#blood and glory threads

[medicus-mortem]

@chatcambrioleur liked [+] for a tragic mess starter.

   The port is dead this late at night. Workers and criminals alike have slunk away into whatever quiet corners they can find. A hunched figure is the only movement out there, in this wasteland of creaking wood and abandoned rotting fish. The shadows hide him from the moon’s too bright glare, hide away his ache and shame. He moves like he’s trying to hold himself together, like one wrong shift will send his guts spilling onto the ocean damp ground.

   Golden eyes peer out of the darkness, catching what little light there is. His breath wheezes through his lungs. Much of him hurts but he doesn’t mind. It means something real and tangible, even if he can’t put a word to it anymore. Gaze locks onto the only familiar ship bobbing gently at the docks. The Straw Hat flag flutters above the mast, the grin on the skull wide and laughing. Somehow it feels like it’s laughing at him. It knows it isn’t his home, not by any margin.

   Law groans, turning about to slump a tired body against the brick wall. His face twists in longing, in a bout of heavy homesickness. He might be familiar with this ship, might know exactly where the infirmary is, but it’s not where he wants to be. Everyone that matters to that ship is already aboard, warm and comforted by her sunny embrace. It’s not the all encompassing firm comfort of the Polar Tang’s cold halls. Not the electric buzz of her lights or the rumbling hum of her machinery heart.

   Not the same living metal home, but it will do.

   A hand rises and Law’s power spreads across the expanse between him and not quite salvation. The night is tinted a deep blue for the second it takes for him to turn his fingers and vanish, leaving a bloodstain behind that isn’t all his.

   Trafalgar Law pops into existence on the Sunny’s lawn deck, the grass beneath his boots feeling wholly alien. His body sags, the doctor tipping forwards. He catches himself on the wall before him, the door to the infirmary right before his eyes. His arm droops, Kikoku hanging from her red thread held tight in a tattooed hand. Law glares at the door, willing himself to move before anyone sees him. He’d rather not have the conversation the sight of him will spark.

   Yet, he’s leaving the evidence all around him. It drops off him in red jewels and smears itself all over the light wood.

#chatcambrioleur #Captain's Log // Threads #Captain of Hearts // Canon Verse #not all his #blood tw #[there he is in all his broken glory]

[rctchild]

CONTINUED

he watches her hands try to work.  her being a higher order of undead in the hierarchy the curse decides, she still has the dexterity of life;  a recognizable ease of functionality that malkhaz knows not everyone is lucky to retain.  when she stops, he can see the minute tremble of the needle.  ( had he not had his eyes replaced during the fourth war, he wouldn't have been able to. )

"i meant it as a statement of empathy,"  he offers, raising his hands.  "it's okay if you're still mourning everything."

mal trails his gaze down the tearing of her wedding dress, the dirt that sullies its end.  she's the image of grief, everything taken from her the moments within a pivotal turning point in her life.  her circumstances are akin to a lot of first-generation forsaken;  stories that mal has been told and retold, sometimes with bitter resignation, sometimes with tears.  he knows he can't relate to her — his life was cut short waiting for something to change, and ultimately, becoming undead was his change.  though he's much older than he was when he died, and understands that many of his initial feelings about his status were naïve and foolish, he still generally believes:  becoming undead was one of the best things to happen to him.

"there's not anything you can do but keep going,"  he says, in answer to her question.  "the stuff you're feeling — it burns out in due time.  i know right now it's hard, but i mean...  you do what you want, now.  what's-his-face never gave you that."

keeping felix's name out of his mouth is an intentional gesture of sensitivity, but mostly, a subtle insult to that witless legion crotch-licker that he doesn't expect mary to necessarily catch onto.  no one who whores themselves to the legion is anything more than a grovelling coward,  mal had once been told by a wise old warlock.  their legacies, their desires and intentions — the waste of worms has more value than any of it.

"take care of yourself before you worry about anduin,"  mal suggests.  "that's what i'm trying to say.  after all, y'can't really save someone else if you're already drowning."

@lichbride

#IC. a boy out questing / there's no life ahead of me #MAIN. the young blood they needed / glory for the forsaken! #THREAD. lichbride / 01

[perlelune]

Glory And Gore | Feyd-Rautha

The trip to Giedi Prime you take with your mother should have been a mere diplomatic gesture. Instead, you find yourself prey to the inevitability of fate as it sinks its claws into your flesh.

Warnings: NON-CON, Deception, Parental Neglect, Cannibalism, Mutilation, Bene Gesserit Reader, Knives, Murder, Forced Marriage, Primal Kink

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

“I don’t want to.”

“You must.”

“Mother-”

“Use it!”

The authority dripping from your mother’s voice has you shrinking in your chair. You lift your gaze. A shudder slithers through your frame. Your fingers squeeze around the armrests, gripping so tightly you can feel the iciness seeping into your veins.

You study your mother’s face. 

An unsettling realization crashes over you.

You no longer are looking into your mother’s eyes…but at the Bene Gesserit. You steel your features and iron your resolve. 

You swallow a deep, calming breath.

“Give me the blade,” you repeat, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. The exact count has evaporated amidst your heated nerves long ago. Your mother is unyielding today, pushing you further than she ever has before. While her purpose eludes you, the urgency etched in her manner from the moment she tore you from bed that day doesn’t. Today, your mother will not settle for surrender. She demands results. 

Results for all the years she spent drilling the Bene Gesserit ways into you.

There is no hint of being swayed in your mother, her handle on the dagger unwavering. No twitching. No slackening of her grip. Your spirits dim.

“Again,” she barks.

Pearls of sweat gather on your brow as you strain your mind once more. The humming courses through your blood, the echo of power swelling in your mind. Fiery tendrils trickle through the veil of hesitation and nervousness. 

You grasp at the threads, the fleeting wisps of control, pulling on them with all your might. Still, they slip through your fingers like sand. Frustration flares inside you with every attempt. 

You persevere, enduring through the agony bleeding inside your mind. Through the liquid fire sweeping through your veins. 

You meet your mother’s harsh stare.

“Give…me…the blade…” you articulate, injecting every bit of hazy conviction glowing inside you. 

For a while, you and your mother hold each other’s gaze. A battle of wills. An ephemeral, pathetic one that ends as it always does…with your mother snickering at your failure.

She shoots up from the chair, exasperation evident in the drawn-out sigh she unleashes.

“No willpower. Just fear,” she says, pacing across the room.

“Apologies, mother,” you mutter, lowering your head in shame. 

The Voice. The damned Voice. In eighteen years, you have never mastered it. 

She approaches you, kneeling in front of your chair.

“Child, you must never fear, because fear…”

“...Is death,” you finish. The Bene Gesserit words are woven into the very fabric of your mind, for you have uttered them so many times since childhood.

She places her forehead against yours, cupping your cheeks.

The combination of your two voices echoes in the room.

“Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me…”

As you recite the familiar prayer, a wave of serenity swaddles you in its calming tide.

Your eyes flutter open. 

Your mother’s fingers wrap around yours.

“Reverend Mother will see you tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“You are of age. It is time.”

“Time for what?”

A shadow flits across her eyes.

“For the Gom Jabbar.”

“Gom…Jabbar.” A crease appears on your forehead. “What is it?”

A tense smile spreads on her face, her grip on your hand growing tighter.

“You will learn soon enough,” she says.

Rest eludes you that night, your mother’s words weighing too heavy on your mind for it to float away in peaceful slumber. Tormented by nightmares, you toss and turn between your sheets. 

A beast chasing you, its claws sharp and long…Like knives. Darkness creeping on your every step. Fire shooting through your veins.

The world in flames, while you burn alongside it.

You awake drenched in your own sweat. 

Hugging your knees, you lean against the headboard. You stare ahead. Moonlight drizzles through your carved window, casting shapes of silvery light against your walls. The same granite walls you have known since childhood. Usually so familiar, comforting. Today the sight of them reminds you how utterly alone you are.

Your thoughts churn, the storm of doubt and gloom within you grazing its peak.

Per custom, you are a disappointment to both your mother and the Sisterhood. The Voice. The Weirding Way. No matter which skill your mother and the myriad of Bene Gesserit teachers you had over the years attempted to drill into you…you failed to master every single one.

It’s not for lack of trying on your part. You wish you knew why. Why your voice always cracks. Why your hand always falters. Your mother has never given hope to lure a steel-mindedness out of you that was simply…never there. No part of you wishes to bend others to your whim or cause harm. You don’t crave control or power. Only serenity and peace. 

The next day springs forth in a haste, the blinding light of the sun arriving too quickly for your comfort. There is a deliberate languid nature to your motions as you get dressed, fussing with your hair and dress. A pointless attempt at delaying the inevitable.

Gom Jabbar. You mulled the words over and over in your non-sleep. Mighty oppressor or mighty enemy. The translations from Chaksobar to Galach are plentiful. While you don’t know what awaits you on the other side of the door, from your mother’s pinched expression the day before…unpleasantness is guaranteed.

You trudge inside the dark room, a chill shooting through your spine at the sight of the still figure of Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam sitting in the middle. Her pale, weathered features, wrinkled and creased like ancient parchment, stand out amidst the unsettling gloominess ahead. Even behind the black veil, the older woman radiates an aura of ancient, mystic power, her presence both fascinating and intimidating. 

No word unfurls from her tongue at first, her keen, bird-like eyes assessing you. Despite the urge to cower, you hold your chin high and stiffen your spine.

“Your Reverence,” you greet, bowing so low your nose almost grazes the tiled floor.

“Come closer, child.”

Your feet move on their own before you even register the command. Shock pulses though you as you approach the Reverend Mother. The Voice…She used the Voice on you. No Bene Gesserit ever did that before. None would even dare. Not on a Count’s daughter.

You land in front of her, stunned and shivering.

She collects a viridian metal fox from beneath her robes, its eerie light glowing ominously in the darkness. Your heart stutters as you note the chasm inside the box, a lightless void reflecting nothing but complete blackness.

“Put your right hand in the box,” she orders.

Her tone is bereft of the thrall of the Voice now. Willing compliance... you realize this is what she wishes from you. You stare at the pitch blackness inside of the box, the sight alone stirring your unease. Hesitation limns your fingertips. 

“I…”

The Reverend Mother’s firm voice booms across the air like thunder.

“Is this the respect you show to your elders?” she roars.

You flinch. Shameful heat lurks its way inside your cheeks. Mother would be embarrassed if she saw you now, denying the Reverend Mother herself, the Emperor’s Truthsayer.

You inhale a wide breath and place a tremulous hand inside the metal box. As the darkness engulfs your appendage, a cold wave creeps over it. The prick of a needle on your fingers follows closely. Sensations vanish from your hand, only an odd numbness remaining.

The old woman’s gaze sharpens. Her wrinkled hand shoots upward with a quickness that leaves you speechless, halting right beside your neck.

A glimpse of metal beckons you from the corner of your vision. Temptation to turn your head simmers within you but an instinct set deeply into your bones screeches at you not to move. 

You yield to to the second hunch.

“I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar,” she informs. “The high-handed enemy.”

“Poisoned needle?” you absently wonder.

You catch the shadow of a smile through the black veil.

“Your mother did say you were a clever one.” She tilts her head slightly, reminding you of a vulture circling its prey, gauging the right moment to swoop down and sink its claws. “A soft heart with a sharp mind.” Dread coils around your heart. “The test is simple, girl. Your hand must remain in the box. Keep it in the box, you live. Withdraw it, you die.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Pain.”

Tingles begin to spread.

Your breath snags, needles starting to dig across the back of your hand. But unlike before, the sensation lingers this time. Growing and growing. Uncomfortable at first, then unbearable. Then, it turns blatantly hellish. Fire licks your flesh, the flames causing your entire body to break out in sweat and your breaths to come out labored and uneven.

Pain such as this cannot be of this world, you begin to think.

The kind that grows more vile and intense every second. You writhe, tears rushing to your eyes. Your free hand clutches your stomach, twisting the flesh in desperate need of an anchor amidst the unnatural agony. The room fogs around you, your quick, panicked breaths and the wild drumming of your heart filling your ears. 

The longing for death comes and goes, the impulse to withdraw your hand teetering over a precipice. At least, death would bring release from the unfathomable pain. 

Blessed freedom. You nearly surrender to that wayward instinct. Nearly.

In the end however, the acute, overwhelming awareness of the lethal needle less than an inch from your neck keeps your hand inside the box.

“An animal in pain would chew its own leg to escape a trap,” The Reverend mother says calmly, unfazed by your tears and sobs. “But a human would bide its time, suffer through the agony until he might remove the threat to his kind. This is a test of humanity. This is what us Bene Gesserit do. Set humans apart from animals.”

An eternity in the pits of hells seems to drag along before she gives you permission to withdraw your hand, her hand dropping from your neck. 

“Enough,” she says.

You tear your hand out of the box with a trembling exhale, astonished when your gaze tumbles upon smooth, unharmed skin. You turn it upside down, flabbergasted. It looks the same. Yet the furnace within the box made the burning feel so real, so vividly, terrifyingly real, that you were convinced the flesh and bones were devoured by the flames. You expected a lump of bleeding, smoking flesh. In disbelief, you fold your fingers several times. You wince. Phantom pain still sits in your hand, your nerves alight with embers of ache.

Suppressing a fresh surge of tears, you lift your eyes to the Truthsayer.

“Your tolerance for pain is sufficient,” she states. “Congratulations, child. You are human enough to serve our purposes.” She hums in thought, a sliver of satisfaction seeping through her solemn inflection. “You may not be a complete waste of genetic material after all.”

“You almost failed the test, I hear.”

You shift in the bench opposite your mother, her imperious tone ripping the wound of your glaring incompetence open once more.

Your attention wanders above the closing gate of the starship. You commit the luxurious plains of your planet to memory. Your chest twinges with preemptive melancholy. From what you heard, Giedi Prime is a dry, depleted rock where trees are replaced by rows of factories and metal skyscrapers which only blot out the dusky skies even more. A nightmare from the sounds of it. Though your mother insisted you join her on the trip, arguing your presence is key to the success of the treaty.

So you swallowed your reluctance and agreed to come.

“I thought I would lose my hand,” you mumble, your fingers clenching. The awe over the flawless state of your limb hasn’t left you.

“Her Reverence would never maim a prospect,” your mother argues.

You nod, gaze colliding with hers.

“Just kill them if they fail to prove their humanity?”

You still recall the sharp, poison-dipped tip pointed at your neck. The oppressive weight of impending death nipping at your flesh.

The line between surrender and success had been thin. Too thin.

Your mother’s stern brow furrows.

“Pain is always a possibility…One you must embrace.”

“Why? Isn’t the Gom Jabbar a singular occurrence?”

Instead of answering you, your mother lifts a black, oblong chest from beside her. You noticed it before but forgot to inquire about its purpose.

The metal and dark accents of the object mimics the Harkonnen style. Your fingers sweep over the symbols engraved on the box. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“Open it.”

You do as instructed. The inside of the chest reveals a set of knives, a long obsidian one and a short silvery one. The blades glimmer as you lift them, their sharp edges catching the artificial light of the cockpit. 

“They were forged from the finest steel on Alderan,” your mother says. You give a puzzled stare. Your mother elaborates, “You must gift them to the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen upon arrival. For his coming of age.”

Right. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s birthday celebration. You were told there would be a grand spectacle in the arena, that he was a great warrior, revered and admired by his people…perhaps even more than his uncle the Baron Vladimir. Day after day before the trip, your mother has impressed upon you the importance of attendance, of embracing the Harkonnen customs as if born into them. Every single one, however uncanny, crude or brutal.

So, much as the concept of spilling blood for entertainment repulses you…you shelf your disgust for now. Personal feelings must capitulate to diplomacy.

Your critical eye sweeps over the knives. These must have cost a fortune. Sinister beauty and artful skill fused in ominous synergy inside a finely made instrument of death.

“It’s fine craftsmanship,” you say. Your fingertip drags across the curved edge. A crease appears on your forehead. “But the edges…they could be sharper.” Your eyes light up. “I could finish before we land.” 

You sift through one the heaps of precious stones and minerals lining the walls of the cockpit. 

Victory floods your being as you find what you sought. A flat whetstone that shall serve your purpose well. You find a spot on the floor and begin your task. The knives shine brighter with every swift glide of your hand.

The frown on your face deepens.

“I hope the Baron’s nephew is pleased with our gift.” 

You know next to nothing of him. Though you surmise if your families are to start trading with each other, getting along would be wiser.

Your mother smiles at you though it fails to reach her eyes.

“I have no doubt he will be very pleased with all the gifts you bring him, daughter.”

The frosty, pollution-heavy winds of the lifeless planet whip your face as you set foot outside the car. Your eyes roam over the large building housing the Harkonnen arena. The imposing structure casts an intimidating shadow against the nebulous, gray sky above it. Dormant volcanoes peek through the horizon in the distance, the only remnants of natural landscapes.

Hopelessness surges through you. 

Despite having landed less than an hour ago, a fierce longing for Alderan’s endless green fields and snowy mountain peaks roars inside you. Every cell in your body screams to go back inside the ship and return home.

But you can’t. Such a display of rudeness would be a disaster for diplomatic relations. So you plaster on a smile and ignore the potent stench wafting around you.

You exert meticulous sovereignty over your expression when the Baron floats toward you and your mother. Nothing could have prepared you for this. The sight of the bald, massive man hovering towards you and your mother in his suspensor chair. 

The floating figure of the baron stops in front of you and your mother. A circle of servants, clad in black clothing, follows behind him. You note their bowed heads, the way their eyes never rise high enough to look directly at you or your mother. A brand marks their necks, one you recognize as the sigil of House Harkonnen. You’re reminded how ubiquitous the slave trade is on Giedi Prime. Your mother mentioned it but the harsh reality of it didn’t strike you until now.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime,” Baron Vladimir greets. His gristly tone surprises you, eliciting a chill across your spine you swiftly suppress.

“My Lord,” your mother says, sinking into a graceful bow.

You mimic her. The baron leers at you.

“She is even more exquisite in person.”

You recoil, the glint in his calculating stare stirring your unease.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps across her surroundings.

“The na-Baron isn’t in attendance?”

“My dear nephew is preparing himself in the gladiator pit. There are rituals we Harkonnen observe upon one’s coming of age.” Your mother nods. 

The baron smirks, his focus swinging to you. “Perhaps you could pay him a visit, little one?”

You clutch the small chest in your hands. 

“I…”

“Go on,” your mother urges, shoving you forward. 

You gasp, almost tripping in your shock. The baron’s commanding voice rises.

“Slave!” 

One the cowering servants leaps from the circle. 

“Yes, sire?” the boy mumbles.

“Escort the girl to my nephew at once.”

The servant approaches you. His gaze briefly lifts before finding the floor again. A pang of empathy twists in your chest as you note the fear etched in the servant’s eye. You find yourself wondering what these eyes have witnessed, what horrors lurk on the wretched rock.

“Follow me, my Lady,” he says. 

As you’re led away from the welcoming party, you toss a glance at your mother above your shoulder. The message written in her eyes and stern expression is clear as lake water.

Do not cast a veil of shame upon our house. Remember your duty.

Sucking a deep breath, you turn away.

You and your retinue of two guards and an attending maid are taken to the bowels of the arena. A horrid stench clings to the walls as you trudge through the dim walls. It grows more potent the closer you get to the pit. Your chest heaves. The urge to empty the meager contents of your stomach in the sand tickles your dry throat. You quell your disdain with a shake of your head.

You are here to present your house in a positive light, help Father’s treaty with House Harkonnen be a success. 

As you enter the room, you get your first look at Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Warmth finds your cheeks. He’s almost bare, his rippling, pale muscles on full display. Two servant girls paint broad, black strokes over his carved back. The dark color stands out against his alabaster skin. Not a stray hair covers him and you suppose he’s as smooth-skinned and hairless as the rest of his kind. 

When his dark gaze settles on you, you take tremulous steps forward. 

You open the chest and present the knives to him.

“This is a gift for you, Lord na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” you say, your voice cracking at the end. 

Silence hangs for what seems eons, Feyd-Rautha cocking his head as he gauges you. It takes every ounce of bravery inside you not to flinch. His presence alone has every hair on your body stand at attention. 

There’s a cold intensity in his glare, a tautness on his slender features. 

You feel as prey being assessed. The urge to run itches your flesh. Your mother’s quiet warning echoes in your head. Remember your duty. You dig your feet into the ground, willing your roaring pulse to steady.

You hear him speak for the first time. His voice is hoarse and deep. Like the scratching of a stone over a sharp object.

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings? Lungs, a liver, perhaps?” he offers, smirking at three women sitting in a corner of the room. Their inky, whiteless orbs and ravenous grins send a chill through your spine. 

His eyes fall on the knives inside the chest. His hand sweeps over the blades, an odd gesture almost reminiscent of a lover’s caress. He places the silver knife against his tongue, as if to taste the sharpness of the weapon. You shudder as you watch him, a foreboding feeling spreading across your flesh.

For a brief span of time, the well of your buried childhood memories tugs you to its depths. You recall a day when you were little. Your father took you hunting in the forests of Alderan. You chased a butterfly and got lost. You fell across a field. When you rose, you were nose to nose with a fierce predator. It stared at you a while, so still as its slanted, yellow gaze pinned you to your spot that you thought you were safe. You didn’t notice the calculated way it was prowling towards you, its maw opening slowly in anticipation of its next meal. The gift of tender, unsuspecting flesh. It’s not until your father speared the creature with his sword that you realized the jaws of death almost closed in on you. As it sprawled across the field, it unleashed an ear-piercing dying howl.

You were struck with shock that day.

A similar shock rocks you to your core when Feyd-Rautha slices the throat of one of the servant girls at his side and stabs the other repetitively. Time freezes as the lifeless bodies of the slave girls hit the sand with a loud thud. 

Speckles of dark blood stain the bottom of your light tunic.

Your wide gaze lands on the other slave girl, tucked in a corner of the room. You watch her shrink in fear, the quaking in her hands so intense she nearly drops the tray she’s holding. 

Horror fills you. She isn’t wondering if she’ll be next…but when.

Feyd-Rautha’s attention swings back to you. Dread coils around your heart. 

“Hm, these are shockingly adequate,” he purrs appreciatively, grabbing the other knife from the chest.

It’s hard focusing on his words. Behind him, the three bald-headed women are swooping down on the poor servant girls’ corpses like vultures ripping a carcass to shreds. One of them pulls out a knife and slices the girl open from neck to gut. They bury their hands inside the girl’s body and grab fistfuls of her soft insides that they greedily shove into their mouths. Pieces of guts and dripping flesh jut from their pale lips, trickling down their chins and necks.

One of the women catches you staring and flashes you a blood-drenched, black grin. 

You shudder. The maid at your side chokes on a sob, her hand flying across her mouth. Even your guards are appalled by the display, one of them averting his eyes.

A whispery croak slips through your lips.

“I s-sharpened them myself this morning,” you say, your fingers tightening around the chest. 

A crooked smile unfurls on the na-Baron’s lips.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, pet.” 

His smile expands. “How rude of me,” he says, tossing a casual glance at the ghoulish spectacle behind him. The women are still gleefully feasting on the slain slave girls. “Would you like a bite as well?” His mirthful gaze flicks over your heaving chest. “Fresh heart, perhaps?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing a placid smile onto your face.

“I-I’m quite alright, my Lord. I already ate.” The chomping noises of the cannibalistic women rises, one of them tearing into the slave girl’s side with her sharp nails. 

Sickness spreads through your being. You avert your gaze.

“I shall leave you to get ready for your entrance, my Lord,” you stammer as you give a quick bow. 

“I look forward to our next meeting, my Lady,” Feyd-Rautha says, the amusement never leaving his face as you scurry out of the room.

A tremor still lingers in your hands as you join your mother in the golden box above the triangular arena. The moment you sit at her side, she questions you.

“So, what did you think of him?”

“Who?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

She sighs. “Feyd-Rautha.”

You press your lips. The crowd chants his name as he steps into the arena, clutching the blades you gifted him at his sides. He walks slowly, with purpose. Yet there’s a hint of tedium in his haughty gait. As if today was no different than any other day for him, and the taking of more lives were nothing more than a mere footnote in his long list of tasks for the evening.

Sadist. Psychopath. Deranged. 

These are some of the few choice words that surge inside your mind in response to your mother’s inquiry. 

You utter none of them.

“Why does it matter? Our stay on Giedi Prime will be short, will it not?”

You peer through the binoculars your mother hands you. There’s a gut-wrenching brutality to the na-Baron’s practiced motions. 

You watch him cut down two Atreides gladiator-slaves with ease. It’s clear something has been done to the men, their wobbly, confused steps through the arena a painful scene to witness.

Your chest seizes every time his blade tears into the poor mens’ flesh. He snarls after a series of successful strikes, seeming more beast than human when he bares a row of black teeth.

A shiver ripples through your spine.

“You must keep an open mind,” your mother heeds.

The last gladiator-slave is different. You note it right away. There’s a lethal precision in his movements that was amiss in the other Atreides soldiers. Panic swarms the golden box. Baron Vladimir’s advisor begs him to cancel the fight.

“This one isn’t drugged,” he says, fear lacing his tone.

“This will spoil my nephew’s birthday,” the baron rumbles, dismissing the man with a withering glare. He remains disturbingly calm. “Show me who you are, dear nephew.”

You take a deep breath. The rest of the fight veers to an unusual route. Feyd-Rautha removes his body shield, welcoming the challenge the Atreides soldier offers with open arms.

A psychotic smile decorates his lips as he fights for his life. For the first time since the fight began, he comes alive in the arena. 

The vicious trading of blow after blow has bile rising to your throat. Unable to stomach it any longer, you bolt to your feet and mumble a rushed apology to the Baron.

“I shall retire to my chambers,” you say.

As you exit the golden box, the excited clamor of the crowd as they scream Feyd-Rautha’s name follows your hasty steps.

You sneak a glance through the high, blue doors. The sight inside the vast hall has your blood curdling. Debauchery the likes of which you have never witnessed unfolds before your eyes. A  peculiar blend of orgy and slaughter occurs in the hall. You’re failing to comprehend what you’re seeing, relief coursing through you that you refused the Baron’s invitation.

Once more, you are stunned by the vast cultural differences between your people and the Harkonnens. Sickened, you step away from the doors. Twisted curiosity led you there, and blatant disgust will take you straight back to your room. 

The dusky, barren walls of the Harkonnen keep are a stark contrast to the colorful tapestries that can be found all over Castle Alderan.

Homesickness tugs at your heart strings. This alien world is hostile, wretched. You long for the familiarity of your bed and the warm, soothing winds of your planet.

As you roam the hallways, a prickling across your nape has you whirl.

Your sight fills with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Your chest clenches. Your head whips around, a fresh urgency livening your steps.

“Should you not be celebrating your grand victory, my Lord?”

“Frivolous pleasures do little to sate me,” he says, easily keeping up with you. His gravelly baritone ripples across your spine. “This isn’t for me…It’s for them. And my uncle knows it.” His arm brushes yours. You bristle. Amusement bleeds in his tone. “Where are you running off to, pet?” 

Pet. You tense at the belittling moniker, the one he forcefully bestowed upon you. 

“To my chambers. The evening has exhausted me.”

“You left early.”

You cast a puzzled frown upon him.

“In the arena," he specifies.

Your fingers curl into fists. The unfairness of what you witnessed still staggers you. The Atreides soldiers weren’t given a chance. Pigs led to their inevitable slaughter. And Feyd-Rautha plucked joy from their misery, seeing every slave as a tool to satisfy his unquenchable thirst for blood. 

“I have no stomach for violence, my Lord.”

A humming sound pours from his throat.

“Perhaps it was careless then.”

Confusion flutters through you.

“Careless?”

A wicked smile tilts his lips skyward.

“Of my uncle to hand me such a delicate flower…one whose petals are bruised so easily.”

You let out a hollow laugh, dread gripping your insides. Loathing the way his dark gaze slides over your frame, you set your eyes forward.

“You say such strange things, my lord.”

“Do I?” He adds casually, “After all, you were promised to me.”

Your heart falters, missing a beat. He must be drunk, you ponder, in a feeble attempt to placate yourself with reassurance.

“Perhaps you ought to sleep the evening off, my lord. I believe victory may have gotten to your head, warped your perception.”

His sinister chuckle bounces against the walls.

“A pet with a sharp tongue. How fortuitous.”

It’s the only warning you receive before he snatches your wrist and slams you into a nearby wall. 

You gasp. He pins your wrists beside your head, trapping you between him and the wall. You squeal, eyes bulging at the abrupt impact. You can already feel bruises form beneath his steely grip.

You fight to get free but he doesn’t budge. Sadistic enjoyment contorts his features as he admires your fruitless struggle.

He leans close to you. Your pulse soars.

“What are you doing?”

His lids sag as he drinks you in.

“Well…sampling my other gift, of course,” he whispers, lust oozing in his voice.

His mouth crashes over yours. You go dizzy. The kiss is bruising, staggeringly possessive. A brutal, sloppy clash of lips, teeth and tongue. You give his lip a harsh bite but it only draws a cheerful laugh from Feyd-Rautha. The acrid tang of metal coats your tongue. He moans against your lips and starts exploring your curves. 

As his hands pluck at your soft flesh, fear surges through you. 

“Let me go,” you scream, trying to use the Voice. There’s a flicker in his eyes and you feel hope…but it swiftly vanishes. One of his hands fastens around your throat while the other charts a dangerous path under your tunic. His fingers crudely poke and prod the apex of your thighs.

Your panic swells. 

“Unhand me this instant!” you shout, a trickle of power rushing in your words. 

Feyd-Rautha shakes his head, your thrall only seeming to last a few seconds. Mirth shimmers in his inky orbs as he studies you. 

“Are you trying to use Bene Gesserit tricks on me?” The hand around your throat tightens. You claw at his arms, your vision flickering as he taunts, “Why don’t you try again, little witch?” He sinks two fingers through your dry entrance. Tears swim in your eyes at the aching, sudden stretch. His cruel voice flows against your temple. “Perhaps I ought to slice your tongue and shove it down your throat for our wedding.”

The hammering of your heart grows deafening. You swallow your tears and look into his eyes. You gather a thin breath to speak.

“Back away…” you croak weakly, desperation flailing inside your chest. 

He gives a slow blink. To your surprise, the hand around your throat slackens. His eyes narrow as he leans away from you, a dazed expression on his face. You don’t take time to bask in fleeting relief, racing to your mother’s room as soon as his hands aren’t on you anymore. 

Once you reach your mother’s chambers, you fling yourself into her arms.

Her arms wrap around your shuddering frame. She caresses your hair, gently whispering, “Daughter, the hour is so late…Is something the matter?”

You release a shaky breath, sinking further into her embrace. 

“May we return to the ship? Go back home?”

“Why?”

You cast a tearful gaze towards her. 

“Haven’t we done our duty, mother? Is it not enough?”

A long weary breath flows from her lips. Her hands curl around yours. She takes a deep breath before speaking again. 

Her face becomes stern, impenetrable.

“Apologies, sweet child. We cannot.”

You search her harsh gaze. A heavy silence settles between the two of you. You retreat, horror clogging your airways as unsaid words hang in the air. 

“Mother…What have you done?” you mumble, a fresh wave of tears breaking past your lashes. 

“You are to marry Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen in three days’ time,”she bluntly announces. Your jaw drops as you take another step back. “All the arrangements have already been made.”

Your voice trembles.

“And Father agreed?”

“It was his idea, approved by the Reverend Mother herself.”

The deepest pits of hell welcome your plummeting heart. You sink to the floor, the weight of your kin’s treachery growing too heavy to bear. 

“And you did not speak against it?” you mutter, disbelief confining your breath. 

Your mother falls to her knees, joining you on the floor.

She cradles your face. “It is your destiny. We are Bene Gesserit. We exist only to serve.”

“He is a monster.”

“I’m afraid it’s irrelevant.”

A sharp breath spills from your throat. Your head snaps up.

“Is this all I am to the Sisterhood?” You unleash a dry laugh. “A broodmare to be sold and used to further their plans? To you and father…”

Her mouth wobbles. “Our way is not to question, but to answer when duty calls.”

You bring a quivering hand to your throat. You can still feel his harsh fingers crushing your windpipe. 

“Do you see what he has done to me?”

“Mother, please…”

A flash of regret appears on her face. It barely lasts a second before a mask of indifference drapes over her features again. 

“You should rest,” she says, cupping your cheek. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”

You take in your mother’s blank expression. The blatant lack of emotion despite her knowing what Feyd-Rautha did to you. You swallow a shivering sob. It might have hurt less if she struck you across the face. Or drove a dagger through your chest.

The room chills around you as you reach a sinister conclusion. 

You are completely alone. 

Packing your scarce belongings takes little time. You didn’t bring a lot with you on Giedi Prime. The trip was supposed to be short after all. A mere courtesy visit to honor your father and the Baron’s alliance. How naive you were.

In the end, you are just a pawn for the Bene Gesserit and your father to move around. You always knew marriage would come eventually. It is what you have been prepared for your whole life. But you harbored the faint hope that your future husband would be kind, or at least a decent man.

As you recall every instance of Feyd-Rautha’s cruelty, horror clutches your insides.

There isn’t a sliver of kindness in him. You venture he may even draw sick pleasure from others’ misery. The smile that touched his lips when you struggled against him still chills your veins.

It stuns you that someone like him, who seems more animal than man, even passed the Reverend Mother’s test, that he somehow withstood the pain, and maybe even embraced it. 

Logic dictates that he must have however. Otherwise the Reverend Mother wouldn’t ratify the crossing of your two bloodlines.

The mere thought fills you with dread. He is dangerous. A monster who thinks, who plans, who schemes, who gathers joy from pain.

You come to a decision. You will not be Feyd-Rautha’s bride. 

You must find your way back home. The sisterhood can find another sacrifice to fulfill their prophecy. It will not be you.

You wait for the keep to be quiet, not a sound lingering in the cold, blue hallways. You conceal a few belongings beneath your cloak. Another set of clothes, a compass, some jewelry and other valuables you’re hoping to trade for safe passage on a starship. Doubts wander inside you. 

Where will you go? What will you do? Will you survive the weather conditions and atmosphere of a completely different planet? You still remember your brief visit on Salusa Secundus for the Princess Irulan’s coronation day. How you couldn’t move without fire rushing to your lungs. How every single step felt like you were taking a hundred. You could die. 

Still, the prospect scares you far less than what awaits you in the Keep.

Uncertainty lies in your future. But you do know one thing. You must run as far away as you can from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Getting past the guards is easy enough. 

You use what you remember of your Bene Gesserit training to sneak outside the fortress. 

Harko city welcomes you in all its dull, somber rotting glory. You cross past discarded piles of rubbish and large oily puddles as you race through dark alleyways. Everywhere your gaze rests, it’s assaulted by sheer decay and putrefaction. Unlike the clean, cold, pristine interior of the Keep, the city is crumbling. 

The putrid stench rising from the streets almost causes you to turn back. In the end, you refrain, steadfast as you rush through the busy streets. Every second is precious. You could get caught, dragged back to the Keep.

The back of your neck prickles. Your pulse escalates. The presence of three men hovers at the edge of your sight. Pretending you didn’t notice them, you subtly hasten your strides. 

They catch on quick, too quick. 

One of them pounces on you. You keel over and collapse on the harsh, dirt-covered ground. You try to crawl away, fright engulfing your senses.

Another of the men grabs your ankle and yanks you towards them.

Leering smiles float above you in the dim light of the alley.

“Hm, we could fetch a good price for that one,” the last man says. “Such a pretty little thing with pretty, pretty hair…”

The man who caught you barks a derisive snicker.

“An outworlder. How exotic.”

The second one bends closer to sniff the air around you. Your throat constricts as you turn your head.

“Not just any outworlder,” he says, his head tilted in curiosity. “This one smells like royalty.”

Elated chuckles burst in the darkness.

“That royal bitch will make us rich.”

The man who smelled you licks his lips. 

“But shouldn’t we sample the goods first?” Fear shoots through you. “Never had me a highborn gal before.”

“Me neither.”

“This is a once in a lifetime-”

The man chokes mid-sentence. Your mouth drops as a blade is driven through his neck from behind, practically beheading him. Blood rains over you. Wet spots drip onto your face and dress as each of the men is gutted by a swift, ruthless opponent. You watch one pull a knife. He doesn’t get to use it, unleashing a blood-curdling scream when his hand is sliced at the wrist. The fingers of his severed hand twitch as it hits the floor. He sinks to his knees, wailing while cradling his bleeding stump against his chest. He meets his end with a brutal smash of his head into the stone wall. Gray matter spills from his skull as his eyes roll back and he falls in a dark puddle lifelessly.

The last one tries to run but is dealt with in the same merciless fashion. 

Your wide, horrified gaze sweeps over the massacre. The speckles of blood on your face are still warm with the heat of the dead men’s bodies.

A shaky breath spills from your throat.

Your head rises. You come face to face with Feyd-Rautha’s expressionless stare. He picks up your trembling frame from the ground and tosses you over his shoulder. He strolls over the men’s corpses as if they weren’t even there, huffing a deep sigh of annoyance.

“You should be glad I found you in time, pet,” he says.

He throws you inside a car. The door slams and you huddle in a corner. Feyd smirks at your shrinking form.

“Truly? Nothing to say after all that fuss?”

Tremulous words trickle through your lips.

“Just let me go home.”

He slants his head, the corners of his lips lifting slowly. “No.”

“You could say that you didn’t like the look of me,” you insist. “That I repulsed you.”

Feyd-Rautha snorts.

His hand shoots out, moving too fast for you to comprehend. He leans over you, fingers squeezing your throat. “Pet…you were mine before you even set foot on Giedi Prime.” His dark gaze drags over you. You get a glimpse of black teeth as he grins. “The only place you’re going tonight is my bed.”

Once the car reaches the Harkonnen keep, you’re roughly pulled from your seat. Your chest tightens as you note the severed heads of your guards and maid lined in a neat row near the gates. Their lifeless eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. 

You stumble back, hands flying to your mouth. 

Satisfaction twinkles in Feyd-Rautha’s dusky orbs.

“I had to kill these incompetent fools, of course. They let my precious bride slip away.”

You gawk at him in shock. Guilt presses inside you. If you hadn’t tried and failed to escape, those poor people might still be alive. Tears swell beneath your lashes.

The na-Baron exhales, gripping your arm and tugging you along when you refuse to move. He smiles. “Do not worry, pet. We will find you new servants. Better ones.”

You end up in a large room inside the Keep. A tub filled with water sits in the middle. Feyd-Rautha’s concubines flash black-teethed smiles at you as you crash into a heap on the floor.

“Get her ready for me,” he says.

“Yes, master,” the three women reply in concert.

Your eyes swing upward in alertness.

“Ready for what?”

His inflection is chillingly matter-of-fact.

“Well, our wedding ceremony, of course.” You unleash a whimper as his fingers twine in your hair, twisting your neck backwards. His feral gaze seems to peel the layers of your blood-soaked tunic. “Why wait a few days when I can have you as my birthday gift tonight?”

His hand coils around your jaw, forcing your head to pivot. Your gaze falls on a slave girl standing fearfully in a corner of the room. You’re struck with recognition. She was in the arena before his fight, tending to him along with two other girls. Two girls who are now dead. Courtesy of Feyd-Rautha. She glances at you before her eyes tumble to the smooth black tiles again.

“Do you see her?” he whispers, his chest brushing against your back. 

Feyd-Rautha beckons the girl with two fingers. She staggers forward. 

“Speak, slave,” he orders.

The girl opens her mouth. However, instead of uttering words, only distorted whimpers come out. Horror twists your insides as you realize something crucial is missing inside her mouth.

“W-What happened to her?” you ask, dreading to hear what you already suspect.

His dark chuckle resonates in your ear.

“She can’t talk anymore. Do you know why?” His lips graze your cheek, his raspy tone lowering. “Because I took her tongue.”

Your stomach sinks.

When you attempt to turn away, his grip on you becomes harsher. He forces you to keep your eyes on the girl.

“I want you to take a good look at her.” His hand spreads over your chest, right above your hammering heart. “Try any of your Bene Gesserit tricks on me again…and I will feed your tongue, and perhaps even other parts of you to my darlings here.” He snorts. “After all, I only need one part of you intact to make me an heir.”

“Do you understand, my love?” he inquires, his husky bass dripping mockery upon the last two words.

You swallow a large gulp of air. “I-I understand.”

He storms out of the room and you sink to the floor. His concubines dive upon you. They nudge you to the tub and remove the clothes off your quivering frame.

The blood, grease and dirt is scrubbed off your flesh. Scented oils are massaged into your skin and hair. A dress is wrapped around your body. 

You numbly let it all happen, defeat sinking its hooks deep inside your soul.

The farce of a wedding ceremony flies by in a blur. 

Baron Vladimir and your mother are both in attendance, the two wearing satisfaction on their faces, albeit in different manners. While the Baron is smug, your mother is attentive. Not a single emotion betrays her face and you feel thoroughly abandoned. 

Before the ceremony, she mumbles in your ear that the Reverend Mother requested a girl-child. You know the process, have been taught how it’s done. But it’s a cruel reminder…that you are nothing more than a tool in the larger schemes of the Bene Gesserit. 

And that perhaps, your entire life you have simply been your mother’s mission. Maybe she even feels relief to be delivered from her duty. 

The thought overwhelms you with sadness. 

You stand before Feyd-Rautha in a flowing white dress while he dons black from head to toe. 

He astonishes you by uttering his vows with the utmost seriousness, swearing to protect and cherish you until death forces the two of you apart. Death...In that moment, you find yourself silently wishing for its swift, imminent arrival.

When the Harkonnen priest whirls to you, the words stick to your throat, refusing to unfurl from your tongue. 

“Does the bride consent to the match?” the officiant repeats.

Shell-shocked, you shiver in your spot. Feyd-Rautha’s mouth quirks upward.

“Oh, she consents. She is simply too overwhelmed with happiness to speak,” he replies on your behalf, openly taunting you.

You grimace as he slices the inside of your palm with a dagger and brings it to its lips. Your blood coats his mouth and his tongue flicks out. He hums at the taste, a smile blooming on his face. He does the same to himself, digging even deeper in his alabaster flesh. You flinch as he presses his bloody palm against the bottom of your face. 

The Harkonnen wedding ritual concludes with him planting a rough kiss on your lips. He shoves his tongue inside your mouth, pulling you against him. 

When the ceremony ends, he hoists you in his arms and takes you to his bed. 

As promised, he lays his claim on your body right away. 

Your wedding dress is ripped open with a few precise slashes of his knife. Your insides coil, the fear of him driving the weapon through your soft flesh keeping you docile underneath him. You don’t say a word, your tongue shackled by his earlier threat. He takes a moment to drink you in, relishing the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he drags the tip of his blade across your skin. He savors your fear like the sweetest offering, growing harder against your thigh as you tremble beneath him. 

His black-toothed grin freezes the blood in your veins. 

“My pretty little pet…all mine to play with, finally,” he rasps. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he explores your body, scratching and nipping at your flesh as if to make sure no one dares doubt whom you belong to when you leave his chambers. Every plea for him to slow down is met with renewed ferocity. He tastes and fondles every inch of your quivering flesh. Your nipples pebble under his palms. Your core ignites below his tongue. Pleasure and pain mingle in sinful, twisted harmony. 

Your back folds and your eyes roll back as a myriad of confounding sensations assaults your senses. 

As he buries himself inside you to the hilt, he frees a satisfied grunt. 

Pain clamors through you when he starts to move. Your walls catch fire at the aching, brutal stretch.

Holding your wrists above your head, he pours every ounce of lust and aggression inside you. You feel it in every stab inside your core. 

His pale, muscular form pins you to the bed as he thrusts deeper inside you, reaching a tender spot that has you releasing an ear-splitting scream. You squirm over the soaked sheets as he takes you again and again, the mix of blood and arousal coating his length easing his blunt intrusion. Your helpless wails mingle with his feral moans. 

Raspy words in the coarse Harkonnen tongue are heatedly whispered into your ear. You don’t understand any of them and it makes your terror grow.

You feel as if you will break, shatter at the seams beneath his rough, careless touch.

The agony seems to stretch into eternity. 

Feyd-Rautha’s lips skate across your bruised cheek. 

“Do not fret, pet. I shall aim not to break you just yet,” he teases, sinister promises lurking in his lewd inflection. “Not when our fun has just begun.”

A single wayward tear traces a slow path down your cheek. 

He greedily licks it, purring at the taste of your misery. 

You feel him strain against you as he nears his peak, his thrusts getting slower and deeper. He comes with a deep roar.

The na-Baron spills his seed inside you. Your eyes shut. Power flows inside your womb as you conjure the right outcome.

A girl they desired. A girl they shall have. As you writhe beneath Feyd-Rautha, forced to bear his rough, bruising touch, you wish your daughter fierce and strong.

Strong enough to pluck the stars from the heavens. Strong enough to unweave the tangled threads of time.

Strong enough to twist the arm of fate itself if she wills it.

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd-rautha #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune part 2 #dune #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #dark fic

[yandere-wishes]

‧ ₊˚✧ Do Not Weep Hydro Dragon ‧ ₊˚✧

Summary: There's a crack in Neuvillette's heart that bares your name. He sheds a tear for you each day. Yet once you return to Fontaine with your fiance. The cracks and tears begin to grow. 

Warnings: Yandere behavior, stalking, arranged marriages, affairs. 

Author's note: I'm sorry 😭💔😭💔

There've been rumors circling around Fontaine. Ghostly whispers floating between coral-tainted lips and fervid ears. The rumors spoke a bittersweet name. One Neuvillate had long since buried. At first, the notion of your return had felt like a bad dream. like the roar of a tsunami before it crashes on shore. Terrifying yet, ultimately unreal. He'd summed the rumors up to some traveler who bore your mien. To an erroneous article by the steam bird. Anything. anything at all. 

Anything that wasn't you.

It wasn't until after a particularly grueling trial that he'd witnessed the truth behind these rumors. There you were in all you're glory. Gleaming akin to the finest pearls laying dormant in the primordial sea. Your expression, when he could catch it, was gleeful, delighted, A drastic contrast to his last unfortunate memory of you. His eyes follow the delicate movement of your gloved hand as it stifles a cheery giggle pouring from your cherry lips. It's only after noting your delight that he becomes conscious of the gentleman accompanying you. A ginger with bloodthirsty eyes and a soul that reeks of carnage.

A splash of heat rolls down Neuvillet's cheek. Right before a splash of cold splatters across his temples. his attention narrows on the sky, as the

clouds begin to weep. What once was a peaceful sunny day shatters like a wine glass on porcelain tiles. Humidity threads through the air robbing him of his breath. 

It's raining.

How fitting, Neuvillette thinks as he watches you and your companion run to find shelter. 

Neuvillette recalls your smile almost as clearly as he recalls your pulse under his teeth. The taste of your flesh as his teeth left bloody love bites in every wrong place. He remembers saying I love you, albeit there was more to it than that. It had started with I love you and ended with every truth he'd forgotten how to tell. He had shed his human masquerade, in the hope of finding true love. You had screamed that night. You had screamed every night since. 

Neuvillette thumbs through his memories. As the rain outside grows more ferocious. He remembers you standing by the sea, he remembers you telling him the phobias that ran deeper than blood. 

You hadn't been from Fontaine, not originally. A fallen gear from an ancient automaton whose kin resided across the sea.

You'd been raised in the ways of the hydro court. Even if 'raised; was too generous a word. Morphed or sculpted may have been more appropriate synonyms. You grew up clawing at your own skin, trying to find who was underneath the layers of mindless expectations. You'd been raised as a lady and grew into a harrowing beast that feasted on the stars. 

Yet even creatures of unparalleled strength had their weaknesses. Even ever-blessed vision wielders bore a certain Achilles heal. 

Yours so happened to be your incompatibility with your foster nation. Or rather with the water itself. 

When people asked, as some had tended to do. You'd weaved them tales about serrated Pisces and dorsal-finned leviathans with open maws awaiting their prey. You don't tell them about the vastness, the dark blue landscape that feels all too wide and all too endless. You don't tell them about the things you swore you've seen lurking beneath the infinite waters of Fontaine. And you most certainly leave out the parts about the creature who engraved fear upon your bones many moons ago before you even knew how to walk.  

Neuvillette remembers your eagerness to leave. That had, ultimately, been your bonding point. He'd been an outcast. The supreme justice was ever only relevant when he upheld the law. And whilst Supreme Justice Neuvillette was revered and adored by all. Plain Neuvillette was nothing more than a shadow of evaporated water that hunted the streets of Fontaine. You had never wanted to mingle with the people. Keeping everyone at arm's length. Maybe it was fate that had brought two lonely souls together all those moons ago. Maybe it was something else. 

He had loved you. He swears it on the Hydro archon ( or any other Archon who lacks Furina's fickleness) He'd tried to show you that the waters of Fontaine meant you no harm. He'd even shown you his true form, the utmost assurance. Maybe that's why you fled. Maybe that's why you'd left him heartbroken one morning when the sun didn't rise. 

It had rained that day. As well as the following days. Until the surrounding islands ceased to exist. 

You'd left him hollow and alone.

Yet your return made the cracks in his heart fester. 

 Neuvillette had taken it upon himself to cloak you in his watchful gaze.

He'd come to notice how you and that dreadful Fatui Harbinger you'd come to associate yourself with. Rather liked taking long walks

 where the sea kissed the shore. He'd also noticed a ring of Snezhnaya Alexandrite perpetually wrapped around your finger. 

Neuvillette's footsteps are heavy as they collide with the concrete. He's closer today. So close he can practically smell the scent of citrus and eucalyptus. If he reached out with his powers he could surely touch you, feel the warmth of your body bleeding into him, just like old times. He misses you, yet a part of him pities your return. Neuvillette's grey eyes follow your desolate gaze. It rips open one too many wistful wounds. 

"So then Teucer said...Hey darling are you listening?"

Childe's eyes follow your frozen glare, tracing your line of sight straight to the menacing waters that refuse to part from your side. You hear your lover mumble a faint 'right'. Before you feel his silk-clad fingers dance across the back of your neck. Flirting with the chilling fear that rolls off you in waves. You pin your body to him, finding comfort in the familiar scent of his cologne as you bury your head in his neck. 

"I'm truly sorry for this darling" Sincerity rolls off his tongue, percolating into the tender kiss he presses to your temple. "I've just been feeling...down lately. Like this inexhaustible sadness is going to swallow me whole. Fontaine was the only place I could convince the Tsaritsa to transfer me for a short while. I just, I need a break from it all." You answer him in a low melodic hum. You get it, truly you do. Sadness is a poison, acidic in nature. It engulfs one's soul. Melting away their purpose, their resolve. Eating away until it reaches their hearts, their desires. It leaves behind empty shells and broken pieces too fragile to ever fully mend. 

Who better than you to understand the pains of being soulless, bereft? A mere shell awaiting a miracle that had died long ago. 

There's a voice, carved from velvet and silk. It rolls across you like a tidal wave. Potent yet soft. It whispers your name and calls out in hopes of mending broken hearts. You turn to look behind you. All you see is the endless sea. 

It's only on the fourth day of your visit that Neuvillette permits you to see him. Actually, see him. It's no longer his ghost that haunts you nor the empty waves that he commands beckoning you by name. It's him, really him. His glare is relentless as he leaves a prolonged kiss on your knuckles. You're in the middle of a conversation with that dreaded harbinger. Something about his older sister wishing to take to shopping upon your return to Snezhnaya.

"My darling it's been all too long, how fare thee my-"

He's cut short, how rude. Yet far be it from him to expect proper mannerisms from the Fatui.

"Hey, I'm having a conversation with my betrothed. Don't interrupt." Childe's eyes morph into his own glare. One which promises blood and violence. The fates of those caught on the other end of said glare are never pleasant. 

"As the chief justice of Fontaine, I have to right to interrupt any conversation I see fit."

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. Choke the fear down with a cup of Fonta and ask Neuvillette to join the two of you. It's the nostalgia talking really. Some remnants of the past collide with the present causing your heart to adopt an unsteady rhythm. 

It's after that event that Neuvillet permits his presence to be seen by you and your "lover". He's always a mere breath away, following under the guise of being a gracious "tour guide". But tour guides do not wrap their arms around a lady's waist when her fiance isn't looking. Nor do they sneak kisses behind open parasols. You haven't protested about any of this. Maybe your fear of the hydro dragon has perished, replaced with a yearning for your former lover. He prays to every star in Tyvat for this to be true. 

It's on the day of your departure that you receive the bad news in the form of an army of Gardemeks. Childe is being arrested, something about a serial disappearance case. Something about a trial. It's a ruse you feel it in your bones. Neuvillette personally appears at the docks and holds you in his arms as you weep. He assures you this will all be cleared up soon. That you have nothing to fear. 

But you do, you have all so much to fear. Neuvillette permits you to stay at his house whilst the trial takes place. He traces the shimmering blue of your veins with his lips. He says he loves you, that he refuses to let you slip from between his fingers ever again. He'll keep you here. Keep you safe. Away from the Fatui. 

Away from Ajax. 

How he wishes he could tear the universe apart with his teeth. Part the oceans and bury the two of you under it. He dreams of keeping you by his side away from everyone else. Neuvillette is the chief justice of Fontaine, it's a prestigious role, one that demands trust. Yet maybe, just this once. He'll have to find the accused guilty regardless of the evidence. 

Tag list: @rebeccawinters @fangirl-katwithclaws @starshiningsirius

#yandere neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #genshin impact #yandere childe #neuvillette x you #neuvillette fluff #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact fluff #genshin neuvillette #yandere genshin #yandere genshin imagines #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #genshin scenarios #yandere genshin x reader #yandere neuvillette x reader #yandere x reader #genshin writing #yandere writing #genshin oneshots #yandere oneshot #tw yandere #yanderecore #yancore #yandere #yandere x you

[lilac-5ky]

Aftercare (Toji xFem!Reader)

Summary: A little something where Toji takes care of his darling after a rough session.

w.c: slightly over 800

tags: MDNI, mentions of spanking, creampie, overstimulation, choking, deep throating, daddy kink, marking, Toji being a softie

“You fuck me as if you hate me,” you say with voice shaky, completely out of breath and barely of volume as Toji’s final strand of tousled obsidian hair fades past the door frame, the world slowing down just a bit.

And it is true. He’s left plenty of evidence on your body to be accused of such a heinous crime— The swollen folds of your reddened cunt and the gaping hole that dribbles rich ropes of cum (Toji never liked the idea of wasting a good load on rubber), both agonizing over his absence. The glossy eyes and smeared lipstick (You’d worked so hard to look good for your first-anniversary dinner). The rough imprints of his calloused fingers already settling into a darker shade of pink around your throat. The purple bruises that bloom across your skin like debouched morning glories, cascading all the way down to the sore nipples he’d thoroughly sucked, licked, and bitten into this obscene state.

And that’s only as far as your front side is concerned. No need to think about the persistent sting on both your cheeks or the mean palms that relentlessly smacked them whenever you protested you couldn’t take it— Him.

Don’t go back on me now, sweetheart. I know you can. Pussy’s made for daddy’s cock, mm?

Toji really fucked you as if he despised you with every fiber of his being, but all notion of hatred seems to evaporate when he comes back with a towel drenched in hot water and a warm cup of chamomile. He scoops you in his arms so effortlessly, tucking your head below his chin as if it’s the most precious thing to him— and it just might be, with the way he wipes his mess from between your jiggly thighs, nub so sensitive that when his knuckles brush up against it a whimper is coaxed.

Shhh, he coos, and you feel the timbre of his voice melting in your ears; reverberating in his chest, littered with little crescent moons that trace back to his broad shoulders. You aren’t the one to go down without a fight. You clawed and thrashed your way out of every shuddering orgasm he ripped out, proving the hatred run mutual between the two of you, and at the reminder you smile. A shy smile, not for his eyes, but for his body to feel, as the curl of your lips pressed against each and every kitten claw you could find.

His first instinct is to flinch away. He’s not used to an affection that isn’t packed with pain, but he’s been learning and making steady progress. Because as good as Toji is at hating people to death, he’s come to know that love has ways of killing, too. He feels it every time your eyes meet across a full room; every time your head lifts from your delicate prose to catch him staring rather crudely; every time you welcome him with a grin, even the times when he’s soaked in blood from head to toe, and every time his name leaves your lips as either a moan or a chant, he threads it into a rosary.

The man he once was before he met you is no longer in existence. The wretched, vile, beast of a man who lived for himself and cursed all others. He hasn’t taken on a new gig in months. Hangs up the phone whenever he sees Shiu’s name on it and has memorized all his burner phone numbers. Rejects the heftiest bounties so that your tears, whenever you search for new scarlet strokes on him, remain sheathed behind your eyelids.

He doesn’t want to have to say he’s sorry again. Even if he’s somehow become worthy of your love, he doesn’t think scum like him should be worthy of your worrying. He is an inmate on death row and you are his executioner, and how fitting that is, for he can’t think of a better way to die than from the choke hold around his heart.

He makes sure the towel picks up every last residue of his essence, blows at the smoking cup, and tips it closer to your lips. You gobble it up so fast, dehydrated from the brutal gagging session he subjected you to, and he should be ashamed that seeing you this broken makes his cock twitch again. He still has a few more rounds left in him, but he’ll hold back. As fun as ruining you and reassembling you is, he needs you whole right now.

Once the cup is drained, he sets it on the nightstand and scrubs your jaw with the pad of his thumb. He wonders if the beverage made it down your throat because there’s water running all over your tits. So messy, he hums and reaches for the towel again, and the words that follow, flow so naturally.

“I fuck you because I love fucking you. I fuck you because I fucking love you.”

A/N: brainrot brainrot brainrot brainrot brainrot, h e l p. In the process of writing a proper smut about him. Not sure when it'll drop cause I'm swamped.

#Toji x reader #toji x y/n #fushiguro toji #zenin toji #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro #toji zenin #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fanfiction #jjk fanfiction #toji <3 #toji fluff #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji headcanons #jjk toji #toji scenarios #toji smut #not yet but ugh #toji fic #toji x you #toji x self insert #jjk headcanons #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader

[fragileheartbeats]

Create another valyrian household that escaped Valyria. They hid themselves away by magic on an island not visible to anyone, they don't wish to be seen. On an island with a huge fortress accompanied with another smaller fortress which is basically a library. They are similar to Targaryens, but much more knowledgeable on everything (thanks to Valyria). They ride dragons, purple shades of eyes, silver-gold hair. Only two differences being, they have never been married outside of family(yuck) with no Westerosi blood therefore very different customs, fully valyrian customs and traditions rather than Westerosi+valyrian(Targs, Vels). Hope you have fun, thank you:)

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝐺𝐸𝑁𝑇𝐿𝐸 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐿𝑂𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

─ 𝘈 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤, 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𖤐

─ 𝘈 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𖤐

In the rich tapestry of Valyrian history, woven with the threads of power, magic, and dragonfire, the House Lyrielle stands as a testament to the enduring grace and wisdom of Old Valyria. Their story is a whisper on the wind, a secret melody sung by the waves that surround their hidden island sanctuary. Known to but a few, the Lyrielles are the guardians of a legacy untainted by the ambition and corruption that led to the Doom. The sigil of House Lyrielle is as enigmatic as the house itself—an angelic dragon, graceful and serene, enwreathed in a ring of white roses against a backdrop of deepest emerald. The dragon, smaller in stature but fierce in its intelligence and agility, represents the nature of the Lyrielles' own dragons. The emerald ground symbolizes their secluded island, a jewel hidden in the vast sea, and the white roses signify the purity of their intentions and the mystical barriers that veil their home from the unwary eye. Their words, "Beyond Sight, Within Light," speak to the heart of the House Lyrielle ethos. They live beyond the sight of the known world, in a realm of their own making, where knowledge and virtue shine brighter than any Valyrian steel. These words are a promise of their commitment to the greater good, a reminder of their hidden presence guiding the fate of the world from the shadows. The Lyrielles, in their seclusion, have preserved the purity of their Valyrian bloodline, untouched by Westerosi influence. Their customs and traditions remain a living tapestry of Old Valyria's glory, a culture preserved in amber amidst the tumultuous seas of change. Education and learning are held in the highest regard. The smaller fortress, known as the Lyceum of Light, houses a vast collection of scrolls and tomes, not only on magic and dragonlore but on the sciences, arts, and philosophies of the wider world. Even though the Lyrielles seclude themselves from the outside, they possess an insatiable thirst for knowledge that keeps their minds as sharp as their swords. The Lyrielles are ethereal in their beauty, with eyes that hold the mysteries of the universe—shades of purple that shift with the light. Their silver-gold hair flows like liquid moonlight, a hallmark of their Valyrian bloodline. They are skilled in the art of healing, their touch capable of mending wounds that would confound even the most learned maesters. Their bond with their dragons is profound, rooted in a deep understanding and respect for these majestic creatures.

Their dragons, lithe and swift, mirror their masters in both appearance and temperament. With scales that catch the moon's light, casting reflections in hues of amethyst and sapphire, they are specters of the night sky, their presence felt rather than seen, their agility unmatched by any creature, mythical or otherwise. To the Lyrielles, the world outside is a place of beauty marred by the scars of greed and violence. They see themselves as custodians of what remains pure and true. Their philosophy is one of balance and harmony, seeking to preserve the natural world and its wonders. They are benevolent, yet their kindness is not a weakness but a strength, fortified by their unwavering sense of justice and fairness.

The Lyrielles embody a paradox. They are both guardians and isolationists, wielding their power to protect the natural world and its untold secrets while shunning the very societies they seek to preserve from afar. Their personalities are marked by a gentle demeanor, an innate grace that belies the strength and wisdom that centuries of unbroken tradition have instilled in them. They are the custodians of healing, their knowledge of the arcane arts allowing them to mend wounds and cure maladies thought beyond the reach of mortal hands. Yet, for all their power and knowledge, the Lyrielles possess a naivety born of their seclusion. They view the outside world through the lens of caution and fear, tales of its dangers passed down through generations. This isolation has fostered a deep sense of kinship and loyalty among them, their bonds unbreakable, their trust in one another absolute. In a realm where the quest for power often leads to ruin, House Lyrielle remains a beacon of hope. They are the whisper in the heart of the storm, the unseen hand that guides towards light. Their existence is a testament to the belief that even in the darkest of times, there are those who shine brightly, not for glory or fame, but for the love of all that is good and true in the world.

My other original house:

House Celestyr

House Valysar

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

@emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

#house lyrielle #house of the dragon #house targaryen #house of dragons #house of dragon oc #house of the dragon x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd oc #hotd x reader #a song of ice and fire #song of ice and fire #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones oc #game of thrones #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #writing #fantasy #novel #story #daemon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader #asoiaf

[blueparadis]

❝ HAUNTED ❞ + XAVIER THORPE !

+. CWs —» f!reader, switch!reader, outcast!reader, fluff, she/her pronouns, mutual pining, sexual tension, family drama, flirting, manipulation, mentions of abuse, blood, wounds & therapy, flashbacks in italics, supernatural themes ; explicit smut, s & d dynamics, bottom-dom!xavier, cowgirl position; word count-3.5k

+. PRECIS —» Xavier Thorpe has finally found the girl of his dreams after being haunted by her.

+. NOTES —» this is for my beloved sister @zoraedits ’s brainrot contribution.she won't stop making edits on him. && I'm tagging @orchid3a cuz i luv u

you can browse more of my works here. || also available in AO(III). reblogs and comments are very much appreciated.

feel free to send in thirsts and suggestions for this show, Wednesday. This is my first time writing for shows like this; my main fandom spectrum is animanga but I do hope this was a good read for ya’all as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3.

The table calendar was full of red inks all over, dirt sedimented on the sketchbook, and the pencils laid in the case in absolute solitude. Xavier looked at the calendar kept on his desk near his bed in all despondency and a heavy sigh escaped from his lips. It has been days since he stepped into his studio, have not touched his art accessories for almost a month. One thing was for sure, he was plagued by visions in his dreams but this time it was nothing demising. 

This time his sketchbooks were not filled by a monster, this time he was not afraid to draw rather he was drawn to it; part of him was stoked while sketching while a part of him was reluctant to draw the whole picture. He had spent countless sleepless nights before, not resorting to sleeping as he was threatened by nightmares. And now his sleep was peaceful as if entering into the realm of dreamland.

Xavier was sure that his mind was captured by a girl who came to visit him in his sleep, never showing her face, only showing herself in bits and pieces. He had spent his childhood receiving showers of praise for his talent for drawing but the origin was never happy. Of course, he enjoyed it and liked to show off his talent for art but secretly he wished his power would vanish into oblivion, for it was never pleasant.

People say that the art of someone reflects one’s persona, one’s raw feelings but Xavier always begged to differ since those memories, those incidents were never his. There always had been a wave of remorse that washed over him after he stepped out of his art studio since the praises he received never belonged to him. 

Many were astoundingly taken aback by his knack for drawing and suggested he pursue art, to be a renowned artist but he knew he would lose all the glory once he stopped having those dreams. Moreover, he did not always have such dreams so the possibility of waking up one day and being unable to paint and as a result, staring at a blank canvas scared him to death. Heck! He even considered going to Doctor Kinbott so that his sanity would not be hanging by thread.

For the last couple of weeks, he has been dreaming of odd landscapes. Xavier had never seen them in his life yet he saw how the dusky crimson hue smothered the snowy mountain ranges, how the clouds gathered before the arrival of a rainstorm, how the birds sang songs and all the owes and pangs of nature. One thing he could conclude from those dreams was that whoever it belonged to was a chaser of freedom, that is, was a soarer of the sky.

Xavier had not told anyone about his dreams, nor put them on paper to ease his mind. What would he tell? What would he draw? Last night was particularly odd concerning the regular pattern of his dreams. He dreamt of falling from a high cliff into the water and a broken wing. When he woke up, he was all soaked, even his bed, and his olfactory senses did not miss the subtle scent of stagnant water. He was breathing rashly as if he was the one who drowned as if he was the one to fall.

He closed his eyes and tried to recapitulate his dream, searching for a mark, searching for a recognizable feature, searching for something, anything, anything at all. His desperation knew no bounds when left his dorm and rushed into his studio in the middle of the night since somewhere at the corner of his hopeless heart he knew he found one, a ray of hope.

A lot of crumbled papers surrounded Xavier as he tried accumulating the pieces from his puzzled mind. Around two o’clock he left his studio on his bicycle, the paper where he drew tucked in his pocket. He was sure he had witnessed the scenery before unlike the others.  When he finally reached the top of the highland, he witnessed the view from his most recent dream. 

The only thing that engulfed his presence was the sound of the waterfall echoing through the woods. He noticed a pond nearby and an adjacent high plateau near it. It was higher from where he was standing. After looking around for a few minutes he figured that there was no way to go there unless one swam through the stream or flew toward it.

On his way back, he felt happy, he felt sane. At least he had proof of the existence of a creature that haunted him, even in his wake. Xavier showered before going to bed just to clear his head before a good night's sleep. He kept a white feather as a bookmark in his sketch pad while a smile smothered his face. He was right. He was haunted by a fairy-like creature.

“Two cappuccinos”, Xavier mumbled as he went back to the counter at Weathervane. It was another event where all the students of Nevermore set foot into the world of normies to carry on the ties between two polar opposite worlds. But no matter how much one tried, the other always tried to retaliate. Their relationship was always on a tightrope, it could snap at any moment. And it certainly did.

“And you did not bother to tell me about this. . .”, Principal Weems trailed off as she left her seat, walked past her desk, and inclined against it, “until everyone in town became aware of it.”

“I thought I was going to be called insane or bullied. Last time I told something about my dreams, I found myself behind the bars.”, he responded, keeping his eye on the ground. Principal Weems exhaled grudgingly. She had no grounds to punish this boy since he was not entirely wrong. Hence, Xavier was dismissed with mere detention. 

Xavier was forbidden from the school campus for a week. Everyone felt sorry for him, in his situation but secretly he could not be happier because he had all the time to draw, sketch, paint and think — and it was all about her, y/n. 

That day at the café, Xavier was the sole witness of a crime. It happened so quickly, so fast that all she could do was succumb to her fate. A man was standing near the corner of the kitchen with his back facing Xavier. Xavier was not supposed to be here but he had to fetch some ingredients for making pastries and cupcakes. 

As the man turned around, Xavier saw a bloodied butcher's knife in his hand. Near his feet lay a girl with a bloodied back the blood quickly spread all over her blouse. She stood motionless, like a statue. The eye contact was merely for two seconds and he immediately smashed the sugar jar on his head, distracting him, to tackle her out of the way.

The other townies turned up for help. Not all people in the world came to be cruel and heartless. All Xavier did was contact Principal Weems so that she could swiftly take care of this matter, which she had to otherwise the reputation of the Nevermore Academy would be in danger. The girl was taken to a nearby hospital. 

Y/n L/n was her name. After the untimely death of her parents, she was raised by her uncle, by a normal family. Naturally, when she began to bloom, she was forced to be normal. One would think she tried to run, tried to hide or fight but Alas! none was the case for this matter. She felt indebted to her uncle and his family, for taking care of her, aiding her upbringing, fulfilling the role of parents, and hence helping her to be normal. But Xavier's presence on that day turned her life upside down. She was now a student at Nevermore Academy, funded by Principal Weems’ study forum. 

After you recovered within a week, the first thing that dawned on you was to meet him, Xavier, the ‘ hero ’ of your life. You knocked on the door of his studio and waited for a while. There was no answer for a few minutes and when you finally made up your mind to leave, Xavier showed up. He was in his casuals with a teeth-flashing grin on his face.

“How’re you, y/n? The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed and now you’re here. in front of me.”, Xavier danced on his toes as he walked into his studio. You followed him and the moment you stepped into his studio you were taken all in awe. The room was filled with artboards, canvases, and sketch supplies, and everything reflected you. Indeed, y/n did not come here to be thankful for what he did since she was not. She was not happy with how her life seemed so devoid of any family. Her uncle was the last of her family and now he is gone. All because of him, Xavier.

“You look better than the last time I saw you.”, Xavier added as he felt the silence between the two of you deafening. You swallowed hard as he tried to ease the tense ambiance thinking how rude of him to remind you of the very wound he was responsible for. There was a desk with a closed sketch pad that caught your attention. 

“Your drawings are very beautiful.”, you pitched in opening it and your heart dropped at the sight of your feather that was kept safely in between those rusty pages. A short gasp escaped your lips as the whirlwind of your life hit you.

Xavier was standing behind you, close to your shivering body. “They are all about you.”, a low whisper before he extended his hand to remove the veil from the canvas. The cloth dropped at your feet revealing every bit of dreary in you that you always wanted to hide. You hated how he could see through your pangs and pathos, you hated how he could and would have eradicated all of it, even if it meant being burnt by it. You swiftly tackled out of his towering frame, feeling naked even though you were more dressed than him. 

“Stay away from me. You shouldn’t come near me.”, Surprise took Xavier in all proportions. His eyebrows became congested as you continued. “I’m grateful that you saved me but do not do that again, ever.” With that, you walked out of his studio but a firm grip on your wrist kept you from running away anymore.

“Listen, I’m being haunted by you, your pain, your emotions, and everything you feel for the past few months, and all you could say to me was to stay away from you… not even a proper thank you.”, His breath hit your lips as he drew in a sharp breath before his amber eyes landed on you, your shaky lips and pale eyes.

Embarrassment rushed into your cheeks and you pushed him lightly uttering, “Stay away” with a little glare to ward him off but when you vanished out of his sight he was not dejected, not at all. Sure, he was conflicted but the way you told him to stay away whereas your body spoke otherwise made him relish the chase that has haunted him for months now.

They say one can only save people only if one wants to be saved. You neither needed help nor saving but you could see why Xavier begged to differ, wanted to be the odd one out, and craved the crown from saving you from your only family. You always had been a rebel since your childhood, going against the flow of the stream. Somewhere in the corner of your heart, you knew you were different, you would be different. 

It was the end of June when you first felt your body ache, back arch, muscles cramping excruciatingly as if someone was poking needles in your skin. Your arms clung to your body as your back bled for the first time. The wailing of such lethal agony submerged amidst the sound of rain as two enormous wings grew with lustrous hues of carmine and amber. Your breathing became regular again, your body stopped hurting as the wings flapped open involuntarily. Every mark, scar, and wound on your body since you were a child began to heal, all by themselves. 

Everyone rejoiced when you went through the family ritual and stood in front of your clan as the last phoenix of your bloodline. It was a miracle that a phoenix had been born in the bloodline but just like with blessings it came with a massive price. You were a healer and a destroyer at the same time. Somewhere something has to die to keep you alive, again and again. Every time you were wounded or hurt, your mother had to lose some of her life until she became lifeless, forever. But the family oracle told your father that it is a part of the process, part of a phoenix's journey that every one of their loved ones had to sacrifice in one way or another. 

Your father just had a miraculous idea to save you and himself from the bottomless pit of despondency and mutual hatred lurking in his heart because of you. He volunteered to sacrifice himself even if that was against his will. The oracle seemed to be unsure about the idea, saying that the cycle might shorten but not cease. But your father was right, the cycle did cease and you became aware of it when your uncle tried to chop off your wings, uprooting the evil once and for all, and no one in your family was harmed. Still, unfortunately, you were under the radar of an outcast, Xavier Thorpe. ‘What would happen if someone not from your bloodline were to sacrifice? What would happen to your mate if they were not an outcast? What would. . . thoughts would not cease to bombard your mind until a knock disrupted your trail of thoughts.

You lifted your eyes for a glance only to find Xavier inclining against the bookshelf with a saccharine smile on his face. Your stomach turned at the sight of him. ‘How can a person be so forgiving?’ but it seems that he is rather forgetful than forgiving. He picked up a random book from the shelf and sat in front of you.

“You’re hurt. . .”, you murmured to which he responded, “more than you think . . .” while turning the pages of the book and occasionally stealing glances from you. You rolled your eyes and leaned towards the table eyeing his hands that had a lot of scratches. It was probably from a silly fight with other boys, maybe the normies; for him, it was just a scratch yet for you it was an opportunity to apologize for the other day. 

“Give me your hand.” As you extended yours, Xavier's reflexively recoiled under the desk. “I’ve no intention of harming you.”, you uttered touching the palm of his other hand that was still on the desk. “Besides, I’m just clearing my debts.”

“Um-hm.”

You inhaled sharply before you flapped those lustrous enormous wings to heal with him, his wounds. Your wings glowed for almost a minute and the hand that was hurt was healed which he was hiding under the desk. It is impressive how Xavier hurt the very hand that can create masterpieces. What a clutz!  He interlaces his fingers with yours as he murmured, “A touch . . . is all you need.”

You begrudgingly pulled your hand away standing up and yelling whisperingly, “stop it. stop this. . . and don’t come near me.” With that, you grabbed your book and went towards the exit of the library. Xavier sat like a child who would mourn for the broken toy rather than demand anew.

“Wait.”, Xavier followed you. He kept yelling in the middle of the corridor, “Y/n. wait.”

“Your wings.”, you finally turned your head but not without letting out a sigh of annoyance. “You’re hurt. . .bleeding” and that is when fear crawled underneath the skin. 

“I never bleed.”, you retorted.

“And, I never lie.”

If it were someone else, you would have shooed them away. But this was Xavier, who saved you from an inevitable, to whom you owed nothing but the truth. Even though you tried to heal yourself you could not, perhaps because you healed someone and that too for the first time. 

Xavier might be persistent but he was not dull. It didn't take him long to connect the dots and hence you had to do the very thing you wanted to avert from the first place. His room was not tidy but not neat and clean either. With Rowan gone he has the room all to himself. You wanted to go to the infirmary, but there wasn't anyone available. Besides, with all the mess you are in you didn't want to risk it.

“I promise I'll behave.”, he said, swinging his hands up in the air in a form of surrender. That made you smile a little as you turned around so that he could tend to the wound. He unzipped your dress and carefully tucked it along your waistline without harming the feathers. Even though you had your camisole on, you still felt naked. His fingers brushed against your skin. It was ice cold. You had to hold your breath as he dressed the wound. 

Xavier noticed how your shoulder blades had been marked. He grazed his fingers over the part from where your wings grew that made you instantly shriek and move away from him. 

“Are you done?”, you asked, surprise and embarrassment coursing through your skin. Your upper body was barely clad, nothing but an unhooked bra. 

“No.”, and within a blink, his lips were already on yours. You could taste the longing and desperation with each suck. Your hands curled around his nape as his hands got rid of the minimal clothing from your upper body. “First time?”, he asked as he moved away leaving you breathless yet craving for more.

“Why? You care?”, you blurted out stepping out of your dress. Xavier eyed you from up and down. You did not flinch but rather smiled as you noticed his astonished face. You had nothing on but just the underwear. 

“I do.”, one of his eyebrows jumped as he knelt near you. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”, he murmured grabbing your calf muscles and kissing your femininity over the cloth. He took a glance before tucking the hem of the panty in between his fingers and undid it. Your hand reflexively went over his head as he kissed your entrance, lapping over your pussy lips that made you suck in a sharp breath. He sucked on your skin, followed by a feeble bite into your inner thighs. 

“AH!”, you winced pausing his ministrations. “Don’t you taste divine?”, he whispered kissing your lips, wetting them with the blend of his saliva and your slick. He was too dressed. You cocked an eyebrow at him and he took the hint. You co-operated as he became almost naked, and was back up even though you wanted him to continue.

“You won’t hurt me. worry for yourself.”, you said as you felt his hands palming your cheeks a little too long than they should. His hands traveled back to your entrance and you moaned under his slight touch.

“What? Never played with yourself?”, he added that surely turning the cogs in your head. You pushed him onto the bed, sitting on him struggling to take his cock in and he was not even helping. All he did was watch you let out whimpers of frustration as you lazily glided on his cock. He rested himself on his elbows saying, “Look at me.” And as you did, his fingers dig into your plush ass cheeks slowly adjusting you at a proper angle and stretching you. You kissed him so break the eye contact that made you feel naked, even though you were. Both of you jolted as you could feel his cock inside you.

His hands clamped around your waist as you bobbed on him, with greater force and broader strokes but slow. With each sloppy hit you felt his cock twitch inside you; your hands desperately roamed all over your body, heat bubbling as you could feel your body tensing, picking up the pace he was setting you in, and the orgasm lurking underneath. You can tell; a few more strokes and you would cum so easily. 

He can feel it too. Xavier winced as he felt you clenching around his cock. His legs folded to support your back while your hands flew to his shoulder blades, his knuckles turning white, his grip growing stronger around your waist and you came right away, back arching and your wings flapping open involuntarily, eyes rolling white relishing the high as your thighs squeezed in.

With your breathing rash and heavy, you felt all mushy in the head and so was he. Xavier could have sworn that he has not seen anything more beautiful than this, than you sitting on him with his cock buried inside you; your skin glistening in sweat with your gorgeous wings at the display. 

As soon as Xavier’s breath relaxed a bit he pulled you into his embrace for a kiss. He could not help it, you were too beautiful to look at. Besides, he was not done, not yet.

—

by @blueparadis

#xavier thrope x reader #xavier thorpe #xavier thrope x you #xavier thrope fanfic #xavier thorpe smut #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe x y/n #xavier thorpe x you #xavier smut #xavier x y/n #xavier x you #xavier x reader #wednesday #wednesday fanfic #wednesday fanfiction #xavier thorpe imagine #xavier thrope imagine #wednesday netflix #wednesday netflix show #smut fic #smut fanfiction #wednesday smut #wednesday fic #xavier fanfic #wednesday xavier #cw bl00d #cw abuse #netflix fanfic #netflix #netflix wednesday

[ghostsy]

Birds of Prey

WARNINGS: yandere, nsfw, noncon, abuse, blood, possessiveness, implied kidnapping, implied imprisonment

A/N: the fic i wanted to post is taking too long, so pls enjoy a not very short, not very sweet, slightly unhinged hawks drabble

read at your own discretion.

yandere ! HAWKS X READER

“You’re mine, you know?”

“You’re insufferable, you know?” 

A laugh, deep and raspy, filled the space between them as his head fell back in surprise. Though, the fingers digging like claws into the skin of her waist betrayed his irritation.

He brought his face to her own, smile turning razor sharp; that ever present glint in his eyes, while entertained, sparked with a dare she was too stubborn to ignore, no matter the ensuing consequences.

“Pretty pretty Bird,” His tongue poked out from his canines, swiping up to lick the tip of her nose, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

Rather than recoil in disgust, she leaned closer, fingers threading in his golden locks, “Selfish, mindless, animal,” Each word enunciated with a sharp tug, “Ruin all you like,” Her lips brushed against his ear, and she was met with a pleasured groan, “I’ll ruin you right back.”

“Fuck,” His hips bucked upwards, his clothed hardness grinding against her in a failed attempt to soothe the growing ache, “You promise?”

It was her turn to laugh; it was sharp and spiteful, and she leaned back on his lap to meet his eyes, hands falling to his face to trace the sharp curve of his jaw in resigned admiration, “What makes you think you’ll like it?”

His own hands trailed from her waist to squeeze at the fat of her thighs, fingers sinking like talons as they spread her further, pulling her into him.

“Oh, my pretty Bird,” A hand moved to brush under her shirt, ghosting against the skin, and bringing goosebumps to the surface, “If it’s you,” Dextrous, devious fingers worked their way underneath her bra, “I’ll love it.” 

Despite her resolve, a whimper escaped her lips, and the predator under her pounced, shoving her back onto the mattress below them.

Blood red wings spread behind him, and eyes glowing with the celebration of premature victory, he looked like some harbinger of death, beautiful in all his glory, but come to rip her to shreds, and feast on her insides with that golden smile.

She wasn’t far off, she realized bitterly. Though, her chance at revenge came sooner than anticipated when he dove forward, shoving his tongue past her parted lips, licking the taste of her mouth from inside while he tore at her clothes.

And, steeling her nerves, she bit down, teeth tearing into the intruder, replacing the taste of spit with syrupy copper. Her reward came in the form of a strangled groan as he ripped himself from her.

“Fuck—!” A curse, low and raspy with the interruption of dribbling blood.

The sight before her was enough to send her heart leaping to her throat, embers of satisfaction dying as quickly as they lit. If he had looked like a harbinger of death before, now, with the back of his hand swiping crimson to smear across his cheek, feathers puffed and poised to attack, and hair falling to shadow his eyes, the man above her was a type of demon king she tried to force herself not to regret awakening.

He spat to the side, blood dripping from his lips, and turned back to her with a smile more sinister and sharp than she thought him capable of showing. Slowly, he pulled at his own shirt to reveal a body too sculpted and too pretty to belong to him.

“Caged Bird has teeth, does she?” He breathed, “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, baby.”

“The only game I’m interested in,” She growled, “Is one where you lose.”

She had already scanned the room when she’d woken up dizzy and groggy and surrounded by a space all too familiar but not her own. He hadn’t even bothered with chains. Cocky bastard. There was no place to go where he couldn’t follow, but she’d be damned if she just laid there and took it.

She held her breath, and the pause between them was interrupted by a low, building chuckle that raised in volume and pitch until he fell forward in a fit of giggles underlaid with a twisted and angry amusement.

Lifting his gaze to hers, she found his eyes burning through her with the giddy anticipation of a hawk playing with its food. The condescension was enough to stroke her own need to fight, and she forced a sardonic smile despite her growing unease.

“What? Too much?” Swollen lips pulling into a sneer, “I thought you said you’d love it if I ruined you.”

He snorted, eyes moving to sweep across her body: fabric hanging in threads from her skin, lacey undergarments serving as her only decoration, traces of his blood smearing her lips, and tears that pooled at the corners of her eyes. Too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of falling. God, did he love this woman.

“Between the two of us, little Bird,” He leaned forward, taking her jaw in a bruising grip, and forced her gaze to his own, “I’d say you’re plenty ruined yourself.”

There was a twitch in her brow that sated his ego, and he pushed forward to give her a peck, retreating with the quickness of a man who had learned his lesson. For now, he reminded himself.

“Though,” Still, he couldn’t help but push, “Not nearly ruined enough.”

And he surged forward, taking her throat in one hand, and forced her backwards into the pillow; her legs flailed while her hands shot up to claw at his own. It was time to give her a little lesson of his own.

He settled himself between her thighs, ripping the last of her coverings to leave her bare and thrashing. Her heels kicked at his back, lips parting in short, sharp gasps.

“Fuck–fucking–” A strangled whine, “Bast–bastard–”

“Come on now, Birdie,” He leaned forward, fingers flexing, “If you don’t have anything nice to say,” Nose to nose, his canines gleaming, “You don’t say anything at all.”

With the twitch of her jaw, she pursed her lips, refusing to consider the consequences, and sent a glob of spit flying right at his face, watching with glee as it splattered under his eye. 

He jerked back in surprise, releasing her neck to swipe at the offended cheek. Through a fit of raspy coughs, her chest sparked with a sort of vindicated satisfaction.

Her victory was short lived, however, and a burning smack echoed in the empty space, whipping her face sideways, a ringing in her ears growing to match her blurring vision. The strength of a hero, she thought sarcastically.

It was her turn to spit out blood, before her eyes rolled back to him, angry, but cautious. His fingers worked at his belt buckle, and he shirked off his pants in her momentary incapacitation, entirely unbothered by his own sudden show of violence. 

She did her best to avoid looking at the monster between his legs, and, like any sign of weakness, he seized the opportunity to mock her.

“Fight all you like, pretty Bird,” A hand was back on her throat, tight, but not squeezing, “But you and I both know this only ends one way.”

She knew she was only delaying the inevitable, but the ache of bruised pride burning in her chest insisted on hurting him back. Hurting him more than he would ever hurt her. Because he would hurt her.

Her hands moved back to his chest, pushing as he wrenched her thighs apart, “Fucking villain,” She’d lost her appetite for this game of theirs, opting instead to let her acidic resentment pour outwards, “Get off.” After all, words were her only true defense.

In a flash his free hand took hold of one frantic wrist, “Villain? I can be a villain,” His face twitched in irritation, and her bones screamed under the force of his fingers, “Keep pushing, and I’ll break it.” 

The sudden flip had her hands falling limp, retreating in shock once he released her wrist, and balling into fists beside her head. And as fast as it came, the darkness left him, only that treacherous smugness remaining.

She cursed herself for her fear, put off by the unpredictability of his own emotional landmines. But still, she squared her face back to a disdained neutral, unwilling to show more weakness than he’d already sniffed out.

He pumped at his length, positioning it at her entrance. She was damp, but not nearly prepared enough for the size of him, and he hummed, fingers dipping down to toy at her clit, sending her hips jolting upwards in regretful anticipation.

“Say something nice, baby,” He breathed lazily, “Say something nice, and I’ll make you feel good, too.”

There was a beat as they stared at each other, “I…” She whispered, a growing conflict in her eyes. He leaned down, lips brushing against her own.

“Yeah?” His hot breath spread across her cheeks, “C’mon Birdie, I wanna hear something pretty come from that filthy mouth of yours.”

They were nose to nose, golden eyes piercing into her own, each pair glowing with emotions too loud to speak, “I,” Breathy and wanton, “Would,”

“Yeah? You’d what?”

“Rather fucking die.”

For the hundredth time that night he was taken aback, incredulous laughter his only response as he pulled away from her, eyes snapping back to her own with a promise he’d been eager to fulfill.

“Suit yourself,” And he shoved inside.

A yelp, surprised and pained, “Fuck–!”

He was only halfway in, and rather than let her adjust, he sunk his nails into her thighs as leverage, and forced himself further. She whined in pain, a coat of crimson serving as response around his pulsing length, and he moved to trap her hands in his own, fingers intertwined.

“Tight like a virgin, huh, little Bird?” Once fully sheathed, he set a brutal pace, the head of his cock bruising her cervix with each greedy thrust. His face dipped down to lick a stripe up her stomach, trailing marks up her chest and throat with gnashing tongue and teeth.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She bit out, trying and failing to pull her hands from his crushing grip, “Wouldn’t know wet pussy if it—mmgh!—if it smacked you in the face.”

He huffed another laugh, “Don’t tempt me, baby,” His hands released her own to dig into the fat of her ass as he pulled her hips upwards and into his own with a renewed violence, grunting as her knees dug spitefully into his sides. 

Her newly free fingers clawed at his back, and despite his earlier threat, he seemed to revel in the streaks of red she tore in the skin between his wings, responding in kind with a hiss of masochistic pleasure.

“Not my fault the only way to get your dick wet,” A sharp, pained gasp, “Is to make a girl bleed.”

There was a glint in his eye that brought back her unease, and one of his sinful hands flew to the space where they met, finger pressing with irritating accuracy into her bundle of nerves. His other readjusted to push one leg to her chest, pausing his movement.

“Pain not a good enough lesson for you?” A too bright smile, “Fine with me,” That gleam in his eye sparkled with a sadistic satisfaction, “How ‘bout we see how many times I can make you cum ‘til you pass out.”

And the thrusts returned, chasing his own pleasure while the hand at her clit swirled in circles and stars, faster and faster until a whine more pleasured than pained escaped her lips.

“Like you–fuck–” She groaned as his fingers sped their motions, cock rocking into her with a deliciously savage rhythm she dared not acknowledge, “Like you fucking could–” A moan, full and long, drowned out her words, and her nails dug crescents into his shoulders.

He only hummed in response, her clit twitching under his thumb, “What’s that, Birdie?” A pulsing ache formed in her gut, “Words, baby, use your words,” Her pussy squeezed against his member in a way that had him groaning.

“Fuck you.”

“With pleasure, little Bird.”

He drew his hips back, pulling out of her dripping entrance to tease the hole with his tip, before diving back inside with unfairly gratifying precision against that spongy, tingling spot inside of her. Faster and faster, her bundle of nerves pulsed greedily under his fingers, and her teeth tore into her lip, trying to will the pleasure away, or, more shamefully, will it to peak.

Suddenly, and without warning, there was a blooming inside her that had her eyes rolling backwards, open mouthed moans raising in volume in an attempt to settle the warm buzzing between her thighs.

Though, she couldn’t find it within herself to care about the knowing smirk that pulled at his lips, too focused on his continued thrusts, and the quick rebuild of overwhelming pleasure.

“What are you–Stop!” A groan as he released her clit in favor of throwing both of her legs over his shoulders, and pressed against her chest, fucking into her at an angle that had her seeing stars, “What are you doing?!”

“If I’m correct, baby Bird,” He smiled, turning to press a quick kiss to her thigh, “You’re still conscious,” She growled as he nipped at the skin, but a particularly harsh push inside her cut the murderous thoughts short, “Which means we’ve still got a ways to go.”

His words were smug, but the growing sloppiness of his movements betrayed his own pleasure. Her eyes widened in realization, and her fingers leapt to pull and push at his back, tearing at what feathers she could reach in an attempt to get him off of her. Get him out of her.

“Not inside,” She rasped, “Don’t do it inside–”

“Hmm?” A mocking tilt of his head, “No? You don’t want me to fill you up?” One hand shifted to deliver a harsh slap to her ass, “Breed you like a needy little bitch?”

“Fucking—get off—get off!” She shrieked, beating at his shoulders, “Fucking psycho!”

“Well, that’s not very nice, now is it?” His hips were stuttering, and before she could stop herself, the words shot out through her lips.

“Please,” A couple stray, humiliated tears as she whimpered his name, “Please, not inside. Please, don’t cum inside!”

“Oh, so you do know how to talk pretty,” He breathed, fingers massaging at her abused flesh, “I was beginning to worry.”

“Please,” She swallowed her spit and her pride, “Please–”

“That’s right,” He was panting now, lips meeting her neck, teeth sinking in to add to the ring of bruises, “Beg me some more.”

Throwing her dignity out the window, she obliged, pleas working in tandem with the savage strokes of his cock, trying and failing to ignore her own mounting pleasure until finally he stilled, pouring deep inside her with a raspy groan, and sending her once again over that dreaded and savored edge.

“What’d I tell you, Birdie?” He ignored the defeated, broken whines that left her while they both returned to reality, “You’re mine.”

As his eyes trailed down the collage of her forming bruises, he was sure he bore his own battle scars, heart strangely skipping at the thought. She was his, but he had long belonged to her. A fact he’d hoard to himself as long as he could.

He caught his breath, readjusting to brush sweaty strands of hair from her forehead to behind her ear, pressing a reverent kiss to her temple before pulling away. It was a gesture entirely too soft, and she could have forgotten it was the monster above her had it not been for his next words.

“Oh don’t cry, my broken little Bird,” That vicious golden grin was back, “I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

Looking down at the ruined little thing shaking underneath him, he felt a type of satisfaction one only gets from dethroning a queen, fight fucked out of her. Not for good, he reminded himself gleefully. His pretty Bird was too stubborn for that. His softening cock twitched to life at the thought.

The flare of her nostrils sent lightning in his veins as she growled, “I’ll ruin you,” The words were venomous, humor sucked out in favor of acidic hatred, but his chest only vibrated with a sadistic urge to play, “I’ll fucking ruin you.”

“Ruin all you like, baby,” Breath wet and hot, shaking with anticipation, “I’ll ruin you right back.”

#yandere bnha #yandere hawks #yandere takami keigo #yandere hawks x reader #yandere takami kegio x reader #yandere mha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere my hero academia #yandere x reader #yandere x you #first and only draft bc we like livin on the edge

[chocogi]

Wherein the Creator is also known as the Holy Puppeteer, courtesy of the people she puppeteered around to see Teyvat in its glory.

Your hair stuck to the sides of your face. The trench coat you threw on to brave the snowy walk to the mall fluttered behind you, tattered and torn.

You were bleeding, you were tired, and you were running.

They shrieked and glared at you. Babbling about disrespect and Creator and death.

Hot tears slid off your cheeks and froze on the ground.

Your lungs burned; blood and soot decorated your clothes. The footsteps you left behind in the pristine snow of Dragonspine stood out with crimson charm.

Your blood stained the snow and laced it with gold. The snow foxes emerged from the icy corners and watched you flee.

You are alone.

Your skin is sickly pale and painful, golden strings erupted from your fingertips, grappling for anything that may save its master.

You play them around for your entertainment. You watch their stories play and do nothing. It is out of your hands, you didn’t know.

You didn’t know, you swear you didn’t know.

The strings thicken and wrap around you, hopelessly providing what little insulation it can to preserve your body heat. You’re getting desperate, the hot pain of the string and the stinging cold of the icy winds muddling your conscious. Everything’s a blur and you don’t know what’s happening anymore.

Why are you here?

The snow crunches under you as you fall, wrapped in a cold, golden cocoon of string. And suddenly, you cry out in relief.

Warmth spreads through you. You hug yourself and immediately flinch. It’s so warm, why is my skin so cold?

You distantly notice you stopped shivering.

The heat ramps up but your skin still feels freezing and soon you curl up and what is happening-

It’s too hot, why is it so hot-?

Your vision blurs; not that it matters, all you see is a wall of gold anyways. The heat feels like its boiling your blood and in response you try to rip off your clothes, push the pretty walls away, anything to balance out the sudden heat you’re feeling.

Black spots invade your sight and soon your wall of gold is a cold dark void.

Your body slowly stops moving as it puffs out your last breath.

A shimmery golden.. mass is not really what Albedo was expecting to see in the desolate land of Dragonspine, but here he is.

Even more surprising is the flora growing around and on it, uncaring of the freezing winds and the lack of soil.

If there’s no soil, there wouldn’t be enough nutrients for it to even bloom, right?

Maybe it’s another spectacle waiting for him to study.

Unsheathing his sword, he trims off the stray threads and cuts into the mass of suprisingly durable string.

The Cinnabar Spindle falls to the ground. Lifeless black, as cold as the snow around your carcass, bore dread into horrified teal.

Constellations littered your pale skin and the fading cosmos stay visible in your irises. If that wasn’t already a dead giveaway to who the body belonged to, the golden string from your fingertips is confirmation of your identity enough.

Without waiting another minute, he buries all the string, cuts it off and away from your fingers, picks you up, and bolts for his lab.

The rest of Teyvat who knew Albedo are left to question why Klee disappeared along with him, why neither of them can be found anywhere, and why Teyvat slowly caves in on itself.

They look to their statues of you only to be met with more puzzlement when they’re met with a cracked and curled statue, once smooth marble now jagged at the edges, and gold stripes from their anguished, stone eyes to the bottom of their cheeks.

The statue itself is surrounded by a puddle of molten gold and withered plants, the sight allowing the forming pit of despair in their guts to grow.

aka chocogi challenges themself on how to say you dont know anything about hypothermia without saying it directly

sorry lmao i was dead for some time

edit three people want a part two so have my brainrot

#genshin sagau #sagau #sagau genshin #genshin #genshin impact #albedo #genshin albedo #genshin imposter au #genshin angst #genshin impact sagau #albedo genshin #thoughtless meja

[winged-void]

Here's the story yall asked me to post

Hello! I am posting this short little story, which is the first of a number of short stories I have written about these two characters, a delusional noblewoman and her deranged maid. By clicking the readmore you agree that both characters contained within, regardless of what the text says, are girls.

In some forgotten corner of some forgotten city, a forgotten noble of a forgotten family sits in petty agony. 

Protected from the onslaught of acidic rain only by a hastily constructed sheet metal roof, he imagines Mother's pain at the tears in his coat, and the scion of the Branche family considers weeping. 

What would it cost? 

Too much. 

Elan Branche pushes it down. At twelve, one puts such childishness behind them. 

Back straight. Assess the damage. Find the solution. 

The coat was heavy. Too large, and far too decorated with old and meaningless signifiers of unearned and forgotten glory, weighed down further still by the damp of rain and blood (hidden at least by the deep red color of the fabric), he takes it off and hangs it on a bit of exposed rebar. 

It was old and beautiful; burgundy and torn to shreds. The sleeves and the tail had cuts and rips that Elan knew he could never fix. He thought of a picture he'd found of the family's old staff, and the dedicated tailor among them. All gone now, gone since before his birth. This burden, like all before it, must be borne alone. 

Put it out of mind for now. 

He turned away from the coat to inspect his blade. Sharpening the noble edge sharpens the noble mind, he thought, and began to clean. His adventures to these parts were proving more expensive than he thought, but the rabble must know the Branche Family. Their petty vassals and pettier commoners had forgotten and darkness had come to them. 

By sword and torch and pistol he would bring light and flame back. He would polish the old blazonry with the blood of those foolish and cruel enough to have taken advantage of the weakness of his family. No longer would commoner merchant thugs an-

Hold. A sound. 

Elan jumped and turned, blade pointed at his empty coat, hanged and swinging in the breeze. 

Foolish. Too easily startled. Undignified. Waving your sword around at an empty coat. 

But then another sound, like the whimper of a kicked dog. 

“N-Nothing gets by you, milord….”

A hunched and crouching pathetic figure emerged from behind the rebar, raising its hands, but holding onto what seemed to be an especially short thin piece of scrap metal, bent at the end such that a thread could pass through it. 

Elan's mind raced. First, relief, then recognition. Figure was a boy. No older than thirteen or fourteen. Thin, so thin, tall and dressed in rags. 

“You. You're that kid from the other day. The mugging victim, yes?”

Wasn't that mugging four towns over? 

He left it unsaid. He continued. 

“What are you doing with my coat?”

The figure squirmed, and tried to stand up straight. 

“I-I-I saw. The state of your coat. And I thought I might be useful, milord…” It paused, and jumped as though shocked, “My lord.”

It gestured towards the left sleeve, and Elan's eyes traced the crimson thread from the needle in its scarred hand to the sleeve of the coat, partially sewed with baffling skill. 

Elan considered the boy. His hair gray (common in these chemically stained regions), his form clearly starved, his body shaking but his hands so very steady. 

Potential and possibility, all of it. Solutions to problems named and those he refused to name. 

“How useful,” Elan lowered his sword and allowed himself to smile, “would you like to be?”

#Harpyguide #Wing Tipped Pen #maid

[last-stitch]

Here it is in all its glory.

BG3 really got me. I'm feelings things, wanting to work on hobbies, wanting to be creative again after a few years of... just coasting.

More details under the cut for those who want to know project details~☆ now on Etsy

Pattern by me (yes I'll put it on Etsy soon) done on 16ct off white Aida, 3over3 threads DMC variegated 115, beads are tear drops red and dark red, blood splatter is 'blood for the blood gods' by citidel (splattered artfully by my partner)

This silly little vampire man has been such a joy, and I'm already planning 2 more projects cause I can't help myself.

some more glamour shot ftr

#cross stitch #crossstitch #xstitch #mine #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #blood #astarion acunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion

[zarvasace]

Fic Rec List

AO3 is holding a Feedback Fest for International Fanworks Day! So, in no particular order, here are 10 fics from my bookmarks that I recommend. :) Most of these fics are by stellar authors, but the list is for individual fics. I recommend checking out the authors as well.

EDIT: fandom code. LU = Linked Universe. FS = Four Swords

Dawn of the Fourth by @lazuliquetzal - (LU, complete) A fic that's on plenty of rec lists, I'm sure! The mastery of plot, character, and language itself is top-tier. This has a mystery-ish plot filled with twists and turns that hold up very very well on rereads! The tension remains taut the whole time, but it isn't too stressful. There are some particular images from this one that have stuck with me since I read it.

Threats and Theatrics by htruona - (LU, complete) This one makes me laugh. A lot. Vio is too dramatic for his own good, and I adore the idea that they might just keep fake blood on them for stuff like this.

A Guide to Living (Again) by @cerame (LU, complete) - Also one that I'm sure is not unfamiliar to a lot of people! It's no secret that I'm a big fan of Shadow, and it was so so much fun to see these other opposite-Links coming around, too. This is just overall a very good time.

Awake, Sweet Prince by @vagueandominousvibes - (FS, complete) There's a lot by Kahl I adore, she's an excellent writer with a wonderful handle on world and words, and this one in particular is one of my favorites. I love slightly spooky fae and this is definitely high on my list.

Count to Nine by @tess-aka-fishy (LU, complete) - One of my top fluff and humor fics. Everyone is in-character in the best way possible, being chaotic but not necessarily on purpose. It's awesome.

It's Dangerous to Go Alone by @hey-adora (FS, complete) - Among the many standout works by Sam, this one is an excellent one to recommend thanks to the showcase of her particular brand of humor, the fun, adventure-y plot, canon-extension worldbuilding, and of course the focus on Vio and Shadow being awful as always.

Keep Your Face to the Sun by Ageofavalon (LU, complete) - This one is a wonderful little fic with, surprise surprise, a focus on Shadow. This one just feels cozy, and I've reread it a lot. I particularly enjoy the way that they adopt him into the LU Chain :)

Take a Number, Any Number by @cluelessmoose (LU, complete) - An outstanding Four whump fic that recently got a very satisfying second chapter. It uses a lot of my favorite whump tropes. The imagery and particular use of words makes this a delight to read.

Soft Glows by @youmixxx (FS, incomplete) - Breaking my hesitant rule of "only complete fics allowed" to rec this fantastic Green/Blue modern college AU story. The attention to detail in this fic is unbelievable—and I mean detail in-text in descriptions and narrative, as well as behind-the-scenes details like consistent schedules. It's beautiful. Don't let the word count intimidate you because it flies by in a haze of glory.

Draw a Circle Around Your Grief by @lattewritesthings (LU, complete) - Dramatic, horrific, bitter, hurt-no-comfort—BUT in a way that doesn't leave you hanging on a thread. It's tragic but the resolution is satisfying anyway. The images are striking and the emotions are potent.

#fic rec #ifd2024

[weatheredfailnot]

Please take these sections from EE3 on the Shadowkeeper (Cylva) because I love her so dearly

Transcript below:

A NAME SPOKEN IN WHISPERS

Around the time Ardbert and his comrades left Tomra, they stumbled upon evidence of the larger design. Threads linking together the disparate troubles of the realm. A name spoken only in whispers— the Shadowkeeper.

A singular force sowing chaos and discord throughout Norvrandt to an unknown end.

During Nyelbert's search for an energy source to replace the crystal he shattered, he began to suspect that the now-lost stone was not, in fact, a naturally occurring mineral, but rather had been deliberately placed under the mountain. Pursuing the truth of that theory led them to discover a connection to Lamunth, the gem counterfeiter whom Ardbert and Lamitt apprehended so long ago in Nabaath Areng. When they visited Lamunth's gaol cell to interrogate him, however, they found the man convulsing on the floor and frothing at the mouth. Ere the poison took his life, he managed to sputter the name of the Shadowkeeper. Further investigation revealed that this sinister figure had ordered Lamunth to secret the crystal in the mine shafts, and in return rewarded him with the illusory magicks he would employ in his forgeries.

They also came to learn that Tadric, the mastermind behind Voeburt's monstrous plague, had not worked alone. Research documents recovered from the court mage's laboratory mentioned the Shadowkeeper by name, the meticulous entries describing how the arcane lore shared by his co-conspirator had contributed to the completion of his transformation magicks.

The mining industry of Nabaath Areng threatened with demolition.

A scheme culminating in the death of Voeburt's royal heirs. The Shadowkeeper had plotted the downfall of two mighty nations, and Ardbert's band feared that Lakeland, the third of Norvrandt's major powers, would be next.

Lo and behold, a rebellion erupted in the home of the elves. The reigning king was deposed, and the Shadowkeeper, their heretofore faceless nemesis, took the throne.

The elven king, Lelfrey, was a passionate proponent of the arts- music and dance in particular- with his focus on such refined pursuits earning him equal praise and scorn. His was a peaceful rule, free of war and strife, but this passivity cost his kingdom dearly in matters of foreign diplomacy. A poor negotiator, he ceded border territories to Voeburt to avoid conflict, and signed an economic agreement with Nabaath Areng that put Lakeland at a clear disadvantage.

As these political blunders chipped away at the nation's authority, a sentiment of discontent among Lakeland's high-ranking nobility began to fester and grow. Traditionalists dreamed of a return to the golden age when all of Norvrandt lay under their control, and it was the Shadowkeeper who granted them the power to act. Rumors that this new player was the king's bastard child ran wild, and, true or not, served to unify the disgruntled nobles under a single banner. They indulged in treachery to undermine rival nations, while at home, their assassins targeted influential royalists. The scene was set for revolution.

The Shadowkeeper was attended by two dark-robed mages, by whose malevolent arts the traditionalists were empowered. One of their gifts was lupine transformation, a change which granted the recipient preternatural strength and agility. Thus bolstered by a company of these wolfman soldiers, the Shadowkeeper's faction stormed Laxan Loft and captured the royal seat for their leader. No sooner had the winning side declared a new age of glory for the elves than did they muster their forces and launch an invasion into Voeburtite lands.

Caption reads: The Shadowkeeper emerged amid blood and chaos, a formidable and enigmatic figure perpetually encased in stygian plate armor. Similarly clad in midnight raiment, the Shadowkeeper's forces inspired terror in all who witnessed their advance.

THE BATTLE OF LAXAN LOFT

The heroes were poised to continue their search for Nyelbert's replacement stone in Nabaath Areng when the silver-haired Cylva abruptly left the party. The swordswoman excused herself on the premise that she wished to reconnoiter the troubling situation in Lakeland, but in truth, she was hurrying back to don her black armor, unsheathe her blade, and lead the elven traditionalists in their rebellion. Cylva, the great deceiver, had been the Shadowkeeper all along.

She was, in truth, no bastard child of King Lelfrey-that was merely a fiction concocted by Mitron and Loghrif, her Ascian accomplices. Her true origin lay in the Thirteenth, where she had died young and powerless, an unrealized champion of the reflection-turned-void. The Ascians had found her in the moment of her demise, and it was they who brought her soul to the First to serve as a pawn in dark machinations.

Cylva was to insinuate herself into Ardbert's band, and guide them along the path to becoming Warriors of Light. That which they cast aside in their journey towards heroism, she would take into herself, growing ever stronger as a disciple of Darkness. And when all was in readiness, she would reveal herself as the villainous Shadowkeeper. By her hand would the Warriors of Light be slain, and despair sown in the hearts of the populace.

What the Ascians did not plan for was the Shadowkeeper's defeat at the hands of Ardbert's party. Cylva had steadily amassed her power, feeding on her erstwhile comrades' respective sacrifices of personal ambition, innocence, independence, and tradition. Yet despite her best efforts, Ardbert would not forsake what she sought to purloin- his caring heart.

Even in the midst of their deadly confrontation, he regarded her as a comrade in need of saving.

Thus denied her full ascension, the Shadowkeeper wavered and fell.

Swallowing their grief at the loss of a friend, the heroes turned their wrath towards the villains who had orchestrated this tragedy. The Warriors of Light now shone so brightly that even high-ranking Ascians could not stand against their incandescent fury. Even as Ardbert struck his final blow, fulgent power swelled in a cataclysmic wave, and the Flood of Light was unleashed upon the lands of the First.

Caption reads: In her bid to slay the Warriors of Light, Cylva turned her transformation magicks upon herself. Though Ardbert and his comrades did indeed struggle against this formidable lupine abomination, it was the necessity of striking down their former friend that presented the greatest challenge.

#FFXIV #Cyella #Cylva #My posts

[yandere-wishes]

𐙚 𝕬 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕷𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖔 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖆 𐙚

Wednesday February 14th xxxx

Dear Dracula:

I find myself pondering if, deep down, in the heart you deny possessing. There still exists a chasmic rhyme and reason for all which you do. They call you monster, fiend, abomination. Yet aren't they the ones that maim and slaughter for reasons as thin as thread? Thus why should we possess the burden of such an accursed name?

Valentine's is upon us. Maybe such sacrilegious festivities can be blamed for my intrepidity. We've yet to consort outside our nocturnal affairs, outside our world of half-spun truths and forgotten anecdotes. I pray you forgive my effrontery. I pray you comprehend my need for making such inquiries.

But my dear precious Dracula, I have to ask. Do you still remember your mother, your home, your heritage? Many deny that one as egregious as you could possess such mortal things. And yet aren't those the fundamental pillars of who we turn out to be? Isn't one man's evil another man's crusade?

So I, a mortal who believes she may have fallen for you in all your atrocious glory, ask do you remember being a son, a child? Being innocent and naive enough to believe every lie and fable? Do you still yarn for your mother in the dead of day? Recalling her scent and the bouncy curls of her hair, tasting nostalgia on your blood-soaked tongue.

What was it like in the sand, in the snow, in the green valleys and rocky outskirts? Did the coarseness of sand and the roughness of rocks and the tickle of flowers leave phantom pains across your body? Did you play with the snakes and climb fig trees? Did you laugh with others of your kind?

Do you recall your ancestrial home? The bronze walls of your mother's temple. Her fingers wafting through your hair as her smile radiates brighter than the moon. I zealously trust the visions that flash before my eyes on moonless nights. Images of a frail batling wrapped in kaleidoscopic blankets tucked under his mother's arm. Your mother mingled with owls, I wonder why she constructed you in the likeness of bats, of wolves, of snakes? Did she wish for you to serve as a cacophony to the detested, to those we so quickly forget? Did she wish for you something she could never have herself?

They seldom recall you are one of the sons of flames and stardust. Do they forget we share a legacy? One I believe you fought for. Both descendants of the divinely blessed. Both lost children arid for blood and retribution.

I too know of the darkly sweet tang of rich blood upon the tongue.

I too know the fragile elation of scraping blood from under one's fingernails three days later.

I too know the sensation of being a monster in everything but intentions.

I cherish the two lone bites you've left upon my neck. I cherish the cuts your claws have left upon my hips. You never say a word when you fall. When melancholy and memories obfuscate your judgment. I know you refuse to act human, to pretend and be something you are not. Thus I won't ask for sweet nothings from you.

Yet still I long to hear you call me "love".

When did you realize you were equal parts hellfire and shamshir?

When did you realize that humanity deserves to suffer for its every injustice?

My sweet, sweet Dracula, I regret to inform you that as of late my bones feel faulty and brittle, as do my thoughts. Can we still call ourselves holy? Do we still have that right? Can we still repent for our sins? Who decides what a sin is anyway? Will we ever be innocent to someone?

Are you torn too? Broken in all the wrong places? Do you feel the open wounds and amputations, when you stare up at the stars? I wonder if I owe you an apology. I wonder if you owe me one too…

Dearest Dracula, would you ever understand if I told you that I am tired of being a monster, a villain, an abomination? Would you understand if I told you I need to rest inside a glass coffin, to be rejuvenated and reborn into the world as something useful?

Would you believe me if I say I believe in you? That I lay the burden of my aspirations upon your unwavering shoulders. Should there exist any mere slivers of hope, I shall bestow them upon you in trim vials of gold.

Where did our obligations go? Where are they buried so that I may pay my tardy regards?

Dear Dracula,

I hope you understand every star I've spilled to you.

I hope you comprehend the love I harbor within my defective heart.

I hope you adore the blood I've penned this letter with.

I just hope you understand…

In your absence, thorn bushes grow across my cadaver. suffocating and desolate. Without you, voids grow inside me, where hope once flourished. Dracula what I've been trying to say this whole time is…

I think we're both monsters.

I think I could love you.

Sincerely me…

P.S

Think of me as you feast upon your latest victim. And I shall think of you as I fall asleep to the city's empty tunes.

I need an origin story for Dracula.

sorry for the cryptic love letter.

But hopefully this way everyone can identify with it in some way.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yancore #yandere aesthetic #re dracula #dracula daily #dracula #bram stoker #dracula bram stoker #vampire #vampire x reader #yandere vampire #yandere vampire x reader #vampire aesthetic #yandere dracula #yandere dracula x reader #dracula x reader #male yandere #yandere male #dracula aesthetic #red aesthetic #vampyr #vampire x human

[emyn-arnens]

Like a Wave That Should Engulf the World

Faramir watches as the sea draws back and the bays are scraped bare of water. On the horizon, the sea swells and gathers itself like a horse gathering itself to jump. A great wave takes shape, growing taller every moment. 

The wave rises over the land like a mountain of shadow, vast and towering, and all the land before it is plunged into darkness. There is no horizon, no sky, no sun—only the great bulk of the wave heaving itself higher and higher and the frothing lip of foam seething at its crest. The roar of the wave is deafening, and Faramir’s head throbs. Horror grips his heart, and his limbs tremble despite himself. The scent of brine is so pungent that he can taste it on his tongue.

The wave curls itself, about to fall, and behind its shoulder, Faramir glimpses the gathering darkness following in its wake, darker even than the wave and pierced by spears of lightning.

With a roar that shakes the heavens, the wave falls.

Faramir woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest and his ears still ringing from the mighty voice of the water. The salt of the sea still stung his tongue, and his skin was slick. He gripped the bedsheets as he tried to orient himself. 

Gradually, the horror of the dream faded, and he loosened his grip on the bedsheets.

The bedchamber was silent and dark. Éowyn breathed softly next to him, and he felt the warmth of her back against his outflung hand.

It had been many years since he had dreamt of the wave. It had disappeared after the war, recurring only when Aragorn’s wars in the South and East went ill, and Faramir feared that Gondor would not survive its king’s dreams of restoration and past glory.

Faramir lay back down. His heart still throbbed in his chest, and his mind was dark with foreboding.

The dream of the wave always heralded ill news. It had come to him often in the weeks before his mother’s death, and again the night before Boromir set out for Rivendell. And it had come in the days before Osgiliath was taken, and the night before Boromir’s body drifted down the Anduin, dreamlike. And then every night had been filled with the horror of the wave as the war worsened and the Shadow crept over the land and his father’s madness deepened.

Always the dream heralded death and destruction. But Gondor’s wars were long ended.

That left only death.

Faramir’s gaze strayed unwillingly to Éowyn, and foreboding weighted his heart like a millstone. It was too soon.

But it would always be too soon, for she was not of Númenorean blood, and her years would never reach the length of his, though she had lived long in the years of her people. Faramir had striven to avoid acknowledging that truth for many years, though he had been reminded of it time and time again. Had not Imrahil lost Ivorwen before he had even entered his waning years, and had not Lothíriel just two years past grieved bitterly for Éomer’s passing? Such was the nature of such unions.

It was a bitter truth.

Faramir turned toward Éowyn and drew her against him, wrapping his arm over her side and threading his fingers between hers. The bones of her fingers, knobbed and gnarled, pressed into his. She stirred in her sleep, tucking her head into the hollow of his neck with a sigh.

Her white braid fell over her shoulder and trailed over the coverlet. She was to Faramir as fair as she had ever been in her youth—fairer, even, for she bore the signs of her joy and love upon her skin, visible memories of the joys they had shared together, and that was to him more beautiful and wondrous than any bloom of youth.

Faramir held her tighter against him, tucking his chin into the curve of her shoulder and pressing his nose into her hair, wishing that he could only hold her tight enough to keep her with him.

AO3.

#lotr #lotr fic #tolkien fic #eowyn #faramir #fotfics #my fic #this was evil of me i know

[moltengoldveins]

*vibrating out of my skin* b-bbphhh….. beeduo. But its. It’s the Minotaur. and Theseus. Has someone done this? Please tell me someone has done this. 

Tubbo as a boy trapped in the most technologically advanced maze ever made, learning engineering from the walls meant to contain him, his selfish father (Schlatt) so shamed by his ‘mutations’ he spreads rumors that the boy is a monster, throwing sacrifices to the maze every seven years. Tubbo’s never been able to save them in time. Something savage is in the walls, hunting, and while the maze is built specifically to keep Tubbo alive, it is not so for the foreign prisoners. 

Meanwhile, Ranboo is the prince of an oppressed kingdom, forced to give blood sacrifice every seven years. His father (Phil, not the most common dynamic but roll with it it becomes relevant later) tells stories of the kingdom’s former glory, the glory lost when their most famed general fell to the war, taken and by all accounts killed by Tubbo’s father. Ranboo decides to go on a quest to slay the monster his people are being fed to, and further, to live up to the memory of that lost general and kill the enemy king, freeing his people. He promises to lift white sails if he returns alive, and that his men will lift black ones if he dies. (There’s some Lady of Death symbolism happening here, work with me) Importantly, his father gives him an old token of a ‘lost friend’ before he goes, an emerald on a chain. He says it’s for good luck, and guidance. He seems… really sad about it tho. Hm. Surely that’s not important. 

Niki is the vassal/adopted daughter/ healer?? Of Schlatt, who sneaks out now and then to give Tubbo snacks. The maze likes her, and she is the only one the old warden told its secrets to before he escaped with his son. She cannot navigate the twisted paths like Tubbo, who has spent his entire life walking those halls, but she is protected from whatever is in the walls. She could get Tubbo out, but they’d have nowhere to go, so she waits. Every year, she prays she will find a way to get them out. Every seven, she prays Tubbo will not have to watch any of the prisoners die. 

Ranboo arrives and threatens Schlatt, who only laughs at the boys boldness and throws him into the maze first. (Oddly, while he took every stitch of gold from Ranboo’s neck and hands, he left the earring. He said something about it being ‘fitting. It’ll finally die with its partner’) 

just when Ranboo is about to be thrown in, Niki, who couldn’t bear the thought of such a kind looking kid dying so horribly, sneaks him a sword and a ball of golden thread. “It will guide you when you need it. Sam made it as a last resort.” She whispers, right before the gates close. 

Tubbo, furious at his failure seven years ago to save any of the hostages (he was twelve. There was nothing he could have done.) manages to get to Ranboo just in time to keep the monster away from them both. The maze closes around them and for a moment, it looks as if they’ll fight. Then Tubbo smiles, and Ranboo lowers his sword, and the two of them are friends in seconds. Tubbo takes Ranboo back to the little room he’s set up shop in, boasting about his inventions but clearly Very unaccustomed to speaking with Actual People. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Ranboo is the physical child of two polymorphed dragons and the adopted child of an angel and a goddess. He isn’t accustomed to speaking with Actual People either. They get along smashingly. 

Tubbo and Niki have made a plan of escape, but never had chance to use it. Now that Ranboo can offer sanctuary, it’s just a matter of getting out and running, but Ranboo refuses. He can’t leave whatever monster is really in the walls for anyone to find and either die to or take advantage of, even if he does destroy Schlatt’s regime. Tubbo insists it’s impossible to even find the thing, its lair is in the fabled ‘center of the maze’, which even he has never been able to find. And even if he could find it, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be killed in an instant. Whatever the thing is, it’s a better fighter than anything else in the nation: that’s why it was locked away. Ranboo offers Tubbo his signet ring (kinda a proposal gesture, we’re Not Acknowledging That RN Tho, We’re Both Traumatized and Trying Not To Die) and tells him to flee to the Antarctic Empire after Niki’s plan to kill Schlatt succeeds. That way Phil can help them, even if Ranboo doesn’t make it. 

Unspooling the golden thread, Ranboo follows it to the center of a maze, where he finds… a study. It looks like it was torn through by a hurricane, then carefully rebuilt, and half of it is filled with untouched and unfinished mechanical structures. He other half is filled with notebooks, maps of the maze, and frantic scribbling. “Another hunt today” one says “I only knew because my claws were scraped.” “I woke with blood in my teeth” another page says. “I think it was a person. I think I was a person, before. I don’t think I am anymore.” 

He doesn’t have the time to piece things together though, because a hulking figure twice his size emerges from a side door and slams into him. He barely manages to knock the blow of a massive axe away, and squinting in the low light, he sees a long-haired, red-eyed man in a tattered uniform and a cape, face twisted and malformed with scars and massive fangs. The uniform is that of Ranboo’s home country. The cape is eerily similar to the one on Phil’s old portraits, before the war. 

‘Oh.’ Ranboo realizes, right as he gets kicked through a wall of foliage. ‘You’re the reason my dad is so sad all the time.’ 

it really seems like all is lost. The man is clearly rabid, insane and muttering to himself, eyes glowing crimson. But right as he’s about to kill Ranboo, he sees the earring, and he stops. He turns to a drawer in one of the desks and pulls out a matching earring, and the light fades from his eyes. 

‘im sorry’ he says, ‘I’m not a man anymore. They took that from me. It was some kind of curse. They made me kill my own people. They made me a creature.’ 

‘well, that’s nothing new’ Ranboo shrugs. ‘Curses can be broken, and I’m rather good friends with a few creatures at this point. What’s one more?’ 

so they escape, the earrings doing something?? To help keep the man calm. Niki burns the tree in the center of the castle and Techno (because we all knew it was Techno) triggers the self destruct system he’d found in the maze during those few moments of sanity between all the hunting. Niki also remembers a rant or an offhand comment Schlatt made at some point early in her apprenticeship about how to break some curse in the maze, something he was gloating about that she only really gets once she sees the massive fellow being led out of the maze by a very excited Ranboo. 

everyone escapes and there’s more Plot but the important bit is: Ranboo forgets about the sails. As they near the harbor, they see a cloud of ravens flying in from every direction, and Techno Loses His Mind. Turns out that only happens when Phil is Really In Danger, Dying, or, hypothetically, dead of grief from the loss of what he believes to be his last living family member. (Yes we have the option here of perms-killing Phil right in the final stretch but I Choose No, because No) There’s a very dramatic reunion where Techno is midway to War Mode while Phil is definitely post-giving-his-soul-up-to-Lady-Death-now-that-everyone-I-love-is-dead, Just-Back-From-Being-Dead-And-Not-Sure-Why-His-Wife-Didn’t-Keep-Him-This-Time??? before Ranboo Explains Everything. Tubbo and Ranboo end up platonically married like Ranboo’s father and Tubbo’s weird uncle in the walls before them and ruling the country as King and General. Niki gets a bakery and a chance to use her alchemy powers for yummy purposes instead of poison. Everyone lives and is happy. The end.

#molten rambles #technoblade #mcyt #philza #tubbo #ranboo #beeduo #emerald duo #fanfic ideas #mcyt fanfiction #DO YOU SEE MY VISION #DO YOU COMPREHEND #It’s a syndicate fic technically