🪶🕯️ Greetings, and welcome — whether you stumbled in by accident or meant to find your way here.
This is my little space: part workshop, part hiding place. I write fanfiction to explore ideas, different writing styles, and develop my skills. Romance is my main wheelhouse, though I'm venturing into horror and mystery. It's still a work in progress, and I've been challenging myself to write longer stories.
Please note, I struggle with my physical health. There may be long gaps between updates, and general silence. If you choose to stay — thank you.
— 𝖎𝖓𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘. 🌿
📜 Is it okay to mass like/reblog?
Yes! It's appreciated and always makes me happy to see you found something you enjoyed.
📜 Are asks open?
Yes! Feel free to send anything from your thoughts to a simple 'hello'. I love it all.
📜 Will you write my prompt?
If I feel inspired, possibly! I won't make any promises.
📜 Ew, Reader Inserts. :(
I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, and that's entirely understandable! If you want to stay and don't like it, I make sure to tag those pieces with both reader insert and x reader.
— 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖞𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖒. 🌿
# 🪶beneath my pen - my writing
# 📌pinned to reread - reblogs/recommendations
# spare pages - prompt fills & drabbles
# in correspondence - replies & asks
# the second shelf - general reblogs
# underlined and circled - inspiration
NSFW tags:
# for mature eyes - a catch all for anything 18+
# the blush of it all - explicit sexual content
# inked in red - explicit heavy themes and/or dark content
So i read and re read too many mortarion fics, and one of them inspired me to do this, but I CANT FIND THE FIC HOLD ON. WILL UPDATE THE FIC LINK LATER JEKEKEK
I think I finally figured out how I like drawing Mortarion 🥹
But I couldn't decide between black or white hair so I'm keeping pre-crusade as the canon black, and giving him white as a post-trying-to-kill-Necare/Crusade Era thing. I think. Ye.
You art is so striking that I had to pause, and let myself linger and be drawn in. It's so rare that I come across depictions of Mortarion in his younger years, or even before his fall, so I was overjoyed when a friend directed me to your work.
There is a quiet sophistication in your style that I do so enjoy. Each line has a weight that conveys not only form but sensation too. I can almost feel the softness of his hair, and I cannot decide if it's oil or silk when it slips between my fingers; the firmer strokes on his belt make it seem coarse to the touch. It's rigid. I'm happy to see even the smallest of details, such as the beltbuckles and the jagged cut of his ear, received the same attention as the rest of him.
The shading you use for his scars is especially nice, it's subtle but so powerful with their storytelling. It reminded me of another of your Mortarion drawings, where you showed his chest and back, covered in scars of many shapes and sizes, each one had a different weight, some were deeper, while others were lighter and shallow. They told an entire story without words.
What moved me most to make this comment, however, was your masterful use of expressions. Mortarion is a stoic character, but you reveal his personality in subtle ways: the hint of a smile, a downturn of his lips, the direction of his eyes.
At first glance it may appear simple, but there is a richness that doesn't overwhelm. You have captured Mortarion and breathed life into him. Truly, this is the kind of work that makes me think you were Mortarion's own Remembrancer.
Author's note: I've had this stashed away for months but since the Elden Ring fever came back recently I decided to finish it. Morgott is one of my favorite characters :>
Relationships: Morgott/Fem!Reader
Warnings: NSFW, Size difference, Technically monsterfucking but he's not a monster to me <3, Creampies, Reader is not specified as tarnished or anything else
Word count: 3446
Ao3 Mirror
Callused fingers drift along your skin, rough and unforgiving. His hands cupped your body with the tenderness of a man admiring a freshly painted masterpiece— still wet with varnish.
He always touches you with such gentleness; You'd dare say it almost nears a sort of reverence.
He acts as if it's the only way to, other than perhaps when he grows irritated with you and tugs your arm, or nudges you forward down a path. Other than those times, his hands feel like soft fabric on your skin— barely there.
Afraid that not only could he hurt you, but if he ever put the full weight of his large, callused hands on your body, you might recoil from him. That you've simply held your tongue on the matter of his malignancy and will suddenly shudder and flee once you actually feel his rough fur and diseased skin.
He still hasn't accepted that you want him fully— despite myriads of times you've told him otherwise. Oftentimes he will forgo his own desires simply to satisfy you, and only if you insist does he eventually seat himself in you and take a small bit for himself.
You wish he wouldn't be so hesitant. So careful. Ever since he first laid eyes on you, he seemed to think you were made of the thinnest glass, and that you were only here because of the things he can do for you, not because of him.
“Here.”
You smiled, grasping the book. Your fingers brushed across his own much larger hand in the process. You paid no mind to it other than the warmth of his skin and brush of his fur— warmth flooded your cheeks. Inappropriate imagery drifted across your mind. You wished he would stay.
“Thank you. I'll read it tonight.”
His fingers now danced along your inner thighs as you panted, bathed in a delightful afterglow. His fingers shined with your own release, inner thighs slick with arousal as he pulled them from your core.
It felt wonderful, but you wanted more. Your blood was still hot and your clit still throbbed, you wanted to get rid of that distinctive empty aching.
“Please don't tell me you're finished, My Lord.”
He had been looking away from you, golden eyes glancing to meet yours for a moment. They pin you to the bed, though hesitancy is clear behind the strength.
You reach up and tangle fingers through the fur along his face, brushing along his horns. His voice rumbles in your chest.
“Thou is always so greedy.”
You smile at him, heart still knocking against your chest. Still do you want him, you don't think you'll ever be satisfied until you feel the weight of him pinning you down as he makes you his; The feeling of his fur on your skin.
“It is greed to desire you? If so then I suppose I’m guilty, cast me down and throw me to the-”
Morgott groans, one of his hands moving to your hip. It is delightful to feel how much it covers, how his thumb pushes into the soft flesh inside your hip bone while still wrapping around to your back.
“Quiet,”
He lifts your hips, pulling your lower back off the bed. You've learned to navigate such extreme differences in size quite quickly. He finds his own size clumsy and in the way— you find it delightful. How his hands can fully encircle your body, the burn of your thighs trying to part for him. Perhaps his massive tail and rough fur surprised you in that dark library at first, but now it’s simply Morgott.
You've spared no expense in detailing how much you enjoy when he cages you like this, or how you feel so safe and warm when he stands behind you with a hand on your shoulder.
Each time he'll scoff at you, attempting not to take any of it to heart. You'll puff out your cheeks and sigh and getting your affections swatted away once again. He doesn’t allow himself to simply accept them.
The only thing that gets a different reaction is when you are ruthlessly overt; You look at him and tell him how much you miss him. That it's so cold, you need his warmth. Those will get you wide, golden eyes that stare at you shocked, before he shushes your harlotry that you had the gall to display. His insults held like old paper however, and you could always hear the slight waiver. He still would think even then you were simply teasing him.
This time however he hadn’t just scolded you, he shooed you off and told you to wait; That he would deal with you later. You make him feel like a beast in heat, and he hates it.
“A voracious little thing. Does nothing but my torment satisfy thee?”
Being overt is not your forte, however Morgott simply makes it so easy.
“I can think of a few other things, if you need them listed, my lord.”
He gives a displeased grumble from deep within his chest in response. Shortly thereafter you hear the huffs of him adjusting to move himself closer to you, then notching the head of his cock against your entrance. His hand pushes to the bed near your head, fingers spread wide; You briefly admire the sheer size of his hand before you’re abruptly pulled back to present. Slowly but surely you feel him push into you, the head of his cock popping past your entrance, and your body pliantly gives way as your thighs also spread and yield to him.
His much larger body makes yours always struggle to accommodate, and even now you still feel your hips ache as he sinks himself as deep as he can. A sharp squeak bursts from your throat as he buries himself, unyielding and almost too large. His cock drags along every sensitive bit as he pulls away before snapping back into your heat, sending what feels like lightening up your spine.
The moans you let out spur Morgott on, and the sound of skin on furred skin fills the room along with the heady smell of sweat and sex. The sight of you bare underneath him is still one that he finds almost impossible; Not much time ago did he consider all of this just filthy, perverted machinations of his mind. Him yearning for something he was so stupid and selfish for desiring.
But yet somehow it happened, and he feels your hands attempt to hold onto his arms for stability as you bite your lip— breathy moans still slip through and make the blood in his ears thump harder. His tail knocks against the end of the bed, draping over the side and hitting his horns against the wooden frame as his hips slap against yours. A few times his mind perks as if someone was knocking, but he would be too deep in you to consider anything else even if it had been real.
Why would he ever when the one being in this world that doesn’t treat him like a disgusting beast is splayed out before him, hair a mess and skin flushed. Your cunt feels so hot and tight, now that he’s had a taste he doesn’t think he ever would be able to stop. You’ve absolutely drenched his cock, so slick that there isn’t even the slightest bit of resistance. His muscles ripple underneath his fur as he fucks you with restraint. He doesn’t want to risk hurting you, but you test him by continuously singing his name like a mantra and begging for more. Greedy, always greedy, why for him he’ll never know.
“Ah! You can, H-”
The feeling of your body clenching around him, of your pleased whimpers and mewls, he couldn't last much longer with the way your muscles flutter around him.
He moves to pull back and leave you, quickly— but your heels dig into him and hips instinctively follow to try and keep him close, and that’s enough to break him entirely. He grits his teeth and groans as he cums, filling you entirely. His cock throbs, it feels like it never ends. Each time he feels like he’s done, another jolt runs right up his spine as his cock twitches and he cums more. But once he finally does stop, he hisses through his teeth and pulls out while listening to your gasps at the sudden empty feeling and the way cum dribbles down your folds. It feels like his heart is in his stomach for a moment, when he sees it.
“I, apologize— I did not-”
He hadn't meant to, he found it distasteful and selfish to sully your body with it. He would usually pull away from you and finish himself, ignoring your discontent pleas at the sudden emptiness. But you were so blissful and sensitive, delighted by the warmth and softness of his body. Breathless words tumbled from your mouth without filter.
“More,”
He hesitates, listening as you mewl like a feline. His brow almost hurts from how hard it’s furrowed.
“Again… Please Morgott…”
He wants to. He yearns for it, but he keeps fighting it. Only a few times have you both been together like this, it’s still unfamiliar to him.
You are so soft and kind, you deserve more than him. More than an Omen with malformed proportions and tainted blood. His horns are overgrown, hideous spurs; Your damned tongue convinced him to stop sawing them all but the few nearest his eyes. It was pointless anyways, they always grew back so quick.
“Stop hesitating, I won't suddenly change my mind.”
Out of breath, he can hear your heart racing in your chest as you mutter up to him.
“I want all of you.”
Morgott shatters like stained glass, his chest forcing out all the air as he pulls you closer again. His still hard cock presses against your messy folds, and it doesn't take much for him to notch against your entrance again. He pushes inward more roughly, cockhead popping past your entrance and making you gasp. You were already prepared for him, by him, and so your body welcomes him back with ease. Doing so forces some of his own cum out and around his cock, making an even larger mess against well worn blankets. You seem to not mind at all, and if anything, seem well eager for him to turn you into a sloppy, well fucked heap in his royal bed.
His hips hit yours hard enough that you swore they might bruise, but the feeling of his weight on you was everything you could ever want. The way you can hear him pant above your head, the slap of his balls against your bottom, how your cunt stretches so wide around his cock. Your moans were loud enough to echo throughout the massive room, while Morgott’s mind swirled between mindless lust and the endless guilt of a man cursed.
“You would let an Omen sully something so-”
A particularly sharp thrust of his hips sends moans flowing from your mouth, the sharp smack of skin on skin fails to drown out your voice.
“Yes! Yes!”
Pressed between the blankets and furs and his own wide chest, the heat is enough that the cold evening couldn't touch you. His breath is hot against your skin as he looms over you. Now leaned on his forearms his full weight cages your boy— your world is just him.
Sometimes, he wonders if it's all an illusion. If some foul magic or creature has manipulated him with his one weakness. It was the option easier for his mind to accept, rather than a woman such as you, so beautiful and kind, desiring him so. Not just chastely, but carnally. Welcoming him into your deepest places, ruining them all— it seems to delight you so. If you wanted to be sullied by an Omen, then he could oblige.
He could feel how tight you are, how your entrance stretches and struggles to fit him. You'll only desire for him, body molded for him, by him. The thought is one makes him guilty, but it never fails to send a jolt right down to his groin.
To make every night like this one, to fill you until there's no more room and it sticks to your thighs in a mess. Afterwards he’d always be able to smell himself on you, marked as his and desiring for no other.
As of late you always did smell faintly of him; From sleeping in the same bed, from holding his hand. But to smell it mixed with that distinctive heady scent…
His hips snap forward and smack against your thighs, earning a sharp moan from you as he drives as deep into you as he can possibly venture. Any higher function that allowed him to speak was quickly deteriorating, melting into a far more feral state he would surely come to regret. The way your cunt flutters around him could almost make him go mad, balls smacking against your bottom as he drives himself into you as deep as he possibly could.
He keeps you at just the right height and from sliding away from the force of his own hips, hand gripping your waist to hold you there. Your difference in size could be cumbersome, but now he only cares about the soft mewls you let out as your cunt wraps around his cock like a vice. It feels like you're trying to pull him into you and keep him there, each time he pulls away your walls are so eager to pull him back in.
Months ago he remembers being thrown off by your sudden kiss under a weeping willow tree; He thought your hair looked perfect under the moon and the Erdtree glow. It was his first and it felt like it lingered on his lips afterward, and in his mind. Now what seemed like moments later, he grimaces and huffs as your nails dig trenches into his skin and you cry out.
He swears he can hear your heart beat— he can see the soft sheen of sweat on your skin. Your cunt clenches around him and attempts to hold him within you as you cum, toes curling and muscles tensed and aching. That unfettering heat was intoxicating; He had no plans to leave you. Lyendell could collapse around him and he wouldn't care.
That building tightness in his body snaps and he grits his teeth, harsh breaths through his nose as he finishes again into you. This time however he seats himself in you to the base, pushing your thighs forward almost against your stomach and painting parts of you untouched by anything else.
He lingers for a bit, laying over you panting as his cock rests inside of you. Only after a few minutes and when he’s caught his breath does he slowly pull from you and hear your whimpers as your cunt aches with emptiness. Instantly cum leaks out from you, and Morgott leans away to see the mess he’s made of you.
He truly is unfathomably selfish— to take something as beautiful as you and keep it all to himself, rendering it a mess.
Your legs fell from around his hips and dropped to the bed, your body limp. When you move to slip yourself beneath the blankets you’d somewhat made a mess of, moving your legs made you whimper.
“Ah, I can already feel how sore I will be tomorrow.”
Morgott looks down on you with tired, golden eyes and tentatively brushes a bit of hair away from your forehead. He doesn’t follow you beneath those blankets at first, he doesn’t need them, but he does when you pull them back and try to push him in. He speaks plainly to you in response.
“Then rest.”
A queen can spend a day in bed if she wishes. And I will make you a queen, if I could be so selfish.
He gets so lost in his own thoughts of you bathed in your favorite color embossed with gold filigree that he barely realizes you're moving to settle in and sleep until you attempt to push him to lie back. Your hands spread across his furred chest, putting your weight into it and attempting to move him despite being twice your size.
He always stiffens when you touch him like this. You nudge yourself between his side and arm, now securely held against him. He watched the entire time, eyes examining as if he still finds this confusing, even if it's not the first time. Perhaps it wasn't routine, but it shouldn't be surprising.
You hum contently as you feel the softness of his fur warm your body; Never have you felt this safe and comfortable as his body cradles you. It only takes moments for you to fall asleep, however Morgott lingers awake for far longer and simply watches.
In the morn, you lay on his chest and hum content, feeling his soft fur on your skin. His fingers drift along the notches of your spine, and you suddenly see his normally furrowed face become more displeased. You hum and raise your eyebrows, curiously egging him on to speak up. He stares displeased for a moment longer before actually saying something. His hand moves upward to brush along your shoulder.
“Thou is in pain.”
You sleepily hum at him again. Movement does make you wince, but you do a good job at hiding it from him.
“Only sore.”
Morgott huffs. You attempt to shrug it off but he sees through it, not that you mind either way. Perhaps he couldn’t see your teasing or you innuendos, but he could quite easily catch you in a lie.
“It will keep you on my mind all day, I know that.”
You smile a bit coy and bite your lip, and he huffs. His drooping eyes resist the urge to roll at your crassness.
“Filth. Thy brain is festered with nothing but filth.”
His disappointment in you makes you laugh, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you warm.
Curse or not, you love him. Every moment only makes it grow. No one has cared about you so diligently, and so kindly. And despite his lamentations, you wouldn’t deny that his physical appearance while technically a curse, does appeal to you greatly. Morgott has given everything and asked for nothing in return.
No normal man could keep you so warm and safe. Make you feel so small and delicate, and push your senses to the absolute limit. This is new to him, all of this— so you dampen your feelings a bit. Morgott tends to take your teasing as lying or manipulation, and so you try to be calmer about it.
“Thou should cease with this. Tis cruel to taunt one with what they cannot have.”
He'd said it to you when you were fawning over a book, of it's romance. You'd been looking at him trying to make a point, but instead he’d taken it as teasing. If only he knew how much your heart had been racing, trying to see if he would catch that you wanted to go on a moonlit stroll with him.
There had been other things in that book that had enthralled you, but you neglected to tell those. Of an evening walk, a flower field, a balcony. Perhaps one day.
Your hands grasp at him, trying to pull yourself closer. You attempt to push into him, wiggling to get comfortable in the crook of his side and arm. Morgott looks towards the door for a moment, feeling you press your cheek against him.
He should get up; Men need orders, things need doing.
But he's given everything for this kingdom, and they've given him nothing in return. He never asked for a thing, and they couldn't even bestow upon him kindness. Only you could.
Morgott shifts so there's less pressure off the base of his tail, and puts his other hand into you as well. You lean into it, and wrap your own hand around some of his fingers. Morgott wipes his mind of any duty, and falls back asleep.
I know how much effort you put into this, and unlike Pear, I refuse to be bound by mere tags. 😘
This was such a fantastic read. I adore this take on Morgott, the way you show him being so painfully uncomfortable in his own skin, so convinced you couldn't possibly love him. You must only want him for what a monster can provide, and he's weak-willed enough to give in and let you take it.
The pacing was done beautifully. It was a nice simmer of Morgott doubting and second-guessing until he finally snaps and simply plows you into the bed in disbelief. And the exasperation! What will it take for you to be satisfied? You're so greedy! I loved it.
And your response to his self-loathing is perfect. You're relentless in your pursuit of him, refusing to let him escape figuratively and literally. That moment when you dig your heels in as he cums, and he stutters out an apology? Gorgeous.
And then, Morgott caves, and though he's not fully accepting the situation, he softens. Those little details toward the end of him daydreaming of you as a queen, dressing you in the richest finery in your favorite color — my heart!
“Filth. Thy brain is festered with nothing but filth.”
It really is Morgott, it really is.
Your prose is a joy to read. It's clean and your voice is confident, and you blend shameless smutty self-indulgence with romance so well. It hits just right, and satisfies on every level.
You should be proud, Misty. You've really grown as a writer and it shows.
pairing: mortarion x reader
rating: teen
vibe: Grouper - Poison Tree
It was a meadow of no importance, a sea of wild and untamed blooms and grass swaying between low hills. The planet is awash in color. You bend to gather them, collecting the long stalks in your hand, of violet and gold, and tiny white blooms that sparkle like stars.
Mortarion does not bend as you do, his hand would not fit around such fragile things, nor does he speak; his gaze follows your every motion. It is strange to him, how alike you and the blossoms are — frail and bright — and that both would draw his attention.
Thunder rumbles, low and rolling, and clouds swiftly gather, darkening the sky. In an instant, the storm is upon you. Rain descends in a sudden torrent, striking soil and petal. Before it can pierce you, Mortarion spreads his cloak, pulling you close to his side beneath it.
The water beats upon him relentlessly, drumming against his armor, and splattering on his cloak. Yet, you are spared. Sheltered and dry. The sweet scent of the flowers you clutch mingle with the scent of him — oiled metal, and the faint acrid tang of chemicals. The smell had unsettled you once; now it is a familiar, and comforting.
You tilt your head, cheek pressing against the cool ceramite of his armor.
Mortarion looks down at you then, rain rushing off his hood. A memory comes unbidden — of rain on Barbarus. There, every storm was death, acid that bit through flesh and ate bone. Poison and death in each drop. Yet, this storm is nothing like that. It nourishes. The proof is in your hands, held against your chest, shielded as much by your body as the cloak he holds above you.
So fragile. Cold and wet, they fall ill so easily.
“Stay close,” he mutters, voice clear over the rain. “Or you’ll get sick.”
And you do. Clinging to him and what little warmth he provides, cheek and shoulder molding against him. Mortarion keeps his vigilance, allowing the storm to pass as it wills, remaining steadfast and silent.
For a brief moment, the shadow of Barbarus is gone, and all that remains is the warm, living little thing sheltered beneath his cloak and the wet earth.
pairing: roboute guilliman x reader
rating: teen
cw: angst, guilt, hurt with comfort
series: even still
Roboute Guilliman sits upon the bedside, weary and heavy under the weight of the Imperium. The mask he wears — stern, and unyielding in command — cracks beneath the weight of his endless toils. Exhaustion lies upon his brow, the lines of his face carved deep by strict discipline and grief. His hands, broad and scarred, rest upon his knees. He stares at nothing.
You sit beside him. Your hand, so small and fragile by comparison, rests upon his. The armor he wears is cold — impersonal and unyielding, but you know the feel of the man beneath it.
Roboute Guilliman is tired.
When he speaks, his voice is low, and rough. “There is always another duty,” he confesses, bowing his head. “Another campaign to order, wars to lead, worlds still crying for aid — yet here I am, skulking like some selfish child in our bedroom.”
“Roboute,” you say, soft and steady, your thumb stroking the back of his hand. “It is not selfish to take a moment to breathe. You are more than just wars and councils. You are a man, and men need rest.”
Something like a smile touches his lips, and vanishes just as swiftly. A man — what a strange and foreign concept. His hand clenches beneath yours.
“All around me are ruins,” he murmurs. “My brothers — fallen, or worse. And my mother — I—” Roboute’s jaw tightens, his head bowing lower in shame. “I look away for an instant, and everything I seek to protect is lost.”
He swallows hard; the words breaking apart in his throat. “What if the pattern holds? What if I return to find you —”
You silence him, pressing your fingers softly against his lips before he could speak another troubled word.
“I will be here,” you say, summoning what courage you had, hoping he might find some measure of comfort in them. “As I have always been.”
You pull him closer. He resists at first, holding back out of habit — yet he relents and crumbles before you, bowing until his forehead comes to rest against your own. His breathing trembles, sharp and ragged. His eyes flutter closed, and in this moment he permits himself to rest. To need you.
Roboute tilts his head, his lips grazing yours, hesitant at first. He is always cautious and gentle with you, wordlessly asking for permission. You lean closer, eagerly granting him. He cradles your face, fingers splayed along your jaw and neck.
Then he presses more firmly, molding his lips to yours. He coaxes, then claims. He deepens the kiss, his tongue stroking against yours with such thoroughness it leaves you breathless and weak. Your fingers curl against his chest.
And it feels almost cruel when he pulls away — sudden and necessary. Your chest heaves, lungs burning for air. Your lips feel tender, tingling with the phantom sensation of his. His breath mingles with yours, coming in uneven, heated pants.
“Swear it to me you will,” he begs, voice raw and stripped bare. “I could bear anything, but I could not lose you.”
A single tear breaks free, slipping down the curve of your cheek, yet before it can fall, Roboute sweeps it away with his thumb.
“I swear with all my heart,” you declare. “You will return to find me unharmed and whole.”
You give me the vibe of a published author who posts fic here for fun. Genuinely I think you are one of the better writers on this site and I’ve been in and out of a lot of fandoms over the years lmao
Aaah, thank you so much for the kind words!! I'm really flattered. You caught me too! I'm a technical writer, so I don't have any work published in the traditional sense. Creative writing is just a hobby. Still, that's really high praise and I'm all flustered now!
pairing: mortarion x reader
rating: teen
cw: angst, all hurt/no comfort
vibe: experience - ludovico einaudi
series: even still
You sleep, and for that, he’s grateful. You sleep with one arm flung across the bed, reaching for a presence that will never lay beside you. The bed is far too small. Even if he gives in, there is no place for him here.
And Mortarion stands just inside your quarters, the doors hissing shut behind him like the last breath of a dying thing.
Your chambers are unlike the rest of the Endurance. There are curtains over stain glass windows, a cup left half full, and a chair that exists solely for your comfort. Even the air here is strange, and horribly out of place. It carries the scent of salt — not sweat, brine — of a place he’ll never see, the delicate, fleeting fragrance of hydrangeas wilting in a vase, and the sweet warmth of the half-eaten caramels by your bed.
You offered him one once. He refused.
Mortarion tries to breathe it in. His mask wheezes like old bellows.
And he hates this. Not you. But your love; it’s worse than any infection or sickness. He moves to your bedside like a poisonous fog. The room recoils and curls away from him.
But you do not.
He kneels beside the bed — and watches.
Still, you sleep, turning slightly and burying your face deeper into the pillows. The flush on your cheeks is from warmth, not sickness. Do you see him in your dreams? An ideal version of him you deserve or as he is — the broken and unbeautiful man that kneels at your side hoping you do?
Mortarion lowers his head, hood hiding all traces of his face.
“I’m sending you away when you wake,” he whispers, voice warped by the wet, mechanical sigh of his mask. “And I hope this saves you. I can’t watch you fade away.”
He presses his forehead against the edge of the mattress. For a moment, he stays there — penitent, hoping you’ll forgive him for loving you so poorly. He lifts his head again.
For a long while, Mortarion remains there, hunched over, filling the room with the rasping, wet sound of his breathing. Then, you stir. Not waking, but not aware either — only shifting, your arm stretching out across the sheets as though seeking him.
Mortarion freezes. Such a slight movement, utterly harmless, yet it pulls at him. He leans in, hand raised, almost reaching for yours.
But he doesn’t.
He draws his hand back and just — looks. Mortarion drinks in every fragile detail of you. The way the sheets lie across you; the curve of a bare shoulder; your chest rising and falling with gentle ease. He sees it all, and burns it into his mind.
It’s enough for him. It must be.
Mortarion rose then, slow and burdened, and turns away. He comes to the door and hesitates, his head turning as though he might look back; but he does not. He will not grant himself this weakness.
The doors shut, and the room sighs, relieved he is gone.
pairing: konrad curze x reader
rating: teen
cw: all hurt/no comfort, self-loathing, distress
series: even still
Shadows crawl along the walls like smoke, sinking into corners like tar, trying to smother everything in the room. The only light comes from a planet just beyond the viewport, just enough to see by.
It’s by that cold, pallid light that you see him.
Curze is crouched low. Gone is the predator that’s spoken of in frightened whispers. In its place is a man, folded under the weight of his visions. His elbows dig into his knees. Hands hanging limp, fingers twitching once, then again.
As always, silence is Curze’s first weapon, and it was Sevatar who told you of the upcoming campaign.
He doesn’t lift his head. That black hair — matted and stringy — hangs in ragged curtains, obscuring his face.
Curze had known you would come, yet it brings him no comfort. Only dread. And oh, how much easier would it be if you had not come at all.
“I told you to go,” he says, voice frayed and so, very, tired.
“I know,” you respond, back straight as you cross the dark room. The Nightfall groans around you, painful, like a wounded animal.
Your hand lifts slowly, and the moment you near his skin, he flinches. Yet, you persist. Your hands cup his cheeks, his skin scarred and cold beneath your touch. He suffers your touch, endures it like a wound exposed to open air. At last, he looks at you with dark, haunted eyes.
“I know,” you whisper, hands trembling. “But I’m still here. We know how this ends, but this is my choice. I want to be here.”
His eyes search yours for the truth.
You breathe. And then — Curze sways forward, on some half-remembered instinct rather than some bold decision. He kisses you. There is no tenderness in it. His lips are motionless against yours, pressed tight together, teeth and jaw clenched as if frozen in terror.
There is no lovesick sigh or melting into each other. Just the deliberate, careful restraint of a man trying not to recoil. A tremor runs through his jaw as your warm lips draw over his. Your love is a kindness he does not deserve.
He can’t — it ends.
Curze tears away with a sharp breath, eyes wide. He stares at you before his face twists in agony. Pain. Shame. He hates the way he wants this. Hates the unbearable hunger crying out inside of him to be held and loved.
You reach out for him again.
He lurches back, sudden and discordant, falling back into the shadows that suffocate the room. And just like that, he vanishes.
You do not call after him. You do not follow. You stay right here, arms outstretched, clinging to the shape of him.
Content Warning: Violence, Sexual Themes, NSFW, Light Spooks
Chapter 1
The dim lights of the hall hum ominously, casting their sterilized white light in long shadows down the oppressive corridors of the administratum building. Eerily silent now, the whirling of machines meant to organize the innumerable stacks of endless paperwork having long since decayed. No scrawling of the autoquills against the vellum or the crackle of the loudhailer summoning forth the petitioners are heard, the only sound piercing through the darkness is that of ceramite boots and shallow breaths through the respirators of those fortunate enough to do the Emperor's bidding in this forsaken place.
Clare's eyes, a crackling violet hue, scan the dim light from the chamber ahead. The lights have gone from a dimness to flickering as the corridor enters into a open chamber, massive columns hold up the weight of the building responsible for the running of the planet's administration. She is certain one of the more poetic Battle-Sisters could find a metaphor in that. A sickly sweet stench hits her nose, smelling of honey, vanilla, cloves— but is just a little too poignant. Her respirator purges most of the scent but her nose still wrinkles. Her micro-bead squawks in her ear, the voice of her sister emanating both from the transmitter and behind her.
"Dominion Jezzarin. Auspex indicates anomalous readings within 100 meters. Proceed with caution and holy fury"
"Acknowledged, the enemies of the Emperor shall be purified from the premises." Comes the reply from Clare. With a practised click, the safety of her flamer engages, the pilot flame producing a righteous blue glint at the end of her weapon as her form surges forward, a rebellious strand of white hair swaying before her face. In a low ready she enters the chamber, beginning to navigate the labyrinth of narrow corridors, the thin passageways offering egress through the sea of knowledge and bureaucracy. Their orders are simple, investigate why the Administratum office stopped responding. An anonymous tip to the church claimed heresy abounded. The stench grows, but is subtly inviting, and after the initial burning of the nose seems to offer comfort and rest.
This illusion is shattered rather quickly, as exiting one of the claustrophobic passages between towering shelves as tall as buildings reveals a circular depression in the middle of the room. A half-flight of stairs leads into the depression. The sight is grisly, and is the stuff of nightmares. Papers are scattered across the floor, drenched in blood having soaked through the ink, leading to a slippery ichor staining the tiles. The scent is now pungent, and reeks of another horrible truth.
defilement.
Her eyes trail upwards to the figures in this place. Lithe, unnaturally skinned creatures with a lilac-pinkish hue tone glance their unnatural eyes over, their party having been interrupted. One of the creatures is face down inside of a rather corpulent bureaucrat's stomach, gnawing and tearing and consuming him alive as quivering moans come from him. One of the still alive humans laughs loudly as the crab like claw of this creature is tearing her apart piece by piece, her screams betraying both her euphoria and terror as she watches the claw snip off another one of her fingers, the creature purring.
There are many such sights. A quick assessment from her reveals there must be at least sixty of these things here. One of these creatures sticks out in particular— lounged upon a pile of records, a leg and spade-like tail wrap lazily around a man's waist, his body appearing dehydrated, his bones starting to poke through his skin as he withers away. With a simple flick of it's wrist, the creatures pushes the desiccated husk of a human aside, rising to it's hooves.
As the creature steps forward with it's unguligrade legs, it saunters, gliding rather than walking as their hips sashay to a rhythm demented and unheard. Draped over it's form are shimmering veils with colours that make the mind ache to comprehend, cloaking the perfect beauty sculpted by madness. It stirs something primal in Clare's mind, before twisting it to disgust, catching her in the limbo space between desire and desolation, corroding her very soul. The creature's face is a mask of perfection stretched beyond normalcy, lips opening into an exaggerated grin. The eyes, endless obsidian pools that drink in all the light from this world and consume it. Upon the creature's head rests a crown of amethyst and gold, twisting and gnarling in many directions as whispers in languages that teasingly sound like words on the tip of one's tongue beg to be understood.
Her mind screams at her to move. Having noticed the rapidly closing distance of those things, her bulky, six foot five form lurches down the steps, planting a power-armoured boot firmly on the ground to lock her in place. The trigger of the flamer is pulled. It is impossible to tell what roars louder, Clare or her weapon. The flames sweep through a wide swathe of the depression, flicking their purifying fire against the creatures of the warp and scorching the life-or-death paperwork of the administratum. Such a terrible… perfect… place for a flamer.
Several of the daemonettes let out unnatural shrieks, not immune to the sheer determination of Sister Jezzarin. Her hair flicks forward, temporarily obstructing her vision as a bolter round, then another, sails past her, the battle-sisters having joined the fray. Her arms steady, the bulk of her heavy flamer not a bother for her as her painting of the canvas of war is smooth. And beautifully she does paint, as within the first few seconds of combat several of these unholy abominations lay dead.
"The master of man demands your death, spawn of the unholy! Be purified in the flames of his righteous daughters!"
Clare yells, the contents of her flamer now empty.
With expert precision and disciplined speed, she smacks the canister, release it and clattering it against the ground with a metallic clang. She reaches for her reloaded canister only to be shocked—
They move so fast is all her mind is able to register as one of the creature's claws slams into her flamer, grasping the weapon and wrestling her for it. Catching it between the bumps of it's wretched claw, with a sickening crunch, her tool of war cracks— but this leaves her foe open. Her hand shooting forward, an armoured gauntlet grabs the back of the daemonette's head, the thumb of her gauntlet pressing directly into the creature's obsidian eye, and with a growl and spring of her back foot, the combination of her grip strength and body mass pierces the skull through the socket with a satisfyingly righteous crunch.
The time for her minor victory soon passes as another one of the foes leaps from a table toward her. She reaches to her scabbard and draws her blade, white-knuckling the hilt and squeezing the lever as hard as she can — even harder than her first training — and the chainsword revs, catching the daemonette's implanted blade of obsidian-like bone. It yowls a hiss at her, cursing in it's dark-tongue, making her head ring. Clare remembers her training, drowning it out with the mantras to the holy Emperor.
The sharp hooves of the creature landing on her, She is pounced upon, but, with a grunt, withstands the blow refusing to be knocked over, refusing to be the one to faulter. The scorpion-like tail of the daemonette attempts to stab her, with the only recourse being able to grab the tail of the warp-spawn and hold it back. Their blades locked as her chainsword revs. Beads of sweat— both from the innate terror a human feels facing creatures that attack the soul, and of pure exertion— run down her skin. Unfortunately the sister fights dirty, and tips her weight forward, a risky strategy that does ultimately pay off as the daemonette is smashed into the ground by the collapsing, power armoured sister. She savagely starts to beat on the daemonette, grasping at it's joints and succeeding in ripping it off, taking the same obsidian limb blade once used to threaten her and jamming it directly down the daemonette's throat.
Such victory comes at a cost. With a thunderous crack, her eyes widen in sheer terror, and pain wracks her body as the herald, the one that wore the crown, has unfurled a wicked whip. It drools and slathers and makes the most disgusting of noises as it flicks against her, the energies of the warp cracking out from it like a sonic boom. When it hits her, it also licks against her power armour, the acid melting through the ceramite, causing her to drop to the ground. The second blow is far worse— the sharp barbs at the edge of the tongue-whip dig into her skin and wrap around her spine itself. She shrieks, howling as— with a wicked, sickening pop— several of her vertebrae and her lower spine snap, being wretched out of her. It is only through the Emperor's grace that the top half of her spine remains, her vision going black, as what can a mortal do against such horrid wounds?
When she wakes— God-Emperor, why did she have to wake?— the sight before her is horrible. Many of her sisters lay dead, and the ones that still live wish they had perished. She can hear their screams and sobs as they are tortured in the ways that only the servants of the prince of 'pleasure' can. She is unable to move her body, laying in a pool of her own blood. The only thing her paralyzed body can feel is dread.
Nineteen remain. Their vile forms are visible in the glowing red silhouettes of the prey-sense module. Calculating their nearest trajectory, an estimated thirty seconds to contact. Friendlies in the vicinity: Three. Those that can be redeemed: One. Standard mercy protocols shall suffice for those lost in body to the Emperor, their souls to be freed. The lumbering footsteps, a portent for his arrival. Deep breaths hissing as hydraulics begin to activate. Battle shall commence momentarily. Deploying motive-force countermeasures. 01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110010 01101111 01110011 01100101 01110100 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110011 01110101 01100110 01100110 01100101 01110010 01110011 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100001 01100101 01101101 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101100 01101001 01110110 01100101 00101110.
Clare's attention is torn away from her impending doom, hearing the hulking footsteps approaching from beyond— the ground creaking, stone cracking, before there is silence, and the lights in the building flicker and die, plunging the cavernous room into pure darkness. No windows to shine clarity, no emergency lightning, the only source of light is the daemon's glowing weaponry, and suspended from between two of the megalithic shelves —it has to be suspended, it's about twenty feet up— two central red eyes in a humanoid layout burn with malicious intent before being joined by a dozen others floating ominously in the void.
The darkness is pierced violently by three glowing orange, almost magma like rings, that spin for a brief second before coalescing into three separate beams, firing into the darkness. She watches as it hits the daemonette closest to herself, the lilac flesh of the daemon combusting into ash and jetting fire from her ichor. Two more fall in the same manner, and that brief flash is enough to illuminate the figure. Two mechadendrites stretch, having embedded themselves into the shelving units. Ten more mechadendrites hang free— three of them hold volkite weaponry, while the others have flexible, knife-like pincers that blossom like flowers on the end, spinning in a circular motion ominously. Set within each of the artificial limbs rests an ocular implant— a glowing red eye.
The figure is cloaked from head to toe in dull-red robes of the mechancium, the colour having long since faded and wearing no badge of rank. The stranger moves quickly. His steel parts begin moving with preternatural speed, launching himself into the darkness, the light from the volkite weapons fading fast. She can follow him in the dark with her eyes. The mechadendrites with blades seem to glow in impossible colours that make her head hurt once more to look at, but she cannot bring herself to tear away her gaze. She watches this hulking steel monstrosity move with mortifying efficiency and ruthless grace, the blades hacking and tearing into any of the daemons unfortunate enough to get close.
One in particular is rather gruesome, the daemon jumping at him as a mechadendrite shoots out, spearing it in the abdomen as the others descend, stripping her of her flesh to the bone like she had been picked clean by carrion birds, before being banished back to the warp. Ichor stains his clothes like purple ink as the herald challenges him. The air splits and cracks with violent intention and the power of the warp. The herald of Slaanesh strikes toward him with reckless abandon and haunting grace. Flowing like a mighty indomitable river, her whip flies… only to be caught on the refractor field, repulsed in a spraying shower of sparks that befuddles the mind and blurs the vision— but not enough to conceal one of the mechadendrites pierce the side of the herald's head and expand outward to it's full blossom, spraying chunks of daemon across the room. Two more volkite shots fire, instantaneously delivering mercy to the two damned souls.
The attention of this mechanical man now focused solely on Clare, the low flames of the vellum burning from her earlier contribution to the purge let her view him. His form is large, bulky— far too massive to be called a tech-priest. He stands at around seven feet five inches, his augmented legs clearly visible from the bottom of his robes, the feet replaced by talons. He speaks, his voice a low rumble, emanating from his diaphragm before being carried the rest of the way by his vox, infusing it with a gravelly electronic hiss.
"Throne-daughter. Do not be afeared, for you are now in my exquisite hands."
He lifts up his arm, sliding it out from under the bulky robes. It is a mixture of sinew and steel. What flesh is there is bulky, and one can easily imagine that these steel-tipped extremities of his fingers were once the fleshy digits for a hand that could be described as a bear-like paw. Several of the mechadendrites move in tandem to lift her as she passes out once more, the adrenaline having worn off.
writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months
