads snapping around in the murk.

Runa sprinted through a gap between them just before a Huntress charged through, glaive arcing. Steel sliced into flesh, blood sprayed. A body hit the ground, then its head.

A human-sized form appeared in the dust beside Runa, she reached for her dagger, then a storm crow slammed into their face. The human dropped their sword and tried to pull the crow away, shrieking in pain, but two more landed on their shoulders and arms, engulfing them in a cloud of wings and beaks and claws.

The wind whistled, then howled, then a wall of air swept through the combatants. A few humans toppled over, shouting curses. The dust hissed into nothing. On the other side of the courtyard, the three original druids stood with their arms raised.

Runa turned right and ran north. She stopped, blinking dust from her eyes, then caught a sound behind her and threw herself to the ground as a human’s mace whistled through the air where her head had been.

She rolled, rose to one knee, and drew back an arrow as the soldier charged, her mace held high. A heartbeat, then Runa loosed and the arrow sank into the soldier’s throat. Blood spurted, she choked and gasped, stumbled, and dropped with a thud.

Runa sprang to her feet and continued north. A handful of Huntresses and half a dozen archers were pouring through the northern breach. Human and dwarf soldiers ran out of the nearby buildings, some for the south and some for the Sentinels. Arrows flew. The druids had already surrounded the eagle-headed siege engines, their arms raised. Vines sprouted from the ground and stockade, flowing over them, crushing the metal like paper.

She ran past a cluster of tents and jumped over the body of a half-dressed soldier, their eye sockets raw and empty, lips torn to bloody ribbons. Human words Runa had come to recognize echoed behind her.

“We’re under attack!”

“Night elves! Nigh-“ A gargled scream, then a thud.

She glanced at the buildings along the western side. Her feet slowed.

The metal and canvas object beside the storage barn, as she had presumed, was a cage. It was hardly big enough even for a human. Its bars were thick, its construction sound.

But the door hung wide open, and it was empty.

Have they already…? No, they haven’t sounded the-

Something moved in the alley between the storage barn and the building beside it. A flicker of light.

In the alley behind her, someone shouted in Human. A heartbeat of hesitation. She wheeled around, reached for her dagger, but the dwarf soldier’s bayonet caught her thigh and cut straight through leather.

She hissed with pain and fell to a knee. He drew his musket back, raised it to swing again, and she twisted and cracked her bow into the side of his head. He cried out and stumbled, blood pouring down his temple. She scrambled away and pushed herself up. She readied an arrow, sucking in breath through the pain, but he was upon her before she could raise her bow. He swung the musket towards her knees, she feinted, loosed the arrow, and it thunked into the dirt near his foot. She spat a curse and darted past him into the alley.

She slipped into the thick shadow and flattened herself against the wall halfway in. She held her breath as he moved into the alley, musket held low. Pain radiated up her thigh.

The dwarf’s dark eyes flicked back and forth, passing over her twice. He was saying something in a mocking, sing-songy tone, but the words were meaningless.

He walked past her. One more step. Another.

She darted out of the shadows and sank her dagger into the side of his neck. Hot blood sprayed across her knuckles. She tore it free and sprinted out of the alley as he dropped, choking out his last breath.

Runa stopped at the alley’s entrance, the pain in her leg forgotten.

The storage barn was in flames.

This was not part of the plan-!

“What have you done?!” she shouted at a fair-haired archer as she ran past.

“That wasn’t us!” the archer shouted back, and continued on.

“Then who-“

A man screamed, voice shrill with terror, from the building beside the barn. The door had been torn clean off its hinges. Runa caught the movement of a struggle in its dark interior. A smaller figure darting away from a much larger, broader one.

Instinct urged her forward and she ran out into the courtyard. She was halfway across when the dirt near her foot exploded. A blast from somewhere above and behind. She threw herself to the ground, then looked up for the source of the sound.

She could just see the top of a dwarf’s hooded head as they crouched behind the wall of the eastern watchtower, hurriedly reloading a blunderbuss.

“ARCHERS! WATCHTOWERS!” she shouted, and readied an arrow. She forced her eyes to stay on the dwarf even as the sounds of the struggle behind her grew louder.

The dwarf stood and raised their blunderbuss, head peeking out over the wall. Then two arrows pierced their skull and they dropped like a bag of stones.

Runa looked to her left, where twenty or thirty paces away the fair-haired archer was already nocking another arrow. They made eye contact, Runa made a motion of thanks, then spun on her heel and ran to the door of the building. The stinging in her thigh was fading to a dull warmth.

Its interior was silent. She stopped at the doorframe and peered inside.

The firelight poured through small windows and filled the interior with uncanny, wavering shadows. This building was an armory, and it was in ruins. Swords and maces scattered across the floor, empty hooks on the walls, chests of mail and plate armor upended, the tang of weapon oil leaking from broken bottles.

And in the far corner, surrounded by the shattered remains of empty crates, was the corpse of a bearded, pale-skinned human man. He wore leather and cotton. The scabbard on his belt was empty, and beside it was a cat o’ nine tails hanging from a metal ring. He laid on his back in a dark pool of blood, his body twisted, legs splayed awkwardly as if he had been trying to crawl away from something. His eyes were still open, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood draining from the corners of his lips. His hands gripped the edges of the kite shield that had crushed his throat so completely it still stood upright, jammed clean through his neck into the floorboards.

The hairs on the back of Runa’s neck stood on end. Her eyes moved from the mangled corpse to the door a few paces from him, still hanging open. The stockade was cast in yellow firelight beyond.

She readied another arrow and left the doorway. The smoke stung her eyes and throat as she moved south in a sort of half-run along the line of buildings, away from the fire. Bodies dotted the courtyard and the southern end of the compound. Near the barracks, the Huntresses and druids were making short work of the remaining soldiers.

Runa glanced into every alley as she passed it, but all she saw were shadows. Her heart pounded in her neck. She sprinted past a Huntress and her saber chasing a soldier into an alley, then glanced over her shoulder.

The fire had spread to the armory and was already reaching for the next building down.

Please, gods, grant me a bit more time.

The sound of another gunshot echoed off the stockade, ringing from everywhere at once.

Runa threw herself into an alley. She took a breath and leaned out, an arrow drawn back.

“Healer!” a distant voice shouted from somewhere near the barracks.

Then a second shot, a flash of light in the windows of a small outbuilding on the other side, near the breach.

Runa stayed close to the wall and raised her bow, eyes searching the windows for a silhouette. But either murky shadows filled the inside or the windows were more grime than glass, because there was nothing.

Something in the corner of Runa’s vision caught her attention. Not far from the gunner’s outbuilding, a tall, hulking figure darted into a dark alley.

Too tall to be human.

The wood near Runa’s shoulder exploded into splinters. An instant later the gunshot split the air.

She exclaimed in shock and stumbled back into the alley, blinking wood-dust from her eyes. She spat a curse.

One, two…

She turned and ran towards the stockade, then rounded the corner.

Sitting against the back wall of the building was a dark-haired archer, and beside her the bald druid from the breach. The archer’s face was twisted in pain, the leather on her right shoulder torn and soaked with dark blood. Her bow was still in her limp right hand. The druid was digging in the pouches on his belt, frantic.

Six, seven…

“Did the druids free her?” Runa asked, breathless.

The druid and archer looked up, startled.

The druid shook his head. “We didn’t… No. Two flew down, but couldn’t open the cage before-”

Runa nodded and ran past them.

Fourteen, fifteen, six-

The gunshot rang again. Runa turned on a heel and sprinted back through the buildings into the courtyard. She loosed an arrow into the back of a soldier’s thigh as he ran after an archer, then she reached the alley the figure had disappeared into.

Seven, ei-

Another mangled body was slumped against the wall. Another human. Her shortsword was stuck blade-down in the dirt a few paces away. Her jaw was dislocated, her neck and throat red and raw, blood soaking her collar and running down her plate armor in sheets. Runa stepped closer and saw where skin had torn from muscle. Pale cartilage and tendon.

Someone had nearly ripped this woman’s throat out.

A possibility flickered into Runa’s mind. A chill on her nape again. But she set her jaw and continued past the body. She reached the end of the alley and paused.

Fifteen, sixteen… seventeen…

Eighteen…

Nineteen…

Twenty…?

She leaned around the corner, back towards the breach, as the shot finally rang out. A flash of light and a portion of the stockade burst into splinters. Then a man shouted with alarm. An arrow flew from the courtyard and sank into the stockade, followed by a second thunk where the man’s voice had come from. He shouted again — gargled, weak. A thud.

Then the hulking figure ran out from the same alley, but this time Runa caught the shape of long ears, lilac hair, and ragged clothes.

Her heart leapt.

“Falore!” She ran out of the alley, but the other kaldorei had already disappeared through the breach into the forest beyond.

Runa pulled the horn from her belt and blew two, deep notes, the second longer than the first — mission success.

A few distant, triumphant shouts sounded from the corners of the compound, but the sound of whistling arrows and clashing steel continued.

There were still intruders to kill.

She ran to the breach and vaulted over the broken timbers, now spattered with drying blood, and landed in the dirt on the other side. Her momentum carried her to the tree line, but her steps faltered. She looked down at the dirt around her then back at the breach.

The confusion of footprints made tracking impossible.

A calm hoot from above and Runa turned. Kim’shalla’s eyes glinted from a tangle of branches.

Oh, bless you.

Runa clicked her tongue and nodded into the forest.

Kim’shalla left its perch and glided through the trees a short distance before alighting upon a low branch. It turned its head to look back at Runa and gave a slow blink.

She stepped into the trees, fighting the urge to run. When she was nearly below Kim’shalla it took flight again, glided in a slightly different direction, and landed again. She followed. It flew, landed, and she still kept pace.

They continued like this for minutes, pausing every now and then while Kim’shalla tilted its head to listen.

To Runa, the forest was silent. The din of the battle became no more than a distant hum. And in the silence, her relief at having freed the prisoner began to sour into something else. She found herself gripping her bow a little tighter, though she couldn’t name why.

She became increasingly aware of how her footsteps were cracking thunder in the heavy silence and shadows.

Kim’shalla landed in a tree at the top of a low hill. Once Runa reached its crest, she paused and raised her ears. She heard it too, now: dry, ragged panting.

She broke into a half-run, heart pounding harder. Kim’shalla followed.

They came to the edge of a small glade, and Runa stopped.

The kaldorei woman she had seen sprinting through the breach was on the ground, leaning against a tree, her back to Runa. Her lilac hair was tangled and matted, her broad shoulders heaving and shaking. She wore only ragged trousers, which meant Runa could see the red, glistening, crisscrossing tangle of weeping wounds covering her from her nape to the small of her back. Raw muscle bared to the elements. Blood fresh and old ran in sheets down her back and over her sides. The wounds had not even been given the chance to scab over.

Those sadistic, godless devils!

She began creeping forward, bow held low — she did not remember nocking an arrow — but stopped a few paces from the woman.

Something about the way she hunched over, the way her shoulders shook, the twitching of her ears… it wasn’t right.

Runa opened her mouth, searching her mind for the name from the briefing. Her heart pounding in her neck didn't make it easier. She could only remember the second half.

“Falore Bla-?”

The woman whipped around, lips pulled back, teeth bared, eyes wide, wild, and devoid of everything but primal rage.

Blackhelm lunged, hands reaching, and ripped the bow from Runa’s hands. Runa leapt away. Kim’shalla screamed harsh and hollow.

Blackhelm tossed the bow aside and pushed herself to her feet. A strange, wheezing, almost-growl leaked through her teeth. Her eyes were two pinpoints of icy white light in dark, sunken sockets. Her chest heaved, thick muscle showing through skin thinned by deprivation. Blood ran from a cut on her forehead, down her cheek and over the taught tendons in her neck. Her hands were dark with blood.

Runa couldn’t move. Something about those eyes locked her in place. It was something ancient. Something unknowable. Something older than the kaldorei themselves.

Wolf-touched.

Kim'shalla screamed again, shaking Runa out of her fear-trance.

“Falore!” she shouted. “Blackhelm! Stand down!”

Blackhelm took a step forward. Her whole body shivered. So much muscle overloaded with so much more tension than it was ever made to bear. How it had not already torn her apart…

Another step forward, and the final spark of memory.

“Tarinne!” Runa reached for her dagger. “Stand down now!”

Tarinne Blackhelm blinked. Another half-step forward, and Runa pulled her dagger. Then Tarinne blinked again. She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head weakly, then stumbled and fell to one knee.

Runa hesitated.

The wheezing growl fizzled away. Tarinne took in a few gasping breaths and began coughing horrible, wracking coughs. Like she had not tasted water in days.

Runa sheathed her dagger, ran up, and crouched beside her.

Tarinne looked up as she did and shrank away just an inch. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and desperate.

“Falore,” Runa said gently. She held her hand above her shoulder, debating whether or not to touch her. “What did they…?”

“Healer,” she rasped. Dry strings of saliva and phlegm hung from her lips. “I need… a…”

She collapsed with a rattling sigh, and Runa's heart dropped. But then Tarinne's chest rose with breath, and with shaking hands, Runa stood.

”Healer…“ she breathed, mind still processing this. She looked up, back the way she’d come.

“Healer!”

She broke into a run, back to the outpost and the glow of the fire, her bow forgotten.

”I NEED A HEALER!“

#my art #my writing #tarinne #night elf #kaldorei #au lore #it's okay guys she's fine now #this was thirty years ago as of BfA #she still needs therapy about it but she's FINE #I just wanted to explore my thor'drinn idea as a little story and it was the perfect opportunity :)

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mogwaei · 1 year

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[Dragon Age: Ouroboros Codex - Precipice]

[Fen’Harel ⚔ Ouroboros]

The bad ending.

(codex text below cut)

“You are my dream. When you think yourself a nightmare, becoming or living one…remember that.”

He gripped her hand, heart lurching, “How would you stop it? If it exists within me?”

Her mouth twitched, briefly in to something forlorn, “Let our fortress protect you from it. You say I am a knight? Then you will have my sword and shield. Slip through the secret door and be free. I will follow, when I can.”

The simplicity of her answer stunned him into a silence of deep contemplation and he could only watch her walk away, returning to the camp alone. ‘A fortress to protect us from ourselves. Swords to cleave through the darkness. A secret door for the two of us.’

That night when he lay alone on his bedroll, Fen’Harel dreamed of a knight in the Fade that shattered a crumbling pillar holding the sky apart from the earth. As the heavens crashed into the land, through the chaos he witnessed the knight gather the pieces of the pillar heedless of the danger around them. Then, without looking back they secreted it away to a fortress built in a remote reach of the world. Far though the knight ran, they were pursued, for the pieces once holding apart the domains were highly sought after. He could not discern their hunters, whether they were armies mortal or mindless darkness, he knew only that they were intent on destroying their quarry in totality and finality.

Within the walls, the Knight prepared, shutting and barring all the doors and drawing up the bridges. Ghostly sentinels patrolled the battlements and he overheard talk of setting wicked traps and calling forth beasts from the Fade to guard the inside.

He felt a wrenching sorrow when at last the enemy arrived at their threshold and beat upon the walls with steel and magic. He did not know why, for any of it.

He found himself gripped by the dream as he watched the walls finally give way and the invaders flooded inside. He followed behind, through the ruined portcullis and into a wide courtyard, only to find that the shadowy invaders had come to a stop, emanating a perplexed air. He saw why.

There were no traps nor grotesque guardians. Of the sentinels there was no trace—perhaps an illusion all along.

Instead, they were greeted by frescoes adorning every surface, painted with pigments no mortal in present could possibly imagine. A thousand beautiful scenes that shifted and changed before his very eyes—mosaics made of gems and glass and stone glinting as though each piece contained its own soul. Gardens flourished all around that could only have been grown from dreams themselves.

The ache sank ever deeper, where no sword could reach as he watched the army disperse in search of the Knight and the Pillar. He seethed with anger, as they tore apart the sanctuary they had made. But he was powerless to stop them and he was filled with hate as desolation replaced beauty. Though he did not understand why they sought to capture the two, nor the enmity between the sides, he hoped the Knight and the Pillar would not be found.

After following what appeared to be the leader of the force, it seemed his hopes weren’t for naught.

They encountered a hidden door, overgrown by syl’sils. His throat constricted as the rare and fragile blooms were crushed and torn by hacking sword and clawing gauntlet.

When the door was finally revealed, only then did the hateful trespassers cease their assault.

For the secret door was already cracked open. They had escaped after all.

He treaded forward, not quite believing what he was seeing propped up against the wall, just to the side of the portal.

But before he could get a closer look, the cobblestones dropped under his next step and the dream collapsed around him.

When he woke, his cheeks were wet and he had no explanation why.

#solas #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age origins #da4 #dragon age dreadwolf #solasmance #solas x oc #digital art #illustration #artists on tumblr #solas x maordrid #otp: ouroboros #i reused a passage from my fic..still one of my favs :3 #maordrid #mogwaei arts #mogwaei ocs #I AM SO WEAK FOR THESE TWO #maelgwn

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xxxdragonfucker69xxx · 5 months

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The Abyssals crowdfunding campaign closes in about 24 hours.

I did not get to hourinblack all their charms. As penance, I am going to skim just the end of each charmtree, and tell you about the biggest, coolest power of each tree. I am also going to do this for necromancy because i am a necromantic slut.

ARCHERY:

World-Wounding Darkness: Shoot a hole in the world, leaving a black hole that sucks people in. This isn't actually near the end of the tree but it caught my eye and I was like holy fuck.

Heart-Numbing Spike: When you shoot someone, wound their ability to care about things.

Last Days Portent: Shoot out the fucking sun. Kills the lights over the battlefield. If you're being goth about it, kill the lights for miles around.

ATHLETICS

Mountains Become Dust: Physical scale is no longer a limit on feats of scale or destruction.

Light-Killing Stride: Move faster than someone. Didn't ask how fast they moved, you move faster than them.

Temple-Shattering Ruination Curse: Destroy a building to curse the land, making it shadowy and blighted and supernaturally scary. if you were being intense about it, it becomes an abyssal demesne, a permanent upwelling of goth energy

AWARENESS

All-Seeing Overlord's Lair: Extend your senses throughout your stronghold, you can't be surprised inside and your ghostly sentinels (you know, the wraiths you cast to patrol for you) can roam throughout

Morbid Inspiration Witness: Find inspiration in " the morbid, the eerie, or the darkly beautiful: an albatross dropping dead in flight, three black cats crossing the same street in sequence, lightning striking a distant temple." That inspiration grants you bonuses on various projects, and also makes you care deeply about it. This is enhanced by further charms like Fervent Caprice Fever and Unrelenting Obsession Genius

Piercing Gaze of the Unmaker: Pick a place within, like 20 miles. You see it like it's your lair and you're there. Or maybe you want to cast your gaze on your rival instead? they are going to feel a crawling sensation up their spine from your gaze through <3

BRAWL

Illustrative Overkill Technique: When you kill or incapacitate a guy, it's so fucked up you can use it to threaten anyone else. Or like blow up a building or whatever

Explosive Gore Eulogy (!!): When you do that ^ you can also use their corpse as a weapon. Jesus christ.

Life-Annihilating Castigation: Pyreflame your attack and multiply (!!) damage by your opponent's wound penalty. If you get their ass they explode with pyreflame from within, and if it kills them their ghost burns up on the spot

Void Avatar Embodiment: Now with 0% prana! Envelop yourself in the void, dealing aggravated damage on touch and withering ranged attacks away. Also you're as close to death as you want to be <3

BUREAUCRACY

Hateful Scorn Panopticon: when you use Accursed Overlord Authority to inspire hatred in your followers, you can sense when any of them encounter your enemy, and where.

Rotting Palace Proclamation: Reveal that you embedded a traitor in a rival organization. Or was it someone we knew all along?

Iron Tyrant Reign: When you do that Accursed Overlord thing, if it's a Defining Principle you can carve it into the world as an Old Law: everyone who hears or reads it must follow, words bleed through coverings or hover like fire in the air, the mindless dead automatically obey

Suffer No Betrayal: When you do the Panopticon, you can also count people who've broken your laws as enemies. You can immediately gain Defining Hatred... and possibly carve that as an old law with Iron Tyrant Reign? That isn't in the charm im just reading between the lines

CRAFT

Malicious Mechanism Mastery: Jesus this one is a cartoon supervillain bit. Reveal that an enemy has stumbled into your trap! If it's a corpse-based trap, it's worse!

Fivefold Malice Curse: Lay a curse on something you make, for instance if its bearer breaks an oath or acts against one of your principles. and if they trigger the curse they get blasted by your Bleak Expiations, aka Abyssal Limit Break aka You Cannot Escape The Goth

Soul-Tarnishing Treasure: Instead of an overt curse you can cause it to inspire vice, a sword demanding bloodshed or a chalice inspiring drink. You can't be totally free of this unless you give the object up

Drawn to Death's Beauty: When you use Magnificent Cenotaph Allure to imbue something with emotion, you can also fill it with the mesmerizing lure of death, so that people wander towards it like a will o wisp and cant look away

Betrayal-Spurring Gifts: Annatar their shit socially if you've given them something you've made. &btw cursing that shit is free

DODGE

Hanging Shrike Focus: Dodge up into the air and float back down, or fall on your enemies maybe

Queen of Killers Pirouette (!!): dodge so good you turn it back on them, like fucking zelda's neutral-B in smash

Tenebrous Cloud Dissolution: DRACULA FOG its fucking dracula fog

Breath-Seizing Mist: Hey how would you like it if dracula fog was inside your lungs

Icy Sepulcher Entombment: When you cause someone to despair at hitting you the ice literally grows around your heart and then freezes them over. The freezing stuff is actually pretty early in the tree but this is setup for

In Awful Glory Crowned: When you bring them to despair with Frozen Fears Blossom you can also drain their Willpower, and if you drain it all they become obedient to you. Unless they're unimportant in which case they might just fall over dead, turn into a ghost, and then be obedient to you

INTEGRITY

Freedom In Chains: If forced to act against death's chivalry or your principles, brood about it, then break free

Clarity in Hatred: Shaping defense if you're mad enough

Immortal Malevolence: If you've enshrined an intimacy with Eternal Enmity Approach, you can care so much that you simply do not die. Wake up the next sunset completely healed, but you can't use that intimacy again

INVESTIGATION

Heart-Haunting Condemnation: Scrooge a bitch. Nightmares and omens reinforce your accusations.

Bleak Justice Malediction: If your victim of the above draws on Ties to resist giving in to your accusations, the haunting spreads to those people and things too. If they die they haunt your victim. You can fully Book Of Job somebody here.

Omniscient Spymaster's Web. Know something. Your people told you. You think anyone can keep a secret from you?

#hour in black

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coolseabird · 4 months

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DS9 Characters as their DnD Equivalents

Sisko: Sisko imo would be a human Abberant Mind Sorcerer.

Abberant Mind Sorcerer: An alien influence has wrapped its tendrils around your mind, giving you psionic power. You can now touch other minds with that power and alter the world around you by using it to control the magical energy of the multiverse. Will this power shine from you as a hopeful beacon to others? Or will you be a source of terror to those who feel the stab of your mind and witness the strange manifestations of your might?

Kira: I think Kira would be a Tiefling or Deep Gnome Oath of the Watcher Paladin (Cardassians are technically alien invaders on her planet), maybe multiclassed with a Light Cleric. (Not the most optimal but this is just for fun)

Oath of the Watcher: The Oath of the Watchers binds paladins to protect mortal realms from the predations of extraplanar creatures, many of which can lay waste to mortal soldiers. Thus, the Watchers hone their minds, spirits, and bodies to be the ultimate weapons against such threats. Paladins who follow the Watchers' oath are ever vigilant in spotting the influence of extraplanar forces, often establishing a network of spies and informants to gather information on suspected cults. To a Watcher, keeping a healthy suspicion and awareness about one's surroundings is as natural as wearing armor in battle.

Light Domain Cleric: Gods of light – including Helm, Lathander, Pholtus, Branchala, the Silver Flame, Belenus, Apollo, and Re-Horakhty – promote the ideals of rebirth and renewal, truth, vigilance, and beauty, often using the symbol of the sun. Some of these gods are portrayed as the sun itself or as a charioteer who guides the sun across the sky. Others are tireless sentinels whose eyes pierce every shadow and see through every deception. Some are deities of beauty and artistry, who teach that art is a vehicle for the soul's improvement. Clerics of a god of light are enlightened souls infused with radiance and the power of their gods' discerning vision, charged with chasing away lies and burning away darkness.

Jadzia Dax: I think she would be a Fey Wanderer Ranger or a Hexblade Warlock. (If the weapon fully possessed her lol) I think her being a Githzerai could be cool (Mostly because spots XD) but Aasimar or any type of elf would make sense too!

Fey Wanderer Ranger: A fey mystique surrounds you, thanks to the boon of an archfey, the shining fruit you ate from a talking tree, the magic spring you swam in, or some other auspicious event. However you acquired your fey magic, you are now a Fey Wanderer, a ranger who represents both the mortal and the fey realms. As you wander the multiverse, your joyful laughter brightens the hearts of the downtrodden, and your martial prowess strikes terror in your foes, for great is the mirth of the fey and dreadful is their fury.

Hexblade Warlock:

You have made your pact with a mysterious entity from the Shadowfell – a force that manifests in sentient magic weapons carved from the stuff of shadow. The mighty sword Blackrazor is the most notable of these weapons, which have been spread across the multiverse over the ages. The shadowy force behind these weapons can offer power to warlocks who form pacts with it. Many hexblade warlocks create weapons that emulate those formed in the Shadowfell. Others forgo such arms, content to weave the dark magic of that plane into their spellcasting.

O'Brien: O'Brien would be a human artificer, Artillerist subclass.

An Artillerist specializes in using magic to hurl energy, projectiles, and explosions on a battlefield. This destructive power is valued by armies in the wars on many different worlds. And when war passes, some members of this specialization seek to build a more peaceful world by using their powers to fight the resurgence of strife. The world-hopping gnome artificer Vi has been especially vocal about making things right: "It's about time we fixed things instead of blowing them all to hell."

Bashir: I think Bashir would be a human Celestial Warlock. It's healing focused and his power not being original to him (but from a pact) kind of echoes his genetic modification in my opinion. (If this were a real campaign, his patron could be something he doesn't like telling people about)

Your patron is a powerful being of the Upper Planes. You have bound yourself to an ancient empyrean, solar, ki-rin, unicorn, or other entity that resides in the planes of everlasting bliss. Your pact with that being allows you to experience the barest touch of the holy light that illuminates the multiverse.

Worf: I think he screams paladin. I would make him either a Githyanki (for obvious reasons) or a Half Orc (I think it'd be similar to his being torn between the human and Klingon worlds due to his uprbinging) His devotion to honor and idealistic Klingon values is very important to him, even when compared to other Klingons. I think Oath of Glory would make a lot of sense. I don't think he'd be a perfect paladin by any means but I think he'd strive to be. (Also possibly a multiclass with war cleric?)

Oath of Glory: Paladins who take the Oath of Glory believe they and their companions are destined to achieve glory through deeds of heroism. They train diligently and encourage their companions so they're all ready when destiny calls. The tenets of the Oath of Glory drive a paladin to attempt heroics that might one day shine in legend. Actions over Words. Strive to be known by glorious deeds, not words. Challenges Are but Tests. Face hardships with courage, and encourage your allies to face them with you. Hone the Body. Like raw stone, your body must be worked so its potential can be realized. Discipline the Soul. You must marshal the discipline to overcome failings within yourself that threaten to dim the glory of you and your friends.

Odo: 100% a changeling also 100% an Order Domain Cleric

The Order Domain represents discipline, as well as devotion to the laws that govern a society, an institution, or a philosophy. Clerics of Order meditate on logic and justice as they serve their gods, examples of which appear in the Order Deities table. Clerics of Order believe that well-crafted laws establish legitimate hierarchies, and those selected by law to lead must be obeyed. Those who obey must do so to the best of their ability, and if those who lead fail to protect the law, they must be replaced. In this manner, law weaves a web of obligations that create order and security in a chaotic multiverse.

Quark: Kobold I think would make a ton of sense (loving shiny things XD) I also think he'd be a Rogue Inquisitive/ Lore Bard multiclass.

Rogue Inquisitive: As an archetypal Inquisitive, you excel at rooting out secrets and unraveling mysteries. You rely on your sharp eye for detail, but also on your finely honed ability to read the words and deeds of other creatures to determine their true intent. You excel at defeating creatures that hide among and prey upon ordinary folk, and your mastery of lore and your sharp eye make you well equipped to expose and end hidden evils.

Lore Bard: Bards of the College of Lore know something about most things, collecting bits of knowledge from sources as diverse as scholarly tomes and peasant tales. Whether singing folk ballads in taverns or elaborate compositions in royal courts, these bards use their gifts to hold audiences spellbound. When the applause dies down, the audience members might find themselves questioning everything they held to be true, from their faith in the priesthood of the local temple to their loyalty to the king.

Garak: I think Garak would be a Drow 100%, I also think he'd be a Mastermind Rogue.

Mastermind Rogue: Your focus is on people and on the influence and secrets they have. Many spies, courtiers, and schemers follow this archetype, leading lives of intrigue. Words are your weapons as often as knives or poison, and secrets and favors are some of your favorite treasures.

Inspired by this post by @bijoumikhawal

Go read it!

I'm new to DnD so if you have any other ideas please comment/ reblog with them! I'd love to hear it :)

#star trek #ds9 #star trek deep space nine #dnd #dungeons and dragons #dnd classes #just for fun

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