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eveenstar · 6 months ago

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double the bastard, double the...what's the saying again? | Ulf White x fem!bastard!reader - PART I

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You were the bastard daughter of another bastard daughter, funny, isn't it? Well, not to you. Your mother was another one of Princess Saera's bastards, who worked her entire life to escape her own mother's shadow, but it lingered in the blood. In her hair. In her heart.

It seemed the apple didn't fall far from the tree, as she got impregnated by some stupid Lord that had heard tales of the "white-haired beauties" in the depths of King's Landing. Then, you were born, with silver-white hair of your grandmother and the eyes of your unknown father.

Your late mother, bless her heart, did all she could to not have you end up like her or her mother. No, she promised you were destined for greater things. Her dreams told her so. She swore it til her grave.

After your mother passed, you took refuge with her half-brother, Hugh, always munching on your mother's words over and over again. Your once silver hair was dyed brown, despite your friends' insistence that you shouldn't hide who you are. Let the royals see their doings.

But you knew they cared little. They could have King's Landing be a city of bastards and not give one single fuck about it.

When war came to your doorstep, you were not one to pick sides. Aegon or Rhaenyra, they were all the same. They didn't put food on your table, did they? What matters is that you stayed alive for one more week.

It didn't stay like that for long, no, no, no.

When the news came that Rhaenyra was recruiting bastards to Dragonstone, your mother came to you in a dream. You saw her, standing by one of the brothel's windows, humming a soft lullaby as she held babe-you in her arms.

"It is fierce out there, I shan't lie to you." She whispered. "But we are fiercer. We are the blood of dragons, my sweet girl. I know you will achieve what I could not, and I beg your forgiveness for such."

Now, here you stood before Rhaenyra. But you weren't alone. Next to you were Hugh, a girl named Nettles, the local drunk Ulf White, and a handsome young man called Addam of Hull.

"You have done what was deemed impossible." Proclaimed the Queen.

But not to us, you wished to reply.

Your dragon, albeit smaller than the rest, was an unnamed one when you claimed her. So you took it upon yourself to name her Golden Tooth for her yellowish scales and shy nature.

Still, doubts crippled in your mind. You were to fly to battle with a dragon, likely to never return. Your hand was forced on the matter; it was either starve to death or honour your mother. You wished to not partake in a siblings' war, but you couldn't bite the hand that feeds you. And that hand was Rhaenyra's.

"Wench! Another one of these little birds!" Interrupted Ulf of your thoughts. You looked up from your breakfast.

"You eat like a pig." Hummed Nettles, sitting besides you.

"Ah, ah," Tutted Ulf with a toothy grin. "Like a dragon."

"There's a difference?" Snickered Nettles in return, and you couldn't help but laugh with her. At last, you could use a feminine presence in this stone cold keep, one that wasn't a noble, that is.

Even if Prince Jacaerys and his betrothed despised your group's presence on Dragonstone, you knew he knew they were desperate. Without you, they were nothing.

You mustn't think like that, you reprimanded yourself, this is an honour.

Is it?

Training and practicing High Valyrian and dragon commands was...harder than expected. It seemed you and Ulf were the odd ones out, taking great difficulty in the pronunciations and proper commands. Silverwing was confused, and Golden Tooth believed you merely wanted to play. As if she was a dog and not a dragon!

It was frustrating. Even your good friend Nettles was better than you in this, and despise her innocent teasing, you were growing frustrated.

"Dra-cá-ryze."

"That's not how you say it."

"Shush, girlie. I was born for this."

You scowled at Ulf's words, standing back and watching as he ordered Silverwing to burn a sheep.

"Dra...cáryze!"

The dragon huffed, a brief cloud of smoke leaving its mouth.

"It's dracarys, not dracáryze."

"Ehh, what's the difference?" Ulf brushed it aside with a scoff, but the faint pink of his cheeks did not go unnoticed by you. Yet, you remained unamused.

"How are you to fly into battle with a dragon you do not know how to command?" You inquired. Ulf glanced at you, then to Silverwing, and smiled again.

"This lady knows what to do. She's smart, I tell you that. "She flew us to King's Landing without as much as a word!"

"And nearly got you both killed by a scorpion." You added.

Truth be told, you were never even remotely an acquaintance with Ulf back in King's Landing. You knew who he was, sure, a drunk and funny man who loved to boast himself as "Ulf the Dragonlord." But he wasn't the type of people you preferred to stick around with.

Now that you get to live with him, you regret staying in the city. He was...nothing like a dragonrider (not that you had met many of them). He lacked the grace, the poise, and the looks of one.

Well...

Now that he was bad looking, especially with the new wardrobe Queen Rhaenyra provided you. But he could use with some Valyrian braids, and maybe some brooming, and....

"Aye, girlie, y'starin'." You blinked. Ulf was standing in front of you with a sheepish grin on that stupid face of his. "Can't command a dragon whilst daydreamin', can't'cha?"

You huffed. "You know, I'd call you a bastard but I forget you already are one." You said as you stormed off. "And a stupid one at that!"

"That was mean." Nettles laughed as she jumped on your bed, falling beside you. "But hilarious. The man needs to be put in his place."

"How in the Seven Hells did he claim a dragon such as Silverwing? He's a complete idiot!" You sighed, frustrated. "And his manners at the table, speaking to the Prince and the Queen? I..."

Nettles rolled on her stomach, leaning her head against her hands. "Why are you so bothered? If he's truly that useless, that will be proven in a real battle."

You sat up, running a hand through your hair to adjust it. "Well.. I... Death is a bit much, don't you think? I don't want him dead, I just wished he would shut up and behave for a moment."

Nettles hummed, a cat-like smirk plastered all over her face.

"I know a few ways men can be silenced."

"Nettles!"

Supper had been served two hours ago, yet few little had joined the table. Queen Rhaenyra was absent, and so was her son, Prince Jacaerys. Lady Baela ate very little and kept to herself, merely glancing at Ulf whenever he was being too loud.

Addam was also absent.

Nettles had preferred to stay with Sheepstealer, under her vow to you that she'd eat something later.

The room was eerily quiet aside from your hushed conversation with Hugh about training and how you loved that Targaryen female attire had pockets (of all things you should be worried about).

Much to your displeasure, Hugh, too, wasn't one to stick around for supper. You knew your sweet stay at Dragonstone was coming to an end, and that war was waiting beyond the sea, with the Stranger waiting to bring some of you with him.

Two hours had passed, and you munched on your thoughts instead of the delicious (cold) food that lay before you. You couldn't bring yourself to eat anymore, not when there was a battle inside you. You were afraid, not only for yourself, but for your newfound friends and allies and....your dragon. Something you never thought possible.

I did it, mummy. I did it. I made you proud.

You hoped she was proud. You hoped you had made something good out of your lineage.

"Are you gonna eat that?" Asked Ulf, his eyes practically feasting on your cold plate. You said nothing, merely passed it along to him.

You must have underestimated him because Ulf hesitated in taking your plate, staring at you for a moment. Usually, you'd be laughing with Nettles or Addam while teasing Ulf for his lack of manners or proper conduct.

Not today, it seemed. Ulf wasn't sure if he liked that. It was enough to have everyone on Dragonstone sulking and glaring at him -- them -- everywhere they went. But you? You were the entire sun in the stone fortress. Despite your insistence and giving him a hard time during practice, Ulf found you interesting. Especially when his antics made you laugh, even if it was at him.

"Seems like the princeling got to you too."

"Excuse me?"

Ulf leaned back on his chair, resting his feet on top of the table as he munched down on a chicken wing. "Pouting doesn't suit ya."

"I'm not pouting." You frowned. "I'm worried. As you should be. As we all should be."

"I'm worried, alright. Worried all this food will go to waste. Where's everyone at?" Ulf looked around, but saw only the servants taking the food away, as if expecting him to ask for more.

"We're going to die, Ulf!" You suddenly snapped, bringing the man's attention to you. You'd never seen him so bewildered. "We're not knights, no matter what the Queen says. We're just...pawns in this war. We have no part in this."

Ulf said nothing. For the first time, he found himself speechless. He knew you were right; he wasn't a fool. Well, he was, but not blind. He knew what was coming, but he chose to live in the moment. What memories would he have to remember when the Stranger came for him? Sulking in a palace?

"And I don't want to die. I don't want Hugh to die. Or Golden Tooth, Gods, do the dragons know we are making them slaughter their own kin?" Exasperated, you ran your hands up and down your face. "They're not....We are not-"

Suddenly, a rough and alcohol-filled kiss was pressed to your lips, silencing you. Ulf leaned back, a proud smile on his smug face as he looked at you.

Had the bastard just....

You stared at him, wide-eyed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"Couldn't help myself," Ulf grinned, "You women love to worry, y'know that?"

The grip around your cup tightened, threatening to spill on him at any moment. But you couldn't. Your cheeks were growing redder than any of Golden Tooth's fire. The cheeky bastard!

"Ulf."

Hugh stood at the entrance of the chamber, holding a sword in his hand. His glare could be felt across the room, like Vermithor himself had just walked in.

"It's time for training."

Ulf took one last sip of his wine, clearing his throat.

"Shit."

#ulf the white #house of the dragon #ulf the white x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #silverwing #ulf white #ulf white x reader

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 8 months ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone.

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured.

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still.

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught.

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite.

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon.

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers.

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood.

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know.

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up.

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette.

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger.

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently.

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles.

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?”

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries.

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.”

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes.

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.”

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.”

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst.

Nothing survives Hellfire.

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons.

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace.

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you.

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself.

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart.

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously.

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!”

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly.

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location.

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight.

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself.

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.”

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you.

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race.

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness.

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target.

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back.

You are running out of time.

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch.

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.”

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death.

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed.

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room.

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters.

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.”

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely.

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.”

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.”

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you.

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.”

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?”

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers.

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest.

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep.

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening.

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves.

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.”

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh.

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece.

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.”

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries.

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in.

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.”

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips.

“Yes, sing.”

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call.

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?”

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs.

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them.

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity.

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion.

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served.

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin.

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges.

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door.

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door.

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly.

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.”

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click.

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it.

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true.

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence.

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life.

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years.

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.

But Gods, you are so hungry.

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers.

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing.

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time.

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness.

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady.

“Why what, pet?”

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.”

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way.

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul.

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be?

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck.

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line.

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding.

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful.

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair.

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.”

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.”

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily.

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.”

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear.

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils.

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help.

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried.

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?”

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.”

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay.

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you.

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.”

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps.

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!”

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.”

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?”

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.”

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge.

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal.

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed.

“They will heal in time.”

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt.

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles.

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?”

She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.”

“I want to see him - this version of him.”

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.”

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?”

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.”

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.”

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.”

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg #astarion bg3 #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion x named tav

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longliverockback · 17 days ago

Text

The Band The Last Waltz [SACD] 2015 Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab ——————————————————————— Tracks CD One: 01. Theme from the Last Waltz 02. Up on Cripple Creek 03. Who Do You Love 04. Helpless 05. Stagefright 06. Coyote 07. Dry Your Eyes 08. It Makes No Difference 09. Such a Night

Tracks CD Two: 01. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down 02. Mystery Train 03. Mannish Boy 04. Further on up the Road 05. The Shape I’m In 06. Down South in New Orleans 07. Ophelia 08. Tura Lura Lural (That’s an Irish Lullaby) 09. Caravan

Tracks CD Tree: 01. Life Is a Carnival 02. Baby Let Me Follow You Down 03. I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met) 04. Forever Young 05. Baby Let Me Follow You Down (Reprise) 06. I Shall Be Released 07. The Well 08. Evangeline 09. Out of the Blue 10. The Weight 11. The Last Waltz Refrain 12. Theme from the Last Waltz [with orchestra] ———————————————————————

Rick Danko

Levon Helm

Garth Hudson

Richard Manuel

Robbie Robertson

* Long Live Rock Archive

#SACD #TheBand #The Band #Rick Danko #Levon Helm #Garth Hudson #Richard Manuel #Robbie Robertson #The Last Waltz #Reissue #Live #Roots Rock #2015

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sapphiel · 10 months ago

Note

Do you have any facts about mavis?

Mavis (full name: Mavis Yamazaki) is actually half-Japanese. ...or at least whatever the Spirit Realm has in place for Japanese. Despite this, she can't speak a lick of that language, and her accent is very "American". She still wishes to learn more about that side of her heritage, though.

She is one of the few people who Stovik tolerates quite a lot overall. Even if she does a mistake, Stovik rarely, if ever, flares up at her. In return, she is one of the few, if not currently the only, person who knows how to calm Stovik down in the event of a rage flare-up.

She has 3 younger siblings (named Mason, Ronan, and Sebastian), an aging and frail father, and a deceased mother. Due to her father's state, she had to take care of her siblings by herself, and is how she got her some of her skills as a cook. She is very caring, watchful, and loving of her brothers.

A reason for Mavis (and her siblings) wearing masks in public is not really for sanitary reasons, but because her race has a strange effect of making anybody that sees their wide lipless mouths be inflicted with a crippling irrational fear, which can affect anybody capable of feeling fear in the first place. Doesn't matter how trained, numb, or insane someone is; If they CAN feel fear, they WILL feel it.

She is really skilled at throwing knives, once throwing one out the kitchen window to hit Jasper's hat by the medal. He was waaay on the other end of the train.

Mavis is a good singer, as she used to sing lullabies frequently to her little brothers every night.

#incredibox #incredibox express #express mavis #rayart

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cto10121 · 3 months ago

Text

Twilight Clown Takes—Part 11

Reddit tends to be much better with its Twilight takes than literally anywhere else, but you still get some clownery every now and again. A bit smarter than the usual fare, which is a nice change. But once again, we get BD ending whinging and other commonplaces. And so I eat! Om nom nom

“But Bella’s Career!!1!1”

*sighs, inserts the “don’t make me tap the sign” meme*

Twilight is a romance first, a coming-of-age YA story second. Of course, it’s going to focus on the love relationship(s) above all else! Even if Meyer personally shuddered at the thought of a housewife life, that wouldn’t change the fact that a romance book would focus on the fucking romance.

Hence, Bella’s career and social potential is not the point here—she is smart enough to succeed in most all her endeavors, and her social skills are fine. That has never been the problem. But she is limited by the fact that she comes from a working class, low-income background. No matter how smart she is, her opportunities will be limited. Classism 101.

So no, Bella could not have had “more with her life.” Her best-case scenario would have been to escape Forks and go to an affordable but mediocre college with plenty of grants and scholarships. Maybe get a good job, but then get screwed over by the 2008 crash and Covid. With Edward and the Cullens, though, she not only finds love and family, but money and even time is no longer a problem. She can go to university a million times as a vampire.

Also, it won’t fix the problem of Bella’s severe emotional neglect. She needs someone who will validate her. Without that support, Bella would be crippled emotionally and never progress. And therapy would be beyond her reach financially.

Meyer is an Austenite, so she understands the importance and impact of class and income on romance. She knew Bella’s character had to be a certain way in order to make the romance make sense. Hell, for Bella to even be attracted to Edward in the first place.

Team Jacob Fan Dumb

*studio audience groan* Not the goddamn khaki skirt again.

Bella is so damn passionate with Edward. Even in the beginning, she hugged him first thing in the morning (“Edward, you stayed!”), kissed him back during their first and second kisses, and is the one constantly pushing for sex. She fights with Edward about becoming a vampire and makes him promise not to give her presents for her birthday or graduation. She is furious with Edward for taking out her car’s engine, and when Edward gets Alice to kidnap her, Bella sends her growly “Angry grizzly bears are going to look tame by the time I’m done with you!1!!!” message. She cries when Edward plays her lullaby and sobs the night after they return from Italy because she thinks she is still dreaming. When Bella and Alice are reunited and Bella launches herself at her, Alice mentions she had forgotten how exuberant she is. In Eclipse, Bella was also willing to distract Victoria with her rock stunt.

With Jacob, Bella is also expressive, even more childish, but definitely not as passionate. She is angrier, not because she is more “alive” with Jacob, but because he constantly disregards her boundaries and consent. Bella is plenty alive with Edward—if she reads as more cautious as times, it’s because he’s a freakin’ vampire who could squash her like a bug. Hence, she tries not to make it harder for him than it already is.

Sanitized Imprinting

Clown OP: “This vampire imprinting plotline is too sanitized and not creepy enough!!1!”

Also Clown OP: *accurately details the reasons why many people think it is creepy*

We have no idea how Meyer will deal with the imprinting plotline when she finishes writing that Renesmee book. I have a feeling, though, that Jacob/Renesmee will have a lot of drama before they even get to a place of romance. For one thing, Edward and Bella themselves would never pressure Renesmee to accept Jacob. Hell, they struggled to come to terms with the imprinting and arguably never did—the imprinting drama was just subsumed by the Volturi drama. Once things do start going romantic, all of that drama will arise again.

Simping for the Movies

Edward yelling at Bella in the BD film was the worst OOC moment for me. It’s what broke Movie Edward for good (that, and the “spider monkey” shit).

Book Edward did not pretend Bella was fine, not even for a moment. He was literally in hell. Jacob was traumatized just by looking at him. But Edward knew that he could not force Bella to choose otherwise without breaking something fundamental about their relationship.

Also, Bella was NOT committing suicide. She had a plan. When the baby was out, she would immediately be turned into a vampire via Edward’s venom, which would heal her. It was an insanely risky plan that could have gone wrong in so many ways, but it wasn’t on blind faith.

The dumbass films neglected to write this, though, and so they broke Movie Bella. Fuck them all, and never, ever try to make the movies canon.

“Stephenie didn’t mean this positively—” 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Edward and Carlisle—who, reminder, were hardcore Team Abort Fetus—are definitely framed sympathetically in the narrative. Jacob even does a 180 on his entire attitude just by speaking to Carlisle, who isn’t portrayed at all negatively for his stance. Alice, also one of the most sympathetic characters in the books, is also Team Abort Fetus.

And Edward’s suffering at Bella’s pain is one of the most heartbreaking things in the series. Even through Jacob’s POV (who is prejudiced!!!) it is framed that way. Occam’s Razor? Meyer definitely meant this positively.

Team Human Bella Fan Dumb

I disagree. Bella’s vampirism is not like a human adult life. It’s better.

Homegirl doesn’t have to sleep, only has seven years of raising Renesmee to adulthood, Renesmee herself skipped infancy, she is finally social equals with Edward, and she has gained his whole family as her own. Also, once again, she could go to college a million times.

With another man or even with Jacob, it would be pretty much business as usual for Bella, the exact same as with Renée and Charlie: Cooking, cleaning, and then the child-rearing. Those won’t heal Bella’s emotional neglect, but exacerbate it. Jacob has the advantage of protecting Bella physically from any and all dangers, but he would still require human comforts. And Jacob himself has proven he is no equalist/feminist.

The best case scenario for Bella, apart from therapy, would still be vampirism, and Meyer knew it. Bella herself is drawn to vampirism in ways she is not to the wolf shapeshifters. The BD endgame was not at all outdated; it was beyond clear that Bella would choose Edward always, and choosing Edward means choosing immortality.

And Jacob did want to imprint by the end. He even went to Seattle to look at girls, willing himself to imprint on any of them. Imprinting wasn’t even against his character by that point.

At the end of Eclipse, Bella absolutely does not accept herself yet. Her revelation was due to what she would be giving up re: humanity and accepting the cost.

In Breaking Dawn, she does not hang out with Jacob—he only returned for the wedding, and it was a complete surprise to Bella. Jacob returned on his own volition to Bella, who accepted him. And while Bella still retains some of her modesty, she finally describes herself as “a dark beauty” when she sees herself in her wedding dress. She also dresses up when she meets with Jenks. Those are not insignificant.

I think by that point, Bella finally does see herself as worthy of being with Edward, or at least accept that she has a powerful claim to him. She isn’t even jealous of Tanya anymore.

Based Takes

Bella is so well-written, you can give me any scenario and I could tell you how she would react to it. I’m not sure what happened on the Stewart/Hardwicke/Rosenberg front to destroy her character like this, but something did happen. Maybe it was a clusterfuck of all three.

#twilight #twilight clown takes #twilight renaissance #twilight clownery #preserve me #all this simping over human bella tho #ma’am this is a paranormal romance #of course it’s going to focus on the paranormal world #otherwise just get rid of those elements altogether

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feral-ballad · 1 year ago

Note

i stand like a lighthouse, obscured by storm and foggy mist,

help doesn't reach me.

i exist-

like a warning unheeded,

like a lullaby in a nightmare sleep,

like a deer looking at the harsh headlight flashing on its face, as life flashes before its eyes, fading in that luminous violence.

i will live strewn in memories and versions of history.

does it even matter if hyacinth doesn't bloom after my death when you look at me and somewhere in your mind, your remaining drops of mortality boil for forgiveness?

everywhere, the drops from my wounds fall,

as i take the last air in, red to a violet parody,

as the reaper holds me in a slow waltz,

vines stretch out, holding my limbs together.

one look at me, and woe blooms in your chest, knots of regret cripple your strong limbs,

as fear has crippled me for so long.

i have been smoldered with gunpowder and greeted with bombs.

we are pieces of souvenirs people bring back home,

we are empty boasts on dinner tables marked with bloody hands and mouths feasting on scrumptious steaks,

"the meat is tender like a maiden's cheek,

just like the one i killed this evening."

the ocean doesn't caress us, washing your bloody hands and cornering us far into the lands.

living is frightening, and death is sudden and violent,

yet through gritted teeth, we say,

"i will live even if it kills me,

i will live till then whatever it takes.

whatever it takes."

we are going to die anyway.

(i wrote this, and yk why. i hope you read this. i want them to live, may it take gritted teeth optimism, but i want them to survive. i can't take away the pain. i can only pray. i want to rush and save them, but i stand in a different country weeping for them. this won't reach anyone, but i hope it reaches you.)

i can’t stop crying. thank you. this is so beautiful, my heart is aching.

#i want them to live more than anything #archiveofacat #poetry #writings #free palestine

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darkmasterofcupcakes · 1 year ago

Note

Not really an ask, more of a submission of lyrics to a lullaby of Lute to Young Vaggie, based on the reprise of "more than anything”

You're my only family.

Your birth was the sweetest pain

You are my dearest light.

For you I'll fight, all of the wretched of Hell

I will cherish you even if I should fell

More than anything

More than anything.

The Lord know that I love you more than anything.

More than anything.

Hope you liked it, the thought of Lute and Vaggie talking and Vaggie repeating childhood gestures even after being crippled made me inspired.

That was honestly really sweet...maybe slightly bittersweet considering how things ended up between them as of the events of the finale, even within the AU.

And, yeah, while her hatred of demons did sadly override it in that fateful moment (though deep down, Lute was horrified by what she'd done when the adrenaline wore off), for most of Vaggie's life, she really was the most important thing in Lute's life. She wasn't a perfect parent by any means, but she did love her daughter more than anything and "losing" her was probably the biggest heartache Lute ever had to go through.

Honestly, feeling like she "lost" Vaggie to demons because she tells herself that her daughter was "corrupted" just likely made Lute double down even more on her belief that demons, and especially Sinners, were just horrible people who needed to be destroyed.

#Hazbin Hotel #Lute #Vaggie #Hazbin Lute #Hazbin Vaggie #Vaggie is a Guitarspear Baby AU #Cradle will Fall

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beyralxoxo · 16 days ago

Text

{Crimson War: Valhalla-Ivar The Boneless}

{PROLOGUE}

SUMMARY: It's a prologue babes

WORD COUNT: 1,5K

WARNINGS: Some words of death and brutality

The North was a land forged in fire and blood, a place where legends were born and lived long enough to become myths. It was a brutal land where the earth was as hard as the hearts of its people, and the icy winds carried whispers of gods and warriors. Tales of the beasts of the North spread like wildfire across the Christian world, carried on the lips of priests and the screams of survivors. These stories, heavy with dread, painted a vivid picture of a people born of chaos and steel.

The Danes were said to be bloodthirsty and merciless, their very presence heralding slaughter. But even they paled in comparison to the monsters of Norway—men raised not on the soft comforts of milk and bread but on the cold bite of iron and the warm gush of blood. They learned to kill before they could speak, their lullabies the clash of swords and the wails of the dying.

Heathens, the priests called them—demons cloaked in human flesh, a scourge sent by the devil to torment and destroy God’s children. Their warriors were said to be invincible, their shields painted with runes that bound spirits to their will. Their battle cries froze the blood in the veins of even the bravest knights, and their eyes, sharp and fierce as wolves, seemed to summon death itself.

And yet, even among these devils, one name stood above all others. Ragnar Lothbrok.

A name that rang through the halls of kings and echoed in the nightmares of the faithful. He was no mere man, but a being of legend—a descendant of Odin himself, it was said, though none who had faced him lived long enough to question it. To some, he was a warrior without equal, a king who carved his legacy from the bones of his enemies. To others, he was a god masquerading as a man, sent to remind the world of its mortality.

Ragnar was more than a man. He was a storm given flesh. His exploits—raids that toppled empires, battles that painted the seas red—were immortalized in sagas. His name became synonymous with strength, cunning, and unrelenting will. But Ragnar’s true legacy was not in his deeds alone.

It was in his blood.

He sired a lineage that bore his ferocity and ambition. Bjorn Ironside, the indomitable bear who was said to be unkillable. Ubbe, the steadfast and loyal, who tempered the storm with calm wisdom. Hvitserk, wild as the seas, unyielding and unpredictable. Sigurd, sharp and cunning, with a tongue and blade that cut equally deep.

But this is not their story.

This is the story of another.

The story is the story of youngest of Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons—a man whose name would echo across the ages, whispered in awe and terror alike. Ivar.

Ivar the Boneless.

He was no ordinary man, though the gods had marked him from the moment of his birth. The sagas tell of the day Ragnar looked upon his newborn son and saw the twisted legs that could not support him. Some whispered it was a curse—a punishment from the gods for Ragnar’s arrogance. Others claimed it was a gift, for in taking his legs, the gods had sharpened his mind and filled his heart with a fire that would never dim.

And what a fire it was.

Ivar did not rage against the heavens for what he lacked. Instead, he embraced his fate with the ferocity of a wolf denied its prey. His body might have been weak, but his mind became a weapon, sharper than any blade forged by man. He was cunning, calculating, a master of the battlefield who could outthink and outmaneuver even the most seasoned warriors.

Where others saw only obstacles, Ivar saw opportunity. He turned his weakness into a strength, proving time and again that he did not need the use of his legs to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

They called him a cripple, but to dismiss him was to sign one’s death warrant.

The Christians spoke of him in hushed voices, calling him a demon born of Norse savagery. His brothers knew him as a force of nature, one who could burn entire kingdoms to the ground with nothing but a plan and a cruel smile. And to those who stood against him, Ivar was something far worse—a monster cloaked in the flesh of a man, whose wrath was as unrelenting as the sea itself.

Yet, for all his ferocity, Ivar was not without depth. Beneath the armor of ruthlessness lay a soul haunted by questions only the gods could answer. Why had they marked him so? Was he chosen for greatness, or was he merely a pawn in their cruel games? He carried these doubts with him, even as he carved his path through history, leaving behind a legacy of blood and fire.

Ivar’s story is not one of redemption or regret. It is a tale of survival, of defiance, and of a man who refused to be broken by the world. He did not beg for mercy, nor did he bow to fate. Instead, he bent fate to his will, turning his pain into power and his name into a legend.

He was Ivar, son of Ragnar. The crippled king. The master of war. And the most dangerous of them all.

And so, the future legend of a king—the cunning, brutal Ivar the Boneless—would one day meet his match. Not on the battlefield, nor in the clash of swords and shields, but in the form of a woman who would unravel him, thread by thread, until the man beneath the monster was laid bare.

Her name was Yggdrasil.

They had known each other once, long ago, as children playing in the shadow of their parents’ ambitions. The memories were hazy, softened by the passage of time, but Ivar still remembered her wild laughter as she dared him to race despite his crippled legs, her fierce gaze when she defended him against taunts, her small hand gripping his as if to tether him to something gentler than his rage.

But life had a way of severing even the strongest bonds. Yggdrasil had been taken away, sent to her father Kjartan the Cruel, while Ivar remained behind to grow into the sharp-edged, unrelenting creature he was destined to become. Years passed, and the boy who once smiled for her faded into the shadow of a man who trusted no one.

Until now.

She stood before him once more, no longer the girl who had softened his edges, but a woman forged from fire and steel. Yggdrasil was beautiful, yes—but it was a dangerous beauty, the kind that could cut a man’s throat and leave him grateful for the privilege. Her eyes, still as piercing as he remembered, held no warmth for him now.

This was his bride.

The gods, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

To Ivar’s satisfaction—and torment—she hated him with every fiber of her being. She didn’t try to hide it. Her glare cut through him like a blade, and her words, sharp as any axe, left no doubt as to her disdain.

Her words stung in a way no enemy’s blade ever could. He was used to fear, to respect born of terror, but not this. Never this. Yggdrasil didn’t fear him. She didn’t revere him. She saw him as he truly was, and it left him raw and exposed.

But damn him, he couldn’t look away.

Where others bent beneath the weight of his gaze, she stood unyielding, her defiance burning as brightly as the firelight that danced in her hair. She was everything he had admired as a boy and everything he despised as a man: fearless, untouchable, and infuriatingly free.

And yet, for all her hatred, she fascinated him.

Their arranged marriage was meant to be a union of power, a merging of bloodlines to secure alliances and strengthen their families’ dominion. But it felt more like a battle—one fought with stolen glances, biting words, and the unbearable tension of being so close to something he couldn’t control.

Ivar hated how much he wanted her.

She became his goddess, the one he worshipped in secret and cursed in silence. His queen, though she wore no crown. His obsession, the thorn in his side that he could neither remove nor ignore.

Yggdrasil, in turn, saw through the mask Ivar wore. Beneath the cunning, the cruelty, and the sharp wit, she glimpsed the boy he had been—the boy she had once cared for. But she would not let herself pity him. Pity was weakness, and weakness had no place in her life.

Still, she couldn’t deny the pull between them, the way her heart betrayed her whenever his blue eyes burned into hers. There were moments—fleeting and fragile—when the tension between them shifted, when the man beneath the monster emerged, raw and vulnerable. In those moments, her hatred wavered, and the lines between enemy and lover blurred.

Together, they were a storm, a clash of power and passion that threatened to consume them both. And as much as they fought it, they couldn’t deny the truth: they were two halves of the same flame, destined to burn brighter—and more destructively—together than apart.

In the end, it would not be Ivar’s enemies who brought him to his knees. It would be Yggdrasil—the one woman who could match his fire with her own and remind him, with every defiant glance and searing touch, that even legends could love.

#ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x oc #vikings #ivar fanfic

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 4 months ago

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☠️ Clipped Wings: Chapter Fourteen

Clipped Wings: After living a life in seclusion due to an over protective father, you sneak away to experience life as it really is. Slowly building up the woman you always wanted to be, your quiet life is interrupted when you meet a rather elastic boy and his crew. This is just the beginning of trouble and your carefully crafted life starts to crumble around you. The past never really stays in the past, and now it has come knocking. In more ways than one.

Warnings: Gore, Violence, Body Amputation Via Whip.

To Note: Dracule Mihawk x Reader, NAMED!FemReader, Some physical features have been given (hair & eye color).

Word Count: ~2.3k

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2 Years Later

The night cloaks you in its shadows and the Blood Raven rises. The ship beneath your feet creaks, but the sounds of dying men fill the air, drowning out the ocean's lullaby. You stand at the center of chaos, dressed in raven black, your whip glistening with fresh blood. The lenses in your mask enhance your night vision, catching every terrified expression and futile attempt at escape.

A pirate lunges at you, cutlass raised high. Your body reacts before your mind even registers the threat. The whip snaps forward, wrapping around his arm with a serpentine hiss. With a flick of your wrist, the whip tightens, slicing through flesh and bone like paper. His scream is short-lived as you pull back, eviscerating him in a spray of blood.

You revel in the chaos around you. The ship groans under the weight of its own misery, but your senses are attuned to every desperate heartbeat, every gasping breath. The pirate you’ve just disarmed—quite literally—collapses at your feet, a fountain of crimson staining the wooden deck.

You move with inhuman speed, a dark blur slicing through the pandemonium. Another pirate charges, his eyes wild with fear and anger. Your reflexes take over and before he can close the distance, you fling a shuriken with deadly precision. It embeds itself in his throat, silencing his battle cry in a gurgle of blood.

The whip of Lothaine hums with power as it coils around your waist, ready for its next victim. Thirsty even. You scan the deck, catching sight of the ship’s captain barking orders. His eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, and you see the realization dawn on him—he’s facing the Blood Raven.

The pirate at your feet gasps for air, his eyes wide with terror. Blood pools around him, mixing with the salt of the sea and the grime of the deck. He raises a trembling hand, his voice barely a whisper.

"Please... spare me. I'll... take them. Kill them! I don't care! Just don't kill me."

You tilt your head, considering his plea. The whip of Lothaine snakes across the bloodied floorboards behind you, loose and ready to strike. You step closer, your heeled boots clicking against the blood-soaked wood as you prowl in a slow, taunting, circle.

"Why should I spare you?" Your voice is cold, cutting through the night like a blade.

The pirate's eyes widen as your voice, unmistakably feminine, cuts through the air. His face twists with confusion and dawning horror.

"Y-you're a woman?" he stammers, disbelief lacing his words.

You tilt your head slightly, a cold smile curling beneath your raven mask. "Does that surprise you?" The whip of Lothaine snakes closer to his prone form, a silent threat. Hungry for more fresh blood.

"But... why? Why are you attacking us?" His voice shakes, the bravado stripped away by sheer terror.

You step closer, the heels of your boots clicking against the blood-slicked deck. "You raid villages, burn homes, and slaughter innocent people, children," you begin, your tone icy and methodical. "Your crew revels in chaos and suffering."

His eyes dart around, searching for escape but finding none. Your presence looms over him like death incarnate.

"You prey on the weak," you continue, your voice unwavering. Your side steps continue, a prowl that instills crippling fear. "You steal their livelihoods, destroy their families. You spread misery and terror wherever you go."

The pirate trembles, eyes wide and wild. His pants darken as a puddle forms beneath him, the acrid stench of urine mingling with the metallic scent of blood. You smirk beneath your mask, relishing his abject terror.

With a flick of your wrist, the Whip of Lothaine coils around his wrist like a living serpent. The pirate’s breath hitches, his eyes locked on the golden strands tightening around his flesh. He knows the destruction it causes.

"And above all virulent actions you have performed," you say, voice dripping with disdain. "You' annoy me."

Your hand tightens its grip, and the whip obeys your unspoken command. It glows a second before it slices through skin, muscle, and bone with brutal efficiency. The severed hand falls to the deck with a sickening thud, blood spurting from the stump in violent bursts.

He screams—a raw sound that echoes across the deck. He writhes in agony, clutching at the spurting stump with his remaining hand, trying futilely to staunch the flow of blood. The crimson liquid sprays across your boots and pools on the deck, mixing with the already existing gore.

You step back slightly to avoid the worst of the spatter, watching him with cold detachment. The ship's deck becomes a macabre canvas painted in shades of red and black. Blood pulses from his wrist in rhythmic jets, each one weaker than the last as his strength wanes.

His face contorts in agony, eyes rolling back as shock sets in. He collapses onto his side, convulsing as life ebbs from him. The gory tableau sprawls before you like an offering to some dark deity.

Satisfied with your handiwork, you let out a slow breath and glance around at what remains of the pirate crew. Fear glistens in their eyes as they cower at a distance. None dare approach you now; they’ve seen what happens to those who cross paths with the Blood Raven.

The whip recoils back to your side, its golden hue gleaming even amidst the carnage. You take one last look at the dying pirate, his body twitching feebly in its final moments. Then you turn away from him without another thought—another name crossed off your list. You address the others, your tone soft against the terror of your words, "who's next?"

The salty breeze of the open sea feels different in the East Blue. The transport ship rocks gently beneath your feet, a stark contrast to the tumultuous waves of your usual haunts. You lean against the railing, dressed in your civilian garb—long black coat, white shirt tucked neatly into black trousers. Gold earrings glint in the sunlight, and the pendant around your neck rests coolly against your skin.

You keep the Whip of Lothaine wrapped around your waist as a decorative belt. It looks nice with your earrings and pendant, and never fails to allow you to sneak a weapon everywhere you went. It also complimented every outfit you wore, an added bonus.

You let out a slow breath, savoring the calm. It’s been too long since you’ve had a moment like this. No blood, no screams, just the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull and the distant cries of seagulls. Not that you didn't enjoy indulging your whip, but it was nice to just relax.

A crew member approaches, offering a respectful nod. "Miss Vee, would you like anything to drink?"

You smile politely, maintaining your refined demeanor. "A glass of your vintage Edmond Pinot Noir would be lovely, thank you."

He nods and hurries off, leaving you to your thoughts. The peace is almost unsettling. After five years of chaos, struggle, and violence, this tranquility feels foreign. At times you feel more at home in the chaos of the Grand Line. You chuckle softly to yourself.

You walk along the deck, observing other passengers—families on vacation, merchants conducting business deals, and travelers seeking new adventures. All blissfully unaware of the horrors of our world.

You find an empty chair on the deck, one that catches the sunlight just right. The warmth seeps through your coat, relaxing muscles that have been taut for far too long. Settling into the chair, you allow yourself to exhale fully, the tension melting away.

A moment later, the crew member returns with your wine. He presents it with a small flourish, placing the glass delicately on the table beside you. "Your vintage Edmond Pinot Noir, Miss Vee."

"Thank you," you say, lifting the glass to your lips. The rich aroma of the wine greets you first—notes of dark berries and a hint of oak. You take a slow sip, letting the flavors dance across your palate. The taste is exquisite, a symphony of flavors that seem to embody the essence of tranquility.

You savor each sip, feeling the wine warm you from within. It’s a luxury you afford yourself, you worked hard in the night to enjoy life beneath the sun. The sun continues its gentle caress, casting a golden hue over everything it touches.

Around you, life carries on at a leisurely pace. Children laugh and play near the ship's bow, their carefree voices a stark contrast to the cries you’ve grown accustomed to hearing. Merchants discuss trade routes and goods in hushed tones, their gestures animated as they negotiate deals.

You close your eyes for a moment, absorbing the myriad sounds and sensations. It’s almost surreal—this calm after so many storms. But for now, you let yourself sink into it fully. Every sip of wine brings a deeper sense of peace, every breath feels lighter.

The crew member who brought your wine passes by again and offers a nod of acknowledgment. You return it with a slight smile before turning your attention back to the sea. The thoughts mulling around in your head are quiet for once, and you aren't sure you like it.

You savor the last sip of your wine, letting the flavors linger on your tongue before swallowing. The tranquility is a brief respite, but it’s time to move on. You set the glass down and rise from your chair, smoothing out your coat. The ship is nearing its destination—the Oykot Kingdom. Once you dock, you'll catch another ship to Syrup Village.

As the ship approaches the port, you watch the bustling activity below. Dockworkers haul crates and barrels, merchants haggle over prices, and travelers disembark with wide eyes, eager to explore.

You make your way back to your cabin, your boots echoing softly against the wooden floorboards. Inside, the room is modest but comfortable—an unassuming refuge from the world outside. You lock the door behind you and take a seat at the small desk by the window.

Opening your leather-bound journal, you review your recent entries. The pages are filled with meticulous notes—names, locations, details of each kill. Your latest marks are scrawled in neat handwriting, each one a testament to your skill and precision.

You trace a finger over the most recent name: Captain Terick. His crew had terrorized countless villages and raped an endless amount of women before you ended his reign. The memory of his bloodied stump and terrified eyes brings a faint smile to your lips. There had been no chance for redemption for him. You reach for a pencil from your tool pouch and start a to-do list for once you reach Syrup Village.

"Buy more shirts and pants," you jot down, the words neat and precise. Your wardrobe has taken a beating over the last year, and you need fresh garments to maintain your refined appearance.

"A nice outfit or two," you continue, envisioning something elegant yet practical. The duality of your life demands versatility—clothes that allow you to blend in during the day and move freely at night. You could afford to spoil yourself once in a while.

Next on your list: "Staple supplies." You think of the essentials—bandages, sewing needles, thread. You tap the pencil against the desk, considering other necessities. Perhaps some new boots, given the wear on your current pair. The thought makes you smile—your knee-high leather boots have seen many adventures. And blood.

You smirk before you add "new boots" to the list, then lean back in your chair, surveying your handiwork. The list is short but crucial—a roadmap for maintaining both appearances and readiness. Yet something in your life felt rather empty as of late.

You wanted more adventure, but going around cutting pirates to pieces and taking down crooked marines is starting to bore you.

Hence your increasing annoyance.

You sit back in your seat, the pencil resting lightly between your fingers. The gentle sway of the ship, the distant chatter of passengers, and the soft rustling of waves outside create a tranquil symphony. Yet, your mind is anything but tranquil.

How will you entertain yourself further? The question lingers in your thoughts like an uninvited guest. The routine of hunting and killing has become too predictable, too... mundane. You crave something more—something that will challenge you, excite you, make you feel alive again.

Your eyes drift to the window, watching as the Oykot Kingdom draws nearer. Perhaps there are new opportunities here, hidden amongst the bustling streets and shadowed alleyways. A spark of curiosity ignites within you. What secrets does this place hold? What challenges await?

You rise from your chair and move to the window, peering out at the approaching port. The dockworkers move with purpose, their motions synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance. Merchants haggle with animated gestures, their voices rising above the din. Children dart between legs and crates, their laughter a stark contrast to the weight on your mind.

You turn back to your desk, glancing at the list you've made. The mundane tasks suddenly feel insignificant compared to the potential that lies beyond the ship's hull. Your fingers brush against the pendant around your neck—a small comfort in its familiar weight.

A thought crosses your mind: perhaps you should seek out someone who can match your skills, someone who can offer a true challenge. The idea is tantalizing. But where to start? You consider seeking information at a local tavern—those places are always ripe with rumors and whispers of potential prey or allies.

You let out a slow breath, feeling a flicker of excitement stir within you. The unknown calls to you, promising adventure and danger in equal measure. You turn back to your list and add one more item: "Seek new challenges."

Satisfied, you close your journal and slip it into your bag. You straighten your coat, ensuring that every button is in place and every fold is smooth. Your reflection in the small mirror by the door shows a composed figure—an aristocrat ready for another day. But beneath that polished exterior lies a predator ready for her next hunt.

Date Published: 10/6/24

Last Edit: 10/6/24

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#mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk #one piece mihawk

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xiuqiuhuas · 6 months ago

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“ 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝? ”

────────────── ❁ ──────────────

... Can I, really?

I find myself yearning, sometimes. Hoping, wanting, desiring and even dreaming. Fully aware that I can't, I shouldn't and I am not allowed.

I can come up with, and use, as many excuses as I want yet none of them will be true. I can say that I'm too busy, my job is time consuming, maybe that I'm too lazy or just not ready. I can even say that I'm too old or too bold, or I'm not really interested in being in a relationship.

I can keep going but the thing is… I don't know. I don't know what's the truth, I don't know anything, at all. I am not sure of anything. Not even myself.

I avoid mirrors sometimes, scared of what I might see, or not see. Eyes too tired to even recognise my own reflection, a mind too disturbed to acknowledge there's many things wrong within me. A body too cold to even wish for someone else's warmth. A voice muffled, suffocated by my own thoughts.

Yet I see you. And I yearn, I wish, I hope.

Maybe those eyes will look at me, just for a little longer, maybe you'll turn around and smile at me, and only me. Wishing for those warm hands to hold mine, to caress me with a love strong enough to make me completely addicted. I hope your comforting words and understanding will be directly at me, a soft voice lullabying me to sleep, to break those walls surrounding me, tearing apart all the fears.

I keep dreaming that, one day, you will see me as who I am, help me to comprehend that this void crippling inside of me can be filled with only happiness, joy, bright days and a future worth living. Wishing you will accept every side of me, patient enough to wait for me until I feel comfortable to stop pretending and finally let go of those unwanted thoughts.

I find myself looking at that camera. You're on your phone, talking and smiling so adorable. But it's not me, not yet. You're falling for someone who's so different from me, so far away again. What I yearn for it's not mine, not yet. And I wonder…

For how long do I have to wait? How many times do I have to see you fall in love with someone that's not me? When will it be my turn? When will your eyes look at me only? When will you help me?

I know I am not allowed. I should give up and accept that reality of mine and let it crush me until there's nothing but emptiness. But can you blame me? Am I really not worth being loved?

I refuse to see my reflection on the computer's screen, I refuse to turn off the music. I don't want to hear my own thoughts.

Filthy. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unlovable.

Yet I keep waiting. For you to choose me.

#saeyoung choi #mystic messenger #mymess #luciel choi #mm luciel #mystic messenger 707

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crisiscutie · 2 years ago

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Nibelheim Incident Sephiroth/Reader headcanons

Darling is VALKYRIE!

Content Warnings: NSFW themes, abuse (mental and physical), blood, mind break. Long bullet points. Angst. AFAB Reader.

You came to Mt. Nibel as soon as you could. You felt bad escaping from the Turks as someone's blood will be spilt over this but something was screaming inside you to rush to Sephiroth despite your ill state. It took you too long, but now you were finally free.

You flew through the gray, stormy skies of Gaia, no matter how worn and tired your body was. You will reach him.

When you came closer to the Shinra manor, you felt your body grow weaker as you slowly moved towards it.

In the Shinra Manor's basement. You stood outside the door, hearing malice in his baritone voice as he talked to someone.

You sensed his burning rage. He hasn't been this angry since you were injured before.

You felt the air become scarce and humid as you walked in the room. Zack gasped, commenting on your sudden appearance and how the color of your two wings were changing.

You didn't reply, your attention completely transfixed on Sephiroth. Yes, you lost your angel wings. It saddened you to know the purity of your wings was faltering, gone from a pure white to an almost black color now, but it didn’t matter now.

Sephiroth slowly turned away from you, his gaze lingering on the book resting on the table in front of him. You call out to him in a whisper, your voice like a lullaby in the air.

There was an audible gasp as he raised his head towards you, and for a brief moment, you could see the shock in his widening eyes before he quickly resumed his previous action.

Just before Zack was about to speak again, you shook your head in his direction, making it clear you two needed privacy. As he protested, you begged for him to go, your voice cracking with emotion.

After a full minute, Zack closes the door, the worn wood creaking as he wishes you two godspeed.

Your breathing became shallow as the air suddenly felt thicker. The powerful predator in front of you was ready to strike at any moment.

Anger and despair ravage Sephiroth... You knew he was angry, but it seems that some of that anger is directed towards you.

You slowly approached him, your heart racing as you took a deep, calming breath. You knew the stakes. You could see the fire in his eyes, but you weren't going to leave him again. No, you two are staying together.

You lifted your warm hand to his cold, sunken cheek, assessing his declining health.

“Sephiroth, you don't look well... How long has it been since you last ate or slept?" You crooned at him.

You gasped, seeing his expression shifted. He had a malicious, predatory glint in his eyes while his lips curved into a sadistic smirk.

Before you registered it, he viciously pins you against the wall, knocking the breath out of you.

You bowed your head as you whimpered, your body ached from the intense pain. Had you been a normal human, he surely would've crippled you with that blow.

His gloved hand clasped your wrist firmly, keeping it above your head.

His other hand roughly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at his face.

His baggy eyes held the sorrow that he was feeling, despite the anger residing in his heart.

"Y-you're hurting me, Sephi-"

You hear him chuckle darkly.

"Don't you all deserve the pain? For what your kind has done to my mother and this planet?" he snarled.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about-"

You held back your scream as the bones in your wrist snapped.

With your free hand, you reached for his now hot cheek, whispering his name.

As his slit, mako eyes widened in surprise, you felt his grip on you momentarily loosen.

You forced a weak smile at him despite the bitter taste of blood in your mouth.

༻❁༺ Another’s Calling.

You then had a strange feeling, as though something was calling out to you, similar to the way Sephiroth did, but it wasn't him, it was coming from someone, or something, not too far from you too Is it... coming from her?

Sephiroth must've felt it too. You just knew that too...

"Mother..." he murmured, lowering his head slightly.

On top of the pain you're already suffering from, a pounding ache in your head emerges. You yelped, indirectly pushing yourself towards Sephiroth.

Within your mind, anger and despair paints your psychological landscape as memories flow through you.

The lies Shinra told you, your forced experiments by them, your confinement by the Turks...

Then you start to see Sephiroth's memories and feel his emotions, too. The lies Shinra told him. His mother, the "monster" they locked up now resting in Mt. Nibel... Shinra, spawned from humanity who killed the all the Cetra but his mother. These humans who are ruining this planet...

The tears finally fall free from your eyes as your mind tries to fight against the invasive thoughts and emotions that aren't yours. You don't hate humanity. You love your friends and family. And not everyone at Shinra responsible for what happened to you and Sephiroth, and to Angeal and Genesis...

But the invading emotions and memories only got stronger. You were so caught up in the moment that you didn't even notice Sephiroth's head resting on your chest, his gloved hands softly holding your hips.

"Let's go to the Promised Land together, with Mother..." he crooned into your chest.

You couldn't respond to him, too busy fighting off... where ever these feelings are coming from.. it can't just be from Sephiroth...

Your visions of your beloved family and friends become gray and muddied. You started to hate them. They're all just parasites, just like the rest of Shinra and humanity.

But at least you have Sephiroth. You are here with him. A comforting sensation washes over you when you think of meeting Jenova with him.

A smile appeared on your face, though this wasn't your smile as the tears continued to flow.

༻❁༺ Her Blood.

A violent, bloody cough emerged from your throat.

Your blood had adorned one of Sephiroth's white shoulder pauldron, but he paid no mind to it as he kept murmuring his delusions into your chest.

You felt like you were choking as you frantically tried to take in air in the room. Your intense pain and mako poisoning overtook you as you struggled to stand upright. Your two dark wings retracted into you.

Sephiroth raises his head from your chest, and his eyes meet yours, a sweet sentiment in them, contrasted by the dark energy that surrounded him.

This time, he gently caressed your cheek with his warm hand.

"You're unwell, beloved..."

He scooped you up into his arms, slowly walking out of the room.

You didn't know where he was taking you. All you can pay attention to is the beating of his heart, just like when he first took you in his arms. Instead of his normal steady rhythm, his beat was erratic and fast.

You then felt the warmth of bed sheets against your skin, their silky texture wrapping around your body.

With a low moan, you relaxed into the sheets as Sephiroth adjusted your laying position and tucked you in.

He leaned in, his glossy lips kissing your ear and his silver locks tickling your soft skin.

"Her cells have brought us together... I’ll eliminate these parasites and free Mother from her constraints..."

Even though his words should've disturbed you, you didn't care... The warmth of his touch was like an addiction you couldn't get enough of.

You moaned when he rubbed your lower stomach, his hand dangerously close to your pelvis.

"Then the three of us can go to the Promised Land together... and start the family we've always wanted."

The intense pain in your body cut you from your short endorphin rush. As you moan and groan, you can feel Sephiroth's frown without even seeing his face.

"You're hurt... let Mother heal you... She'll prepare you for the reunion. "

The last remaining piece of your old self wanted to laugh at that. As if he wasn't the one responsible for your intense pain...

He nestled into your neck, his hand resting on your womb as you closed your eyes.

For the next day or two, he stayed close to you, his voice a soothing whisper as he spoke his delusions into your ear and held you close.

This one fateful day, you feel him pull away from you, his heavy footsteps decreasing in volume as the further he walks. He summoned his blade as he gently closes the door.

Before you fall asleep again, you hear a voice echoing in your mind.

"Reunion..."

Reader was confined by Turks because she’s a potential cell donor to Genesis. With her illness and weakened condition, she was put under protective custody by them. She was able to break out later.

#sephiroth x reader #sephiroth #ff7 sephiroth #final fantasy x reader #ff7 x reader #darling and vincent just became bunkies #only temporarily tho #project v: Valkyrie #Project Valkyrie: Headcanons #reader insert #reader headcanons #tw: abuse #tw: physical abuse #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere sephiroth #yandere final fantasy #yandere sephiroth x reader

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