#Impalement (of the Wretched)

[friendofoyster]

[queenofthemasquerade]

Nuclearhammer - Impalement (of the Wretched)

[queenlucythevaliant]

gone right into my heart

i. Fundamentally, mean children everywhere are all the same.

ii. Eustace Scrubb didn't think of himself as mean, of course, but he was. Cruel, petty, entitled, spoiled - all fine descriptors.

iii. All mean children have tough, scaly hides under which they conceal vulnerable flesh. They breathe fire and hope no one notices that it reeks of rot. Their claws are sharp, and because of this they cannot write in soft sand or hold hands with their loved ones.

iv. Eustace's cousins came to stay for the summer, and the worst part of it all was that it'd been years since he'd gotten a proper rise out of them. It was infuriating! Having them around would be no fun at all.

iv. Later, in Narnia, Eustace began to understand why they were so impervious to him. He'd been mean, sure, but they were knights.

v. Take me home, take me home, take me home, he said. Over and over. Take me home where it's safe. Take me home where I am in control. Not afraid. Not vulnerable.

vi. Eustace was never in control. It took becoming a dragon - the natural culmination of all the entitlement and cruelty that lived within him - to finally make that clear.

vii. He was wrapped in tough, scaly hide when the Lion came by moonlight. Eustace was a dragon, but if he still couldn't reckon with knights, what chance did he have against a lion?

viii. The lion's claws were sharper than his. They were sharper than anything else in the world.

ix. When those claws tore into his dragon hide, Eustace thought he would die. Perhaps, in a way, he did.

x. Claws that sharp should not have been capable of such dexterity or care. Yet they found their mark like scalpel blades in a surgeon's hands; not like the crude things that hung off of Eustace'a wretched dragon-limbs.

xi. He could feel them tearing through the scales. The tough dragon hide parted like butter. The lion's claws dug deeper, through tissue and muscle and the contorted cage of his ribs. They found his heart, and struck.

xii. After that, there was a pulling sensation. Eustace should have been dead, but his heart was beating, even impaled as it was with the lion's claws. Slowly, with an agonizing gentleness, the lion drew the boy's heart out of the gnarled dragon skin.

xiii. The body that came with it was soft and vulnerable and naked. How could he pretend at meanness now, with his armor so thoroughly destroyed? It would rend him to pieces.

xiv. Oh, thought Eustace. Was I ever anything else? Or have I always been this soft and naked?

xv. Yet the lion did not leave Eustace to his nakedness. He dressed him in soft clothes before returning him to camp.

[shinjisdone]

*sigh* that time of the year again where I brielfy obsess over Alucard from hellsing ah shit here we go again

Random Alucard thoughts (also he is totally yandere)

TW: Huge yandere behavior, mentions of murder, torture, vampirism, blood, extreme possessiveness, obsession, crossing boundaries, belittling, mind games, Alucard fully sees himself as your monster, hints at Alucard's true identity and past, everything is in random order according to my brainrot

Vlad "Alucard" Tepeş is 100%, absolutely, with zero doubt a Yandere. It's proven, it's real, he is one, do not argue with me look at him from any angle, it is yandere.

He had long embraced the title and flesh of a monster. He is selfish, twisted and full of bloodlust. His life as a true vampire consists of short bursts of pleasure, of getting that kick of almost being killed. Battling with a "man" who can kill a "monster". Yet he is so powerful that no one can come close to put him in his well-deserving grave. A shame.

Besides Integra and Seras, its the only thing he lives for. To meet the end by the hands of a human.

Hence why he, ironically, is very drawn to humans and humanity in general.

He respects bravery, wit and the want to be human and stay so no matter what. A steadfast knowledge of who you are. So you'd have to have all that for him to pay positive attention to you.

He has seen and lived through the worst of it. Not once a taste of love or kindness but only the wretched side of humanity that it can offer.

He can offer it all back...but not love. For love is pure and good and he is not and never was. Love is for humans. Monsters can only "love" in much darker ways...

And if you are the one thing that intruiges him so much, he might smother you in his twisted love.

Of course, you do not need to be a mortal to become his obsession. But for the sake of diving into his psyche, to really see how....unhinged this creature is, let us go with that 👀

A creature of the night is always interested in humans. How one particurarly thinks and acts, what they believe in, whether they have cowardice or courage in their hearts. Many are the same but a lot of them prove themselves to be more and worthy of his attention.

You'd have to have something to begin that spark of interest. Power, knowledge, strength of character whatever it is, it should be enough to interest a vampire but not deter him away from you from striving away from your humanity. Casting it aside makes you a fool in his eyes.

Then - there has to be that humanity inside you. Not the ugly and candid one he knew all his life as a count but this...fleeing beauty. The seldom joy and kindness. Love for another being all because you simply chose to.

Not because this person fought for your love, sacrificed for your love, impaled your enemies - but because you chose to share love.

How human.

Interesting yet...perhaps weak. Or is it strength? Can you cast it all aside when you do gain enemies that want your head?

Besides, when you are in Hellsing, you do tend to be messed up. Integra, Seras and Walter are no different in their own way and how can you still carry an ounce of selflessness in a place like this with how you are? Can you be selfless when you fight?

A part of him wants you to succumb to the rage, this oh so human rage but...once you cave, it is hard to get back up. Alucard would rather have you stay the way you are.

The beginning is slow but already startling...

The longer he watches, the more intriguied he becomes. And once this humanity of yours touches him, it is all over.

With Integra, he is loyal. With Seras, he is patient. Both women have gained his respect through their courage and boldness, as well as their will power for what they believe in.

But you? You have nothing to gain from the Hellsing hound. If he wanted you dead, you'd be so long ago. You are already protected from his power (as long as Integra says so and Seras is not endangered) so what do you think you are doing, little human, sharing an ounce of love with him?

Don't you know that monsters cannot love?

Yet still, he feels a tightness in his chest. There, deep within where his heart is supposed to reside, is a dark yet darker, deep yet deeper black hole, an abyss of all that he is now as Alucard - still, the tightness is there and slowly spreads through his limbs as warmth.

It is different than the bolts of bloodlust that spark and jolt within him. It is slower and graduate. Calm like the sea in the morning fog. It is so interesting that he allows himself to indulge in more.

You foolish human.

You will see the error of your ways. Will see how this creature of the night's darkness will twist and turn into an admiration that is sick, an infatuation that looks down on you yet worhsips you at the same time, an adoration that is deadly. Love does not exist within the being that is called Alucard. It is too pure and good for a monster like him.

Know that it will take a long and enduring time for something like that to blossom. But if your actions are consistent, it will certainly happen - your doom.

It begins mellowly.

His constant presence when allowed to have some free time, the unblinking gaze and the everlasting smile. Alucard always smiles around you.

He tends to talk a lot more with you. Asking you questions of your views to gain more and more knowledge about you, to understand you as a human and how you tick. He greedily sucks in any kind of information that makes you, you. The mortal he fell for.

For you are simply too fascinating not to know more of.

It happens through interrupting your own free time, your privacy (he just goes through the walls) and your boundaries. He doesn't mean any harm, quite the opposite, so why do you become so hostile?

Are you not on the same side as Hellsing?

In battle, he enjoys protecting you. As if it was a hard task or would get in the way of the objective - putting a bullet through a threat or biting their head off is easy and fun. He's keeping you, his favorite and most interesting mortal, safe. He can't have you killed, for who else is as unique as you and could ever replace you?

It's gruesome and he shows no remorse in how you feel on such a vile display. He will not ever admit it but his actions speak louder than words and you will notice, very soon, that he focuses a lot on your safety - while gleefully slaughtering so-called "dogs".

Any kind of acts of love are your doom...

It is only when you act so humanely even further with him that things go down.

Alucard watches you in your sleep but dares not touch you. His grotesque hands do not know how to caress and care. It's unfamiliar, too unfamiliar for him to simply begin. He stares and watches, observes and grins and comments, bows and gestures and overdoes everything but he does not touch you. He does not know how.

Yet one night, when you are not asleep but admiring the moon, he comes to you.

Makes it seem like a coincidence even when it is part of his nightly routine to see you. You talk but not dare bring up his odd behaviour towards you. Instead, he listens before Alucard slowly gets lost at the sight of you and his hand gently lowers to your head.

It does not matter if you show no fear or maybe jump and whimper at his touch - all that matters is that you let him touch you. Him, Alucard, the true, great vampire and nightwalker. A creature of the night so great that nothing can harm him but he certainly can bring torment to you - yet you let him touch you.

It is the first in millennia that he ever found himself putting a hand on something he does not wish to kill. His hand engulfs your head, fingers run through your hair and his thumb caressing the underline of your eyes. A hand that could crush your skull, fingers and thumb that could dug into your eyesocket and you let it all happen. It serves as some kind of evidence, at least to him, that he can...do something he did not ever think he could.

It would bring even more meaning to it (or perhaps mockery to the injury) when you accept his touch by putting your hand over his. You can say whatever you want, feel whatever you want but actions speak louder than words and here, right now, you allow a monster to caress you and do not reject it by taking its hand.

You...beautiful human.

You...foolish human.

What are you doing? What have you done?

How can you expect Alucard to forget this and you?

He did not forget the armies, the ottomen, the vampires and ghouls, or Integra's father because all they did was inflict unforgettable pain.

And now, he cannot ever forget you because you touched him with love - whether you liked it or not.

Whether you see it like him or not.

It doesn't matter.

Alucard won't forget. Won't cast aside the new light he now sees you in.

Brave. Steadfast. Aware. Kind. Fragile. Naive. Weak. Loving.

What a truly beautiful night it is indeed.

Blood spills for you...

The damage is done and tenfold at that, too.

Alucard won't try to hide these...emotions he bears no longer and will not care what Integra and Seras will have to say. For how could they fight against a monster's nature?

He endears you with new names. He does so with many in an rather ironic way to describe them in a way he knows them best. But you get many pet names.

'My Dear' is a classic and most used. 'My Darling', ' my beloved' and even 'my little human'. There will always be that possessiveness that he bears oddly proudly. Of course you are his in a way. He cannot really claim you as his but maybe he can let himself be yours in a twisted way. No matter how you feel about him though, you will always be close to his non-existend heart - and in his non-existend heart you do belong to him. His dear, his darling, his beloved, his little human.

Though he will also mostly use a nickname that either describe your appeareance or personality at best - something that encaptures the you.

Any kind of physical appeareance will be endearing to him and called out in a rather...mocking way. Just to get a rise out of you. Alucard does love to see your reactions.

But how he really feels is shown through his nicknames for you based on your personality. Your actions and quality of character.

It would be...rather painfully ironic that would stir him to guffaw like a madman if any nicknames were somewhat...connected to his past life. Like to seek the sight of an angel.

How absurd. The one thing he has fought for and then abandonded at the fear of dying...and now, an angel appears before him.

How maddening.

Names like angel or queen would be highly amusing to him in his own mind (its an inside joke, u wouldnt get it) and Alucard would call you these things with a chuckle or two to the point where you wonder if he is mocking you. However, that is far from the truth. The irony makes him laugh but that never undermines how he truly feels about you. An angel that deserves to be treated like a queen - that also should be besides him, the no life king.

Alucard is also very verbal of his..."affection" for you. Often compliments but also belittles you, during and outside of battle.

"You think this meager weapon will help you? How adorable."

"What a wonderful night to meet you here, my dear. It's always a pleasure to see you."

"No, I do not mock. I am simply enjoying your little human naivete. It is so precious that I just have to indulge in it. Please, go on, and never let anyone take that quality of yours away."

"Why, how could I ever say no to such a beautiful human? The scent of your blood lured me in, like a sweet lullaby."

With enemies he is especially possessive if you are there/are spoken of.

Any filth and maggot that dares speak your name deserves to die. They think they know you, they think they are better and stronger than you just because they have turned themselves inhuman.

They couldn't be more wrong.

"My darling is a braver and far superior being than your pathetic selves could ever be. So don't you dare speak so foolishly of them or its off with your tongue."

"Oh? You think you can talk to my dear like that and live? Hehehe...a dog like you needs to be pummeled! That human belongs to me!"

He will not mind you hearing all this let alone witness the torment he brings onto these fools. In fact, he enjoys it.

Watch him tear down all those that mock and hurt you, mere insects that are nothing! Nothing compared to you!

Alucard loves to be verbal and scream out for them to beg for mercy that he will never show. He loves torturing them in your name. It is what a monster does. Somewhere in the back of his twisted mind it is a sign of devotion to you that he would slaughter all those that dare proclaim themselves to be your enemies. And if they do, it just gives him the excuse to he more brutal than he is usually.

He also gets a kick in having you watch. Watch, watch, watch! Watch, how a monster tears down the flesh and skin of an weakling all for you! This is what a monster is, dear! See it, hear it, have the stench of blood be ingrained into your mind and senses! See if you can still be human around a monster like him! If you would still show love and kindness to a monster like him!

It's a weird game to test you on one hand, merely because he is curious. Would you still show some kindness to him after all this? He wonders as he thrusts his arm into the enemy's heart.

Nevertheless, he mostly does it because he enjoys killing for you. It's what monsters do.

Love does not exist...

The man and his intentions are obvious. To his master, his fledgling and you.

When approached by any of the three, Alucard chuckles, eerily, and nonchalantly admits his infatuation.

Why, yes, master, the human of this mansion has caught his eye and dead heart. Truly something special they are, wouldn't you agree?

Of course, police girl, will he make sure nothing happens to his darling human. Did you ever think otherwise? Ridiculous.

And when you finally talk to him, Alucard sits there on his throne, quiet before he chuckles again. It grows into cold laughter as he rather indirectly admits it. Why, don't you like the attention he gives you? Him, the no life king? Hellsing's hound? A monster?

Don't you appreciate all that he has done for you? He does so gladly, you know. Anything to make his little human safe and sound, showered in his affection and his alone.

No matter if his strokes are cold and his breath reeks. If his presence is unwanted and you are unaware of his watching eye.

The Vampire feels free to tell you all that he thinks of you - your strength, your character, your beauty, your quirks, weaknesses that are endearing, your humanity.

Yes, dear! Darling! Beloved! Angel! Royalty! Liege!

Yes, this monster adores you! Worships you! Is infatuated with you! You have his dead heart in your hands! His power!

However...not ever will and can Alucard say that he loves you. A monster can be obsessed. A monster can be infatuated. Worship that he cannot have, admire and adore the thing he looks down upon. But a monster does not know "love". It has no soul, no heart. Nothing to sacrifice and be selfless with. Alucard is the complete opposite.

Whatever his emotions may be, they are selfish.

He may admit that, too. That he cannot love. It's simply something impossible, he believes.

He agrees with you, that what he feels is not love. Love...he never knew it. Only the good and the pure can love. He never was either.

But know that this will never stop him.

Whatever you may feel...it doesn't matter in the end. Alucard will continue to be selfish and "love" you in the only way he knows how.

Whatever will you do, human?

On that note, Alucard fully does not expect you to accept him let alone love him.

It's understandable. Just as a monster cannot love in general, a human cannot ever grow to love a true monster.

Parts of him will never change. His desire to destroy and for power, as well as his bloodlust. The regret he feels. He can change but those parts can never be lovable enough to be...normal.

He is aware of it all so he's also fine with this one-sided obsession. He is content with being your freak of nature.

Additionally, the man...enjoys the whole ordeal of you two being the Beauty and the Beast. A twisted version of it. You, a pure, beautiful human cursed and haunted by your bloodthirsty beast. The protection, the loving gestures, gifts left for you to find (all flowers with thorns), the ghostly arms wrapping around you in the dead of the night, the sweet nothings that are incantations of curses, the many eyes watching you, the over-the-top exclamations of adoration...all from your filthy, filthy beast.

All because you showed it an ounce of humanity that it couldn't have.

Now, you are all his.

[yandere-wishes]

Vaguely based on an idea I had while making this edit. Plus I like to romantics my Aquaphobia.

Thinking of how different Neuvillet could have been, how paradoxical. He's basically a wild thing, tamed for the sake of granting mercy. Ocean-born dragon masquerading as a human...

🫧 Yandere Neuvillette (Regular)  

There's bubbles in your throat when he kisses you. Fresh salt from the sea and the prick of puka shells on your tongue.

You're drowning again. Just like last time. And the time before that.

Each kiss pulls you deeper into his watery depths.

He rests his forehead against yours, blue eyes too deep to stare into. You feel lost at sea when he looks at you. Too much love and misplaced adoration. It's like he's trying to swallow you whole.

When his blue lips part to utter your name in reverence you hear waterfalls singing your name. Siren songs begging you to follow, to impale your heart upon their love. Neuvillette leads you to the dance floor, dancing in tune with shark eye spirals.

He floats, treading air.

He's made to terrorize on both land and sea.

Deadly thing playing lovers with the wretched girl he stole.

You trace the tip of his gloved fingers expecting claws and scales and only finding smooth skin and delighted chuckles.

The band stops.

You don't recall when they started.

Neuvillette lowers his lips, the permanent blue painting your lips in his shade. Your lungs scream, overflowing.

So this is how sirens kill.

By weaving romance with water and pushing it down their lover's throat.

The water gives way, you choke with each deep breath. Coughing and gulping and trying to live. Neuvillette smiles bemused by your toil.

As the crowd claps for their Iudex and his lady...

🫧Yandere Dragon Neuvillette (feral)

There's bubbles in your throat when he kisses you. Sharp jagged teeth feeding into delicate lapis lips. Neuvillette's iridescent tail tightens around your hips, pulling you closer until you drown in his aqueous body.

The distinction between breathing and suffocating is subtle when you're trapped between two voids. Hungry hydrous dragon and the peril of Fontain's endless waters.

They say the hydro dragon haunts the seas.

Vindictive, ravenous.

Your ancestors used to feed it brides in hopes of complacency.

Neuvillette pushes you deeper, you feel the raptures in your ears, see the blood lining the translucent waters. His claws dig deeper into your back, bemused at the fortitude of bone. running talons between the pearls of your spine, playing with the space between each bone.

His eyes glow a hungry blue. You wonder if his kiss is a promise or a threat. If he intends to eat you whole and lick your bones with the gentlest of love. Or if he wants to savor each bite, enjoy mouthfuls of flesh and bone and marrow every day until there is nothing left of you.

The hydro dragon trails his forked tongue across your teeth, your throat, the uneven roof of your mouth. Utterly, utterly in love.

[destructive-poet]

Getting Even

astarion x gn! human tav hurt/comfort (~1.5k words)

This display of tenderness makes Astarion’s innards tremble in a weird, crawling sort of way– foreign enough, but not entirely unpleasant. Despite this, he remains quiet and relaxes his breath instead, deciding he would rather focus on the ugly, tangible sensation of his torn flesh being prodded."

astarion gets hurt. astarion is a moody bitch about getting hurt. unnamed gn tav apologizes by letting him suck their neck.

rating: mature

warnings: slight slight description of wounds

minors dni!

“Astarion?” Came a voice at the draped-down entrance of his tent, accompanied by the sound of distant waters and the crackling of a small fire. Night had long since fallen, and the voices of allies had slowly reduced to only the barest hints of conversations, seemingly muffled by the darkness. “Could I come in?”

The elf grimaces, jaw clenched tight as he lets out a simmering, discontented agreement, narrowing his eyes (though whether this is out of pain or annoyance, he himself is uncertain of). Of course, of all the times they could bother him, the ignorant wretch waits until he is despairing on the wooden plank he calls a “bed,” fists clenching the ragged blanket so tightly the worn fabric is liable to disintegrate, to come knocking at his door. The muscles in his side are wound so tight he fears they may snap. But yes, let’s have a visitor.

They gingerly push the thick tent door to the side, stepping in with caution to observe his state. “Are you okay?” Their eyes scan across him, taking note of the way he breathes, shallow and fast, not unlike an injured animal. Mess is strewn about the tent, and the vampire attempts to mask the obvious pain on his face. Unsuccessfully, but the party leader thinks it a noble attempt nonetheless.

His eyes meet theirs, glowering.

“No, of course I’m okay,” He grits out, “Just nearly impaled a few hours ago! But yes, darling. I’m fine. A mere scratch.” He seethes. They frown, scrunching their brows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. You know that...” Astarion glares in return, shuffling a little in his spot and then pointedly pouting at the wall.

They settle down onto the floor, pulling a woven bag from off their shoulders and setting it onto the ground, shuffling through it until they retrieve a small jar. “Salve. I went out and bought it for you.” The party leader states, gesturing the product towards him.

The vampire huffs, though shows no reluctance in letting them move closer, before their hands pause at the hem of his shirt, loose and untucked above a pair of cotton pants. “Can I lift your shirt to put it on?” They ask, looking at him. He grumbles out a yes, scoffing. As they shift the cloth up and away, revealing a gruesome puncture wound, he grimaces, moving back at the sensation. “It’s okay,” they say, reassuring, “this should help.” They hold up the salve once again. “It should numb and disinfect your wound. Do you want it?”

He nods, and they take a rag from their bag, gesturing it at him. “Want me to put it on, or do you want to do it yourself?” The party leader looks at him with worn eyes, tired and ragged by the troubles of their journey. Briefly, the elf’s eyes soften in response, before he exhales and mutters a yes. He sighs, “You may.”

They quickly begin their work, trying to apply the medicine as smoothly and painlessly as possible, only resulting in a few, minor winces of pain from the man laying aside them. “My sweet thing,” they whisper, “you’ll be okay.” Their free hand slowly comes to rest on his face, and they briefly rub his cheekbone. “It should be better very, very soon.” This display of tenderness makes Astarion’s innards tremble in a weird, crawling sort of way– foreign enough, but not entirely unpleasant. Despite this, he remains quiet and relaxes his breath instead, deciding he would rather focus on the ugly, tangible sensation of his torn flesh being prodded. When the human finishes tending to him and sets their items back in the bag, he feels relief. Finally, the pressure is taken off of his injury, and is instead replaced by a numb and somewhat minty sensation.

And though the pain is not completely gone, it is much better, and he has the strength now to sit up straighter, carefully observing his human rummaging through that ragged bag again, eyes flickering with reflections of a candle nearby. “Thank you, by the way. Sorry I was being a little bit… Difficult, earlier.” He states, quietly, and they nod it off, continuing to search their belongings, focused. He is about to call their name out again when they straighten up in relief, grabbing a little shimmering object in their closed hand and moving it into his.

“I found this earlier. I thought you might like it.”

In Astarion’s palm, now, is a little ring, embellished with white stones and gold trimmings. He turns it over, feeling the cool weight of it in his palm. His eyes flicker up to them, and he lets out a breathy laugh. A warm feeling settles in his chest, and he swallows it back. “Well, thank you, sweet. You do know just how to cheer me up.”

“No big deal, just reminded me of you. I took it from a skeleton.” They shrug, attempting to play the gesture off as casual, ashamed to admit how much they had hoped he would like it. The vampire hmphs, grinning. “That’s my little scavenger. Always bringing me the prettiest things. This one is almost as pretty as you.”

They smile, humming. “Then it must be impossibly distant from comparing to you, hm?” A blush and a laugh, they move closer to him, reaching back to cradle his face in their hands. “You are my love, much more valuable than any gold. I’m so sorry you got hurt today.” They press a kiss to his forehead, stroking his hair and leaning back, eyes tearing up. 

Astarion looks at them, unsure of what to say, feeling very present in an overwhelming (but not undesired) moment of softness. Away from crypts and castles and temples, rugged stone walls and painful, visceral struggles. Briefly, he lets himself imagine a softer life, made of blankets and forehead kisses, of thick draped curtains over glass windows teeming with morning sun. The human by his side, warmth, kindness, contentedness.

“It’s alright.” He says, reaching to hold their hand, feeling its energy thrum against his own. They sniffle, resting down by his side. “Are you hungry?”

His stomach churns, and he bitterly realizes that yes, indeed, he is. “No, darling, it’s really alright. I’ve got a bottle of something or another around here.”

“Astarion.” They say, unconvinced. “It’s no trouble. I like it.” The vampire smirks, and they quickly backtrack. “I mean— Whatever. You know what I mean. It’s not about that. Not…” They sigh, closing their eyes. “Not like that now.” 

He sighs exasperatedly in return, teasingly. “Well, if you insist… Since it so delights you-” They narrow their eyes at him, huffing. “Apologies, apologies. But yes, My sweet, if you would like to give me such a delicious meal, I would be very grateful.”

“Well, I’m glad you are back to your normal, mischievous self.” They mutter, sitting up to beckon him towards their neck, skin luminous in the dimly lit tent. “Go ahead, I don’t bite.” They say, giggling at their own joke. “As you wish, darling.” He firmly grabs onto them, one hand digging into the soft warmth of their waist, while the other pulls their neck into his jaw. He hesitates, mouth watering at the scent of his beloved companion’s thrumming pulse. “Is this alright?”

“Yes yes, I promise,” A reassuring hand cups the back of his head, “You’re alright, come on.” He hums, pressing an open kiss to their skin, and the human lays a milder one upon his hair, making a breathy noise that jolts into a gasp as his fangs punch into them, and they jerk in his grasp briefly before melting back into him, the teeth quickly replaced by a tongue soothing over the spot. “Thank you,” he whispers, between sucks and licks, drinking in their blood like the finest wine, like the last drops of water in sweltering heat. His human makes a little noise, fingers weaving into his hair and tugging him closer, and he feels them swallow.

He groans, laving against the wound. “Good job, such a good little treat.” They nod, and he continues drinking his fill. Right as they start to feel dizzy, Astarion pulls off, licking his lips and looking up to them, kissing first the holes in their neck, then the edge of their jaw, and then the swell of their lips. 

They meet his kiss before slumping into his arms, breathing slowly, relaxed. “Are we even now?” They ask, softly. “A wound for a wound?”

A gentle laugh and a cool touch pulls them to lay down, resting against his side. “Yes, darling, we’re even.”

[butterbabyflapjack]

ＣＨＡＯＳ ＨＥＡＲＴＳ

[ PAIRING ] Messmer the Impaler x hornsent princess!reader

[ SUMMARY ] Messmer is feared throughout the land. Your world, his flame has razed; your family gone, yourself his prisoner. He’s given you every reason to hate him. So why does heat flood your veins at his touch? Doth your wretched heart crave his to come and claim you?

[ RATING ] explicit, 18+

[ WARNINGS ] enemies to lovers as an extreme sport, mutual pining, snake bites, light bondage, monsterfucker, inhuman anatomy, size difference, hurt and comfort, passionate sex, hate sex, dark romance, slow burn, minor character death, attempted rape (not by Messmer), canon typical violence and warfare, more tags to come

✧˖° read here or ao3

CHAPTER 1

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] Soooo I did not mean for this to be so long. I got carried away–I can't help myself. And I’m sure there's parts which are messy since editing chapters this long melts my brain so I hope you’ll forgive me <3 Enjoy!

This land was not always weighed by death. Not always wrought by ash and ruin.

The Impaler, Messmer, changed that. Inked his name to its cause. Proud, it seemed, to wear the flame-soaked flag his crusade waved in the broken halls of your people.

He changed a lot of things in what would become his land of shadows, and always in manners most cruel.

The people feared him.

You feared him.

Ear craned to whispers of his name.

You lived a sheltered, privileged life, despite your lust for ungilded freedom, and your father wouldn’t tell you the state of things, how close this war had gotten. He often told you nothing at all, in truth, beyond the length of your duties as a woman and sole daughter of his house. But you feared the worst–for yourself, for those around you. Feared that death was fast approaching, for something of it shivered in the air, made its mountain calm taste ashen. And what is calm, if not what veils the savage storm which lies beyond it?

Something was coming. Of this your nightmare’s warned, though it seemed no one would voice their shared concerns. Playing fool to the obvious, as though to hide from truth would keep it from ever finding you.

You needed your brother; your only and cherished sibling. Your kin and closest friend. Needed to speak with him about your worries, needed to salve them, but he’d been garrisoned near Rivermouth for nearly two moons, a sentry against the threat of Messmer’s men–but no longer.

Today was the day he finally came home.

Your heart swims with warmth at the notion, as for days and nights you’ve fretted he may never return.

He was practically your twin, your brother Sven. People often believed such was true, though you were younger. And his imminent arrival was your first thought upon waking. To embrace him safely your sole intention when throwing yourself from your dusky blue bed at the silver of dawn, wrestling inside the arms of your emerald overcoat. Slipping on dirtied shoes your father would be ashamed of with all the clumsy, stumbled excitement of an eager child.

Sven is home…!

You were anxious to see him, even if your intentions of doing so well before your father ineluctably found him were far from merely greeting him home.

With this in mind, you rushed from your private chambers. Down through the broad, stone-floored hallways of your family’s hold, and knew not how you knew his procession arrived, only that you knew. Perhaps it was the song of the field birds, or those of the surrounding pines; that small forest which surrounds your sprawling, mountainous city. Or perhaps it was merely his presence in the air, something clung to the leaves like dappled dew, but you knew; Sven was home. He was safe, and you meant to keep it so.

The chill of the outer courtyard couldn’t receive you fast enough as you rushed past servants and guardsmen out into the dawn. The courtyard filled with horned mounts and war carts, brimming with the sounds of armor and hooves, as inside the gates amasses your brother’s wearied men at arms. And when you see Sven slipping off his steed alongside them, you fail even to call his name. Something catching in your throat as you merely bolt toward his presence, with him too distracted loosing his horned steed’s bridle to see you bounding there. Informed with a breathless grunt upon you tightly seizing him that you’ve come to greet him, swarmed by a hug that might seek to wring him of his very life. 

After tensing in bewilderment, he laughed; his exhales shaking you. “Someone’s eager to greet the dawn.”

“I’d be eager to see you no matter what time it is,” comes your mumbling in his chest.

He clasps one solid arm around your far more fragile form, bronze armor twisting leather joints as he brings you to his ochre-draped chest. Holding you there for warm moments, before shifting his hold somewhat in effectively prying you off him.

He surmises you a moment, as though confused by such fierceness of emotion. Eventually smiling softly. “Good morrow to you as well, dear sister.”

“You’re home,” is all you can muster, like you can’t quite believe it still, and a chuckle harbors once more in his throat.

“I’m home,” he agrees, quite simply. “Had you room for doubt I would be?” 

To this, you withhold response.

He lacks the helm of his fellow horned warriors, of whom it seems what remains of his regiment’s traveled here. Donning instead a fabric mask he now pulls from his nose and face; dark, shoulder-length hair spilling past his crown of two goat-like horns, their curves spiraling toward the sunlight.

He seems to decipher your worries as you eye his men, as you eye him ; giving your chin a small pinch in the effort to snatch you from them.

“I’m well,” he assures you. “You worry far too much.” Glancing at the vine-twisted keep far behind you, he wonders, “Have you told father of my arrival?”

Your expression’s wry. “Has it been so long you’ve forgotten I’m not entirely witless?”

One corner of his lips quirks as his hand shifts to your hair, ruffling it up a bit despite your instant protests. “Happily, it has not. And I’m glad of it. I’d prolong his inevitable criticisms for as long as possible.”

“I’m rather offended you hadn’t told me of your arrival, however,” you point out whilst slapping his giant, armored hand away, to which his dark brows pinch incredulously. 

“I only just arrived! I hardly know how you knew it.” 

Pressing back your responding grin, you shed the skin of levity in favor of matters more severe; ones you’ve rushed here to find him for in the first place.

“Come,” you tell him, in the guise of welcoming him home. “You must be tired. And before our unfortunate father finds you, I have questions of your time at the blockade.”

And though Sven sighs, he doesn’t stop you–allowing himself to be pulled by one hand toward the keep whilst his soldiers behind him toil with horses and armament; some greeting family, others guiding their horses back home. 

“Of course you do,” he mutters, unenthused. “Though I assure you father’s relayed the state of things well enough.”

He hasn’t, and Sven must know that. Your father confides in you nothing. He loves not your gender, preferring you’d been yet another son, and nor does he love you were born without horns. He thinks less of you. Sven can’t deny this unfortunate truth. And he won’t worm his way from your questions by playing fool to it.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” you state, forcing tension from your tone. 

Past chamber after chamber, you drag him searching for one vacant of any eyes that might spot you. And though Sven’s much taller than you, it’s like he’s dragging his feet in some useless attempt to dissuade you.

“My, you’re slow,” you chastise, leaning more weight toward your aims, more or less lugging the tall man forward. “Have you suffered so greatly on your journey that you now walk as a feeble old man?”

He rolls his hazel eyes, though at your taunting, his pace rises to meet yours all the same. “I’ve only just arrived,” he complains. “Have we not time to tarry?”

No, you bite back from saying. Instead steering him inside a broad, open storeroom where you two can be alone. We don’t. 

The room is quite barren, many of its supplies shifted elsewhere in support of the war. And after glancing about in ensuring your privacy, you turn and stare up at your brother hard.

He looks at you with subtle perplexion. Meeting your solemn gaze as all lightness is slowly bled of him.

“What troubles you, sister?”

You’re not sure what to say. Knowing the words, yet somehow sure he will resist them.

In your troubled silence, he takes your arm in reclaiming your wandering gaze again, guiding your worry more toward his. 

“What is it?”

Your mouth presses flat before you manage to force the words out.

“We have to get out of here.”

A crease weighs his brow. “What do you mean, get out of here?”

“I mean it isn’t safe here,” you tell him with more insistence in every second drawn on. 

You steal another glance at the opened doorway beside you, before taking his hand to steer him deeper into the room, away from what prying ears might hear you.

“I’ve heard whispers,” you state, in a whisper all your own. Staring up with desperation, attempting to wring the truth from his dodging hold. “The Impaler…”

Sven’s forearm tenses, though you press on.

“He’s reduced Moorth to naught but ruin, has he not?”

Jawline growing tight, some faint darkness glints his eye in a way suggestive that he did not want you to know this.

“We’ll take the city back,” he says, but you won’t have his dodging.

“Father insists our paths of trade aren’t broken, but I’m not the ignorant simpleton he thinks I am,” you say, fearful and sullen. Determined for whatever ugly truth. “He’s incinerating everything, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“You know who!” your voice now raises. “Stop treating me like some blissful, ignorant child!”

In his reluctance, silence follows, though you read him well enough. Know your brother better than anyone. And you see something beyond the stone-wall of him splinter.

“That’s why you’re here, then… Isn’t it?” you press him, as your nervous heart still trembles. “To defend these halls… Belurat far beyond them… There’s nowhere else to fall back to. He’s ransacked everything else.”

He doesn’t immediately respond. Instead studying you with the hesitance of not knowing what to say, how honest to be with you.

You demand full honesty. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Through his tension, he says not anything. 

Biting the inside of your lip so harshly it stings, you take both his hands in yours, squeezing harder than you mean to.

“We have to go,” you insist in one breath, unblinking. Hushed enough to hide such treason from any walls that may have ears. “We have to leave the city. Now. We’d be fools to wait any longer.”

The line of his jaw turns to stone as he studies you. 

“And go where?” he wonders at last, voice bladed against you. “There’s nowhere in reach where Messmer’s flames cannot find us.”

You’re left without answers, for there are none for such an impossible thing.

“We’ll find a way through the shadow veil,” you insist in desperation; disheartened to hear his weary scoff. Gripping his hands still tighter to win his ear. “I’ll tear the bloody thing apart myself if I have to,” you persist, not knowing if you even can, if such a thing is possible. “I’ll–”

“Enough,” your brother halts you, with such uncharacteristic firmness it stills your tongue at once.

A flicker on his brow seems to regret his harshness of it, though he carries on unyielding even so. “There’s nowhere more safe than inside these walls. And even were there not, who are we to abandon our people here? While we ourselves flee for spurious safety in the night?”

Our people…

The notion ties labyrinthine cords inside you. For though you care for your people–our people–don’t want them to suffer Messmer’s wrath…

Some of your people’s practices are those of pure horror. Traditions and rituals with shamans–with people–you’ve always found barbarous. Beyond what one can bear. Impossibly cruel.

Still. Even with the bad, there is good here. Hundreds of innocent lives that might be snuffed out. 

But when it comes to their lives, or your brothers…

You choose your brother’s every time, without question. Over every single soul that elsewise exists.

You hold Sven’s gaze as obstinately as he holds yours. “I’m leaving,” you say. “Tonight. And you’re coming with me.”

He regards you still more discontentedly, as some thread inside him fails in tearing through. And when he pulls his hands from the unyielding strangle of yours, there’s the smallest smile forced to his lips that might’ve convinced anyone other than you. 

“I understand your disquiet,” he says. “Truly, I do.” He brushes back some hair behind your ear, as if this alone might cease this war inside you. “But such depth of concern is unfounded. Worry not, dear sister... Messmer’s forces will not reach our city. Nor will the Tower Settlement fall.” 

As you frown, his thumb swipes your chin as though to swipe the shape of it from you.

“You underestimate me,” he says, with a glisten to crinkling eyes. “I’ll protect you, as I always have. As you know I always will. In this, you can be certain. And with it allow this matter to rest.”

You merely scowl at him. “You’re… You’re being stubborn… pigheaded… I–”

He laughs before frustration lets you finish. Drawing you to him. Hugging your scowling close whilst he strokes the back of your hornless head with playful fingers.

“I’ve heard tell of my being such,” he agrees, lightly. “Enough that I fear it must be true. The pigheaded prince, they call me.”

His embrace is comfort enough that your fears are near forgotten. Though it slips through your grasping fingers all too swiftly as he lets you go, with guidance toward the doorway where the two of you both entered. 

It’s obvious that he would see this conversation’s end, while you consider it hardly started.

“I also fear our father’s already loathe to’ve not addressed me,” he says, with this in mind, though with little relish. “I’m sure I’ll be his unwilling captive in the war room at least till dusk. After which…”

He pauses just before the doorway, turning you toward him with gentle hands.

“I expect you to sit with me at whatever feast he’s surely hosting.”

Your attempt at jest’s still murky with clouds of doubt. “A feast… I suppose your presence warrants as much...”

His eyes, even now, cast a sparkle. “Is that doubt on your tongue?” he ribs you. “My presence warrants several feasts, at least. Lavish ones, where the whole of the city stumbles home drunk from them.”

You look away, in no mood for his usual liveliness. And his fingers grace your upper arms in catching your gaze once more. Eyes passing between your worried ones.

“Be at peace, dear sister,” he says, with firmness reassuring, even now. “Leave worry with me. I won’t let ill befall you.” He gives your arms a squeeze. “Save me a spot at the table tonight, will you? Near some comely friend of yours. I could use a lovely distraction.”

You fight back the smallest smile in response. “I’ll have no part in you breaking some poor girl’s heart again.”

“Then I’ll take care not to break it this time,” he teases. 

As he’d guessed, you did not see your brother again till the world became swallowed by night.

Your father’s great hall is thunderous. Partiers laughing, people jeering, as though the only one worried is you.

How can they all be so ignorant of what death approaches?

You wish you could shrink from it; this jovial place. But you’re not one to cast aside a more pleasant reunion with your brother than the short one you shared this morning, so you stay, beside his and your father’s empty seats at the longtable as instructed.

As a man slick with sweat reaches toward you across the table for yet another leg of lamb, a darkened presence hovers just behind where you sit.

“Is this seat taken?”

The boldness, to ask such a thing of your brothers chair. Only a nitwit would speak such stupidity, and you turn to see said nitwit standing there.

He’s older, with a tangle of horns on his brow. A thin smile and small eyes, with teeth greased with the ale which surely prompted this.

Yet another, it would seem, after your affluent hand. As if your father hadn’t plans to sell you to whoever’s hand flattered his own most. 

“Yes,” you say brusquely, turning away more rudely than you mean, though you find it hard in that moment to care. 

You grab the flask of ale before you and suck it down as though you mean to drown in it.

Wherever is your damnable brother?

Wiping amber from your lips with an unladylike hand, you endeavor to breathe some fresh air. Standing up far too quickly, to the effect of nearly toppling over, and it’s no wonder you don’t often drink liquor.

Wavering your way from the hall, you make your way out into night. Out, through the courtyard, knowing not where you wander, only that you’d rid yourself of all raucous and smell of that festivous hell.

Ale warms your veins, yet you still rub gooseflesh from your arms as you wander in your long-sleeved gown up the stairway of the keep’s curtain wall, thinking to look out at the darkness beyond the sprawling city’s light.

The breeze is stronger up here, on the wall’s utmost walkway. Curling the length of your skirts in about you, tugged to and fro with the wind's invisible hands. And you stare outward, full of worry, not aware that you aren’t alone.

“Didn’t know I’d have such fine company.”

It’s a gruff voice which greets you, and you turn with a start, though it’s only a grizzled guard who addresses you. A graying old man with kind eyes and a knobby head of horns. Is your father so wanting of forces he’d pluck some greybeard from his bed to man the bailey?

“Apologies,” you say, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your watch.” Vacillating a moment, before adding, “I’d stay a while, if you’d allow it.”

His eyes crease as he smiles, pushing himself up off the half-wall he’d previously leaned upon.

“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “There’s naught much to look at. Boredom’s making me numb.”

Your attempt to return his smile falls short. “I fear I may fail to salve boredom, if that’s what you hope. I’m not presently much for conversation.”

He quirks a grandfatherly brow. “Long night?”

If he wasn’t so kindly, you might be aggrieved he’s still insistent on chatting away through the night. But as it were, you just sigh. Staring out into the darkness beyond the city. 

“One longer has yet to grace me.”

“Say no more,” he says, understanding. “The quiet’s a balm for such things.”

Relieved, you take him up on such advice.

You stay on the wall with this stranger who feels somehow a friend for some time. Likely longer than you ought to. And it thaws you, inch by inch, of that worry which clings; enough till you finally clear your throat to speak, to somehow return this man's kindness. Though as you turn to say a word, a flicker of light in the distance instead captures your focus.

Standing straighter, you're drawn like a moth to that faraway glisten. Watching as one glimmer turns to four. Then a dozen. Then more. Unable to turn away from whatever those pinprick lights are as they loom so far across the horizon, like stars dragged over ground. Asking the graybeard, “Do you see that…?”

You hear the old man’s armor shifting as he seems to adjust his gaze.

“...Aye,” he says at last. “I see it.”

You cannot look away. And how some flickers of light can distress you, you fail fully to grasp or name why. “What is it?”

Silence, as the graybeard beside you stares.

“...M’not sure,” he utters at length. Perturbed, a touch, it seems. “Though whatever they are… They're getting closer.”

Reaching one grizzled hand toward his neck, the old man grasps a silver looking-glass from where it dangles upon his chest, raising it in scanning outward. And with a glance at him, you wait with bated breath for word of what's seen.

“...Too dark to see for certain,” he murmurs, his tone more weighed than before. His eye staying glued to his contraption. “...There’s perhaps two dozen… N’whatever they are, they’re too large to rightly be torches…”

For stretching moments, he stares outward, as do you. Until finally he offers you his looking-glass, slipping its delicate chain off from round his neck.

“Take a look,” he offers, and in disquietude you do, not so much as thinking to decline him. Something raising every fine hair on your skin, though the reason eludes. 

You see…

…Flames.

The distance holds them small, in the palm of its night-drenched hand, though with every second passed they grow larger. Wavering midst the shadows, as if lumbering side to side; as though flame itself's somehow walking.

You peer past the lens to stare with the naked eye again. And it's then you first feel it. The ground come so slowly to life. A sensation so subtle at first you cannot hear the distant thuds which crescendo each minute vibration, more and more, til you cannot deny them. A sort of hum. A twisting of earth. More rhythmic with each second dragged on.

Despite how vague and far those groans of earth, whatever could be their cause flashes images of horror inside your mind. Of something you’ve only heard tell of; a wickedness only since dreamed. Of machines, gnarled and vast, designed with the fuel of bodies. Tall as any tower. Barred as any gael. Fashioned for death and the installation of fear in any soul hapless enough to look upon them.

Just its image painted in your mind inscribes fear in you now, as was its architects intention.

You stumble back a step, eyes growing wide in the darkness as you stare at those ever-growing flames. And though you lack any proof of their purpose, some piece inside you knows what they are. Why they’re here.

The looking-glass tumbles with a delicate plink from your grasp, while the man beside you’s expression draws confusion.

“What is it?” he asks, but you’re already running. Down the bailey’s length, down stairs, through the courtyard's growing dim.

Sven.

You hear the graybeard’s horn sound behind you, and though you should find relief in what little solace its call to your father’s forces might bring you, you cannot care. It matters little. For surely those golems grow nearer with every lumbering step, and there’s nothing you or your father’s dwindling men can do to stop them, not if all tell you've heard about Messmer is true.

The ground further shakes, undeniable in what it might bring you, as you enter the sconce-scattered castle. Fighting the length of your damnable skirts as you bound in through the hallways as fast as you can, as already panic clouds your vision.

Messmer will feed your bodies to his golems one by one. Impale all others. Leave your ashes to rot on a graveyard of spears, your tombs like a forest. Your corpses charred black, with faces frozen in whatever terror his flames found you in; whatever anguish his spear brought before the mercy of death.

You run still faster; in past the broad, opened doorways of the dining hall, where merriment’s paused in favor of scattered, flummoxed eyes and panicked questioning, though even that you find hard to hear.

You need to find Sven. Need to drag him to any place far from here. You have to protect him, as he always has you–even from himself if you must, and such is his dauntless, stubborn pride that you likely will.

There’s no stopping what may come, you should have dragged him from this place far sooner, you–

You're too late.

You were too late–dammit, you–!

Reeling as you turn one hallway’s bend, you're forced to shove your way past those filing into the corridors; servants, guardsmen, guests, all traveling with purpose or else questioning if you're under attack. And it's nothing short of a blessing catching eye of Sven's height lingering above the masses, as he likewise spots you; gaze alight with relief as he fights his way toward you.

Lodged within the crowds of mismanaged havoc, he takes your arm and drags you further into the keep, beyond the rising panic of those behind you. 

The ground further quakes. Iron chandeliers overhead further quivering. 

How close must they be now? Those colossal, wandering flames?

“I saw them,” you tremble as Sven further leads you, knowing not where he guides, too dazed to question. “I saw them, Sven. The furnaces. I–I couldn’t–they were so far away, but they–”

“I should have sent you away this morning,” he says, almost to himself, which does nothing to allay that viperous terror twisting through you. Sounding to wrest up whatever hope he has left whilst adding, “Though it’s not too late.”

It’s then that you realize he’s leading you in the direction of the stables.

You seize his wrist; stopping him in his tracks as his impatient, worried expression turns across one shoulder, his gaze alone questioning whether you’ve succumbed to sudden madness.

“I won’t leave without you,” you tell him, knowing already his intent. That he’d send you off and remain behind here. As of course he would, seeing reason to fight, though you won’t allow it.

This stubborn, stubborn man.

He doesn’t answer. Instead attempting to drag you on again, though you dig your heels in as sediment trembles from the rumbling walls all around you. 

“I’m not leaving without you!”

You don’t mean to shout, but you do. 

He looks at you as though you’re a war he’s already lost.

“I can’t leave while the city needs defended,” he argues, resolve fused to his every sinew. 

His valor is nothing short of infuriating.

“Then I’m staying with you.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Should you put me on a mount I’ll simply ride right back,” you protest, gaze growing wild. “You can’t make me go anywhere unless you ride by my side in ensuring it!”

His look is of utter frustration. But as horns blare and some distant, bone-deep tremor once more shakes the earth, inspiring a ripple of far away screams in the castle, there isn’t time to dissuade you. And with an agitated breath, he diverts course in leading up a set of winding stairs–those leading toward the hallway of your bedroom, where he guides you with swiftness.

“Stay here,” he says, ushering you inside your chambers. Seeming barely to accept such a compromise. “Bar the door. Remain hidden. I’ll return for you.”

The rapid beating of hooves and heels sounds far below your bedroom's balcony window, and too soon Sven's turned to leave, with you grabbing his wrist before he is able. “Don’t go! Don’t… Don’t go out there, Sven…!”

Tears burn your eyes, their threat overwhelming your lashes, and the resolve of Sven's own expression crumbles somewhat to see it.

He takes your face gently in his both hands while you plead with him once more, “Don’t go…” Steering you just a touch closer in placing a kiss upon your brow.

“Do as I’ve told you,” he bids, resolutely. “Allow no other entrance. I’ll return here as soon as I’m able. You have my word of this.”

And with this, he is gone. His warmth left on your cheeks as tears spill where his touch had been.

You staunchly refuse the cruel suggestion of your heart; that this may be the last time you see him. Uncertain how you’ll barricade your door with no lock on its innermost side, though you’re desperate to keep your mind busy, to heed Sven’s instructions. So with great effort, you squeeze yourself in behind your bed’s massive headboard, barely managing to shove it inch by awkward inch away from the stone-hewn wall. Shoving with all your strength until the mass of it blockades the doorway.

Time is as much a weapon as any sword. And as you wait for your brother's return, heart tangled by vines in your chest, you seek to pry yourself from terror enough to stumble out onto your balcony, where night wraps you up in its arms.

The song of steel and iron grows ever louder from down below. Your view half-concealed by the edge of the castle. Horns sounding more in the darkness. The rumble of beasts and mounts and men shaking into the ground. And your strained eyes grow wider upon seeing a haze of flame glowing just outside the city, bewitching the air to a blistering hellscape of dancing cinder and molten fog.

Such a harrowing sight overwhelms you.

Whatever has come, it is here.

Your hands grip desperately to the terrace’s balustrade as the world around you abruptly lurches in place, and with a vicious crack one section of walls round the city erupts into pieces, struck by some mammoth blow beyond what your vision can see. Stones tumbling like naught more than ash as a behemoth lumbers in through the wreckage. A mountainous cage of a being, weighed slow by its body of metal; stomach burning with the piled corpses of past feasts. Its silhouette singed against darkness, twisted by hundreds of arms reaching out through the bars of its belly; burned slow enough to long to be free.

You long to look away, yet can scarcely remember to breathe. The cities outmost towers growing brighter with ashes and flame in a nauseating dance of destruction that would see all before it laid waste, as behind the crushed path of each furnace, Messmer's forces are free to bleed in. 

The city you've known all your life slowly transforms beyond all recognition. Your sense of time broken, sands scattered to the wind, as you watch the growing onslaught in horror. Your pupils shrinking from a vicious, sudden trail of horrid brightness as tendrils of flame lick the air, weaving through it, met soon by a chorus of screams that grow shrill before melting. Lungs scorched in a firestorm that sets the very sky on fire, and you've never seen anything like it. Like a dragon assaults your city, though even they cannot wield such a vicious flame.

You can do nothing but watch as fire tangles through buildings and streets. Your fingernails digging into your palms till the marks left behind may soon bleed.

Sven…

You… You can’t just stay here, sequestered in your room like this-!

You have to find him,

You have to help him–!

But if you leave, how might he find you amidst the chaos?

You have to stay here. He needs to know where you are when he surely comes back, for he will. He’ll come back. His word was given.

Villagers run through the streets as flame leaks its way its alleys; into the very reaches of your father’s keep, as its bailey comes crashing at the slam of a furnace golem’s gnarled excuse for a fist. And as your world shakes you hear Messmer’s men storming in through the courtyard. Hear the clashing of metal grow near. The screams of terror in hallways, all while fear tears through your bosom like an animal clawing to get out.

Where is your brother?!

It feels as though an eternity has held you breathless in its clutches, and as the sounds of war draw nearer, your walls feel to close in.

Footsteps soon sound within the corridor behind your shuttered doorway. Soldiers grunting, weapons clattering to the ground beside a distant woman’s shriek. And then the handle of your door’s taken hold of. The wood of it shuddered by what seems an impatient hand; rattled against how your bed keeps it fully from opening.

Your attention hones tightly toward it.

Sven…?

It remains as a thought, your throat’s tautness not letting you speak it. As you watch in a silence that would strip all reason raw while the door falls eerily still.

You’ve no time to react before your chamber’s entrance blasts violently open in a hailstorm of splintered wood and flame, whipping the room with embers as you stumble back and scream from the ruined blockade of your doorway. 

Snowflake cinders hang loosely in the air as your eyes strain through the rubble, and you know not the man who stands there in the wreckage, whose outline swirls amidst wisping smoke, though he’s wearing Messmer’s red. A pointed helm adorns his looming outline, its steeple skyward, and from his breadth a dripping crimson cowl falls lapping at his heels. Armored head to toe in blackened steel save the shape of his slowly smiling lips as he beholds you. And though you can’t see his gaze through the intricate, beak-like visor he wears, you you can feel his curious eyes scanning over your shape.

“Well… What have we here,” he croons above the distant hymn of bloodshed; that war below now muted by growing unease. “A hornless trollop all alone in her chambers… Tucked away, it would seem, just for me…”

His cruel lips curve as you instinctively falter from him, recoiling further toward the terrace at your back, even when its height would further trap you.

The man steps in through your doorway's ruin, unperturbed by anxious lack of welcoming him in.

“You aren’t quite as foul as the rest of them,” he observes, almost to himself. In no real hurry to approach you, as instead he makes a game of dread. Bits of broken wood twisting beneath his heavy, prowling footsteps as he draws ever closer, and though you glance to the ravaged doorway behind him, with him its gate its passage feels to shrink.

“Not the talkative sort?” he wonders, idly, with a falsely exhaustive sigh. “What a pity… I'd hear your tearful pleas, were it up to me.”

His drawing nearness springs a trap in you, and unthinkingly you try to flee. Though as you bolt in sprinting past him you find he’s far faster than you could have believed.

He’s snatched your wrist in his harshly armored grip before you can even flinch, his every finger steel and pointed. Flinging you without mercy onto the rubble of your bed as a cry tears from your chest, your body shaken as you tumble. 

“Such a morsel I’ve found myself,” he breathes, becoming feverish as a predator above prey. “You do look hornless… Though I’d be sure of it. Let us see if you have any defilements in places I haven’t yet seen, hm?”

Terror wraps fists around you, and though you scramble to get up, to run, he’s on you in an instant. The weight of him shackling you down against your ruined mattress on the floor. The snakelike scales of his ruby tabbard scraping up your kicking legs as he roughly straddles down your writhing form, and though you strike his half-masked face in desperation it does naught but scrape your fingers raw.

He laughs at the attempts to dissuade him. Snatching your wrists and squeezing until you fear your bones might crack.

“There’s that flame,” he croons, tone gleefully debased. “I thought for a moment you’d bore me. How long might that tiny flame flicker before tamping out, I wonder?”

With hungry hands, he grips and tears the flowing fabric of your gown at the seams, ripping it from your thighs as alarm makes you mindless, has you kicking out wildly in the attempt to be free.

“Let me go!” you scream, voice stripped by panic. “Let me go! Get off of me–!”

His breathy laughter’s a horrible thing. But all at once it’s frozen in his throat; locked away as his muscles all seize. Its cruelty marred instead to a painful choke, something congealed, as a swing of metal shears the air behind him, slashing through what seems his severed spine.

His form grows rigid with the realization of death. Wavering in how he pins you, before slumping down like a lifeless tree whilst your lungs are crushed beneath him. And though you fight to claw him off, his weight of steel proves too much for your waning strength.

Some hand seizes the cowl which drapes the dead man’s neck, tearing his body from you. And with a gasp of needed breath you’re overcome to see Sven, like a beacon above you; his red-slicked sword in hand.

Blood and ash fill the lines of his handsome face. Concern whiting his brow as he reaches down to take your shell-shocked hand.

There’s little time to coddle you.

“Are you hurt?”

Tension cleaves to every inch of you, though as you struggle to swallow, you also strive to nod your head. 

“I’m… I’m fine.”

The need to thank him once again for saving you, as it seems he always does, trembles past your mind with you too overwhelmed to fully grasp it. And Sven’s jaw is hard as he holds your trembling hand, his fingers weaving through your own.

“Come,” he says, not wasting words. Towing your stumbling fragility with him from the horror of your chambers. 

You haven’t made it far at all before the clamor of many footsteps resounding in these hallways soon assails you. And round the corridor's bend, just several yards before you, comes a cluster of soldiers in regalia you don’t recognize, so they must be Messmer’s men. Led by a knight in red like that of your bedroom.

Their party pauses upon sighting you, as does yourself and a stiffening Sven. His giant hand gripping yours more fiercely.

Silence, as time strips thin and the lot of you warily eye one another.

“You there,” the red knight says, his voice like brass. “You are the son of the false, impure king, unjustly throned in these lands, I presume?”

Shifting slowly forward, Sven secures himself one step before where you stand, stricken beside him.

“Would that I were,” he says, ever defiant. “What difference does it make?”

The knight before you slowly smiles, though its quick to fade away. 

“We’d make a sigil of your broken body in the courtyard,” he says. “I’d hoped to fell you outside. Alas, we must now drag you there, instead.”

The line of Sven's shoulders grows taut, before abruptly he shoves you from him, your hand stripped from his–pushing you further behind him.

“Go,” he orders, not glancing back. “Run.”

You tremble, and cannot move but to shake your head. Salt soon stinging your vision. Unwilling to obey him.

“No–”

“Go!” he shouts, yet still you cannot heed him. Will not heed him.

The red knight tilts his chin, gesturing three soldiers carry on before him. And already your brother’s sword is raised; knocking back one spear that would see him dead, and then the another. Repelling blows as each comes raining in, trading strikes through the bedlam.

He holds them off for much longer than any man rightly should, such is your brother, such is his mastery of sword. Sweat soaks his brow, blood spilling through his armor with every blow he fails to break. Felling two of Messmer's men as two more are sent by the man in red to take their place, and you're terrified he’ll tire before the end of them. 

You scarcely notice, at first, how beneath his steps bubbles forth a glowing pool of red.

You watch in pure horror as flames like vines slowly leak up through the cracks of the floorboards, tendrils of searching crimson, while Sven’s too caught by battle to heed them. And the moment you cry out for him to run is already a cry too late, as those flames burst forth with sudden violence. Flinging from their center a massive spear, pierced up from the very ground he stands on, as though formed from the shadow of his feet.

The spear flings forth with impossible strength, goring high into the ceiling like the shoot of a savage, crooked tree. It’s hilt still buried in the ground as its speartip thucks up high in the timber above you; piercing through Sven's middle, metal lifting through his ribs.

His body's rigid where he hangs, high above where once he'd stood fighting. And you forget what feeling even is as his body gradually falls limp. Sword slipped from wilting fingers. Clattering to the ground so far below his hanging feet.

All you can see is him and that spear he hangs on. An awful monument to a moment that will live with you forever. And you stare at this nightmare of him; balking backward. Stare, as your heart crumbles into pieces, and you can do nothing else. 

Sven…

You can’t find breath enough to even cry his name, though it trembles in the pit carved where your heart and lungs once lived.

Those soldiers still alive before you part within the haze that strangles your breath, making way as someone else approaches, though you hardly notice as you stand there. Defeated. Tears blurring your vision to a melted, burning thing. 

….Sven…!

He cannot hear those cries you fail to utter. And even should you scrape them from your chest, he’ll never hear your words again. Nor your larks. Nor your laughter. 

Just this once, you might've protected him. Just this once. Yet here you've failed him. 

“Do not prolong the inevitable,” a low, serrated voice condemns from midst your shrouded torment, and you blink away what tears you can, straining through grief to see a dreadfully towering man, so tall no common hallway could ever hope to hold him.

You’ve only heard tell of Messmer. That his hair is red as bloodied fire. That his eye, his only eye, is as gold as Marika’s sins. That two winged snakes adorn him, with agile minds and bodies it seemeth all their own. And yet even those two snakes now watch you, along with their wretched master. Their emerald eyes trained to your every movement, though you shift none.

You bite back your tears; anguish giving way to anger. Your jawline like glass, so hard and close to splintering, but still you’ll grit your jaw up at this red-maned savage as though on his neck you were clamping down, tearing the very life from him.

His captain steps forward, but Messmer’s lengthy, muscled arm raises scarcely enough to halt him in place, though his order's immediately heeded. And though his captain’s face lay hidden behind a snake-like helm so similar to Messmer’s own, you can sense the confusion which braces through him.

“Not her,” says Messmer, so low you scarcely hear him. And you stare, at this monstrous man, while he meets your gaze with what seems not an ounce of pity. 

His eye, you admit, is a strangely beguiling thing. Like a spell that might dissect the furthest reaches of you. Its gold so strangely brilliant, like a pinprick of flame, gnawing through the darkness.

“...Take her,” his deep voice at length breaks through the enchantment of his gaze, and you at once feel panic swell at such an order. “We couldst use another specimen for the storehouse.”

And then, he is gone; turned without another word said, as though he matters of much more import to attend to than whatever in any hell his decreed fate as ‘specimen’ might bring you.

You far prefer death.

When Messmer’s captain comes for you, obedient dog that he is, you immediately try to run only for your gown to snag you back within his clutches. And as he lifts you beneath one arm like a satchel of wheat, you snarl and you fight with every bit of strength remained in you; transformed into a hopeless, feral thing. Clawing at his legs, biting at his wrist despite his armor blunting every blow at him, until he slaps you so hard your vision blurs and all sound’s replaced by the ringing of your skull, your body hanging momentarily limp.

It does no good, your fighting, though you scream and writhe and fail to stave back tears as you’re carried from your father’s ruined castle.

The world outside is smoldering waste.

All is fire and ash. 

You see no one else left living.

You have nothing.

Nothing.

This demigod of flame has taken everything from you. Has burned away your heart to an ashen pit. And while you are still living, you will do everything within your power to gift him the very same.

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] f’s in chat for Sven, rip gone too soon 😔 I actually felt really bad killing him, but I wanted to give you a legitimate, visceral reason to hate Messmer so he had to go. Anyway thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts 💕

[weskie]

A New Dawn (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, tentacle murder, tentacle affection, yeah that's a thing, shared shower, wesker lives au | Fic Directory

You found him by sheer luck.

That rock he’d crawled onto could’ve simply crumbled.  The volatile lava could’ve risen higher and submerged him completely.  Despite the odds being stacked so incredibly high against any hope of recovering Wesker, you managed to pull his legs from the impossibly hot liquid with the help of a small rescue team and loaded his charred body into a helicopter for what was arguably the worst moment of your life.

All you can do is stare at what he’s become– at the autonomous slithering of tentacles that, by some miracle, contained themselves to their host and did not spread to your shaking hands.  His lower body is marred entirely with burns and blisters so severe that you’re unsure if taking him out of there was even humane.  If, perhaps, letting him be swallowed by the earth would’ve been kinder than putting him through whatever is to come next.

Once he’s placed in a containment room, you call in every favor you’ve ever known him to be owed.  But it’s all for nothing.

The first attempt to prick his skin with an IV catheter results in bloodshed.  The entire team of medics stood stock still as the head doctor was impaled and dangled overhead by a mass of black, oozing tentacles emerging from Wesker’s body.  It happened so fast that you only realized it once the blood hit the observation glass.

Such would be the result of any attempts to address his injuries.  Not even a blanket was able to be laid over his bare form without retaliation. It was like the mass of tendrils had a mind of their own, geared only toward protecting their host– though it raises the question of why the initial recovery of his body hadn’t produced the same response.  Regardless, you wager they’re the only reason that Wesker is still alive.

For that, you’re thankful.

You talk to him through the intercom regularly.  You tell him about the BSAA’s seizure of Tricell and its assets, of how you’ve turned one of his hidden facilities into something livable for when he wakes.  That you’ll be there when he does, and how excited you are for the day.  That you hope he can hear you but feel none of the pain.

You pray he doesn’t.

At the end of the first week, you come to the realization that the tendrils are slowly engulfing his body.  Every day, more seem to appear until his legs are cocooned.

You take notes and photos of everything as best as you can, just as you know he’d want you to.  After all, this is his creation in action. The seed for his perfect world that was now seemingly consuming yours whole.

By the fourth week, they’ve risen as high as his clavicle. 

By the fifth, you feel as if you’re losing your sanity.  Alone in a massive underground facility, having not seen the sun for weeks on end, eating only MREs and having what little sleep you get plagued by stress and worst case scenario nightmares… 

You crack.

“I don’t know how to make it better, Al…”  You whisper brokenly, forehead pressed to the glass. “I can’t– I don’t know how to help you.”

Any assistance you could have possibly had turned their backs the moment the danger far outweighed the payment– which had been the case from the very start.  Though you can’t find it in yourself to fault them.  If it wasn’t for the fact your heart was lying on that table, you’d have probably followed. The threat of death can be very convincing. 

When the tendrils creep onto his face, you break containment.  And why not?  Why shouldn’t you go in?  You helped make this mess.  You helped create the organism consuming him.  For years, you worked alongside him to perfect the cure to humanity’s wretches– to cull the species destroying this planet and dragging the rest down.

Perhaps you deserved the same fate for sharing in his endeavors– for even having goals so similar and selfish.  But was it really?  Was it so selfish to want better for humanity? 

You drag your swivel chair behind you as you tread over dried blood smears and dehydrated viscera. 

“You always did like making me do things the hard way,” you jest as you approach him.  But you’re not in there to take notes or vitals.

You set foot inside to relieve your madness.

Your hand quakes as it hovers above his forehead.  You’re unsure if you should even touch him due to the blistering and ripplings of infection marring his skin.  The burns have healed a tad since bringing him in, but not nearly as much as they should’ve.  Then again, it’s been weeks since he’s had a dose of suppressant to keep his strength balanced.

You lower the back of your hand toward his nose, relieved to feel the faintest tickling of air.

“Thank god,” you whisper tightly.  “I really miss you...”

Which was the honest truth.  You miss your mundane nights with him, sitting near as you both worked independently. Stacks of paper, the clicking of keyboards, endless hours in the laboratories spent refining mere dreams into reality.  You miss his cold affections and strange ways of expressing that he, too, had been infected with that parasite known as love.

You let your hand rest shakily over a section of his hair that hadn’t been burnt down to the scalp.  You hold your breath and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You are not added to the stains of violence on the walls, nor are you impaled in the blink of an eye.

But you are greeted with a much thinner tendril creeping up over his brow and forehead to inspect you.  It nudges your thumb and your whole body goes tense, veins chilling as if your blood had turned to ice.  It slithers over the bumps of your knuckles, leaving a thin layer of ooze over every inch of skin it touches as it trails to wrap around your wrist.  For a brief second, you’re petrified of it taking hold of you like that.  Would it try to bind with you?  What if it did to you what it had done to your precious Albert? What if it rejected you?

And if it did, how would you continue to try to help him? 

But it doesn’t.  It does nothing of the sort, just simply continues snaking up the length of your arm.  The tip rests atop your shoulder in a strangely… docile manner. You cease petting Wesker’s hair for but a moment to calm yourself, and then you feel it do something odd.

The head of the tendril lifts itself and plops back down on your shoulder, stroking backward little more than an inch before repeating the process.  You watch with wide eyes, both fascinated and terrified.

It’s mimicking you.

You pet Wesker’s hair once more and it ceases its movements.

You stop; it begins again.

Was Uroboros itself doing such an act?  Could it?

A flicker of hope flashes in your mind and tears prick at your eyes.  It’s so fucking unlikely– nearly impossible even.  And yet–

“Is that you?”  You ask softly, inching just a little closer to him.  You can see the way his eyes dart around beneath his eyelids– an entirely new development.  Was he dreaming? 

The tendril wraps the slightest bit tighter around your arm. 

“Can you hear me?”

The head of it lifts and falls against you once more.

It couldn’t be… but, at the same time, it had to be.   The tears you’ve fought against so hard fall and you grin from ear to ear.  All of that fear fades away, the desperation, the depression and hopelessness– it’s all gone.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his brow, suppressing your silent cries as you revel in the joy that your love is still in there.  This is no mere corpse kept alive by the resilience of a virus. The tendril wraps tighter the second your lips brush his skin, and you know in your heart that it’s how he’s able to reciprocate.

“We're going to figure this out,” you promise him. “I love you.”

Two weeks pass before his flesh starts to peek from between those slithering lengths.  You’d almost lost hope again.

It’s his lower body that starts to emerge first, bit by bit, starting from the feet up.  Flesh that was once marred an angry red, blistered and scorched beyond recognition, was now a scarred pink.  Amazingly, some patches seemed to have healed flawlessly, as if he’d never submerged in the fires of the earth to begin with.

Notes and photos.  Tests where possible.  Anything you could do to make sure Albert had every scrap of information possible about his otherworldly creation.  

Uroboros works.

Not only that, but it can bring its host back from the brink of death– if not perform a complete resurrection. 

Day by day, more of him is revealed until the pink line at his waist shows you just how deep he’d been submerged.  There are splatter patterns elsewhere, you notice.  Tiny specks of scarring from where lava had touched him long enough to burn through the dermal layers.

You decide to finally attempt to cover his body again.  A simple blanket, but hopefully one that’s warmth would not go unappreciated in the chill of the sterile room. 

When his hands are freed, you hold and press countless kisses to them.  You rest your cheek in his palm, telling him about your findings– that he’s almost healed and that you’re so goddamn excited.

“Uroboros is a success, my love.  You’re proof of it.”

The most fascinating of all, though, is the amber-like formation embedded in his chest.  From what you can tell, it is from this that the tentacles on his body are emerging.

You dare not touch it. Not yet, anyway.

Six days later, you find yourself kicking around in the barren kitchen of the complex.  There’s nothing but crumbs, and you’re miserable.  You haven’t left since arriving, and these compounds of his were never meant to be more than a brief hideaway.

You drag your feet as you make your way back to the bedroom.  Seems there’s little more to do than throw yourself in the shower to start your day, so you do exactly that.  Though not with any degree of enthusiasm.  Instead you sit on the ground and hug your knees, eyes shut as you ignore the complaints of your stomach.

You’ll have to find transportation to and from the nearest town– if there even was one.  It’d be lucky if you spoke the language or could even find the currency, but you’ll figure it out.  You have no choice.

In the absence of your awareness, coupled with the white noise of the shower, you fail to hear the door creak open.  Not even the disoriented shuffling against the tile floor rouses you.

Suddenly, the shower curtain is ripped open, and you startle– damn near knocking your head off the floor as you slip around like a fool.  But you clamber to your knees in an instant, arms flinging around the intruder who had fallen to your level.

You can’t help but weep.

“Al?!  Oh my god!” you exclaim through the tightness of your throat. Your hand strokes at the nape of his neck.  “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You should’ve been there when he woke up.  You should’ve fucking been there.

He shouldn’t have had to find you.

You move back and cup his face in your hands, pressing a smiling kiss to his lips despite the torrent of emotion rocking you to your core.  You pull away and find that he looks exhausted.  Completely and utterly drained.  His eyes are hooded, but the blue irises peeking out from under his lashes confirm that he is, in fact, exactly that. The formerly bright formation on his chest is dimmed nearly black.  All of his energy had gone into merely surviving.  Your poor, sweet love looked death in the eye for a second time and emerged victorious.

You help him get under the stream of water where you sit and hold him close.  You’ve never seen him like this before.  Vulnerable was an understatement.

He’s quieter than ever, staring straight ahead at the wall.  Shame, you surmise.  Humiliation.  He was defeated again– maybe even flat out killed.  His pride has always been its own Tower of Babel, built high enough to reach heaven and godhood.  But now it was truly shattered.  Crumbled to bits and buried in the sands of his failure.

There are no words to say.  Not yet, anyway.  He’s already heard them all.  Instead, there is shampoo to massage into his scalp and soap to trail over his body.  You may not be able to fix his pain, but you can wash away the remnants of volcanic ash and ooze tarnishing him.  The burden of grime is at least gone by the time the water runs cold.

You dry him with a towel, taking note of how his hands shake and how he balls them into fists to hide it.  You wonder if he still hurts, but you know he’d never admit to it even if he was truly in pain. Even wincing was out of the question, so you pretend not to hear it when he does.  You pretend like he doesn’t lean on you for support as you walk him to the bed, like he doesn’t need your help to lift his legs high enough to settle in.

He lets you hold him while he sleeps, something so out of the ordinary it leaves you blinking in confusion the second his head lays upon your chest.  Nevertheless, you do it anyway.  You pet through his hair, even occasionally running your fingertips over the healed sections of his scalp.  Normally he would stir if you so much as shifted, but he doesn’t even groan in his slumber.  

You hold him as though he's made of ceramic, basking in the tenderness of hope until your own eyelids grow heavy.  The world can wait.  Rebuilding can wait. Hell, even revenge can wait.  All that matters is this– is him. Your precious Albert, safe and very much alive in your arms, is more than you could ever ask for.

For the first time in weeks, your eyes flutter shut without fear of tomorrow.

loose followup fic here

another loose followup here

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 6

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Summary: Judgement awaits within the Shadow Keep.

A/N: The first part of the chapter will be in Messmer's POV, during the events of when he's thinking of what to do with you. Then, the second part, cuts to your arrival back at the Keep.

A03 link

-

Chapter 6: Judgement

Five days ago...

Messmer is used to the darkness, the curse he carries, waiting for a day for the pain to be lifted and for him to return to his mother.

Messmer broods in his throne room, with only winged serpents to calm his worries, whispering in tongues only he knows. He's conflicted, bemused by it all, but most of all, he's feeling betrayed. Years of trusting his mother, believing he is doing all of this in her name, serving her dutifully as any soldier and son would.

So, when some wretched creature enters his Keep, blessed by grace - his mother's grace - he thinks it's all some cruel joke.

He was ready to pluck the seal out of his eye, despite knowing it was Marika who placed it there for his safety. It pains him knowing he could've ended it all and released the base serpent out, only for not his mother to stop him, but you. You, Tarnished, a creature all should hate, and he's been taught to hate, is reluctant to hear your words.

Miquella? What did all of this have to do with him? 

You're an intriguing, annoying thing, slicing at him and giving him a mark, and he admits you're a good fight too, though sometimes sloppy, opting to fight dirty than fight him with no healing nor add-ons.

He's tempted to return it to you tenfold, to have his flames consume you as you scream. But where was the fun of having  to deal with you coming back to him, over and over again, pleading your case that he so desperately didn't want to hear. He heeds your words, your warnings of his undoing, and he listens, like the fool he is, he listens to the words from the enemy. Why he trusts you is uncertain, that you could already be hoping for his demise and he was accepting it all with some flimsy words from a Tarnished.

It's only that he captures you when he can finally think, though he curses that all you did to him, he will do tenfold. You're locked up, suffering and rotting, but he feels he is the one suffering. Burn her. Something tells him inside. Burn her and be rid of her.

He finds himself alone in the abyss, staring heavily in thought at the scar on his arm, running his nails along the raised skin as his other clawed hand grips the armrest too tightly, cracking in his grasp. He wishes that is what he can do to your skull, but he has restraint. Better to deal with a broken thing than one with their mind still intact.

It's by the third day of your imprisonment that he finally decides to leave the throne room. Dishevelled, lacking sleep and in need of a good bath and decent meal, his body aches from being sat on the throne for so long. Sleep can wait, he needs to be rid of this pain however fleeting it is. The muscles in his back ache with every step he takes, a debilitating pain that gets worse if he does not move around. He curses himself for worsening his physical health, but it matters not when he finally finds his way to a familiar physician.

Ser Aldwin is so focused on his books that he doesn't even notice the demi-god lumber through, only when he hears the faint hiss of one of his serpents does the Nightfolk abruptly stand to full height, bowing stiffly. "My lord. I did not hear you enter. Is there anything I can help with?"

Messmer does not answer, but it is obvious to Aldwin how clear his discomfort shows on his features. "Oh, my Lord. Please, take a seat. I shall ready the medication."

The redhead half collapses to the cot, comically half of the demigod's size as he's crouched rather than sitting comfortably on it, his eye falling downcast in shame. He was a soldier, shaped from youth in his mother's eye to be the very vessel for tyranny, and here he was, doubled over in agony, wishing for it all to be over.

Aldwin is quick, which Messmer silently thanks him for, and he helps by removing his helm and discarding it to his side. He next removes the amour and chest pieces until he is shirtless. He can feel the weight of the snakes coiled around him, putting weight on him as he tries to keep his suffering to himself. 

Gathering the oils on the table, Aldwin ushers Messmer to lie on his back, where the healer pours the warming oils into his hand, working them before he begins a deep tissue massage. The relief is almost blinding, and Messmer hisses from both relief and from how sore his muscles feel.  

"You are... unusually quiet, my Lord. May I ask what troubles you?"

"The Tarnished," he grunts, shutting his eye as he lets the warmth of the oils soothe him. His skin feels stiff, burning to the touch, but he continues, "I questioneth wheth'r I am being too lenient."

Aldwin hums in both thought and deep in his work, massaging around the areas where the snakes protrude out his skin, and it has Messmer wheezing. "The fate of the Tarnished seems to be on everyone's mind, my Lord. A difficult situation as to whether she speaks the truth or not."  

"Rather a thorn in mine side."

Aldwin chortles, in which Messmer casts a brief side eye to him before closing his good eye again. It's difficult to speak when all Messmer wishes to do is cry out.

He thinks about what his mother did, singing to him softly when he cried from the great discomfort. It was easier to control then, but the older he got, the more the serpent grew, twisting in size until it crushed his spine, putting pressure on his organs until the pain grew intensely. With his eye closed, he can still picture his mother's features, from her soft, caring golden eyes, to her flaxen-coloured hair, long and braided. She would tell him about the days of her youth, promising him one day they would go back to it. 

Messmer is thankful he is lying on his front, for he subtly wipes a stray tear away.

"Perhaps, my Lord, it would be best to seek a deal with the Tarnished. To see if she is worthy of your trust."

"Mine trust? How?"

"Send her away if you must," Aldwin says, "you have hundreds of eyes on the field, awaiting your very order. If they hear or even see of her return to Miquella and his followers, you know where to find her."

Messmer thinks hard, resting his chin in thought. "'Tis a valorous idea, Sir Aldwin," he murmurs, and correct he is. That is, however, if the Tarnished is truly lying, Messmer doesn't know if he has the strength to be enraged. A tired man, he's almost bored by it all. It would be some tiring game of cat and mouse, one which would not end until one grew bored. Worn from it all, all he wishes to do is sleep.

He sits up as Aldwin finishes off by applying more of the oils to Messmer's chest before bowing his head politely. "I shalt has't her sent to thee, Aldwin," Messmer answers finally, dressing once more as his loyal fire knights address his lord. "Ready the prisoner a visit."

"My Lord." Aldwin bids the redhead farewell as Messmer is crowned with a new purpose, to see if the Tarnished is worthy of his trust. When he visits her cell, he sees she is already awaiting him. She looks as dishevelled as he feels, almost ripped from sleep. When his knights send her off to Aldwin, she walks with some hesitation, wary of what he is doing. It pleases him, to some extent, that she feels unsure of him.

He leaves with his personal black knights back to his chambers, where he asks to have a bath readied. The ointments and bath oils are most handy, especially to dispel any further aches he has. But, the content he usually has in having a bath is wasted when his mind is brought back to the Tarnished, and he thinks whether it is all worth it. His serpents coil around him, their whispers help soothe him, and he leans his head against the tub, calming his mind to calm like ripples in the mightiest of seas.

When she is gone, he is restless, a heap of anger mixed with the endless paranoia that she has gone and done what he dreaded most. How long does it take to travel?! He questions, and his spies have their answers that help calm him. The last he hears is she has made just outside the ruins, having stopped someplace in the woods to sleep with her stead acting almost as her guard dog. 

He almost laughs at the motion, but that day passes, and more go past. There is no news of her for some time, and he mentally feels as if he may rip his seal out and hunt her down personally. His anger boils, his winged serpents twisting around his body matching his anger. It draws into something he vows he'll destroy, her body, her soul, her entire being, erased from ever existing.

It's only when his loyal warrior, Commander Gaius asks if he can personally be sent out to hunt down the Tarnished for her betrayal that something snaps in him. "The Tarnished is mine to deal with." He growls, and those of his spies and knights seem to still upon hearing his orders. 

His war meeting is cut short when a fellow spy enters the room, hastily rushing to Messmer before remembering the courtesy of bowing in respect. "My Lord, there has been a sighting of the Tarnished. She travels to the Keep."

There are mutterings among his men, some of disbelief, some muttering it a trap, but it is only Messmer's voice whose matters. "Let her through."

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

There is an unbelievable coldness to the Keep when you enter through the main gate. There are only a handful of soldiers around who seem to be reluctant in your next moves. Dismounting from Torrent and clutching your side, you hobble your way through, escorted by his men who tell you Messmer awaits for you in his throne room. How odd that he wants you there rather than waiting for you outside the gate. Did they not receive news of your return?

Something churns in your chest, a sickness of nerves you cannot place, but you are silent as you pass the corridors, damp and endless. The Grace sits just outside his doors, begging you to reach for the golden strings of life. You wonder if anyone within the Keep can see it and if Messmer can too. You can feel its warming touch, but you're not close enough to fully heal, rather connect you to it so you don't wake at the previous grace if you die. All you can do is pass alongside it, entering through the doors to be welcomed coldly.

Messmer sits atop his throne, stoically staring down at you, his spear grasped in hand. It is not just him that awaits in the room, but many of his knights, all poised as if ready for you to make the wrong move. 

You stand in between them all, looking at every knight before your eyes land once again on the demi-god.

Finally, with difficult footing, you make your way slowly towards him. His knights hold a grasp on their unsheathed swords and spears, holding stances and waiting for you to make a move that could jeopardise all your hard work. The pain in your side worsens the further you walk, certain the wound has begun to bleed freely into your bandages once again.

Messmer watches you with a stony face before he speaks aloud. "Is't done?"

You wonder if he knows you're bleeding, elongating your suffering further as you somberly answer. "Yes," you inhale sharply as you rest a hand on your knee to help lower yourself to the ground, taking a knee, "my Lord."

The room is deafeningly quiet, so much so that you feel nauseous. You keep your head bowed, pride washing off you like sitting by the shoreline, awaiting the larger waves to sweep you away. You've come so far that you cannot take it back.

Your hands shakily move to your bag, still attached to your belt, unclipping it. The bag has soaked to a darker colour, some of the blood as dried yet still some soaks heavily into your already bloodied gloves. You grimace at the texture, before chucking the bag forward, it landing a couple of meters in front, causing a loud, squishy sound to echo when it thuds against the base of the throne.

Messmer seems to have something lifted inside him, his posture has straightened in his seat, looking more amused than uptight. He eyes the bag before he looks back down at you, a small smirk appearing on his face. Go on, his face reads as if he's awaiting more, more of this humiliation to please him further.

You sigh, hands reaching up to your helm, tugging upwards until the clatter smashes to the ground in a thud by your feet.

No one is speaking which makes things worse, and you wish to be swallowed up whole by the ground than face more of this. You eye him carefully, sweat beading down your forehead. The room feels as if it's spinning and with the seconds feeling like minutes or hours, is when Messmer finally does something.

He stands. Slowly and methodically walks down the stairs as he approaches you. Your heart races and the little amount of blood in your body rushes to your head as you look away from him, looking to the ground until he is right in front of you.

Strangely, something holds your chin, so tentatively that it's an odd feeling. Clawed fingers urge you to look up. Messmer has tilted your chin up so your eyes slowly drift onto his face. So close once more in front of you, you mutter loud enough for only him to hear. "I did what you asked of me, didn't I?"

"Thee didst," he coolly responds, his touch still lingers as he accesses you carefully, "the keep is yours to doth what thee prithee. Thee has't mine own protection and alliance."

Good. You can finally breathe from the moment you step into the room. Messmer pulls away from you, his touch lingers on your skin and you falter to almost stand. "I acquire your healer's aid... if I'm allowed?

He looks you over once more, one of his serpents is far too close to you, its thin tongue tasting the air as if it could sense something you could not. Before it could reach any closer, Messmer moves back, turning his hunched back towards you. "Doth as thee prithee."

What Messmer expects is to hear you leave, for him to finally feel some semblance of pride strengthen within him. Rather than that, he hears your fading footsteps abruptly stop, the sound of garbled choking echo through the large room. All heads turn, his including, to see just in time your weakened body materialise into nothing but dust, a pool of your blood soaking the ground.

-

A/N:

Messmer likely: omfg, did she just fucking die

Imagine Messmer's fear, anger and panic as to seeing you die right in front of him, readying his men to go through a hunt for you throughout the Keep and even the lands, only to see you've popped outside the front doors of his room. Though, if we're keeping to the game, you should pop up by the site of grace WAY outside, but I'll give some wishy-washy reasoning of "Marika was feeling nice and allowed you to pop up again at a site closer in the Keep."

All in all, I love the idea of Messmer slowly growing obsessed in trying to find you constantly. Call it hunting, but this man's paranoia is on high alert.

[cyberrose2001]

TFP Starscream x Reader

This is for @condeeznutsfitinyomouth! Again, sorry your asks got eaten :(

They requested confessional sex with Starscream after you caught your boyfriend cheating! Hope this is what you were after, enjoy! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

Warnings: Confessional sex, cheating, afab reader, GN reader, human reader, starscream is domming but reader tops.

Word count: 869

You hate that you knew it was coming. You predicted it immediately when your calls went straight to voicemail and left you on read. And last night, that deep feeling in your gut didn’t lead you on as he did. No, because your boss had let you off early, and you came home to find some random car parked in your driveway.

You were furious, full of unbridled rage, as you stormed into your house and made a bee-line to your shared bedroom. It reeked of sex, and the look on this douchebag's face when we saw you, death staring at him from the door, was laughable. He was terrible at keeping his dirty secrets.

But you had a secret up your sleeve, too—the knowledge and companionship of a sleek alien robot jet. You met Starscream a long time ago; a total asshole who wouldn’t let you off this ship called the Nemesis. Something about being ‘live human bait for the human empath, Optimus Prime’. But you had sweet-talked him enough to let you at least have some freedom.

Over time, though, your fears of being involved with an alien fizzled out when you started to confide in one another unintentionally. You would express how much of a doormat your boyfriend made you feel, and Starscream would also express how much of a doormat Megatron made him feel. Together, you both created a home where there are no doormats. And ultimately, no regrets.

After you had kicked out your now ex-boyfriend and his little protégé in cheating relations, you contacted Starscream to meet you on the outskirts of Jasper to vent out your frustrations. What you never expected, though, was to have that deep gut feeling replaced with the gut-deep feeling of his upwards thrusts.

Propped up against a dusty boulder was Starscream, with you in his lap. His sharp silver talons tightly grip your hips, guiding you up and down on his sleek yet rigid metal spike. His scarlet optics focused on your squishy body pressed against him, as well as your face, twisted in beautiful pleasure and heated anger.

“That’s it. Tell me how much you loathe that wretched human boy.”

Oh, you wish he could see you now. To watch his ego deflate as you impale yourself on a dick that’s much, much larger than his.

“F-Fuckin’ hate him,” Your voice shakes from your rage and the inability to cohere a single sentence, “Asshole, he never loved -hggff- me.”

“He never satisfied you, didn’t he?” Starscream sneers, moving a servo to your face to squish your cheeks together. His other servo pushes your hips further down his spike to meet with his thrusts.

“N-No.”

He growls and leans close to your ear, “And I am willing to bet that my spike feels significantly more pleasurable than whatever that mere human possesses, is that right?”

“Mhmm,” You mumble, but it soon transitions into screaming as Starscream forces his spike so fucking deep in you that you start to see stars.

“I want a verbal answer,” He growls again, and it’s so delicious and smooth against your ear that it nearly sends you over the edge, “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Yes, fuck!” You cry out, and your head rests on Starscreams shoulder once his servo returns to your hip, “F-Feels so good, so much better than him.”

“Good, little pet,” Starscream pounds into you with reckless abandon, purely focused on bringing you to orgasm. His venting is rough, full of equal zest for the anticipation of overloading in you, “Now, my dear, scream my name as if he can hear you.”

And you do. You clamp down on his spike and let out the filthiest moan of his name that actually echos off the rocks and reverbs around you, with the full intention of wanting him to hear. Your ears are ringing from the loudness and the explosive orgasm that shakes your body like an earthquake.

“There you go, let the whole world know who you -hgghn- belong to.” Starscream is close behind. The ever-increasing momentum of his hips becomes more stagnant until he groans and releases his transfluids deep inside you, vocaliser fluttering and turning into static. He’s throbbing against your walls, filling you to near breaking point, and you have no choice but to collapse your entire body weight against him.

“Fuuuck,” You mewl. Your thighs are shaking, and your voice is croaky. And your heart is booming against your ribcage so hard you’re sure Starscream can feel it.

After Starscream returns from his high, he takes the opportunity to wrap his arms loosely around you in an attempt to give you some rare affection before you can question what the fuck just happened between you two.

“There, doesn’t that feel so much better?” Starscream hums, stroking lines across your back. It’s soothing and a welcomed distraction from the welts forming on your waist from his sharp digits. You whine in reply, eyes fluttering shut weakly.

“Mmm, I thought so,” He sighs, an ever so slight smile encompassing his dermas, “Shall we return to the Nemesis?”

Let’s just say you got your revenge on your ex a few more times that night.

[popjunkie42]

Chains Chapter Three

Read on AO3

Summary:

Lucien steals Feyre away from the safety of the Night Court as she and Rhys train in the Illyrian Steppes. Winnowing her to the Spring Court and Tamlin, Feyre must contend with the consequences of leaving while held against her will.

An ACOMAF Chapter 47 divergence.

Chapter Three: Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

Feyre faces her fate alone, locked in a bedroom in the Spring Court.

Love to @witch-and-her-witcher and @foundress0fnothing for reading this chapter twice 😅 Sometimes I am needy.

Thank you all for the comments and great response to this story! I think you might love this chapter. I hope you do. The pressure is real...

Read the beginning of Chapter Three under the cut:

From the corner of the room, I watched the soft colors of dusk deepen into night between the snarled branches of a rose bush.

My bedroom in Spring had been destroyed. Furniture shattered to splinters, the carpet torn by clawed hands, the wide door to the balcony ripped free.

Two sentries had led me here from the dining room. Eyes averted, hands respectful but firm on my shoulders, urging me forward. Did they remember me, I wondered? What did they think of the former lady of the house now reduced to a prisoner?

Or perhaps I was wrong, perhaps my treatment was nothing unusual in Spring, in Prythian…the thought made me feel even more alone, my well of anger chained within me like my hands.

I had stopped in the doorway, my ragged mind taking a moment to catch up, to take in the evidence of violence, so strong I felt it like a mark on my skin.

The window no longer had a view of the hedged gardens, but was replaced with the dark and twining black branches of a rose tree - its flowers blood red, the largest branches as thick as my wrist. Growing so close only pinpricks of light came through, dappling over the room.

“Not here.”

I jumped at the voice behind me. Hadn’t even heard him approach - had been relying too much on my fae powers once again.

Tamlin’s broad shoulders were hunched. He looked…exhausted. But he didn’t look at me as he tilted his head, motioning for me to follow.

Probably for the best. He would find no sympathy from me. I hoped he did feel wretched and regretful. Hope it haunted him all night and kept him from sleep.

I wondered for a moment if I had ever made his life easier, better. Did he sometimes remember the regret he had in tearing down my cabin door and bringing me to his court?

The sentries lingered as the High Lord opened the bedroom down the hall. A clean room, a mirror to the old one, gold and sage and plush white. As if the room beside me wasn’t the perfect portrait of the blood-stained brutality that was soaked deep in the soil, that fed the grass and hedges.

But one thing was the same. The window, any light was nearly blotted out by the thick rose bushes growing outside. It was a wonder I didn’t see it from the outside, when I first arrived, this sharp monstrosity taking over the grounds.

Tamlin paused, swallowing as if the words were stuck in his throat. “Everything will be alright,” he said finally before closing the door.

I didn’t know if he was talking to me or himself.

With the snick of the heavy door locked shut, suddenly it was so, so quiet.

Something staggering was building inside me - not my familiar magic but something…devastating. Hot and cold battling in surges on my skin, inside me, panic choked like a strangled scream.

Before it could burst, I ran to the windows and threw them open, my shaking hands struggling with the latches. My fingers pulled and scraped at the cage of bark and thorns. But even when I managed to snap off a small branch, it bled milky white and acidic onto my fingers, a new twig of bark already growing to take its place.

When my hand slipped and a thorn the size of my thumb impaled into my palm, I collapsed into the corner into a gentle shadow. My hand gushed blood for far too long. I forgot that with my fae healing gone, even small hurts could overtake a body. I squeezed it until the worst of it stopped, still dripping onto the pristine white carpet beside me.

I didn’t know how long I was there, collapsed in the dark.

The blue chains around my ankles and wrists seared and scorched in an endless cycle, the pain radiating down my bones and through my spine, settling in a sharp headache at the base of my skull.

All the fear, anger and despair roiled within me under the pain. Even the scents of the room felt sickly, wrong. Suffocating. No breeze from the choked windows, a locked door at my side.

I remembered the feeling well. Here in the manor, smothered in the smell of flowers, but also –

The putrid damp of filthy water. A crunch of hay under me. The hours I spent walking in circles, fingers brushing up against jagged cold stone until they were raw…

I shook my head to try and dispel the memories. I was not underground. I was not Under the Mountain. I was not in a cold and dank cell reeking of vomit. I was in a room with a bed and the sounds of birds in the trees and I would be let out tomorrow.

I was going to get out. I was going to get out.

Groaning in frustration, I jumped in shock from pain as I ran my hands through my hair and the shackles seared against the skin on my forehead. If I could just focus, just calm for a moment, I could ride through the pain, get control of myself enough to think this through. But I couldn’t find a foothold between pain and panic, and so I passed untold hours longing for relief.

Twilight had fallen with barely a notice, darkness creeping in between the small spaces left between the trunk of the rose bush. Only a single candle was lit on a small windowsill. But I didn’t mind. I let the darkness soothe me, hide me, propped against the green wallpaper, wishing for sleep to wash over me.

I was no closer to sleep when a soft knock on the door and the click of the lock announced a sentry bringing me food and tea and water. I didn’t think I could choke down the rich courtly fare, but I chugged the water desperately. Searched the platter - no cutlery.

I settled back down with a cup of tea, soothing in my hands, and scanned the room.

A litany of fears had been marching through my mind, whipping my heart rate higher and higher. What if these stones, these chains, weren’t just hiding my power but taking it? What if they took them off me tomorrow and I was drained dry like an empty well? Was that Tamlin’s greatest wish - that I no longer risk his Court and unwanted attention by others? What if my powers would be no use to me in escaping this place?

I had been selfishly, shamelessly waiting to hear him - the crack of an angry winnow, the thunderclap of pounding wings, the unmistakable power of star-kissed night.

I finished the last sip of tea with a sigh, sugar at the bottom of the cup filling my mouth with overwhelming sweetness.

But what happened then, if he did come? What if he descended on Tamlin with an army of Illyrian warriors wreathed in darkness? What if he turned this manor to rubble and word went out across Prythian about yet another act of violence and wrath by the dark lord?

Perhaps I was worrying about the wrong things. As twilight turned to midnight, and the only sounds were the shuffling of sentries and a nightingale in the gardens, I felt a dreadful numbness steal over me. I couldn’t sleep, but I closed my eyes and listened.

Rhys wasn’t here.

Why wasn’t he here?

I knew he could winnow here, believed he could unravel Tamlin’s wards with a flick of his wrist.

It was silly of me, selfish to think – I had to be realistic –

Maybe Amren was advising him right now. Be cautious. Don’t start a war. Don’t burst into enemy Courts and start destroying things because then how would they respond in turn?

I was, after all, just an emissary. Most likely a poor one at that. A bumbling child that he had taken some pity on and kept around for our own mutual interests.

Reality hit me cold and harsh. I shut my eyes to it, grit my teeth. A deep, biting chill poured through my bones. The cold so deep I thought it might freeze and break me apart.

I had just thought, maybe this time – maybe somebody would come for me. Remembered how strange it had felt when Mor had lifted me in her arms like a child. How I had woken up to the dawn and mountains - upset and confused and numb, but also, safe.

I steeled myself against the panic, the self-pity.

When had I come to rely on him so much? That his absence felt unnatural, unnerving?

Whether he was coming or not, I couldn’t stay here. I would have to do it myself. Just as I had always done, before I met him and before I even came to Prythian. Staying here was against the question - not with my powers sapped, with the measures they had taken to hobble me.

I drew a deep breath into my lungs. I called upon whatever reserves of strength I had left. The last mile in the woods before turning in for the night, hungry and desperate. My body shivered at the quaking pain against my skin. I stood up to take in the room.

If I worked on the rose tree, I couldn’t open a space large enough to get out but I could take a branch for a weapon. Maybe I would fashion daggers out of thorns, maybe I’d save the milky burning sap for whoever opened my door next.

A weapon, a snare, a distraction. I knew from experience that none of it would matter without my powers. I wouldn’t get past the front gates.

Blue stone pressed against the pale bruised skin of my wrists. A tight fit, but…

I curved my thumb, hissing through my teeth as I pushed the stone against my bones. Willing joints and bones to bend. Black dots started to blur my vision against the burning agony of whatever poisoned magic they possessed.

A deep breath as I let up again, stone back to dangle on my wrist.

I had seen the aftermath of animals that gnawed their way out of traps. Coming hours later to discover blood and tufts of fur at some life or death struggle lived alone and in agony.

I would have to break my thumbs. If I could do it quickly, before the pain overtook me, my fae healing could return and I –

I tried to breathe around the panic, tried to listen and distract myself from my racing thoughts.

The sounds of the manor settling became softer and quieter as night deepened. Murmured voices from the conversation of sentries outside of my door. The distant sound of doors closing, servants going about their final duties for the evening as if this place hadn’t become a prison. The nightingale was calling desperately outside, joined in an occasional chorus by the soft answer of an owl somewhere on the edge of the forest.

I let everything settle inside of me. Quieting. Digging. Looking for that deep well of power within me once again - before I had to resort to this. Feeling the air around me - wanting to call the magic forth - whether fire from the candle or water from the dew settling on the rose petals - I begged something to speak to me, to pull it from inside me where it hid.

The nightingale had gone quiet. And through the woven tapestry of curled wood and thorns silver light was streaming in between the darkness - the light of the moon.

Of course. How ridiculous of me.

I hadn’t been able to summon the darkness before like Rhysand had, speckled with those jewel-like stars. But I reached for it, called for it, thinking of him, of the power I could always sense emanating off of him – of the vast and endless night skies peeking into my room.

The air pressure in the room dropped along with the temperature - my next breath coming out in a cold puff of air.

A crackling on my skin like lightning about to strike, all my hairs standing up on end. Before my mind could understand, the latticed prison of the rose tree snapped through the middle with a deafening crack.

A sharp sliver of onyx glass cut through the room, and Rhysand stepped out of it onto the carpet in front of me.

Even with my fae senses dulled, I could indeed feel that power off of him now, blackness twisting in the air like cold smoke with the promise of death.

His wide eyes quickly scanned the room. When he found me, he went still as stone.

Read the rest on AO3

[yandere-heaven-nyxie]

Cries of The Wretched Imposter

•Part 3•

Character mentiond: Zhongli, Venti, Raiden Shogun/Ei, Wanderer, Tsaritsa,

Barbatos wouldn't be hunting down an imposter if it wasn't because he was forced to, he couldn't do it. He does not wish to be a hypocrite, for he himselves had stolen the face of his own friend. Whenever he was forced to hunt them down, he misses the arrow purposely with a pleading look whenever you turn your face towards him.

'Please... Run and be safe.' he thought, he isn't one to be a tyrant. He could see that your soul is gentle, he grips his bow as it disperse into golden particles he doesn't want to harm anybody.

Zhongli, the former Geo Archon. His opinion to obey the Creator is absolute, he shall hunt down the imposter if they oh-so desired it to be. Yet he couldn't, it's like the earth rejected him. Not moving in his command and impale you, it bounced back at him. Whatever he tried, even throwing the meteorite at you but it simply fell onto him. He grit his teeth in absolute rage and frustration, like a dog bearing it's fangs toward the real owner whom it had forgotten.

Raiden Ei, The Electro Archon. She who turned a blind eye towards her people in order to achieve her eternity. To fulfill and gain the righteous bit of attention from her Creator, when the moment the Imposter Hunt Decree had been established. She could feel herself almost ''happy'

Hunting you down when she heard you had stepped foot into Inazuma, she thought she could execute you publicly and earn the glorious reward. When the dog finally showed it's claws, has it realised that it's useless.. As the Mussou Isshin inch closer to slice your neck, the lightning struck down her sword, making it flew away from your neck. The lightning wasn't hers, she saw how the sky darkens more, mists covered the entire land of Narukami it almost reminded them of Tsurumi Island.

"How dare you bare your claws towards our Divine Creator!" The Thunder Manifestation voice booms, a sudden huge void opened in front of you. The Golden Wolflord slithers out of it menacingly, it towers over every citizens of Inazuma. The Shogun looks up in mild annoyance, using her sword to slice through the monstrous being but it does nothing. Her electro power was no longer working, squinting her eyes as she tries again but only to get struck down by Teyvat's lightning. She grits her teeth is anger 'What The Fuck?!'

"Your power is no longer working, You who dares to harm the All-Creator." The Golden Wolflord growls as he speaks. It's little cubs helping you to get off the makeshift guillotine. The larger ones carrying you careful to not harm you with its claws, teleporting you away from them "Your traitorous acts shall not be forgotten, you who has been believing in white lies." The huffs and growls from the Golden Wolflord, the people shiver in fear at the threat.

°~🌙~°

Wanderer who longed to have a heart, was granted with one. He could feel it thump in his chest whenever you get close to touch him, he's eager to be touched by you. He lays his head on your lap, tangling your fingers in his dark violet hair. Humming a soft tune that lulls him to sleep in the comfort of your presence.

He will do absolutely anything for you, anything if it means by killing someone, even that thing that mimicks you. That Disgusting Wretched Worm that tries to mock his god.

°~❄️~°

The Fatui was in a move, they were desperate to find you. They have a different intention unlike other foolish creatures that always follows blindly like a sheep toward that.. Thing.. They have long known that the one on the throne was not you, Tsaritsa saw it with her own two eyes. The blood that spilled from a sword of a traitor, it was red. Tsaritsa at first, was in doubt. Hopefully the blood turns gold after it dried right?

No.. It didn't, even after a few days, after it oxidize.. It just turns brown, just like that of a human. The Prophecy of how the All-Creator's blood is the most purest and divine, wrecked her brain like a tsunami. The fact that the Prophecy never lies, it was a record hidden away from most. Only those who truly recognised the All-Creator shall be granted to have it in their hand. The record was written by Teyvat itselfs, no beings can alter nor can they destroy the record.

_________________________________

Tsaritsa, The Cryo Archon herself. Held you in her arms, she knows that it is undignified and she is basically disrespectful toward you but she didn't care. She wanted to drown herselves in your presence, truly it had an impact on her unlike that imposter. The way you held her in your arms, cradling her taller form to be lower than yours so that you can hug her more comfortably.

She glance past you seeing Nahida and Wanderer, the betrayal of her 6th Harbinger didn't mind her one bit since he was loyal to you. You are everything that she devoted on since the beginning, she will make that thing that sat on the overly tainted gold throne pay. For fooling the entire world.

°~🔴~°

All the people that wronged you, sat on their knees. Begging to be forgiven, begging for anything except of this. All of them from when they scorned, tortured and chased you like an animal, now all of them begging to be forgiven from such sin. Some even tried to kiss your feet but they were kicked away from doing so by Wanderer, "You dare lay your dirty mouth on our Creator, that same mouth that wishes to kill them?!" The people cried and wailed as they were denied to do so

No amount of tears and prostrate will forgive them of their crimes.

That imposter who wore your face, had tried to escape first but failed as they were grabbed by the neck and almsot turned blue. That thing cried and beg to be let go but it's all futile, they shut their fcking mouth when they received death glare from your true acolytes. Your familiars walks beside you, it glowered at the people with hungry eyes. Ready to feast upon the traitors.

The imposter was scared to the bone, trying to get away from Lieu and Daru. Failing to do so as they drag it by the ankle and devoured them like it's their last meal, eaten alive as their guts spew out and dirtying the ground. Though that wasn't enough.

Resurracting that thing back alive again, this time their face was different. It was like those common npc faces, they were yet again tortured by the Harbingers, one by one resurrecting after dying. The blood that spew out of them wasn't gold, it was red. Even after it darkens, it stays that way. None were changed. The people who witnessed this punishment, shall have it engraved in their brain. Tattoo it, that they have worshipped an imposter all along.

All while you were sitting up your throne, a gentle smile plastered on your face, The Cryo, Dendro and Anemo Archon by your side. They all didn't spare a glanced toward that thing, Tsaritsa stared down at the people, "You shall not be forgiven even for eternity. Even until there's no end, Your sins shall not be erased."

The Imposter, died cruelly and rightfully by your hands. Their last words were "Please... End me already." You granted it but not in a pleasent way of course. You may be gentle but sometimes, a heart does not mean it's the only thing that exists within you. You are after all capable of ending anyone if you desired.

None shall forget that either.

Teyvat cheered as the Imposter dies, the birds are singing, the flowers are blooming. On this day, People shall finally open their eyes. To realize what they had done, 'They' who are so blind. Fools who are just so gullible to trust anything on their path without thinking even one single bit.

—The End—

This may be a bit too rushed but I have many new ideas for some reasons.. Again I'm so sorry!! But I hope the new upcoming stories will be more interesting.

Tags: @mulandi @bittersweetorpheus @akemisamui @erosdevil @shizunxie @ehe-te-nandayou @kalims @fauxizs

[scuttlingcrab]

"The doublet is a magical item, so it can fit and mould to Raphael’s body no matter his form or temper." Now I'm just picturing Raphael transforming in anger while wearing the doublet and his rage is momentarily stopped when he realizes that it transformed with him and wasn't even singed.

Like, I could be incredibly angry with someone, but if I suddenly realized that my dress had pockets in it I know darn well that I'd need to at least stop and take a moment to marvel at that discovery before even thinking about continuing on with my anger. 😅

I was literally working on something similar when you sent your message! I've attached the ask below I was initially responding to. Thank you for your message anon and hope you enjoy! x

"Also, the idea of Raphael showing off his new clothes is just- It just tickles me! I can see him preening and flaunting like a peacock because of Tav's gift. I'd honestly read a sequel piece about that, if you want to write it. I've kinda already fallen in love with the whole idea of a luxury magic tailor Tav that the initial prompt fill and response has created as well as that Tav's potential dynamic with Raphael (and other characters *looking at Gale and his sewing needle quip*) and would absolutely be down to read more of that from you! 👀"

Summary: Raphael is caught off guard by his recent gift from Tav, so he decides to pay his little mouse a visit.

Notes: Read A Perfect Fit, which inspired this continuation.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

Dressed to Kill 

Raphael stomped through the halls of the House of Hope, shedding his mortal skin. The doublet didn’t set fire when Raphael transformed, instead, it morphed with his growing size. The silk fabric soothed his ridged body, feeling like a warm embrace. Raphael suppressed a scream. Wretched mortal! The debtors scurried out of his path like rats, seeking the shadows for an ounce of solace from the blistering rage. 

He passed an open window and jolted to a halt. The blood-red light of Avernus caught the designs of his doublet, causing it to glimmer like diamonds. During his shift, the colour of his clothing changed. It now had a dark golden shimmer, the infernal embroidery a deep blue. He extended his arm, admiring the sleeve as he twisted it only slightly, and watched as the adornment reflected tiny devilish patterns onto the marble floors. The decorations moved, as if dancing. Another interesting, subtle detail.

Staring at these animations, Raphael’s breath calmed, his mind cleared. He stood taller, his head never held so high. Abruptly he spotted one of the debtors staring at him from his peripheral and lowered his hand, slowly turning to face them. Fire burned in Raphael’s eyes as he hissed, barring his sharp teeth. The debtor screeched before scurrying off to continue their meaningless eternal task. 

“If I catch just one more incompetent lackey idling about, I will impale your sorry souls on trees and leave you to rot. You are all interchangeable. Do not forget that.”

Raphael watched as the last debtor fled from his sight. He will not be caught off guard again. No. In fact… he will pay that creature a visit. 

–

Raphael materialised at the creature's camp in a swirl of flames and sparks, returning to his mortal disguise. 

The camp was quiet at this hour, the creatures asleep, separated into their individual makeshift tents. And what a ghastly camp it was, third-rate, at best. Miscellaneous equipment littered every corner, books lay discarded, shoddy clothes hung drying on trees, and the animals… When did these mortals domesticate owlbears? Savages.  

He slowly approached Tav’s tent, nestled towards the lake's shoreline. He parted the flap with an index finger and peeked inside. The creature was fast asleep, sharing her tent with that monstrosity Karlach. 

He watched them sleeping, so defenceless. He perked up at the thought. If he was so inclined, he could have easily ended their lives, consumed their souls before the tadpoles defiled them; all it would take is a snap of his fingers…

“Rise and shine, little mouse.” Raphael purred. 

Tav sprang up from her bed roll, clumsily readying a dagger from her sleeve. She held it out towards Raphael, one eye still closed, as she fought off the interrupted slumber. 

Karlach simply turned over in her bedding, yawning and stretching like a cat. She slowly opened her eyes, sitting upright when she spotted Raphael standing at the entrance.

He smirked in response, placing a hand on his hip.

“What the hell is this creep doing here?”

“Good evening to you too, Karlach. I am simply checking in on my prospective clients.”

Raphael bowed deeply, making sure to be as flamboyant as possible in his gesture.

“In the middle of the bloody night? Fuck off, devil.” 

Raphael slowly straightened himself, adjusting his sleeves. He aimed his cuffs towards the campfire, taking care to make sure the lighting was just right to highlight the devilish decorations. 

“Tut, tut, Karlach, language. If I wanted to hear such hideous sounds I’d speak with a lemure.”

Karlach leapt to her feet, the rickety infernal engine in her chest glowing brighter as she stared daggers at him.

“Karlach, please…” 

Tav raised a hand at Karlach, putting away her weapon. She rubbed away the rest of the sleep and focused on Raphael. Her face instantly lit up when she caught sight of his doublet. 

“You’re… wearing it?” Tav whispered. She brought her hands to her mouth, attempting to hide her flushed cheeks. 

“But of course! How could I resist such a delicious gift? It’s not often a devil like myself comes across a mortal with such curious tastes. Your attention to detail is…”

Raphael dramatically clasped his hands together, as if in a prayer. Yes, indeed. Thank the Gods up above for damning these poor creatures and sending them straight into his claws. 

“Superb!” 

“Hells, what have you done?” Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

Tav gave Karlach a sidelong glance, narrowing her eyes. Raphael’s smile grew, devouring the creature’s disapproval and embarrassment. Almost as scrumptious as a soul.

“You are quite the seamstress. What else have you been creating on your adventures, hmm? I wonder, what would be the price for another item such as this? Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement?” 

Tav’s mouth hung open at his words.

“I-I-uh, didn’t think that far ahead. Let me sleep on it.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, little mouse. You had my curiosity, but now… you have my full attention.”

Raphael raised his arms out wide, like a peacock strutting their finest feathers. He laughed as he surrounded himself in infernal flames. He had truly stumbled upon his greatest prize, his secret weapon to uniting the Nine Hells. Raphael would reach his target soon, that was for certain, but oh, oh yes... he would look hellishly chic in his pursuits. He would turn heads, devils and mortals alike.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 24: Alexander's Troubles

Masterlist

TW: captivity, vampiric blood drinking

Lex didn't know whether to hug Lily or punch her. 

He stared out at the darkened trees, the carriage ride home giving him ample time to brood. He'd skipped out on the social event following the auction -- for every vampire he wouldn't mind catching up with, like Ruth or Mina, there were a dozen others who'd just as soon see him impaled on a spike. 

And he had larger concerns right now than social faux pas, because he hadn't remotely intended to actually buy anything. He wasn't ready for a new thrall yet, and especially not one that he might get attached to. He'd vowed to never do that again, and Lily knew very well the reason why. When she insisted he absolutely had to see this thrall she'd worked on, he assumed he could quietly let himself get outbid and that would be that.

But it was Oliver, of all the unfortunate people.

It wasn't as though he hadn't realized what a picture perfect thrall Oliver might make. The smell of his delectable blood in the tiny bookshop and his quiet, docile nature were apparent to any vampire with senses. 

On visits to his shop, he'd had fleeting fantasies of thralling the poor lad right then and there and drinking deep of his blood. Running his fingers through his hair as he lay in Lex's lap, entranced and trusting and oh so warm in the way only humans were. Footsteps in his empty house, a roaring fire and coffee prepared for him when he awoke from slumber. He ached to think of it.

But he knew the danger of taking Oliver as a thrall. 

Lex knew very well that his sire would have an interest in the poor boy, so delicate and intellectual and easily entranced. Even in his fantasies, his fleeting joy would come to an abrupt end, Oliver stolen away from him and dragged into hell, over and over again until he broke, until the gentle man was used up and gone forever. It was unthinkable, and so he'd refrained from touching the bookseller.

He thought he could wait and watch over Oliver until such time as he worked out how to defeat his sire. Fitz could return from overseas and move back in with his thrall. Lex could take Oliver, condition him with a deft touch, and give him a good life. They could all be happy, as contented as vampires and thralls could ever be in this wretched world. His home would be filled with laughter and music.

In retrospect, ignoring his good sense and giving in to his baser instincts would have saved him twenty thousand dollars.

That wasn't the only reason he didn't want to see Oliver go through the auction house, why he'd delivered a futile warning. They erased half the humans they brought in, and the thought of Oliver being turned into cattle... Thank goodness Lily had half a brain and had intercepted him and trained him properly.

And after all his hand-wringing and well-founded misgivings, he simply couldn't bear to see Oliver being sold to that rat bastard Jameson and thrown into a filthy pen like an animal.

And so, here he was, holding the bill of sale of a brand new thrall, yet another soft-hearted mistake.

The carriage dropped him off in front of his downtown mansion well before the dawn. He strode inside with purpose. There were a number of things he'd need to prepare, errands he'd need to run. Despite his reluctance to leave his thrall behind, perhaps it was better that he was with Lily for a few evenings.

He'd need clothing in Oliver's sizes -- the measurements helpfully supplied in his paperwork -- for around the house, out of the house, and social events, including cold weather garments for fast approaching winter. He'd need fine toiletries to keep his thrall soft and sweet smelling. He'd need to make sure the quarters upstairs were all fully in order. And he'd need to stock his pantry and icebox with human food.

What food should he buy for Oliver? Generally, once his thralls were settled, they'd buy their own groceries and cook their own food and he didn't need to pay too much attention. But even if he remembered, the foods his previous thralls favored might not be the same as Oliver's preferences. He'd have to get some basic staples and let Oliver request anything that was missing. He could leave a note out for the milkman, restart regular service.

Exhausted, he entered his library, his inner sanctuary filled with the smell of old leather and decaying bindings, and collapsed into his favorite leather armchair. As he tried to mentally list everything that needed to get done, his eyelids began to droop and his head began to nod, thoughts flowing into dreams. He dreamed of Oliver tilting his head, inviting him to drink. Of how the soft flesh of his neck would give way, and sweet, rich blood would fill his mouth and satisfy his deepest cravings. Of how Oliver would slump against him as he licked the wounds clean, not letting a single drop go to waste.

It'd been so long since he'd had a human so delicious. He'd specifically avoided top grade thralls, lest his sire take too much interest in them.

And his sire would absolutely have an interest in Oliver.

Lex felt the faintest pull on his mind, something  that he might not have even noticed if he weren't half expecting it. A question. Concern. An are-you-okay?

He wasn't okay, not exactly, but it was too much to try and explain through a tenuous mental connection, one he was careful to never abuse. He'd need to write a letter, and was overdue anyway. He pushed back reassurance through the link. Just brooding. No cause for alarm.

The sensation he received back was like the ghost of an embrace, an echo of comfort. He longed for more.

With great effort, he pushed himself out of his chair and went to his desk, setting out a piece of paper and picking up a heavy fountain pen. Might as well get that letter written now, before morning, so as to send it out as soon as possible.

Dearest Fitz,

I seem to have acquired a new thrall today. I can already see that smug look on your face as you read those words. Lily bears part of the blame, of course...

Part 23 >> Masterlist >> Part 25

And so we've hit the end of the first act proper, with Oliver auctioned off to his former rich patron Alexander. In the next act, we'll see what's in store for Oliver when he arrives at Alexander's home, read more about Fitz and his past with Alexander, and meet Alexander's mysterious sire.

Thanks for reading thus far! All of your comments, asks, tags, and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @snakebites-and-ink @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs

[deckofaces]

Step Out of Line

Tw: whump, stabbing, blood, near death experience, dagger mention, Supervillain whumper, Hero whumpee, sadistic whumper (guys I swear it sounds bad but there is caretaking at the end)

@epiclamer I saw your plea in the gc for hero whumpee and villain caretaker. So I was inspired and wrote this, pls accept my offering

Hero groaned as they crashed hard into the concrete. They practically tasted it with how close their head came to smashing into it. Their open cuts and wounds screamed as they hit the floor. The rough concrete scraped against them, each second laying there felt like daggers poking their skin. 

Hero laid there dizzily, coughing for a few seconds. Was that blood that just came out of their mouth? Their vision started blurring together. They slowly looked up, two pairs of feet stood in front of them, who else joined the fight? 

They blinked a couple times at the figures, struggling to keep their head up. After another few seconds of this, the two pairs of feet merged into one. No one else joined the fight, it was just their vision lying to them. 

Hero shakily started to stand up, despite every part of their body just telling them to give up. They were a hero, they could not lay there in defeat. Supervillain stood in front of them and if they could just get one really good punch in, they might just be able to defeat them-

They felt their legs collapse out from under them, and Hero landed back on their stomach. The cool, rugged pavement greeted them once more. They could hear maniacal laughter echoing off the brick alleyway walls behind them. 

Hero breathed heavily, they pushed off the ground, oh they could see the dark red blood now. They slowly turned over to lay on their back so they could actually see. More laughing filled their ears, Supervillain crouched down next to their fallen form. 

Out of the corner of their eye, they could see something in the evil doer’s hand. Despite the darkness of the alley, Hero could see the almost blinding flash of metal. A dagger, their vision focused just enough to see the outline of a small blade. 

Their heartbeat raced, it must have been out of fear. Was Supervillain going to finish the job right there? They didn’t want to die that way. Dying to the filthy hands of Supervillain like so many others before them. Just add them to the list of fallen heroes. Hero would be just like the others, nothing special. 

Supervillain held an evil glint in their eye, grinning as they took pleasure in putting the blade directly in their face so Hero could see. “Given up yet Hero? It does not matter, you do not have a choice anyways. You will be dead in a minute.”

“N-no-“ Hero whimpered, oh so desperately trying to back away in their weakened state. 

Supervillain only cackled more, grabbing their feet and dragging them back over, which only made Hero cry out in pain. 

Without warning, they elicited a scream as Supervillain took their blade and stabbed Hero.

They couldn’t tell where, but the pain felt absolutely horrible. Another thing they knew is that they passed out soon after.

. . .

Hero stirred on something.. soft? Were they hallucinating the comfortable surface to escape the feeling of the wretched concrete? 

They opened their eyes but they were impaled by light, which confused them, wasn’t it still night time?

Hero took a minute to adjust to the light, blinking rapidly until it felt like the light no longer hurt them. They looked around the room, this clearly was not the alley, their mind had not been playing tricks on them either.

They were laying on a worn in couch, a soft blanket had been pulled all the way up to their chin. They looked under the blanket and saw bandages wrapped around their stomach, arms, and a cast on their leg. They also noticed bandages around their hands too when lifting the blanket. None of them felt too tight either, whoever did it must have taken great care.

The living room the couch sat in appeared to be small, but it was neat and tidy. They wonder what civilian rescued them, at least they hoped a civilian saved them and they were not with Supervillain. That would be so very cruel, they would rather have died on the pavement than see their face after they had given Hero a false sense of safety. 

While scanning their surroundings, their eyes drifted over to the doorway that led to the kitchen. Their eyes widened in shock. Standing there staring at them was not a civilian at all or Supervillain, it was Villain. And they were holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup?

Villain must of been bad news, they started to sit up and pull the blanket off them, but they stopped halfway through, hissing in pain. 

Villain rushed over and set the soup on the coffee table in front of the couch. They immediately pushed Hero to lay back down on the couch. “What are you thinking?? If you opened any of your wounds because of this- I swear to gods-“ They groaned thinking about it, shaking their head. 

Hero hesitated, they did not move or say anything. That only caused Villain to sigh as they gently helped them into sitting position. They grabbed the bowl of soup directly after, pulling a chair up to sit next to the couch Hero sat on. 

Hero looked at the soup with unease. They could not deny that it smelled absolutely delicious and their stomach had definitely been growling, but what if Villain put something in it? “Is that poisoned?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course not,” Villain scoffed. “You are in my home, I plan on taking care of you.”

Hero still looked at the bowl in their nemesis’s hands, unsure. Which in turn only drew out a long sigh from the villain.

“Why would I poison you after taking the time to bandage you up, if you haven’t noticed them already. Let me tell you that it took forever.” Villain gestured to Hero’s hand for reference. “I’m a villain, but if you think I’m cruel enough to bandage you all up just to kill you- I’m offended,” they rolled their eyes dramatically.

“Now watch, Hero.” They took a spoonful of the soup that they made and ate it. They swallowed and gave them an “I told you so” sort of expression. Hero looked sheepish after, letting out a small “oh.”

Villain hummed and held up another spoonful of the chicken noodle soup. “Open your mouth.”

Hero gave them a confused look again, “Are you going to try to feed me?”

Villain still held the utensil in front of the crime-stopper. “Yes,” they said simply.

“But that is embarrassing-! Please just let me feed myself,” Hero complained. They weren’t injured so much so that they could not eat the soup themself.

“Not as embarrassing as trying to challenge someone as powerful as Supervillain. I found you left for dead in that alleyway, and goodness knows you could have died if I didn’t save you. Now open up.” This time Villain did not sound like they were joking. They were stern, but they also held a touch of worry in their voice.

Hero lowered their gaze to the blanket on their lap out of shame and embarrassment. Villain had immediately shut down their complaints just with that explanation alone. 

“Why did you help me?” Hero asked quietly. “I’m a hero, I try to arrest you. This goes against what villains sort of well.. do.”

Villain let the spoon fall back into the bowl. They shook their head at Hero. “No, villains break rules and accepted norms dearest Hero, and saving you did just that. I did not step out of line if I was not following a line to begin with.”

Hero only stared at Villain. When they held the spoon up to them once again, this time they reluctantly opened their mouth and accepted the food. And consequently, Villain’s help.

[victoriadallonfan]

So we’ve all talked about Victoria taking on the name Antares and what that symbolizes. The heart of the scorpion, a binary star system, Anti-Ares, Against War etc etc

But, as I was doing a write up about the symbolism of Gods and Greek Myth in Ward, something about Athena caught my eye:

> Athena's epithet Pallas – her most renowned one – is derived either from πάλλω, meaning "to brandish [as a weapon]", or, more likely, from παλλακίς and related words, meaning "youth, young woman".

And of course, it made me immediately think of Victoria’s mom, Brandish. An armored warrior woman who leads a team with her glowing weapons.

And funny enough, there are a lot of references to Athena killing Pallas (who is sometimes written as a separate person), on accident or on purpose:

> In one version of the myth, Pallas was the daughter of the sea-god Triton, and she and Athena were childhood friends. Zeus one day watched Athena and Pallas have a friendly sparring match. Not wanting his daughter to lose, Zeus flapped his aegis to distract Pallas, whom Athena accidentally impaled. Distraught over what she had done, Athena took the name Pallas for herself as a sign of her grief and tribute to her friend and Zeus gave her the aegis as an apology. In another version of the story, Pallas was a Giant; Athena slew him during the Gigantomachy and flayed off his skin to make her cloak, which she wore as a victory trophy. In an alternative variation of the same myth, Pallas was instead Athena's father, who attempted to assault his own daughter, causing Athena to kill him and take his skin as a trophy.

Which sounds eerily similar to the Fragile One (Victoria’s Aegis) crushing Brandish while she was distracted, and her arcs of grieving for her.

The other stories can be stretched to involve Victoria’s battle against Ophion (Pallas the Giant) and the other (Pallas the father) could be stretched a loooot more to be about Amy and how Victoria uses the “wretch” as a defense and later trophy of her own success.

Anyways, that was a fun little thought exercise I had.