#THEY UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER ON A LEVEL BEYOND THAT OF FLESH AND BLOOD AND IT HURTS KNOWING THEY DO
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Hi, im very sorry if this has already been answered or established somewhere else but im curious, with your Kazumaji stuff, around what time did they start dating (i.e. after the events of Yakuza 0 and all that) and how?
tbh, I dunno!
I don't really have an established date for that cuz sometimes I'm like man they'd be really cute during y0 and then other times I set it between post y0 and the beginning of y1. The latest they would start me thinks is some months after the events of y1 but in general it sorta depends on how I'm feeling and what silly scenarios play in my head
ideas under the cut tho 👀
if we're talking y0: I like to think Kiryu has to go to Sotenbori for some reason, be it business or he's there with Nishiki for some partying. he sees Majima at the Grand being depressed and is like "damn girl those bags under your eyes makes my dick go *boing sound effect*" and asks him out 🥺 Kiryu gets rejected immediately cuz Majima's in this cycle of 'I deserve nothing but pain and suffering' but Kiryu can't read the room so he is persistently showing up at the Grand despite Majima very obviously wanting to kick his ass. eventually he relents and goes on cute™ dates with Kiryu and realizes oof maybe human intimacy be kinda gucci
if between y0 and y1: Majima's fresh in his mad dog era starting shit with people just to be annoying and Kiryu's one of his targets mainly due to the events of y0. he's kinda like "lol this goober really did some important plot stuff, huh?" and his curiosity gets the better of him because Kiryu is an enigma who eats bugs and Majima cannot suppress his need to get some sense of understanding on this weirdo. in this timeline, it's more one-sided affection from Majima that comes in the form of stabbing while Kiryu is desperately trying to fight the gay allegations and failing. eventually he caves but it's a sorta unofficial, on and off thing that Kiryu doesn't really know how to evaluate for himself. Majima doesn't really care what they are since he's high on life atm and has a cute dude with big boobs on his arm
if during y1: literally just everything Majima Everywhere. Goromi. GOROMI 😩💦 Kiryu is all: I LIKE PUSSY but everyone's like okay big man then why's Majima pole dancing for you huh. the two braincells he has start to click and he realizes maybe Majima wants to hold hands or something unthinkable like that. ngl I like to think Kiryu's thing for Yumi is like a demisexual bi thing where he's like, I do love her but she don't zap my brain quite like the bowlcut freak who knows how to punch me real good and it becomes sorta his personal introspective journey during this time. Majima is also floating in the space of am I doing this for his benefit cuz "training" or am I falling for this dork. he's pretty sad about it cuz of the Saejima reminder vibes but eventually Kiryu falls into his own person that Majima really meshes with and the two of them struggle to actually voice how they feel all the while their pants are down in some dirty alley
if after y1: (going to insert shit from a fic I'm working on) Kiryu's absolutely devastated with what happened in the Millennium Tower + now having to take care of Haruka that he's shut himself off from everyone and everything other than doing the bare minimum to live. in comes Majima being a menace like yo you can't like, let a child parent herself you gotta get outta this slump and Kiryu's all fuck you stop breaking into my house. so it's a long pain in the ass process to help Kiryu deal with his grief while Majima keeps unintentionally making googoo eyes at him and both of them are like boy I sure hope this doesn't awaken anything within me. there's also a lotta dadjima stuff going on and Kiryu's like wowie zowie so you do have a heart and Majima's like no way loser while being just 😳👉👈
#apologies for the way I write sometimes I like to put out total garble because it makes my heart go thumpa thump#god I love them I LOVE THEM#THEY UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER ON A LEVEL BEYOND THAT OF FLESH AND BLOOD AND IT HURTS KNOWING THEY DO#THAT THEY BOTH SUFFER AND THEY FEEL THAT IT'S BEST TO BE ALONE RATHER THAN BRING SOMEONE ELSE ON THE RIDE#BUT THAT RIDE BRINGS THEM BOTH TO THE SAME DESTINATION THAT THEY ARE BOTH BROKEN MEN HAUNTED BY THINGS THEY DID—THINGS THEY COULD HAVE DONE#BUT MAYBE THERE'S HOPE IN HAVING SOMEONE TO LIVE FOR—SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THE STRUGGLE OF REDEMPTION DESPITE ONE'S NATURE#TO LIFT EACH OTHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF SELF LOATHING BECAUSE THEY CAN DO BETTER#then I'm tranquilized and shoved back into my cage for relocation#kazumaji#kiryu kazuma#majima goro#my hcs
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coaxed you into paradise - c. 21
Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.
(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)
masterlist for this series
Chapter Twenty-One: Blood of Two
“Take my hand in marriage. I’ll marry you in the sight of our gods.” he offered, reaching to cup her face. “Be my wife, bear more of my children. If it is revenge that you seek - I will be your servant.” he professes, not wanting to freely love his niece. “I have a husband, Daemon.” She reasons, staring deep into his dark-purple orbs.
“My blood flows for you. I won’t mind being your second husband - as long as I am the first in your heart.” he whispered in return, hoping that she’d listen to him. They were Valyrians - carved in the same fire that sought to destroy the world. They were beyond the laws of men.
—
All those years of torment brought them back to Dragonstone. The yearning and longing combined led them back to each other’s arms. Saera takes a deep breath - eyes meeting those of her twin children.
“What about father?” Alyssa asked, eyes swelling with tears. She leans down to their level, cupping both of their faces with her hands. “My children,” she began and the girl crossed her arms. There was no love between Harwin and Saera, both of them knew it - but their children didn’t know that.
“Do you spurn me?” she asked, staring deep into her daughter’s eyes. Alyssa’s gaze softened. “I am not the mother that I wish I was.” she confessed with a deep breath, “- and I have wronged you, all your lives.” she added, a single tear flowing down her eyes - she had her children too young. She didn’t realize that she was still oblivious to the world in those times.
“I don’t understand you, muña.” Alyssa admitted. Saera gives her a bitter smile. “You both wonder why you look more Targaryens than your cousins.” Saera’s left hand returned to her necklace, opening her right hand further - pulling the children so they’d be embracing her.
She inhales their scent - of honeyed limes and cinnamon. Her children and her blood. The fruits of her soul. She wanted to tell them about their real paternity - but she fought upon that thought seeing that they were still children.
“Daemon will not replace your father, I promise.” she kissed the top of both their heads. “The conqueror had two wives, did he love one of them more than the other?” she questioned and the Twins shook their heads.
—
The traditions of Valyria were lost in time - but not lost to Daemon and Saera. Weddings of Old Valyria were typically simple and modest, they didn’t wear fancy gowns or host luxurious feasts. Saera was wearing borrowed clothes that she had sewn the day before. It was shining white - with black and red threads.
“Hen lantoti ānogar, (blood of two)” Saera recited while taking the obsidian dagger, cutting her palms and watching as the blood seeped through her stained forearm. “Va syndroti vāedroma, (joined as one)” he answered - sharing a smile before taking the dagger and cutting his own palms. By this time, rain began to pour from the clouds - coating the soil with water.
He looks in her direction again, losing himself in her lavender hues. Saera Targaryen - his niece, his wife, and flesh. “Mēro perzot gīhoti, (ghostly flames)” she responded, eyes locked in his own. The sides of her mouth turned upwards, smiling softly while their hands entwined together - their blood flowing and mixing. “Elēdroma jārza sīr, (and song of shadows)” he recited, taking the blood from his palms and writing the Valyrian words on her forehead.
‘Blood’ he wrote.
‘Fire’ she added on his.
He resisted the urge to lean over and kiss her forehead. He looks over her shoulder to see their children watching them. “Izulī ampā perzī, (two hearts as embers.)” she whispered - like a prayer. She takes the dagger from his hand, allowing the moment to linger. She reaches for his face again, creating a soft line in the middle of his supple lips. “Prūmi lanti sēteksi, (forged in fourteen flames)” he whispered, doing the same thing to her.
“Hen jeny māzīlarionr, (to a future promised in glass)” she answered, feeling the blaze graze her lips. “Qēlossa ozūndesi, (the stars stand witness)” they say in unison, as the priest descends with a goblet filled with blood. “Syndroro ōñō jēdo, (the vow spoken through time)” they say at the same time. The smell of petrichor enters their lungs. It was a prophecy.
Saera takes a sip from the goblet — tasting the delicious taste of rust and iron. "Ry kīyla mazvestraksi, (of darkness and light)" he breathed out as her lips left the rim of the cup, offering him a chance to drink too. He takes a sip of the blood — smiling as he feels her hand delicately touch his forearm. After his lips leave the goblet. She wipes the crimson from his lips and brings her thumb to her mouth, tasting the iron of his tongue.
Dragons of thread, weaving dragons of destruction.
“To fire and blood,” she whispered - grabbing his forearm and tasting the blood that he recently drank. “To the promise of spring,” he answered.
—
Viserys placed the parchment loudly on his table, rattling the previous paperwork that laid waste. It was a letter informing that Saera had married his brother in Dragonstone - and that there was nothing he could do to stop them. “I’m sure that they are jesting,” Lord Lyonel says uneasily - angered that his good-daughter has brought shame upon House Strong.
“We will get to the bottom of this, I assure you.” Viserys comforts, the dragon inside of him stirring awake. He didn’t mind seeing his daughter and brother around and making children - but marrying each other? It was too ambitious, even for Daemon. “Prince Daemon has never been one to think about the long-term outcomes of his actions. He is doing this for attention, your grace - you should pay him no mind.” Ser Otto responds, reading the letter.
“It is a sin against the seven gods.” Lyonel gritted his teeth, prepared to drag his good-daughter away from Dragonstone and barred in Harrenhal. “I understand if they were cousins - but uncle and niece? Princess Saera has known Prince Daemon since she was a babe.” Lyonel antagonized.
Oh the nobles were going to make fun of him.
Question his grandchildren’s legitimacy, even.
“According to the letter - they will arrive here tomorrow. I advise both of you to keep your opinions to yourselves. You are speaking of the prince and princess of this kingdom.” Viserys reprimanded, still having a soft spot for Aemma’s second daughter.
next chapter>>
taglist: @watercolorskyy @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @delaynew @thisbihreadstoomuch @plutoscosmoss @immyowndefender @marvelescvpe @batmans-love @luanasrta @tesha-i-guess@valeridarkness
#daemon x reader#daemon targaryen x oc#daemon targaryen#daemon targaryen x reader#prince daemon targaryen#daemon targaryen headcanon#daemon targaryen fic#daemon targaryen smut#daemon targaryen imagine#daemon targaryen fanfic#daemon targaryen fluff#house targaryen#house of the dragon#daemon headcanons#daemon prince#daemonism#hotd daemon
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When the Ice Melts
chapter 4/4, prev chapter
Mulder and Scully hook up before Mulder is locked up in storage, and she comes to believe that he was infected; 1k words; rated e; tagging @today-in-fic
Read on AO3
The metal of the door scrapes along the floor revealing the darkness inside the storage room. The light from the hall behind her stabs the shadows, showing Mulder huddled at the back against the shelving unit. He jumps to his feet, dazed by the light and startled by her presence.
“Is it just you?” He sounds accusatory but she knows that is just the overcoat to his fright.
She steps forward, firm. “Yes.”
The door scrapes again and she looks back as it closes behind her, eating the last slither of light as it swallows her with him in the darkness. In the moment before she reaches for the cord, everything is deathly still and drawn. She can hear his quiet, ragged breathing, placing him across from her, the howling of the wind outside and the pounding of her own heart in her chest. There's a cold metallic taste in her mouth and a weightlessness of her stomach falling. Then the light is on.
The naked bulb swings freely between them, stretching and shaping the shadows on his face from his brow to his cheeks. His forehead shines, damp with sweat, and she can see properly now the slight red puffiness to his eyes.
Mulder squints, offended by the sudden assault. “It's one of them”
She watches as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“No-one's been killed since you've been in here.”
He shifts his weight, edging closer to her. “So?”
The air thickens and her breathes grow heavier. She gulps and considers: seeing him again for the first time in an eternity of a few hours. She can feel the blood pumping through her veins, carrying the thrum of something thrilling. “We found a way to kill it.” He is quiet, only blinking. She moves closer to him, seeking something. His warmth? His understanding? His touch? Him? Her lips quiver around the shape of the words in hesitation. “Two worms in one host will kill each other.”
His words are flat, “You give me one worm, you'll infect me.”
“If that's true,” she whispers, advancing with a glare, “then why didn't you let us inspect you?”
In an instant he is crouched at her level, his face just inches away from hers. “I would have,” he hisses. “But you pulled a gun on me!” There's something in his voice but it lacks the venom of their previous argument. Her eyes dart between each of his, trying to focus but between his proximity and his wild eyes, her pulse picks up pace. He has them trapped in a curtain of darkness of his own making. The heat of his breath on her face sets her whole body alight, the carnal familiarity of it on her skin fuel to her funeral pyre. “Now, I don't trust them… I want to trust you.”
“Okay,” She steadies her breathing. “But now they're not here.”
With a burning lingering look, he turns away, pulling his shirt aside, offering his bare neck. Tentatively, she reaches up, fingers circling around the cotton. The grunt he makes when she yanks the collar has her clenching around the phantom feeling of where his cock was moving inside her just hours ago. Ignoring her sudden wetness, she feels the flesh of his shoulders, grasping and pulling, her touch more ardent with the realisation that his skin is as soft and smooth as it was before. He turns around and meets her gaze as if to say see? The relief she feels is overwhelming; she can't contain. The smallest slither of a smile slips past her lips. As it grows beyond control she dips her hide to mask her emotion. One thought fills her heart, spilling over: he's okay, we're okay.
Scully makes to leave, having only managed two steps, when a firm hand grips her shoulder possessively, halting her in her tracks. The shock knocks the air from her lungs and she gasps. Whipping her head back to fire him a questioning look, she is again stopped still. A gentle hand caresses the back of her head both calming and warming. She could break away and demand to know what he is doing. She could, but to her own surprise, she doesn't want to. Completely under his control, she melts into defenceless putty in his hands.
Tenderly, he brushes aside the hair on her neck, covering all of her with one strong hand. One purposeful squeeze and Scully bites her lip but not quick enough to keep the whimper from escaping. Part of her silently urges him to walk her up to the wall or bend her over a shelf and take her. The other party, that would have since protested, knows all too well the pleasure that can be found with him. Fuck. She squeezes her thighs together.
“We need to talk.”
He hums but doesn't release her.
“Mulder…” Reaching behind herself, grabs ahold of his wrist and pivots to face him.
An impish smirk dons his features as he twists his hand to hold hers. Learning into her space, he whispers, “Don't worry: you feel good.”
His obvious innuendo makes her blush. She reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking absently across it. “Mulder,” She admonishes again.
He shakes his head apologetically. “I know.”
Looking into his dark eyes, she stretches up on the tip of her toes and takes his lips. Being scooped up in his arms, she deepens the kiss, desperately missing that closeness they had earlier.
Scully is the first to break away, yet she keeps close, pitting her forehead against his. Her fingers curl through the hair at the nape of his neck as she slowly licks her lips. “If it's not you or me… “
“It's one of them,” he finishes for her.
“How are we gonna do this?”
He clasps her hands in his and squeezes. “I don't know, but we have to trust each other.”
“Okay,” she nods. “Let's go.”
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Ragnarrsons reaction to sigurd killing ivar (sigurd was the one who threw the axe)
Title: The Fractured Brotherhood
Bjorn Ironside, Ubbe Ragnarson, and Hvitserk Ragnarson were gathered around a fire, discussing their latest conquests and future plans. Suddenly, they received news of a shocking event that left them stunned and shattered their brotherhood.
Their brother, Sigurd, had killed their other brother, Ivar, in a fit of rage. Sigurd had thrown the fatal axe that had struck Ivar's heart, and he now stood accused of fratricide.
Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk were torn apart by this news. They had always known their brotherhood was strong, but this event had shattered it beyond repair. They were each grappling with their own emotions - shock, sadness, anger, and betrayal.
Bjorn, the eldest of the brothers and the most experienced warrior, was the first to recover from the shock. He vowed to bring Sigurd to justice for his crime, no matter what it took.
Ubbe, the most level-headed of the brothers, tried to find a way to reconcile the broken bonds between them. He spoke to Sigurd, trying to understand what had driven him to commit such an act. However, Sigurd was unrepentant, stating that Ivar had been plotting against the brothers behind their backs.
Hvitserk, the youngest brother, was torn between his loyalty to Ivar and his love for Sigurd. He struggled to come to terms with the fact that his own flesh and blood had committed such a heinous act.
In the end, the three brothers went their separate ways, never to fight together as a united force again. The brotherhood that had once been their strength was now a distant memory, and they were left to fight their own battles.
#ivar the boneless#bjorn ironside imagine#ubbe ragnarsson imagine#ivar the boneless imagine#sigurd snake in the eye#Sigurd snake in the eye imagine#hvitserk ragnarsson#hvitserk imagine#bjorn Ironside#Ubbe Ragnarson
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Clockwork Heart pt25
Part 24 here
———
*Agonised screaming of thousands of voices growing louder and drawing in silently like the pulsing of a heart*
Wyrm: *floating in a darkened void surrounded by the shifting cacophony of terror and pain* be… quiet…
???: Its dark!! It’s dark!!!
???: I can’t see! It burns!
???: You lied to us! They lied to all of us!!!
???: MAMAAAA! MAMAAAAA!!!
???: I can’t breathe!
???: it hurts! Get off of me!!
???: help us!! Help us!!!
Wyrm: *opens his eyes as a burning heat surrounds his body to see the broken construct of the brass tower staring back at him, it’s face half submerged in the magma of red mountain and floating above it, the heart of lorkhan, it’s red form writhing and twisting, revealing itself to be made of the bodies of thousands of dwemer, all of them bound to their creation and the heart they abused in making it, all of them screaming, clawing, kicking and twisting about in an eternal struggle to get free from what they’d done* be quiet… *grits his teeth watching as they ignore him*
“BE QUIET!!!”
The heart of lorkhan: *all halt in place, as if the heat had stopped beating, all of the souls bound to it, turning their gaze to him in silence, staring, acknowledging his presence, his voice breaching the veil between waking and dreaming in that moment* …
Wyrm: *staring back at them, weeks, months, years worth of vitriolic anger built up within him bubbling to the surface like blood from an open cut. Anger that he’d spent so long trying to learn who he is, anger of what the dwemer did to start all of this in the first place, anger at the heart of lorkhan itself for causing him and those he cares about so much pain, and anger at himself, at sotha sil, for their part in it as well* …I. Hate. You.
The heart of Lorkhan: … *suddenly begins to murmur and rumble as the souls making up its mass cry out and whisper and groan and whine like wounded animals, their one salvation despised them, the one they were relying on, the one sotha sil promised them. Their movements growing more and more agitated like maggots in a frenzy devouring flesh, each other, it didn’t matter, they had to move they had to break free, their voices joining in unison as the heart pulsates with a shockwave that could level cities and ripple oceans* Make. Him. WHOLE!
???: Seht?
Wyrm: *jumps and opens his eyes to see himself not in the volcano anymore, but instead a rather comfortable looking room, and before him a familiar figure floating in a lotus pose before him, vivec* what?
Vivec: *sighs and looks back down at the script he was writing* I said I understand your concerns. But there is nothing I can do about it, not now at least.
Wyrm: *realising he’s witnessing another memory as sotha sils voice speaks through him* If you don’t do something now there won’t be another chance to act, why won’t you listen to me?!
Vivec: the heart is out of our reach, Seht. I’m already too weakened… I’m not asking you to believe me. Nor will I blame you if you don’t. But I understand your plan. And in the future from now I will help you fix what we’ve done… but right now, I cannot help you or our people, beyond trying to maintain order as I can.
Wyrm: There won’t be a future- i- Ugh. Forget it. You and Ayem are as delusional as eachother. If neither of you will help me then I’ll do it myself. *turns and leaves as the memory fades and burns up like a sheet of paper flaking away to ash, but not before vivec gets his final word*
Vivec: I’ll help you when the dragons return. *smiles knowingly*
Wyrm: What? *looks back at him and blinks awake to find himself in his bedroom, tucked safely in his bed surrounded by nearly the entirety of the collage faculty, with his father, Enthir, Neht and Voryn all huddled by his side* h-huh?…
Voryn: *visibly sweating and trembling from trying to pull him out of another nightmare* he’s- he’s awake-
Nerevar: *holds him close* my dreamer, lay down… *shifts him up onto the bed beside Wyrm before taking the young dunmers hand* can you hear us wyrm?
Enthir: *wiping Wyrms face with a damp cloth* come back to us prince-
Urag: *eyes red with tears as he grips Wyrms Pearl eye in his hand* What were you thinking pup?… why would you do something so reckless?
Nerevar: and what made you use your thuum? Did something happen?
Enthir: and why was your head bleeding when we found you at the edge of town?!
Voryn: Enough.
Everyone: *goes quiet before finally noticing Wyrms expression, the dunmer looking down at his hand, still being held by nerevar. Tears pouring down his face as he avoids their gaze, looking so ashamed of himself for making them worry, for being careless, but ultimately embarrassed that he was to weak he couldn’t even make it to the stables* …
Voryn: *sighs with a shuddery breath as pain continues to grip his heart* He’s still hurting… please, give him some space… we can ask questions later once he’s had a chance to recover…
Urag: *nods sadly before looking back at the others, a room filled with people Wyrm considers family* you heard him…
Tolfdir: *nods at him before looking at the other professors and clearing his throat* Well, now that that’s sorted, tea anybody?
Everyone: *nods, murmuring amongst themselves before walking out leaving only them, and Savos Aren present*
Savos: … *walks to the beside slowly before stopping* …Ancano assaulted you. Didn’t he?
Wyrm: *looks up at him, eye glassy and staring almost into his soul* … *nods* he… grabbed… me…
Savos: *staring at the patch on the side of the smaller dunmers head where they’d found him bleeding* Well. I now have sufficient evidence at last to enact justice then… I’ll see to it he’s dealt with accordingly.
Enthir: *gritting his teeth as he turns and glares at him* You should have dealt with him when this all first started! All of this is your fault! Wyrm is in this position because of you!!!
Savos: *sighs* if you say so. *turns to leave not wanting to put up with Enthirs justified anger towards him*
Wyrm: …why did you send my friends to the Labyrinthian?… to die like you let your friends?…
Savos: *blood freezing in his veins, finally realising why Wyrm never liked him, realising he knew he was the one to blame for the other students disappearances that year* … *looks back at him slowly and swallows a lump in his throat* to gather an artefact that could cause you great harm before ancano can get his hands on it… I did not send them there, they went on their own accord, and threatened me into giving them the key… Lord Nerevar will tell you the same.
Wyrm: … *slowly turns his gaze to nerevar and pulls his hand away from his grasp* …You lied…
Nerevar: I- no Wyrm I didn’t I just-
Voryn: He didn’t want you to get hurt anymore than you already we-
Wyrm: *glares up at him* you lied…
Enthir: Pearl it’s ok-
Wyrm: *gritting his teeth as he stares him down too* liar…
Urag: … *gently takes his hand in his own* …pup?…
Wyrm: *looks down at his hand but doesn’t acknowledge his touch* …I want to be alone now papa… please… leave me alone…
Urag: *heart breaking seeing his son so destroyed, so far gone from his joyful beam of sunshine* …alright pup… I’ll be in the arcanum if you need me. *shakily gets up with Enthirs help* you two as well. *looks at voryn & nerevar* let’s leave him be.
Nerevar: but what if he-
Voryn: Neht… he needs space… *reaches up hugging his arms around his neck to be lifted up* we hurt him…
Nerevar: *furrows his brow seeing the pain on Wyrms face, and the anger in his eye* …I’m sorry… *lifts voryn into his embrace and carries him out the door following Enthir and Urag*
Savos: *watches them go by before looking at Wyrm one final time, then following them out as well* …
Wyrm: … *lays his head back into the pillows, hugging himself tight* …teacup…
*meanwhile*
Taliesin: *gasps as his eyes snap open to the darkened interior of the labyrinthian, the stagnant air filling his lungs as he shoots upright and his hand clutching his chest as he comes back to the waking world, realising he’s alive* Wyrm- *coughs and holds his head remembering what happened, estormo bringing the butt of the staff of Magnus down on his head… the staff that he should have taken… the staff now mysteriously laying beside him and his two unconscious friends* what on nirn… Kaidan- Inigo!! *shifts onto his knees and starts shaking both of them* wake up! Wake up please wake up!!
Inigo: *jolts awake gasping for air and slapping Kaidan in the face with his arm* I’m alive- *coughs from the dusty air* My friends are you hurt-
Kaidan: *groans from being rudely awoken and sleeping on the stone floor* arghhh Whot the fock?… SHIT- *suddenly sits up right grabbing taliesins face and looking him over in a panic as he sees the dried blood caked on his skin* Don’t move let me- huh?
Taliesin: *face smooshed in his hands, blinks at him in confusion* please tell me I’m still pretty after estormos attack on my visage-
Kaidan: I?… you’re covered in blood but there’s no injuries anywhere on you.
Taliesin: what? *feels his face before looking at Kaidans as well, then feeling around the blood matted fur on inigo’s head and getting the same result* I- the staff is still here and we’re healed what… what happened?
Kaidan: Doesn’t matter, we’ll figure it out as we travel. *gets up helping the other two to their feet before grabbing the staff and wrapping it in his cape* if we get focking jumped again because of this damned thing I’m going to go berserk.
Taliesin: good use that energy on them next time instead.
Kaidan: They hit me with some strange magic damn it! I know we don’t get along but id never willingly attack you.
Taliesin: I know, and I’m sorry for putting you in a chokehold to get you off inigo.
Kaidan: aye, don’t mention it, I’m sorry I went below the belt inigo.
Inigo: *remembering why he can taste vomit now and feeling the pain between his legs* d-dont mention it- can one of you carry me to the horses please- *coughs*
Taliesin: *crouches down lifting the khajiit up onto his back without hesitation* let’s get back to the collage before ancano can do whatever it is he’s plannin-
*chime*
Taliesin: *looks back bewildered hearing a bell ring softly somewhere in the barrow, it’s ringing reminding him of velothi ceremonial bells he’d seen and heard on display in the grand library in Alinor* did you… hear that?
Kaidan: Might be that focking priest waking up again. Let’s move before we find out. *grabs his arm leading him from the maze like tomb*
*a few days later*
Wyrm: *still confined to his room and to his bed, quietly staring down at his book, eyes fixated on the pages with growing frustration that still nothing more has revealed itself* I know who I am, who I’m supposed to be… why won’t you let me read what I’m clearly supposed to know?
“Do you though?”
Wyrm: *shakes his head hearing his soul half whisper back to him, with a voice that he’d now come to know as sotha sils and yet, it wasn’t him, not fully him* what though?…
“Know who you are?”
Wyrm: *gritting his teeth* I know I’m annoyed with people being in my head who don’t belong there. *shakes his head harder before closing his book and hitting his forehead with it in frustration* UGHHH!
???: Wyrm stop that! You’ll hurt yourself-
Wyrm: *jumps as voryn suddenly takes the book from his hands* g-go away. *sniffles reaching for the book only for voryn to sit behind him on the bed and gently inspect his face to see if he hurt himself*
Voryn: *gently brushing his bangs back to see a red mark on his forehead from the impact of the hard cover* Oh Pearl…
Wyrm: *pulls away and turns his back on him again* g-go away, I hate this, I hate you, I hate nerevar! I hate sotha sil and I hate everything about this stupid book!! *grabs it and throws it hard against the wall making a page suddenly fly out of it and dance slowly onto the ground*
Voryn: *feeling hurt at his words but even more so as his heart hangs heavy with the stress and anger the young dunmer is bottling up inside* …I don’t blame you for your anger, Wyrm. *gently grasps his hair and pulls a comb from his pocket, brushing it slowly and carefully* And you’re allowed to be angry… we hurt you, we were only trying to protect you but in doing so we made you feel weak, and betrayed. I’m… glad to see you showing your frustrations, it means we can help you better this t-
Wyrm: I DONT WANT HELP! *chokes out a sob* I’m supposed to be the dragonborn! I’m supposed to be strong but I’m not! I don’t want help! I want to be able to help! But I can’t! I’m worthless! I’m weak! And every time I think I’m getting somewhere that stupid heart! That f-fucking book! And all those voices screaming! Screaming louder and louder and sotha sil! All of it keeps coming back and weakening me again!!! And again! And when I finally show strength, when I fight for myself… all I do is hurt everyone around m-me… I hurt papa, I hurt the soldiers in Helgen, I hurt the Psijic monks… and I keep hurting you… *sniffles hugging his knees to his chest* I can’t ever do anything right, nothing ever goes my way, and everyone always leaves me eventually… how can I protect everyone from alduin when I can’t even protect myself?…
Voryn: *sets the comb down and pulls him into his arms. Lifting his chin up to look at him* Do you really believe that Wyrm?… If you can’t protect yourself then explain how you fought off Ancano in the courtyard? Or Taliesins story of the dragon and the watch tower? Or how you set the troll on fire on high hrothgar? Do you doubt the greybeards belief in you?
Wyrm: *looks up at him before shaking his head sadly, already feeling remorseful for his words spoken in frustration and anger* …Wh-what do I do voryn?… I’m so afraid… I don’t know what to do…
Voryn: *dries his face with his sleeve and tucks a strand of hair behind the smaller elfs ear before offering him his hand* Let us help you, Wyrm, we can teach you… neht made a promise to you when you were a child after all.
Wyrm: *looks up at his hand and then back up at him as he slides his fingers into his, interlocking them before leaning in for a hug as he weeps openly into the older elfs robes* I’m- I’m s-sorry, I don’t h-hate you or- n-nerevar! I’m sorry!
Voryn: *smiles and strokes his hair as he holds him in arms* shhh, I know you didn’t mean it. I’m not upset. I- huh?
Mr wrench: *suddenly picks up the page and holds it out as if observing the strange text and patterns* … *suddenly begins rattling violently before a beam of light shines out from its ocular device, projecting a memory on the wall through the eyes of not sotha sil, but someone else*
Voryn: what on ni- *moves to cover Wyrms eyes as the image of sotha sils newly fully automated body appears in the vision, hanging suspended from the cables feeding his very life force into the city* dont lo- Wyrm!
Wyrm: *slides out of his grasp and shakily walks to the wall, staring up at the projection in amazement as he sees this form of sotha sil from another’s perspective, still alive, still breathing like the bellows to the furnace powering a great ship* its him, he’s… not dead yet I- *jumps a little hearing a voice play from the memory, one he recognised as vivecs*
Vivec: I knew what to expect coming to find you here, however seeing you now for myself is no less frightening all the same… *walks closer until he stands only a few feet away, sotha sil slowly raising up his head to look at him, his one living eye staring at him, through him, beyond him, into his very soul and mind and the lies that make up his being*
Sotha Sil: you… brought what I requested?…
Vivec: *nods and holds out sotha sils mask* …Ayem will come for you when I leave… I can stay and-
Sotha sil: no… it cannot be avoided… if she fails to kill me. Nerevar will do so instead…
Vivec: you’re certain it’s him then…
Sotha Sil: *nods slowly, the mechanical joints to his form clicking and twisting* it is as I told you… will you keep to me your promise then?…
Vivec: I will when the time comes.
Sotha Sil: that time is now, Vehk…
Vivec: Not yet. But it’ll come.
Sotha Sil: *sighs* never mind… I should have expected disappointment from you…
Vivec: warranted I suppose. *gently leans in giving him a soft, final kiss before placing his mask on him with care* For now, at least. *steps back and smiles* I’ll see you later, my friend… *turns and walks away, leaving seht alone in the core of his city as the vision suddenly blurs and fades, before changing to another memory, to Wyrms book resting on his desk, as a gloved hand slides the page in amongst the others*
Wyrm: *tilts his head in confusion before feeling his blood turn to ice as the vision moves showing him, himself, fast asleep in his bed as voryn sleeps soundly beside him* wh-what?
Voryn: *eyes wide and getting out of bed to grab Wyrm* NEREVAR!!!
Mr wrench: *suddenly rattles and bopples about violently as bolts and gears pop loose from their sockets and the projection fades before collapsing with a shattered soul gem*
Wyrm: m-mr wrench? *picks him up as voryn suddenly ushers him towards the door* what’s going on?
Nerevar: *hurries in with his hand on his blade hearing the fear in voryns voice* what’s going on?!
Voryn: Vivec! He’s here! He was in this room while we were sleeping! He’s after Wyrm!
*meanwhile*
Ancano: *standing within the midden, smirking as Estormo approaches with what he thinks is the staff of Magnus in his hands* I’m glad to see you’ve returned. I do hope you had no troubles? Three of them, perhaps?
Estormo: No trouble at all, they were easy to kill. *hands him the staff, only to pause in confusion as the illusion fades revealing a grotesque, oddly leathery spear* what on Nirn?…
Ancano: … *holds up the spear, his eyes staring at it as his face contorts with mounting anger* … *glares at estormo* …
Estormo: … *backs up, then turns to run only to be impaled from behind, the spear ripping through his uniform and out through his chest with a sickening cracking of ribs and ripping of flesh* Ugh- *coughs up blood as he attempts to let out a final scream, before going limp and collapsing as ancano lets go of the weapon letting him drop*
Ancano: *lightning crackling up his arms and flashing through his eyes and gritted teeth* Enough of this. To oblivion with the concordat! I’ll level this pathetic relic into the sea and take him as my prize! *stomps his foot down on estormos head as he marches over his body to the ladder, cracking his skull with his boot, letting it echo through the halls of the underdark, mixing with the chime of a bell*
#Wyrm dragonborn#sotha sil#voryn dagoth#nerevar#skyrim taliesin#Kaidan skyrim#inigo skyrim#Enthir#urag gro shub#ancano#estormo#skyrim
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All right. Rakha ramblings resume. :D
A lovely anon-friend informed me that we can get an easily-missable cutscene if we do a long rest prior to heading towards Lae'zel/the grove, which coincidentally lands nicely alongside the drabble I wrote yesterday working on fleshing out Rakha's voice.
So. A fractured night's sleep in the shadow of the crashed nautiloid. (Obviously the game just puts us in the usual wilderness campsite but just go with me on this. XD )
Shadowheart is skeptical:
"You strike me as the reliable sort, but are you sure this is a good idea?"
Rakha squints at her, puzzled. "Sure what is a good idea?"
"Each hour that passes, the thing inside us grows. We need to find a healer. Let's wake up at first light."
I was looking at my first set of Rakha posts earlier and realized, amusingly, that she managed to skid past any overt dialogue option that would explain WHAT the worm is and what the danger is - of turning into a mind flayer themselves; Rakha was so clipped off that she managed to not get that information from either Lae'zel OR Shadowheart on the ship. The first ACTUAL indication we got of there being a time pressure threat was the NARRATOR explaining that something needs to be done about the situation, down on the beach.
However, it simplifies things if we assume that Lae'zel explained it at some point on the way to the bridge, because otherwise this would be even more of a baffling conversation for Rakha than it already is.
As it stands, though, I think she's as frustrated as Shadowheart is at the need for rest, when the revenge and answers she craves are both out there waiting.
"Agreed," she says curtly. "Our top priority, as far as I'm concerned."
Shadowheart seems to relax a little. Rakha has already made it pretty clear that standing against her is a good recipe for a fire blast in the face, so it's no doubt relieving to know they're on the same page, at least for now. "Maybe we'll get lucky," she says with a hint of humor. "We're overdue some good fortune."
A pause. Then a cautious friendly overture. "Rest well. We'll need our strength."
Rakha doesn't respond, just shrugs, wedges herself under a nearby overhang of wreckage, and turns her thoughts inwards.
-----
Rest comes uneasily, and Rakha finds her sleep marred by images beyond her comprehension, full of blood and screaming.
Narrator: As you writhe with sickly dreams, a deep dread floods you.
Narrator: A few scraps of the past come back to you now and then, but you can never quite tell where the knowledge comes from.
Narrator: Inexplicable violent yearnings overwhelm all other thoughts. Who could you possibly be, to be their vessel?
She snaps awake with a bitten-off cry, shaking free of a crimson-drenched dream of a dagger wedged deep in someone's chest, her fingers on the handle. She's conscious on some level that it was a horrifying image, and yet the cry with which she woke herself was not all fear - it was ecstasy as well. Whatever it is, this thing in her that is hungry for blood, it was the one dreaming, and it liked what it saw.
She sits up, rests her head against the flesh-metal strut behind her, and - unseen by Shadowheart who still sleeps undisturbed - begins to shiver uncontrollably.
Probe your mind - what thoughts stand out the most?
Narrator: You recall waking up hearing the pounding war drum of blood. How much you treasured the sight of the first corpse you touched.
She feels that strange pull of a half-smile at the memory, and wrestles her face back into a scowl. She does not resent the rage, for it has kept her alive thus far, and she already knows the concept of joy, seeing it in that shifting tapestry of magic all around her. But the glee in destruction, the joy in blood troubles her, because she does not understand it. It comes from the thing unspoken, the thing she does not control.
The beast in her chest.
Wonder - why are these memories so beautiful?
Narrator: How cruel your old life must have been. What could have happened to make you forget?
She curls tightly into herself, squeezing her eyes shut, shoving herself against the nautiloid strut and focusing on the soft hum of its dissipating magical energy through her shirt, along her back. But it is not enough; the dream still waits, hovering on the edges of her vision, waiting for her to drift back into sleep.
Narrator: As you fall asleep, you are a shivering and shaking mess.
Narrator: Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood...
#bjk plays bg3 durge#rakha the dark urge#oooo some interesting stuff here#glad i got nudged to do this :D
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Master - Chapter 41a
*Warning Adult Content*
- Lincoln -
"I'm not one for speeches or extensive, unnecessary conversation but Malcolm has made the case that some form of a speech or explanation, is quite necessary here."
The group of near forty blinks up at me.
Wide-eyed and as stiff as a board, they all had that slightly terrified look the previous Anouk Clan clan members had in their first few days at the castle.
I assumed that like them, our newer clanmates would lose that look soon enough and stop looking so stereotypically pale around me. Besides attempting to relax a newborn... me?
That would just be a waste of time.
"Firstly, you should know and eventually accept, that as vampires, what we are or rather, who we are, goes beyond our individual selves," I explain as I walk the length of the training room.
"In simple terms, that means that there are more pieces to each of us that link us to our species, than there are things that make us our own people."
A glance around revealed that the majority understood what I was trying to get across.
For the ones who didn't, I add...
"We were established for group work."
That gets a few quick nods as shame fills a few eyes.
It was an unnecessary embarrassment but I don't comment on it since it would only make them feel worst in this situation.
In time, they'd come to know that I didn't expect any more from them that what they were capable of and knowing all about the foundations of our species was nothing any newborn was expected to know.
I keep my eyes off them to provide a moment of relief instead.
"You are here today for me to show you how to fight properly but also to expose you to how it feels to have my control overcome you," I continue in time with my slow steps.
"But both require the same level of understanding of our kind before we can attempt either."
Tightening my hands behind my back, I take in a needed breath before continuing.
"When the witches crafted me, they added something to my genetical makeup. Over the course of decades, I've studied every bit of witch magic that I could in the hope of understanding exactly what that something was in more detail than just something that I felt in my blood. Millenniums later and I've come to accept that that is all there is to it, something that lives in my blood. Something they put in my blood," I clarify as I raise my hand to look over the flesh.
"That 'something' is made of magic and when a vampire is turned, that magic is passed on. It's the same thing that keeps you alive, even in death and what also allows our lifespans to carry on unnaturally."
I take a moment to listen to the blood that rushed through us all, moving in a rush beneath our skin in a manner that would kill any other being.
Whatever it was, it kept us alive and strong, without our hearts pumping, the magic kept our bodies always moving like an eternal machine.
It was magic, years of study didn't change that simple fact.
It was just... magic.
"As I'm not fond of magic and disorder, I've taken to naming that 'something' Lyrra."
Was it petty and incredibly childish to name the greatest of living show of witch magic an Elven name?
Yes.
But I didn't think about that when it brought me pleasure each time to know that beyond the grave, in some magical afterlife, the witches probably screeched every time I demeaned their power in that way.
The fact that I was spreading my childish revenge was acceptable in my eyes.
Finding where I'd ended in my makeshift speech, I carry on with a dutiful mask of calm.
"Whether or not the witches intended us to carry on this long or for this connection to me to remain, I am not sure. But it has and there is a piece of me in every vampire that followed, in all of you."
I look to the newborns once more, struggling not to laugh at the terrified expressions they wore now.
It was rare that I spent so much time with the young of our kind.
They usually avoided me, unable to cope with the underlining traces of my power for too long and I understood that.
But I wouldn't have the foundations of our clan be something sloppy or poorly constructed.
So even if it was a little painful now, if my educating them now strengthened their futures and the clan's, then it was worth it.
I keep my laughter in and swallow my guilt as well to keep my outside appearance to them something neutral and calm.
Sudden laughter would more than likely look insane and I didn't need them thinking the Pylen they just agreed to follow was crazy.
Not that it mattered, one conversation with my love and they'd think I belonged in an asylum.
"When I make your bodies move," I say pointing to a man at the front who's arm immediately shot up the way I wanted it to. "It's simply me connecting with that magic between the two of us, the Lyrra and sending out a silent command through it."
"But it only goes one way?" the man asks while he visibly strains to lower his hand but despite his grinding teeth and greatest efforts, his arm remained where I wished it to be.
"Yes," I confirm before releasing him. "Before, that chain of command went from the witches to me and then to you. Now that they're dead, it's from me to all of you."
"And the witches are dead?" a young girl I could scent was recently turned asks.
She had to be only a few months old, her bloodshot slightly rabid eyes made her look feral but by the end of her first two years as a vampire, that would ease away.
"They're all dead, right?"
"Yes," I assure her as gently as I can, adding an honest smile to it. "I killed them all in turn, cremated them and then cemented their ashes into the foundations of this castle."
The girl's arms tighten around herself just a little.
Perhaps my words weren't as reassuring as I'd hoped they would be.
As a newborn, she more than likely knew very little about our history but if she was correctly following the programme Malcolm set the newborns on, soon enough she'd learn all she needed to know about our species and our history and then she'd fight even harder for our future.
The Anouk youngest grew fiercer by the day, their resolve strengthened by the time they spent in the libraries and in the safety of a protected, growing clan.
At first, I'd been against enforcing such a rule onto them but Malcolm had been unwavering in his plans to ensure that those under the age of one hundred spent the necessary time to learn their history properly.
It seemed a little trivial to me but even more than that, I'd wanted to avoid a number of pitiful looks in the halls or worse yet, ones forged from fear cast our way once they knew what we'd been through.
But like always, Malcolm had been right so it wasn't very long before I agreed... albeit very reluctantly.
In the last two weeks, those worries had been put to bed soundly and I'd been quietly reminded to stop assuming the worst of every situation.
The newborns didn't look at me with pity or fear, there was only respect to be found as they nodded or bowed to me in passing.
And in all honesty, it felt good.
"I raised this point about magic and our origins so you'd understand that there is a type of… network that runs between us all because of Lyrra," I explain while I try to find the simplest words to articulate myself well. "And in it, like any other network, data is stored somewhere within it."
"Data?" another questions and I nod.
If I thought hard enough, I would remember what her name was but it wasn't important now so I didn't bother trying.
"When we were still under their rule and another was made or a human was turned, there was no time to teach them the things the witches deemed important," I explain, my voice growing a little tighter with each word. "Since our primary purpose was to be weapons, fighting was something that was instilled through that network rather than developed from scratch."
That makes understanding visibly wash over them all before they all perk up a bit, looking to me with an excitement I'd come to expect at this stage.
Everyone liked shortcuts.
"From the moment you became a vampire, that 'data' was stored inside of you. So I'm not here to teach you how to fight today, I'm here to teach you how to access that part of you. To access Lyrra."
A familiar calm rolls over me as I encompass this subset of my role as Pylen.
It was such a simple thing, teaching the young ones... and yet, it made me feel that much closer to the clan as a whole.
Electrifying was the best word I could think of to describe the feeling.
"The stronger our clan grows, the more of this 'data' you'll be able to access and the stronger each of you will become."
As I run my calloused hands together, one by one, they all stand to their feet, determination taking away any lingering doubts or fears.
Moving in their lanes like a building wave, they each dip their heads in a formal bow, their arms crossed behind their backs in a gesture of goodwill and trust.
"We follow you Pylen and from you, we learn."
The words didn't fail to warm me from the inside out as they had the first time I'd heard them from one of my followers.
It'd started as a passing statement whenever I helped or advised someone and now, it was a sort of motto in the clan.
They were simple words and yet there was so much to them that I couldn't help the smile that took my lips hostage.
"Then, let's get started."
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June 12, 2022
June 12, 2022
Trinity Sunday
Book of Proverbs 8: 22-31
The author shares in human terms, the gifts and power of divine wisdom.
Psalm 8
The Psalmists speaks of the creative power of God.
Romans 5: 1-5
Paul is pointing to the roles of the Creator, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.
John 16: 12-15
Again, the three roles of the Divine One are spoken of in the Gospel. The Church as it closes the Easter Season, presents us with three cornerstones of our faith. Pentecost was celebrated last week, this week, Trinity Sunday and next week, Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ. Last week we addressed the power of the gift of the Holy Spirit given on Pentecost and today we are presented with a mystery. There are three distinct persons in one God. For some of our Jewish brothers and sisters and other monotheistic faiths this is a difficult doctrine. Somehow, they believe that it undermines the “one God theory”. But it does not in the Christian view. Three divine persons that share one substance. Our Christian creeds all state this mystery, this belief.
The word mystery should on one level, make us realize that complete understanding of something is beyond our ability. There are so many mysteries in our lives aren’t there? Why do we love the people we do? Why have certain events happened to us? Why do people suffer? We look for clarity and assurance in the face of mystery. John’s Gospel community, as a theologian has written, “... is trying to express in relational terms the experience of the Divine he (John) and his community have experienced”.
But the mystery remains. Jesus says, in today’s Gospel, that the Holy Spirit will take what the Creator has given to him “and declare it to you”. Over the centuries we have made efforts to solve the mystery of “these three in one”. Three leaves on one stem as we hold up a shamrock and of course three distinct members of one family. And in the writings of the early Church theologian Tertullian, we find this metaphor. He sees the Trinity as a plant. The roots are our creator, the stem is Jesus reaching out to the world and the Holy Spirit is seen as the flower, fruit and fragrance that touches the world. But the mystery remains. Poets and artists have all made efforts to portray this belief for example, I have a beautiful picture a friend gave me describing the Trinity which flows form a Celtic point of view.
There is however one aspect of the Trinity that we as limited humans can understand. Three persons one God. What comes to my mind is the concept of a loving community. Three in relationship to and with one another. And a loving community is at the heart of our Christian faith as evidenced by the rite of Baptism and our creeds.
And these days I believe that we can all agree, that a loving community on a variety of levels, is desperately needed in our wounded world and in our struggling nation. How much the message of Jesus Christ needs to take on flesh in our world, and we have been promised that the message will take hold in us through the actions of the Holy Spirit.
But in many cases, we see death, violence, loss of innocent lives and deep divisions over solutions. When we delve into stories, we watch beautiful communities coming together in schools, places of worship and hospitals where violence has taken place. But we also experience communities and legislators deeply split over vaccines, masks, abortion and gun controls.
But the Trinity is a reminder of relationships and community. Henri Nouwen once wrote, “Relationships are meant to be signs of God’s love for humankind as a whole and each person in particular”. At this moment in history, we as a church, nation and global community desperately need the presence of the Holy Trinity in our lives. God’s creativity, Jesus’ message of love and compassion and the multiple gifts the Holy Spirit shares with each one of us, are all needed for a healing and compassionate presence between and among us.
The mystery of the Trinity remains but its meaning is revealed when we take one step at a time to listen, love and liberate our brothers and sisters. Rooted in our creator, blessed by the life and message of Jesus Christ and called by the Spirit to do what we can to bring peace, beauty and life to the worlds around us.
In these large and small actions we take, the mystery of the Trinity can on some level, be revealed.
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Speak my Language (Fellowship x Hurt! Reader)
Synopsis: After being ambushed by orcs, you are left alone at your isolated camp to bleed out. However, your loyal friend, a “tyger” from Far Harad, has other plans in mind—tracking down another camp nearby, comprised of nine warriors, in search of aid for you.
Pairings: a bit of Legolas x Reader. I’m a simp for him, okay?
Warnings: blood, mentions of an attack, hurt/comfort
The attack came too fast and too swiftly. Orcs weren’t supposed to reside in this area of the forest, or so you thought. It was almost as if something were driving them to your location, like dolphins chasing down fish to the shores of oceans.
Whatever may be the case, and whoever the fish in this scenario were, you were the one left severely injured.
It started with a flickering of your tyger’s ear. Comrade, as you named him, was an exotic breed of big cat, from the furthermost southern jungles of Far Harad, where the likes of oliphaunts also roamed.
You had met the large orange, striped cat on a mission to spring all kinds of animals free on the southern shores of Middle-earth. The Haradrim were responsible for this illegal smuggling trade, though you knew someone far larger was behind it.
A mystery was unfolding in Middle-earth before your eyes. Orcs in odd locations, secret illicit activities in dark harbours, and a growing disbalance in the ecosystem.
Setting the stampeding oliphaunts loose, the wooden crates on the foggy harbour soon burst into chaos. Men ran everywhere, both trying to save themselves and their jobs.
As ropes and hooks were cast into the grey flesh of the loudly trumpeting beasts, you snuck out. However, on your escape route, a rabid, hissing animal caught your attention.
You had never seen a cat like him before, and knew instantly he was out of sorts amongst the scenery of Middle-earth. What on earth would he need stripes to blend in with? You figured he was more used to tall savannahs, if anything.
Tentatively, and knowing all could go wrong for yourself, you unlatched the lock containing your soon-to-be friend.
He leapt out and crouched lowly before you, arching his back and sizing up your neck. His teeth were large and yellow at the gums, as he flashed them viciously.
However, making the first move, you slowly showed him your empty hands, and kneeled down. A slight change in his attitude was present, as his hisses ceased and his ears unpinned themselves.
And when a Haradrim man came at you, well, all that was left were ribbons of flesh and a new partner for you.
Ever your noble protector, Comrade lifted his head from your lap, where you were running your hands through his now twitching ears.
“What is it, boy?” you cooed, tracing the black stripes on his head.
A low growl had begun to form at the back of his throat, and you stilled your hand. Though a level of trust had been formed between you both throughout the three years you walked alongside him, he was still a wild animal at the end of the day.
You took into account the twitching of his tail, and your heart stopped. You always feared Comrade might one day turn around and attack you like he did to those Haradrim. Small housecats were bad enough with mood-swings as it was.
Eyeing up his large paws, where claws the size of small shanks appeared, you grew clammy. However, a distant snapping of a branch beyond the dark trees both settled and rose your nerves.
Glancing up from Comrade, you followed his keen line of sight past your little campfire. You stared for what felt like minutes, until another branch snapping sounded the alarms.
Comrade immediately lifted himself from your lap, and stood tall. The power in his sudden movement scared you, and you found yourself jolting to your own feet.
All you had on you was a small dagger, for you liked to think of yourself as a “wise pacifist”.
You drew it in front of yourself, and scared breaths racked your chest. Comrade was pacing the dirt in front of you, eyes forever trained on the forest, tail swishing.
And then, the attack came.
A slaughter occurred between the trees and before the fire, and though you managed to assist with many kills, Comrade in the end was the clear victor.
However, one tyger against ten orcs was not entirely fair.
In the aftermath, you found yourself with your back rested against a tree—your hand clutching a dagger in your abdomen.
Orcs bodies lay strewn around, some missing heads, others with their intestines spilled on the upturned dirt. Most, however, had their jugulars torn out.
Comrade had just put to rest his last orc, and turned his panting, blood-soaked snout back to you at the sound of a small whimper. The previously feral glint in his eyes subsided, as he observed your mewling state.
Your hand clutched the pommel of the dagger, as you struggled to not look at it—favouring to keep your eyes screwed shut instead, and your chin lifted high.
He immediately thudded one paw in front of the other, as he came to stand beside you. He sniffed the dagger, and made a small sound reminiscent of chuffing to your face. He nudged his nose with your cheek, willing you to look at him.
When you did, you found amber eyes, brimming with concern, looking back at you.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” you tried with a small smile, but mewled again through the pain of speaking.
He chuffed once more, and tried to inspect the dagger. You gently pushed his head away, knowing there wasn’t much he could do.
Understanding the severity of your state, he lifted his neck and stood tall. Flickering his ears in all directions, Comrade scoped out the forest. He could hear the sounds of night for many miles—owls hooting, mice rustling, squirrels climbing and…men chatting lowly around a crackling fire.
They did not sound like orcs, and turning his nose to the air above, Comrade knew instantly they were not. Instead, the scent of men and elves lingered in the breeze, and something new he hadn’t encountered before.
Without glancing back at you, he took off running through the woods.
Watching him leave in confusion, you knitted your brows. However, the throbbing split in your stomach soon burned away again, and you were left crying alone through bared teeth.
On the other side of the forest, just a few miles away, the Fellowship’s camp resided. The loss of Gandalf still rippled through the colleagues and friends like an unsettled lake, and not much was found beyond quiet chatter.
The topic, primarily, was of Lothlorien—the beautiful kingdom they had just reluctantly left.
Sat on a log, and grimacing as he ate rabbit meat off of a bone—quite different from the prepared salads with small chunks of chicken he had grown up with—Legolas watched the fire.
His fingers were sticky, and his nose was scrunched, as he attempted to eat said meat.
Next, Gimli’s chuckles filled the air.
The laughter silenced everyone, for it was the first time anyone had laughed since Moria.
Lifting his eyes, Legolas found Gimli laughing at him. “What is it?”
“A bit out of your comfort zone, aren’t we?” Gimli chuckled back, motioning to the prince’s fingers.
Legolas’ lips fell into a sarcastic frown. “That’s because I was actually raised with the idea of comfort to begin with.”
Gimli dismissively waved his hand. “All I’m hearing is pretty excuses.”
Legolas placed a sticky hand over his chest, and batted his lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”
A smirk grew on Gimli’s lips, as he pointed at the faint outline of grease on Legolas’ Lothlorien tunic.
Losing his own smirk, Legolas looked down at the clothing and sneered upon realizing his mistake.
Laughter rippled through the camp, and a few added on their own taunts in an effort to keep the happy atmosphere alive, even if at the prince’s expense.
However, Legolas had since tuned out. His head was over his shoulder, his pointed ears twitching, as he eyed off the forest behind. Distantly, snapping twigs and thudding paws could be heard.
“Don’t you think, Legolas?” Boromir laughed, slowly reeling the elf’s concerned attention back in to him. “Legolas? I said, don’t you—”
“Shh!” Legolas cut him off, whipping his head over his shoulder again.
Aragorn was the first to cease his relaxed nature, as he knew the cautious elf well-enough.
“Someone’s a bit of a soft—” Gimli had gone to say, before Legolas shushed him again.
Snapping his eyes to his friends, Legolas hastily whispered, “Do you not hear that?”
“We don’t have your—”
“Hush, let him speak,” Aragorn interjected, earning the obedience of the camp. “What is it, Legolas?”
“Something large and ambitious approaches from behind,” Legolas answered, scanning his eyes over his shoulder again.
Just as the elf did, the Fellowship dragged their sights along the trees. Slowly, following Legolas’ words and now actions, the entire camp rose to their feet and clutched their weapons.
The hobbits all nervously eyed one another, as the four stronger warriors stood in front. They each all watched the trees, and their hearts pounded faster, for they, too, could now hear what Legolas was explaining.
Loud thumps reached their ears, as did beastly panting. Legolas drew an arrow, and aimed it in preparation.
And then, Comrade burst into the camp.
The hobbits screamed in shock—in fact, both Gimli and Boromir shouted, too.
The tyger paced before them all, chuffing loudly in communication. Legolas, understanding all living things, heard the tyger speak.
Please! I need your help! My friend, she’s hurt—wounded by orcs!
Legolas lowered his arrow, much to the horror of the others.
“What are you doing?” Boromir screeched. “Shoot it down! It’s rabid! Look at the blood coating its mouth!”
“It is orc blood,” Legolas slowly drew out, knitting his brows in the direction of the tyger. “And he says he needs our help?”
Aragorn glanced at Legolas wide-eyed, and they shared a look—one dripping in superior knowledge.
Legolas made a show of disarming himself of his bow, and spoke back to the tyger in a way only elves could.
Take us to her.
The tyger turned around instantly, and began running into the woods. Aragorn and Legolas followed.
“Wait,” Pippin exclaimed in confusion, as everyone left him behind. “Has he always been able to speak with animals?! Did everyone else know this but me?!”
“Hurry up, Pippin!”
Comrade had left you twenty minutes ago, and you felt an uncontrollable shiver run through your body. It was a shiver that, despite being close to the fire, was continuous.
Your teeth chattered, and your stomach coiled at the blood soaking you. It was all over the front of your tunic, and continuing to spread. You hadn’t removed the dagger as of yet—too afraid of both the consequences and the pain simultaneously.
You felt both dizzy and tired, and only wanted a nap. Just as you were beginning to close your eyes, frantic thudding in the distance could be heard.
Weakly, you turned your eyes to the trees Comrade had left through, and waited for either your friend or more orcs to appear.
However, what you were not expecting, was a blonde elf to burst through the dark with your tyger.
The tall elf skidded to a stop a few yards before you, and gasped sharply. His widened eyes raked over your paling, clammy body in alarm.
“Oh my goodness!” he cussed, before throwing his eyes over his shoulder. “Aragorn! Come quickly!”
Next, a man burst into view. Behind him, another man, dwarf and four hobbits followed. Though, for all you knew, they were children.
White dots filled your vision, and you soon felt very delirious, as if in a dream.
The elf rushed forwards, and fell to his knees beside you. He brushed your hair out of your face to observe your half-lidded eyes, where he then spoke.
“Y/n? Y/n, are you all right? Your friend, Comrade, told me of you. Can you hear me?”
All you could make out of his face were two brilliantly blue eyes. A white, angelic light encompassed him otherwise, and the blonde hair certainly didn’t help.
You garnered a sort of dazed smile, as you scanned his blinding face. “You’re an angel, aren’t you? Sent from above? Oh thank goodness—I thought I was going to go alone.”
Listening to your soft voice, the brunette man with greasy hair dropped beside the elf.
“Her strength fails and her light fades,” Aragorn commented. He scanned his eyes over your wound. “I shall use athelas to treat the bleeding, but…this may be beyond us.”
Legolas looked at Aragorn in horror, before looking down at you again. Two deaths on his hands in such a short amount of time? The immortal elf couldn’t—wouldn’t—process it.
“We are not yet too far from Lothlorien,” Legolas pointed out, studying your tired face. “We can turn around and leave her in the hands of Galadriel and her kin. They will heal her.”
“We haven’t time to double-back and risk the orcs,” Boromir pointed out.
Next, Legolas gestured at all the strewn bodies of the camp. “It appears our fault she dies in the first place. She felt safe enough to camp in these woods, and rightfully so, but we brought the orcs with us. We must help her. She’s our duty now.”
“Legolas is right,” Aragorn agreed, crushing athelas in his hands with water from his pouch. “The orcs are only in these woods because they track us. Legolas, you are the fastest here and know these trees second-best to me. You will take her back to Lothlorien and then take the journey three times faster to catch up with us.”
Legolas nodded his head in understanding, and felt your hand. It was cold, shivering and sweaty. He swallowed his nerves.
“You might want to hold her further,” Aragorn quietly pointed out to Legolas, gesturing to your hand.
The elf noticed the prepared athelas paste, and the ranger’s hand hovering over the intruding dagger’s pommel. Next, Aragorn spoke to you.
“Y/n, my name is Aragorn. I am going to help heal you, and then Legolas here will rush you back to Lothlorien. I am going to remove the dagger to decrease further injury. It will hurt for a moment. Do you understand?”
“Legolas?” you repeated in confusion, looking up at the aforementioned prince. “Oh, yes—him. He’s an angel.”
Aragorn smiled briefly, especially at the creeping blush on his friend’s pointed ears, until you looked back at him and took into account his dirty presentation. “You, on the other hand, are not an angel.”
Comrade, having been pacing the dirt on your free side, came to lay beside you, recognising what was about to happen next.
Aragorn politely curled his lips at your delirious insult, and quickly tore the dagger from your abdomen.
As if supporting a woman through birth, Legolas’ mewls were louder than your own, for the hand of yours he held clenched tightly.
Aragorn got to work quickly, and began applying the athelas to your now bleeding wound. You cried softly, as you felt the pain both grow and lessen.
Finding comfort through your dizzy haze in the thumbpad stroking your knuckles, you squeezed the same hand again, and were pleasantly surprised to find it squeezing back.
Gimli, Boromir and the hobbits watched on—nervously observing both the tyger lying beside you, and your hurt form.
“Lothlorien is a night’s run behind us. She needs a different tunic to reduce the risk of infection,” said Aragorn, using a makeshift cloth to wipe the blood away from you.
Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line, and nodded. He briefly let go of your hand, much to your vocal discomfort, and grabbed the bottom hems of his tunic. He lifted the green material over his head, and was left with nothing but a long-sleeved, white undershirt.
As Aragorn wrapped your chest with what he could find on him that’d temporarily work as a bind, Legolas patiently waited.
After your wound was tended to, Aragorn leant over to speak with you. “Your wound is dressed, Y/n. Legolas will now take care of you until Lothlorien. You are in good, capable hands. I promise.”
You mustered the strength to nod back, despite white dots still filling your vision.
Aragorn clasped Legolas’ shoulder and nodded, to which he nodded back. Then, the ranger turned and told the rest of the Fellowship to head back to camp.
Having ensured everyone was out of sight, Legolas looked down at you again.
“May I please change your tunic? I will close my eyes, but it has to be done—the blood will lead to infection if not dealt with.”
However, you stilled gazed up at him with a silly smile. Considering all he wore was now white, you believed your suspicions of him being an angel correct.
After a moment, his words finally drifted through your mind, like a lone leaf on a lazy river, and you nodded.
Legolas raised a hand to the hem of your tunic, and hooked his fingers underneath, but was halted by the sudden growling and standing of Comrade.
You dare touch her in such a state? I sought you out for help!
I am an elven prince, mellon. Trust me when I say; it is not even remotely possible in my genetic nature to do such a thing.
Well, trust me when I say; it is most definitely in my genetic nature to go for the jugular—always.
Understood, but you must let me help her. Have we not done so already? Let me complete assisting her, and then you shall follow me to Lothlorien.
The snarling lips of the tyger curled for a minute, as he stared across at the determined elf over your body—face to face.
Slowly, his growls died.
Fine. Just know, however, I am watching you every step of the way.
Well, that makes one of us.
As he promised, Legolas closed his eyes. He carefully, but swiftly lifted your blood-soaked tunic and tossed it aside.
Fumbling for a few minutes, as he did so blind, Legolas dressed you in his own green tunic. It was large on you, more like a short dress, but did the job of concealing your wounded form.
At some point, you had nearly drifted off to sleep, but a gentle cooing of Legolas brought you back.
“Hey, you must stay awake for now, all right? I am going to carry you to a lovely kingdom, and you will be taken care of. All I ask in return is that you keep me company with conversation the whole way. Can you please do that for me?”
Exhaling past your nose through your fatigue, you fluttered your hazy eyes open again.
Searching Legolas’ own, you nodded.
“Okay,” you promised.
“Good girl,” Legolas replied. He then gently scooped you into his arms like a bride, and checked in with Comrade.
Are you a fast runner?
Is that even a question?
To further his point, Comrade sprinted off into the trees, leaving Legolas jogging behind him. And, just as you promised, you spoke softly to him the whole way—mostly of his “angelic eyes”—and he delivered on his promise, of quite literally delivering you to Lothlórien.
Surprising Legolas most, however, was the new promise you made after healing by the aid of Galadriel’s hand, just a few days after your arrival.
Upon learning of what exactly was disturbing your ecosystem in Middle-earth, you told Legolas he would not be making the journey back to his friends alone, for he had gained two new ones.
#Legolas x reader#Legolas imagine#Legolas x reader imagine#lotr imagine#lotr x reader#fellowship of the ring x reader#fellowship of the ring#lord of the rings#lotrdaily#lotr movies#the hobbit#elves#hobbit#legolas#mirkwood#lotr Legolas#Aragorn x reader#Aragorn imagine#Aragorn reader imagine#Boromir#frodo#Sam#pippin#merry#Tolkien
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remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah.
knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k
trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab.
cross-posted to ao3
You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.
Well.
That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.
Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--
Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.
You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.
You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.
What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.
It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.
Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.
“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--
You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.
The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;
“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”
You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.
His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--
“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”
(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).
“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”
He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.
You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.
It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--
You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.
(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.
It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.
When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)
You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--
It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.
You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.
“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.
It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.
“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.
“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”
“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.
A chuckle.
“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”
The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.
He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.
The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.
He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;
“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”
Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).
He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.
You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.
Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.
You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.
You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.
You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.
Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.
Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.
“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.
(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)
“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.
You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.
“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.
There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.
But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;
“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”
Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.
“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”
You don’t think you do.
You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.
So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;
“Pl-please—”
It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;
“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”
[german translation dictionary;
schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure
mäuschen - little mouse
sehr süß - very sweet/very cute
so hübsch - so pretty
idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]
#strade x reader#strade x you#btd strade#reader-insert#not sfw#non con tw#gore tw#torture tw#i think this is the nastiest thing i've written but it's probably just gonna get worse#🦇 pip writes#i had to delete a lot of old fics from an old ao3 for this so it wasnt in the same place as my other reader-inserts dfvnnjbgf
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hrrn hrrn fanfiction me gusta
ao3 link
The two players the young pigman had approached were so nice to him. They cooed at him, one crouching down to hand him a gold ingot, the other remarked something in a strange language. They placed a boat in front of him, and he curiously got in. The players grinned and started pushing the boat. He looked around, wondering where he was being taken. They soon arrived at a large, purple portal.
The players were speaking in the strange language, and one held up a name tag. The pigman looked down at his gold ingot, rubbing it and smiling at the shiny surface. He jumped as the name tag was pinned to the back of his shirt, giving a small squeal that the players seem to delight in. They pushed his boat through the portal and he shut his eyes at how bright the purple was.
When he tried to open them, he was only further pained by something large and bright far into the sky. It was brighter than lava, and hurt his eyes badly. He rubbed at them and squealed again. He heard the players utter things to each other, before they began to push the boat again.
He used the gold ingot to shield his eyes, and the players cooed again, finding it to be the cutest thing despite the fact he was in pain.
Soon they pushed him through a forest, the large trees shielding him further. He looked around with curiosity, the trees here were nothing like the ones in the nether. They were brown in the trunk and their leaves were green, the ones in his home were red or blue.
One player groaned out a complaint, and the other scolded them. He wished he could understand them, but whatever language they spoke wasn’t at all what the pigmen back home did.
Soon, he was pushed to a large archway, a small city beyond it. One player cheered, pulling their arms away from the boat to rub their tired muscles. They spoke to the other, before dashing off into the city. They soon returned, a man now following.
He stared in awe at the man, who had black, glistening wings that folded behind his back. His brow was shadowed by a striped hat on his head, but his blue eyes seemed to glow even so. The player who led him here gestured at the young pigman, speaking quickly. The man nodded and walked over.
He took hold of the pigman’s collar, and remarked something, presumably about the name they’d given him.
He said something else to the players and they both smiled before saluting him and running off into the city together. The young pigman was lifted out of the boat and held in the man’s arms, and the man smiled at him. He was carried into the city, glancing over the man’s shoulders at the forest and boat behind them.
As the man walked, the pigman couldn’t decide where to put his eyes. Everything was so new and interesting. There were so many different mobs and types of players. Some players even looked like mobs. Some looked like him, pigmen, but they also spoke in the strange language. They would catch his eye and smile brightly.
He felt safe here. It was strange.
They entered a building, and the man put the pigman on his own hooves. He crouched down to be at eye level with him, the kind smile still on his face.
He spoke perfectly in the pigman’s language, “Hello there, Techno-Blade.”
The pigman tilted his head, “Technoblade?”
“That’s the name those players gave you, I hope you like it. You can always change it if you’d like.”
The piglin looked at the floor for a moment, contemplating the name. It seemed much cooler than the one his parents had given him. The thought of his parents made a spike of sadness go through his heart. Yeah, a new name sounded good.
“It’s cool.”
The man laughed, and stuck out his hand, “I’m Philza. Philza Minecraft.”
Technoblade wrapped his small hand around Philza’s, shaking it.
Philza stood up again and a player approached them, speaking in the language from before. Phil cleared his throat before responding, motioning to Technoblade. The player nodded and smiled down at him, reaching out their hand for him to take. He did, and they led him to a small room filled with twisting vines and warped fungus. There was a blue bed in the corner.
They said something before patting his head and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood still in front of the door, not exactly sure what to do next. He turned and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. It was big, big like the one he’d had in his home.
He missed it. He missed his big house, and his family, and the small crown he had to wear when his parents had guests over, and the plastic sword he would swing around and get scolded for hitting the house workers with. Before he knew it, tears were falling down his face, and he sniffled, trying to wipe them away. Everything had been okay until the people living under his parents had gotten angry, storming their house and cornering them.
His sniffles turned to loud sobs as the images of his parents lying bloodied burned his mind. Blood for the Blood God, the people had chanted, some raising their swords at Techno, ready to finish him off and leave the entire family dead. He screamed and ran faster than he had ever run before, dodging past other pigmen’s legs. Some of them smelled of slowly rotting flesh, and the scent mixed with blood made him gag.
The thought of it now made him gag again. He lurched forwards and emptied his stomach onto the floor, hiccuping and sobbing as he retched.
“Oh shit.” He heard from the door.
He tried to apologize through gasps but couldn’t get the words out.
Words were shouted down the hall and then there was a shadow over him, arms reaching out to try and grab him. He screamed and threw himself back against the corner. The shadow over him cursed and stepped back.
“It’s okay, Technoblade, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Someone else entered the room, holding something in their hands, they knelt down near where Techno had vomited and began to clean it up. They didn’t talk.
The first person reached out again, slower this time. Techno could barely breathe. He slashed his claws at their arm and they flinched. Blood dripped down from where he’d scratched, and that only filled his mind with more panic.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood for the God.
For the Blood God.
Blood for the Blood God.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in his mind, drowning out any other thoughts he could have, slashing and clawing at his brain. His head throbbed, he felt like he would throw up again.
The person backed away, giving up on physically consoling him.
“Technoblade, look at me.”
He could barely hear the words over the chanting, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, his red ones meeting glowing blue ones.
“Breathe.”
He listened, gasping a few times before trying to force his breaths to settle into something calmer. It was barely an improvement, still certainly not getting a good, stable amount of air in, but it was progress.
“Good, good, keep breathing. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Safe, that’s what he had felt when being brought here. He remembered safety. It felt so far away right now. Safety was in the arms of people larger than him, in smiles and head-pats and hugs that squeezed his bones. The thought of being touched was sickening right now, but he desperately craved it.
The person who had cleaned up his mess quietly stood and exited the room, not wanting to cause the young pigman any more distress by staying.
Soon, Techno’s mind cleared enough to realize that the person standing before him was Philza. He felt more tears fill his eyes, and he stuttered out an “I’m sorry”.
“It’s okay. Are you okay if I come closer?”
He nodded, and Phil gently sat down on the edge of the bed, still keeping his distance a little. His arm was still bleeding, and Techno tried desperately to keep his eyes away from the sight.
“What happened?”
“I- I just, I was…” Techno hiccuped, bringing his hands up to rub at his eyes. “My mom and dad are dead! They died and I didn’t save them at all!”
“Oh…” Phil muttered, a look of concern in his shaded eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that, but Technoblade, I doubt that it was your job to save them. Sometimes things just...happen. Young boys like you shouldn’t be held responsible.”
Techno sniffled, looking up at the man through his hands, “But…”
Phil scooted closer, “No buts about it. Whatever happened, it isn’t your fault.”
Techno dropped his hands into his lap, looking away silently.
They sat in silence for a few heavy moments, before Phil spoke, “Do you want to go get some water? You probably need it right now.”
“Water?”
Phil paused, realizing that due to his nether origins, techno had likely never seen water before.
“It’s a type of drink, to keep you from getting thirsty.”
“Oh… okay.”
Phil stood and held out his hand for the pigman to take. He stared at it for a few seconds before grabbing it and hopping off of the bed.
They walked through the building together, Techno seeing that there were many other rooms like his, some also having pigmen in them.
“Why are there so many pigmen here?”
“There’s a rot going around the nether,” Phil explained, “We want to get enough pigmen away from it as possible. It’s dangerous.”
Techno shuddered, remembering the smell of the rotting pigmen who’d attacked his family, “Oh…”
Phil stopped at a door, and opened it to reveal a large kitchen. He pulled Techno inside and gestured to a bench for him to sit on. As Techno sat, Phil picked up a glass bottle and filled it with water from a cauldron. He handed it to Techno and filled another one up for himself.
Techno took a sip and hummed, feeling the liquid cool his now aching throat. He took a big breath before chugging the rest of the bottle, hearing Phil laugh as he did.
“Yeah, that’s about what I expected,” The man chuckled.
“It’s really good.”
Phil nodded and sipped his own, “What do you all drink in the nether, anyway?”
“Mostly milk from hoglins.” Techno answered, watching Phil grimace at the idea.
“Oh.”
Techno glanced back and forth between his empty bottle and Philza’s face.
“You can get more, if you want. We’ve got plenty.”
Techno awkwardly sunk into himself for a moment, before standing up, walking over to the cauldron and dipping his bottle into it. He filled it to the top and drank.
He sat back down on the bench, drooping his head back and closing his eyes, tired from all the crying and panicking he’d done.
He was lifted into Phil’s arms, but didn’t resist this time, and was carried off to his room. Phil laid him in his bed.
“I’ll wake you for supper later,” The man promised softly as he turned and exited the room.
Techno watched him close the door before burying himself under the blankets and shutting his eyes, swallowing and thinking about the nice tastelessness of the water as he drifted off.
#em writes shit#writing#fanfiction#dream smp#mcyt#technoblade#philza#parental death#blood#vomit tw#panic attack#uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ask to tag idfk#its quarter to 1 am im tired man
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Love’s Labors pt 5
Part five to my Ivar Ragnarson x reader series! Part six here!
This was it. You were going to die here, you just knew it. You were sitting in a tent after being dragged to some strange camp on the shore. The blonde man who brought you here was sitting guard just outside, preventing you from making a run for it. Your blood pounded in your ears as the sounds of war and the scent of flesh wafted through the tent opening. How would you make it through this? Would you make it through this? Thinking about the possibility of death made you more anxious than you would like to admit.
You hear footsteps just outside and turn to see a figure approaching your tent. The blonde stands up from his spot and greets the figure in a language you do not know. He gestures to the tent, and you see the figure's head tilt a bit. Were they talking about you?
The figure heads toward the tent opening, followed by the blonde man. You feel your chest grow tight and you turn away just before they step inside. Your stomach churns and you feel like you're going to be sick.
"You are King Alfred's wife?" A booming voice breaks the silence of the tent, sending a shiver down your spine. You make no move to answer, and you hear a scoff. "Answer me, Saxon."
You feel a rush of adrenaline and turn to glare over your shoulder at the man behind you. Standing beside the blonde is a man wearing a dark burlap cloak, the hood hiding his eyes and most of his face. Was this their leader? Were they mercenaries?
"I am no one of importance. I'm afraid your little companion attacked the wrong carriage," you lie smoothly.
The hooded man tilts his head to the side, as though your answer amused him. "Is that so? Who am I speaking to then?" Though his accent is thick, he speaks your language flawlessly.
"I am Queen Judith's chambermaid. I was sent away from the castle to draw your attention away from the princess," you reply. The man in the cloak seems to process this information, and for a split second, you think he believes you. But much to your dismay he replies, "Very well. I will keep you around for some light entertainment while I take Northumbria."
You spin around to face him fully, your face betraying your emotions. "You mean to keep me as a whore?" You snarl, earning what sounded like a laugh from the hidden man.
"You are not a whore, Saxon."
"A prisoner of war then. How civil," you growl.
"Do not try your bravery with me. I am not well known for being merciful," the man says with a sneer.
You hold your chin up high as if daring him to meet your gaze. You steel your nerves as your eyes dart between the two men. "Why would you keep me here, then?"
"Should I have a reason?"
"You have uprooted me from my life and quite possibly killed my family in doing so, Heathen. I think the least you could do is tell me what you plan to do with me," you bite back, momentarily forgetting your ruse.
The man before you seems to mull over your request, his head turned slightly to exchange looks with the man beside him. The blonde seems to understand and turns away to leave the two of you alone in the tent. Once he is outside, the man in the cloak turns back to you. "I have brought you here for my own selfish gain," he says with a sickening grin. Your stomach lurches as your jaw falls open. "What could you possibly want me for?"
"A wife."
You're frozen in place, your eyes trained on the man standing before you. Had you heard him right? Does he mean to make you his wife?
"You are not serious," you say cautiously, saying each word slowly as though trying to convince the both of you. The man does not move but instead repeats himself. "I want to make you my wife."
You don't answer, and he continues. "In our lives, the Gods punish us. They mark us with pain and misery and suffering beyond belief. But, they do this to test who is worthy. And I have been. I have given my gods more than I have to give, I have provided them with wars to win, warriors to claim, sacrifices to have." At this point in his speech, you feel a sense of dread wash over you. But he continued on, " The Gods sent you to me long ago, as a reward for my endurance. They made you for me."
You can only stand and gape at the man before you as he finishes his delusional speech. "You... You think the Gods gave me to you?" You ask, your voice hoarse. "Why would they give me to you? What kind of cruel joke would that be? Giving me to a man who means to kidnap me and steal me from the only man I've ever loved!"
The man steps forward angrily and his teeth grit together in a nasty snarl. "Alfred is nothing but a coward! He turned tail and ran once he saw our boats in your waters," He growls. You ball your fists and curl your lip in disgust. "Alfred would never do that. He may not be a warrior, but he will make a good King." The man scoffs and shakes his head in mock pity. "How noble. Truly, a fitting image for a maiden's first love."
"Alfred is not my first love," you hiss. "But he is a dear friend. And I will not hear you mock him."
"And who would your first love be, then? Perhaps some other whelp Saxon prince who can barely lift a sword?"
You glare at the man before you and take a step forward. "The man I love is much stronger than you could ever dream of being. He is cunning and strong and could lay waste to your army with one arm tied to his back."
The hooded man seems to almost laugh at your boast. "Is that so? He sounds like the most interesting Saxon yet."
You cross your arms and look away from the man, growing annoyed at his comments. "He is not a Saxon. He is a Viking; a prince."
"A King," the man corrects.
Your head snaps over to look at the man in confusion. "Excuse me?" The cloaked man takes a hesitant step forward, and you hear something thump against the ground. "He is a King now."
Your eyes trail down and you gasp when you see what looks like a wooden crutch peeking out from the bottom of the cloak. You look up at the man, your eyes trained on his face. "You are..." you trail off, unable to find the words.
The man shakes off the hood, revealing dark braided hair and weathered blue eyes that had no doubt seen many battles. Though his cloak hid most of him from your view you could see the thick, corded muscle of his neck and arms. The cloak shifts slightly and reveals wooden braces on both legs that held him upright. Though he was older, and his features more angular, there was no denying it.
"Ivar?"
A slow smile drifts languidly across his lips as the recognition dawns on you. "Took you long enough, Saxon."
You launch yourself forward and topple the poor man to the ground rather unceremoniously. You straddle his legs, peppering light kisses all over his face and anywhere you saw exposed skin. Ivar laughs breathlessly and reaches for your hips to steady the both of you into an upright position.
You sit in Ivar's lap and bring his hands to your lips and kiss his palms affectionately. "You're horrible, you know. Letting me believe I had been kidnapped," you begin.
Ivar hums, clearly not remorseful in the slightest. "I had to make it convincing. Let the King of Wessex believe his princess was taken by the Northmen."
"And not contacting me for years? Was that part of your plan too?"
Ivar seems to consider this for a minute as his hand absentmindedly rubs small circles on your thigh. "I did not want them to suspect me. Receiving letters from the King of Kattegat would not be subtle," he says with a shrug. You sigh and lean into his larger frame, your body rejoicing in the familiar warmth. "I suppose you are forgiven."
For a moment there is a comfortable silence that falls over the two of you as you bask in the other's presence. But you find yourself itching to ask him about something he'd said earlier. "Did you mean what you said before, Ivar?" He looks down at you with a raised brow. "What?"
You sit up a bit so the two of you were at eye level. "When you said your Gods made me for you."
You feel his hand pause it’s ministrations as he stares at you. His face holds an unreadable expression, and for a moment you're afraid you've hit a nerve of some sort. But it isn't long before Ivar responds, "It is what I believe." You sit in his lap and stare at him with such innocent curiosity that Ivar can't help the chuckle that escapes him. "The Gods have taken many things from me, princess. They have given me a difficult path to follow. But I know that there is victory at the end of my road, and it is a path to Valhalla. And you are on it as well."
Your heart flutters at this and you feel your face grow warm. "You mean it?" Your voice is small, unsure.
Ivar nods and lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your fingers gently. "You are mine, princess. Whether you agree or not, I will have you." It is not a proposal but instead a statement. He will not take no for an answer, and you would be lying if you said this didn't stir something in your chest. "Oh, Ivar," you coo softly. You lean forward to press feather-light kisses on his forehead and nose. "I have always been yours."
Ivar seems satisfied with your response and makes a motion to stand. You push yourself up from your knees and offer a hand to the prince, which he takes begrudgingly. You can tell it hurts his pride to accept your help but he does it nonetheless. He grabs his crutch and jerks his head towards the opening of the tent, gesturing for you to follow.
"Come. You will meet my brothers," Ivar says as he leads you out into the night.
@youbloodymadgenius @red-roses-are-gonna-shine @angelofmysmalldeath
@krissydclayton93
#ivar x reader#ivar imagine#ivar from vikings#ivar the boneless#ivar#vikings ivar#ivar ragnarsson#ivar fanfic#vikings fanfiction#vikings fanfic#2013 vikings#vikings tv show#ivar fandom
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@febuwhump
Day 10: “How long has it been?”
A/N: You can read what happens earlier in this story on AO3.
L closed the file on a missing persons case Watari had printed out for him and threw it on the table. He much preferred to work at his computer, but ever since the concussion, the fuzzy blue glow from the screen pierced into his eyes, making his brain ache in ways he never felt before.
He sighed, turning to look out the window and was met with the gloom that England often offered. Shifting in his chair, he leaned hard into the side and let his mind drift until he closed his eyes, relenting to his much unwanted sleep…
I walk down a long corridor, concrete and bars lining the way, to where, I am unclear. There’s a loud buzzing and the jingle of metal…, but I can’t locate the source. I come to the end of the Hallway, my destination abruptly finding me, and I’m standing outside of a prison cell. The creature inside sits crouched in the corner and raises its crimson glare to me.
“L Lawliet. How long has it been? How appropriate of you to come to see me when it no longer matters, but isn’t that just like you?” He stands from his hiding place and steps fully into a spotlight beaming down from the ceiling, dust particles hazing around him.
“Beyond? What happened to you?” I tip my head to get a better look at the charred flesh hanging from his skull, his black hair still present and hanging in clumps around his face. “What do you mean how long has it been? I saw you at breakfast this morning. Why are you in here?”
“Don’t you remember?” His chuckles echo off of the walls. “You put me in here.”
“Why would I do that? I would never do that.”
“Wouldn’t you though? If innocent blood spilled thanks to my ever so predictive and decisive hand?”
“Awfully dramatic of you…not that you’re not prone to such things, but really this is new levels.” I frown at the distasteful display. “…You wouldn’t do that. You’re better than that. You’re not a killer.”
“I’m not? But aren’t I what you made me?”
“Made you? What are you on about? That insufferable Successor’s program of Roger’s? You don’t have to do it…”
“But I want to…I want to be you…I want you to see me as worthy…but you won’t, even though I love you.” His sneer holds a sincerity that’s unsettling. “To Love you is to hate you and to hate you is to become you… I’m just a better worst version of you.”
“…You hate me? Why would you hate me? I know we don’t get along well, but…”
I can’t finish my sentence. Flames spontaneously engulf him, and all I hear is laughter.
“You should run my dear Lawliet, lest the fire consumes you, too.”
“Guard! Let him out! Guard!”
But no one comes to save him.
“No one else is here and You can’t save me. At one time you could have, but not now. Not ever. So run!”
“I won’t leave you here. I won’t leave you to die.”
“Don’t you understand? You’ve already killed me.”
“No…”
“Why are you so stupid? To think I wanted to be you…” Suddenly, Beyond lunges at the bars separating us, crashing his burning body into the bars. “RUN, you idiotic bastard. RUN!”
I don’t think. I don’t speak. I just turn and run. It feels like I’m on a conveyor belt, the exit never getting any closer as I struggle to make it there.
He called after me. “Tell her I said hello!”
I look back at him, but I can’t make him out anymore and I slam into a wall, finding myself sprawled out on the ground outside.
“Hey there detective.” She held her hand down to me.
I shield my eyes from the sun now beating down on me. “You’re here?”
“Of course. I’m always here.”
I wrap my hand around hers and she helps me to my feet. It’s warm and soft and familiar. “Do you know him?”
“Who? Benjamin? Nah, but I will…”
She continues to hold my hand and I feel no need to let go…
“Do I know you? Do we know each other? Are you even real?”
“L, it’s time to wake up.” Watari gently shook his shoulder. “You need to eat something and take the new medication the doctor sent over. You should be feeling better by now. I don’t like that you aren’t recovering more quickly.”
Rubbing his eyes with his palm, he looked up at his father figure. “Like I’ve told you time and time again, I’m fine. Other than these incessant nightmares and an inconvenient headache now and then, nothing has changed. I’ve always been prone to these things. You don’t need to fuss over me.”
“These…inconveniences may be normal for you, but their prevalence now…” Watari wanted to hug him, but knew better. “I’m concerned that this ordeal has brought up your past traumas and—”
“I’m perfectly capable of burying that...it’s just a bit more difficult now and I attribute that to the concussion itself, nothing more.” He lifted his gaze to his caregiver. “Wammy… when I was small…was I friends with anyone?”
“Friends with anyone? Quite the opposite.” He chuckled fondly. “You hated being with the other children. I’m sure you remember the incident when you first arrived. Ultimately it was best for you to have your own room and spaces.”
“So no friends. Not even briefly?”
“No, L. No one.”
L scowled off into the nothingness. “I thought you would say that. There’s no way I would forget her.”
“Her?”
“Nevermind Watari.”
He stood and scuffed his way over to the window, The feeling of her hand still lingering on his skin. Watching the fading sun sink behind the cathedral in the distance, he could hear the faint peal of bells drifting on the wind.
Who are you?
#Death Note#L Lawliet#febuwhump#febuwhump2022#Beyond Birthday#quillish wammy#DAY 10: “how long has it been?”
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Aligned - Chapter 8 (Zelda x Reader - NSFW)
For Chapter 1, click (here)
Chapter 8: Singe
When you and Zelda had enjoyed that moonlit night together - the memory felt full and quiet, spilling with magnetic attraction - it resonated between your bodies. Vibrant and vibrating; what magic had originally felt like to you, in the way you had sensed limitless as a child.
It felt so much thicker, more vast. Beyond possible comprehension without entering it completely. This awareness arose, that you yourself: searching, identifying the electricity building between young minds as their thoughts connected across your classroom, in minutes during introductory lecture. Their identification of concepts known yet unknown, in that indescribable sensation of the everchanging present that you so adored finding recognition in.
You had not expected most of your nights to follow in this way. After the rendezvous in your office, you would have expected nearly the opposite from Zelda. Perhaps you were assuming she'd be one to hold her distance in winsome glances towards you. That the two of you would stare, amongst the witnessing presence of your Coven. Aloof, as so many things were, entranced in their community of magic. Yet, she and you, had grown in intimacy. Across the halls, past shoulders and nods, beckoned in silence for more from her. Things were shifting. You had adjusted to read her, with the way she held her stoic composure, experiencing her words, and her thoughts unspoken.
You were sculpting in new habits of your nights proceeding dinner - in spending your evenings together. Consumed by the time that would pass, you would make your way back towards your study, and she towards her own. Moving like your life depended on the coolness of your collected composure, the stillness you felt it setting, cooling and settling between your muscles and with each and every aching step. You had to allow the excitement to shiver in bliss within your muscles fibers, awakening you rush of happiness. Otherwise you were sure you’d tremble in anticipation, unable to get much of anywhere with an aching center and a driven, heating need. It felt like the inevitable was drawing closed like the heavy velvet curtains drawn at every window when the sun held betwixt the air and Earth. This anticipated, simple action, came swift and known in its proper unspoken timing.
The woman would wait exactly thirty three minutes before teleporting to your door. Rather than appearing inside. She found profound pleasure in the formality of knocking - as if it was merely an excuse to cease your breath with her entrance - as it never failed to do so.
You never spoke directly about your night of passion, but the two of you would play with it, in quiet fleeting references. In toying words or the craning shapes of her body language, she would play upon it. Even in the way she would eye over your face, then hands; when sending hot embers scoring the brim of the ashtray - your skin, with her heated and wildfiring, passionate bond. It was as if she knew it erupted you in goosebumps, the ashes reflecting visions of her hot kisses charring your flesh. She would send you a smirk or a knowing look, as her hand brushed against your leg - your trembles, as if she knew it would blur you between a vision and the presently jarring reality. It made you feel… drunk. It was as if the hunt was what pleased her especially. Knowing full well you were practically hers, wading in silent bated breaths - to be caught in grip of her jaws once more.
Tonight, that specific thought felt prolific, like foresight, but you never took stock in assuming. Assumption would be the bane of anyone's true knowing.
You had taken up in advising the Directrix in her personal journey towards the Goddess. It felt humbling. What an honor, and to some, a bafflement that a young woman and such new member such as Y/N being illicitly chosen to advising the High Priestess, at her personal request, for guided practice.
There were ways in sculpting her that you knew would be more useful. To help her build the relationship on her own. It felt like you had done this a thousand times with yourself. In the beginning, constantly feeling yourself waver in and out of connection with the Goddess. It had only been when you realized you were the one that had lost touch, disconnected from such an eternal internally expanded force, that you felt you could reach her in an instant, as if nothing had ever happened. Nothing has been disconnected or out of reach or place at all. This was when you had felt, what you could now detect as, unconditional love, for the very first time. A love that had never left you, or stung with resentment. In a force far greater than the collection of everything, and everything in between it.
When Zelda had asked you, she had no idea where to start. She had confided in you the vulnerable expectancy of her role, but that it was not that which had urged her to ask you. It was her own sense of yearning for Lilith, for Hecate - Astarte, Inanna, Ceridwen, and the rest of the Goddess in wholeness. She was raised to expect Lucifer to present himself to her. To wait and become whatever he wanted for task or pleasure. To know her and be known in return felt ineffable. She would have never thought in her lifetime that she would move humbly towards an entity, in hopes to understand an ancient force such as the Goddess, or source of life, and existence, a boundless Source. In magic. Let alone the option; to know her personally, as a friend and confidant and living love. Zelda was beginning to see in your lessons that the Goddess, Source, was a hidden face in every tiding. A piece in everything no matter her form. The pieces in shatters always fit, the web weaved in perfect collection of all of it.
The coven was in fact, indebted to Hecate - but Zelda's yearning to thank her entirety, beckoned, and called to her very core.
There had been none other that came to mind, to be better in guiding her than you. You felt blessed, remembering the Goddess's words that all was as in alignment. All was as it should be - in your choosing to embrace it.
A silent shiver courses through your shifting body. You had instructed Zelda to begin writing, whatever so moved her or felt intuitively natural. You urged her to write whether it made sense in the moment, or not - wherever the inclination came from. That her intuition was a tie, and if she came to trust it, she would come to realize that her ability to commune to the Goddess was just that, listening. In choosing to embrace it.
The redhead was already capable of prayer. It was the learning to listen that was the ticket for anyone's mastery. Of course, it can feel strange praying or writing to someone, something you do not feel you know. You suggested she write anything, even words in random that arose in her intuition - and that by writing them, she could dedicate whatever the product, to Hecate, despite satisfaction, for this was doubt. That an offering in genuineness, there could be none greater. You had explained that this was the intended act of honoring your experience: that in releasing control to the Goddess, whatever would come of it would be Aligned. Not only that, it was another form of offering - something much less conventional than the blood of a virgin or soul of the unborn. If there was anything Zelda had known about Lilith, it was her keenness for the unconventional. Something personal to this version of her, that she connected, she could resonate as personal. An attribute Zelda had become pleasantly familiar with, in her time knowing her.
She confessed, sacrifice hadn't been like that in Satanic witchcraft. This didn't require blood, or pain, or sacred items. It felt unsettling. It only required the intention that it was for her.
"A Goddess who believes that all we desire on our own, is truly what she desires for us".
This was a level of worthiness Y/N had mentioned recurrently, without the confession of your breathtaking awakening in the forest a few steps away - before sharing with the woman. You explained that you felt no human or witch knew how to handle such a concept, until now.
"How do you even begin to talk to someone like that..?"
Zelda confessed one evening, bewildered that such a Deity or concept, in selflessness could exist.
"I’ve learned that it's as much about talking - as it is about listening.
It is perfectly valid to begin with ‘I’m not sure what to say…’ and to let your thoughts flow in honesty from there. If you are ever unsure, take the time to listen. Take the point in pen hitting paper to release even the blotting smear of ink from the pen. It is the concept that you are consciously there in her presence”.
The silence seemed to stir those embers like before, except rather than in you, in herself.
"It is within all of us"
You comforted her, before returning her to the task of writing, the warm glow of your heat embering with the soft confident brush of your index against her forearm.
It was now, like many nights, that you read through the entries of her journal alongside her. You had insisted the first time, that you need not read it in order for it to be a valid sacrifice to the Goddess - but she had insisted in sharing the strangeness of the exploration with you. You found her words to be beautiful. Her handwriting, as smooth and sweeping, and divine as the way she entered each room and stole each gaze. Her words were unexpected, beautifully honest, and vulnerable. Shaken like the trembles responding to her voice and will. It was in reading her dedications, that you felt for the first time, your heart pang in adoring admiration, for anyone aside from Source herself.
Tonight as you were reading, as you had forsought - her lips met your heartbeats in the nape of your craning neck. You had grown so lost in her words that the impact of her warm flesh had startled you - like a snapping twig in the silent wood outside the Academy's grounds. Your body trembles like layered leaves, interrupted by her gust of wind, lifting up and guiding your movement towards her figure. You feel yourself sway and mark the page with your index as her fingers now clasped your cheek, leaning into it as the tides lean towards the moon. Natural. Surrender. You feel it deep within you and remember that by embracing your experience, as the Goddess had prompted you before, was a way you could honor both her and yourself, in utter pleasure… and desire.
"Z- elda…" you swallow breathlessly, not wanting her to stop as your heart flutters helplessly in your throat. You witness your tangled muscles relaxing at her touch, as your voice returns faltering at the preface of your lips "these entries are stunning"
The redhead lifts her mouth towards your ear, and the tenderness of your flesh shivers beneath it with careful urgency.
"As are you, little seer"
You feel your hands lift the book towards your desk, before releasing it on its surface to turn yourself quickly towards her. Your heart patters in racing tandem to the sudden burst of rain tapping rhythmically at your windows pane.
You turn yourself to face her before meeting your hands to hers, resting on your cheeks before pulling her into a swelling kiss. The way her hips press against you, brings you to sudden awareness of the natural rhythm in the way you moved together. The braiding together of instances in harmony, the progression of the prior lessons collecting towards this very moment, in apex - like the building of each rain cloud, erupting in release over Greendale.
You turn, she moves. You press, she shifts. It was as if every movement was as synchronized as the pendulum on the grandfather clock, well tuned and cadenced in its natural precession. The goosebumps you had felt before were now spread across your entire form as your body shivered against her touch. The collecting swells of the raindrops met as the touch of her palm. One of her hands immediately shifts to support the small of your back, which trembles and softens against it. The base of her palm meets your flesh, gentle, yet firm, warm and reassuring as she slips effortlessly beneath your blouse. Taking you in another breathless kiss. Her lips part, to allow her tongue to request meeting your craven taste on her pallet. It was clear to you more than ever, that she had wanted you. This every moment she spent with you beneath her gaze had been that of undeniable desire, and building pressure. 'Of…. course', you think to yourself, but in just the manners of her movement, you now know for certain.
"I think that's enough lessons for tonight"
Zelda's voice mulls softly, as her words feed into the vibration building at your teeth. You can't help but moan as your lips meet her shoulder in nipping, mewing desperation. Your hands pull needingly to have her closer to you, your whimpers in guiding gasps before your palms meet her breasts, clasping with a secured certainty that the trembling had seemed to release. Beckoning, your lips whisper a few words against her skin before she suddenly falls deep into your bed. The mix of desire between you both teleports you without notice to the safety of your quarters. The weight of your push and the sudden shift in location knocking her off her feet into the pillowing plush of crushed velvet. You climb it's preface, drifting to straddle on top of her, far more forward than encounters before. You press your lips to the seam of her blouse, aching her to remove it in the swiftness of her own enthralled passion. Seeing her sprawled across your bed, shifts a knowing in you. Your heartbeats together panged in your ears, your jaw guided in hungry kisses to meet her accented collar bones. Their beauty is like porcelain sweeping to meet her sculpted breasts. Her breaths rising and falling erratically, draw you closer into the nest of her arms. Pulling your weight towards her, you feel your legs tangle, aligned with the meeting and sharp pressure of your clits connecting.
The shock.
The connection is prevalent, like lighting's fire - tangible in the release of her harmonious moans linking with your own. Your desire so tangible, Zelda can hardly feel embarrassed with the rouge rising in her face. Her hands pull you close towards her hips, urging you to grind against her and provide little relief towards your building passion. Your kisses begin to grow as they travel across, and down each breast. Your hungering wetness, dampening her skin. With your breathless moans tracing her - Zelda is caught completely off guard and vulnerable the moment your soft lips draw, to bite her. Her pale breast purpling beneath your sucking lips, she gasped, in delicious ecstasy. The gorgeous yearning that devours her, tearing at the peak of her need for you. Zelda's skin rippled in goosebumps as her exposed abdomen tightens, a smirk attending to your hunger's liking. You find yourself growing far more exposed and domineering with her than ever before - and you can tell how completely off guard she has become, finding herself whimpering against your confident smirk.
What a shift.
You had never imagined you'd hear her whimper. The woman who seduced you with growing need, using just her eyes to send electricity through you, was beginning to tremble. Her fingers gripping your back, your teeth assist in removing and unclasping her lace bralette. Nothing with her was as you'd expected, you find yourself even more satisfied with the result unfurling before your eyes, her breasts spilling over, gaze hungering and desperate for your thighs movements up to grind against her precious heat.
Abridged and supported by her crying, frustrated moans, you remove her bra with a keenness, causing it to flutter against the dresser's surface, across the room from the two of you. The mirror reflecting your candlit bodies, she unzips the back of your dress, your swift, defiant movements pulling her delicate fingers away from the zipper as your lips take her breast in peaking proposal. Your tongue flits her nipple, the warm dampness of your tongue beckoning her to arch against it, as you take her sweet flesh into the hold of your mouth. Suckling in pleasurable hunger, your thigh draws down her covered core with gruesome, fracturing friction. You find the lace of her panties fits in perfect contrast to the soft ageless touch of your skin against her. The firm pressure in contrast to the delicate flesh that scathed her form, drawing her breaths inward - her energy enveloping you in gorgeous enthrall to pull you as close to her as your bodies can bare. You shift your mouth in time with her breaths, drawing inward towards the honest wetness of her fabric, closing in on her.
It is only then, that you pause for a brief moment to touch her thigh, your breath warm and tangible against her, your l fingertips, tweaking her nipple, sucking deeper to pull her breasts fullness towards your mouth. Her gasping moans echo your chambers as if they had longed to reverberate her sound.
The pleasure you feel in unbelievable, your own heat gasping in needing waves as you grind just as needily against the mattress in return to the response of her bucking mound.
It is then, that she flips you, your lips a moment away from capturing her craving heat. You are shocked, by the power burning within her. Her eyes are sharp and daggering, your dress splitting open as she lifts your hips to plunge her fingers into your dripping cunt. Dazed, your mouth trembles - unable to utter the "FUCK" sitting gutteral in your throat, her firm graising thumb streaking from your entrance to your clitoris. Her fingers spread then curl inside you, before her free hand grounds firmly next to your ear. You can feel your waves of panting met only by the slapping wetness of her palm at your core, her curling fingers pushing you quickly towards a blistering climax. 'So… soon…' you think, contracting her cunt against the pressure of her relentless fingers. It is now that your eyes meet hers, her needing eyes connecting to a depth within you never searched. The moans spilling from your lips in tongues unfamiliar. Your desperate hands grip the sheets and wrist at your crown, grinding back in restless tides. Your jaw tightens with baited breath, using everything in you not to come immediately. It is then that gloss covers your sweet dark eyes, erupting you in waves of pleasure as you spill out uncontrollably across her fingers.
Zelda licks her lips, pleased, and surprised at your body's response, slowing her thrusts to meet her upper lip to your bud, sliding her tongue between her digits inside, to taste you.
Her moan is earth shattering. The way it echoes up inside you enough to make you burn with intensity, in sensuous waves as your hips meet her to ride out your orgasm.
#zelda spellman x reader#caos fanfiction#zelda spellman#zelda spellman fanfiction#the chilling adventures of sabrina#chilling adventures of sabrina#self insert#reader insert#miranda otto#Aligned fic#mine#fem reader#chapter 8
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Thoughts on The Song of Achilles
I just read The Song of Achilles, and while I have book club tomorrow to gush over this book, I think the level of deep I'm digging to will probably be too much for my club-mates. So I've decided to use Tumblr to offload instead.
This is the first book I actively annotated in since... probably high school (aka, it's been more than a hot second). This was probably the best and worst book to use to start annotations again. Best because it is so beautifully written. Worst because, of course, I no longer have a heart as it has been hollowed out to relieve me of the intense pain I suffered after reading it.
In the final chapter, Patroclus calls Thetis out, "You said that Chiron ruined him. You are a goddess, and cold, and know nothing. You are the one who ruined him." I definitely agree with Patroclus here. However, in today's TED talk, I will rant about how Patroclus' is also responsible for Achilles' ruin.
To start, I have to praise Miller for how masterfully she molds each character. In just four chapters, we have a complex understanding of who Patroclus is as a person and why he ticks the way he ticks. Patroclus' defining characteristic, confidence (or lack thereof), is first hinted at on the first page, "Quickly, I became a disappointment." This is the core trait Miller starts out with to flesh out the character. The low opinion Patroclus has of himself, heavily shaped by his father, becomes the source and shaper of all his other traits.
Patroclus' low self-opinion is his greatest gift and flaw. His entire life, he has been told he is worth nothing. He is emotionally abused, depressed, and hurting. Tragically, out of this comes his humility and humbleness. In a world that is hard and cruel, Patroclus chose to be soft and kind - the key to what makes the people around him love him so deeply. There is a whole separate soap box waiting to be stepped on for this topic alone. Today, we are focusing on how Patroclus' lack of confidence becomes his fatal flaw. Just as his gentleness is borne from his low confidence, so too is his self-contempt, and this is his ultimate undoing.
From the very first moment he lays eyes on him, Patroclus has always seen himself as second to Achilles. It originates from a place of envy but eventually comes from a place of love and admiration. Patroclus, believing himself only worthy of disdain, allows this to define him. Rather, he uses it to define himself - what value could he possibly have without Achilles at his side?
It is not just Thetis' misguided, motherly love and prideful scorn for mortals that fills Achilles' mind with the whispers of gods instead of the cries of his peers. It is not just the adulation of the masses and the glorification of war that lures Achilles into hubris and a madness that even Patroclus falls prey to. It is also Patroclus' self-contempt and core belief that he has no value beyond Achilles that fuels and enables Achilles' arrogance.
There was only one person Achilles was ever willing to put on a pedestal above himself. He believes Patroclus is worth extending the Trojan War and keeping thousands of families apart for ten years (a separate discourse on this). He holds Patroclus in the absolute highest regard. On multiple occasions, although Patroclus only consciously acknowledges two, Achilles defers to what Patroclus' wants. Despite his godliness, which he is fully aware of, Achilles is willing to submit himself to Patroclus.
Patroclus is always in awe of Achilles and in disbelief that he managed to land such a hot piece of a**. Through the first two thirds of the book, Achilles also repeatedly mentions how equally in awe he is of Patroclus and repeatedly tries to get Patroclus to stand by his side as an equal. However, Patroclus' self-contempt will not allow him to see himself as Achilles' equal. Achilles makes many attempts to put Patroclus' needs first, but Patroclus consistently rebuffs these efforts and insists his needs be second to Achilles'. Over time, Patroclus trains Achilles to see his (Achilles') needs above his own (Patroclus'). Due to a highly privileged upbringing, Achilles knows no better than to gradually accept this as fact and ends up taking it for granted.
The only person who could have taught Achilles to know better and to understand reason is Patroclus himself (and probably Chiron, but Chiron isn't the one who is constantly and seductively whispering in Achilles' ears for 20 odd years). Patroclus was everything that tethered Achilles to his gentleness and humanity. However, Patroclus dotes on and spoils Achilles far too much. He makes himself, and is grateful to be, the rug that Achilles wipes his shoes on (despite Achilles equal insistence to clean off Patroclus' shoes).
With all this pre-established cognitive wiring, can we blame Achilles for being the densest of all walnuts when it comes to Patroclus' feelings and needs? (The answer is yes, and I place equal blame on Achilles as I do Patroclus for all of this.) Until the last third of the book, Patroclus is the only person who could possibly force their will on Achilles. He loved and respected both his parents, but he was defiant even against them. Of course, Patroclus has neither parent's pride and does not ever seek to force his will on Achilles or anyone else (something which he is definitely loved for). He loves Achilles and genuinely wants everything that would make Achilles happy.
Most crucial to this whole rant thought, Patroclus also refuses to acknowledge (read: zero self-confidence) that he has the power to stay Achilles' hand. Patroclus forgets he has a voice. He forgets his opinions and feelings are worth of acknowledgement. He forgets to be selfish and fight for what he wants (outside of Achilles' survival).
In true Patroclus fashion (forever putting others before himself), he finally stands up against Achilles for Briseis' sake. Although he has secured Briseis' temporary safety, he is far too late and Achilles has already been swimming in the deep end for a good thirty minutes. Achilles is entrenched in the belief that he and Patroclus are of the same mind, that his wants must also be Patroclus' wants. While he is wounded by the betrayal, Achilles cannot and does not stay mad at Patroclus because he knows his immortal glory is also what Patroclus is trying to build and preserve.
This is as deep as Achilles' understanding goes though. Achilles' belief system has been shaped too perfectly. His cause is Patroclus' cause, any ancillary motivation is but an afterthought. The blinders are up and Achilles only has eyes for his immortal glory. He is blind to how much pain was necessary to provoke Patroclus into mutiny against him. He is unaware of the searing grief it caused Patroclus (in contrast, Briseis immediately understands how severely this betrayal affects Patroclus). Worse, Achilles is completely ignorant of Patroclus' true reasoning and displays blatant lack of concern to Patroclus' emotional wellbeing by immediately launching into how he and Thetis have concocted a plan to let thousands of more Greeks suffer for the sake of his honor. Patroclus is fighting (albeit too late) to bring Achilles back to his humanity and spare innocent people from needless brutality. He has literally and physically spilt blood to right the wrongs he finally opened his eyes to, and Achilles undoes it all in one, idle stroke.
Patroclus was the only person who could keep Achilles grounded, but his infinite love only made him wish to see Achilles fly free. Patroclus was the only person who could scold Achilles into seeing the wrong in his actions and beliefs, but his dotage stayed his tongue and he instead chose to maintain Achilles naivete. Patroclus was the only person who could raise Achilles to his best self and also utterly break him, but his self-contempt did not allow him to acknowledge that he had the power, and thus responsibility, to guide Achilles. Patroclus failed to take meaningful action earlier because he had little faith that his actions and words would matter (despite Achilles, Briseis, and Chiron repeatedly trying to convince him otherwise). He eventually builds up the confidence to believe he is at least worthy of dying for someone he loves, thus cursing grief upon those who love him.
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