#implied child mutilation

[forsaken-headcanons]

(TW for implied child death !! and body mutation idk. uhh basically the c00lgui did some things. yeah.)

If we're going to start blaming a survivor for being Spectre or for being the reason everyone's there, it's most likely to be 007n7.

NOW HEAR ME OUT PLEASE DON'T BLOW UP MY HOU gunfire sfx

ANYWAY AS I WAS SAYING, if one of the survivors were to be "Spectre", it would most likely be 007n7 for a small list of reasons I've gathered so far.

First off, the survivors and killers. I have a small list of the characters and why he would "forsaken" them.

Noob & Guest 666 - Noob and G666 had an extremely positive friendship back then, which made 007n7 deeply resent them because - how dare the two of them be happy, while he had to suffer in his own guilt for what he had done to Noli? He did some shit and figured out how to fuck with G666's code (I imagine Robloxians are mostly made up of code) and made him what he is in forsaken, hence why G666 mostly has a red-black color palette like his c00lgui (the color palette's definitely a stretch, but whatever </3)

Elliot - This is a really obvious pick. Part of me thinks that he would've let Elliot go if he hadn't pissed him off by banning them from Builder Brothers' Pizza and making c00lkidd extremely emotional and throw a tantrum about it, but I feel like that's just the PizzaBurger shipper in me. If I would be more realistic, he might've just forsaken him out of spite.

The Admins + 1x1x1x1 - Again, really obvious. They tried to supress him and his hacking things yada yada.... He also made Doom a killer out of spite and specifically chose him because... y'know. Doombringer. He is quite literally the bringer of doom??? And he also added 1x1x1x1 to rub more salt in Shedletsky's hypothetical wound.

Taph - Works for the Admins. Also, I feel like at some point, Taph would've demolished 007n7's house because - y'know - falsely terminated, so 007n7 just kept that hate to himself internally because he knew damn well he was gonna get his "revenge" soon.

Two Time & Azure - Similar to Noob and G666, he resents their relationship and how close they were. When he found out that a ritual had been performed and Azure had been sacrificed, he had taken that opportunity and made him into the killer he is in Forsaken, along with sending in Two Time, a way to teach them that no offense goes unpunished.

Guest 1337 - 1337 had a positive and a really happy family. 007n7 envied his joy and decided to take it away from him, just his own was taken away, too. This could explain why Guest was never favored by the "Spectre" and hadn't left him with any tools or items to fend himself with, only his fists and abilities.

Chance - They were always carefree and were surrounded by a BUNCH of people. 007n7, again, envied that. The carefree attitude they always had, their large friend groups, their fame... He had everything, and yet he still had the nerve to let himself be put into dangerous situations for the adrenaline rush. If life-threatening, adrenaline-inducing, scarring experiences was what Chance wanted, 007n7 would give it to them.

Area 51 killers - 007n7 probably had an Area 51 phase as a teen or something. Idk I can't make up anything here except for that.

John Doe & Jane Doe - Again, envy. Seeing their positive marriage had dealt some level of effect on 007n7. He felt envious of the fact the two were happily in love, happily holding a relationship he knew he would never had. The thought of that alone had driven him insane with anger and guilt, corrupting John Doe and leaving Jane Doe only as a mere spectator, never being able to see her own husband face-to-face ever again.

Noli - As a plea of forgiveness. Before he had left Noli for whatever reason, 007n7 knew about Noli's sadistic tendencies and how he used to often torment people with his programs. He had forsaken him as a way to tell him "Hey, I still remember you enjoy this. Please don't ever think I forgot about you." and "I'm sorry for what I did. Here, I'll let you have free will to do whatever you want, as long as it means you'll forgive me."

(This is where the TWs come in !!)

c00lkidd - Had a bit of difficulty figuring out this one without implementing some hcs into it. You know how there was an accident that had something happen to c00lkidd? 007n7 could never forgive himself after that. He spent all night and all day trying to search for kidd, going from town to town, asking locals if they had seen his son, to no avail.

It wasn't until the day he had finally found c00lkidd's body, deep in the woods, dripping in blood. He didn't know what had happened. He didn't know why his son was dead, heartlessly murdered, left in the woods. Driven by guilt, he had tried his best to bring him back to life, tears dripping down his face as he messily fumbled with his son's code, trying to find a way to bring him back warm and into his arms.

All he had ended up doing was disfiguring his own son's body. Arms and legs freakishly longer than a normal 10-year-olds, a wide, sunken smile on his face, and a distorted voice. But it didn't matter. He had brought his son back to life. He knew what he had done was wrong, but he couldn't bring it in himself to undo his craft. Instead, he had opted for sending his son into the crooked world he had crafted, letting him "play" with the survivors and make new friends. After all, all he wanted was the best for his beloved son.

As for 007n7 himself, well...

The one in rounds isn't actually him. It's just a more advanced clone of himself, which is why "he" almost always never smiles, always looks distant or out of it. He had used that puppet multiple times to try to have conversations with his son and former friend, trying to see if they were doing alright in the pocket dimension.

Uhh might add some more on this theory soon <3 my brain is FRIED rn and I still have some homework to do :P

-⛑️🍗 anon

007N7 AS THE SPECTRE AU/THEORY??? WAITT THIS IS LOWKEY PEAK.... we might fw the idea for this actually...

godss the concepts of how everyone got here are so so good!! but trust us when we say we are hunting you down for the potential angst ideas /silly. in tears at c00lkidd's part... 7n7.... 7n7 we don't think that's what your son would've wanted vro 💔💔

[aswanlake]

᯽ 0.1⠀( pyrrhic victory . )⠀by aswanlake.

tags: @saradika-graphics for dividers

synopsis: your father was never a normal man , rude to every human being in the planet except you — unless he needed to be . today was the day of one of your spontaneous trips that your father’s work let him take , instead of studying like you were supposed to , you got curious . too curious , you ran into someone you were never supposed to meet , The Winter Soldier . to make matters worse ? this won’t be the last time you two meet .

content warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT !! mentions of world war ll / the Cold War / russia & “propaganda” from the Russian / German and American government , descriptions of blood and murder , torture , implied grooming of a child , psychological horror , graphic descriptions and language , stockholm syndrome , implied sexual abuse and assault , drugging , mutilation , and trafficking , strays from canon , weird timeline , brainwashing . (basically the red room & bucky’s torture plus a lot more)

word count: 4k+ idk the exact amount , I didn’t put it into a word counter

a/n: this is the story that replaced the Slytherin boys story (since I lowkey hated it) expect the shauna x reader to come out in the next few days . after that finnick x reader and then I’ll make my way down the line of priority . y/n isn’t used to refer to the oc much but rather just in the descriptions , reader is called “scylla” as an experiment name . if you enjoy this and want to be added to the taglist please comment below ! reblogs are appreciated and loved .

song of the chapter⠀⠀:⠀⠀dna by lia marie johnson .

1951 , november 16th | “y/n karpov” , eight years old | subject number : n/a

you and your father had a weird relationship , nothing you two did as a “family” could be classified as normal . his job couldn’t even be classified as normal , not that you actually knew what it was . normal fathers would take their kids out to play ball or go shopping , yours took you to shooting ranges where he taught you how to shoot different guns and how to take them apart then put them right back together . normal fathers would come home after late days working and embrace their kids while eating dinner together at the table , yours took you to work with him and let you sit in the corner while he did . . whatever he did .

you didn’t know what you father did but you knew it wasn’t good , you could always hear screams and cries echoing from the halls of the cold building . the only part you liked was the traveling , every few months your dad would pack you guys some bags and you’d just disappear for however long he chose . sometimes it was for a week , two the longest you’ve gone was a few months , he always had the same excuse — “ work has us moving around but we’ll be back home soon . ”

you never knew your mom , never asked about her either , you only did once whenever you were little which led to a huge “demonstration” from your father . he led you to a room full of women , all lined up , perfectly , not a hair out of place , they looked beautiful and deadly all at once . the woman was terrifying , Melina , your father called her . she tried to have a nice face around you but that only made her scarier , especially when you saw what the girls did , what she made them do . “ your mom worked for them . a dangerous woman she is , I took you away from her . had to keep you safe . ” since then you’ve never asked about her again . not if it was going to make you return to the “red room” , it was a stupid and childish name that you had made up but it was fitting . the halls were always covered by red , whether it have been due to crappy lighting or the crimson from someone’s body .

today was just like any other trip , your father packed your bags and you two took off . you always came back to your penthouse in Kazen , the place was nice , not to much the people but the place was comforting and cozy . you were homeschooled so disappearing was never a problem , you just did work on the plane or while your father worked . “ afternoon Mr. Karpov . ” the guard stood up tall , the chill from the Siberian weather , he gave a smile in your direction , voice and expression softening upon seeing you — stuffed animal held tightly in one hand while you held your math homework in the other . “ Ms. Karpov . ” you gave him a wave before the doors opened , your father wrapped his arm around your shoulder , pulling the heavy coat you wore over you a bit more with a small tug .

“ now I have to work for a few hours but you’re gonna finish your math homework . then after that you can watch tv , can you do that for me ? ” he’d crouched down to your height , you were barley eight years old so you weren’t necessarily tall . his hand rubbed lightly against your cheek as you nodded excitedly by his question . you weren’t allowed to watch tv often , your dad always mumbled about American propaganda making its way to the Russian screens which made your eyes roll . you didn’t care about America or the war , though it had ended , the tvs were still filled with hatred . you learned about it obviously because you had to but the war only caused you and your father more anguish . you never believed any of the things you saw on tv or the flyers that were up in other countries or cities , you only listened to your father . he was all you had and the only one you wanted to make proud .

1953 , june 12th | “y/n karpov” , ten years old | subject number : n/a

next was the “cold war” . a weird name . the war been going on for almost six years , you’d really only realize three years ago that it was real and it wasn’t just some thing that conspiracy theorist were talking about . your father’s work started to ramp up in the past two years , your trips lessening more and more and your ultimate holding place being Siberia . you hated it , Siberia unlike Kazan didn’t have seasons , it was almost always cold — freezing . the spring and summer were short , they were warm but a fleeting moment . your father was always working , he never came to see you anymore , it was annoying and you were getting upset .

the guards that shadowed you were nice but they were never your father . they couldn’t be him . they couldn’t give you the same love that your father could , why did he rip it away from you like that ? what had you done to deserve it ? you didn’t upset him , you always did you work , you never asked questions . but he stole it from you anyways , deprived you of the one thing that kept you going . your studying got lazier , your schoolwork got sloppier and sloppier , you even stopped enjoying tv , you’d just stare at the walls and groan and complain about being left alone to guards that did nothing but mumble and apologize .

“ can I go to the bathroom ? dad’s not back , I’ll be back soon . pop in and out , promise . ” she spoke to the guard across the room , he was supposed to follow you everywhere but you didn’t want him to follow you there . it was invasive . you stood up , heading towards the door and he went to turn , to follow behind you but you held your hand up . by technicality you had some authority , not much but some . “ I’ll be fine , you don’t need to follow me , it’s just to the bathroom , right ? ” the guard was skeptical but let you go , however you went everywhere but the bathroom . heading down a empty hallway , guards were everywhere but you just managed to catch a time where they weren’t on duty . perhaps it was a shift change or someone just wasn’t were they were supposed to be .

your eyes came across a lab , through the window of the door you could see your father standing before a guy . his face was covered by the man’s body but he was quite obviously uncomfortable . he was strapped down to the table , body shaking and moving uncontrollably as if he was trying to escape . your father yelled , you rarely heard him yell but he was basically screeching at the man before him . you felt bad , your father sounded terrifying and then he hit him . hard . your eyes widened as you watched the treatment the man was receiving , he already looked disheveled , eyes drained of color and hope .

then the machine started and everything just got worse and worse . soon came his screams , the screams you had gotten accustomed to hearing because you didn’t truly think they were real or filled with such pain . a gasp escaped your mouth and your hands clasped over it quite quickly — eyes widening even more after you recognized your action . everyone in the room stopped , the buzzing sound from whatever machine on the man stopped and everyone turned to look at you , finally you were able to see the man’s face ; it was odd , you saw a little bit of yourself in him . you didn’t have time to stare at him because soon you locked eyes with your father and ran .

“ dad , I’m sorry , I’m sorry . I didn’t mean to walk around , I didn’t see anything , I swear ! I didn’t see anything ! ” you’d begged and pleaded for the last hour , asking for his forgiveness . it was his fault anyways , has he not deprived you of the love you so desperately needed then you would have never have gone looking . you would have never tried to see anything at all , all you wanted was him to love you . “ I do everything for you . I do everything and yet you still manage to screw things up somehow . Was going to wait till you were older for this but it seems like now is a better time than ever . ” your father grumbled before grabbing you harshly by the arm . it was insufferable , terrible , the pain spread through your entire arm immediately . you pulled against him with every bit of strength you had , though it wasn’t a lot .

the punishment for your crime was spending time in a cell . it was cold , disgusting , absolutely grimy and fillies with the stench of blood . there was a bed that had basically been ripped to shreds , the door was completely solid and no matter how many times you banged on it and begged to be let free . he never listened , it was almost as if he didn’t care . he kept you in there for the rest of the day , didn’t visit or talk to you . any time you messed up , that would be your punishment , so you made sure not to mess up often because when you did it would be hell . you hated that cell , to the point where you couldn’t sleep with the lights off and door closed anymore — too dark , only one or the other .

1959 , february 17th | “y/n karpov” , sixteen years old | subject number : 43XX

stopped talking to your father after the first time he hit you . you’d yelled at him , finally broke after six years of silence and asked what he was keeping the “soldier” downstairs for . the war was over , there was no reason to harbor a man in their basement and he responded by slapping you so hard you were disoriented . your body fell to the floor , hand covering the warmth blooming on your cheek from the pure force he held behind the hit . “ when I tell you to stop talking , you stop talking . when I tell you to be good , you be good . why do you always have to disappoint me ? ” that was the last time to disappointed him before the testing started .

it was countless injections and being wired up to machines , every day , all day , you hated them . any time you tried to move and fight back it resulted in shocks . electro shock therapy as your father called it , they needed to get you ready and in shape . for what ? you’ve never known but if you hated this then you were worried for what was next . the therapy got worse and worse , to the point were they would shock you until you couldn’t think straight , couldn’t move your body without help and your eyes couldn’t stay open . your brain was mush , you didn’t remember much during those sessions or much that happened before or after them . just the pain , all you remembered was the pain . now it was your screams that filled the room and the hallways and instead of being outside , coloring , doing homework or watching tv , you were experiencing it and you hated it .

“ You share DNA with him . That soldier , you know that ? My blood , his blood — it all runs through those veins of yours . took it from him when we captured him . You are his child , just as much as you are mine . ” you didn’t understand what he was saying , the man in there was clearly older than you but not old enough to have kids , especially not for you to be sixteen , it didn’t make sense . how did you share DNA with him ? you wanted to ask but your mouth wouldn’t open , your eyes were barley keeping open but managed a struggle just to look at him .

“ do you remember the red room ? I took you there whenever you were younger . one of those women , was lucky . the rest of them have their ovaries removed but that one , she got to keep them , for just a pinch longer than the others did . to have our child . our creation . unfortunately Barnes missed the birth of his first child but I didn’t . I was there for you . I will always be there for you , my experiment . ” your father was just rambling at this point , it didn’t make much sense . experiment ? you were an experiment ? a test subject ? for what ? “ why ? ” you just barley managed to croak out , your voice was hoarse , throat dry and cracking .

“ the winter soldier . he can topple governments , countries , win wars , our greatest weapon against our opposing forces . however where one goes right , there is always room for improvement . for more . ” now it made more sense . he was a power hungry bastard . your father was the worst man alive but you were truly his daughter . perhaps even his favorite . with the way he talked you were positive he had more , you’ve never met them , probably never would if you couldn’t get off this damn table .

almost as if he read your mind , your arms and legs were unhooked from the table , you couldn’t move them on your own but it was still a little bit freeing . only for a few moments , it was quickly replaced by you being hauled into a chair within a chamber . that was the first time you’ve ever witnessed the cyro chamber . it was colder than any winter in Siberia . the chill never left , even after the seasons passed and the years went by , the chill remained but you were barely conscious enough to remember what season it was — to even remember what seasons were .

2003 , march 9th | y/n barnes karpov , “Scylla” , sixteen years old physically , mentally ?? | subject number : 4384

you had been let out of the cyro chamber a few times , at least six times through out the years . they tried to disorient you , perhaps thinking that it would keep you from remembering where you were and what time period you had been in and honestly it worked . you could never understand what year you were in until it was too late and you were back with the uncomfortable chill . you tried your best to prove that you weren’t going to be a good investment , that you would fail in the moment of danger but with the “super soldier serum” (as they called it) running through your veins you were quite the opposite . you were strong , stronger than the average teenager , with enough strength to take in a man in his average thirties and forties even if he worked out — they tested it . young men , old men , each came in and out of the training room and as much as your body shook at the sight of them and the thought of hurting someone when you were told to attack , you did . biting just like a lap dog .

very rarely , whenever you and the soldier were awake at the same time , they’d let you train together . see who could hold their own the longest , it was always him . no matter how many times they’d run your two up against each other , he reminded you that you were nothing more than a child and it was so insulting . you trained hard and long , went through suffering and pain and torture just to be treated like a child and worthless by “the soldier” .

your hands gripped at his arm , the metal one holding you down by your throat to the ground , cutting off your air supply and keeping your body pinned to the floor . he didn’t feel a thing whenever your nails scratched against his silver arm , an attempt to rip it off or get it off of your throat , anything to get you to be able to breath again . “ off . winter , six . scylla , none . ” he finally pulled off of you , allowing you to take in greedy gasps of air . your arms flailed helplessly as you forced yourself upwards onto your feet .

your hand rung your own neck , feeling at the injury that was certainly to bruise . there was so mumbling from the soldiers behind the two of you before your “father” spoke once more . “ you two are done for the day . take them back . scylla to the chair , we have something else to do . ” the brainwashing had embedded itself in you . they didn’t need to drag you anymore unless your body was weakened but you had enough strength to walk and if you were being honest you hated their touch being on you so you would have forced yourself up anyways .

they say you down , back in the chair , usually you’d wake up here with no memories of what had happened before , only that you needed to follow the directions of the men before you and your father was the only one who truly cared about you . it was ridiculous but you couldn’t find yourself to deviate from what they said . they had strapped you down once more , body pushed backwards and the edge of the wall was your only view before your father graced your line of vision . “ we were trying to wait until she had developed further to do this but we’ve run into some complications . so what better time than the present , eh ? ” he held up a freaky looking vial , it was obvious that there was blood inside but it had mixed with something you couldn’t place .

“ inside this is the blood of our most powerful assassin , winter is good but everyone needs a femme fatale , don’t they ? but you , you my creation , my child . you will be a mix of everything great — everything good to have ever come out of this organization . mixed all into one , my hydra . ” this is what he meant all those years ago , not that you remember , when he called you an experiment . you were a mix of everything great and the only hope was that you would come out even better than everything you had been mixed with .

2016 , april 12th | y/n barnes karpov , “Scylla” , eighteen years old physically , mentally ?? | subject number : 4384

Bucky Barnes . the Winter Soldier had escaped and with him he took down Hydra , not all of it but most of it . he disappeared off the face of the earth then , you couldn’t find him , at least not for a little bit . bucharest , romania , the area felt familiar to you , every country did , as if you’d been there before . ever so slowly everything had been coming back to you , the torture , the murder , the pain . everything hurt and it never got better . your handler , at least the one you had been left with , Alexander Pierce was dead — murdered by Nick Fury . a subject was never supposed to be on their own , wander alone with no place to go but you and one objective in mind . find the winter soldier .

unfortunately following him through romania led to problems , one star spangled man , a flying bird man and a cat man . . . what had superheroes nowadays come to ? “ uhh cap , I got a child following you and Bucky down the building . ” Captain America , you’d heard of him a little during the wars and whenever they’d allow you to see what America was trying to produce in respond to the winter soldier — he was a specimen in the minds of Hydra but a joke of your own . Bucky and Steve were on foot , running across the roof of a building and you followed closely behind them , you didn’t think you’d be seen but you also didn’t account for a man with wings to following you .

you never actually engaged in the fight , didn’t need to tire yourself out for no reason , besides they didn’t think of you as a threat yet and you would have liked to keep it that way . that was until you all reached the underpass , you’d run up on them just as Bucky had been disarmed and thrown off of his motorcycle , his only way of transportation . the man dressed as a cat was seconds way from clawing the man’s face off but was thrown away by the strength of Captain America . it was intriguing to watch him fight in real time however he wasn’t your concern . without sparing him another glance you reached Bucky’s side , sirens and ringing from cop cars starting to filled the area . “ there’s a kid here ! a kid ! be careful , would you ? ” Steve pleaded to the cops , your eyes hadn’t left Bucky as you stood in front of him , mocking his movements , kneeling down on the ground and putting your hands behind your head .

“ long time no see , Отец . ” Bucky’s eyes widened at your words . he was expecting a “soldat”or maybe for you to try and kill him , force him to pay for the crimes he might have committed against you that he just didn’t remember . the cops were barely gentle with you , forcing your face into the ground with such harshness that everyone there turned their head with guilt and disgust . “ be careful with her , she’s still a kid . ” Sam spoke up , he hadn’t talked much but at least he had the balls to say something about that . Bucky’s eyes never left your , even as they dragged him away , he wouldn’t let it happen . when they placed him in a glass cage , you just in handcuffs (what a mistake) , he still never looked away . not until they forced him away from you .

“ what are you doing here ? ” Tony Stark . he wasn’t a cop , barely a S.H.I.E.L.D agent so he shouldn’t have been interrogating you but they allowed him to — god only knows why . you just looked behind him , the two way glass , trying to figure out who was back there . “ why were you following Barnes and Roger’s ? ” you could answer both questions but didn’t want to , he didn’t give you any reason to . “ come on kid , you gotta give me something- ” “ you talk too much . ” your eyes met his for once , getting a ticked off chuckle from his lips . this man was ego and pride , perhaps if you could knock him down then you’d be allowed another interrogator . “ where is . . . Barnes , I want to speak to him . ” Tony shook his head at your statement , he most likely took it as a question but you weren’t asking . “ I’m the one asking the questions here , alright ? You can see him whenever he gets done with his psych eval and his questioning . ”

you shook your head and tried to stand , the handcuffs holding you to the table being the only thing keeping you down . “ no . now . I need to go now . ” instead of answering you , Tony walked out , probably joining his friends behind the two way glass . you hated being treated like a child , being ignored , being disrespected .

Tony entered the room with the two way glass , glancing towards Romanoff . “ I don’t know what’s wrong with that kid . she’s not even afraid she just- stares , it’s freaky . are we sure she’s even real ? not something somebody built in their lab ? ” she rolled her eyes at him, “ not everyone had the money to do that Stark . you are right though , something about this kid just isn’t right . how did she know where to find Barnes ? ” before she could get an answer to her rhetorical question the sound of you breaking the handcuffs that connected you to the table , you approached the two way glass , without knowing it looking Natasha directly in the eyes . “ I want to see Barnes . now . ”

© aswanlake do not copy, steal, translate, repost any of my works

[zstartrixxx]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

ᵃ ᵛᵃᵐᵖᶦʳᵉ ᵗᵃˡᵉ ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ⁽ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ⁾

i wrote this quickly while listening to one of my biggest sources of creative inspiration: chelsea wolfe (i invite anyone who hasn’t heard her to give her a chance—she’s simply DIVINE); i mixed a little bit of everything: this anxious, obsessive need of mine for monsters, blood, and life&death, a little of my love for the movie "the witch" (robert eggers, 2015) and what i know from external sources about rituals and witchcraft—let’s say, internal sources from very close friends—and, of course, all my inherent madness about vampirism. (!!!) THAT SAID:  1.9k words, really short | +16 | vampirism (blood and explicit descriptions of self mutilation).  DISCLAIMER: — AMOR: in portuguese-brazilian, what is a direct inheritance from the latin "amor", which already had the same meaning of love and affection that we have today. — PLOP: onomatopoeia of blood, was the one i found most appropriate to fit the scene. — the word TRANSUBSTANTIATION literally means to change substance, implying the belief that some sort of change has taken place during communion. (this is a catholic belief but we will use it to our advantage in vampirism ;) for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

ONCE, they told you horror stories to make you fear and sleep before the Devil’s hour.  

Tales of horned men wandering dead forests, seeking victims like you for slaughter. Stories of creatures half-man, half-dragon, emerging from caves to spit fire and butcher those who crossed their paths. Dark beings who slept through the ages by day and hunted virginal necks by night, draining warmth from bodies long dead to the sun’s touch.  

Terror stories to make the weak tremble at the Devil’s presence—bedtime fables meant to force children to sleep early, lest something pull at their feet beneath the covers. Legends of defilement and rotting flesh to chastise rebellious girls and boys.  

None of it meant anything to you. Absolutely nothing.  

You walked through the Forest of Amor, its towering canopy choking the frail autumn sun, dry leaves crunching under your bare feet, ancient roots twisting like Edenic serpents across the ground. You called him. In your hands, a dagger—pure silver hilt, blade sharpened with an archaic phrase carved in a forgotten tongue. Your gaze pierced the heart of that forest, once a meeting place for fervent lovers, where virginal blood once ran down maidens’ thighs and fatal kisses with poison hemlock sealed tragic, passionate ends.  

The deeper you ventured, the colder the air grew, whistling in your ears. The scent of damp earth dug up by wolves, dead and dried anthuriums and lilies, something strange you couldn’t yet name.  

The mud welcomed you ahead, clinging to your soles, but you didn’t care, marching toward the Slaughter Stone—a broad rock with a jagged peak, dark brown like an uneven altar, streaks of coagulated blood staining its surface. You raised your free hand, touching its rough surface, fingertips tracing tiny holes, realizing the strange scent came from here: dried blood, perhaps hours old, maybe a day. Metallic, like copper coins on the tongue, vinegar and rust. A shiver raced through you, your heart pounding between bone and flesh.  

The time had come.  

You called him.  

Called him.  

Him.  

The ritual was so simple it felt like child’s play. You raised your fist over the stone, pressed the blade to the tender skin of your wrist, pierced through, felt flesh split. A trickle of blood bloomed from the new wound, widening the gash, offering it as an announcement to that entity. Crimson spilled over your hand, embracing it, trailing down your arm, dripping like autumn rain onto the stone.  

Plop. Plop. Plop.  

Your wary eyes searched between the trees. Nothing.  

Plop. A rustle in the distance. Plop. Footsteps approaching from an untraceable direction. A howling moan, crows cawing, mocking your desperate act.  

Plop. Plop.

"You called me."  

The deep voice came from behind, brushing your left ear like a devil whispering damnation. You stayed still, arm still outstretched, blood flowing—until another hand appeared. Pale. Jeweled rings of rubies, diamonds, and sapphires adorning slender fingers with clawed nails, dried blood staining its grip. It closed around your wrist, too real to be a dream. It squeezed the wound, forcing a choked gasp from your lungs, your blood seeping between his fingers in thin rivulets.  

He repeated, calm:  

"You called me."  

Not a question. Never a question from him.  

A precise statement from one who had waited for your call for ages. You swallowed your foolish doubts, nodded slowly, feeling his other hand grip your shoulder, a body pressing against yours. The icy tip of a nose nuzzled your neck, inhaling your jugular’s pulse with a guttural groan—your scent: cold sweat, wild strawberries, dried violets, and pure blood. A delicacy for a vampire like him.  

Remmick laughed, strained, fangs glistening before his offering.  

"Yes, I called you," your voice echoed too loudly in your own ears as his grip loosened. His hand slid from your shoulder down your arm, trailing ghostly vibrations—the echoes of his past victims—before seizing your waist, turning you to face him. Your eyes were shut, not from fear of seeing him, but from fear of facing the divine.  

"Open your eyes, sweet offering. I’m not so hideous…" he mocked, the hand that had staunched your wound now smearing your cheek with your own blood.  

You obeyed.  

Before you stood the most beautiful monster: fangs bared in a smile, eyes like falling stars burning through a storm-wracked sky, hair dark as a funeral shroud, skin pale as a death tulip. And in his gaze—affection.  

A tenderness you never needed, which was exactly why you were here, flesh and soul, for him. Remmick. You knew his name the moment he looked at you, whispered through the branches, spat by crows.  

"What brought you to me?" he asked, thumb tracing shapes on your cheekbone. You couldn’t look away, hypnotized by his bloody beauty.  

"I came to surrender to everything you can give me, Remmick. If the tales about you weren’t lies—"  

"I adore how you all see me as the solution to your problems, little thing," he sneered, stepping back, leaving a void between you. Had you failed? His eyes studied you.  

"That’s not what I want to hear."  

You inhaled sharply, still bleeding, still clutching the dagger, senses fraying. But you forced out the words he demanded:  

"I cannot save myself. Maybe neither can you, vampire. But all I desire is to belong to something real. To oppose everything they told me was sin. To be free. Carnal."  

Remmick arched a brow, uncrossing his arms, something like understanding flickering in his gaze.  

"Are you certain? Once done, there’s no return." He jerked a thumb behind him.  

You nodded feverishly, extending the dagger.  

"If I’m here, I have no doubts about my pact with Death."  

Remmick smiled.  

Fangs gleamed. His head tilted slightly, eyes blazing beastial. Crows laughed. Wolves howled your fate.  

He took the dagger, smoke curling from his palm, ignored the sting, and yanked you against him in a funeral embrace that shuddered through your bones. He bent to your level, eye to eye, fang to fang, breath reeking of clotted blood:  

"Do you not fear God’s wrath?"  

"I don’t fear Him. Or the dead."  

"And what do you think I am, my offering?" His scent—decay and chaos—filled your lungs, thick saliva dripping from his lips to yours. The dagger’s tip pressed to your jugular.  

"A monster. But real. Flesh, bone, and venom. Here with me."  

Serene, you welcomed the dark veil closing in.  

Remmick grinned, cradling your skull, forcing you back against the stone, blade scraping where your pulse throbbed.  

"You’re right. Only I could grant such a gift to lost souls like you." His voice dripped with ego.  

"Then sign your name in blood for me."  

He stabbed.  

Blood gushed into his mouth as he kissed you—a kiss of teeth, torn flesh, hollow and deep. Scarlet filled your vision: tree canopies, wailing ghosts, his acid venom. Glory. You smiled over his shoulder, sinking onto the stone, clinging to Remmick as he groaned with laconic pleasure, devouring you.  

Death.  

It wrapped you in cutting comfort, lifting your soul while anchoring you to earth. Remmick drank you—blood and spirit—stealing the warmth of your life.  

"Open your eyes, my creature."  

You awoke from that consuming sleep, body scorched, memories of old hymns and curses flooding back. When you opened your eyes, the world was new: the sky glittered brighter, the stench of leaves and rotting animals filled lungs that no longer breathed as before, bloodthirst burning your throat, a feral glow in your eyes.  

Remmick was gone.  

You rose slowly, skin hypersensitive to every twig’s touch, your dried blood adorning your new home—the transubstantiation from human to vampire. Naked, you walked toward a bonfire where others like you stood, eyes gleaming under the dark sky.  

And there he was—Remmick, clapping, dancing to a Celtic tune, extending a clawed hand to invite you.  

You danced.  

Floating above the treetops, laughing in blood and ecstasy, celebrating the feast of flesh and communion with the Devil.  

You had never been happier in your entire life.

this also has a connection with my other story, which follows the same vibe, but with my other great muse, emma ruth rundle: DIONYSUS ONCE KNEW ME.

[sanemisstalker]

NSFW// Douma doing pussy inspections to make sure you didn't fuck any of his servants in his absence.

Saw a post talking about a possessive partner doing pussy inspections to make sure you'd stayed loyal and I 🤭

CW// Fem reffered/ AFAB reader/ Breasted / NTR / Cheating/Cuckholding (questionable) / BDSM dynamics / DUB-CON/NON-CON/ Objectification / Reader is reffered to as a 'sow' / is viewed as akin to an animal / Threats of Genital Mutilation / Gore / 24/7 Submission / Sexual Torture.

For all intents and purposes, you never wanted to cheat on Douma. The impulse was exactly that, an impulse. You would have to be dumb or, even worse, unstable, to actively seek punishment from a demon of his caliber. From a man of his social statute.

But, even if you didn't want it, which you would assure you didn't, that did nothing to sooth the pain of the itch. You weren't entirely sure what possessed you once he left your sight, but the idea was always there. Locked away behind bar after bar in your silly little head...

After your first incident with a fellow sow, found with your pussy rubbing gleefully up and down her thigh, Douma figured you were just odd. A bunch of humans are born that way. Just wrong in the head. He'd had a number of attempts on his life through the years.

He had never implied that there would be a punishment for such petty insolence, because he figured you would never be dumb enough to try. After all, the other sow began sobbing, begging for his forgiveness for her desecration and sin. She must've been right in the head.

You were clearly the predator in the situation, not even bothering to appear shameful, just dissapointed. Douma had been entirely perplexed. He had no real urge to harm the other woman. Maybe it was because she was a woman that he felt no real inclination to do so. And he didn't really want to hurt you, either.

The closest thing Douma could compare the feeling to was the curiosity he once felt when he watched too stray cats mate. How odd, that behavior. The need to fuck. Douma never needed to do anything. Want, yes, but that was always very distinct. Douma had never needed to fuck. He figured it was another one of those human things he never quite got around to doing.

He had told you, in a rather lack luster tone, to keep your hands to yourself. It upset you, he could tell. Likely because you were being reffered to with such child-like verbiage, but he felt it had gotten the point across.

The next incident upset him slightly more. He walked in on you with one of his closer male confidants. His face was buried between your legs, and just as quickly as it'd been there, it was gone. The remnants splattered on your thighs and Douma's palm.

The blood had made your orgasm dry out completely. Douma recalled the little huff you made, unbothered by the warm body at your feet. Douma shifted your lifted robes so they would fall back over your legs, patting the fabric into the mess with a tight smile.

"Is there something you're adverse to telling me, hm?" He'd prod, "Is there a quality you find I'm lacking?" There was a tilt to his voice. An odd tone you couldn't quite read. It wasn't insecurity, nor dissapointment. It was taunting, almost.

"I'm not sure." You answered honestly, and he knew, then and there, you must truly be unstable because what an anger inducing comment. He couldn't grasp why you were so... weird.

The problem wasn't your infidelity. Douma could, quite frankly, care less about whether or not you're loyal to him. The problem sat with the human taboo he knew you knew were comitting. One you should feel shameful for, yet you wore nothing but that pissy little look on your face because an orgasm had been stolen away. Nothing to indicate you even registered such a thing.

You had been the one begging him for months to fuck you. Pleading, sobbing, all but vomiting praise at his feet. Nothing but a desperate sow he had willingly invited into his harem, the only one he even had light willingness to sleep with, and now you were defiling his hole with other blood.

Fine. Douma resigned to simply keeping you with him wherever he went. You were allowed out if his sight only for prayer and the bathroom.

The third incident, Douma was quite certain you'd become more than unstable. To let another man bed you on his throne had to be entirely insane on your part. A complete lack of self preservation. Not only had you snuck away from prayer, but you had brought in an outsider. Some random slayer, at that.

The risk was palpable, each time Douma watched the man's cock slide deeper into you-

The man was lucky he finished before Douma's hand reached around his neck. A final pleasure in this world, found in your cunt. Douma flung his body effortlessly against the wall, the corpse folding in on itself with a sickening crack.

"Ah, Y/N, do I need to sew you shut?" Douma would ask in the same sing song voice he always had. "This is entirely disrespectful of your superiors."

"I-I know-" You huffed, winded from the act, pussy aching for your lord's cock. You knew you wouldn't get it. He'd never bother with a used hole.

You couldn't understand it anymore than he could. Why you craved that look in his eye so bad, that unpleasant lilt in his voice. He seemed almost bothered by the whole thing. Almost.

"Please don't... sew me up." Your pussy tingled at the idea- Maybe such pain would fix your ailment, not having your clit exposed anymore, or your needy hole.

Your hand trailed between you thighs, seeking your gape. As you felt a bit of the dead man's seed slip out, you rushed to finger it back into yourself. You feared what Douma might do should a drop of it land on his cushions-

The desperate display sickened him, willing an emotion to the forefront he hadn't felt in a millenia, at least.

Fine. Fine. Fine fine fine.

You were no longer allowed to leave his sight. At all. A leash now rested firmly on your throat. If not held by Douma, held by someone else who he'd calmly threatened to spay if they even so much as consider your constant pleading.

Douma had to make a remedial, somewhat temperamental announcement to his followers.

You were a temptress, never to be trusted. Something on the brink of succubi. Fucking you would lead to great downfall for anyone who fell woefully victim to your tricks. Their sperm would die before it even formed, bedding you would insure a life of flaccidity. You'd curse any womb you ate-

How kind a leader he was to assure the victory of his people by capturing you. A real, honest to god demon.

He decided he was going to fix you. Sometimes humans needed that kind of thing. Fixing. He decided you were sick. In the head. If your ever so present need for cock continously won out over a need to live, then such an illness had to be cured.

He set you up with a chittering little toy. Firmly tied against your clit with pretty red rope. He didn't bother having your hands tied. You loved it, after all, the constant attention (abuse) to the little bundle of nerves.

You realized what he was trying to do the first time your clit went numb. He was certainly trying to sterilize you, make it so you wouldn't even want to open your legs.

Another rod was always tucked inside your pussy. Keeping you constantly wet and always stretched for the once in a blue moon where Douma would kindly make you warm his cock instead. He was never a fan of the uncomfortable tightness the first few times he entered a sow. This was a far preferable sensation. Warm and just tight enough to nurse his cock.

Another would be in your ass, since he'd once again overheard you begging one of his servants for something so grotesque. Any hole would work to satisfy your bizarre appetite, it seemed.

Any time Douma had to leave for an extended time, he'd come back to greet his people, and then you, who he kept tucked behind a slew of pillows to muffle the constant moaning and sobbing you loosed.

He'd always check your mouth first, gentle claws pulling the orifice open so he could slide his tongue in and assault the crevice, seeking the taste of another human on your lips.

And then he'd turn you over, the first time in weeks you'd be allowed to have that toy taken off your irritated, pulsing clit. He'd carefully slip the other toy from between your lips. Your cunt would contract around nothing.

Douma would spread you open with little regard for how puffy your pyssy had become, how even the dull part of his claws were overstimulating. He'd ignore your yaps and cries in favour of burying two fingers in.

He'd bring them out and up to his lips.

"Oh wow!" He'd sing, overjoyed that his drastic measures had worked. "You did so good, Y/N! I can't smell anyone on you! I'm proud! I'm impressed!"

Something about the words made you sob. Your pussy ached, any and every touch felt like you were going to implode. You could barely remember why you were in this situation at all.

Douma would pop the plug from your backside, loosing an all too pleased noise at the sight on your twitching asshole. A finger would probe the wet hole before slipping in with incredible ease. Your toes curled into the plush of the pillows you'd been rested on.

"So good!" He'd mock cheer, clapping as the tightness persisted with a second finger. It was as tight as when he'd left you.

Douma reached up to your head, managing to lift you up by your hair. With incredibly weak knees, you struggled to steady yourself. Thankfully, Douma pushed you back down into the pillows, only desiring to see the arch of your back.

"Can you spread yourself for me?" He'd request. The word 'spread' didn't sound real, but you could hear the shift of his hands and the clank of his belt.

"L-Lord Douma, I can't- can't possibly-" You cried.

"Oh shush, you can." He laughed. With shaking hands you followed his commands, throat too sore to deny him. Your fingers felt cold against the boiling heat of your lips. You pulled yourself apart, presenting your sopping wet cunt to him.

Douma shuddered slightly. He'd melded humans to his will before, but never so quickly had they snapped. Maybe this sex thing could become a want for him.

You couldn't even feel when he sank into you entirely with his first thrust. You took him so incredibly well, his ego swelled at the sight. You were finally a good loyal hole for him to fuck.

A good, loyal, and stable hole for him to fuck.

[mannequinreligi0n]

Sins - Chapter 3: Penance

wake up priest!vergil nation, let’s get to fuckin’

pairing: priest!vergil/nun!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: nsfw! - penetration, body worship, implied self-mutilation/harm

author’s note: thank you for being so patient with me !! sorry for the delay :’) will maybe write another freak nasty chapter bc i have a few unused idea. enjoy !!

links: chapter one , chapter two , ao3

The word ‘late’ rang in your head like a gong. Father Vergil had a strong distaste for tardiness, almost as much as he disliked the lazy and the ignorant. You bowed your head in forgiveness, silently cursing yourself for letting your nerves cause time-blindness.

“Forgive me, Father. Punctuality was never a strength of mine,” you mumble out, preparing for a deserved scolding. Instead, you hear Vergil’s steps stop in front of you, the faintest sigh leaving him.

“It’s alright, y/n. Please.”

He takes a step toward you, lifting your chin with single finger to beckon your eyes to him. The wide nature of your eyes gives away your surprise from the use of your name so casually, the absence of professionalism and humility. Vergil drops his hand from you and offers a tight smile in exchange, his own inhibitions raging war in the back of his mind. He stands there awkwardly under your confused gaze, shifting his weight from left to right and back left before clearing his throat.

“I- uh.”

Christ, Vergil, pull it together. He exhales hard, his clammy hands twitching at his sides.

“…….I fear I have not been honest with you, and with God. Your confession has…rattled me deeply, and I cannot, for the life of me, find a solution that would appease both the trouble in my soul and the will of God. Frankly, I’m…I’m at a loss.”

Your heart falls to your stomach at his words, knowing that your confession was only going to create problems. Your hands fiddle with the rosary around your neck, praying that maybe God could grant you one last word of wisdom in this time of need - you are only greeted with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Vergil’s hand returns to his mouth, biting at the frayed skin of his nails, and starts to pace again anxiously. The silence between you two is all-consuming and seems to last an eternity before your shoulders slump, ripping the veil from your head and holding it out to him.

“I shall pack my things and be gone by noon tomorrow. I do not wish to bring any more shame to you or the coven. Plea-“

“What?! N-No! That’s not-!”

Vergil panics and interrupts you immediately, rushing to you and clasping his hands around your veil to push it back towards you. There’s a spark between the two of you at the touch of skin, a small grace in the daunting moment. He loses his train of thought at the sight of your hair pillowing down to complete the picture of your face, his breathing shallow and frantic.

“No,” he stammers out again, blinking hard and squeezing your hand. “You misunderstood me. My issue doesn’t lie with you - it is with myself.”

You blink dumbly at him, brow scrunched with returning confusion. “I…I don’t understand,” you shake your head at him, words barely a whisper.

“Neither do I, my child,” Vergil sighs, his clammy fingers still curled around yours. “I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed to The Lord for answers, and yet he has abandoned me in the dark. I fear that this is a test of my faith, that you are a test of my faith - and I am failing miserably.”

Vergil’s eyes lack their usual hardness, a man frayed to his wits end as he searches your face for the answers he longs for. A single hand lets go of yours and moves to the cross around your neck, his thumb running over the pointed ends of the pendant.

“I have stood before our congregation and preached time and time again of love and purposeful fulfillment,” He murmurs, eyes falling to the crucifix. “I can’t help but wonder when it will be my turn to be blessed with such gifts….But then, when I look at you-“

He pauses, stormy blues tracing the line of your neck up to meet your eyes - eyes that he swore held the light of the morning sun and the grace of the midnight moon all at once.

“-I swear I can see my purpose for living, for breathing, in your face alone.”

You can feel the intensity of his words prick at your heart like thorned rose. It was taking every nerve in your body not to panic and ramble out confused nonsense, uncertain if you’re hearing him correctly. You were almost convinced you were dreaming, but the tight grasp of his hand on yours was keeping you present, if the look in his eye wasn’t convincing enough.

Without a thought in your head, you close the sea of space and press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away just as soon. Vergil audibly makes a sound between a gasp and yelp, eyes popping out of his head. There’s a symphony of heavy breathing between you, both staring at each other with fear and desire. You immediately prepare an apology mentally, opening your mouth to verbalize it, but it doesn’t get the chance to come out.

Vergil nearly knocks you off your feet when he dives down to kiss you once more, large hands desperately gripping the side of your head and threading in your hair. Your veil falls to the ground as you scramble to grasp at his garb for stability, lips trying to keep up with the sinful motions of Vergil’s. It’s all-consuming and starving, teeth clinking together and tongues lapping with inexperience. It was everything you had imagined and more, the taste of him alone worth the shame and punishment that was sure to come from such an act.

You’re the first to pull away, gasping for air with swollen lips. Vergil heaves against you, not daring to let go of you for even a second. No words were necessary to convey the lust or longing you shared with him, and with a few passing blinks, Vergil’s hands drop from your face and pry yours from his chasuble. He entwines his fingers in one hand and whips you along behind him, his long legs striding through the courtyard and back into the church. You nearly trip behind him, being pulled like a rag-doll. Words get trapped in your throat as you attempt to ask him where you’re going, but your question is answered as he all but shoves you into one of the small sacristies. The moment the door closes, your lips magnetize to his, his hands guiding you to a shoddy wooden table against the wall. You don’t even have time to process before he’s lifting you onto the table, pushing up your tunic to your hips to stand in between your legs.

It was a mockery to preform such a crude act where they stored the ‘blood and body’ of Christ, the decanter of fortified wine jostling on the table as you clawed at each other’s clothes. The chasuble and tunic fall to the ground, your hands unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as he trails his mouth along your shoulder with reverent kisses, teeth clamping around the strap of your underdress and sliding it off your shoulder. Freeing his torso from the shirt, your eyes immediately gravitate to the strip of red creeping up his back and over his shoulder.

“Vergil.”

His name pulls him out of his daze and he lifts his head from your shoulder with hooded, hazy eyes. He’s about to question you when your fingers graze over the somewhat fresh scar, making his nose scrunch in a faint wince. Averting his eyes from you, he stares down at your lap, breathing deeply.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing… Turn around.”

You rest your hand on his arm, beckoning him to turn and he fights against it for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. He finally obeys and slowly 180s to reveal uneven, healing marks scattered on his porcelain skin. Worry morphs your features, hearing Vergil sigh at the wall in front of him.

“Penance, for my depravity…for my thoughts of you,” Vergil whispers, an underlying shame in his tone.

It should’ve clicked sooner that these were the makings of a discipline. Self-flagellation was a dying practice, but of course someone as rigid as Vergil would partake. You’re almost too stunned to move, taken aback by the brushstrokes of red.

‘This is my fault,’ you think to yourself.

Leaning forward, you gently hold his waist and let your mouth brush against the scars, feather-light kisses gracing them. Vergil hisses at first, the raw skin bristling at the contact, but it soon gives way to breathy sighs, relishing in being adorned by your forgiving kisses.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you murmur into his skin, nose inhaling his sweat and scent.

“Christ would come down and dispute that, if he could.”

He turns back around, looking down over his nose at you with a pensive expression. A calloused thumb traces the shape of your bottom lip, his hand tilting your chin back to let the worn-out bulb in the storage room hit your face better. It’s hard not to notice the tremble of his fingers, the slight shake drumming against your skin.

“This…this is wrong,” Vergil’s eyes are fixated on your mouth, transfixed by the soft, plump skin under his digit. “I am undeserving of you, of your flesh,…your soul.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” you rebuttal, trying to focus on his words and not his thumb pressed against you lip, the muted smell of cologne radiating off of him, the heat of body between your legs. “If anyone is deserving, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

You lean your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth, tongue lassoing around it. Vergil’s own mouth parts with a throaty moan, reigning back the intrusive thought to shove his whole damn hand in your mouth just to have it touched by you. He slides his thumb out and replaces it with his mouth, desperate to quell the thirst in his lonely heart. You reciprocate immediately, scooting slightly off the table to be closer to him. Hands moving to his belt, Vergil groans into your mouth and shoves his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. Your own hand pulls off the other measly strap on your under-gown, letting it pool at your hips and exposing your chest to the dry air. Breaking the kiss, Vergil shifts back and ogles the new skin with hunger and awe, a single finger leaving a wake of goosebumps as he trails it down to a breast.

“‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you’.”

The verse falls from Vergil so softly that your brain almost doesn’t register it, hyper-fixated on his hand now cupping your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“Song of Solomon, 4:7,” you manage to get out, swallowing thickly.

“Correct, dove.”

The smile of pride that appears on his face from your answer makes you melt in his touch, heart soaring. Your own fingers linger on his chest before slowly sliding down to the still-fastened clasp of his slack, glancing between the painful tent in them and his face. Vergil gives you a faint nod and you make work of it, undoing the hardware as he crowds over you, mouth returning to your shoulder to kiss up to your neck. His moan that rings in your ear when you finally free his length makes everything worth it alone, the sound making your heat twitch with unbridled need. Vergil’s hands fall to your hips and pull you closer to him, sweaty fingers clinging to the silk of your fallen gown. Cock pressed against your soaked underwear, his hips buck into them. Your head wobbles back from the smallest sensation, your strained whine making Vergil bite back his own groan. He gives a few more tentative rocks of his pelvis, nose pressed into your neck as he savors the newfound stimulation.

“May I…?”

You feel a hand let go of your hip and slip between your legs, tracing the border of your underwear. You nod embarrassingly fast against him, forehead coming forward to rest on his shoulder. Vergil pushes the fabric to the side and then guides his length to rub against the slick folds, his breathing labored on your skin. That alone probably would’ve made him come if he didn’t have years of self-control to hold him back - the warm and delicate skin of your sex making it hard to form coherent thoughts. He backs away from your neck to look down at you, his other hand meeting your face and caressing your cheek. All he can think about is how blessed he is in this moment, to be so close to the most divine creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He shifts his hips closer to you and you subconsciously wrap your legs around his hips, ankles locking together behind him. His hand on your cheek moves to card through your hair, pushing back strands that dare to obstruct his view of you.

“Do you recall the Act of Contrition?”

You nod softly at him, eyes fluttering with every twitch of his cock against your nerves or brush of fingers in your hair. “I remember,” you murmur back.

“Good,” his hand between you two positions his head at your dripping slit, not yet pushing it in. “Recite it for me, for us. Can you do that, little bird?”

You forget to answer initially, sparks of pleasure firing in every nerve at just the feeling of him being one push away from entering you. You swallow back the pool of saliva in your mouth and nod again, eyes trying to remain locked on his.

There’s that smile again - that proud, adoring smile of his you’d see in your dreams for the rest of your days. He nods in return and looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin.

“My god, I am sorry for my sins with all my hea-, heart, oh my-“

Vergil pushes an inch of himself into you and the fullness makes you shudder. Your hands fly to hold his arms, brow knit together as a croaked moan disrupts your prayer. When you stop speaking, he halts his movement, despite his own desperation screaming in his body to sheath himself.

“Keep…keep going,” he breaths out, face flushing a faint red as your walls squeeze around him.

“-w-with all my heart…in choosing to do wrong and failing t-to do good..”

The descent continues, another inch separating your walls to accept him in. Vergil’s hand in your hair cradles the back of your head, holding it steady and preventing it from lolling away from him. His chest heaves above you as the prayer echoes in the sacristy, mingling with the buzz of the light above.

“I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly in-intend, with your help-“

You pause again, eyes rolling back as he finally hits the hilt. It was unlike anything you’ve felt before, so intimate and fulfilling, like the last puzzle piece of your body was finally put into place. Two souls no longer forming but one soul. Vergil, himself, was having a difficult time staying focused, the hug of your body around him sending signals throughout his limbs. He pulled back out, stopping just short of emptying you.

“-to do penance, to sin no more, to a-a-ahh!”

Vergil shoves himself all the way back in, a growl rumbling his chest. Your vision blurs for a second, the full feeling almost too much. He doesn’t wait for you to keep going, starting a steady, uninhibited pace as he frees himself from the shackles of guilt. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyways - he has felt you, smelled you, tasted you. It was all he needed anymore. The table rocks against the wall, glasses clinking together with the motion. A hand in your hair and a hand on your hip, he ruts over and over and over into your hole, face flushed a sunset red as he moans and gasps for air.

He asked you to recite the prayer, and damn it all, you were gonna comply, regardless of how much you only wanted to praise his name instead. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms, staccato whimpers leaving you as you try to regain your train of thought.

“…to avoid…whatever leads m-me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ….Christ-…s-s-suffered and died….for us..”

It was too much. There was only one line left of the prayer and you couldn’t even get it out, reduced to a moaning, heated mess as he clambered into you. Vergil was dripping sweat from his hairline, the beads falling to your face as you stared up at him. He looked like an angel - a faint halo of light around his head from the backlighting of the lamp. Your core tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar buzz forming in your heat from the sight and his ministrations. It felt like your whole body was plugged into a live socket, heart about to beat out of your chest.

“In his name,” Vergil mumbles out, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to finish the prayer and not himself. “Oh, my God…my God, have mercy.”

You mewl under him, hands shifting to hold his back. Your nails dig into the skin and Vergil lets out a mix between a growl and a moan, your fingers attacking the already raw marks on his back from the whip. He doesn’t stop, though, slamming into you repeatedly as he chases that glorious high. With a handful of more thrusts, you’re putty on the table, body taut and snapping as your orgasms ripples through you. It feels like the gates of heaven have opened, trumpets blaring and white light invading your vision. Vergil can’t hold himself back once he sees you give out, the sight of you coming around him making up for every godawful, lonely night of his life. He spills his load deep inside you, shuddering with a guttural groan. Pressed as deep as he can into you, his hips jolt uncoordinatedly as he gives you every last drop, forehead falling to press against yours. His hand on your hip leaves to join the other on your head, cupping your face to his, scared he’ll open his eyes and it’ll be a cruel dream. How could you be real? How could that sinful release he just felt be reality? It must’ve been-

“Vergil.”

His name in your mouth opens his eyes for him, making him take in the sight of you flushed and disheveled from his doing. His half-hard length twitches inside you from the image and you wince a little at the overstimulation, ushering a small laugh from him, from disbelief at what just happened and how delightful you look right now. He gingerly unsheathes himself, the wet sound mingling with the heavy breathing. Vergil can’t stop himself from looking down at where you were once connected, watching his seed muddle with your release as it gushes out of your hole. His mouth waters at the sight, the heady scent taunting him. God, he would lick you clean, if there was time, if you two weren’t shoved in a closet for anyone to walk into.

“Apologies…for…defiling you. I couldn’t ah, pull out in time,” he mumbles out, eyes following the trail of come leaking from you.

“None needed.”

You chuckle, sitting up to pull the straps of your silk gown back over yourself, taking the debauched sight from Vergil’s view. He holds still for a moment before following suit, pulling his pants back up and collecting his shirt off the ground silently. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to bear to you, but he didn’t know where to begin. He averted his eyes from you as you hopped off the table, scooping up your tunic and pulling it over your head.

“I’d like to see you again,” you start, breaking the silence with a reserved whisper. “Possibly…tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Vergil’s eyes flit back to yours at the proposal. ‘If you’ll have me’? Lord, you must have no idea what you do to him. He has to refrain from falling to your feet, kissing your hand and begging you to come to his quarters, wanting to show you just how much he worships the ground you walk on. He resigns to a curt nod, buttoning up his shirt, “Tonight, it is.”

“9’o clock?”

“Sharp. No excuses.”

[awionetka]

❝ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐧…? ❞ ft. 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫

you've faced them all. ghosts, demons, evil spirits and overconfident men who couldn't even properly hold their guard. but being tasked with tracking down the prince who vanished off the face of the earth almost a decade earlier might have just been the first, even for you.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫: fluff (?), suggestive. runaway heir!Xavier x bounty hunter!reader. implied romantic history. false identities. a fantasy esque setting with some elements of slavic mythology.

𝐜𝐰: foul language. mentions of alcohol. blood, injuries, weaponry. a semi-detailed fight with a demon.

𝐰𝐜: 2.5k

The last time you saw the Royal Palace, you were no more than thirteen. 

Clinging onto your father’s sleeve and somehow deadly convinced that the guards would spot you in the crowd and give an order to turn back and walk away with nothing. As still merely a child, you weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place, marching towards the open gates in search of a job. But your father insisted that this was the most adequate way for you to learn his craft – through observation – even if it meant smuggling you underneath his robe onto the castle grounds.

A lot had changed since that day, starting with the obvious – you no longer needed to watch in order to absorb your parent’s knowledge, if anything he could be the one learning from you. It took long, meticulous years of trial, error and everything in between to become one of the most skilled bounty hunters the Kingdom had to offer, but you succeeded, and no one could rip that away from you, no matter how hard they’d strain.

The white steeples of the Palace shimmered in the rising sun, sending almost magical reflections onto the town situated below. Usually you’d thrive in moments like these, when the outside world was still half-asleep and easy to fluster. But the rustle of papers tucked into your pocket successfully steered you off that, serving as a bittersweet reminder of what was to come next in your journey – what you had little to no control of.

However first things first; you needed a pint of good, moderately priced beer and something tasty to sink your teeth into.

Two mistakes were made by you that day (maybe more, but in your current state you couldn’t be bothered to count). Mistake number one: cheap alcohol first thing in the morning, followed by the most hefty breakfast plate they could offer. Mistake number two: you had, once again in your miserable lifetime, assumed that you could take on a divoženka not only purely by yourself but also without any preparation – and that included having absolutely zero St John’s wort on your person while entering the demon’s domain.

The first one was understandable to a degree, as you inherited your father’s resistance to liquor (it was merely a couple of beers, too!). The second one… not so much.

Leaning against the nearest tree with one hand wrapped tightly around your forearm, you stared back at the divoženka, as though your gaze alone could cause her to perish. 

"You bitch!" you spat, adjusting the grip on your sword in one swift move. "I just bought this fucking shirt!"

Letting our the most ear mutilating shriek, she lunged forward, forcing you to back out last second.

Your time was running out. At this rate, the demon was going to tire you out to literal death before you could manage to land a single blow, let alone a critical one. You had to think of something good and it needed to be done fast.

Ripping off a stripe from your freshly bought (and freshly ruined) shirt, you haphazardly wrapped the fabric around your forearm as a makeshift bandage. The wound stung horribly but at least that provided you with the information that it wasn’t too deep of a gash. 

You were never one to back out, even when the battle seemed unsalvageable, but that day you had someone else to protect – a young woman from the nearby village who got taken by the divoženka on her wedding night, straight from her lover’s arms. So if you wanted to escort the bride back where she belonged, she needed to become your priority this time.

Letting out one final steadying breath, you rushed straight at her, scraping the partly exposed skin of your knees as you slid next to the demon, eager to finally put your sword to good use.

But then, she grabbed onto your arm viciously, making blood trickle from in between her abnormally long fingernails. You screamed, pain so sudden and overwhelming it made you lose your footing and fall right at her feet with a thud. 

As often as you dealt with demons, malevolent spirits or just simply evil fucking humans, you were rarely one to call out to the kind and doting side of the realm, so as the divoženka raised her claw, you realised that you had no one to pray to, to make your demise quick and relatively painless. So you just shut your eyes, bracing for the impact and mentally cursing yourself out instead.

And then… nothing.

No brutal mutilation of your body, no deafening shrieks, not even a sound of your own laboured breathing. The world turned quiet, as though someone transported you back to the day it was even formed.

Just as you were starting to convince yourself you were actually already dead and this – whatever it could be – was some sort of afterlife, someone spoke, and the sheer familiarity of their voice sent a shiver through your body.

"So…" the person hummed, tone kept in sharp contrast to the situation you found yourself in. "Are you… getting up? The ground doesn’t look too comfortable."

Your eyes flew open in an instant, landing right on the one who’d just saved you from inevitable demise. And even though you didn’t need to ask the question that came next, you did it anyway, just to feel the word roll off your tongue, gentle and comforting.

"Xavier…?"

When the two of you met, Xavier was about to get decapitated and you were covered head to toe in striga guts.

He absolutely adored this story, smiling fondly each time it resurfaced and even twice as much when he had one too many beers to drink. After some time, you grew to enjoy it too, letting a fog of memory cover the "meet-ugly" and turn it into something that looked and sounded and felt like fate. And maybe, especially if you added all the other times you stumbled into Xavier on complete accident (and more often than not, also in the middle of going through a rather unfavourable situation), fate did in fact have a plan for the two of you, even if it included getting beaten to absolute mush in the middle of some dingy monster cave with nothing but a makeshift torch to protect yourself with.

Surely, it was a comforting thought, and after a few of those times you and Xavier had to fight (or run, for that matter) for your lives, you were starting to believe it too. Especially late at night, cooped up under a scratchy blanket in some seaside tavern you stopped at during your travels, eyes wide open and heart beating just slightly too fast for it to be considered regular. Wondering, worrying, when you’ll be seeing him again. If you’ll be seeing him again. Each time the two of you crossed paths, it was as though a shooting star passed you by, granting just one, tiny wish, then moving onto greater things. The two of you had never made a single promise, not even a mere mention of seeing each other again appeared in any of your numerous conversations. Besides his name, as well as a whole lot of random trivia about the man, Xavier was an enigma, in a true sense of the word.

But then, there were also the other nights. Ones you spent dancing together in taverns, bodies so close that your sweat dripped straight onto his bare skin. Leaning into each other’s presence, wary, curious. Needy. Legs brushing as he sat next to you on the bed you rented for the night, looking up at you in a silent plea.

It was then when you felt the most alive, so painfully aware of the heat radiating off him as your hands trailed down Xavier’s neck. And when he kissed you, hungrily and unapologetically, you could feel yourself unravel right there, on his lap, held together only by the gentleness of Xavier’s hands on your back. Feeling him, letting him feel you, proved to be the most ecstatic state you had ever found yourself in, so close to reaching the purest of joys, your soul began to tremble.

And yet, the two of you had never crossed the final line.

You weren’t sure why that was. Perhaps Xavier was fine with just this, being your occasional battle companion and friend, dance partner and the one you embraced as his lips dragged along the skin of your neck. You rarely stared at him outright, careful not to stir up what was already there, but when you did, he seemed... foreign. As though he wasn't exactly supposed to be there, more suited to something, or someone, greater.

Still, he was there with you, maybe for a couple of days, maybe just few hours, it mattered not. He laughed at your jokes, even when you didn't find them particularly amusing yourself. You played cards together, oftentimes teaming up against your unfortunate opponents of the night, swiftly relieving them of the heavy burden of the few additional coins in their pockets. However besides causing mischief, you helped each other too, offering words of advice or trading secrets of your joined craft in hopes of getting to see each other again, still alive and moderately well.

Or, you treated each other’s wounds, letting the gentle touches linger for just a little longer, more akin to a heartfelt promise rather than pure duty or guilt.

Just like in that moment.

"That bad?" Xavier’s brows furrowed with unshielded worry as he continued applying the ointment onto your damaged skin.

You allowed yourself just one, laboured, heavy sigh.

"It’s not good…?"

Even though your eyes were firmly shut in hopes of somehow warding off some bits of the immense pain you were experiencing, you could practically feel the way he smiled at your response.

"I’d be more concerned for you if it was good, to be truthful," he muttered instead, voice as soft and quiet as a shared secret. "Just a bit longer. I’m almost finished."

Offering a strained hum in reply, you dug your nails into the checkered blanket laid atop the bed.

The room was spacious. After barely making out alive that day, you decided to treat yourself with something a little closer to average living conditions and, hopefully, less than five odd looking bugs eager to share the bed with you that night.

You were sat on the bed, a stack of patterned pillows behind your back, and he knelt in front of you, carefully examining the fresh wound from earlier. It was a while ago when you noticed how skilled Xavier was at first aid – not like he wasn't a talented human being in general – and yet it never ceased to surprise you just a tiny bit each time he got to work.

"Is there something on my face?"

Your head snapped up. "Sorry...?"

"It's done." Xavier gave you a small smile, placing his hand on the bed to help himself up. "You were exceptionally brave this time. Stamina made of steel."

His eyes glistened when he said that, a silent invitation to a few bits of playful banter.

"Oh, fuck you. The last time I treated your wounds, you fainted before I could even do anything."

"I dare say it was your outstanding stitching skills that were the catalyst." He hummed in reply, one hand raised to his chin in exaggerated wonder. "True excellence occurs so rarely, my body found itself in a state of pure and utter shock."

Lip corners raised just slightly, face still fully towards you even though he was already next to the door. Xavier was lingering.

"I'd like to see your stitching skills someday, then."

His expression turned rigid. "I hope you will never have to. Have a good night, starlight."

As much as you wished for him to stay just a little longer, begin a new topic or maybe just exist somewhere close, within an arms reach, you knew that Xavier had to leave so you could sneak downstairs and gather some intel from the regulars at the tavern. It wasn't that you didn't trust him to keep a proper secret; you were forced to take a literal oath that successfully prevented you from sharing what you were truly after – the missing prince.

It still felt nonsensical, at least to some degree, how it was you that got chosen for this task, out of all the bounty hunters this kingdom had to offer. And while you were more than sure that you were being trailed by the royal guard (you hadn't noticed them yet, but you did have your suspicions), each assignment you accepted was treated with utmost care and consideration, as you never did anything halfway.

That was precisely why you were already reaching for the handwritten descriptions that were given to you that morning – eye colour, expected manner of speaking, things of such nature – when something unexpectedly caught your attention.

"Xavier, wait."

He froze with his hand wrapped around the doorknob, glancing at you above his shoulder. "Yeah?"

There was a patch of dirt on the back of his shirt, right above the waist, and an irregular cut right through the material. You gestured for him to come closer, knowing well that whenever Xavier got hurt, he would become absolutely hellbent on keeping it from you.

"I'm fine," he muttered then, clumsily trying to minimise your suspicions.

You grabbed Xavier by his arms and forced him to sit next to you on the bed. "Take off your shirt."

He stilled for a brief moment, body stiffening under your touch, and if you weren't already focusing all your attention on his back, you'd fail to notice the difference.

"Yes, ma'am..."

Grabbing the leftover ointment and bandages, you positioned yourself behind him, hunched at an awkward angle that made you huff. "Fine, my ass..."

You covered the cloth with remnants of some disinfectant you'd found earlier in your bag, forcing your eyes to stay focused on Xavier's wound and Xavier's wound only.

But, oh, how hard it was to prevent your gaze from wandering all over his back, shoulders, neck... It took each and every ounce of self restraint that you possessed to halt your hands before they could slide along the sides of his torso, outlining the faint scarring that covered it in some places. Your hands or your lips, for that matter, as you could already imagine yourself trailing tender, open mouthed kisses down his spine, stopping right next to the...

"Is it that horrid of a sight?" Xavier's voice brought you back to reality in an instant, although now your thoughts were already beginning to race, tumbling into each other in haste as you desperately tried to make sense of what was right in front of your eyes.

You forced yourself to respond. "I've seen worse."

Pressing the cloth right onto his skin, you exhaled shakily.

In the detailed notes, given to you back at the castle, there was a description of a rather unique, mid-sized birthmark in a shape of a dagger which was to be situated at the very bottom of the runaway prince's spine.

Precisely where you found the one belonging to Xavier.

[cocogum]

The Great Wave - Chapter 16 Review

‼️SPOILERS FOR THE CHAPTER‼️

Warning(s): excessive language, child a*use, mentions of mutil*t*on, old geezer slander, violence, hating on an old man

Call me dramatic or whatever but I think Ankama should've put a warning label for this chapter beforehand.

I'm aware that we've all seen worse, but still. When it comes to Ankama showing scenes like these, it always comes off as jarring because we never expect it from them.

The children here have numbers for names. This is already a massive red flag.

HELP WHY DID I THINK THIS GUY WAS A DRAGON!?!?! HE ENDED UP JUST BEING AN OUGINAK!! The second he turned around, he didn't look like he had scales anymore, he just looks like he's got fur.

Back when the chapter didn't release yet, I genuinely thought he was some kind of dragon because of his silhouette in chapter 15 (and because the chapter 16th's cover almost depicted him as some sort of strict wise old geezer 💀💀) Not only that, but I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we all thought he was gonna be some kind of important guy in the volume but nope. Turns out he was just a massive child abuser who'd manipulate kids and make them steal stuff for him so he could resell them or something. I know that the chapter doesn't show us what happened to him but I strongly hope that it implies Joris killed him (even though I know it sounds a bit too extreme for Joris since I don't think I've ever seen him kill someone before but in this case I really hope he did).

This fucking scum MUTILATED CHILDREN AND BRAINWASHED THEM WHILE MAKING THEM THINK THEY OWE HIM ANYTHING FOR FUCK SAKE.

Ankama being dark again with their joke references 💀💀💀 I swear there's always some tiny details like these that Ankama likes to sprinkle around. But come on man, putting something like that in this chapter?? I love it and hate it for how ironic it is 😭😭

Just look at this fucking guy making that "sad" face to Thirteen to make it look like she's forcing him to hurt her. It's like he wants her to think it's her fault that he's going to cut off her hand as punishment!

Speaking of Ankama putting in details, I noticed that Thirteen's name must have come from the time where she had been picked by "master Harigue". She was the thirteenth child to have been (unfortunately) found by him since there are other kids here like Twenty-seven who are far younger than her and yet have a higher number than her.

But a detail even worse than that would be the fact that if we look at the other kids around Thirteen, a lot of them are either missing limbs or have been physically scarred by him. Thirteen, on the other hand, has none of that. Which means that when Harigue claimed that Thirteen was his best thief, he wasn't kidding. She happened to have been the best at stealing stuff for so long. So much so, that she was able to avoid any types of physical abuse from him until now.

Therefore, every time we see a mutilated and scarred kid, it means they failed to please Harigue's expectations. So the more scars and limb severements on a child, the more "mistakes" they've made.

Thirteen's scared shirtless right now because she ended up "failing him" for not exceeding his expectations of her, but also because she's about to finally experience what the other kids have gone through. Physical pain and technically torture.

I'm not sure right now, but I'm starting to think that Thirteen might just coincidentally look like Lilotte after all.

In the last chapter, I initially thought that she and the fucking child abuser old geezer were going to be major enemies for Joris and the Brotherhood but now that we see how Thirteen was actually just a victim, this makes me fully believe that Thirteen wasn't trying to steal anything in particular and wasn't trying to lead Joris into any kind of traps.

This is why Twenty-seven is the one in the next chapter.

Specifically the very same one who tried to stand up for Thirteen.

And speaking of this little man....

I DON'T BLAME HIM FOR TRYING TO DEFEND THIRTEEN ‼️‼️‼️

If he hadn't done that, then Harigue would've already cut off Thirteen's arm, resulting in another disabled orphan in the sewers. If anything, he stalled some time before Joris could come in and (hopefully) kill the guy.

So thank you little man, you did the right thing and had the balls to go up to this turd who brainwashed you to call him "master".

By the way fun fact: before reading this chapter, I just thought that Twenty-seven might have been the enemy pretending to be Lilotte because of his face being plastered in chapter 17's cover but I'm so glad I ended up being wrong in the end lol

We then finally got this satisfying scene of Joris rescuing the children AND YES HARIGUE YOU SHOULD BE SCARED SHITLESS RIGHT NOW ‼️‼️‼️‼️

KICK HIS ASS JORIS AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF YOUR MOM MAKE SURE HE DOESN'T STAY ALIVE ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Only one chapter made me despise this old geezer, like what kind of freak picks up abandoned kids and makes them work for him under the city's sewers while emotionally manipulating them and teaching them how to steal to survive or else they'll lose an arm or a leg???

But can we talk about that geezer picking up the kids by the way? Cuz how come all of them happen to be ouginaks??? Are you telling me that this race has a higher toll of child abandonment than all the other ones?? Or is it because the Ouginak race acts like actual primitives so they tend to have more problems with keeping their kids?? Dear god there are so many....This random guy was too lucky with picking so many of them, I bet this was nothing compared to how many there still are out there.

I truly hope he rots 🥰🥰

The idea of these little kids walking around the city during the day makes me feel something for them cuz some of them clearly look bothered by it and are self-conscious to even be noticed. They got this mentality drilled into their heads by that old fuck that they should always wear their cloaks outside, as if the mere idea of being seen by someone was a danger for them. I fucking hate that man for manipulating them like that....Who knows what else he had taught them.

And the little boy asking Joris what he should call them instead of 'Master' is just so heartbreaking omg wtf 😭😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺

His first instinct was to call him 'master' like a slave JORIS GIVE HIM SOME MILK.

They all look so lost and helpless omg the idea that most of them know the pain of losing a limb makes me wanna fucking stab 🥰the little old fart🥰 until his organs look like mush 😁🤭💗💗

I hope Joris keeps them for a longer period of time (aka i hope he keeps them FOREVER) and learns that they don't actually have names so that he could properly name them because the old shits-for-brains only saw them as numbers.

Because Joris hanging out with some orphans who lost their parents? Yeah, I have a strong feeling he'll get along with them.

he's so short omg 💕

Also no joke, I actually forgot about Yugo and Amalia for a second lol

Like I don't know if it's because it's been like two weeks since we haven't seen them or if it's because I became hyperifxated on the last chapter's ending (or both. both is good.) but seeing Yugo and Amalia at the end of chapter 16 literally shocked me for a single second. Like I expected them to visit Joris some day after what Dathura told Amalia, but I didn't think that they actually came SO SOON OMG

Wouldn't the queens of Bonta be aware that the literal Eliatrope king and Sadida queen are in their city tho? Cuz like Yugo can't just walk into whatever city or town he wants to like it's nothing anymore, he's a king now for damn sake. It doesn't look like Adamai came with them tho so it's not like he and Amalia came on a dragon or else people would have noticed them even more. So....this only leaves Yugo using his portals again.

Yugo and his damn portals i swear-

Look baby I know that I accidentally forgot about you for a second there but you shouldn't be here yet cuz there are actual little babies to take care of rn 💗💗💗

Also if we look at Joris' sons/uncle/dad, Atcham looks guarded but interested, waiting for Joris so he could know what this is all about, while Kerubim looks worried and scared while eyeing Yugo.

And honestly who wouldn't be?? Just LOOK AT HIM!!

Why does he look like a villain as soon as we see him back!? 😭😭😭

My guy looks like he's about to cause some shit wtf... As soon as Joris was done saving those kids, this guy showed up and looked ready to cause some shit.

He looks like he's fed up of Joris for some reason and I can't tell if it's because he's mad that he found out Joris was Grougalorasalar's vessel or if it's just because he's here instead of staying at the Sadida Kingdom. Like idk guys when I see him making that face, it just looks....way too personal to just be simple annoyance...

Amalia looks more nervous and worried than anything else so it's really just Yugo who looks like he's the problem.

[rosy-crow]

😭 i am in fact allergic to just making sephiroth happy so make him cry first and THEN give him comfort /lh

OHOO WE ARE THE SAME MY FRIEND

Your wish is my command 😈

Writing Prompt

(TW for implied dark subject matter and war crimes + child death + crimes against humanity + typical war stuff)

“Sephiroth. Don’t….,” Angeal spoke in a tone that harbored an uncharacteristic coldness to it. Not due to Sephiroth’s presence or behaviors, but owing instead to a haunting of the mind. A memory. Recent and clawing inside his head. Sephiroth knew the thousand yard distance Angeal’s gaze was fixed on all too well and ignored it, turning away. He had learned to smother the shocks of war as a child.

Right now, fury was bubbling inside the cauldron of the hero’s heart and it was all he could feel.

“It’s not worth it this time. Let Lazard deal with this. The damage has been done. We can’t kill Heidegger’s men….,” Angeal urged as he leaned against the wall of a crumbling village hut to catch his breath. He dropped his eyes in shame and defeat shortly after.

Sephiroth clenched his fists until the leather sang. To weaken the enemy, he and Angeal had been sent to eliminate a key air defense system situated within the outskirts of an old Wutai village. Lazard’s orders had been concise and simple. The target was to be destroyed. Civilian casualties in the local area were to be avoided.

And then Heidegger had sent his troops. The Shinra Army’s dogs, Sephiroth thought. The murder-hungry men only uniform and composed when standing in array for the public. The crude morals of their idiotic commander had bled into their barracks and ranks like vile toxin.

When the bastards had arrived to “cause a distraction”, the village had been razed while Sephiroth and Angeal were taking down the tower, negating Lazard’s plans for his trusted SOLDIER duo.

One battalion of some 15-20 particularly drunken soldiers among the deployment had enjoyed the free show and then some more of their own accord.

The civilian bodies lying in the village center weren’t simply charred and lifeless. Oh no, there was a touch of sadism in the carnage that any man with eyes would have spied upon inspection.

“If we report this to Lazard, he can alert the President. They’ll be disciplined and with luck, tried for war crimes…..” Angeal said, trying to stay calm and reason with his friend. He knew Sephiroth doubted Shinra’s judgement and wanted to confront the men himself.

Sephiroth may not have been a real hero. He may have been comfortable with the killings of wartime. But he could not draw pleasure from pointless suffering, and Angeal knew this truth better than any other. Such behavior disgusted Sephiroth, drawing him back to a time in his youth when all he knew was laughter ringing in his ears during bouts of searing pain.

“Sephiroth….”

Sephiroth kept his back to Angeal and did not reply. He started off towards the smoky, ashen village that lay in ruin and despair. As he vanished into the haze, Angeal’s heart stood still with fear.

—

When Angeal found Sephiroth again, he merely found a boy huddled in the corner of a dark room, as if he were catching a glimpse of an unspoken past.

Sephiroth was sitting, hugging his knees to his chest, against a blood-smeared wall inside a trashed and half-singed room that had evidently once been the quiet living space of a Wutaian family.

Blood mingled with the ashes. It painted the brown tiles and broken furniture. It marked the bodies of at least ten mutilated Shinra troopers scattered in a pile on the floor. It caressed the corpse of a woman and a child who was likely her young daughter still caught up in her stiff arms.

Masamune was thrown to the side of the scene, dappled with crimson.

“What did….” Angeal couldn’t speak. The knot in his throat cut off his voice like a vice.

There was a long and dreary pause.

“….I heard cries….screaming….” Sephiroth’s strained reply was somewhere between shaky and hollow. “I came to see….”

His face raised up to Angeal and the latter saw blood dripping down porcelain temples, eyes bleeding with pearly droplets, and skin marred by blackened filth. Angeal couldn’t begin to describe the expression his friend wore. It was the face of someone who had given up on trying to understand the horrors of life. Sephiroth looked so painfully small right then.

“They hadn’t stopped….I just killed them….the men….they were drunk….” Sephiroth was fighting with his own words, forcing them out. “I don’t care that I did, Angeal….I feel nothing…”

“And the….mother and child…?” Angeal got ahold of himself and tried to avert his eyes from the ruined corpses. He was going to be sick. His steps led him to sink beside Sephiroth, trying to connect with the retreating figure.

Sephiroth looked at Angeal as the man took to his side. The hero pursed his lips, shifting his head in an awkward tilt to the side as he tensed every muscle in his body, grasping for control over his breathing. It ached so much…the puncture in his chest that had tugged down the dam behind his eyes. He didn’t want it to happen again…but speaking would….possibly…it….

“Shot dead. One of the soldiers. I wasn’t fast enough,” Sephiroth whispered, hiding his face away behind his bloodied bangs. “I was….confused and they took advantage of my hesitance….because when I came in….there was this little voice babbling and sobbing….I saw….the mother comforting her daughter…they were covered in blood…”

“Sephiroth.”

“I couldn’t…sav…..”

Angeal no longer hesitated. He reached over to draw Sephiroth towards him and the latter allowed the embrace, even nearly clinging to Angeal as if nothing else could ground them both right then.

“Angeal….the child…..she….”

“It’s okay. Just breathe.” Angeal spoke it like a gentle order. Stern and soft. Holding on tight and steady. “Breathe.”

“She kept….crying “mama” like she couldn’t feel her….mother’s comfort any longer…even in her arms….I keep hearing it….”

“Sephiroth.” Angeal firmly held his brother-in-arms and hushed him, sighed deeply as he felt Sephiroth shudder and war with his heaving inhales. The choking, cracked strain of his words was muffled and haggard against Angeal’s uniform sweater.

“It’s….not…fair….”

“Stay with me. Come on.” Angeal ordered again, somber and patient. He ignored the warm waters that melted into his shoulder. He simply held on, unmoving as stone. That was all he could do. It would work.

And it did.

When Sephiroth finally pulled back, his skin was stained with all the grief and salt of his lapse in composure, but he had managed to find himself once more, carrying a world-weary and worn out look in his stare in remembrance of the moment. Angeal nodded as solemnly as he would during a funeral service, his grip finding Sephiroth’s armored shoulder.

“Let’s go. Back to HQ. You need to eat and sleep, k? I’ll talk to Lazard….I promise…..” Angeal said. He watched as Sephiroth brokenly acknowledged the promise and hung his silver head.

“Okay.”

“We’re going to end this war, Sephiroth. We’re going to end this cycle of violence. I won’t give up until we do.”

And so, Angeal raised them both up from the fractured ground and led Sephiroth away from the cruel memory like a guiding star.

[cheralith]

feat. bachira meguru | wc : 702 cw : gn!reader, no pronouns used, cannibalism au, more focus on his mom lmfao tw/dd:dne : blood, gore (body mutilation), implied cannibalism — from this

Bachira Yu remembers three things when her son came home that day from the park.

First was blood smattered all over his cherub face, an unsightly scene for him to come home to. This splatter of sin brushed against a face of supposed innocence, accompanied by the sleeves of red that ran up his forearms.

Second was the hand that his own was clutching—not connected to any limb in particular, or any body for that matter. Held in her son's grasp was the withered and detached hand of a young child, with it just as mangled as her son's face.

Third was the river of tears that had rapidly gushed from his eyes and down his blood-stained cheeks, salt and iron combining. Yu had never seen her son cry that hard before. Not when his father left. Not when she dropped him off at school for the very first time. Not when the other children bullied him.

Bachira Meguru came home that day with a certain hunger temporarily satisfied, not knowing it'd carve a hole into his very being that would ultimately leave starving for something deeper.

Yet contentment was nowhere in sight; replaced by instead, guilt. A guilt so heavy that it'd chain him down everywhere he'd go, so torturous it'd be a part of every thought he'll ever have.

All because he just wanted a moment longer with you.

Yu couldn't blame him—her son had trouble making friends, that was obvious to anyone. She worried for him for awhile, so when he had introduced you for the very first time—hand in hand with Meguru—she was more than delighted that her son had finally found a companion.

You were a sweet child. A little on the quiet side, but it harmonized well with Meguru's boisteriousness. Not only were you his friend, but you allowed him to be fully himself without filter to guise who he was. To not repress his oddities.

And he loved you for that. He loved you because he could be his little odd self around you, the same odd self that would drive most children away—but not you. You stayed.

(And forever will you.)

It was a miracle that Meguru had led her to your body before anyone else was able to see it, laying face up in the playground sandbox that now served as a pool of red within its borders. Yu wishes she didn't remember the sight as well as she did—your skin withered all over and torn apart, torso ripped open with some broken ribs that punctured into your lungs from Meguru's reckless desperation (there was a certain space that was empty within it, she noticed), and your face somehow still perfectly intact despite the rest of your mutilated body.

It was astounding how much damage her first grader could do. It almost made her fearful.

She supposes its her own pecularities that leaked into her son because instead of asking her son like most parents, "Meguru, what did you do?!", Yu had turned to him with an astounded look and merely asked him,

"Why?"

It wasn't a condescending question. It was a genuine one—blatantly curious. She didn't have to figure out what her son did since that was the easy part, but she needed to at least know the reason as to why he did what he did.

Apparently, you were moving further away. Far away enough that for sure communication would be too difficult to try to attempt between two seven year olds. You were leaving Meguru by himself. Alone, once again.

And he clearly couldn't have that.

He had found a solution, obviously. It just happened to be rooted in every bite of your skin his teeth sunk into.

As with that, you'd stay with him forever. You couldn't go away if he had you with him at all times, right? Not when your flesh is inside his own. Not when your heart his melded with his own. Not when your blood combines with his with every gulp he swallowed from the meat on your bones.

Not when your body is his, and his—yours. Your vessel. Your holy receptacle for you to use, just as long as you stayed with him.

Within him.

[maaeveeee]

Part 1 -> loading…

Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x female reader (oc)

Trope: enemies to lovers

Warnings: graphic violence, child death, death imagery, mutilation, animal cruelty, trauma response, dissociation, psychological deterioration, vengeance obsession, Implied PTSD, and emotional repression, threats of future violence & last but not least, deep angst.

Author’s note: well… that's a lot of warnings. I may have overdone with her backstory but I tried my best to balance it.

Winterfjord's winds shrieked like dragons in their death throes at night while Seraphyne Velari arrived into the world.

Her first breath was not air but thick, acrid smoke, drawn from the massive pyres where her kin torched the corpses of vanquished beasts.

The midwives, their hands still tacky with Monstrous Nightmare poison from that morning's kill, wrapped her in a cloak lined with the scales of a Deadly Nadder, its shimmering barbs etching angry red furrows into her fresh skin.

“Another one who seeks the long darkness.” her father had snarled, pressing a thumb stained with dragon blood onto her forehead.

The burning liquid stung sharply, etching the spiral mark of her clan onto her skin—a painful vow carved into her that she would one day fulfill.

Winterfjord differed from other Viking settlements.

Where Berk had green hills rolling and protected harbors, Winterfjord clung to the biting black teeth of the northernmost chain of islands like lichen to stone.

Six of twelve months, the sea froze hard, locking them in perpetual twilight where the sole light was torches on their dragon—proof walls.

All of the structures had been constructed from bones—rib cages arching doorways, spinal columns for fence posts, and the doors to the great hall made from the outstretched wings of a Stormcutter killed three generations ago.

Seraphyne learned to walk on dragon hide floors, her little boots sliding on the smooth scales until she had the distinctive wide—legged gait of all Winterfjord warriors.

She could recognize a dragon's weak points by the rhythm of its wings at four winters of age. At six, she skinned her first Terrible Terror, its awful shrieks music to her ears as her mother directed her blade.

“You never hesitate.” Mother had instructed, her breath frosting in the cold air as she wrapped Seraphyne's small hands around the hilt. "The moment you go soft is the moment you die."

And Kael.

Kael Frost—Song, his stupid laughter and his stupid blue eyes and his stupid manner of sneaking honey cakes into her training pack.

The sole child of Winterfjord who did not flinch at Seraphyne's bared teeth. The lad who taught her how to blow a whistle on a hollowed—out dragon fang, who lifted her up to watch the auroras, who pressed his forehead against hers when the elder were particularly cruel about her one—track rage.

The day the Razorwhip took him, Seraphyne's world collapsed.

They'd gone ice fishing outside the protection of the walls—a stupid, rebellious excursion that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Kael balanced on the broken ice, his nerdy red scarf flapping absurdly as he struck a pose as a mighty hunter.

"Behold me, Sera! I, slayer of—

The yell was out of the blue. A thousand unsheathed swords.

The elders would afterward tell of it as the first Razorwhip ever seen this far north—a freak migration, an omen.

But to Seraphyne, in that instant, there was only the searing spatter of Kael's blood across her face as the dragon's tail speared his chest.

His form came crashing into the ice with a soggy slap.

For a single impossible moment, Kael's eyes locked on hers—gleaming with confusion, then pain, then something horribly like regret as his mouth shaped her name around a bubble of blood.

Something within Seraphyne broke.

When the Razorwhip lunged at her, she did not flee. She jumped.

The force slammed them both into the ice, then out into the dark water below. The cold was alive, tearing at her lungs, as she struggled with the shrieking creature, her small hands clenching the yielding sheet of its wings and breaking it.

Blood clouded the water—hers, the dragon's, Kael's still wet on the spikes of the creature's tail.

She drowned it.

Held the thrashing underwater until its struggles ceased, until its radiant eyes dimmed, until her own eyes became vision—spot from lack of breath.

When she finally broke the surface, dragging the animal’s corpse up onto the ice with raw, icy hands, Kael's body had begun to freeze to the surface.

The elders came upon her three days later, hunched over Kael's corpse, the Razorwhip's head on her knees.

She hadn't slept anywhere nor eaten anything. Just sat there sharpening her blades with deliberate purpose, her eyes gleaming in the firelight like some animal.

They named her Dragonbane thereafter. Dragon slayer.

It was not meant to be a compliment.

Years went by, and Seraphyne's anger became larger.

At the age of thirteen, she tracked a hive of Speed Stingers for six days running, then came back with a whip made from twelve braided tails.

At fifteen, she slew a single Stormcutter, at the cost of a scar above her left eyebrow, one which reminded her always to make the first strike.

But Winterfjord's leaders became uneasy. Where others killed in service, Seraphyne butchered with a zeal close to worship.

Where most warriors dealt instant death, she worked hard for the dragon to feel every bit of its suffering.

The final straw was when she skinned a Gronckle alive, its shrieking ringing across the fjord for hours as she slid its skin off slowly to make a new cloak.

"You've lost your way," the elders said to her, their faces implacable in the torchlight. "The hunt is for survival, not sport."

Banishment should have destroyed her. It freed her instead.

She heard his name for the first time in the Outcast camps — banished, alone, blood on her boots and too much fire in her chest.

They were dirty people. Bitter people. But even they were whispering about Berk’s miracle boy.

Hiccup Haddock.

A runt. A reject. A chief’s son who lost a leg and gained the trust of a godsdamn dragon.

And suddenly, he was a hero?

He was a peacebringer?

She remembers the cold in her lungs, the sting of wind in her eyes as she held the dragon underwater and screamed into the black until her throat bled.

She remembers digging Kael’s body out of the ice with her nails.

She remembers snapping his fingers just to take back the scarf she gave him.

And what was he doing?

Building saddles? Throwing fish? Naming a Night Fury like it was a newborn puppy?

She could’ve slit his throat just for existing.

She didn’t tame her grief. She became it.

So no—

She wouldn’t call it jealousy. She called it hatred.

Pure. Simple. Deserved.

Let him ride his scaled pet like some wide—eyed fool. Let him scratch its chin and pretend he changed the world.

She knows the truth.

Dragons don’t change.

They just wait until you’re weak enough to burn.

And one day she’ll make him see that.

From behind the smoke and the fire and the ruins of his perfect little lie.

[dandysworldhcs]

hehe hi again :) yall get a dandy flavored headcanon this time!!!

so, dandy. star of the show, center of attention, most beloved toon, yada yada yada... what happened to make him suddenly (as it is implied) create the twisteds???

starting from what we know, dandy is morally grey, and gives items for tapes in order to keep from becoming twisted. this leads me to believe that the twisteds were not the intended result on his end, as well as that he was the first toon to twist. however, I do believe dandy would have had some part in the creation of the twisteds.

my headcanon is that dandy figured out that the show was dropping interest of the viewers, and he was not as alright with that as the other toons were. so in an attempt to salvage gardenview's popularity, he begun to experiment with the ichor and what it could do, hoping to create something that would help steer attention to gardenview and keep the place running, as it *was* their home. and his plan worked, but at a cost.

this experiment resulted in new toons, which was something that could definitely help gardenview regain spotlight, but dandy's work resulted in weird yet subtle mutilations to his body- his petals became sharper, he grew slightly, he was a bit shakier, he was more temperamental- but it wasn't even noticeable to people dandy spent time with- not even dandy himself caught on before it was too late.

then one day, while gardenview was bustling with attention, dandy started to feel sick, and a kid walked in on him, and ended up gravely injuring a child and a staff member, as well as some other toons that would become twisted after being attacked.

anyways, gardenview shut down, and the toons realized it was due to dandy's tinkering with the ichor, and (rightfully so) blamed him- all for what, attention? that he lost anyways due to his own irresponsibility? so now they try to find a cure to the mess that dandy started.

apologies, im a d1 yapper guys... until next time...

-periwinkle anon

periwinkle have you considered becoming a fic writer. this is actually so majestic. so amazing.

also you are a TROOPER for colouring every time dandy is mentioned.

[forestryfae]

my dumb ass not making the connection that albedo is in fact ridicilously insecure in the sense that he NEEDS to be the smartest guy in the room he NEEDS to one up everyone and most of his motives are based on that. like the first omnitrix copy does start out as "i dont trust that the universes most powerful device should be in the hands of an unworthy human" and all that but atleast a little part of why he did that must also have stemmed from "im gonna make a copy of the omnitrix and ill be great at using it and then azmuth HAS to let me be the bearer of the omnitrix" cus azmuths like "i told you the omnitrix is beyond you" and i didnt realize until now but that actually implies albedo has talked to azmuth about this and tried to convince him to let him wear the omnitrix instead.

he then later makes a copy of the omnitrix again but he uses a real core someone else made and he upgrades it and calls it The Better More Ultimate Omnitrix™ and somehow it is both objectively better (powerful transformations, probably sold a lot of toys) and objectively worse (ultimate transformations looked Bad sometimes, made no sense genetically, and also theres the whole thing where ben had to die to release a bunch of aliens stuck inside the omnitrix becaus ethat makes sense somehow)

he also doesnt come up with the idea of fucking up ben himself he just follows vilgaxs plan idk how thats relevant but it feels relevant

then he copies ben and his heroing to get money. i will admit he didnt fuck up here he did try to fix his mistakes but like. surely he couldve tried something like. becoming an electrician. plumber. programmer. anything actually within his previous skillsets.

but yeah he then copies his old idea and calls his stabilizer an ultimatrix. follows khybers plan. and then tries to steal azmuths brain for reasons im still not sure about. like hes powerhungry for sure but my guy??

he then tries to steal azmuths brain and is really upset when he stops being smart when azmuths brain is returned then he follows evil bens idea then he tries to break into the labs and steal azmuths ideas and knowledge again, claiming azmuth is pondering the universes mysteries and secrets and hoarding them all for himself. like he clearly wants what azmuth has here.

like i definitely think fanon interpretation isnt off when we see him as having a point by not trusting the omnitrix to a child, being angry hes stuck in bens body, him being genuinely smart and genuinely good at things (like when he was pretending to be ben and rook didnt notice)

but i also think its really interesting how he craves being acknowledged and seen as superior and desires to be more powerful and stuff. like idk whats up w that but i def think the "assistant turns evil and betrays mentor and wants to be more powerful" trope works for him i just wish he had more backstory beyond that cus that shit doesnt happen out of nowhere

he clearly wants to be seen as superior and good enough that hes worth being told those secrets and in an effort to be the kind of guy azmuth would trust with that, and would trust with the omnitrix he probably feels entitled to it too somehow. probably a sense of "i did EVERYTHING you asked for and i did it perfectly why arent i good enough" but like the bottom line being hes so reliant on other people accepting and looking at him as good enough and worthy that hell do anything to prove it. hell even mutilate and deform himself if he has to and will gladly bend logic to have the people who want him and look up to him be in the right. (hugh lying to ben and co and it negatively affecting albedo. it wasnt just bens fault)

like he craves azmuth to see him as worthy and useful, and then that turns into betrayal and "im not wrong, YOURE wrong for not accepting me as i was" after hes stuck in a flesh prison he cant really escape, he then manages to both see azmuth as beneath him and above him in a contradicting irony of him being so much better and more evolved than anyone else and especially azmuth, and somehow still needing azmuths superior intellect to be better than azmuth.

idk i didnt catch it as a kid and it didnt occur to me properly until now. wild. but yeah thats part of why i think albedo is so interesting

[sevenish-spheres]

Making it Hurt

TW gore (both mech and human), mutilation, lot of corpses, child death (implied), capitalist wanker. (Who dies painfully)

Cere exhaled a cloud of mist as she ducked through the narrow hatch of the hangar bay, narrowly avoiding a bundle of wires which ran directly in front of her towards the hangar doors. Calling it a hangar was generous, of course. In actuality, it was little more than a hole in the mountainside which her predecessor’s employer had outfitted with a room for sleeping and the bare minimum required to keep a mech functioning.

That suited Cere fine. Vacuous Hand wasn’t fussy, and neither was she. It stood on a rack at the far end of the hangar, chained in place by the ankles. She hadn’t had any issues lately, but paranoia was a close friend these days. After all, if her predecessor had had a bit more of it, his frame wouldn’t be a smoking wreck on the other side of the mountain. Cere pulled out a watch. Nine forty. Time to move.

She dragged over the rusted ladder and folded it open, bending down to undo her frame’s manacles. She could swear she felt the cold metal shiver in anticipation as she did so. It was a fairly standard frame, standing about four and a half metres tall, and half shrouded in a ragged cape. Its legs were digitigrade, and covered in riveted metal plates that reminded Cere of an armadillo she’d seen once, on a rare occasion where she was working somewhere hot. It was a nice change. The rest of the mech was pretty standard for a cavalier, with several segments around the abdomen and pauldrons which swept high near the head, which appeared something like a grill-covered shark’s maw. The mech’s jaws were lined with teeth too big to be human, and the head ended in an almost axe-like point. At this point, the head was all that was left of the original frame Cere had started work with, and even then she’d inherited it. Not many people gave their suits teeth, strangely enough. The chest was covered in tally marks, a small reminder of what it, and she, were capable of. The most recent one, signifying the hangar’s previous owner, still shone silver, and made for her twentieth kill in this particular frame. In the past, she kept separate tallies for engine and pilot kills. These days, they were mostly one in the same. Stubborn fools.

Climbing up the ladder, she ran through the mission in her head. Move to the peak, check. Eliminate the usual watchman. Check. Wait an entire fucking week for the target to show up on a bloody gilded landship. At last, check. Finally, Cere and Vacuous could do what they were really here for. Namely, killing the Guild-Magnate who’d been supplying the Stallions. Tisea said to make it hurt. That was unusual for her. Ordinarily, the boss was pretty calculating with her targets. Not Varis DeVarney, apparently. Renowned for his departure from the traditional DeVarney export of greypowder firearms, Varis had cornered the local market for urelium-fuelled laser weaponry. He was currently in negotiations with the Green Stallions local nobility for rights to open a mining outpost in the mountains, which meant the fucker had been supplying them with weaponry. Right now he was transporting miners and equipment to establish one near this pass, with the landship being laden with supplies and weaponry.

Not that it mattered much. Greypowder or urelium, he’d die quickly enough. Or, more accurately, slowly. Cere still wasn’t entirely sure what Tisea had against him specifically, but it was hardly her job to decide. Tisea said Varis had to die, and die he would.

The ladder was a bit too short to reach Vacuous Hand’s hatch, and so Cere grunted as she gripped its pauldron and hauled herself onto its back. For how freezing the mountains were, the metal was already remarkably warm. The implants along her spine itched slightly, as they often did as she was preparing to pilot the frame. She reached below the heady chainmail hood which ran from the back of the head-helmet and flipped it over, revealing a metal plate which, after she removed a deadbolt, flipped over to reveal the entry hatch. Cere hauled herself in, avoiding scraping herself on the jagged tear in the hatch rim where a lucky pilot had managed to jam a halberd before she tore its arm off. She landed on the pilot’s seat and brought herself down to a sitting posture. The cockpit was cramped, with wires hanging like entrails across its tiny diameter. A few screens and dials sat, their glass fronts stained with dried blood and ichor. Still, they were legible enough for Cere to only have to squint slightly to make out what they said. Pressure in the limbs was normal, ichor levels about acceptable, and hull integrity largely fine. She hauled the hatch shut, checked the emergency kit under the seat, and then made an ass of herself taking her jacket off in the cramped cockpit. Ordinarily, she wouldn'tve bothered to bring it, but as she said, these mountains were fucking freezing.

She made one final check, and then shifted into a more comfortable position before settling her hands into the trigger gauntlets that let her use the auxiliary weapons, in this case a wristblade and arm-mounted machine gun, and doing up the leather straps that kept her hands safely bound to the chair. Finally, she pulled on the goggles and gas mask that were suspended just above her, and felt the slight prick of the needles in their lenses injecting ichor into her eyes. Immediately, the world went black, and she arched her back slightly as the neural cables rammed themselves into the jacks down her spine. She might have screamed, but by that point her mouth was already hanging slack in its mask.

She opened her eyes and breathed out, but where once she gazed out of her own tired sockets, now she was looking out of the six grilled eyes of Vacuous Hand. She tried to focus, the fiery pain in the back of her head abating to a familiar pins and needles. Bloody hell, out of the suit for a week and she felt like a line soldier doing ichor on a dare. Still, she checked her fingers were all attached and working, and then took her first step forward. It was practically smoother than walking normally, the pistons and mechanical tendons beneath the dented armour compensating perfectly for the hangar floor. Vacuous Hand turned, her eyes falling towards the rack bolted to the wall that served as the armoury. Reaching out in an adamantine-taloned hand, she tore a shotgun from the wall and slung it on her belt, next to the round machine gun ammunition and rondel dagger. Finally, she grabbed the massive zweihander from its place on the wall and slung its huge scabbard across her back, where it nestled next to the exhaust vents, which already glowed with an anticipatory frame. 

With everything ready, Vacuous Hand ducked between the stone ridges in the hangar ceiling. Below her, she felt the rumble of massive treads as the landship entered the pass below. 

Time to hunt.

She dragged the hangar door aside and lept from from the cave down to the slopes below.

The mountain was steep, and Vacuous Hand half sprinted, half slid down the mountainside, the smoke of its exhaust mixing with a trail of greyish snow and grit.

Below her, the landship crawled across the pass, flattening the few trees that fought to grow this high up. It was a massive thing, covered in golden battlements and possessing four treads modelled to look like lion’s paws. It bore several huge cannons that, thankfully for Vacuous, were proudly trained on the valley below. Around it, several smaller tanks and frames maintained a perimeter, but none of them yet noticed the mech skidding down the mountainside towards them. Vacuous took it all in, noting the closest frames, mostly smaller Cuirassiers, and readying her machine gun to fire. The rattle of the gun tore through the mountain air, and more importantly, through the thin armour of the smaller mechs. Immediately, the guns of the smaller tanks swivelled to face her, but by the time they fired she had a dozen metres to her right, and the plume of snow that erupted where the shell fell was well off its mark. By now, several of the larger frames were moving in to intercept, and Vacuous Hand would have grinned, had it had the ability, as it drew the massive broadsword, which now glowed red hot and leapt from the mountainside. She selected her target, a decent sized cavalier wielding a shotgun-shield and falchion. It fired and she swerved slightly middair, the mechshot barely clipping a taloned toe. 

My turn.

She smashed into the cavalier as it charged towards her, taloned feet gripping its limbs as her broadsword punched through its abdomen. Vacuous barely had time to smell the burning flesh and ichor before another cavalier moved to avenge its comrade. This one wielded a broadsword similar to her own, and had a pair of ornate wings sprouting from its gilded back. As it charged, the wings emitted a flurry of missiles that arced towards her. She kicked hard to the left, dodging most, but a few found their mark. Two ricocheted off her pauldron, but a third slammed into her knee as she braced to cut down the cavalier. She stumbled, and her opponent capitalised, sweeping her zweihander aside as its own blade cut deep into her arm. Vacuous Hand howled as ichor welled from the wounded limb, and she dived forward, extending her wristblade and slamming it hard into the enemy mech’s chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one of the tanks firing, and turned to face it, the shell impacting hard into the back of the struggling frame she had impaled. It went limp, and she tossed it aside as she dashed for the tank. It readied to fire again, but she slid below the path of the shell and sprung up, her sword biting into the turret as her foot crushed the gun barrel below. She turned in time to see another shell as it slammed hard into her shoulder, rending pistons and mechanical arteries. She snarled, and leapt towards it, her machine gun howling a staccato burst as she impacted the tank. This time, there was no clean sword-strike as she tore open the turret and painted the insides of the tank with gore.

She ducked behind the wreck, considering her options. Thankfully, she was too close to the landship for its guns to be a threat, but already she felt the rumble as the other tanks moved around to finish her off. With one arm shattered but slowly pulling itself together, and a leg that threatened to buckle if it took another hit, killing them wouldn’t be worth it, and moreover, would open her up to strikes from the mechs which were now likely disembarking the battlements on the landship above. But if she didn’t move, the tanks would blow apart the mechanical carcass she was hiding behind. As the first shell dragged up a plume of smoke and snow behind her, Vacuous made her choice.

She dashed for the Landship, her talons biting into the massive treads, and the glowing blade of her zweihander easily finding purchase in the ornate plating above them. She reached out with her other arm and-

Shit.

The arm, slick with ichor and half-broken from the tank shell, slipped. The mech screamed as she plummeted, barely catching itself on the sword again. The Cuirassiers on the battlements were thundering towards where she was hanging, and only the fear of damaging the landship was keeping the tanks from eviscerating her. One of the Cuirassiers leaned over the battlements to shoot at her with a broad-barreled gun, and she snapped.

With her good arm she flung herself forward, jaws grinding open and snapping shut like a beartrap as she tore the head off the Cuirassier, and kicked herself onto the top of the tank as it plummeted to the snowy ground below. She breathed heavily, steam hissing from her ichor-slick jaws. In front of her, the two Cuirassiers were frozen, but as she looked up they regained their composure and opened fire. The impact of their guns felt like rainfall on her hull, but Vacuous knew she’d feel it later. She grabbed one of them, wristblade extending in and out of its gut as she punched its torso in. Then, she flung it forward, smashing it into the other frame. A part of her thought dully, these ones are just soldiers. Varis is the real target. Maybe, but they’re hardly conscripts either. Still, she left the second Cuirassier pinned under its compatriot. She didn’t have the time. Behind her she saw the form of a demi-lancer emerge from the rear of the tank. She certainly didn’t have the time for that. She slung her sword onto her back, and, catching sight of an entrance into the rest of the tank, dashed for it. She felt the impact of the demi-lancer kanding behind her as she ran through the bulkhead. She slammed the door behind her, and took a brief look at her surroundings. This was clearly a hangar bay, its ceiling high and vaulted, and criss-crossed by gantries and cranes. Below, a few technicians drew sidearms and opened fire. She ignored them, only sending a quick burst of machine gun fire to send them scurrying behind the empty racks where mechs could dock.

Suddenly, the door’s hissed open, and Vacuous Hand came face to face with her Demi-Lancer pursuer. It was tall, heavily armoured and, like many Green Stallion frames, modelled vaguely after an armoured human. Its face was sculpted like a death mask, and it carried a shimmering Rail-falconet.

You missed your chance. You can’t fire that in-

She barely had time to duck as a bolt of hyperaccelerated adamantine spiralled past her head and impacted into the ceiling behind.

Shit. This wasn’t one of Varis’ hirelings. This was an honest to god Green Stallion, with overwhelming hubris to boot. It fired again, slicing through a gantry as Vacuous leapt for its jugular. She tore its railgun aside with her foot, and readied her wristblade to slice throu-

Cere felt a coldness in her chest as she looked down witnessing the huge dagger that had pierced her mech’s hull and was now slicing into the side of her stomach, barely missing spilling her guts onto the cockpit floor. She felt faint, but even as her body gave way, she felt a familiar heat in the back of her head as her suit pumped more ichor into her spine. 

Cere and Vacuous Hand screamed in unison, wrenching the blade from their chest and biting down on the throat of the demi-lancer below her. Blinded by fury, they grasped its plated neck and pulled, ripping it clean off in a shower of black gore. Then, pulling out her yet-unused shotgun, she placed its barrel over the centre of the now-paralysed mech’s chest, and pulled the trigger. Cere almost smiled as the rounds tore through armour and pilot alike, rending metal mingling with a gurgling scream. She faded into darkness, and instinct took over.

Vacuous Hand turned, the sudden influx of ichor sharpening its vision as it spied the way further into the landship. The gilded walls were lined with pipes and cables, their gold fading to almost black and white as she focused on navigating the massive war-engine. She could feel the ichor knitting together the wound in her and her pilot’s chest, pulling her arm back into place, but it would be a while before she could function fully. The halls were quiet, with presumably most of the crew manning weapon emplacements or monitoring the treads. But even in her bloodlust-blackened mind, Vacuous thought something was off. This landship was transporting supplies for establishing a mine. There should be foremen, quarters for miners, at the very least some mud on the floors. But there was nothing. 

As she stalked the corridors, she saw a large door labelled ‘Hold’, beside which sat several piles of flowers, and what appeared to be bottles of incense or perfume.  She tore the door open, and was confronted with the answer to her question. The hold contained various crates of equipment, picks, sledgehammers, all sorts. To one side, several grubber frames sat, their forklift-like arms ready for hauling mined urelium. But still, she wondered where the miners themselves were. Then she caught sight of the strange galvanic chambers at one end, their iron caskets shaped eerily like coffins. Beside them, several staves topped with black crystal stood, quietly radiating an aura of cold death. She glanced to the centre of the hold, and found the reason the door had been decked in flowers. In the middle of the floor, a large grate had been placed and, just below it, was a huge pit, filled almost to the brim with corpses in varying states of decay. Each shared a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and while the grate was still as sparkling steel, the floor around it was splattered with blood. The corpses were varied in species, mostly being humans or orcs, and maybe a few dwarves-

No. Those were not dwarven corpses.

Instead of the bile that might have risen in an organic throat, Vacuous Hand felt only a thick black rage. 

Varis would die, and like Tisea wished, it would be slow.

She left that hold silently, pausing only to locate a barrel of oil, which she doused the corpses in before igniting them with a spark from her talons against the blood-splattered floor. The smoke rose thickly from the pit, choking the corridors of the landship as she crept up the staircases into the upper decks.

She passed into an armoury, gazing at the ornate shelves that put her own meagre supply to shame. As she did so, a cavalier entered the armoury, and in panic she swerved to face it. It was around the same size as herself, and painted a dark green, and carried a simple sword and shield, although both were still overgrown with vine-like gold trim. It seemed as surprised as she was, but overcame this as it charged. Vacuous made to draw her zweihander but-

Shit. The armoury was too cramped to draw it easily, much less wield it. The cavalier’s sword, however, had no such problems, she narrowly managed to step backwards to avoid its thrust. The mech’s eyes gleamed a cold blue through the smoke, and it advanced. She drew her shotgun to fire, but it dashed forward and slammed its shield into the barrel, knocking it from her grip. It punched forward with the shield, sending her to the ground as her already-damaged leg gave way. She rolled heavily as the two-metre long blade clanged into the deck where she had just been, and looked around desperately for an advantage. 

There! A falchion had clattered to the ground when she fell backwards. It was a one-hander, but it would do. She darted forward, grabbing the broad blade and bringing it up to parry another blow from the green cavalier. She punched out with her wristblade, but the Cavalier raised its shield, and the blade stuck fast. It twisted the shield and Vacuous felt metallic tendons snap as she tried to wrench the wristblade free. It didn’t budge, and she barely deflected another blow from the cavalier as it struggled to break free from the grapple. Finally, it was forced to drop the shield, with it clattering to the floor suddenly and leaving Vacuous unguarded. It jabbed its sword clean through her other wrist, causing her to drop the falchion, but as it did so she kicked out at its leg and it tumbled onto her. They grappled, the metal of their frames shrieking and sending bright sparks into the smoke around them. She pinned it down, her knee slamming into its arm as it tried to draw a dagger, whilst with her other arm she drew her own rondel. It was a wicked thing, reinforced adamantine terminating in a vicious point, which she drove into its shoulders, its neck, its chest. Over and over again she plunged the dagger into it, tearing through pistons, tendons and armour until finally, the writhing cavalier stopped moving. 

Heavily, Vacuous Hand got to her feet. Ichor dripped from all over her armour-plated body, and the entire world had devolved into black and white, punctuated only by the fading glow of the cavalier’s eyes and the sparks from the fire below. During the grapple she had gained more wounds than she realised, and opened up a few old ones as well. Now, she limped up the stairs before finally coming face to face with a huge set of doors leading to the ‘bridge’ of the landship, where Tisea had said Varis would be sealed. Before it stood his apparent last line of defence, a row of shield-and-spear-bearing infantrymen supported by a few cuirassiers. She made to fire her machine gun

Click.

Wonderful. Even better, her spare ammunition had presumably been dislodged by the cavalier downstairs. Seeing this, the poor infantrymen must have thought they stood a chance.

They didn’t.

…

Vacuous Hand tore into the doors with hands now stained a deep maroon by blood and ichor. Around her, the remains of the infantrymen were scattered across the landing. A few had almost pricked her with their spears, but it meant little. The door, an ornate thing of wood and bronze, fell away, revealing the bridge within. 

It was as gold-trimmed as the rest of the ship, full to the brim with terrified navigators and deck officers, and in the centre, a throne. Within it sat a small man in an ornate uniform, his gold epaulettes camouflaging him with the gaudy chair he sat upon. His balding head was crowned by a laurel wreath, and he carried a rapier at his side. 

Varis. 

He might have been an impressive display of nobility, were it not for the fact that as soon as the door gave way he scrambled from the chair and half stumbled, half ran for a door off to the side. Vacuous tore towards him, but he reached it in time, leaving the mech to tear through the wall into the next room. The jagged metal sliced at her arms, but at this point Vacuous Hand felt nothing. There was only her and her quarry, and it was getting away.

She dragged herself into the next room, a strange cylindrical space with walls lined with banded copper quite unlike the gold of the rest of the landship. One end extended out past the copper walls, and there stood Varis, grasping at a small control panel. 

Suddenly it hit her. Varis wasn’t running away, he was leading her here. A triumphant grin on his small face, the man pulled a switch and lightning arced between the copper wires, tearing into the mech within the coil. Vacuous Hand screamed, and within it, Cere awoke.

She gasped, coughing ichor into her gas mask. She fumbled for the straps that bound her wrists to the chair, undoing them as she watched through her mech’s eyes as Varis approached, carrying a large spear that featured a large grenade just below its tip.

“Can you hear me, dog? You’ve ruined everything I’ve been working for, so I think I’ll take this slow. I used to be a soldier myself, you know. I can make this hurt.”

The words caused something to snap within Cere, and she tore her goggles and mask off as she leapt for the catch above her. She twisted it open and dragged herself out just in time, as Varis plunged the spear deep into Vacuous Hand’s chest, a small explosion following as the grenade attached to it went off. Surprised, Varis looked up as Cere struggled free from the chainmail hood of the suit. Ichor bled freely from her eyes, nose and mouth, but right now she couldn’t care less. He had killed hundreds. He was Tisea’s quarry. But more than that, He had destroyed her mech. In a couple of seconds he had done what so many of his forces had tried and failed to do, and he did it with some copper wire and a spear. 

He. Was going. To die.

She fell on him as he drew his rapier, and it pierced clean through her shoulder. She didn’t notice, twisting herself just as the cavalier had done to her wristblade and dragging the sword from his grasp. He was stronger than he looked, and managed to push her off him as she pulled the rapier from her shoulder. Now she felt it. He stumbled back even as she shot forward, adrenaline and ichor keeping her faster than she had any right to be. She jammed the rapier into his gut, and he fell backwards.

“How many?” She choked, spewing ichor onto his jacket.

“What?”

“In-in the hold. How many people?”

“How the hell would I know, hound. They’re just meat.”

“Pity. So are you.”

She stood up, and stomped on his leg. Something snapped. Varis screamed.

“Who are you?”

“A hound. Remember? Now. You tell me what twisted fucking justification you have what what I saw downstairs.”

“As if I need to tell a lowborn bitch like you any-”

Cere broke his other leg.

“I’m sorry- I- Workers or slaves were too expensive to feed. This was the most economica-”

Cere’s boot slammed into his jaw. He fainted.

Cere sighed. 

“Pathetic.”

She pulled the rapier from his gut and drove it through his heart. More than he deserved. She made to walk away, but as she did so she felt the ichor’s influence beginning to wane. The pain in her shoulder flared up, and she stumbled. She glanced at the wound. It was bleeding more than she expected. She crawled to Varis’ jacket, tearing off its sleeve to improvise a binding. It wasn’t much, and she did the same to her gut wound. Thankfully, it wasn’t as deep as she feared, and the ichor had already gone some ways to patching it up. Still, now the ichor was gone she doubted she could walk. She slumped against the wall. She hadn’t really considered her exit strategy. She glanced at Vacuous Hand, and its black eyes stared back from within its head. At least they would die knowing they succeeded. That Varis was dead. That Tisea had got what she wanted. Cere thought she might have liked to see her, at least. To give her Varis’ head, or something. She passed out. 

She awoke to the sound of armoured boots approaching. She cursed, but she wasn’t surprised. The fact it had taken this long for guards to even come check was testament to Varis’ confidence in his victory. They were dressed relatively simple, carrying bolt-action rifles and bearing a dagger at their belts. One went to check on the little turd, while another pressed a rifle to her head. She spat a last globule of ichor and blood onto their boot. As she did so, an explosion rocked the landship. The guard glanced up, before a bullet lanced clean through their skull. The second guard rose, and met an identical fate. Cere slumped backwards as she watched through half-shut eyes a figure pick their way across her mech’s fallen frame, flanked by two heavily-armoured soldiers. It dashed towards her, dropping to a crouch in front of her. She had dark skin and hair, and her usually neat jacket had been thrown off, leaving a shirt flecked with a few drops of the guard’s blood. Her eyes bored into Cere as she cupped her cheek in her hand.

“Tisea?..”

“Yes?” Tisea looked almost scared.

“Did I do good?”

“Yes, yes you did.” 

“Then you owe me a new mech.”

That got a bit of a smile.

“Can you wa-” Tisea broke off as she studied Cere’s wounds. “No. No you can’t.”

Before Cere could protest, she dragged her up and slung an arm across her shoulders. For someone who, as far as Cere could tell, had never so much as thrown a punch, Tisea was remarkably strong. 

“Varis fainted before I could do much. Sorry.” 

Cere wasn’t sure Tisea heard her. Instead, she was looking up at the sky above them. The explosion she had felt had torn apart the roof of the bridge, and above them a skyship hovered, waiting expectantly.

“When’d you decide to bring in a ship?”

“Around the same time you set the landship on fire. I thought extraction might be an issue.”

“I would have been fi-” Cere broke into a fit of coughing, and clutched Tisea’s shoulder like she was drowning and her boss was a piece of driftwood. If Tisea noticed, she didn’t show it.

“I’m sure. You two-” she said, gesturing to the two armoured figures. “Get that mech hoisted onto the ship.” She looked down at Cere. “You're going to be fine.” She seemed to be reassuring herself more than anything else.

The skyship descended and extended down several ropes. Cere weakly protested as she was harnessed into one of them and hoisted aboard. She stumbled over to a bench as what remained of her suit was dragged onto the deck of the ship. She tipped forward as Tisea ran to catch her. 

“What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Killed everyone. Got stabbed by that shitstain with a spear. Had to kill him with his own rapier. He fainted too quickly.”

“Don’t worry about that now. You did so good for me. How deep are your wounds?”

“Not sure. I’ll probably be fin-”

Cere pitched forward, catching the gaze of Vacuous Hand as Tisea struggled to catch her. She looked at her mech for a moment.

We did good.

Cere smiled as she black out, and dimly thought that perhaps, Vacuous Hand opened its jaw into something like a grin as they passed out.

We did good.

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

" Aemond is homophobic", "Screw Aemond, he is disrespecting his mother"... Really?

As for the first statement: why does literally everything concerning Alicent have to be about her being deeply in not-so-platonic love with Rhaenyra? Nothing Aemond said implied that it is precisely "not-so-platonic" part he disapproves of.

And here we come to the second one.

For one, there is a war going on/about to begin. The lives of their entire family are at stake, at the very least due to Daemon being involved. As far as Aemond is concerned, the latter is either Rhaenyra's faithful dog who kills for her without second thought (just remember Vaemond's murder) or a mad one who can't be controlled. Either way, bad news - and Alicent still chooses to proceed with caution. To which point must the Greens do so? Till there is no one left of them to get in Rhaenyra's way? Alicent is one of my favourite characters in the saga (at this point "was" might be more suitable) but presently "Alicent holds love for our enemy. That makes her a fool" is basically a statement of fact.

As for the emotional side of the situation, just look at it from Aemond's point of view for a second. To cover her own ass and those of her children, Rhaenyra, an adult, in cold blood demanded for Aemond, a child, to be tortured - for telling the truth and right after Rhaenyra's own son maimed him for life. Alicent defended him then - and Aemond was the one who comforted her with words and with actions when the majority of the people in the room gaped at her as if she was a madwoman. He chased after Lucerys thinking not only of his mutilation having gone unpunished - he also never forgot Alicent being humiliated (hence 'a gift for my mother' line"). But when push really comes to shove Alicent, taking into consideration how high the stakes are, basically turns her back on him and his siblings - because she doesn't want her childhood friend (even if we actually count Rhaenyra as Alicent's friend) to be harmed. What about her children? Grandchildren? Her father? If you look at Aemond's face when he is asking Alicent whether she wants them to prevail, there is hurt in his eyes. And who can blame him for being hurt - and mad - when his own mother is not on his side but on the side of the person who harmed them both before? And if this happens after B&C, he is all the more justified in his feelings.

I might get a lot of hate for what I'm about to say but in the grand scheme of things it looks like as the Dance begins show!Alicent does precisely what Viserys did at Driftmark (and for years before and after) - which is disregarding her children's (in Viserys' case "other children's") best interests for Rhaenyra's sake.

P.S. There is also the fact that Aemond is not one of the most forgiving people in the world (just as book!Rhaenyra by the way). But it doesn't mean that his thoughts and feelings should be disregarded just because they happen to clash with his mother's.

[pruneunfair]

What the argument looks like.

Rashta is still a terrible person! Having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay for her to abuse her power! She needs to face consequences for her actions

Agreed 👍

But Heinrey just wants to defend his queens honor.. he's just trying to make sure Navier can feel safe! ☺️"

Wait but... didn't he steal magic from children?

It was just for war, it was necessary-

And didn't Navier benefit from magic stolen from the mages?...

she deserved it after all she went through! Besides Heinrey gave it all back cause he loves Navier so much! 😊

but wouldn't it had been better if Heinrey actually suffered consequences?

Consequences for what? He already got Navier scolding him.

Yeah and she forgave him 5 minutes later, that's not really consequences that's just a woman instantly forgiving her husband without effort on his part.

Your being unreasonable now, you just don't want Navier to have a husband to defend her.

I-.. when did I say that!?

You were implying it.

How does pointing out that Heinrey isn't a good person either implying I don't want Navier to have a husband who defends her!?

He's a emperor! He has to assert his power so no one threatens him or his wife so it's normal.

Okay but he's doing to this to the extremes.. threatening to fire a man when he is rightfully worried about a new queen with no warning, arranging for a child to be put in danger so he can have a reason to torture a man who only insulted Navier, killed innocent servants in a rampage when Duke Zemensias son tried to kill her-

exactly he's just trying to defend his wife!

Your missing the point.. those innocent people were being made victims just for either not agreeing immediately to Navier or just happening to be at the wrong place at the wrong time..

Well that sucks but at least he's still good most of the time 😌

..okay let me put this in a language I know youll understand: Rashta became a concubine for the protection and guarantee for a life she always wanted right?

Yup.

And when she became empress... her goal shifted to maintaining her position so her 2nd child will have a good life..

Yup.

And in doing that, she harmed innocent people to get what she wanted. People who didn't deserve to die and were just in the wrong place at the wrong time..and easy excuse for her is that she was just asserting her power to defend herself..

I know! Trashta just doesn't know when to stop!

okay... so we agree that while Rashta had her circumstances and wanted to protect her child.. that doesn't mean those people needed to be killed or mutilated..

Definitely!

And she suffered consequences for her actions right?

Haha yeah! Finally getting what she deserves for stealing Naviers man!

Alright, so then if we agree she should face consequences for hurting innocent people, then Heinrey shouldn't be rewarded by the narrative for harming innocent people.

Stop defending Trashta!

Im not.. I'm literally doing the opposite of defending Rashta! I'm pointing out that it is extremely unfair that when a villainess does something evil for her child then it's a horrible decision that calls for her head being cut off, but when the male lead does to same thing for his wife, he only gets a slap on the wrist because "he loves his wife so much!" Both are bad people who take their anger out on the one that can give the biggest excuse to explain why did what they they did. Tell me right now that you think it's fair that innocent people's lives deserve to be ruined at the hands of the Emperor if they inconvenience Navier.

...at least he isn't unfaithful 😌

...

[miraigis]

TMAGP THEORY - EXTERNALS AND THE INSTITUTE

i just finished binging tmp and my personal theory regarding the origins of externals is that they are results of failed alchemy transmutations / failed alchemy "experiments" in general / using previous alchemists's works that were related to the "great work"

like for an example of the last one: inksoul trying to replicate the designs of an old alchemist/artist only for their tattoos to become supernatural as they did it and over time that power started to kind of nestle inside them and take over them.

most if not all externals so far have had mutilated and/or inhuman bodies (needles on skin, literal mascot with organs, etc) and i think its safe to assume that they were people who experimented on by the magnus institute, in order to serve their "great work" whatever it is.

we HAVE seen human transmutation attempts in canon before, specifically in sam's "statement" which takes place at the institute.

hell i think that the "gifted child program" may have been to find suitable human bodies to "experiment" on and try transmutations OR to raise possible future alchemists to aid in the great work

now for my thoughts regarding the archivist, the external that arguably has the strongest connection to the institute. since the institute operates differently in this universe i believe the archive's purpose would be to document and, well, archive past works of other alchemists, sort of like a catalogue or a reference. or if it was statements again (which is also likely due to its tendencies to take people's statements and kill them) it could be statements about the people's encounters with the institute's failed experiments, sort of like? risk assessment? now, the archivist is described with many eyes and wearing old rags. which implies that its been around for a while so my guess is that the archivist is just a failed experiment that never left the institute. OR it was intentionally mutated into a creature whose sole purpose was to feed on fear and encounters

idk man its one am and im shaking cuz i watched like 10 episodes today and finally caught up.. honestly i dont know if this is a previously thought or widely accepted theory in the fandom, i was just randomly thinking while going through the wiki and then ran to tumblr to gather my thoughts, u guys r my favorite autism dump website