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2kmps · 7 months

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IN A SLEEPY TOWN - CHAPTER ONE

headless horseman x reader | 5,249 words

story synopsis; “the horseman who rides atop his alabaster steed, cloaked in crimson without a head.”

in the sleepy town of Moorwick, you are drawn into the legend of the horseman when you learn it is associated with your father’s disappearance twenty years ago. when the local ghost story turns to be anything but that, and a bargain goes awry, you delve into moorwick’s dark history with hopes of saving more than just yourself.

chapter synopsis; you travel to the sleepy town of moorwick in search of your missing father. with little more than some luggage and your car, you're immediately steeped in the mysterious ways of the residents and of their local boogeyman— the headless horseman.

thank you for proofreading, @ceruleansol

for more chapters: masterlist

The town of Moorwick was in rapturous applause that day on October 27. With their claps hard and strong, it became impossible to distinguish between them and the drizzle pattering atop clusters of colorful coats lining the streets outside of the town hall. There, a number of officials of the town council found agitation that the ceremony should be held today in the rain rather than break decades-old tradition and host it in the thickness of morning fog tomorrow or next week.

In the four-day span of your stay in Moorwick as of current, you became well acquainted with the region’s autumnal weather, which seemed to entail invigorating, crisp air at night in companionship with the type of rainfall that managed to seep through your clothes, flesh, and left you cold to the marrow. During the day, there seemed to be no shortage of police at work with their shrill sirens and flipping lights to block off landslides on the main roads from overnight.

Three of those landslides had thwarted your passage into Moorwick for a solid three days, leaving you to the mercy of cruddy motels overcharging for beds with stains a tad too dark to be anything auspicious and water with the faintest tinge of yellow.

During checkout at the final detour of your trip, the man at the desk went on a tangent about the old days as a fisherman on the coastline right up until his eye was plucked out by a crab and had to retire. You managed sounds from your throat that quivered from your discomfort, attention floating from the adjacent hallways hoping to reel another patron in alongside you.

“By the way there, you ain’t heading towards Moorwick by any chance, are ya?”

When you turned forward again, the man was nearly bent all the way across the counter, elbows just nearly reaching the end of the desk. In his one eye that didn’t catch an unnatural sheen from the dim, orange light overhead, you thought you saw traces of lunacy in it, the stare of a man with the anxiety and burden of stories to share.

You honestly didn’t want to know.

“Yeah,” you offered with a withering voice. “Going there for family stuff and whatnot. The town has a website. It looks nice enough. But they always do, right?”

The man shrunk back from the counter to his own side, digging his heels back down onto the floor. He regarded you with such a pitying look and a frown that it spurred a rush of shame to creep up your neck and across your face. “I see. Well, best do ya business and leave. Take my word for it when I say don’t go below the surface. Sometimes, taking things as they appear is better.”

He pulled a receipt from the register under his desk, fumbled with it in his knobby hands and bulbous knuckles to smooth out the wrinkles before handing it over to you. There for a moment, the slip of white paper hovered aloft in the man’s hand, unable to find yourself willing to reach for it.

Quick to take your reluctance in stride, he gave a hearty laugh that broke into hoarse cracks of coughs that he smothered behind a fist. “I only say—I only say that because ya giving me the feel of one of those folks who just doesn’t let things be.”

You slipped the receipt from his fingers quickly, crushing it into a wad against your palm with a taut smile pressing lines into your face. “Won’t say you’re wrong. Take care.”

His words stayed with you for days afterward, staved only by the static of the radio as your only friend on the stretch of road alongside the forest. The trees had tantalized you into a lull, unassuming, yet you often found your eyes veering from the road toward them as though noticing a stare from across the room. It was a sensation that ensnared you all the same even after your arrival in Moorwick.

The day of the ceremony at present wasn’t an exception to this. By that point, the rain had tapered into a fine mist that dampened your skin as you shucked the hood from your raincoat behind your head, face pointed purposefully ahead.

Standing front and center now on the lowest steps of polished, slick stone was the mayor of Moorwick, a man barely a decade older than your own, though even that was a generous assumption. As he reached toward his face, a single finger erect to move aside a piece of dark hair that had fallen out of place, a silver medal hanging by a thick ribbon of deep blue rattled in his hand. The other held a simple plaque inscribed with gold in the black facing.

He surveyed the crowd slowly, undoubtedly recognizing all of the faces present there in the crowd until you felt his gaze settle on you. It had to be that you were still paranoid from the car ride there, you thought; the mayor and yourself had never once crossed paths, not once. You were certain of that.

And yet, you were familiar with the chill that gripped you when you were being watched, observed. It was different this time around; it wasn’t some intangible entity that haunted the foot of your bed at night, but rather a man of flesh and bone with a stare that seared into you. Your heart plunged into your stomach, forcing your legs to shuffle around in place, feeling the men on either side jostle you with their elbows as they clapped along with the rest.

Just as you thought to yank the hood up to conceal yourself, his head snapped to the side while a smile fit for a dashing gentleman carved into his lips, teeth a glistening white. He took several paces to the side, arm extended to mold against an elderly woman’s back as she ambled out from the crowd, holding a hand against her hip as she went.

“Hard to believe it’s been twenty-three years since we began doing this, right?” he spoke mirthfully, his voice humming from a pair of speakers located on adjacent sides of the sprawling crowd. “Once again, for the twenty-third year in a row, I would like to present this, uh, award to Moorwick’s very own Asta Lang! One hundred forty-five, can you believe it?”

The commotion grew louder by the second; the buoyant shouts and cheers, whistles and clapping had begun to warp together into a single cacophony of noise so grating it struck you between the eyes. Although the clouds held their dismal tone, expanded over the town like an ominous specter, and the ruckus was head-splitting, you willed your feet to stay anchored to the front row.

You clapped along with everyone as Asta, a rather short and frail-seeming woman with gray hair situated in intricate braids, bowed her neck toward the mayor to accept the medal and plaque. Once adjusting the ribbon at her neck, he cuffed an arm around her again and ducked his head near her ear.

Asta found you then, undoubtedly with the help of the mayor, and her thin lips pulled high close to her wrinkled cheeks dabbed in roughly blended fuschia. She turned her hand toward you, waving far more vigorously than she had for anyone else, keeping her smile long enough to tempt one of your own.

“Asta Lang, everyone! Asta Lang! Give her a good round of applause.” His words won him that response, rousing yet another wave of cheer through streets that quickly ebbed like a tide receding from shore when he shook a hand above his head. “So, just a reminder, good folk! The parade is only four days away! Four! Make sure to submit your booth tickets and finalize paperwork with the town council. We want this year’s parade to be the best yet! Don’t forget the contest in unmasking this year’s Headless Horseman. Who will it be?”

You were relieved to find your opportunity to shoulder your way through the sea of bright raincoats to the opposite end where you had seen Asta depart just moments ago. The mayor had such an air about him that it was hard not to find yourself captivated by what he had to say, yet strangely, all he had to say was nothing of consequence to miss.

Either way, you seized your escape and trotted across the grass, sinking underfoot with a trail nipping at your heels whilst shoe prints gushed with brown rainwater. You found Asta some ways off from town hall at that point, heading toward the main road with her husband in tow and the shiny new medal still hanging low against her chest.

“One hundred forty-five. Even I can’t believe it. I’ll fix all of that moaning and groaning from those youngsters wanting my spot by downing a whole bottle of prosecco and cheese.” Asta gave a huff as you eased yourself into a slower stride alongside them. “But look here. Isn’t it beautiful? It will look wonderful on the mantle, won’t it, Winston?”

She pinched the thick silver coin between her fingers near his face, an older man himself of 120 with the looks of one barely challenging his seventies. He adjusted the rim of his tweed hat with a crooked finger, nudging at his wrinkled brow with a thumb as he leaned in to get a better look at the medal.

“Quite nice it is, ah, but,” he stuttered, flicking the medal a few times. “Will it fetch a nice price, I wonder?”

Asta swatted his hand away hastily, tucking the medal under the protective layers of her coat, offering her husband a final admonitory glance before finally turning toward you. Four days into knowing this woman did not lessen your astonishment that she was truly 145; the wrinkles in her face did not align with your imagery of a human to have reached that age. You complimented her upon your first meeting, saying she couldn’t have been older than eighty. She seemed moved to tears.

“This fool doesn’t know anything. Just ignore him.” Asta gestured with her head toward him, receiving a dismissive wave in return. “Oh, yes, dear, won’t you join us for dinner? Before we left for the ceremony, I put in just the loveliest roast. Winston and I haven’t had guests over in a long time. It would be nice to have that company again, won’t it?”

Winston gave an affirmative grumble, reaching toward his neck to stroke the loose skin hanging low. “I would say so. Could give us a good excuse to pull out the red wine from the cellar. It’s a fantastic age now.”

“Oh, Winny.” Asta sidled closer to him, fussing with the hat on his head. “You know what the doctor said. Don’t you dare. I may do my morning walks, but I don’t have the energy to haul your ass to the cemetery.”

Their exchange was an oddly endearing thing, urging you to smother a laugh in your throat that radiated out into your voice. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind the company? I haven’t had roast since I was a kid.”

Asta shuffled closer to you again, carefully winding her arms around one of yours, holding onto you in a manner you felt was almost protective. “Yes, yes, my dear. We’d love that. I’d rather you spent time with us rather than… sitting in that empty old house.”

“Been empty for twenty-some years now, hasn’t it, Asta?” Winston said, ruminating on this as he curled his fingers inward to rotate the gold wedding band clearly too small for the swelling in his hands. “Hard to believe it’s been over that already. When you get to a certain age, you just stop counting. You become a little less pressed on time you’ve lost and focus more on what you can still be doing.”

“Mmm, that is true. Getting old has its perks.” Asta jutted her lips, dark eyes flicked heavenwards in momentary thought, tightening her arms against yours more. “That aside, I would also like to talk to you about, well, your father as well. That’s why you’re even here in Moorwick to begin with.”

The mention of him jerked your head toward her sharply, curiosity piqued. Meanwhile, the thick letter resting in the knapsack on your back felt a great deal heavier than it did before. It’s unlikely you would have ever found your way to Moorwick had it not been for the letter, being that it was a town days from any significant metropolitan area. It wasn’t exactly the most accessible location.

You dug your heels into the soggy ground, pulling Asta to a sudden halt that teetered her a bit too much. “Asta, what can you tell me about—”

“Oh, good, good! I didn’t miss you all just yet!” called the voice of the mayor from a distance. He approached with careful strides through the grass, hiking his pants above his ankles so as to not sully them with rainwater or mud. He had yet to come to a full stop before he had his hand extended toward your waist, straight and rigid, and clad in black wool.

You took a step away, disarmed by just about everything about him. From a distance, he was rather attractive, but up close, he was unarguably handsome with eyes that you likened to amber and a warm complexion. His hair was far more disheveled than it had been previously, making you ponder on whether his townsfolk turned into an angry mob, or he ran all the way here.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He clicked his tongue, flinching as though to reprimand himself. “Colson Sinclair, Mayor of Moorwick. It’s always a pleasure to see new faces.”

Edging a smile to your lips, you took his hand and gave a strong shake, a slight nod, and offered your name to him as well. “Nice to meet you as well, Mayor Colson.”

“Just Colson is fine. No need for the formalities.” He flashed you a radiant smile, dwelling on the handshake for a moment longer before slowly releasing your hand. “I heard you’ve moved into your old man’s house. About time someone occupied it. It’s just been sitting empty all this time. Your father, though, I’m so sorry to have been the one to—to, well, break you that news.”

You stared him in the face, matching the intensity of his own stare. “Do you know much about my dad, Mayor Colson? I’m trying to learn everything I can. Come to terms with it, y’know?”

Colson made a noise under his breath, tilting his head against a bent finger scratching his cheek. “He and I were colleagues for a while, worked as a notary in town hall for a handful of years. Actually, he may have been there before I even became mayor. It’s been twenty years. Stuff gets fuzzy.”

Your eyebrows jumped up, yet you were careful with your words. They spun in your mind and danced like fire on the tip of your tongue. Nothing he said made sense. Perhaps it amounted to nothing more than the stress of his responsibilities, though.

The silence that permeated the air was disrupted by Asta as she gave a noisy sigh that hissed through her teeth. “Children, if you will, my feet are wet, and I am cold. I would like to go home and enjoy my roast. Colson, you come along as well. There’s enough for everyone.”

Colson patted a hand against his chest. His laughter was airy and smooth. “Always looking out for me, Asta. I’ll have to take a rain check on that, I’m sorry. Don’t make that face. Another time.”

With that left said, Colson was quick to toe his way across the drenched ground to the sidewalk, smoothing out his pants and giving a swipe across his peacoat and hands. He left for an unfamiliar part of town to you, toward the harbor if you had any recollection of the layout.

Tall sheets of fog waited ahead for him there, yet just as in his greeting to you earlier, he was dauntless and ventured toward it without so much as a falter in his step.

“Really strange guy.” you said, passing a furtive look toward the older couple.

Asta flicked her fingers with a scoff. “He isn’t a half-bad kid when you get to know him.”

“He’s a punk who’s never worked a day in his life,” was what Winston had to say, removing himself from Asta’s side to mosey on the path toward home. “I’d like to get home before dark, if you don’t mind.”

By the time you reached their home, the slithers of light through the bloated clouds had all but been swallowed by the curtain of nightfall. You thought that the night in Moorwick was darker than in the city, darker than anywhere you had ever been for that matter. There was a stillness in the air accompanied by a silence that felt loud in your ears.

It came to a great relief to you once you were settled at their dining room table, a quaint little round table fixed with a beige tablecloth that glistened beneath the light with accents of lace. With a single look around, you knew their home was a treasure trove of precious memories collected over nearly a century. A number of trophies and medals were lined meticulously along shelving on the walls, undoubtedly untouched for decades and a delightful home to some crawlies.

“In my youth, I was an athlete,” Asta explained at your side with her carving knife and tongs as she pulled apart the succulent roast from the bone and nestled a good portion onto your plate. The warmth of the morsel wafted around your head and in your nose; it was a comforting embrace from the bite of the autumn night and your unease. “I once tried out for the Olympics, you know.”

You rested your hands atop your thighs, drumming your fingers there to sate your impatience. “Oh, really? What for?”

She continued to gingerly load your plate with sauteed vegetables and the stewed potatoes and carrots that had marinated in the roast broth all day, reminiscing meanwhile on the better part of her life spent as a gymnast. Losing her chance at the Olympics did something to her, she told you, still harboring some weight of dismay in her tired voice.

“You’ve always done your best, Asta.” Winston flicked out a handkerchief to lay it flat across his thighs. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve never done less than that.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” she replied, wiping her hands clean before taking her seat at the table.

Dinner passed pleasantly with Asta and Winston as they recalled times during their youth, particularly of their adventures getting hitched and gallivanting from country to country for a time, typically stowing away on boats to get to where they were headed. Their retelling of those stories meant something to them. You noticed it in the way their faces were aglow, their smiles just a little wider, and the softness that touched their eyes when they gazed at one another.

For a time, it was enough to deter your thoughts from the inevitable until it wasn’t. The tip of your fork lightly skimmed across the embossed veins throughout the plate in front of you, emitting a shrill scratch on occasion.

It was enough of an indication that the time had come. Winston was the one to collect the dishware and take it from the table while Asta led you toward the front of the house into the sitting room. There, the ceiling seemed to move away from you, and the room expanded wider at all sides. It was filled with the very same kind of novelties that gave the rest of their home its charm, and a pair of armchairs far too exquisite for you to sit in, but where Asta led you anyway.

“Take a seat, take a seat.” She gestured to your chair, chest rising and falling sharply with a sigh. “There is a lot for us to talk about. Some of it is better to sit to hear.”

The purple seat groaned beneath your weight when you dropped into it unceremoniously, knapsack pulled in front of you like a child’s toy while you rummaged it for a moment. Your fingers skimmed across a textured envelope, sturdier and far thicker in design than anything you had received before.

Asta’s jaw tightened at the sight of it, her chin tilting higher while her thumbs danced across each other atop a crossed knee. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that. I’m glad it ended up in your hands.”

You nodded your agreement, dropping the stout envelope on the glass table positioned between your chairs. “I wouldn’t have found out anything otherwise. I’m still confused that I had to find out everything through a couple of letters instead of a phone call.”

“Would you have believed a phone call?” she challenged. “After all, we spoke a few times before you found your way here. I stay true to what I said before. I won’t guarantee the information I have on your father is what you want to hear.”

With a thin smile, you shifted to the edge of your seat and twisted your fingers together between your legs. “Asta, I packed two suitcases and barely gave my job notice that I’d be gone. I drove across the country for nearly a week, got caught up in three landslides, and now I’m here in an empty house that used to belong to my dad. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes.” She choked a laugh, a grin. “Yes, I think you will be as well.”

Just as Asta’s laughter settled into jumps in her chest, Winston shuffled into the room with a silver tray nestling an ornate teapot with a tall spout and a pair of cups similarly crafted. His hands trembled with the weight of the teapot, nearly missing the cups as he poured. “It’s a special blend, my own special blend at that. Never met a person who disliked it. Don’t be the first.”

You took the saucer and cup from him as he handed it to you shakily. “I wouldn’t imagine it.”

“Good, good,” he chimed, dropping a cube of sugar and then two more into the other cup, likewise offering it to his wife afterward. “Three cubes of sugar, tablespoon of honey. Just the way you like it.”

Asta craned her neck back to plant a kiss on his cheek, sending him off from the room then so you were alone with her. The first sip she took, she swallowed and blew out a breath; the second sip loosened her shoulders and molded her into the chair.

“As you know from the letter, your father is legally acknowledged as having passed. As you are the next of kin—his only kin—his belongings and property are now yours, should you choose to have them.” Asta began, lowering her cup to the table below. “It’s all a very complicated situation. My, how to begin…”

You didn’t drink from your tea but rather moved it to the table similarly. “He wasn’t present for most of my life. He upped and just disappeared one day. No explanation. No phone calls. No birthday cards, Christmas gifts. And then twenty-something years later, I get a letter with an official seal saying he’s passed, but you wrote me one, too.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Asta replied, collectedly. “I asked Colson to have my letter included to you as well. Colson wrote to you all of the legal information, but I wasn’t satisfied with that. I wanted you to have a better understanding of the circumstances.”

Your eyes dropped towards the letter atop the glass table, recalling the pain that gripped your heart like a vise and opened a void in your gut. “Colson says dad is dead. You say he disappeared.”

“He disappeared twenty years ago on a rainy day in November. I remember it well.” Asta bobbed her head slowly, much like in a motion of a mechanical doll. “I will admit, no one truly knows anything about the circumstances around his disappearance. There was nothing left behind, there was never a culprit, nothing to collect. Only a fascination.”

She was egging on your curiosity, coaxing you to want to delve deeper into it. Whether it was by the uncertainties already surrounding this situation or the innate sensation to recoil—trepidation of an unalterable outcome—you hesitated to push the words from your lips.

“Fascination… of what kind, exactly?”

“Of a kind that I wonder whether you’ll be able to understand.” Asta eased closer to the end of her seat, reaching for the spoon in her teacup to swirl the black drink inside. “Moorwick has been my home for a very long time, and with my age, I have learned that the world is far more complicated than we give it credit for. Your father disappeared somewhere on the outskirts of the forest.”

You stared at her. “Was it searched?”

“The forest? Oh, dear, the Atticus Forest takes weeks to thoroughly search, and even then, it would be easy to miss something. For a time, it was, by daylight at any rate.” She continued, “You see, your father was fascinated by the forest and what may be hidden there.”

The way she spun her story to you sent your mind down a path you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. There in the sanctuary of her beautiful sitting room, you felt the cold grip of something at the back of your neck, bristling the hairs there and bumps high across your arms. Although the room bathed in a soft light, leaving no shadow to the vividity of the mind, you still sat there exposed to this room and town with a large chip in your armor.

With some dubiety to her, and the thoughts that swarmed in your head, you spoke at last without knowing what would tumble out in the tones of your voice, “So, you’re basically telling me that a ghost took him.”

There was something in the way that Asta withered back into her chair, taking glimpses from the corner of her eye as though looking for someone else there. You tightened your arms around the bag against your chest, occupying your fingers with the slim beads hanging from one of the pocket tassels. “What? Is there something else I should know, too? Just throw it out there to me, might as well at this point.”

Asta smacked her lips together and drew her hands together firmly. “As I’ve—as I’ve said, there are things that I wonder if you’ll be able to understand. Your father was no fool to what dwells in that forest. I believe he actually went deep into the heart of it with an intention, and he was noticed.”

“Noticed?” you urged her on. “Noticed by what? A hunter? A ghost? What?”

“The Headless Horseman, my dear.” Asta swallowed an exasperated laugh at bewilderment on your face, having expected that much of a reaction from you. “Moorwick, this wonderful town I love, has a very dark history and an even darker legend. The Headless Horseman who rides atop his alabaster steed, cloaked in crimson without a head.”

She spoke the latter like a nursery rhyme, trailing the tip of her tongue across her lower lip. “He is said to be the warden of the forest, though in life he was a ruthless man—a disgraced prince turned mercenary who lost his life twice. Twice.”

You weren’t sure how to interject to this ludicrous story; this old woman was actually trying to tell you that your father had been stolen by a headless horseman in the woods. For you to deplete so much of your time and funds just to hear this—what the hell were you even doing in this town?

Chasing ghosts now, apparently.

Asta didn’t balk at your disbelief. Rather, she pushed forward with her story. “The first time the horseman lost his life, he was felled and rose again to slaughter the town of Moorwick. The second time, he was decapitated by a sword and buried in a deep grave without his head. And again, he rose from the dead and has waited in the Atticus Forest ever since.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Finally, the thoughts in your head aligned with your words. “My dad is dead—dead at worst, missing at best, and you’re telling me a ghost story! A ghost story! Asta, what the hell?!”

She remained seated in her lush chair, unperturbed, posture impeccable yet stiff as you sprung up from your own and circled the room, tousling your hair with a hand to quell your nerves—better yet, to keep from agitating a fight with Winston should he overhear the ruckus.

“I told you that what I had to say may not be what you wanted to hear.” she reminded with an edge that stung you with the realization you had an outburst as a guest in someone’s home, and it flooded your face with hot shame. “Please sit down, and drink some tea.”

You didn’t for a long while. Instead, you dug a path in the high pile of her carpet, never once straying from the sitting room. When your nerves settled enough to speak without a bite of snark, you returned to your chair with a hard flop. “Okay. So, the Headless Horseman took my dad. Where would he have been taken?”

Asta blinked once, twice, opening her mouth to cracks and croaks snagging in her throat. She hadn’t anticipated for you to entertain the idea that there was something to what she said. “I—well, yes, he—I suppose he would have been taken into the heart of the forest to the Horseman’s grave. At least, that’s what the legend has us believe.”

You juggled her response with a subtle nodding of your head. Clearly, this woman was out of her mind, but it was the only lead you had to go on at this point. Searching a forest was unquestionably stupid, especially without a map or understanding the layout of the land, but yet there lingered a halo of light, a flicker of hope that somewhere in her contrived story, some truth rang to it.

“Moorwick has a library, right?” you asked.

She turned her head with a sidelong stare. “Yes. Three branches. The main branch is near town hall.”

Again, the room was plunged into silence while you considered your options from this point forward. You could easily pack your belongings from your father’s home, take everything you saw and hightail it straight out of this shitstain of a town. You could go back to work at the beginning of next week, block Asta’s phone number, and be done with this entire mess.

"Will I assume you’ll be at the library for sometime tomorrow, then?” Asta piped up, leaning forward with a far too curious glimmer in her sunken eyes.

You would have to leave your things as they were in your father’s home for a while. Hopefully, they didn’t gather dust with how much still lay there undisturbed in gray blankets.

“Yeah, I’ll be there most of the day.”

You wanted answers, and you weren’t going to leave without them.

divider @/anlian-aishang

repost from my deleted blog officiallytheduchess/cardeneiv

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog!

#headless horseman x y/n #headless horseman x you #headless horseman x reader #headless horseman #dullahan x y/n #dullahan x you #dullahan x reader #dullahan #.02 #monster fiction #monster fic #monster x human #monster fucker #monster story #2k writes #original fiction #original story #original writing

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uniquevoidflowers · 7 months

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@onceuponaladye, have whatever this is. Fic under cut:

Hero of Time, or Time now he supposed, considered himself to be very stoic, calm and collected, and a tired old man. Young at heart perhaps (mentally young but we don’t talk about that), sometimes with a streak of mischief, and loving. Malon was a big part of his life as well, the woman stealing Time’s heart as soon as the man learned to love. He cared a lot about her, about his boys, and about his father in law. Now as the sky poured droplets down on the camp, and thoroughly soaked the chain, there was a sense of melancholy ringing in Time’s ears.

“LINK!”

Time heard the young Zelda’s voice crying out, the heavy rainfall as lightning struck the ground nearby, and watching the blue ocarina fly in the air and land in his hands. Then the voice of the evil Gerudo man, Ganondorf.

He sighed and shook the memory away, now was not the time for this. “And after we just set up camp too.” Legend grumbled.

The veteran was scowling gripping the blue cap on head tightly as it was poured on. “Let’s just get this over with. We’ll move.” Warriors demanded.

Time agreed. The best shelter they had at the moment was the bedrolls they brought around with them for when night fell, and those were not efficient enough to withstand the rain. The chain began to pack up the camp and the old man took to helping, and they eventually got everything done. Then the group of heroes set out, some complaining of the rain drenching their clothes and hair, while others let the water soak them becoming calm. Each step they took made a gloppy sound, their boots stomping on the wet ground. Each noise rang inside the old man’s head, until it was drowned out by his thoughts. His mind flashed back again to when he lost Zelda, and the first time he was confronted by the cruel man.

The galloping of Impa’s horse as the elderly woman’s face stayed mostly impassive, a bit of fury showing through her mask.

Mask. Masks.

They were a funny thing to Time. They cursed him, aided him, haunted him, made him happy. He had used masks many many times, on both his adventures. He still had some of them tucked away with his wife at the ranch, or in his pouch with him. One of them the Fierce Deity mask, that he had already regretted bringing. The sailor almost had put it on, nearly giving Time a heart attack, and there were so many risks that that mask held. His mind almost trailed to the incident that had led him to be so wary and so distrustful of the mask, but he stopped himself. That was a thought for another day.

The old man’s mind wandered, masks, ocarinas, and certain people all coming back to him.

Flashes of the ruthless Fierce Deity pushing back the Hero of Time and manically going on a murder spree. Time had tried desperately to regain control, but the deity was way stronger and caused the incident to happen.

Flashes of the royal blue ocarina, stained in a thick crimson red liquid, wobbly notes being played, and a few shrieks before things turned white.

Flashes of the lost souls of Termina, the panicked face of Malon and Zelda, the very expressions on many of the faces he saw. And the Great Deku Tree, slowly fading away as the young boy cried out with grief.

Time shuddered. He’d rather not think about his childhood if he could help it. “You okay old man? Is the rain getting to you?” Twilight worried, of course he did.

“M’okay pup. The sooner we get to shelter the better.” Time reassured.

Twilight nodded, not looking the slightest bit convinced.

Time sighed.

The walk continued on, the rainfall continuing, and lightning striking the ground nearby causing a deafening noise. “Shit, everyone take off your metal armour and weapons!” Wild hissed.

Everybody got confused. What was the champion talking about? “Wait why?” Wind asked.

“Just listen to me!” Wild urged, and starting stripping himself of the metal gear he was wearing while simutaenously equipping wooden weapons and this odd looking helm.

“Listen to the cook.” Time ordered, obeying the cook and letting his clothes soak.

“I don’t see the—…point…oh dear Hylia!” Warriors yelped as his armour started buzzing noisily.

The captain quickly threw off his armour and grabbed his scarf running as far away as he could from the metal.

BOOM!

The armour was charred greatly, and not salvageable by any means. “Damn it.” Warriors cursed.

Everybody else had thrown away the metal on the ground, Wild looking a little sheepish but grateful. Nobody had gotten hurt thankfully. The old man had never seen lightning so severe, or maybe he had just never noticed it, but then again this was Wild’s Hyrule. Everything seemed to be more…harsh. “Usually my slate would just pick up the items after I take them off…sorry.” Wild bit his lip, staring at the burnt remains of the gear.

“It’s okay. At least none of us got hurt.” Sky sighed.

“Most of us are unarmed I think. Can you still wield Fi? Legend do you have lots of weapons?” Warriors questioned.

“I think Fi will be good.” Sky assessed.

“Oh don’t worry Pretty Boy, my rods aren’t metal. Entirely magic.” Legend assured, not unkindly, looking fondly at the weapons he owned.

“If you are unequipped, please find someone who has a weapon and lets move on.” Time demanded and once that was all settled, everyone started walking again.

Did he do the right thing? Time always found himself questioning wether he was leading the chain correctly, or dragging everybody down. He hadn’t known if his judgement was right, and was worried he would fail everyone.

Now’s not the time, he reminded himself. Time took a deep breath and followed the others.

#unique writes #linked universe #lu wild #lu warriors #lu legend #lu sky #lu time #lu wind #lu four #lu hyrule #four and hyrule dont really get mentioned #linkeduniverse #dont really know what this is #but uh #yeah

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end-l3ss-v0id · 2 months

Text

I can see this as TGCF characters

Audio: The Devil Loses It [Snapcube Shadow Dub] (youtube.com)

Hua Cheng: heyyyyyy, whats upppppp, it's meeeee

Lang qianqiu: STOP

HC: i- I- don't know how to impress upon you that physical damage done to my body does not affect me in the long term.

Xie Lian: Lang qianqiu!

HC: oh hey all your friends are here!

Xie Lian: we're here to help you man! with what i don't know! BUT I VALUE OUR FRIENDSHIP

Feng Xin: Jesus Christ, watch out for that son of a bitch

Hua Cheng: it's really cute that your gonna "defeat me with the power of friendship" in all, but again i am the Crimson Rain Sought Flower calamity from the legends so i Dunno how well that will work out

Lang qianqiu: You mother f----er you didn't let me finish!

Hua Cheng: Uh-huh go ahead.

Lang qianqiu: I have all this power!-

Hua Cheng: dedededede- shut up, shut up, shut the f--k up. I Don't care, I DO NOT CARE ,

Hua Cheng: you don't understand i came down here as a joke to have fun this is not- this is nothing! this means nothing me You mean nothing to me! You and your little friends(besides XL) are f---ing annoying!

Hua Cheng: This why i stay down in paradise manor! This is why i punish ghosts! I AM THE GOOD GUY do you realize? I AM THE GOOD GUY HERE!

#tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven officals blessing #hua cheng #xie lian #lang qianqiu #Feng Xin

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alwaysjustmina · 6 months

Text

Whispers of Rain

Chapter 3 -Will You Cleanse Me With Pleasure?

Thank you to the amazing @kamonart for the art for this story!

Thank you @papaslittlesunshine and @midnight-moth for betaing for me.

PLEASE NOTE THERE IS A RAPE SCENE IN THIS CHAPTER

The legend of the Selkie plagued Dew’s mind, the thought of the Selkie only being able to come ashore as a human, but it would have to shed its skin to do so. And couldn’t return to the sea without his skin to start their siren song again. Was Dew’s abduction Rain’s loss of his skin? Could he return to the sea again? Could he find comfort again? Or would he forever be plagued with the loss of Dew, taking his other form with him? Their connection was so strong they were half a ghoul without the other.

Dew found himself on a beach, watching the ocean, seeing Rain in the distance, dancing in the waves. He wished he could join him but kept his distance, he would only slow Rain down. So he watched the perfect grace he possessed as he jumped through the water, gliding silently through the crystal blue to find small shells or to play with the sea creatures he found.

He was a sight to see in his element, truly breathtaking. Dew remembered that first time he saw the water bead on his skin. Was that really only less than a year ago? The kiss they shared in the water, magical. As his mind drifted to those times, it was as if Rain knew he was thinking about him and turned to look back at Dew. A coy smile played on his lips as he started walking towards his mate on the sand.

Soon he was close enough he could plop on the towel next to him, drenching Dew with the water on his body as he leaned in close to his side. “What are you thinking about, baby?” He asked as he melted into Dew.

Dew couldn’t answer, his breath taken away by the slow kisses Rain was placing on his bare chest as he snuggled. When he didn’t answer, Rain laid his head in Dew’s lap and looked up at him with his beautiful blue eyes, the corners of his mouth in a pout that Dew didn’t return his affection quicker.

“Otter?”

Dew looked down at Rain, brushing his black hair behind his pointed ears, the dampness keeping it in place, instead of springing back like it normally did. He ran his fingers along his cheekbones, over his brow, the lightest touch on his fluffy eyelashes as he fluttered them closed, his straight long nose, trailing further down to his lips.

A smile graced Rain’s lips to match the one on Dew’s. The finger on his lips traced the cupid's bow, featherlight, making Rain’s face scrunch in surprise at how ticklish it was. As Dew traced his lips, Rain quickly opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out to lick at the finger that slowly dragged along it.

He could hear the sharp inhalation under Dew’s breath, pleased that he surprised him. Dew continued running his now spit-soaked finger along the outline, the saliva glinting in the sun turning his crimson lips into a sparkling mirage.

“Stunning,” he whispered under his breath. The reverence in that one word melted Rain’s brain with affection for Dew.

“I love you, baby.”

Dew gazed down at him, with half lidded eyes, his fingers moving from his lips to rest on Rain’s hip, while the other ran through his damp hair. “I love you. Though, I feel like that doesn’t even describe the feelings I have for you. Love is maybe a tenth of the power I feel.”

“You consume me Rain, I want to crawl into you and never leave. The feelings I have for you are more infinite than the amount of stars in the sky, the damned souls in hell, these grains of sand that support us. I can’t even tell you the depth of my feelings, it seems inadequate, what did I do to-to…”

His words, cut off by Rain lifting his head off his lap to bring his spit-soaked lips to Dew’s in a devastatingly passionate kiss, wrapping his arms around Dew’s neck to bring him down on the blanket beside him.

They stared into each other's eyes as they memorized the lines of each of their faces, the curve of their bodies, the feel of how well they fit together, perfectly. They slotted their legs together, hands ran along each other's sides, occasionally dipping lower to run along a hip, higher to run fingers through each other's hair.

Rain nuzzled into Dew’s neck, slotting his head under his chin, still grasping onto one another, their hold never breaking, as if they couldn’t get close enough. Rain ran his nose along Dew’s pulse to the scent gland behind his ear, taking in his fire smell, drenched with water, moaning at the scent, his lips brushing over his pulse points, tongue darting out to taste. Like burnt marshmallows, sweet and smoky.

“Your arms feel like home, when they are wrapped around me,” He mused into Dew’s neck.

“You are my home, baby. Always.”

They both sighed, content in the other's arms. Not moving along to escalate the feelings, but they could both feel the desire building under their skin. The heat of Dew’s body, the cold damp of Rain’s, as fingers ran along the other it was like conducting electric currents everywhere they trailed.

They were alone on this beach, Dew couldn’t remember if it was too early in the morning, or too late in the evening. The sun’s golden hues casting the perfect light. The smell of old coconut sunblock, sun kissed warmed skin, scenting the air. The heat permeating both of their bodies to different extents, Rain would never be as warm as Dew, Dew never as cool as Rain.

Both comforted in the fact that they were truly alone, their glamor had dropped long ago. Their tails laid entwined. Dew’s with its spade tip, tinged in oranges, reds, and golds over the gray color of the length. It looked like it could ignite any minute in a fiery display.

Rain’s softly tapering, the flowy fins reminiscent of a blue paradise fish, the tendrils at the end, iridescent, catching the glint of the sun as it turned.

Most didn’t know that his tail ends would change depending on his emotion, Dew of course did. The blue sparkle was when he was at peace, happy. If a little red ran through it, he was feeling spicy, sexual, wanting. If it turns all red, you best watch out. Green was his usual color, content, but shy.

Dew had seen all of the colors in certain instances, and a mix of all in between. He usually kept his fluffy tail glamoured or tight around his body, most water ghouls learned early on that sharing their tail was giving enemies too much information about their feelings, it was wise to keep it hidden.

Rain fully trusted Dew, when they were together, there was no hesitation. Some of the pack had seen it too. Dew loved it, that Rain felt that comfortable with him, that there was no hiding.

He loved when Rain had it laid on the bed between them, the tendrils, silky and reactive to touch, would follow Dew’s fingers as they caressed him, straining to not break his touch. They came close to almost standing straight up, in search of Dew’s body, getting slightly purple on the ends when they couldn’t reach, in disappointment.

Dew loved teasing him, the petulant expression on Rain’s face as he looked at him, bottom lip threatening to slip out. Dew knew the moment before Rain would slip that lip out and would quickly wrap his own tail around Rain’s, holding it tight. Blue and red, entwined, the sparkling of Rain’s playing off the fire on Dew’s. Looking like a fire on a star filled night. Beautiful.

Now was no different, they had their tails wrapped around one another. They could both feel how hard the other was, but chose to ignore it for the time being, happy in their undisturbed closeness. Inhaling the other in, finding solace in the smell, the embrace.

They slowly drifted in and out of consciousness. As one would wake, they would run their hand along the others back in slow sweeping motions. Placing soft kisses wherever they could reach, whispering words of love.

As the sky started to darken, neither sure how long they stayed there in the other's embrace, they woke to gentle kisses, tongues slipping in the other's mouth. Dew moaning at the soft tip of Rain’s tongue as it ran along his, again much colder than his, soft, wet, demanding.

They could no longer hold back their passion for the other, swim shorts were quickly discarded, thrown into the sand wherever they landed. Their bodies found the rhythm they desired. Rain pulling himself on top of Dew, the wetness of their arousal on the other's body, between them, creating the perfect slip of skin to rub along the other.

Rain leaned over and pulled Dew’s paper white delicate skin into his mouth, sucking bruises all along his throat. Soon he couldn’t handle just rubbing their bodies along one another. Rain sank quickly onto Dew’s cock, bottoming out in one push. He sat up on top of Dew’s pelvis.

Dew looked up at him from his prone position, Rain above him, his skin bathed in moonlight from above, the stars a perfect backdrop against his body, they didn’t make him look better, Rain made them look better gracing the sky with his sharp and soft angles. He was a vision. His head thrown back as he gasped at the feel of Dew twitching inside of him.

He moved his hips in a circular motion, slow. His eyes half lidded, his lips ajar in pleasure. The waves crashing behind them covering their sounds of pleasure. Dew grabbed Rain’s hips, to anchor himself, to not float away in the feeling of his cock inside of him.

As they hit the perfect rhythm, their motions becoming fast and fervent, their bodies grinding hard against the other, Rain pulling himself up and almost off of Dew to slam back down, causing them to reach their orgasm hurriedly, rushing towards it and hurtling over the edge. Dew spilling inside of Rain, at the same time as Rain let go, his hot cum, pooling on Dew’s stomach.

They collapsed against each other, bodies sweaty. Sated. Love. This was all they needed.

Until it all disappeared in a blink of an eye again.

Ifrit must have hit him in the head or knocked him out. As he came to Ifrit was above him, Dew on the bed below. He had his hand around Dew’s neck, not squeezing, just applying pressure. Ifrit’s body was laid heavy upon his, it is all Dew could feel at first. The pressure, then the movement as he ground himself into him.

He had both of Dew’s wrists captured in his other hand, taut above his head. His tongue laved over Dew’s neck, he whispered into his ear as he got closer, “That’s right Droplet, I know you want it, I can feel you hard below me.”

Dew was hard, he couldn’t deny the feeling. But it couldn’t be because of Ifrit, it couldn’t.

Ifrit slowly let go of Dew’s neck, new bruises already forming from his fingertips, as he reached between them, grabbing Dew’s cock, in a hard grip. The moan that flew from his mouth disgusted him. Why was he reacting like this?

Ifrit quickly flipped Dew over, pushing his face into the pillow, the knock to the head still making Dew fuzzy and slow to respond. He grabbed his wrists again behind his back, pulling taut with one hand, the other making quick work of his button, pulling it apart, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants below his hips.

Ifrit grabbed Dew by the hips and ripped the loose sweatpants he had on down, ripping them at the seams, practically tearing them from his body. Ifrit grabbed his dick, maybe he would just jack off on him, he had done that before.

No, he laid his body flush with Dew’s back, pushing his arms above his head again. He licked from his neck back up to his ear, again speaking in quiet tones as if there were other people who could hear them. Dew could feel his cock, sliding between his cheeks, the damp pre adding to the slick he was producing.

“You going to take it? I can feel how wet you are. You fucking want it. I know you do.”

All Dew could do was shake his head, as silent tears ran down his face. His body betraying him.

Ifrit pushed his fingers inside of him roughly, pushing two in at a time, in and out, scissoring them apart.

“Gotta get you ready baby, you remember how big I am, you fucking loved it when I would push inside of you, unprepared.”

Dew tried to buck him off, but his body was too weak from the weeks of malnourishment, his muscles started to atrophy from misuse. There was no way he could get away from him.

Ifrit pulled his fingers from him, slipping them into his mouth, as he moaned, “Fuck Droplet, you taste so good.”

He took the hand he had inside of him, to pull his hips up in the air and pushed inside of Dew, ignoring his scream.

“Tell me how much you like it baby, you missed this dick, I know you did. NO ONE, can satisfy you like I can. You’re already screaming in pleasure.”

“That’s right baby, take it. You feel so fucking good around my cock.”

He picked up his pace, slamming into Dew’s body, with absolute abandon. The fight left Dew as he comprehended he couldn’t stop this. Ifrit felt the tension abate. He let his hands go and pulled Dew up on his knees, holding him flush to his chest. His one hand going to play with his nipple and the other on Dew’s hard cock.

“So fucking hard for me baby. You going to cum? I could always read your body so well.”

He slammed in and out of Dew’s body, his hand on Dew matching the pace. Dew whimpered, he wouldn’t be able to stop his body from betraying him.

“Cum for me baby,” Ifrit grunted before his body stilled, and he bit down on Dew’s shoulder, biting through the skin as blood flooded his mouth and down Dew’s chest.

Dew tried to not let his body react, tried, but Ifrit didn’t stop even in the throes of his pleasure. As his hand flew over Dew’s cock, he felt the contraction and Dew spilled over his hand. His hot cum, almost as hot as the warm hand gripping him.

He sagged as his body spent itself. Ifrit pulled from him, throwing him on the bed below him, discarded. He shoved his fingers back in Dew’s abused hole, scooping copious amounts of cum to collect it, before flipping Dew over and shoving his fingers in his mouth. His other hand swept through the cum on Dew’s stomach, shoving those fingers in his mouth, before slamming their lips together, shoving his tongue in Dew again.

After he was done kissing and further abusing Dew, he pulled away, pulling his pants back up, leaving Dew on the bed in shock.

He looked back at Dew as he circled the bed, his eyes staring unseeing onto the ceiling.

“I knew you needed that baby, you kept calling out in your dreams for that water slut, he is no match for my cock is he?”

Dew didn’t answer, he just caved in on himself, pulling himself into the fetal position.

Ifrit sighed, annoyed. “Oh well, Droplet, he won’t want you ever again anyhow, maybe you're the slut, coming for me but professing your love for him. What a joke, it’s ok, we will do this again soon.”

As he pulled the door open, he turned one more time, “Eidolon, I know you're in here, clean him up. Maybe next time I will reward you too.”

He slammed and locked the door behind him.

Eidolon slid out from below the bed to see a broken Dewdrop on the bed, if he could be more broken then he was, covered in cum, blood and spit. Bruises blooming all over his body.

He went into the bathroom to grab a warm washcloth, and gently approached Dew to start to wipe him off. Dew flinched at the first touch of the warm towel, the tears continuing to fall.

“Dew, do you want a shower, I can help you get there, might help to get him off of you?”

When Dew didn’t answer, he picked up his body gently and carried him into the bathroom, to set him on the side of the tub as he turned it on. Making the water nice and hot.

Dew still wasn’t processing what was going on around him. As his body slid in the water, it slowly brought him back. He thought of the last time he showered with Rain. He quickly grabbed the trash can from the side of the tub and vomited, the nothing he had in himself.

Ifrit was right, Rain wouldn’t want him, hell he didn't want himself. He was a dirty, broken ghoul. The crying just got harder as he processed those thoughts.

He had to find a way to end it.

#rain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #raindrop #ghost band #ghost fan fiction #fan fiction #dewdrop x rain #ifrit ghoul #emotional trauma #mina writes

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dracwife · 9 months

Text

repentance.

ship: a taste of the divine -> dracula/ambroży

word count: 1084

summary: And I looked, and behold a pale horse: And his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Upon the horizon is graced a soft spatter of mud, quiet at first but approaching quickly. In the rain, it almost feels like a rumbling storm that gathers.

Distant thunder cracks, and as lightning catches a glimpse of the night, the horse retreats to the main road, its hooves echoing a cacophony of shrill batterings in the narrow street of the village; Rhythmically its beats descend upon the main square, where the horse stops, rears, and the figure atop it holds high the torch it carries.

In the dusk glow, it is almost hard to see, but pale faces peer from windows, curtains drawn back by curious children, who are quickly swept away by fearful mothers, only the bravest of fathers dare to indulge their curiosity and even then take heed to what legends will say of the white hooded figure that rides a white horse.

The red that lines the inner of the figure's cape draws the eyes of those that dare stare, and one by one the men of households file towards the square where the figure sits, waiting.

"Foul beast," one dares to shout, "You are not welcome here."

The hood of the figure turns towards the man.

There is no response at first, and as he squints through the storm, his eyes fall on nothing but the darkness that lies within the hood. He notices then the torch the thing carries -- its flame refused to be extinguished by even the harsh torrent of weather. He gasps softly.

The figure then speaks, or rather growls with a low reverberating voice that echoes within the man's very skull.

"Fool."

He falls to his knees, agonous shrieks louder now than the rain. The thing's horse whinnies softly.

Its voice thunders through the town square, through every home, every mind.

"The monsignor. Bring him to me."

A few of the men and a few of the women stumble about the town, hushed whispers and muted screams as quickly word spreads of the creature descended upon their humble village. The church bell tolls, and from the building creeps an elderly man, harrowing the rain as he is escorted by many panicked townsfolk to the square in which the Beast awaits him. It straightens its posture as it is approached. A flick of its hand parts the crowd in wonder, leaving in full view the monsignor and his escorting group. There is a brief moment of silence before it beckons them closer.

The creature tosses the torch down, and as soon as the handle falls from its fingers, the flame extinguishes. It clatters to the ground, and the priest furrows his brows. He watches as the creature raises its other hand, and finally draws its hood back.

Ever slowly, tauntingly -- and as it lifts the fabric and allows it to fall beyond its shoulders, revealed beneath the ghostly white face, framed with silvery hair, sunken eyes with deep purple circles outlining the eyes -- and the crowd gasps as its eyes finally scan the gathering -- a deep crimson shines within them, piercing the heart of every soul it touches.

In an instant, its hand is around the throat of the monsignor; Lifting him as though he has weighed but nothing at all, and as he gasps for air it laughs digs its fingers into his neck.

"You remember me, człowiek?"

The man's head turns, trying desperately to look away, but a clawed hand jerks his neck back.

"Look at me," it hisses, "You have done this."

And then it drops him. He hits the ground with a thud, a sickening snap breaking the silence that has otherwise fallen over the town square. He gasps for air. Between breaths, he mutters prayers, eyes closed and hands gripping his vestments.

The creature's head cocks.

"Speak, if you so wish, mortal."

The monsignor's eyes open, and he drags his gaze to meet the thing on the horse's. He mutters another prayer.

"Louder."

He does. It laughs.

"Once more, helpless thing."

He heaves a shaking breath, and musters the last of his strength to raise his voice once more.

"And I looked," he starts, now on one knee, and struggling to stand, "And behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death…"

The thing peers out to the horizon behind it. It's expression twitches unamused, perhaps repulsed, by the reading of the Holy Word.

"...And Hell followed with him."

It turns back to the priest. In the blink of an eye, the priest stands halfway, and falls again, throat torn open and writhing in pain. Sitting above him is the creature, head tilted towards the darkened sky: From its mouth drips red, fangs as long as nails bared, and it smiles. Laughs again, a monstrous, discordant sort of sharp noise this time. When it is finished, it looks back down, over the crowd. Its tongue darts out, licks the blood that drips from its lips.

"What more do you want?" a panicked voice stands out.

"You poor, delicate creatures," its voice raises again, casting an air of unease through the crowd again, "All of you so fragile. So ignorant."

It hums, a strident rumble from within its chest.

"Ten years ago, you cast me out. Left to the elements, no food, no shelter. Left for Death, which I have found such sweet embraces in. And now I return, seeking reparations."

"Please --" another voice, "We will give you anything."

"Oh, yes," it chides, "You will. You will pay in blood, as I have. You will pay in fear, and in death. You will pay in such sweet suffering."

The pleads come quickly, and with hurry. Begging, offerings of material goods, services, mothers bargaining for children’s lives, husbands for their own at the peril of their wives. But it hears none, focused now on another noise:

The distant cadence of hooves yet again, and from where the pale horse came from comes a dark one. The beast extends a hand.

"Nemuritor."

"Dragă mea," the second vampire takes the first's hand. His eyes fall to the body that lay now splattered on the ground, his voice echoes within the other creature's mind.

This is truly what you want?

"Yes," it whispers, strained and hurting.

"Then you have done well. Come. Tomorrow we leave. Tonight --" the Count takes one last glance over the gathering, now shrinking as some slink away, others stumbling, few running home as their last few moments draw near. Others stand their ground. How fun this will be.

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast."

Translations, for those who want them:

"You remember me, człowiek?" [ mortal ]

"Nemuritor." [ Undying/Immortal. The name of Dracula's horse. ]

"Dragă mea," [ My pet ]

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast." [ little angel ]

In addition, Ambroży here is depicted as morowa dziewica, or a plague maiden! I thought it might be rather fitting for the theme here.

#ee ee #dex.writes #hiiiiii sorry. i was inspired.#ᴀ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ | r. － c.d.

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huaenrose · 8 months

Text

There is no one who dies without knowing The Flower Crown Martial God and The Crimson Rain Sought Flower, because there is no one who lives outside what they invented: love. For this reason, legend has every human being is made with the touch of a god and undone with the touch of a ghost.

— @huaenrose.

#tian guan ci fu #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #hob #hualian #hua cheng #xie lian #mo xiang tong xiu #mxtx #official art #poems

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skyward-floored · 1 year

Note

A pink scrap of paper reads: “What does Legend miss the most after Sky disappears and/or what was a good thing that came into his life after?”

My angst writer side won out with this one, so I didn’t really explore the “good thing that came into his life after”, sorry about that XD A certain red-haired singer would probably count as a good thing though, yes?

This little fic isn’t about that though.

———

Legend looked up at the ceiling as he lay on his bed, hands settled over his chest.

Quiet talking was coming from down the hall, but Legend was pointedly not listening to it. He was tired of hearing the exact same discussion, over and over, and the inevitable raised voices and tears that came afterwards.

There’d been no news about Sky in weeks.

Thunder rumbled from outside his window, but Legend didn’t move, swallowing thickly as rain began to patter on the roof. It started slowly, but quickly picked up in tempo, until a true downpour was gushing down onto the house.

More thunder rumbled, louder this time, and Legend rolled onto his side, reaching a hand under his pillow and withdrawing a single crimson feather.

He ran a hand along it, and felt something tighten in his throat as he was reminded of when he got it, the feather still in perfect condition despite how many years ago it had been.

“I used to not like storms either.”

Sky’s voice was quiet as he spoke to Legend, his gaze settled on the sheets of rain falling from the sky.

A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance, and a much younger Legend whimpered, turning invisible as he hid his face under Sky’s wing. His uncle smiled down at him, and tucked him more securely against his side, letting Legend bury his face in his feathers.

“But you know what? I’ve learned to see the beauty in them,” Sky continued, a rumble of thunder accompanying his words. “There’s so much to look at and listen to. See all the different layers of clouds Legend? And all the different shades of grey they are? Those over there almost look blue.”

Legend cautiously poked his head up, and picked out the clouds Sky was pointing at, big mounds of greyish-blue all piled up in the sky.

Lightning flashed and Legend flinched again.

“Here, now close your eyes,” Sky said gently, and Legend obeyed, setting his head against Sky’s chest. “What do you hear?”

Legend listened, hearing the rain pattering steadily on the roof, along with a quieter rumble of thunder that rolled through the air. He could also hear Sky’s heartbeat, a steady background to the sounds of the storm outside the house.

“It sounds pretty nice, doesn’t it?” Sky asked, and Legend nodded, opening his eyes as he turned himself visible.

More lightning flashed, but he didn’t flinch quite as hard, the bright bolt making him blink spots out of his eyes.

“The storms might seem scary, but you’re safe inside,” Sky assured, smiling at him. “And it’s nice to slow down and take a moment to watch them, and listen.”

Legend nodded, seeing sense in what Sky was saying. The sounds were nice to listen to he guessed... but he still wasn’t too fond of the lightning.

Sky pulled his wing around him again, and Legend settled under it, watching as a single red feather drifted loose. Sky picked it up before it could fall to the ground, and handed it over to Legend with a bright look.

“Here. You can keep it,” he smiled, and Legend took it with a wide-eyed expression. “They come off sometimes, I don’t mind if you have one.”

“Thanks Sky,” Legend said in awe, admiring the feather.

Sky smiled at him again, and they watched and listened to the storm together, until the sun shone through the clouds.

A roll of thunder pulled Legend out of the memory, and he looked at the feather again, twirling it between his fingers.

His throat tightened further as a flash of lightning shone through the window, and Legend closed his eyes as he curled up, the feather held tight to his chest.

The rain pattered on.

#so in answer: he misses everything about him the most #but especially just sitting and spending time with him #Incredibles au #lu legend #lu Sky #linked universe fanfic #angst #writing from the floor #mad navi my beloved #answers from the floor #watch me rip your hearts out mwahahaha #incredibles au fic

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molotovinmyhand · 8 months

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Whelve My Sorrows

(Rewrite of "Ineffable" from my old blog lol)

Ghost.

The valiant. A legend that exist amongst the ranks of the SAS, a name feared by enemies.

'You can't a ghost' they said.

And he lived up to that statement.

He was lethal, and seemed to be the best damn soldier they had; the perfect build, the perfect mind. Tall and gruff, he looked terrifying with a skull mask that added to his already cold demeanor. He was ruthless in the field; brutally taking out each of his enemies with a force that seemed... unnatural.

Everyone knew about Ghost, and most were smart enough to fear him.

But very few people, knew that behind the mask layers of clothing and tactical gear, was a man named Simon, Simon Riley.

Much to Ghost's annoyance, John "Soap" MacTavish broke down Ghost's façade with ease, too much ease for his taste. Yet the Scot seemed... comforting, like a warmth that Ghost could cope with, someone Simon could get along with...

And Ghost hated it.

It made him sick to his stomach, the thought of someone being able to make his walls crumble as easy as Soap did scared him, made the ice cold feeling of fear creep into his veins because soap had wormed his way into his heart.

It reminded Ghost that some parts of him never "healed", it let him remember what it felt like to be bare, naked lying in that coffin struggling to inhale the air that reeked of rotten flesh...

To be nothing more of a husk of his former self.

Yet the Scot's touch was like a drug, whether he was wrapping up one of Ghost's wound with gauze and touch too tender to be normal, or giving him that friendly pat on the back...

Ghost was addicted.

The warmth that bubbled up in his chest every time he seen Soap look at him with that shit-eating grin, or when they'd casually flirt with each other over the comms seemed like something Ghost wanted. Maybe he was lonely? Maybe Soap just managed to bring out a side of the Lieutenant that hadn't been shown before? It didn't matter. Despite the fear that lingered under his skin, Ghost was hooked. Something about Soap was so comforting, something that made Ghost feel like he maybe... just maybe, could be Simon again.

And he had another chance now, but not in a way he wanted it...

Lying there, on the cold dirt floor. Every ragged breath he sucked in agony. Ghost's eyes trailed over the puddle of blood, meeting the baby blue one's that belonged to Soap.

Johnny.

Soap could feel Simon looking at him; watched the way his faze softened slightly. Despite their dire situation, lying there side by side in a pool of their own blood, death's clammy hands ever so slowly taking hold of them both, Soap felt calm. Staring at the older man, listening to the rain.

"... It's rainin'" Ghost muttered, staring at the sky.

"... And?"

"Didn't you want to name your kid that?" Ghost voiced.

Soap nodded slightly, still listening to the sound of each raindrop falling, hitting the ground and mixing in with the crimson blood.

"Aye... Rain." He hummed, "Somethin' like that I suppose..."

The silence hung in between them both for a while, neither of them attempting to break it. Lying there in silence, the rain starting to pour heavier hiding the tears that started to stream down Soap's face. He didn't want it to end. Simon had grown close to him, managing to earn a place in Soap's mind that was closer than friends...

He felt the dull pain in his side, felt the blood ooze through his fingers. A fresh reminder to Soap what was to come.

"Johnny..."

Soap felt a gloved hand wrap around his: squeezing it gently. He heard the voice of his friend...

Ghost looked at Johnny, seen the tears streaming down his face. reminding Ghost just how stressful this situation should be if he wasn't used to it. Yet seeing Johnny: his friend, crying silently made something inside Ghost's chest, and it seemed to cast a shadow over death slowly taking him into it's grasp.

But something else along with that dread was blooming... Something warm.

Ghost stared back up at the sky, thinking back to every moment him and the Scot had shared, every mission, breaks at the mess hall. Thinking about the times they'd talk in the barracks and how he got that same warmth in his chest.

Then it clicked...

He'd fallen for the Seargent.

That revelation made the dread bubbling in his stomach, but now it was swirling in with regret and guilt. He didn't want to feel like this, not now, they had minutes left...

Ghost squeezed Johnny's hand again, a little tighter this time as he felt his own salty tears mix with the taste of his blood, salty but warm. His gaze met the Scot's one more as he spoke, his voice breaking in a pathetic attempt to hide his own sobs.

"Don't cry..." He whispered softly.

Soap looked at Simon, nodding softly, "Okay Lt..."

Ghost held Johnny's hand, fingers intertwined and he didn't want to let go. The two men silently crying. lying on the ground with their blood pooling around you. They were cold, raindrops touching on skin. Yet the warmth of each other's presence seemed to dull the edge of that.

"....'m sorry." Soap mumbled, trying to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. Looking at Simon, who only looked back.

This was it.

They were almost there...

"Look at the sky." Ghost croaked, looking up at the sky as he talked, "... We'll be up there soon."

Soap shook his head, "No... we won't."

Silence followed that statement. It was probably true, though. They were far from saints...

"You're rught Johnny. We won't." Ghost mused. His eyes glued to the siy still, "But I won't be leavjng you, even in hell."

"Really...?"

"... I swear."

"..."

Ghost looked at his friend, "Johnny?"

Soap looked back at Ghost, smiling weakly, his breath getting shallower.

"Here Lt..."

"What's wrong?"

...

"Just tired."

"Go to sleeo then Johnny, i'll join you soon."

"...why not now?"

Ghost sighed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Fighting to stay awake now.

"Need a moment to think." He said, and Johnny nodded.

"... Can we dance when we see eachother again?"

"Of course."

They both chuckled softly, squeezing the other's hand just a little tightly. Ghost wrapped a hand around his mask, pulling it off his head. Looking at Johnny. Dirty blond hair wet with grease and rain sticking to his forehead. He looked at Johnny, like he wanted to engrave a picture of the Scot into his head.

"Don't make me wait too long... please-"

"I won't. I won't leave you, Johnny."

"Cheers..."

Soap smiled at his friend, before closing his eyes. Falling asleep...

Ghost's heart shattered, feeling his friend's grip on his hand loosen, seeing his face go blank; a face one full of joy now so devoid of life, but there was no point in crying. He'd see Johnny again in a few minutes.

Regret.

That's all that filled his head, a feeling of regret for not saying something sooner, for trying to hide from his own feelings.

He felt weak, dizzy and the ringing he heard in his ears wasn't stopping. He knew death had a hold of him; but Simon felt... Calm, instead of a clammy embrace dragging him to his fate he almost felt like he was being hugged.

He felt... Free.

....

"I love you too, Johnny..."

#ghost x soap #autistic simon ghost riley #angst #theres no happy ending #not for yall today #ghostsoap #tw death #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #soapghost #one shot #suffering #i cried while writing this #but im not sorry lol

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warpcursed · 3 months

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MUSE AESTHETICS: HORROR EDITION.

bold whatever applies | italics what sometimes applies [ both if it's perfect for your muse ] | strikethrough what doesn't apply & tag people. repost; don’t reblog!

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the American South. the American Northeast. England. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

aliens. blinding light. dark woods. driving at night. claw marks. bite marks. men in black. memory loss. dismembered bodies. sewers. flashlights. cell phones. video cameras. cars with tinted windows. unlabeled cassette tapes. bugs. big cities. urban crimes. clowns. something rustling outside your window. glowing light. unsolved mysteries. suburbia. mirrors. the american pacific northwest. the american midwest. hiking. backpacking.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains. castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin. ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western europe. eastern europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books. stitches.

PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise. static. flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings. cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms. dolls.

SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets. nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons. halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks. scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. california. the american midwest. ambulances.

THRILLER.

daylight. fluorescent lighting. morgues. unwavering eye contact. tension. lit rooms. empty rooms. killer in plain sight. a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed. steely gazes. paperwork. anagrams. codes. convicted killers. missing persons. law enforcement. federal agents. small towns. paranoia. subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots. a noise in the distance.

Stole from: @all-fleshed-out ((im love you friend))

Tagging: @chapter-master-darius @bitchofsteel @divinacaptivus @dreamsofalife @akhenaten-imhotep @ask-the-crimson-king @askthecaptiangeneral @some-old-psyker

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writingmysanity · 2 years

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Favor (Prologue)

Summary: Science reigns, as godly devotion fails. After being abandoned for his work, Viktor turns to the one source he believes can help him- the old gods. Granting him their favor, they allow him to access the source, the magic itself and all that it is intertwined with- with supervision of course. Content with his visions, they decide to show their favor once more- a gift only whispered about in myths and legends. A soulmate.

Master List Next>

Requested by @spiderholland101 {Hello! Was wondering if you'd be willing to do a Viktor x reader? And in this story, it could be based off the movie Howl's moving castle? I just thought that it would be a super cute little combination.}

Word count: 1016

TW: Attempted murder, burning, erm... wounds, blood... if I missed anything, please let me know.

A/N: this was meant to be a smaller piece and may even do smaller pieces in the universe much like for Sanctuary. I am sorry @spiderholland101 but the ideas got a little out of control.... this ended up being multi-chaptered. I hope you like it. Thank you so much for your kind words and sweet support! combining my comfort character and one of my all-time favorite comfort movies has been a thrill.

Beta'd by the ever lovely @silcoitus I know that Viktor isn't your cup of tea, but I really really appreciated you looking it over for me!

A shriek beats against the rocks, echoing along the water's surface. The sound reverberates down the coast and across the channel, deafened only by the clap of thunder that follows. The sound of a body hitting the water is swallowed by the rain, pelting from the heavens.

In the silence that follows, a shadow lurks, peering through makeshift curtains, pinned crudely to the window sill, the rough cotton fabric browning with age. Hesitantly, the shadow moves, wading out to the channel’s edge, looking out over the choppy waves slapping along the bank. The sickly glow that flickers in his hand only seems to extend the shadows, curling and snapping with movement as the flame dances. Frowning, he swipes at his face, flinging droplets from his eyes- the jagged cliffs just on the other side of the channel little more than a wall of shadows, looming with malintent. But there is nothing more.

Silence.

Viktor is about to turn back in, shaking his head to slosh beads of rain from his face, when a flash of white catches his attention. Grunting in effort, he ignores the way his healed foot thumps against the pebbles awkwardly, shaking up his body as he jogs over.

Rubbing more rain from his eyes, he blinks out over the rocks edge, golden eyes narrowing in an attempt to see better. Not ten feet away, slammed against the alcove, is a body. White dress pools on the surface snagged between jagged boulders looming overhead and the rough banks. A mess of hair makes it hard for him to get a good look at you, crimson waves sloshing around your shoulders. Awkwardly, he slides down the rock face, stumbling to your side—falling unceremoniously to his knees as he reaches for you.

Flopping you over, he rests his head over your chest lightly, feeling for the rise and fall of your breath, listening for a beat. He ignores the way the water leeches through his clothes, a chilled shudder wracking through him as he tugs you closer, sagging in relief when your chest lifts on its own.

Slowly, he lays you out, adjusting you so that he's able to wrap an arm around your shoulders. The other secures under your knees as he lifts you with little more than a grunt, wincing when your head flops at the movement. Biting back an apology as your head flops back towards him again, he scoots along the bank, testing each step twice before taking it, unable to see his feet. Keeping a steady gait, he works to keep from jostling you as much as possible, keeping his arms even.

“Wh-” stumbling to a halt, he stares down at you, eyebrows pinching. He is about to shush you gently, tell you that you’re safe—he means no harm—but you continue, a look of reverence crossing your features. Slowly, you smile. “Your eyes,” you croak softly, hand lifting to trace under his eye. Freezing, he doesn't dare look away, transfixed on your own. “They’re like the sun.”

Swallowing nervously, he opens his mouth to speak—say something—but the words die on his lips as you lull in his arms again. With an oddly content hum, you allow your eyes to flutter shut, hand dropping from his cheek to rest on his chest, nose tucking in beside it.

Gasping, Viktor swallows a yelp as he stumbles, fighting the way his arm sags, threatening to give way to your weight. Violet streaks of lightning flash through his veins, up his arm, searing pain ebbing from his wrist. Stumbling to one knee, he waits for the pain to fade. Sagging over your body, he groans into the whispers of the wind, nothing but the patter of rain to accompany his ragged breaths. But he doesn't drop you. Slowly, in spite of the pain searing up his arm, he stands again. Pushing forward, he focuses on the light from his door filtering around a lingering shadow standing before it, red eyes glowing in the dimmed light of the night.

“Are you… okay?” the soft whirring of gears reaches his ears, the almost childlike modulated voice cutting through the silence that had surrounded him. Slowly, he nods, ignoring the way the red narrows.

“Inside, Blitzcrank,” he evens his tone, careful not to snap at the robot as it steps back slowly, the almost silent creak of metal accented by a hiss of steam.

“Inside,” Blitzcrank agrees, letting Viktor in, watching as his master slides past him, limping, his foot thudding softly against the aging planks. Blitzcrank’s metallic steps thunder after him curiously. “Need help?”

Viktor shakes his head as he lowers you into his bed, careful not to jostle you too much, finally able to get a good look at the damage. Red seeps from your forehead, trailing down your cheek, purple and blue blooming under your skin on just about every bit of skin he can see. There are several smaller cuts from being bashed against the rocks, though they are not of consequence- but he is sure they will be sore come morning.

Flopping back into his chair, Viktor finally chances a look at his arm, grouching about the newest trials being a failure as his eyes trace brilliant, shimmering purple lines that paint his veins from his shoulder down to his wrist where the inky substance seems to have pooled. Frowning, he leans forward suddenly, catching the attention of his companion as he works on their guest, tending to her head wound with a gentleness not expected from a robot.

Viktor ignores the questioning hum as he inspects the blackened lines seared into his wrist. Slowly, he traces the words there, swallowing another yelp, the skin still puffy and raw.

Your eyes… they're like the sun.

He is so absorbed by the swoopy calligraphy, inky lines solidifying against his skin, that he doesn't notice Blitzcrank hovering over him, a knowing hum echoing as another crack of thunder shakes the walls, nearly swallowing the sound.

“You've been favored by the Gods,” he observes, the modulated voice smoother, softer than he is used to. “Again.”

___

Arcane taglist:

@grumpyoutlaw @thehistoriangirl @rainbowpitofdoom @wizarrdofooze @uniquedeerwitch @ace-of-zaun @aerynwrites @queenxxxsupreme @beeblybub

If you would like to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or ask or something.

#poor sweet viktor #arcane viktor #arcane viktor x reader #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #viktor league of legends #viktor the machine herald #viktor x reader #viktor x you #the machine herald #the machine herald x reader #machine herald #machine herald viktor #viktor lol

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anxso · 6 months

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@ygoc-week day 3!

YU-GI-OH! 5D’s — RAIN ORICHALCUM

DECKS! Rain once had her archetype of choice countered in tournament, so she swaps decks often thanks to the lingering paranoia.

I mainly did it so I could give a lot of variety to the duels and give love to both 5D’s era and older decks that don’t get to appear in the anime! There are a handful of original cards, but I’ll go over those later. First, introducing a nice collage of ace monsters/cards representing her archetypal decks!

She uses a Blue-Eyes mixed with good dragon cards as her “primary” deck and I ABSOLUTELY made an original line of Synchros: Orichalcos Dragon/Orichalcos Deuteros Dragon/Orichalcos Tritos Dragon :o) Also, because she has the anime-esque Timaeus, Hermos, and Critias cards, we get to see a lot of neat fusions! Like Hermos + Exploder Dragon, for example, making an equip spell that prevents destruction by battle, destroys the monster it battled with, but prevents battle damage

The Crimson Dragon card didn’t exist when I wrote my series, so I made my own 😂 YES they get attack and effect names! YES the characters yell them out! YES I had so much fun with this The Crimson Dragon 8-Star, LIGHT Attribute [Dragon/Synchro/Effect] [2500 ATK / 2000 DEF] 1 LIGHT Tuner + 1 or more non-Tuner monster(s) When this card is Special Summoned: you can target one of your opponent’s monsters. As long as this card is on the field, that monster’s effect is negated. (Ability Name: Crimson Masquerade) When this card battles a monster targeted by this effect, during the Damage Step only, this card gains ATK equal to the ATK of the targeted monster. (Ability Name: Crimson Star Flight) At your End Phase, you can send this card to the graveyard; special summon it during your next Standby Phase. (Ability Name: Crimson Molting) and a good old season 2 leveled up version of him! Akakiryu of the Sacred Flame 12-Star, LIGHT Attribute [Dragon/Synchro/Effect] [3000 ATK / 2500 DEF] 1 LIGHT Tuner + 2 or more non-Tuner monsters When this card is Synchro Summoned: You can destroy all Spell and Trap Cards your opponent controls. [Ability Name: Ignite the Sacred Flame] Once per turn, if this card is targeted by your opponent's card effect (Quick Effect): you can negate and banish that card. [Ability Name: Sacred Cinder Disarmament] Once per turn, you can deduct 1000 ATK from this card to target one monster on the field; banish that target. During your next Standby Phase, this card's ATK becomes its original (printed) ATK. [Ability Name: To Sacred Ashes]

AND NOW a fun excerpt from the fic with Akakiryu because I adore fire descriptions my friends. (From Jack's POV, and you will see Beelzeus here, I be giving the enemies some OP cards too haha)

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

Rain tossed her head back. A crack of lightning lit her grin.

“I am not running.”

Fire blazed to life. Orange sparks licked the air. Water hissed against flame, and steam flooded the ground. I shielded my eyes from the blaze with my forearm. The flames spurted from the earth itself and raced around the port in a circle. I shouted, “Rain!”

“No use,” Syd said. “She’s gotta be burning alive by now, and thanks to her own psychic powers.”

My brow furrowed. The way the fire had come to life was similar to a night of war several months ago. This blaze wasn’t causing destruction, though. The memory gave birth to a mad idea.

I stretched my arm towards the flames. Fire licked my fingers. Instead of raw pain, a kind warmth found me – one I had known before. I glanced out from the awning and up to the sky. The red flare reflected against the black clouds: the full glyph of the Crimson Dragon.

Rain dropped to her knees among the flames. They clung to her skin, hair, and clothes without leaving scars. Maroon marks on her pale face, shoulders, and arms pulsed with a bright, red glow like a slow heartbeat. Fangs protruded from her kind smile. Her hands clasped together. Rain said, “White Stone of Legend tunes with Horus LV8 and Exploder Dragon. With one LIGHT tuner and two monsters, I call upon the legendary power of old.”

The flames leapt from the ground and spiraled into a pillar from her place of prayer. Cinders sparkled around her, leapt towards her duel disk, and formed a white-hot rectangle. A trio of humongous green rings formed as a column towards the sky. Their color tinged red. Rain’s eyes shot open, and their irises shifted to crimson. Her whisper echoed across the bay like the shouts of thousands. “Synchro Summon: Akakiryu of the Sacred Flame.”

A tornado of pure flames ripped to life on the pier. Gold and red blended like a blazing autumn. Black clouds scattered, and rainwater evaporated. Fiery wings extended from the twister. A lengthy, skinny tail whipped from the phenomena, and the fire scattered from the dragon’s body. Akakiryu opened its mouth, revealing a bright, yellow tongue matching the startling color of its eyes.

Rain pushed to her feet, reached out her fist, and lifted her index finger. “Ability one. Upon summoning, all of your spells and traps are destroyed. Ignite the Sacred Flame!”

The blaze returned to the earth, tearing through Syd’s backline. The remaining Block Dugout and Nightmare Wheel shattered. Rain’s Blue-Eyes White Dragon was freed from its torture. Syd said, “So what? A fancy light show don’t mean nothin’. You got 3000 attack, which don’t match up. Even if it did, Beelzeus here can’t be destroyed.”

Rain extended her middle finger. “Ability two. By deducting 1000 attack from Akakiryu, I banish one monster on the field. Beelzeus is judged not fit for this world by the strength of a god.”

“Not so fast!” Syd said. “I discard Effect Veiler from my hand to negate your monster’s abilities!”

Rain’s ring finger popped up. “Ability three. Once per turn, I negate an ability that targets Akakiryu and banish the offender. Sacred Cinder Disarmament!”

Akakiryu spit a flare into the sky. It landed on the ghostly Effect Veiler, locking it in a fiery bubble. The sphere closed to crush the monster. Rain said, “Ability two continues! To Sacred Ashes!”

Beelzeus shied back from the intense heat of Akakiryu. The dragon flapped its wings forward. A pair of flame tornadoes approached Beelzeus. The twisters spun around the black dragon. Beelzeus attempted to flee the encroaching fire to no avail. The tornadoes captured Syd’s Synchro. Their ferocity enticed a pained roar from Beelzeus. Akakiryu’s attack spiraled faster before dissipating with nary a whisper.

“Shit,” Syd said, “the hell kinda card is that?”

I found the strength to stand. “A dragon who does not lose.”

“Akakiryu’s current attack is 2000,” Rain said, “equal to your remaining life points. Direct attack! Blazing Crimson Flight!”

Akakiryu unfurled its wings. A golden flare danced to the tips. The dragon’s cry deafened the quaking thunder. Akakiryu dove onto Syd and skimmed the ground, leaving the bay ablaze. His holler could barely be heard over the roar of the flames.

A slice caught my attention. Akakiryu cut down my runner and held it in his two claws. He lowered it to sit on its wheel beside Rain and curled around her. Black ashes from the destroyed monsters clung to her sweaty skin. Her criminal mark glowed with the golden reflection of Akakiryu’s light through the dirt.

Rain beamed at the glowing monster. She leapt towards its snout and wrapped her arms around it. I was taken aback. Instead of worshipper and god, she embraced Akakiryu like a daughter to a father. Much to my surprise, the dragon shut its eyes and leaned into it.

With a chuckle, I said, “Welcome home.”

--------------- From Ch. 76, "Prayer from a Heart of Roaring Flames" (Again, just a writer - image credit for header in alt text!)

#yugioh oc week 23 #5ds #ygo fanfiction #yugioh oc #crimson dragon #akakiryu #unironically i love writing duels #it's like building a reverse puzzle

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