#cw loss of autonomy

[sleepyfan-blog]

Meeting Interrupted

Author's note: This is the next part of Rotten Fate. Masterlist here. AO3

tagged: @ms--lobotomy @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

warnings: body horror, loss of autonomy, manipulation, unhealthy relationship, please ask me to tag something if I've missed it/something bothers you

Summary: You decide to interrupt Typhus' Meeting with the thousand sons. What's he going to do? Make your life worse? Hah.

Once your lust dies down to the point after you can think clearly again, you mull over your current options. Your shitty “husband” calls you little Isha from time to time. Referring to the fact that you are his captive spouse that he is unable to permanently kill, nor blight with the horrific plagues and poisons of his Patron, Nurgle. What he seems to be entirely unaware of (and, good for her) is the fact that part of the reason why Isha does not attempt to escape Nurgle - other than being relatively safe from the predation of Slaanesh… Is that Isha works against Nurgle’s plots and plans by whispering the antidotes and cures that are always effective against his plagues and poisons.

While you can’t do that - Typhus doesn’t seem to make new poisons and plagues as Host of the destroyer hive - what you can do is attempt to fuck up his plans, whatever those may be. You have no idea what his plans are at the moment, but he did ask you to stay put while he parlayed with his cousin. And you can waddle your way into causing Problems for him on purpose by interrupting the meeting.

You’re also hungry as fuck, and there is no food anywhere within Typhus’ rooms. His evil bees buzz menacingly as you approach the door that leads out of his rooms, but you glare at them “Fuck off, you ugly shits. I’m hungry as hell and he didn’t leave me anything to eat. And I’m eating for at least two with-” You pat your distended belly. You can sense the little mind growing within you. The little one does not feel tainted by Chaos… At least not yet. Part of you hopes that you’ll find a way to get the child to safety, somehow.

Between Typhus’ potent psychic abilities and you being a perpetual there is no chance that the child you’re carrying won’t be a psyker of potent ability, once you give birth to them. Whether or not they are going to be a Perpetual is ambiguous to you. Neoth sired more than a few bastards before deciding to rule Humanity as a whole - or attempt to do so. Some of them were psykers. Some were Perpetual. Most, however, were neither… Though that was long before psykery became more commonplace amongst Humanity as a whole. 

The bees buzzed ominously, but apart from a full cloud of the ominous little fuckers flying around and behind you, they didn’t actually sting you this time. Which was nice, as you used a bit of psychic energy to flick the internal mechanism of the door open, through which you moved through…

The view of the hallway you were walking in was just as rank and dismal as the first time you’d seen it, having been picked up and thrown over one of Typhus’ shoulders unceremoniously… Weeks? Months? Years? Ago. You weren’t sure how long you’ve spent in Typhus’ captivity. You deliberately tried not to track the days, as the answer would only upset and distress you. You silently hoped that your crew was still alive and thriving. 

You pass mumbling cultists and tiny daemons, none of whom take notice of your passage, as you are using a little bit of Psykery to go unnoticed by the beings around you as you waddle your way over to where your captor and his Very Important Guest are either talking, posturing at one another or fighting.

Or possibly a combination of all three of them.

You can tell that you’re getting close to where Typhus is, by the way that his Evil Bees have landed on the simple white dress that you’re wearing. It’s the only piece of clothing he’s given you - you haven’t been allowed even any under things or even sandals. Which made traveling through the unpleasantly biological horror of a ship that Typhus had been gifted by his Patron a wildly unpleasant experience. 

You reached the door behind which was Ahriman and Typhus, along with at least a dozen of their brothers each. You drop the glamor, startling the four guards standing in front of it. You stare at the two Death Guard, ignoring the shifting and growling Thousand Sons. “I am going into that room, to talk to my husband. You can either step aside or open the door for me.”

“Who the fuck are you, and why are you dressed like that? How are you dressed like that and not -” One of the Thousand sons began to growl, reaching out to grab you.

You lean away from his touch “I would very strongly suggest you don’t try that again. My…  Husband’s little helpers don’t like it when strangers try to grab me. I am a Perpetual, and unable to be affected by the…” You gesture to the filth, stagnation and decay all around you “All of this unless I explicitly allow myself to be, which I don’t. Dying like this seems like a misery.”

“What do you mean by -AAahhhh! NO no no no no! Get it off, get it off, get it off of me!” The grabby Thousand Son wailed as one of Typhus’ destroyer bees landed on his out-stretched gauntleted hand, stinger poised to plunged through the armored plate. 

You snort and scoop up the angry bee, booping it on it’s snout “No. Bad bee! He didn’t do anything to try to hurt me, and stopped trying to grab me when I told him to. No stinging guests!”

The Destroyer bee buzzed unhappily in your hands, but did not sting you. You roll your eyes and settle it back on one of your shoulders. You go back to looking at the Death Guard at the door “Let me in to see my husband right now. Or I will escalate things. The Emperor of Mankind didn’t want me to stay on Terra after I left the Astartes project for a number of reasons. Do you want to find out what those are personally?” 

“... No. It’s just… Oldest Brother is in the middle of delicate negotiations and -” One of the Death Guard tried to explain.

Adorable. You kind of want to pat his helmeted head. Bless his gross, bloated hearts he’s trying. You reach up and pat one of his gauntleted arms gently “Don’t worry. I will handle my husband. I”ve done quite a few negotiations, you know. During my time as a Rogue Trader and before that. I remember what it was like during the Dark Age of Technology, though those memories are dim and distant now.” You sigh, shaking your head a little. It was a shame how things had gone to such heights, before crashing and burning so spectacularly because of the Eldari being too bored and horny so they decided to try and make a new powerful warp entity. 

“... As you say, Lady of Mercy.” Both of the Death Guard murmur, opening the door for you.

You blink a couple of times as you enter the main conference room of the massive spaceship. Lady of Mercy, hmm? That’s a new one. Did Typhus give it to you? Or did some of the others, now that you were here to distract him from some of his crueler pursuits at times? “Good boys.” You murmur distantly, patting them on the armored arm once again as you pass by.

Typhus and Ahriman are standing on opposite sides of the table, pointing and yelling at one another at considerable volume. There are a lot of very tense mutated astartes on both sides watching their eldest brothers having a go at each other, in regards to centuries if not millennia old slights and petty squabbling. 

Ah, family. Such a messy thing it often is. 

You teleport onto the table in a flash of cyan warp light, making sure to make enough sound and light to catch the attention of everyone in the room.

The yelling blessedly stops as you appear on top of the table, heavily pregnant and half-covered in Typhus’ bees. The unadorned white silk dress that fell just above your knees, the hem plunging down just far enough to give a peek at your cleavage and sleeveless, the thin straps starting to fall off of your shoulders. The pregnancy bulge of your belly quite prominent as the soft silk clings to your body,

For several seconds, there is a profound silence as the assembled Astartes process your sudden and unexpected arrival.

You allow yourself to giggle, smiling up at both Ahriman and Typhus, before demurely hiding your smile behind a hand. Your other hand coming up to cup your swollen belly, knowing that the motion would catch the attention of many in the room. “Greetings, First captain Ahriman of the Thousand Sons. I do apologize for Ty’s behavior. We were a little… Mm… Busy, when you stopped by for a visit.” You allow a demure blush to spread across your cheeks as your voice dips into a coquettish purr, your eyes going half-lidded for a moment.

The destroyer bees that were resting upon your body begin to stir and buzz, likely in response to the shifting and heightening emotions of their Host. They are the only sound being made in the room, to your unending amusement. Your incongruous presence and statements seemed to have stalled their allegedly enhanced minds. Then again Chaos rots even the best of beings. 

Before things can escalate in ways that you don’t want them to, you walk over to where Typhus is standing, needing to go up on your tiptoes to kiss his corroded helm. You stage-whisper, knowing that the enhanced hearing of all of the Astartes present will allow them to hear you, if they aren’t deaf or otherwise hard of hearing, leaning into Typhus “Hubby, dearest, the baby and I are hungry… And you never told me where you keep the safe food.” You give him what you hope is a flirty pout “So I had to come find you. Your little friends were only a bit naughty.” You murmur, gently plucking up one of the ominously buzzing bees and pressing a faux-affectionate kiss to it’s unpleasantly furry and matted body before letting it go.

It buzzed back over to Typhus, swaying and flying as if it was drunk. Your amusement only increases. 

No one else has yet to do or say a single thing. It’s as if they’ve all turned into very strange statues. You know they haven’t as you can sense their rapidly shifting minds and emotions plainly, but none of them have yet to actually react. 

It’s very funny. It’s quite possible that none of them have seen a woman in thousands of years, and even longer since they’ve seen a pregnant one. The poor dears are dreadfully caught off guard and deeply, deeply confused. At least the Thousand Sons are. The Death Guard are mostly worried.

You tilt your head up and reach for Typhus’ helm, giving him a look of mock-concern. “Darling? Husband? Sweetheart? Why aren’t you responding?” You pout more as your nimble fingers find the catches on his helmet, pressing them in before twisting and removing his helmet, revealing his face. You set it down on the table before you close your eyes, going up on your tiptoes once again and press a kiss to his flesh-cheek. You lean against his armor -which is eternally cool to the touch and wrap your arms around his neck, batting your lashes up at him, peering through them as you ask “Husband? Typhus? Ty-darling?”

Typhus continues to stare at you with glowing, rotted eyes, seemingly transfixed to the spot. He hasn’t breathed in minutes -though you’re not sure that he needs to, given his long-ago transformation into the Herald of Nurgle. 

“Who are you?” Ahriman demanded, his voice strangled and deeply confused.

“Hmm? Oh me? I’ve gone by many names, and held hundreds of titles over the course of my very, very long life. I’ve died a few times as well, but it doesn’t stick, as I am a Perpetual… After the Unification of Terra, I found myself working directly with Him for a time. As soon as the Sol system was fully conquered and He started the Rogue Trader program, I was off to the distant stars, with my first retinue in tow. I did that for several thousand years… Until honey-sweet Typhus here decided to capture me in his clever web of death and sickness. Since then I’ve been his wife, per his decision.” You sigh. 

“You… A perpetual… One who has worked alongside the Carrion Emperor? How much… How much knowledge of Psykery do you possess? What could you teach those of us interested in the Arcane arts? Surely you would rather be around more psykers, rather than the fetid stink of Nurgle’s chosen Bastards?” Ahriman breathed, avarice in his voice “I would be more than willing to play the role of -”

“Don’t. You. Dare finish that sentence, you two-faced deceiver!” Typhus growled thunderously, two of his tentacles swiftly slid out from wherever he usually keeps them and wrapped securely around your body, carefully supporting the weight of the baby in your belly. He pulls you tightly to his chest, making sure not to squash your belly against his armor. “I have listened to your endless whining and plots about finding some ridiculous library that may not even exist for too long! Begone from this ship, you will have no aid from the Death Guard. If you refuse to leave, I will have you removed by force.”

Ahriman’s glare intensified “I was not speaking to you, Typhus, but the Psyker you are holding captive. Gods above only know why she seems to actually be sweet on you, though I suppose that honey of yours can addle even the greatest of minds.” His gaze shifts to you “Should you wish to leave this fetid, stinking bastard and his army of undead thralls, call for me and I shall whisk you away from all of this pungent suffering and treat you in the way that a psyker of your age and experience should be.”

With that, the first captain of the Thousand Sons sent out a psychic pulse. A moment later he and all of his brothers vanished from Typhus’ ship. 

“... Awfully dramatic fellow, isn’t he?” You murmur, an amused grin appearing on your face as you look up at Typhus, trying to get a read on his emotional state. It’s difficult, with the walls that he’s put up. 

“... You wouldn’t leave me for him would you?” Typhus asked, his voice surprisingly small and unsure. 

You blink, throw your head back and laugh “Go with him? Please. The endless machinations of his Patron and underlings would have me in a murder-loop within the week. Would I rather be able to wander freely throughout realspace on my ship, the one you took me from? Yes. But him? Hahahaha. No. His patron is far too capricious for my tastes.” You give him a little kiss on the cheek, for emphasis. 

“... I see. You mentioned being hungry, my flower?” Typhus rumbled, sounding calmer.

“Yes! Also, hand please. Unarmored.” You instruct, grabbing at one of his hands, which he gives you. It takes you a moment to take the gauntlet off, and you carefully grab the fleshy fingers of his hand, pressing them against your belly.

The little one in your belly gently kicks against the press, and Typhus gasps.

“Oh! Hello, little one. I am your papa… I am so excited to meet you, when you’re ready to enter the world.” Typhus murmured, his glowing eyes widening with awe and delight. He clicks his fingers and points at one of his brothers “Pestilan, get my wife food. The rest of you, clear this room and check to make sure those treacherous sorcerers didn’t leave any nasty surprises left for us to find for denying them their wants.”

“Yes sir!” The other Death Guards murmur at the same time, swiftly leaving the room.

[lanterns-and-lightmares]

Okay I have a question

I know final fusion is something some plurals do strive for, but how can I accurately write the horror of being forced to final fuse?

Like, I’m thinking it’ll be a lot of grief, absence of “the other”, feeling as if your autonomy has been violated

but how can I write it?

How would you feel if it happened to you?

I know this is a touchy subject, though, so please please please for the love of all that is good do not feel obligated to answer if you aren’t comfortable

[the-sun-and-the-craftsman]

The Sun and the Craftsman - Chapter 2

Content warnings for this chapter are at the bottom and tagged!

For more info, read the pinned post here.

It’s too much for Darius to ignore. The sight of Ashur brings a natural sort of panic to him, and seeing him grasp at Lafayette like that—it brings him back to that night. 

Darius had been living on the Isle of Ascent for a few months by then, having grown accustomed to his simple life there. One moment, he’d been on Earth, working in his smithy as usual, and there had been a mild altercation that had sent him running—and the next moment, he was transported to the Isle. Ashur’s magic didn’t interest him; it had merely gotten him out of his old life, and there had been nothing for him in his old life anymore. But that’s beside the point. 

This world—Ana, as Ashur called it—had been teeming with life and opportunity. Darius watched the way that life sprang back after it was cut down, chilled, burned, whatever. Ashur had helped him cut down some trees and split some logs to make his house, and upon learning that Darius had been a blacksmith, Ashur eagerly set up a rudimentary smithy for him, coaxing the plants to split the ground open under his feet, tearing up some ore, and letting Darius pound out nails to his heart’s content. Ashur had been kind; so childlike in appearance, but with such knowledge behind his too-bright eyes. 

He looks the same now—albeit, a bit reserved. He’s pretty short, not even coming up to Darius’ chest—maybe about the size of a child just entering his teenage years. His skin is tanned heavily, rich and saturated in color, but his eyes are pale and bright, almost white. He wears elaborate clothes, almost toga-ish, wrapped around himself and decorated with gold-embroidered thread and shining stones, pinned in place by gleaming brooches. But he wears no shoes—and Darius has never seen him wear shoes. He claims they’re uncomfortable, though Darius would argue that it’s more uncomfortable to step on one of the thousands of thorned plants littered around the forest outside. 

But Ashur can heal himself. 

Darius hadn’t really paid attention to it until he had shot him that night. 

Lafayette—grinning like an idiot, squeezing Ashur’s lithe hands in her own worn ones—looks vastly different. That night, her already-pale skin had been drained of all color, all that color spilling out as a dark pool on the wooden floor. Her hair had been wet and matted, much in the same way that Ashur’s is now, albeit with a much darker hue. And her eyes were lifeless. 

But Ashur had brought her back to life after cannibalizing her. After Darius had whipped out his colt navy and shot him—after Ashur’s neck had exploded in a spray of unnatural gold—after Ashur had chased Darius down, canines bared like a dog, his flesh growing both as he healed himself and as he lengthened his arms and fingers to reach for Darius, a sickening, tumorous display of flesh growing over flesh growing over flesh, he had healed Lafayette. And nothing had been the same since. 

The flash of a fanged grin as Darius’ body crumpled in on itself, every muscle forced to flex in a way it shouldn’t, crushing any hollow space within himself. The realization that the meat that Ashur had provided Darius had been sliced from one of his friends, and the soul somehow kept inside to feel the pain of each severed nerve. The sweeping thunderclouds that would blot out the sky in seconds and throw down sharp, piercing, ice-cold raindrops that killed every living thing below it and washed away everything else—just for Ashur to pin down any soul he wanted to keep and hastily reconstruct their bodies once more. 

Watching the way that Ashur and Lafayette interact makes Darius’ stomach turn. He lets out a shaky sigh as Marco steps past him, wanting nothing but to turn around and go straight back to his house, his chair, and his box—the box that keeps his mind and body away from any feeling at all. 

Lafayette nods, and Ashur grins, and Lafayette lets go of Ashur’s hands to step inside the magic circle. Ashur picks up a jar, fingers fishing inside of it, then works like an artist around her, each swift motion sweeping his loose clothes as he spreads down a course, gray, metallic powder from that jar. He first outlines the magic circle around her, then fills it in with all sorts of arcane symbols. Despite the glaring injury on his head—which, Darius can now see, takes the form of a deep gash, crusted around the edges by his golden blood—he moves with the grace of a dancer. 

But he pauses, glancing at Darius, falling still. “Oh,” he says, his voice light. “Darius.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Right? Oh, there’s so many people here to remember...” 

“Yes, this is Darius,” Marco says to Ashur, just a trace of nerves left over in his voice. He turns to Darius, pointing at Ashur. “He really did lose his memory, huh?” 

Ashur’s cheeks darken, uncannily yellowish. Darius glances past Ashur, toward where Lafayette stands in the circle. 

“And how do you remember your magic, but not us?” he asks, glancing down at Ashur. 

Ashur’s eyes widen. “Well—it’s—I didn’t lose everything,” he says. “My magic is ancient—I'd know how to do these spells in my sleep!” 

He looks back at Lafayette. 

“She wanted to go home, too,” he says. “Did you want to say anything to her before she left? I was told that you two had a special bond...” 

Darius wouldn’t put it like that—she just happened to be from a marginally similar world. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a say in any of this. He pushes past Ashur and carefully steps over the powdery lines to get to her. 

Lafayette looks at Darius, a certain optimism in her eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says. 

“I wanted to see if it was really true,” Darius responds. “You should’ve been the one to come get me. I would’ve believed you over Marco.” 

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” she says. “And you wanted to ask something. You wouldn’t have talked to me, otherwise.” 

Darius nods. 

“Do you really think he’s sending you back home?” 

Lafayette smiles. 

“I do,” she says. “Sara volunteered to try, and after Ashur sent her away, he brought her back to tell us what she saw. She said she’d been sent back home—to the very place and time she vanished from. She felt the air change, she saw the house she used to live in down the road, she heard people’s voices...” 

“How did Ashur know where to send her?” Darius asks. “With his memory gone to the point where he doesn’t remember us?” 

“He just needs something from your own world to do the spell,” Lafayette says. She gestures behind Darius, toward a section of the magic circle, where a single silver button from her shirt sits nestled in a small pile of powder. “Apparently, something about it is linked to the exact place and time where you left. Glad we fought so hard to keep some of our belongings, huh?” 

Something from his own world—Darius looks down at himself. There are a few loose threads on the coat he’s been wearing since he was brought here... 

“Alright,” he says. “You’ll be safe in your own world, then?” 

Lafayette nods. 

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” 

Darius turns and steps out from the circle, glancing around the room to find Ashur, who had moved away to make the final preparations. Heading back to Marco’s side, Darius watches as Ashur snaps his fingers, producing a flame on the tip of his thumb. 

Ashur stoops down. He touches the edge of the circle and flame rushes around the whole thing, surging forward, flaring up, and vanishing as quickly as it came, leaving only the scent of smoke and a few dark stains on the floor. 

Ashur sighs. “Getting hard to do so many of these,” he says. “But only two left. Who’s up next?” 

As Marco steps forward, Darius folds his arms and thinks. He had seen how easily Ashur had healed from a wound that would be fatal to anybody else. There was barely even any time to bleed after the bullet had pierced through him. Now, looking at the wound on Ashur’s head, Darius struggles to reconcile the two sights. 

Ashur has every reason to trick everyone. He’s a cruel being. He had been nice in the beginning, sure, but he had flipped to cruelty in the span of that one day. The day before Ashur had eaten Lafayette, Darius had heard that he had been helping Ofor with making repairs to his house. And the day after, Ashur had stormed into Darius’ house, called Darius a few names, and put a hand on his chest, forcing Darius’ muscles to painfully squeeze and force the air out of him. He had played with Darius’ body like a doll—no, with more mastery than that, considering Ashur’s control over every biological process within the people around him. With a twist of his hands, Ashur could mangle organs with absolutely no outside indication. 

Once he feels himself receding back into his box, Darius shakes his head and forces himself to stop thinking about that. He has to think about something else—so for a moment, he assumes that Ashur’s being completely genuine with this. Even if Darius could go back home, he isn’t sure if he would want to. 

It’s nice that everyone else can go back with no qualms. But when Darius had first been pulled to Ana, it had come with relief. As a wanted man on the verge of getting caught, it had been a literal lifesaver. 

And if he’s heading back to the exact same place and time...he has to have a plan.

CW: mentions of crushing, asphyxiation, severe storms, flooding, dissociation, torture, loss of autonomy, and encounters with police descriptions of blood, gun violence, head injury, cannibalism, body horror, amnesia, and fire. 

Previous chapter ->

Next chapter ->

[enbycrip]

CW: discussion of pregnancy loss

Honestly this is one of the most powerful pieces of art I’ve ever seen.

(This is a personal interpretation; I don’t know if this was the artist’s intent)

There’s so little art out there about pregnancy loss. It’s a type of grief that makes people intensely uncomfortable. It gets equated with lack of support for abortion - which is upsetting, tbh, given it’s *incredibly* possible to support the essential right for bodily autonomy and yet still be utterly personally devastated by the loss, often repeated loss, of a potential life you desperately wanted.

In my work as an early modern historian, I’m bizarrely comforted as well as gut-punched by the statistics and personal experiences of child and pregnancy loss I encounter, which were so horrifically common before modern medicine, particularly vaccines and antibiotics. Because one of the effects of pregnancy loss is how isolating it is. We are so conditioned to silence about it. It is actually *helpful* to me when the grief strikes me to realise how huge a part of the human experience child and pregnancy loss is and has been.

Our biology, despite all our technology, is not simple and foolproof. Pregnancy and having children is surrounded in a commodified and cutesified bubble of celebration. The wolf is the fact that biology, like chance in general, is harsh and fallible. We cannot wish our way into the outcomes that we desperately want.

"In Bocca al Lupo" by sculptor Beth Cavener. Stoneware, Mixed Media. Installation: H 90 x L 276 x W 48 in. 2012.

[wellnoe]

lets make a list of times jean gets mind controlled or fucked with telepathically so that she can get sexually assaulted. warlock, mesmero, mastermind. those 2 guys in fallen angels don't actually get to mind control her but they sure want to!

[spiderqueenpc]

Play this game. It's free and it's weird and it runs right in your browser (on desktop).

Requested by @kiwidragon

[dabunnybuns]

I’ve been workshopping this horror idea of like a monster that makes you forget right

But like not The Silence or False Hydra

Like it makes you forget

Like imagine the horror or realizing something is really wrong, running to your car, and realizing you no longer remember how to drive

For some reason your walks seem so much shorter

If you even remember how to walk

Or talk

[7nuh]

MR. SILVAIR YANDERE DRABBLE !

CW 𓂃 gn!reader, yandere!Mr. Silvair, loss of limbs, canon-typical violence, captivity

Mr. Silvair is very interesting to me because he rejects you, but I can definitely see him eventually adoring you like a cute little unruly pet that doesn't know any better.

What made you so interesting to him in the first place is your desperate struggle to hold on to your humanity. Out of all of the unfortunate idiots who made their way here, you survived the longest with your sanity in tact. It's so impressive that Mr. Silvair actually thinks you have a chance of making it back with your mind in one piece.

A part of him wished you had stayed in his lab for longer so he could pick you apart in closer detail, but he knew that would lead him nowhere. What Mr. Silvair needed was progress— for your sanity to deteriorate.

And the change is drastic. You were once a trembling good-for-nothing that would have likely died in two days without Mr. Crawling's help, but now you bite. Now you can twist limbs and tear torsos apart with your bare hands. Now you roam these hallways as the predator searching for prey, and, soon, you'll become another one of the many bloodthirsty residents here.

Not that Mr. Silvair would allow it to get to that point, though, as he proceeds to restrain and detain you in one of his many cells. Why would he allow the perfect test subject to slip away from his fingers so easily? As a token of your short-lived friendship, he even went out of his way and gave you a clean cell! He also arranged occasional visits from Mr. Chopped (but never Mr. Crawling) whenever you stayed docile long enough on the operating table. Nevermind your many escape attempts and increasing hostility, you'll understand soon enough.

In there, you're safe and that's all that matters. It's your temporary abode away while you 'rehabilitate', a safe space where you can't hurt anyone or yourself. You used to be so bothered by the lack of limbs, but you've stopped resisting. He thinks you're starting to learn how inconvenient it is to be in this helpless state— how futile resistance is. You're starting to behave.

Mr. Silvair observes that you now like getting headpats these days. Maybe a few kisses here and there to remind you of your long lost affection for him. Mr. Silvair can't accurately assess whether you hate it or not, though. What happened to the good old days when you used to run to his door for safety whenever you got chased down by something much larger than you? Now you hate this place when it used to be your only space of rest and respite.

As a special treat, he brings you interesting knick knacks that should remind you of your human life. But really, it's a special treat for him because he enjoys watching you pretend it's not making you miserable to be reminded of your past life. Either way, you'll take any positive attention you get from him, no matter how condescending, over the long hours on that wretched table. You can bark and hiss all you want but it doesn't change the fact that you crave any sense of normalcy, even if it comes in the form of his twisted affection for you.

It's cute, almost. Mr. Silvair enjoys being relied upon by something that was once so terrifying. He enjoys reducing you and chipping away at your autonomy, from the physical to the mental. He's at least self-aware enough to acknowledge that it's no longer a research project to him, but a perverse achievement to have you like this.

As interesting as it was to watch your descent into madness, Mr. Silvair wants to break you apart and be the one who puts you back together. It really doesn't matter how many times he has to break your limbs until you've learnt your lesson.

[mustardsticks]

Migyua's Stobotnik Gift Exchange

Totally forgot to post this on tumblr. This Gift was for @scaredofstyrofoam

Will also be adding details about my sonic prime stone because i got wayyy to into it. These details are not exactly fleshed out since I never really had the time beyond discord messages and me answering questions about their dynamic. Also please note that i did not watch all of sonic prime, i only got up to season 2.

Its angsty please remember that. Also please ask me any questions if you want, I will gladly share!

CW : Mentions of - violence/abuse, thoughts of suicide, loss of autonomy, and possibly more. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. Please also ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes lol I typed it up and never edited it.

In the shatterverse there is only one Agent Stone that exists. He's first the Agent/Assistant to Mr. Dr. Eggman and later on extends his role to the other members of the Chaos Councils when they meet and team up. There was an incident where Stone was injured beyond repair and was just waiting to die. The Chaos Council wouldn't let that happen so they turned him into a cyborg. They had built his body as human as possible, even giving him artificial nerves.

Now that Stone was a cyborg, he's also to do more things his human body wasn't able to do. He was also more efficient and needed less time to rest. The Chaos Council began to demand more from him and started to think of him as a robot, their property, and not human anymore.

One day Stone goes to Mr. Dr. Eggman asking him to let him go and deactivate him. While Stone was devoted and loyal to the Chaos Council, he was also suppose to die and didn't want to live. The problem is that he was still human. While his body might not reflect the damage, his brain still remembers the incident and Stone has phantom pains everywhere on his body and it really messes him up. He knows the Chaos Council only saved him because he believes they cared about him as much as he does. Stone tells him that it was unhealthy for them to cling to him, to preserve a life by building it a body. Mr. Dr. Eggman didn't like that, the idea of Stone not being by his side was impossible and so he took away Stone's autonomy, basically having full control of him so he couldn't leave because Stone is theirs. While Stone no longer had control of his body and his brain was numbed. He was still able to hear, see, and feel what does council does to him but he no longer able to feel the phantom pains.

Stone doesn't get the right side of his face robotized until after his autonomy was taken. I had the idea that either Dr. Babble or Dr. Done-it did it in a fit of rage. They took their anger out on Stone and injured him, they had smashed his head in and some more around his body. They never knew that they inflected that much damage on Stone as they also took their anger out on their surroundings. Rusty Rose pulled him out of there while they focused their rage on something else. She brings him to Mr. Dr. Eggman who helps him the damage severe and almost reversable, to save time he robotizes the right side of his face. Later he punishes the two council members by revoking their access to Stone.

[syoddeye]

hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief. 

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.” 

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. 

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?” 

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating. 

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?” 

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it. 

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point. 

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.  

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check—lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.” 

john.  

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal. 

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”  

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.” 

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”  

body. coma.

“and…and after?”  

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth. 

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”  

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”  

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear. 

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke. 

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down. 

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway. 

only ash scattered in the wind.

[twistedheartsclub]

Saltblood Bride Merman X Fem Reader

CW: noncon, dubcon, captivity, forced mating, psychological manipulation, obsession, emotional abuse, physical restraint, trauma, body autonomy violations, magical binding, power imbalance, grooming, transformation themes, dark ritual elements, illness, and loss of identity.

The coast always smelled like secrets.

Y/N had grown up in the cliffs above the sea, in a crumbling stone house wrapped in ivy and silence. Her days were simple: gathering herbs for her mother, helping in the market, reading by candlelight. But the nights… the nights were never quiet.

The waves whispered. The wind moaned. And sometimes, just past midnight, she swore she heard singing.

The townspeople avoided the shore after dusk. Fishermen tied iron around their nets. Children were taught never to look too long into the water, in case something looked back.

But Y/N never feared the sea.

She loved it.

She often walked alone, barefoot in the sand, skirts brushing against the foam. The cold didn’t bother her. There was a beauty in it—wild, ancient, unknowable. She thought the stories were just that: stories.

Until the day she saw him.

Below the surface, far beyond human reach, the sea boiled with hunger.

The village of Virellin lay hidden deep within a forest of black coral, guarded by currents that twisted like serpents. It was once a thriving kingdom—home to thousands of merfolk, their voices echoing through the trenches like lullabies and war songs alike.

Now, their numbers dwindled.

The mermaids—their lifeblood—were dying. A sickness, a curse, a vengeance from the gods… no one knew. Only the highborn males remained strong, desperate, and dangerous.

The council made a decision: take from the surface.

Seduce. Steal. Breed.

He had been chosen to lead the hunts.

Kaelen.

The oldest prince. Half-human, half-ancient god. His tail was black obsidian, longer than a ship’s mast. His claws could split bone. His voice could stop hearts—or start them. And his rage… that was legend.

He didn’t waste time with charm.

Other mermen tried to walk on water, to whisper into dreams, to coax girls with flowers and promises. Fools.

Kaelen took what he wanted.

But when he saw her—the girl on the cliffs with wind-tossed hair and eyes like stormlight—something stopped in him.

He watched from the waves, submerged and still, golden eyes tracking her every step.

She smiled at the sky. She sang softly to herself. She didn’t run from the ocean. She loved it.

He would take her. But not yet.

He would watch. Learn her. Lure her.

And then…

He would drag her down so far, she’d forget the sun had ever touched her skin

The wind danced along the coastline that afternoon, catching at skirts and tangled hair as the sun dipped low over the horizon. The sky was painted in strokes of rose and gold, the sea a glittering reflection of both.

Y/N walked carefully along the edge of the path, the cliffs towering beside her, the crashing waves far below. Her soft boots crunched on gravel, her hands wrapped loosely around a bundle of dried lavender—gathered earlier with her friend, Eleanor, who walked just ahead, already laughing about something neither of them would remember.

“Don’t go so close!” chided their chaperone, a stern woman known as Mrs. Weatherby, trailing behind with her heavy shawl wrapped around her arms.

But the girls didn’t listen.

They were eighteen and twenty, caught between obedience and curiosity. They had heard the warnings, yes—but that breeze felt too warm, the ocean too beautiful, the danger too far away to matter.

A gust of wind pulled Eleanor’s bonnet clean off her head.

She shrieked, laughing as her dark curls spun wildly, chasing the fabric as it danced through the air like a spirit set free.

Y/N ran after her, giggling, clutching her own bonnet before it could fly away too. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, her eyes bright with the thrill of it all.

That’s when he saw her again.

Kaelen, submerged just past the rocks, hidden beneath a tangle of kelp, watched.

His arms rested on the curve of a barnacled stone. His long, black tail curled behind him, glistening with sea-slick shadows. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.

He watched.

Y/N’s voice carried over the wind, soft and sweet, and his pupils dilated with hunger.

Beside him, another shape shifted in the water—a younger merman, paler, leaner, with a wildness in his eyes. Aelric, his closest follower, his loyal shadow. Aelric’s gills fluttered as he rose slightly, peering toward the cliff path.

His gaze wasn’t on Y/N. It was on Eleanor.

“They smell like crushed fruit,” Aelric murmured in their tongue, low and guttural. “The little one laughs like a seal pup. But the tall one… she’s soft. Gentle.”

Kaelen didn’t answer.

He only tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming, nostrils flaring slightly as the wind shifted—bringing her scent to him.

Lavender. Salt. Warm skin.

He tasted her on the air.

Not just human.

Pure.

Rare.

Meant for him.

Aelric licked his lips, the tips of his sharp teeth visible for just a moment. “Shall I take the smaller one tonight?”

“Not yet,” Kaelen said.

“Why?”

“They’re still too loud. Still watched. Let them come again. Let them feel safe.” He stared at Y/N’s pale throat, her exposed ankle, her lips pink from the wind. “Let them believe we’re only stories.”

Aelric grinned. “Then next time?”

Kaelen’s voice was almost a growl. “Next time, she’s mine.”

Far beneath the tide, where no sunlight could reach, the sea did not shimmer.

It pulsed.

The kingdom of Virellin was carved from obsidian cliffs and glowing coral, a drowned cathedral lit by drifting lantern fish and swaying bioluminescent vines. Time moved differently there. The water was heavy with memory, sorrow, and silence.

There were no more songs.

Once, Virellin had been the heart of the ocean—ruled by the line of Kaelen’s father, a god-touched king whose voice could command storms. The mermaids had danced along the current trails, braiding seaweed through their silver hair, gifting their mates pearls and promise. The halls echoed with laughter, with children’s tails flicking through the sacred pools.

Now, it was fading.

The last mermaids—his sisters, his cousins—had withered, their scales falling away like petals, their eyes going glassy and empty. Some blamed the surface world, others the gods, still others the blood they had thinned by mixing with humans.

Kaelen did not blame. He endured.

He had lived over four centuries. His tail had darkened over time, his voice had deepened into something that made sharks flee. His chest was marked with ceremonial scars, and his claws were tipped with pearl from the bones of ancient kings. His people bowed when he passed, but none sang for him.

They waited—for his decision.

And so the council sent him to the cliffs.

To take a bride.

To bring new life.

To begin again.

Above, in the flickering candlelight of Eleanor’s home, Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug, brushing the mud from her worn boots. Rain tapped the windowpanes gently.

Eleanor sat nearby, combing out her curls. “You always bring in the weather when you come, Y/N. You’re cursed, I swear it.”

“I bring the excitement,” Y/N said with a smile, tugging the pins from her hair. “You’d be bored without me.”

“True.” Eleanor flopped back dramatically, her silk nightgown fanned out. “My brothers are dull, and my cousins are worse. But you—you are a poet. And a storm witch.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Just because I like the rain—”

“You like the cliffs. You like the sea. And you look at it like it’s whispering only to you.”

Y/N’s fingers paused.

Was that true?

Maybe.

There was something about the sea. A voice in the waves she couldn’t quite name. Not frightening—but calling.

“I suppose I do,” she admitted softly.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Weatherby we want to walk again tomorrow,” Eleanor said, already plotting. “We’ll pretend we need more thyme. Or rosemary. You’ll wear that shawl I like—the dark one.”

Y/N smiled again, but her heart was suddenly heavy.

She wasn’t sure why.

The chamber was silent, save for the shifting of currents through the coral spires and the rasp of breathing—old breathing.

Kaelen hovered just above the smooth stone floor, his dark tail coiled loosely beneath him. Before him lay Virellin’s last living priestess, her silver-scaled body limp and nearly transparent with age. Her hair floated like strands of moonlight, and her eyes were pale and blind.

But she still heard.

“You are late,” she rasped.

Kaelen bowed his head. “I was watching the cliffs.”

“The one with lavender in her blood?”

He didn’t answer.

The priestess turned her fragile head toward the glowing pool at the center of the room. It shimmered with prophecy, memory, and loss.

“The gods are quiet,” she said. “The old songs have faded. But I see a thread, Prince. Thin. Fragile. Human.”

“Y/N.”

The priestess exhaled slowly. “If you want the bloodline to endure, she must be taken before the moon’s turn. Others will scent her. Claim her. But she will never survive them.”

Kaelen’s fists tightened.

“She will survive me.”

The cliffs again. Another morning. Brighter this time.

Y/N’s boots kicked through the grass as she and Eleanor made their way down the worn path, Mrs. Weatherby trailing behind with her basket.

The sea sparkled beneath a rare clear sky, the waves lazy and warm. Gulls cried overhead, and the breeze carried salt and blossoms.

Eleanor wore lilac ribbons in her hair today. Y/N had helped tie them.

They were giggling over nothing again, sun on their faces, cheeks flushed.

Then they saw him.

A young man on horseback, waiting near the edge of the path—tall, golden-haired, with a navy coat and polished boots. He dismounted as they approached, smiling first at Eleanor, then at Y/N in brief politeness.

Mr. Whitlow.

A local merchant’s son. Well-read, well-mannered, and very taken with Eleanor.

Y/N felt heat rise in her cheeks as she sensed the way he looked at Eleanor—gentle, wanting. The air around them shifted. Hormones. Emotion. Chemistry. Even she, inexperienced and modest, could feel it. It tickled her skin.

And far, far below—two predators reacted.

Kaelen’s eyes opened in the blackness.

Aelric bared his teeth.

“He’s showing his scent,” Aelric growled. “The way a dog would.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “He’s not for her.”

Aelric’s fins flared with agitation. “He looks at the soft one too. The one with the pale throat.”

“She’s mine,” Kaelen growled.

“She smells of want now,” Aelric hissed. “Of blooming heat.”

They surged upward, not close enough to breach—but close enough to taste the current.

Above, Y/N turned to Mrs. Weatherby and touched her arm.

“We forgot to check the rosemary patch,” she said, keeping her voice sweet and distracted. “It’s just around the bend. Should we gather some before the tide rises?”

Mrs. Weatherby hesitated, squinting at Eleanor and Mr. Whitlow deep in conversation, their heads bent close.

“Very well,” she said. “But stay within sight.”

Y/N nodded quickly, heart fluttering—not from fear, but from excitement. Romance made her soft. It wasn’t for her, not really. But watching Eleanor live inside it—even for a moment—felt like stepping into a dream.

She turned toward the patch of green just out of view, skirt brushing against thistles, unaware of the two shadows pacing silently just beneath the surf.

And watching.

Always watching.

The morning was gray again—low clouds crawling across the sky like whispers of something unsettled. The air held a chill, and the waves crashed harder than usual. But still, the girls begged to walk.

Mrs. Weatherby bundled herself in her heaviest shawl and relented, muttering about “wild blood and foolish hearts.”

Y/N and Eleanor ran ahead.

The wind tugged at their cloaks. Their cheeks were red with cold, their laughter softer today. A storm was coming—they could feel it in their bones.

Halfway along the cliffs, Y/N paused, staring down at the dark shore below.

“Wait here,” she said. “I think I dropped my scarf yesterday. I’m going to check near the rocks.”

Mrs. Weatherby opened her mouth to protest, but Eleanor just waved. “We’ll be right here!”

Y/N slipped down the lower path, boots skidding over stone, heart racing for reasons she couldn’t explain.

The tide had pulled back, revealing slick sand and jagged driftwood. Seaweed coiled in lazy knots. The air was thick with salt.

And then—she saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, barefoot, tall, and cloaked in a dark blue coat that shimmered like wet silk. His hair was black, shoulder-length, swept back from a face too beautiful to belong to any ordinary man.

His skin was pale with a hint of silver. His eyes—gold.

Not brown. Not amber.

Gold.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. Only… intrigued.

Y/N froze.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was entranced.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like one might study a delicate creature washed ashore. “You’re not trespassing. This shore belongs to no one.”

His voice was deep. Velvet layered over stone.

She couldn’t stop staring. Her fingers curled around the edge of her cloak. “Are you… are you visiting someone in the village?”

“No.” He stepped forward, slow, smooth. “I’m passing through.”

Y/N swallowed. Her cheeks burned. “You’re not dressed for the wind.”

A smile ghosted over his mouth. “It doesn’t touch me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her heart beat too fast.

“I’m Kael,” he said, offering a name—but not a full one.

“Y/N,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked down to her lips. She didn’t notice. He smelled of salt and something strange—ancient.

“You wandered far,” he said. “It’s easy to lose yourself here.”

“I—I was looking for my scarf.”

He stepped closer, and without asking, reached out. His fingers brushed lightly against her collarbone—too close to her throat. He pretended to inspect the clasp of her cloak.

“No scarf,” he murmured. “But I found something prettier.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

She knew she should move. Should step away. But he wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t leering. Just… there.

Looking at her like she was important.

She didn’t understand it.

“You should go back to your chaperone,” he said softly. “Before the tide rises again.”

“Will I see you again?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Kael’s smile deepened. “Yes.”

She turned and hurried back up the path, heart in her throat, eyes wide.

He watched until she disappeared from view.

Then he let the illusion crack. His skin shimmered. The golden eyes burned brighter. His teeth sharpened beneath his smile.

She would never escape now.

Y/N twisted her hair in slow circles as she lay sprawled across Eleanor’s bed, cheeks still pink from the morning’s encounter. The room was bathed in the golden flicker of the hearth, soft shadows dancing across the ceiling. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.

“He wasn’t like anyone I’ve ever seen,” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor was curled beside her, chin propped on her hand. “Tell me again—was he truly barefoot?”

Y/N nodded, dreamy. “Barefoot. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes like… gold, Eleanor. Gold. Not like the boys here. He didn’t even seem cold. He just stood there like he belonged to the sea.”

Eleanor giggled, tossing a pillow at her. “You are cursed. You’ve gone and found a sea god.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not! I think it’s terribly romantic.” Eleanor sat up and began braiding her damp curls. “You know, in the old stories, the sea would gift kings to lonely maidens. Maybe he’s yours.”

Y/N laughed softly, warmth curling in her belly. “It felt like a dream. He said he was passing through.”

“You didn’t ask where to?”

“No… I forgot how to speak, really.” She buried her face in the quilt. “He touched my cloak.”

Eleanor squealed. “A scandal!”

“I’ll never see him again.”

“You will. I’ll make Mrs. Weatherby walk us again tomorrow.”

But before they could descend deeper into their shared fantasy, a knock rapped sharply at the open door.

“Honestly.”

It was Clara, Eleanor’s older cousin—twenty-five, unmarried, and very tired of girlish nonsense. She entered the room with her sleeves rolled high and a book clutched to her chest.

“You two are like children still babbling over fairytales.”

Y/N sat up quickly, face burning.

“We were only talking,” Eleanor said coolly.

“About strangers on the beach?” Clara scoffed. “Next you’ll be kissing frogs and expecting diamonds.”

“You don’t believe in romance?” Y/N asked gently.

Clara’s lip curled. “I believe in duty. And knowing your place. Men don’t love—they use. Especially the beautiful ones.”

She turned on her heel and left without waiting for a reply.

The silence she left behind was sharp.

Y/N looked down at her hands. “Maybe she’s right.”

Eleanor leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “Even if she is… I’d rather believe in the magic. Just for a while.”

Y/N smiled, faint but full of hope. “Me too.”

Below the waves, things were not so gentle.

Aelric paced along the spine of a sunken ship, tail flicking in agitation, barnacles crumbling beneath his claws.

“She’s seeing him again,” he hissed.

Kaelen floated above, watching a swirl of glowing shrimp scatter in the current. “You’re speaking of Eleanor?”

“She made plans with the human boy. The one who smells of flowers and sweat.” Aelric’s eyes flashed. “He wants to touch her.”

Kaelen said nothing.

“You let them walk free,” Aelric snapped. “You wait and watch while they giggle in the sun like sea birds. You forget who you are.”

Kaelen turned, slow and cold. “I forget nothing.”

“She is not like the others,” Aelric snarled. “She makes you weak.”

Kaelen swam forward, suddenly close, his teeth flashing in the dark. “Careful, Aelric.”

Aelric bared his own. “She should’ve been mine.”

Kaelen’s claws tapped once against the hull of the wreck, echoing.

“She will never be yours.”

The sky was a sheet of dull gray, the clouds low and silent. Fog clung to the rocks like breath on glass. It was the sort of day Mrs. Weatherby would normally forbid walking, but Eleanor had insisted—smiling too brightly, already dressed in her finest shawl.

Y/N had quietly agreed. If Eleanor was planning to meet Mr. Whitlow, she would need time alone… and Y/N didn’t mind the quiet. She liked walking near the sea. It made her feel alive.

They split paths early.

Mrs. Weatherby, distracted by Eleanor’s cheerful chatter, didn’t notice when Y/N veered toward the rocky edge, boots sinking into damp sand. Mist curled around her ankles. She moved slowly, watching the tide.

Then she saw him.

Kael.

He stood exactly where he had before—barefoot, dressed in strange, flowing layers of deep navy and slate-gray. Today, a silver chain hung from his wrist, and something dark glinted between his fingers.

“You,” she breathed, startled.

He smiled, soft and slow. “You came back.”

She stepped forward cautiously, heart stuttering. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again.”

“I knew you would.” He took a slow step toward her. “The sea doesn’t forget its own.”

She blinked. “I’m not of the sea.”

He said nothing.

She noticed how close he was now. She shifted her weight back a little—and flinched as his hand came up, brushing the side of her face. Not hard, not threatening—just fingertips grazing her cheek like wind.

She pulled back instinctively.

Kael didn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re kind to be cautious.” His voice was steady, unreadable. “But I’m not here to frighten you.”

She lowered her gaze. “You just… surprised me.”

There was silence between them—thick and humming.

Then he held out his hand.

Cradled in his palm was a thin, spiraled shell strung on a black silk cord. Iridescent, glowing faintly blue in the fog.

“For you.”

Y/N stared.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“It’s called a marelith shell,” he said. “Where I come from, it’s… personal.”

“What does it mean?”

He hesitated. “To give it is to choose. To wear it is to be chosen.”

She didn’t understand—but her fingers reached for it anyway. He tied it gently around her neck, his knuckles grazing her collarbone. The shell rested just above her heart.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft and awed.

Then, on instinct, she leaned forward and hugged him.

His arms froze around her for a breathless second, then slowly, carefully, came to rest at her back. He held her like something breakable. Like something already his.

And then—

“Y/N!”

A distant shout. Eleanor’s voice, panicked, echoing through the fog.

Y/N pulled back quickly, eyes wide. “I have to go.”

Kael nodded slowly. “Of course.”

She ran, heart pounding. The shell bounced against her chest with every step.

He watched her go, fingers still tingling from the warmth of her body.

She didn’t know what she’d accepted.

But soon—she would.

Part Eight: Three Weeks

The shell still glowed faintly in the candlelight.

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the cool spiral where it rested over her heart. Eleanor watched her from across the room, wide-eyed and breathless.

“He gave that to you?” Eleanor whispered. “Like a gift?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “He said it was personal… but I don’t know what it really means.”

“It means he’s enchanted,” Eleanor said with a grin. “You have a secret admirer—mysterious, handsome, and strange. I’m terribly jealous.”

Y/N blushed. “He’s kind. I think. Gentle, even when he’s… intense.”

Eleanor twirled a strand of her hair. “You must wear it to the masquerade.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t.”

“You must. It would look beautiful with that pale blue gown my mother gave you. And who knows? Maybe he’ll appear again. Maybe he’ll dance with you.”

Y/N laughed shyly. “You think he goes to balls?”

“Everyone wants a dance,” Eleanor said softly, then her voice brightened. “Besides, I hope to dance with Mr. Whitlow. He said he’ll be there.”

Y/N’s smile was warm. “He’ll be lucky if he does.”

Their laughter carried into the night like little bells. But below, in the darkest trench of the sea, laughter had long since died.

Virellin’s Deep Sanctum

Kaelen knelt before the glowing pool again, the weight of the marelith shell still lingering in his hand even though it now hung around Y/N’s neck.

The priestess’s voice was sharper this time.

“You were warned.”

“She accepted it willingly,” he said. “She gave thanks. She touched me.”

The priestess’s sunken eyes opened. “She does not know what it means. To wear the shell is to be bound. In your world. By your laws.”

“She is not of our world,” Kaelen growled. “She will become so.”

The priestess stirred in her coral cradle. “You have three weeks. That is the cycle of the blood. The window of change. After that, the bond withers. She will fall ill. The sea will claim her mind, then her flesh.”

Kaelen’s golden eyes flared. “She will not die.”

“Then take her. Make her yours. Or remove the shell, and let her forget.”

He turned away, jaw tight.

He didn’t want to take her—not yet.

He wanted her to come willingly. To reach for him again. To whisper his name the way she had whispered “thank you.”

He had three weeks.

And a masquerade fast approaching.

The manor was alive with music.

Strings sang beneath the high-vaulted ceiling, golden chandeliers casting pools of warm light across marbled floors. The room glittered with candlelight, laughter, and silk. Everywhere, masks shimmered—some feathered, some jeweled, others dark and mysterious.

Y/N clutched her invitation with shaking fingers as she stepped through the great doors, heart hammering in her chest.

Eleanor had chosen the gown.

Soft blue, embroidered with silver thread, fitted at the waist and flowing like seafoam. Her mask was pale ivory, delicate lace curling like coral around her eyes. The marelith shell rested above her heart, warm against her skin.

“You look like a goddess,” Eleanor whispered beside her. Her own gown was deep violet, her dark curls pinned high. “If he doesn’t fall to his knees, he’s blind.”

Y/N smiled, nerves tangled with excitement. “Do you see Mr. Whitlow?”

“Not yet,” Eleanor murmured. “But I know he’ll come.”

She was right.

Moments later, Mr. Whitlow appeared near the orchestra—a navy mask over his sharp features, silver buttons glinting on his coat. He spotted Eleanor instantly, crossing the floor with a soft smile and a bow so perfect it made her blush.

They moved into the dance without a word.

Y/N stepped back, watching them with a warmth that pulsed like honey in her chest. For a moment, she believed in every story they’d told.

Until her breath caught.

He was here.

Not Mr. Whitlow.

Kael.

He wore black—no mask. None could look him in the eyes long enough to ask why.

He didn’t need a disguise. The crowd parted around him like smoke.

He walked slowly toward her, every step a ripple in the dream she’d built around herself.

“Y/N,” he said lowly.

She looked up. “You’re here.”

“I told you I would be.”

His eyes traveled over her form, lingering on the shell at her chest. “You wear it.”

She blushed. “I… didn’t know it meant something sacred. Not until later. But I couldn’t take it off.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

She didn’t know if he meant it as warning or promise.

He offered his hand.

Her fingers trembled as she placed them in his.

They began to dance.

His touch was cold at first—but he moved like water, smooth and commanding. He didn’t speak. He only watched her.

She felt swallowed whole.

Far below, Aelric seethed.

He swam in circles near the cavern where Kaelen’s mantle hung. The shell’s bond was sealed now. The girl had worn it to a human gathering. Let them all see it—let them all smell what she was becoming.

But she still laughed with humans. Still blushed for them.

Aelric watched Eleanor through the portal pool—a scrying current they used to observe the surface.

Her fingers lingered too long on the human boy’s shoulder.

“She should have been taken too,” he muttered. “We should have ripped them both from the cliffs and taught them to sing for us.”

He didn’t care about prophecy. Or patience.

He wanted to taste her breathless. To feel her bones against his claws.

But Kaelen had made his choice.

And Aelric was not done

The music inside swelled, couples spinning in spirals of silk and candlelight. But Y/N barely noticed.

Kaelen’s hand rested lightly against her back as he led her out through the ballroom doors and onto the balcony. The air was cool, salted from the distant waves. The sea was only a shimmer in the distance.

“Do you often attend masquerades?” she asked, voice shy.

“No,” he said softly, eyes fixed on her. “But you asked if we’d meet again.”

She blushed. “I didn’t think you heard me.”

“I heard everything.”

The night wrapped around them in silver mist.

He turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. “The shell you wear—it’s not just a trinket. It binds you to my people.”

“I thought it was just a charm,” she said. “A token.”

“It’s more than that.” His voice dropped. “It marks you. Protects you. It means I’ve chosen you, Y/N.”

She trembled slightly, not from fear—but from something far more confusing. Need. Her body felt warmer. Her skin more aware.

“But I don’t even know what you are,” she whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell at her chest.

“You will.”

Her breath hitched.

He touched her face—slow, reverent. His fingers brushed her jaw, her throat, like he was memorizing her skin. Her eyes fluttered.

But before he could lean in further—

A laugh broke the spell.

A burst of applause. The orchestra struck up again—faster this time.

Y/N blinked, stepping back. “I—I should go find Eleanor.”

Kaelen’s eyes darkened, but he nodded once. “Soon,” he said. “We’ll speak again. When the mask comes off.”

She didn’t understand what he meant.

She ran inside.

Meanwhile, the ballroom had shifted.

Aelric had arrived.

And he was magnificent.

He wore a sleek black suit, tailored to perfection. No mask—but the glint of his silver eyes and the wild wave of his dark-blonde hair made people look away anyway. His beauty was too sharp, too unnatural, like staring into fire.

He found Eleanor before Mr. Whitlow could reach her again.

“May I?” Aelric asked, bowing low, his voice warm and edged with something… dangerous.

Eleanor blinked up at him, stunned. “Of course.”

Mr. Whitlow stepped forward to protest—but Aelric had already swept her into the center of the floor.

Their bodies moved like liquid shadow and moonlight. Eleanor’s gown flared as he spun her, one hand pressed too low on her back, the other gripping her wrist like a whisper of possession.

“You dance like it’s in your blood,” Eleanor said, breathless.

“I’ve been dancing far longer than you can imagine,” Aelric replied, smiling—teeth just a little too white.

She laughed, dazed, unaware how many women on the floor were staring at him.

He pulled her close—too close.

And whispered, “Careful who you let touch your heart. Not all of us are as gentle as we look.”

She shivered.

Across the room, Y/N stood frozen.

Kaelen. Aelric. Neither wore masks.

Both too perfect.

Something wasn’t right. Something ancient. Something coming.

And she was already marked.

The ride back from the masquerade was quiet, both girls curled beneath their cloaks in the carriage, the scent of candle wax and champagne still clinging to their hair.

Y/N clutched the marelith shell against her chest.

It was warm. Almost… pulsing.

She didn’t tell Eleanor.

Not yet.

“I’ve never danced like that before,” Eleanor whispered, staring out the window. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“With Mr. Whitlow?”

Eleanor blinked. “No. With him. The stranger. The one who looked like he came from a painting.”

Y/N stayed silent.

Eleanor turned to her. “You felt it too, didn’t you? With yours.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “It’s like they weren’t real. Like we dreamed them.”

“Then let’s dream again,” Eleanor said. “Let’s go back to the cliffs tomorrow. Without Mrs. Weatherby. Just us.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Because the shell had started to glow.

That night, she dreamed of water.

Dark, endless, velvet-blue water. Hands beneath her. Arms holding her as her body floated weightless. Her lungs didn’t burn. Her limbs didn’t fight.

She dreamed of a voice—Kaelen’s voice—saying her name like a prayer and a curse.

She woke gasping.

The shell burned against her skin.

Below the sea, war almost erupted.

In the ruins of an old palace drowned in coral, Kaelen and Aelric clashed.

Their tails whipped currents into violent spirals, teeth bared, claws flashing in short, vicious bursts.

“She’s not yours to touch!” Kaelen roared, his voice shaking the walls.

“You’ve claimed her but done nothing,” Aelric spat. “She walks free while her body ripens for the taking!”

“She is mine.”

“You had your chance.”

They circled each other, tails lashing, blood from shallow cuts drifting like ink.

But before the next strike could fall, a third voice echoed through the chamber.

The priestess.

“Enough,” she rasped, her voice carried by current and will. “You’ll tear what remains of this kingdom apart over your hunger.”

Both mermen froze.

She turned her pale eyes toward them, unblinking.

“The bond has begun. But it is weak. Your girl still dreams of air. Her spirit floats.”

“Then I will take her,” Kaelen growled.

“No. Not yet,” the priestess said. “You cannot both have the same one.”

She looked to Aelric. “There is another.”

A silence settled between them.

“A trade,” she said coldly. “Take the laughing one first. The rich one. The girl whose heart is soft, but whose blood is unbound.”

Aelric’s jaw tightened.

“Do what you will,” she continued. “Once she is gone, the other will follow.”

In the manor above, Eleanor slept peacefully.

Y/N stood at her window, heart heavy, the shell glowing faintly as the fog rolled in from the sea.

Something was coming.

She could feel it.

The sky was barely touched with light when the girls slipped out.

Y/N carried a woven basket full of bread, cheese, and early figs. Eleanor had packed it herself, smiling like a girl running off to meet a lover—which, in some ways, she was.

They wore simple dresses beneath shawls. No chaperone. No shoes.

The grass was still damp with dew, the fog low and clinging to the earth. Seagulls cried in the distance. The wind was gentle and gray.

“You’re sure he’ll be there?” Y/N whispered as they followed the narrow path down the cliffs.

Eleanor smirked. “He said to meet him before the world woke.”

She twirled once, barefoot in the grass, eyes dancing.

Y/N smiled, but her fingers curled tighter around the basket.

“I want to apologize,” Eleanor added more seriously. “For the other night. For letting that strange man hold me like that. It wasn’t proper.”

Y/N looked away, swallowing. “You didn’t know him.”

“No. But I saw Mr. Whitlow’s face after. And I want him to know I care.”

They reached the shore. The tide had pulled back, revealing a long stretch of smooth, wet sand and seaweed strewn like ribbons.

Eleanor turned to her.

“Walk ahead a while? Let me speak to him first.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

Eleanor touched her hand gently, then turned and walked the opposite direction, toward the rocks where the mist was thickest.

Y/N moved slowly along the shoreline, humming softly to herself, looking for shells to fill the basket. The sun tried to rise beyond the fog.

She didn’t look back.

She never saw the man waiting in the mist.

Never saw the way Eleanor paused, surprised… and smiled.

“Not who I expected,” she said.

Aelric smiled with teeth far too white.

“But who you’ll remember.”

She didn’t scream.

Not once.

Y/N returned twenty minutes later, basket swinging lightly in her hand.

“Eleanor?” she called.

No answer.

She wandered toward the rocks, scanning the mist.

“Eleanor, are you playing? We should go before Mrs. Weatherby wakes—”

Silence.

Only the sea, the fog, and the faintest trace of something shining in the sand.

Y/N bent down and picked it up.

A lilac ribbon.

Still damp.

Still warm.

Her stomach dropped.

“Eleanor?”

And for the first time in her life, the sea felt like it was watching her.

“Eleanor!”

Y/N’s voice cracked as she shouted, stumbling across the rocks, skirts soaked with seawater.

“Eleanor, stop playing! This isn’t funny—”

But there was nothing. No giggle. No teasing voice. No footprints. No ribboned silhouette in the mist.

Only fog.

Only sea.

Only silence.

Y/N turned and ran.

Her breath caught in her throat as she climbed the slippery cliff path, legs burning, heart pounding. She didn’t stop. Not for breath, not for tears. Her fingers clutched the basket with trembling hands, its weight useless now.

By the time she reached the manor, her dress was clinging to her skin and her voice was raw from shouting.

“She’s gone.”

Mrs. Weatherby paled, her tea cup falling from her hand and shattering on the floor.

“What do you mean ‘gone?’” cried Eleanor’s mother, rushing into the parlor. “Where did you see her last? Did she fall? Did she—”

“No,” Y/N gasped, “she told me to walk ahead… just for a little… she was meeting someone. When I came back she wasn’t—she wasn’t there—”

“Which path? Which rocks? Was there blood? Footprints?”

“No. No, nothing. Just a ribbon. Just fog.”

The household exploded into panic—maids sent running, horses readied, the steward gathering searchers with torches and oilskin coats.

But Y/N didn’t wait to be questioned again.

She fled up the staircase, heart pounding, chest tight.

She reached her room, slammed the door, fell to her knees.

Her fingers flew to the shell at her chest.

The marelith shell.

The gift.

The chain burned.

“You gave her to them,” she whispered to herself. “You knew.”

She yanked it off.

The moment it broke free—

The air shifted.

The sky darkened.

A roll of thunder cracked through the clouds like the tear of a god’s throat.

Below, the sea rose—waves crashing against the cliffs, pounding the earth with a fury too sudden, too focused to be natural.

Windows rattled.

Wind screamed.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the deepest trench of Virellin, Kaelen roared.

He felt the break.

He felt the rejection.

The bond had been severed.

She had removed what bound her to him.

And now…

he would take her by force.

The manor had gone still.

After hours of searching—calling Eleanor’s name into the wind, combing the cliffs with lanterns and dogs—everyone had returned cold, soaked, and empty-handed. No footprints. No signs of struggle. No clues. No answers.

Only fog.

And a rising tide.

Y/N sat in Eleanor’s bed, clutching one of her ribbons, her eyes swollen from crying.

Mrs. Weatherby had tried to comfort her. So had the others.

But Y/N knew.

She knew something had taken Eleanor.

And she knew what it was.

She stared at the marelith shell lying cold and severed on the bedside table. A faint crack had formed in its spiral—hairline, but visible. Like it mourned its purpose.

Thunder shook the windowpanes.

Y/N curled beneath the blankets and cried until her throat ached. Then, finally, she slept.

She woke to wetness.

At first, she thought she was dreaming again.

But her feet were soaked.

The rug beneath her bed squished softly with seawater. A stream of brine crept in beneath the door.

The wind outside moaned like something dying.

She sat up. “Mrs. Weatherby?”

No answer.

She stepped to the floor—barefoot—and opened the door.

The hallway was dark. The candle sconces were out.

There were footprints in the water.

Large. Bare.

She backed away.

But it was too late.

He was there.

Standing in the middle of her room—Kaelen. Shirt soaked and clinging to his frame, dark hair hanging wet and wild around his face. His golden eyes no longer warm. No longer human.

They burned like the deepest parts of the sea.

“Where is she?” she whispered. “What did you do to her?”

He said nothing.

“You… you gave her to him.” Her lip trembled. “You took her.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “You broke the bond.”

“You tricked me.”

“I chose you.” His voice cracked like thunder. “I marked you. Protected you. And you threw it away.”

She backed toward the wall, breath hitching. “You think this is love?”

His face twisted.

Then he moved.

Faster than she could scream.

His hand closed around her throat, lifting her to her toes, pinning her to the cold stone wall.

She choked, gasping, fingers clawing at his wrist.

His other hand gripped her waist—claws extended. She could feel the sharp curve of his nails through the fabric. A reminder that he was not a man.

He was the ocean.

And he was angry.

“You will never run again,” he hissed, voice low and inhuman. “You will wear the shell. You will sleep where I sleep. And when I claim you, you will beg the sea for mercy.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

She tried to scream—but his grip held tight.

Then he leaned close, lips brushing her ear.

“You belong to me now.”

Part Fifteen: The Drag Below

The rain fell sideways as Kaelen carried her through the storm.

Y/N kicked and clawed. Her fists beat against his chest, her nails scraping his skin—but he didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked on the cliffs. On the sea below. His grip bruised her arms, her waist. He walked as if she weighed nothing.

“No—please—” she tried to sob, but no sound came.

Her throat was raw from where he had choked her.

She dug her heels into the mud. Grasped at the grass. Reached for tree roots, stones, anything.

It didn’t matter.

He dragged her to the edge of the world.

The sea roared in fury below. Lightning split the sky above. Waves slammed against the rocks with thunderous hunger. Her dress was soaked, clinging to her like second skin, one sleeve torn completely, the hem shredded.

Her hair stuck to her face. Her tears mixed with rain.

He paused at the cliff’s edge.

She tried to crawl back—no voice, no scream, only the frantic shake of her head.

He leaned down, one clawed hand closing around her ankle.

“You should’ve stayed soft,” he whispered. “I would’ve let you dream a little longer.”

Then he pulled her over.

The ocean did not take her—it swallowed her.

The cold slammed into her body like a thousand knives. She thrashed, kicked, screamed into the water—but it moved around her, coiling like hands, pulling her deeper.

Her lungs burned.

Her vision blurred.

She saw Kaelen beneath her, swimming backward as he dragged her with him—his tail unfurled, vast and dark as night, his claws dug into her hips.

The surface disappeared.

Light faded.

Her strength slipped.

She reached for the surface one last time—arms stretching above her like a girl begging heaven—

And then everything went black.

Later…

She woke in a hollow chamber of coral and pearl. The ceiling above her glowed faintly blue. She was wrapped in sea silk—soft, but tight—binding her wrists and ankles to the smooth stone beneath her.

She couldn’t scream.

Her throat ached.

The shell she had once worn sat in a pool of starlit water beside her, whole again. Waiting.

She turned her face away and cried.

Elsewhere in the palace, Kaelen stood before the priestess.

His body still dripped with salt. Blood—hers and his—was rinsed from his skin.

“She fought me,” he said flatly.

“She will fight more,” the priestess rasped. “Until there’s nothing left to fight with.”

“She rejected the bond.”

“But she wore it once.” The priestess reached out, her frail fingers brushing his chest. “She opened the gate. Now it cannot be shut.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “She looks at me with hate.”

“She will learn worship,” the priestess said softly. “Or she will drown in madness. Either way, she will stay.”

Kaelen said nothing.

But inside him, a storm gathered.

Because he didn’t just want her body.

He wanted her to want him.

Part Sixteen: The Weakening

Time had blurred.

Y/N didn’t know how many days had passed. She slept in short, frightened bursts. Ate when forced. Drifted in and out of pain and confusion.

The sea sang constantly.

The chamber—her prison—glowed softly with bioluminescent coral. Everything was beautiful in a sick, dreamlike way. The sea silk that bound her wrists had loosened, but she didn’t try to run. There was nowhere to go.

And sometimes—when the current shifted—she heard Eleanor’s voice.

“Y/N…”

She would jerk upright, heart pounding. “Eleanor?!”

Nothing. Just bubbles and silence.

Other times, she would see her. A glimpse through the coral archways. Standing still, her lilac ribbon tangled in her hair, arms wrapped around herself like a child.

“Why did you leave me?” Y/N whispered once.

But the figure faded like smoke.

Kaelen came often.

He brought strange food—soft pearls that melted in her mouth, strips of something warm and spiced. He would sit beside her, combing her hair with fingers and claws alike.

“You were born for the sea,” he said once. “You just didn’t know it.”

She didn’t speak.

But she didn’t pull away anymore.

That worried him more than her screams.

He returned to the priestess.

Her eyes were dimmer now. Her voice thinner. But she still sat on her throne of ancient coral like she ruled what remained.

“She weakens,” Kaelen said. “She no longer fights.”

The priestess nodded slowly. “Her strength is in her soul. It will serve your children well.”

Kaelen’s throat tightened. “She hates me.”

“She will give you what you want. The bond is nearly complete.”

“I want her… willing.”

The priestess let out a breath like steam.

“You have three days. After that, the bond collapses. Her body will begin to break. You must mate her before then.”

Kaelen’s hands curled into fists. “She will shatter.”

“Then make her pliant.” Her pale eyes gleamed. “Let her see the other one. The one she clings to in dreams.”

“Eleanor.”

“She is already broken. Her sadness will make your captive grateful for gentler chains.”

Later, in the dark glow of Y/N’s chamber…

The sea silk unwrapped.

Kaelen entered without speaking and held out a hand.

“Come.”

Y/N blinked slowly, sluggish from another strange meal. “Why?”

“You need comfort.”

She followed without knowing why.

Down corridors of glowing coral and slow-moving currents. Through archways carved from the bones of sea beasts. Into another chamber—

Where Eleanor sat hunched on a bed of kelp, her hair limp, her body curled small. Her ribbon was gone. Her eyes were dull.

Y/N’s breath broke in her throat.

“Eleanor?”

Her friend looked up.

And began to cry.

Part Seventeen: Soft Chains

Y/N crossed the glowing threshold like she was sleepwalking, unsure if what she saw was real.

But it was.

Eleanor.

Her friend—her sister in all but name—was curled on a bed of sea-kelp, pale and trembling, her eyes rimmed with salt-crusted red. Her once-vibrant curls hung limp. Her body was thinner. Her hands shook in her lap.

“Eleanor?” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor looked up—and her lips trembled into a smile that nearly destroyed Y/N.

They ran to each other.

There were no words—only arms tangled tight, cheeks pressed together, lips brushing each other’s tear-streaked faces in frantic affection.

Y/N clutched her. “I thought you were dead.”

“I wished I was,” Eleanor breathed. “But then I heard you were here.”

Their foreheads pressed. Their fingers clutched tightly. Every breath was shared, shallow and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve—”

“No,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “Nothing would’ve saved us.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes wide with grief. “Don’t fight them, Y/N. It only makes it worse.”

Y/N’s chest constricted. “What did he do to you?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. But her bruises said enough.

The shimmer of her skin. The hollow of her cheeks. The soft, empty way she spoke. Like a girl already halfway drowned.

They clung to each other tighter.

And then—

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

Aelric.

Leaning against the coral archway, arms folded, shirt undone just enough to expose the cruel curve of his smile.

“Well,” he said lazily, “isn’t that sweet.”

Y/N turned sharply, shielding Eleanor behind her.

Aelric’s smirk widened. “Two doves in a gilded cage. You’ll keep each other company while the sea claims the rest of you.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “You’re proud of this?”

“I’m delighted.” He pushed off the wall and approached. “I told Kaelen she’d break beautifully. He wouldn’t listen. He’s sentimental, you see.”

He leaned in closer—too close.

“But I? I prefer them ruined.”

Eleanor flinched.

Y/N stood taller, even as her hands trembled.

Aelric’s grin never faltered.

“You’ll see,” he said softly, “it’s not so bad. Once you forget who you used to be.”

Then he vanished into the current.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the soft pulse of bioluminescent moss. The currents flowed slowly, carefully, as if the sea itself dared not disturb what lay inside.

Kaelen entered in silence.

And there they were.

Y/N and Eleanor, curled together on the bed of kelp, their arms still wrapped around each other. Their cheeks rested against one another’s shoulders. Like children. Like sisters.

Like survivors.

Y/N’s brows were furrowed even in sleep, her hand still gently gripping Eleanor’s.

Kaelen stood there for a long time.

Watching.

Feeling something shift in his chest—not pity, not guilt—but curiosity.

How could she still care for someone so broken?

How could she still protect, even in chains?

Her strength is good for your children, the priestess had said.

But this wasn’t the kind of strength he could command.

And he hated that.

Later, in a trench far deeper than any mortal had touched, Kaelen approached the black reef.

The coral here was sharp and dead. The water cold, even to him. And the light—there was none.

Only darkness.

And a voice.

“You seek what the priestess cannot give,” the sea witch said, rising from the shadows like smoke in water.

She was ancient—half stone, half kelp, eyes blind but all-seeing.

“I need her to choose me,” Kaelen said. “Willingly. I have three days left.”

“Then you must show her something deeper than fear.”

“She fears me. She resists.”

“And yet,” the sea witch hissed, “she clings to the girl. Even now. Even in sleep.”

“I’ve tried everything.”

“No,” she said. “You’ve tried to control. You haven’t tried to understand.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what to do.”

The sea witch smiled, and her teeth were jagged pearls.

“You must make her want to stay.”

“How?”

“Give her a choice… and make sure both lead back to you.”

Y/N was awake when Kaelen returned.

She sat cross-legged beside Eleanor, brushing soft strands of hair back from her friend’s face, humming something fragile and off-key.

She didn’t look up when he entered.

Only when his shadow fell over them did she turn—and her eyes were hollow but sharp.

“You’ve come to punish us?” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. “Or just to watch?”

He crouched slowly, careful not to touch her yet.

“I’ve come to talk.”

Y/N laughed bitterly. “You don’t talk. You take.”

Kaelen’s eyes flicked to Eleanor, still asleep and curled like a child.

“You care for her,” he said.

“I love her,” Y/N snapped. “More than I could ever love you.”

He was silent a moment. Then:

“I believe you.”

That startled her. She flinched, wary.

He leaned in, voice calm. Almost… kind.

“I don’t want to break you, Y/N. I want you to choose to stay.”

“I’d rather drown.”

He ignored that. “So I’m giving you a choice.”

She stilled.

He let the silence stretch like a net before delivering the hook.

“You may remain here. With me. Willingly. I’ll give you more freedom. I’ll protect her. I’ll even begin to treat you like a mate.”

Her lip curled.

“Or,” he continued, “you can refuse. And I will give Eleanor to Aelric. Fully. As his own.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Kaelen tilted his head, voice low. “She won’t survive him, you know that. You’ve seen what he does.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered.

“I’m your future.”

She shook her head. “No… no, this is a game.”

“It’s a choice,” he said firmly. “Your first real one down here. But don’t take too long. The sea waits for no one. Least of all fragile little humans.”

He stood slowly.

“I’ll return when the tide turns. Make your decision by then.”

And then he was gone—vanishing into the current like a shadow that had never belonged to the light.

Eleanor stirred behind her.

Y/N broke.

She clutched her friend tightly and wept into her hair, knowing exactly what she would have to do.

Because cruelty disguised as mercy was the cruelest trap of all.

She said yes.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she had to.

Because Eleanor’s life—what little remained of it—hung in the balance. And Kaelen had made sure Y/N knew the weight of her refusal.

So when he returned, she didn’t look at him. She only whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Kaelen nodded, as if this were a solemn vow.

And without a word, he held out his hand.

She took it.

He led her through winding corridors lit with dim blue light, past quiet chambers and still pools, deeper than she’d ever been allowed before. The pressure grew heavier, the sea darker.

Until they reached his chamber.

It was carved into the stone of a drowned temple—walls etched with symbols that glowed faintly when she entered. The floor was smooth, covered in soft seagrass and folded layers of dark silk.

A bed waited in the center. Raised. Prepared.

Kaelen turned to face her.

“Remove your gown.”

She hesitated.

His eyes burned gold.

“You said yes, Y/N.”

So she obeyed.

The silk slipped from her shoulders, slow and trembling. Her skin glistened in the dim light—fragile, human, exposed.

Kaelen stepped forward.

He lifted the marelith shell—once severed, now whole.

Without asking, he fastened it around her throat again.

It pulsed warm.

Alive.

“You remember how it felt,” he said softly. “When you first wore it. Before you knew what it meant.”

She didn’t answer.

“Lie down.”

She moved stiffly toward the bed, each step echoing with dread.

“On your back.”

She obeyed.

“Bend your knees. Spread your thighs for me.”

She closed her eyes.

She did as he said.

Kaelen climbed over her, tail coiling beneath, his weight settling between her legs. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her lips.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

She nodded—because she had no voice left.

He entered her slowly.

It burned.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out—but the pain crawled through her body like fire through ice. Her hands fisted the silk. Her thighs trembled.

Kaelen groaned above her, pressing deeper, watching her with something close to reverence.

The shell at her throat began to glow.

Brighter.

Warmer.

Claimed.

She turned her face away, silent tears slipping into her hair.

When he finished, he held her close like a lover.

But Y/N didn’t feel loved.

She felt claimed. Branded. Gone.

Y/N woke in darkness.

Not silence.

Kaelen’s arms were wrapped around her, heavy and possessive, his breath stirring the hair at her neck. Her body ached—not just from what he’d done, but from what it meant. The shell still glowed faintly against her chest.

“Wife,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

But he kissed her shoulder anyway.

Later, they came for her.

Servants of the deep—silent merfolk women with soft, expressionless faces. They bathed her in a pool of perfumed seafoam, combed her hair with pearl-handled tools, dressed her in flowing ceremonial silk spun from kelp and light.

Her stomach churned.

When they were done, she was led—barefoot and pale—through a wide coral hall, where dozens of glowing eyes turned to watch her.

Kaelen’s court.

He stood at the center, radiant and terrible. His tail coiled like a throne beneath him. His hand reached out—expectant.

Y/N stepped forward.

The priestess stood beside him, ancient and unblinking. “The bond is sealed,” she announced, her voice echoing through the deep. “Her womb is quickening. The future begins.”

A soft cheer rippled through the court.

Y/N felt sick.

Later, she was summoned

The chamber was deep, still, and cold.

Y/N stood alone, her ceremonial silk clinging to her damp skin, the marelith shell still pulsing faintly against her chest. She was thinner now. Paler. But sharper, too.

The priestess watched her from the center of the grotto—frail, almost translucent, eyes milk-white but piercing. Her bones showed through her silver skin. She was breathing shallowly, her gills flickering slow.

“You summoned me,” Y/N said carefully.

“You are changed,” the priestess murmured. “But not lost.”

Y/N didn’t sit. She stepped forward.

“I’ve been watching. Listening. And I know what’s happening to your kind.”

The priestess tilted her head, amused. “Do you?”

Y/N’s voice strengthened. “The mermaid women. They’re dying. Not because of the surface. Not because of humans. Because of what you’ve done to your water.”

The priestess stilled.

“It’s the coral,” Y/N said. “The glowing kind that lines your sacred pools. It’s not meant to grow this deep. It’s leeching minerals from the water. Poisoning the wombs of the women who rest near it for healing.”

The priestess’s fingers trembled on her throne.

“I read it in a book back home—studies of reef behavior. Coral like yours becomes toxic when overgrown. And I’ve seen the symptoms in the women. In you.”

Silence.

Then—a breathless laugh.

“You speak of science,” the priestess rasped. “But your logic holds.”

Y/N stepped closer. “I can help you. I can stop the extinction. I know what to remove. What to filter. What to plant instead. I can bring your kind back from the brink.”

The priestess’s voice dropped. “And what will you want in return?”

Y/N’s eyes glinted. “Freedom. For me. For Eleanor. For any woman dragged down here again.”

The priestess watched her in silence.

And then—nodded.

“Then we will see,” she said softly. “If knowledge can do what power could not

The nights belonged to Kaelen.

He came to her chamber like clockwork, silent and cold-eyed. She’d lie still as he moved over her, kissed her with possessive reverence, and whispered things she forced herself not to hear.

Sometimes he was gentle.

Other times, rough.

But always, he called her “wife.”

She never cried aloud again. But her fingers clenched the kelp-woven bedding until her knuckles went white.

When he finally left each night, she’d curl away, skin raw, and whisper Eleanor’s name like a prayer.

The days, though—those were hers.

Quietly, Y/N worked beneath the court’s notice. With the priestess’s silent permission, she wandered through the sacred chambers and bathing pools. She directed servants—under the guise of Kaelen’s authority—to begin removing the glowing coral, replacing it with flora from higher reefs.

No one questioned her.

And the results were swift.

The sick mermaid women, once dim and fading, began to stir. Their eyes brightened. Their gills strengthened. The color returned to their scales.

Even the priestess, long resigned to death, stood taller.

“You’ve done it,” she murmured one evening. “You’ve saved them.”

Y/N didn’t smile. “Not all.”

Eleanor was the exception.

But Y/N refused to give up.

She demanded Eleanor be moved—away from Aelric, away from the darker chambers of the palace. The priestess granted it.

And slowly, Eleanor began to change.

She was placed in a quiet coral garden where sunlight touched the water through cracks above. There, surrounded by warmth and softness, she began to laugh again—lightly. Cautiously.

Her skin began to glow again.

She swam for the first time without trembling.

One day, Y/N watched from behind a veil of kelp as Eleanor turned her face toward the light, closed her eyes, and smiled.

She’s coming back, Y/N thought. We both are.

But that night, Kaelen came again.

Harder. Hungrier.

As if he could feel something slipping from his grip.

He kissed her neck where the shell pulsed. Whispered promises of children. Of kingdoms.

She bit her lip until it bled.

She let him take her.

But in her mind, she held onto the image of Eleanor in the garden, glowing.

Healing.

Because the tide was turning.

And soon… it would rise for her.

[diejager]

if you don't mind can i ask for your take on civilian s/o and yandere makarov? i wonder how he behave around an s/o who's like the opposite of him (like they're kind, gentle and has not known violence ever). hcs or short scenario or anything depends on you i don't mind (there's a drought of makarov content tbh 😮‍💨).

thanks for considering this and please take your time. have a good day 😚.

”Love” Cw: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, delusions of love, humain training, forceful taking, verbal abuse, tell me if I missed any.

Makarov doesn’t love. He knew how to, but he never truly did. He couldn’t with the heart and mind he grew up cultivating, to build his empire and strength, dwindling his heart’s empathy. Ironically, such ignorance towards love only increased his obsession, the amount of it that would only climb higher and higher, because in a sense, the loss of such emotions lead to a loss of a limit, driving him to insane lengths to achieve what he had his mind on.

He only knew death and bloodshed, the destruction of the mundane and corruption of the innocent, being the source of the rot and decay in the cells of a flower, to make it wilt and dust. Perhaps that’s where his interest in the normal stemmed, that curiosity that would someday bloom into obsession. He searched for an object of obsession, something - someone - to put all this attention on, something tangible, solid under his hands and malleable to his intentions. Despite his lack of time to dawdle, to spend on meaningless affairs, he found the perfect subject, someone so starkly different from him and his world.

There was a dichotomy in Makarov’s world, the harshness of war, battle and conquering of countries, and the deceptive softness in his eyes, the gentle touch of his scarred and calloused hands, and the coo with his sly tongue. You were the only softness in his life, a civilian he -one day - decided to pick up from the streets, bright-eyed and innocent to the horror he saw and spear-headed. Your tired eyes untouched by his mind and your scarless body free of any conflict that he could start with a simple wave of his hand.

There’s a need in his mind to see this innocence wilt away, to pry your mind of any autonomy and freedom you’ve lived with. Makarov wanted a doll, something soft and precious he could corrupt with words and ruin with his hands, deceptively gentle and loving, a poem spilling from a cruel smirk and eyes gleaming darkly. He has his ways to turn you into a thing of his imagination, to make you into his willing Russian doll, layer over layer of maliciousness and subservience.

He’s a man of culture, letting the people under him do all the dirty work. Despite all the viciousness and madness in his being, he doesn’t hit, he doesn’t abuse the object of his obsession, that was reserved for men lower than him, poor and mindless men. Rather, he preferred manipulation, well-thought words used in right situation to have you crawling back to him for safety, protection and comfort. He wanted you to come to him on your own, to make your pliant and uncaring of the wider view. He, after all, took you for himself, to endure himself in a second source of power.

Makarov has a silver tongue, whispering words into your ears that take root, your doubts and fears growing in the depth of your heart, bringing you closer to the man who promised to protect you. His fingers wiping away your tearful cheeks, pearly gems rolling down your cheek as he teases you about being worried. You shouldn’t be so fearful with him beside you, he’s your warden, your all-powerful and dependable lover.

He won’t let a shred of suspicion towards him fester, it’ll be dealt with swiftly with the call of your name, breaking down your vulnerable mind and building it back up in his image, his opinions were yours, his thoughts were yours, his goals were yours. So much so that you were his, knowing fundamentally that whatever he said goes.

”мой маленький цветок,” he mumbled, pressing his lips against yours, hands soft but wandering, laying down chains over your waist, around your dainty wrists and tightening the collar around your neck, keeping the hold on your mind, “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

Positive reinforcement. He often used positive reinforcement to deepen his hold, to sink his teeth into your clean soul. Sweetened words with a voice he taught you to crave and possessive touches of bloody hands with intentions that he blinded you of, finding a way to make you want them.

“What do you say?” His hand traveled up your jaw, featherlight fingers cradling your ear and cheek until it stopped under your chin, tilting your head to look at his narrowed eyes, proud and dark.

“Thank you, Vladimir.”

He smiled, a thin-lipped grin.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

[writingwithcolor]

What Makes an Ethnic Villain "Ethnic" or "Villainous?" How Do You Offset it?

anonymous asked:

Hello WWC! I have a question about the antagonist of my story. She is (currently) Japanese, and I want to make sure I’m writing her in a way that doesn’t associates [sic] her being Asian with being villainous.  The story is set in modern day USA, this character is effectively immortal. She was a samurai who lost loved ones due to failure in combat, and this becomes her character[sic] motivation (portrayed sympathetically to the audience). This story explores many different time periods and how women have shown valor throughout history. The age of the samurai (and the real and legendary female warriors from it) have interested me the most, which is why I want her to be from this period.  The outfit she wears while fighting is based on samurai armor, and she wears modern and traditional Japanese fashion depending on the occasion. She acts pretty similar to modern day people, though more cynical and obsessed with her loss. She’s been able to adapt with the times but still highly values and cherishes her past.  She is the only Asian main character, but I plan to make a supportive Japanese side character. She’s a history teacher who knows about the villain and gives the protagonists information to help them, but isn’t involved in the main plot otherwise.  Are the way I’m writing this villain and the inclusion of a non-antagonist Japanese character enough to prevent a harmful reading of the story, or is there more I should do?

Why Does Your Villain Exist?

This makes me feel old because David Anders plays a villain with this kind of backstory in the series Heroes starring Masi Oka. 

I think you want to think about what you mean when you say: 

Villainous (In what way? To whom? To what end?)

Harmful (What tropes, narratives and implications are present?)

I’m relatively infamous in the mod circle for not caring too much about dimensions of “harm”. The concept is relative and varies widely between people and cultures. I don’t see much value in framing motivations around “What is less harmful?” I think for me, what matters more is: 

“What is more true?” 

“Are characteristics viewed as intrinsic to background, or the product of experiences and personal autonomy?”

“Will your portrayal resonate with a large audience?”

“What will resonate with the members of the audience who share the backgrounds your characters have?” 

This post offers additional questions you could ask yourself instead of “is this okay/not okay/harmful.” 

You could write a story where your antagonist is sly, sadistic, violent and cold-blooded. It may not be an interpretation that will make many Japanese from combat backgrounds feel seen or heard, but it’s not without precedent. These tropes have been weaponized against people of Japanese descent (Like Nikkei Japanese interned during World War II), but Japan also brutalized a good chunk of Asia during World War II. See Herge’s Tintin and The Blue Lotus for an example of a comic that accurately showcases the brutality of Japan’s colonization of Manchuria, but also is racist in terms of how Japanese characters are portrayed (CW: genocide, war, imperialism, racism).

You could also write a story where your character’s grief gives way to despair, and fuels their combat such that they are seen as calculating, frigid and deeply driven by revenge/ violence. This might make sense. It’s also been done to death for Japanese female warriors, though (See “Lady Snowblood” by Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura here, CW: sexual assault, violence, murder and a host of other dark things you’d expect in a revenge story). 

You could further write a story where your antagonist is not necessarily villainous, but the perceived harm comes from fetishizing/ exoticizing elements in how her appearance is presented or how she is sexualized, which is a common problem for Japanese female characters. 

My vote always goes to the most interesting story or character. I don’t see any benefit to writing from a defensive position. This is where I'll point out that, culturally, I can't picture a Japanese character viewing immortality as anything other than a curse. Many cultures in Japan are largely defined by transience and the understanding that many things naturally decay, die, and change form.

There are a lot of ways you could conceivably cause harm, but I’d rather hear about what the point of this character is given the dilemma of their position. 

What is her purpose for the plot? 

How is she designed to make the reader feel? 

What literary devices are relevant to her portrayal?

(Arbitrarily, you can always add more than 1 extra Japanese character. I think you might put less pressure on yourself with this character’s portrayal if you have more Japanese characters to practice with in general.) 

- Marika. 

When Off-Setting: Aim for Average

Seconding the above with regards to this villainess’s story and your motivations for this character, but regardless of her story I think it’s also important to look specifically at how the Japanese teacher character provides contrast. 

I agree with the choice to make her a regular person and not a superhero. Otherwise, your one Asian character is aggressively Asian-themed in a stereotypical Cool Japan way (particularly if her villain suit is samurai-themed & she wears wafu clothing every so often). Adding a chill person who happens to be Japanese and doesn’t have some kind of ninja or kitsune motif will be a breath of fresh air (well, more like a sigh of relief) for Japanese readers. 

A note on characterization—while our standard advice for “offset” characters is to give your offset character the opposite of the personality trait you’re trying to balance, in this case you might want to avoid opposites. You have a villainess who is a cold, tough “don’t need no man” type. Making the teacher mild-mannered, helpful, and accomodating would balance out the villainess’s traits, but you’ll end up swinging to the other side of the pendulum towards the Submissive Asian stereotype depending on execution. If avoiding stereotypes is a concern, I suggest picking something outside of that spectrum of gentleness to violence and making her really boring or really weird or really nerdy or a jock gym teacher or…something. You’re the author.

Similarly, while the villainess is very traditionally Japanese in her motifs and backstory, don’t make the teacher go aggressively in either direction—give her a nice balance of modern vs. traditional, Japanese vs. Western sensibilities as far as her looks, dress, interests, values, etc. Because at the end of the day, that’s most modern Japanese people. 

Sometimes, the most difficult representation of a character of color is making a character who is really average, typical, modern, and boring. 

- Rina

[snakesartblog]

I spent a day or two digging through BKMN for analysis, and I’ve got some interesting stuff to share! 

CWs: referenced sexual assault, murder, pregnancy

I'm writing this so that anyone could read it and have some understanding of it, even if they haven't read BKMN. This isn’t a formal essay and there isn’t one specific point that I’m getting at, but I’d argue that the central theme of the story is desire vs coercion.

WEGG

Wegg is the protagonist of BKMN and the symbolism around his storyline isn’t particularly subtle. It’s about finding acceptance as a man, especially following loss of bodily autonomy in sexual assault (unfortunately tends to be viewed as feminine). Following debatably consensual sex with the Swans, Wegg is cursed to die every month, a pretty clear parallel to menstruation, and then he “gives birth” to Calum. The connections from the assault to these things, very dysphoria-inducing for many transmascs, and his need to find meaning and masculinity of his own, I think exemplify the central theme of the book.

His desire for  masculinity and acceptance are very present through the entire book. Even his mannerisms and speech seem very intentionally masculinized, especially in contrast with mild-mannered Neighbor. I’d be surprised if this wasn’t purposeful on his part! In a symbolic sense, he finds acceptance and recognition with Neighbor, another trans person, when he explains his need to die each month and Neighbor takes it in stride. Despite the loss of autonomy he experienced and how it continues to affect him, he finds a place for himself among other trans people. Moreover, he’s homeless - lacking acceptance and community - until he moves in with Neighbor, and when he says that he doesn’t typically eat enough, from then on we see Neighbor cook or buy him food constantly. The symbolism here is pretty strong I think! Wegg feels that he is only accepted or loved when performing a femininity that he hates (as victim/messiah for the Swans and also demonstrated in the flashbacks to his past) until he finds others like him. 

NEIGHBOR

Neighbor is a super interesting way to write a trans character and weave transness into their storyline, in my opinion. It’s established from the first few pages of the book that he kills people, but specifically people who he perceives as harmful to others. Despite filling a classic “violent cis man” niche, a serial killer, he’s aware of his situation and power differentials around him and directs his necessary killing towards at least a less harmful route. Even the very first person we see Neighbor kill, in the opening of the book, is heavily implied to be the target because he committed sexual assault against his partner. He also doesn’t kill out of a desire to do so, and the moment Wegg offers his own blood, giving Neighbor a way out from the murders, Neighbor jumps at the opportunity. Compare this with Rarold, who I’d argue is a foil to Neighbor. They’re both relative outsiders in the community, they both butt heads with Tillman in one way or another, and they both kill people - but Rarold kills only because he wants to, he has no need to do so like Neighbor, and he is exclusively seen targeting young women. Rarold represents the sexist violence typically found in the stories of real-life serial killers, and in doing so makes it clear that Neighbor is not that kind of person.

Neighbor’s position in the town is also interesting, especially in comparison to Wegg’s. Neighbor is a member of the Baths community, arguably due to the services he provides for its members, but he’s still an outsider; no one knows him that well, he has no friends until he meets Wegg, and Tillman gets a bad vibe from him. In the context of this narrative about transmasculinity, there’s a lot there - Neighbor passes as a man thanks to his deal with Trudy, and he pays dearly for it with the murders he enacts. He asks Tillman not to disclose his first name, a name he never uses, to anyone following their trip to the Trudy temple “for safety purposes,” a mirror to the way any stealth trans person might talk about a legal name they never changed. Neighbor is accepted as a man in this pillar of the community, traditionally masculine provider role that he’s built for himself, but he’s still an outsider, and knows that he would risk losing the support of those around him were he open about his transness. To maintain his personal safety he trades openness regarding his identity, close relationships with those around him, and his conception of his own morality (he says multiple times that he doesn’t consider himself a good person due to the murders he has to commit). Even so, despite his lack of close ties to the cisgender people in the community and his idea of himself as a bad person, he tries to direct his killing to reduce the harm he’s doing, he helps Tillman find Trudy, houses Wegg, and does chores for, like, half the town of Baths. Despite his position, he clearly cares about the people around him and wants to be a positive influence.

As a note, there’s a bit of Biblical symbolism connected to Neighbor, but it’s not consistent. I couldn’t find a properly reliable source for it, but the internet says that the name Adie was originally a diminutive of Adam. He built his own body, making him his own God, and was cast out from Eden (became an outsider in the community) in the process. His original body was also burned on a cross following his deal with Trudy!

THE GODS

I think the conflict of the story is most concisely exemplified in the conflict between Trudy and Calum. Trudy represents desire itself, as the book very explicitly tells us. She’s the snake in Eden of Neighbor’s symbolism, and her devotees follow her very willingly. Trudy’s religion is decidedly voluntary, she grants her followers’ desires and only takes what they’re willing to give. She requires Neighbor kill people because it’s within his capacity, but Tillman isn’t required to harm others at all - dealing with Trudy is morally neutral and never seems to be forced. Calum, on the other hand, was forced onto Wegg, and represents a loss of autonomy for the power of others. The followers of the two gods are juxtaposed, especially in the ways Wegg and Tillman are treated as new followers of Calum and Trudy respectively. The fight scene between the two gods in the climax of the book is symbolic of the central themes of desire and consent.

[ebitenoisii]

Twitter really liked this so yeah CW omegaverse / A.B.O whatever nonsense CW loss of body autonomy

[polysucks]

What’s ur take on Elia/Lyanna

call me robert the way i hate rhaegar targaryen

let's talk about the romanticized martyrdom of these beautiful brown women and the tragedy that is the narrative they are forced to haunt.

Mourned, But Never Saved: How We Failed Elia and Lyanna

Word count: 1651 Time to read: 9 - 15 mins No major CWs except for my opinions, which are classified by the SCP Foundation as optic hazards

In literature, media, and even real-life tragedies, there is an obsession with The Perfect Victim—the young, beautiful, tragic woman whose suffering is romanticized, whose fate is mourned but never queried. She is consecrated in death, turned into an emblem of loss rather than a person with wants, needs, and a right to legacy of her own. It is easier to weep for her than to hold the men who destroyed her accountable.

It is easier to say, how sad, than to say, who did this?

Who let this happen?

Who benefited from it?

This phenomenon is not unique to Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark.

It is everywhere. We see it in the way murder victims—especially young, beautiful women—are transformed into icons of sorrow, their faces plastered across documentaries and true crime podcasts, their lives reduced to cautionary tales or poetic misfortunes for profit of more men who are so far removed from the tragedy they can justify the commodification. We see it in the way literature often treats female suffering as tragic inevitability, a necessary sacrifice to elevate the story of a male protagonist. And we see it in how Westerosi history records women like Elia and Lyanna—not as figures in their own right, but as the lost wives and lovers of great men.

There is a reason the world (and us, the fandom. myself included. I love a good Lyanna deification) linger on their beauty, their youth, their tragic ends, but not their anger.

Not their suffering.

Not their humanity.

The waif aesthetic that dominates social media—the fetishization of frailty, of doomed beauty—allows women like Elia and Lyanna to be preserved in glass (Metaphorically, but Lyanna is literally encased in stone), as if they were expected to die young the whole time, as if their stories had no other possible ending. It allows them to be stripped of their voices, reduced to passive, inevitable victims to their gender, and therefore circumstances, while the men who led them to their deaths remains shrouded in legendary calamity.

Rhaegar was a dreamer. Rhaegar was burdened by prophecy. Rhaegar was torn between love and duty. Excuses.

These justifications place his choices above their suffering, making their deaths seem like collateral damage in his grand narrative. Reduced to pitstops on the journey that is Rhaegar’s lamentable fate.

Their suffering is seen as a necessary part of his legend. Their deaths serve his myth.

Elia’s murder is not seen as an act of racialized violence against a Dornish woman and her mixed-race children, but as a tragic consequence of Rhaegar’s failure. Lyanna’s death is not treated as the cost of her own choices—whatever choices she may have made, but as the romantic conclusion to an ill-fated love story. They are not given full stories of their own. Their deaths are simply moments in his.

This is the same blindness that allows figures like Humbert Humbert in Lolita to frame themselves as misunderstood lovers rather than predators to the untrained eyes, and pseudo-critical thinker. Just as Humbert tells the story of Dolores Haze through his own selfish, delusional lens—robbing her of her voice, her autonomy, her anger, her right to be seen as more than his obsession—so too does Westerosi history rob Elia and Lyanna of their full truths. We mourn them, but only as beautiful ghosts, not as women who deserved better.

But Elia Martell was not just a forsaken wife. She was a Dornish princess with pride in her homeland, a mother, a woman who fought for the survival of her children. And Lyanna Stark was not a stolen maiden. She was a Northern girl with a wolf’s heart, with confidence, with autonomy, a woman who knew what she wanted, even if the world refused to let her have it.

To mourn them without condemning him is to continue the same cycle that destroyed them. It is to let them remain frozen in time, tragic saints of Rhaegar’s doomed love story, rather than women whose lives were stolen by a man’s choices.

We cannot allow them to become hollowed-out saints of tragedy, their stories reduced to romantic footnotes in the Targaryen legacy. They were not just victims. They were women. And they deserved more.

The Women Rhaegar Targaryen Left Behind: The Perfect Victims of a Flawed Legacy

Elia Martell: A Princess, A Mother, A Betrayed Woman

Elia Martell was a Dornish princess, born in a land where women had more agency and political power than most of Westeros. In Dorne, daughters can inherit titles, rule in their own right, and are not cast aside for the crime of being born female. Though, even in this progressive culture, Elia was still used as a political pawn. Under the weight of political pressure on her homeland, she was married off not as an equal partner, but as a tool to serve the Targaryen dynasty—her body reduced to a vessel meant to bridge two kingdoms in subservience, not unity.

Unlike most Westerosi noblewomen, Elia likely grew up learning court intrigue, family honor, and the weight of responsibility alongside her brother Oberyn. She was not a sheltered damsel but a woman of sharp mind and fierce spirit—something we see reflected in Oberyn’s devotion to her memory. He does not recall her as fragile or passive but as someone who deserved better, someone whose suffering should not be forgotten.

When Oberyn confronted Gregor Clegane in King’s Landing, he demanded that Gregor say her name. Not Rhaegar’s. Not Aerys’. Elia’s. He refused to let her become just another nameless casualty of the Targaryen downfall. He forced her murderer to acknowledge that she was more than Rhaegar’s discarded wife—that she was a woman, a mother, a sister. That she mattered.

Yet history continues to erase her. The common narrative reduces Elia to a tragic mistake in Rhaegar’s story, the wrong wife he had to cast aside to fulfill his grand destiny. But Elia was not the wrong wife. She was the right wife—for herself, for her children, and for her people. It was Rhaegar who failed her, not the other way around.

Lyanna Stark: A Wolf, Not a Maiden

Lyanna Stark exists in the public consciousness as a ghost of two extremes: either a helpless girl stolen away against her will or a reckless romantic who doomed herself and thousands of others for love. But neither of these simplifications capture the full truth of who she was.

Ned remembers Lyanna as fierce and willful, a girl with a warrior’s spirit, more like Arya than Sansa. He openly wonders if she would have carried a sword if their father had allowed it. She was not passive, not delicate—she was a Stark through and through, wild-hearted and strong.

She was also perceptive. She saw through Robert Baratheon’s romanticized view of her and understood that he would never be faithful. She knew what kind of life awaited her as Robert’s queen, and she wanted no part of it.

At Harrenhal, she was not just Rhaegar’s great love—she was a girl who made an impact on those around her. She was remembered for her boldness, for her defiance of traditional expectations. If she was, as many believe, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, then she was not some lovestruck maiden swept away by fate—she was a protector, a rebel, someone who took action in the face of injustice. And that act had nothing to do with Rhaegar.

Even in death, her final words to Ned—Promise me, Ned—were not about Rhaegar. She was not mourning her lost love. She was not asking Ned to preserve Rhaegar’s dream. She was thinking of her son, of the next generation, of ensuring his survival. Her last act was not about romance—it was about family, about duty, about love in the way only a Stark would understand it.

And just as her own agency is stripped from her, so too is her son’s identity. Jon Snow is often defined entirely by his Targaryen heritage, despite the fact that Lyanna fought to ensure he would not be a pawn of House Targaryen. She did not die for Rhaegar’s prophecy—she died whilst ensuring her child lived outside of it.

The stories of Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark are not just footnotes in the legend of Rhaegar Targaryen. They are not sacrifices for prophecy, not symbols of doomed romance, not mere casualties of a tragic war. They were women with agency, with convictions, with love for their families that transcended the narrative they are forced to haunt. To remember them only as victims is to betray them all over again—to strip them of the depth and defiance that made them who they were. If their suffering is to mean anything, it must be seen for what it truly was: not a poetic tragedy, but an injustice. Not a love story, but a loss. And not a justification for Rhaegar’s actions, but an indictment of them. We do not honor them by mourning their deaths—we honor them by remembering their lives.

But history, both fictional and real, loves to turn women like them into saints of sorrow—The Perfect Victims. The world mourns them but does not seek justice for them. It remembers their beauty, their tragedy, but not their anger. It allows their suffering to be poeticized, aestheticized, while the men who doomed them remain enigmatic, misunderstood figures.

But Elia Martell was not misunderstood. She was betrayed.

Lyanna Stark was not a tragic mystery. She was a woman who acted.

And that is how they deserve to be remembered.