#when an absence becomes a presence in of itself

[daenerysstormreborn]

Actually I’m making a separate post about this. Before you read, please understand that when I use the words “feminine” and “femininity” I am exclusively talking about the patriarchal stereotypes, aesthetics, gender roles, and other expectations ascribed to the female sex in a given culture. I do not mean “the intrinsic aspect of being female/a girl/a woman/however you wanna phrase it.” The concept of femininity is a construct. It’s a set of traits and roles and expectations and aesthetics that anyone can have. So when I say that some female characters are more or less feminine, I am not commenting on identity, I am commenting on presence or absence of traits ascribed to girls and women and conformity to sexist expectations. I am making this distinction because in the past it has been assumed that when I said that a girl was less feminine, I was saying she was less of a girl, which isn’t at all what I was saying. Anyway.

I have a knee-jerk reaction to the idea that the only reason Arya didn’t like “ladylike” activities is that she had bad experiences with them with Sansa, the septa, and her mother. Like the one exception to this is that I love the idea that she’d be good at embroidery if she was able to use her left hand. But otherwise I think it risks treading into gender essentialism. Like “the only reason a girl wouldn’t like and be good at “feminine” things is if she had bad experiences.” I know that’s not what most people mean to imply but I dunno I just think it would be really boring if it was like oh turns out Arya loved dresses all along like it gives Allison getting a makeover in Breakfast Club.

Like oh the girl who was insecure about not quite conforming? Well turns out that the answer to her insecurity is to conform! She just needed people to be nicer to her so she could become a feminine girl just like everyone else! No. There’s no power in that. The answer should be that social acceptance allows her to embrace who she is and have confidence in that! I want Arya to wear pants that allow her to run and play with children and a long cloak she’s embroidered with wildflowers. I feel like people generally understand that it’s sexist to have the resolution to the “I’m insecure because I’m not as feminine as other girls and have been mistreated for it” be “now that people have been kind to me I have become as feminine as other girls.” Like Chie in Persona 3. 

It undermines the criticism of the people who were doing said mistreatment. Like “You were right to be insecure! The answer is to change yourself! People bullying you for being different? Never fear! If you simply experience true kindness and acceptance, you can stop being different! No more insecurity because you can be just like everyone wants you to be and society itself doesn’t have to change!” There’s this dissonance in some fans where they can recognize that the way Arya was judged was wrong, but they still want Arya to end up being traditionally “ladylike.” And for me it’s just like. Why. That’s so boring. I don’t hate it as much as Arya growing up to be a ruthless killer but it seems like a betrayal of themes. My ideal end for Arya is that she’s home, she’s loved, she gets to be who she is. She has a family. She’s beloved by all the children in the Winterfell, not just her own. She teaches them about the wildlife and gives water dancing lessons to girls AND boys who want to learn. She braids her hair against her head to keep it out of the way and decorates the braids with flowers. It’s a very “happily ever after” sort of ending of course and not exactly what I think WILL happen (I do not have any idea what her endgame will be, to be clear, I’m just clarifying that I’m not theorizing I’m just imagining the best happiest ending for her I can think of that fits her character).

I just think that Arya doesn’t need to actually like dresses and be good at all the “feminine” activities and hobbies in order for her to be a beloved Lady, and it feels like that’s the undercurrent to the notion that Arya only dislikes traditionally “ladylike” pursuits as a result of trauma

#valyrian scrolls #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #arya stark #if you disagree I’d love to hear your thoughts

[theotherrichardpapen]

nigel & alex - to be haunted by your love

henri nouwen // like minds (2006) // death - melanie martinez // pope alexander - crywank // her mother's kiss - eugene carriere // sometimes i fall asleep thinking about you - catarine hancock // the song of achilles - madeline miller // achilles lamenting the death of patroclus - gavin hamilton // lee martens

#am i happy with this? no. am i posting anyway? you bet your ass i am #another largely experimental post so take it with a grain of salt #honestly i could've just posted the achilles comparison part on its own and liked it better #cause that's really the part i wanted to get to #BUT the song lyrics are so load-bearing to this post. they started the whole thing. so it didn't feel right kicking them to the curb #so you get the whole shamozle lmao #anyway this post is more or less a take on the idea of when people say no one ever truly dies so long as your memory of them lives on #so long as you always carry your love for them in your heart #and how it's always meant to be a good thing you know? a positive thing #but what happens when it's not. what happens when their memory is a weight you drag forward? when that love is a haunting #when an absence becomes a presence in of itself #and you wish you could be rid of it. but you can't. and now they're in everything you do. they're everywhere you go #a permeation over every aspect of your life? how are you supposed to handle that kind of feeling #in the end this was more or less me scratching an itch wondering what life for alex was like after nigel was gone #and how fundamentally nigel does end up gaining immortality by living on in alex's memory #and arguably by becoming a part of him too #maybe my brain just hasn't fully recovered yet from being sick 🤡 #like minds #murderous intent #nigel colbie #alex forbes #web weave #quotes

[diorcities]

one of the girls

pairing: famous!haechan x afab!reader. genre: smut. content: manhandling, brat taming, o. denial, o. control, unprotected sex, clit stimulation, creampie, princess treatment, argument for pride, stubborn reader, mean!hyuck.

party halls. fancy cars. effervencent champagne. dazzling nights.

in a room full of men thinking important thoughts, he steals the show. flirtatious whispers coming his way. the sighs that his cut-out profile draws, smiling because he knows the effect he has on people. lots of broken hearts wherever he goes. except one. or ones; he is the embodiment of romanticing. looking from below with his bright wild eyes as he takes off your shoes and kisses your ankles before leaving you powerless because he knows the effect he has on you.

dribbling the crimson liquid into the glass, your eyes cascading over his silhouette at the other end of the room. inhaling the exquisite scent of the liquor. the lipstick traces the edge of the glass, reminiscent of the hue delicately unveiling itself beneath the collar of his shirt as he unfurls the knot of his tie. muscles automatically flexing in the task as his lower lip, kissed a million times, is captured by his canines.

despite their delicacy, the movements carry a nuance underlying the grace of his gestures, and the aroma that envelops him is so exquisitely intoxicating that your thoughts are spilled all over the room. as if he carries with him the very essence of seduction. his masculinity is pronounced, yet seamlessly fused with a continuous subtlety. devilishly attractive, he exudes an allure so undeniable that one can't help but think he is well aware of his own magnetic presence.

you still feel the bubbly taste of wine on your tongue as you place the glass on the table and cross the hotel room as you catch him smirking because he's aware you tried to keep your breathing sounding rhythmic as his dazed eyes fall on you when your fingers tangle with his, honey hair tickling your forehead. “allow me.”

your thoughts are still messy everywhere. in his eyes like two wild suns, in his adam's apple when your hands venture up to his neck, undoing the knot because even though it's devilishly attractive, alcohol still has the same mundane effect on him.

he looks through you. as he's aiming for your heart, his hands ready to rip it apart before he decides to take care of it instead. fiddling with the cord of a bow almost undone in the restless night with his bewitched eyes following the stroke of his fingers burning the skin of your chest.

he leans in and his lips seek yours to press a small kiss. and then another. and another. until the ephemeral becomes everlasting. “i want you.”

“i know.” he hums in response, almost nonchalantly were it not for his velvety eyes still spilling on your lips and his tongue teasing the inside of his cheek. your eyes drift from his tongue when he wet his lips where your skin burns and tickles. “it looks good on,” he pronounces as you observe he knotted the loose bow again.

your lips stretch into a sharp smile, reluctant to show whether that could have affected you. “you're not special,” you say, “i'm not gonna remember you just because you've been putting your best behavior and decided to not have sex with me.”

he stays magnanimous as the anger starts to crisp you when he laughs with light amusement, “oh, i will fuck you.” your brows cloud in disbelief, which leads him to smile even wider, “i prefer it with clothes on.”

you're too stunned by his confession to feel him pull you to himself and leave a kiss on your wet mouth. much more disoriented when he murmurs against your mouth, too fond to be snarky, “is that okay with you, angel?” without waiting for an answer to kiss you deeper as he knew the absence of your answer already.

it's very hard to spin thoughts now that his mouth won't stop moving over yours. more intoxicated by the taste of his tongue than the liquor that runs through your body. “lay down,” he asks when his hands are already pushing you into bed. his footprints burn your skin. you look at him through the thick haze of your chaotic subconscious while furious flutters take place in your stomach.

“i thought you like it with clothes.” your voice comes out thicker and deeper than you want it to be. pure desire intermingles, and haechan can sense it as he unbuttons his shirt, raising the gaze that holds the answer to your intrinsic question. your clothes remain intact while his is disappearing, watching him taking his shirt off, you let the complaints to die on your tongue at the sight of his tanned skin.

his hands slide into the buckle of his pants and you hold your breath. face burning from trying to contain the flames rising up your neck. feeling the fire twitch in your stomach, and stream to your hands already perching on him before your mouth does. kisses pressed on his waist, in the valley of his stomach that leads to his sternum.

he stops every motion treasuring your lips on his skin, “weren't you taking off your pants?” his gleeful chuckle vibrates against your palm releasing liquid desire in your belly. your fingers pull down the piece of fabric as you keep kissing his warm, soft skin, so dangerously close if you just slide your mouth a few inches lower to his growing bulge. “want me to take care of it?” you inquire.

haechan catches one of your feet in his hands as you drop to the fluffy surface. a smile dances on his lips as he pushes it to open. “you will.” his hand wraps around your ankle and holds you in place on the edge of the bed, as you revel in his anatomy. eyes gleaming at the view when when his erection hits the spot where your lips were pressing a few seconds ago.

you shallow and he notices it, “don't worry, pretty. it'll fit.” wanting to hold it for yourself is a lot of greed that you're not willing to reveal, so you bite your lip as your eyes fall on the ceiling, trying to take away the appetite from feeling it in your mouth before answering, “so?”

his hand drags down the back of your neck, suspended above you as he places a long, lush kiss on your mouth. you feel him venturing under your skirt before his warm fingers meet your bristling skin, a triumphant smile rises on your lips as his mouth drifts toward your neck, releasing a small hiss as he realizes the lack of garments underneath the fabric.

he's flushed. moist eyes clouded with ache burning his pupils. “fuck you— you're playing filthy.” his raspy voice sends you to the edge of the world. “i'm not playing anything,” you feel your tongue unravel to respond with difficulty. he grunts. lie. he knows you were. all along. your games, all dirty. the constant competition to know which one bewitched the other.

just because you didn't want to admit that you were the first one to give in.

you press your lips together when he slides through your silky folds. he curses and you roll your eyes. “already this wet?” he clicks his tongue, drawing circles on your clit. the drunken taste of his tongue mingles with the wine flavor when he kisses you firmly. your breath is caught in your throat when his digits switch the intensity of the motions.

your warmth aches for him. legs spreading cause him to increase the enhancement of his strokes. silent hisses leave your lips the moment he pulls away just enough to look at you. “let me hear you.” his eyes eclipsed in two black orbs. he chuckles, “need help with that?” your lip is caught between your teeth when you sense him guiding his fingers to your entrance. fuck.

you're hazing. blurry thoughts as electricity is shot into your bloodstream. haechan eases his fingers in you, pumping with a steady pace, making sure you're feeling him. watching you from above as you twitch due to fire pooling down your legs. your being is burning and your chest is filled with dying moans. eyes rolling back when your walls clench around his tick fingers fucking the shit out of you. “let me stretch you pretty for my cock,” he coos. lush growing a hole in your belly as his relentless strokes send you to the brim, accentuating the strength and depth with which he buries his fingers in you, threatening to shatter you.

his firm grip lands on your collarbones. you're a mess uncontrollable. arching your back and squirming under his gaze. sensing your stomach tightens violently when you feel the crushing climax looming in your body, clouding your mind and filling your ears with white noise. your belly contracts and shakes, your legs jerk, and your mouth opens. a whine finally escapes from you when he stops all the actions.

you are beyond confused, dazed and disoriented. your mind takes eternal seconds to process the fact that you were about to unleash the ecstasy before he, who grins at you, ceased it all. you don't give a fuck at this point. the moans fill your mouth now turned into gloomy sounds while your eyes search for him in distrust as they begin to well up with tears. upset. vexed.

“haechan.” he kisses you and you sob. haechan's tongue press against the pulsing vein on your neck, “the only way you're coming tonight is on my dick, precious.” your fingers bury themselves in the tender skin of his shoulders, arching your back. a pant leaving your lips as the swirl of emotions takes place in your belly when he sucks gently. one of his hands grasps your waist making sure to exert force in it, “stop being a tease and be a good girl, yeah?” before you feel him guiding his tip between your folds. your body trembles at the sensation of his cock being lubricated with your arousal. your mind scatters in all the places he's present. physically and emotionally.

a high-pitched sound echoes in your throat when he thrusts you with ease, feeling every inch expand your walls. your head lolls inadvertently aware of his thick length pushing in. he grunts, wild eyes as he hovers over you to have a full view of you taking him. of his dick burying into your aching cunt.

hair being pulled as you curl under him. hand reaching his on your waist unconsciously when he starts to thrust. so torturously steady, so painfully rough. you feel him everywhere. your pulse quickens and pumps your ears. face burning and cheeks wet. your mouth feels dry and something warm and smooth takes place inside. his cock hammers your soaked pussy and your ears fill with the lewd sounds every time he sinks into you. “d-don't cut your hair—.” he hums with amusement.

a shudder whips you and you're a mess of tears and strangled sighs. hands clenched in your chest as haechan buries himself over and over again mercilessly, shaking your body due to the force he exerts every time he pushes you towards his pelvis before meeting you halfway and fucks into you, leaving you breathless and counting stars.

he breathes sharply, “not a single word of how good i'm fucking you?” you're numb, feeling more that hearing the lewd of your arousal mixing around his. “in subspace, angel?” he bends over you, bringing your legs with him. his hands stop caressing your inner thighs to go to your chest. your fingers tangle with his when he undoes the bow that keeps your blouse on, “should i stop?”

your body goes into alarm at the same time your stomach closes and twitches, “please don't.” haechan pulls away from you, decreasing the pace of his thrusts. a pant leave his mouth half-open, looking disturbed all of a sudden before you sense him twitch between your walls. eyes closing tightly as he rocks his cock back and forth, hand going towards your cunt to start circling your clit. your pussy throbs knowing he's so close.

your heart skips a beat. your whole body is covered with pure pleasure. raw. and you feel your blood boil when you think you're burning at any moment. pearlescent skin in sweat. wrinkled and ruined clothes, cuffed by his hands as he buries himself and hammers his cock into you. pelvis pounding you rhythmically, bringing you to the intoxicating sensation of climax destroying your belly. a painful sharp pleasure fills you up.

“you've been snarky all night, shall i remind you your place?” one of his hand gropes the soft skin of your breast. the mere touch stuns your senses and turns them into a whirlpool of ecstasy.

“'m so clo—se.”

your pussy starts pulsating and he can't take his eyes off your breasts wiggling to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“i can tell that.” your hands sting when he takes them in one of his, bringing them to your stomach and exerting pressure where it burns deliciously. “feeling bold telling me how to make you feel good?” he clicks his tongue, “answer.”

“please, don't stop,” you plead in despair. “i love you.”

your boyfriend chuckles with tender, “i love you, too. but that's not what i want to hear.” he increases the pressure on your swollen clitoris.

you gulp, suddenly flushed. “fuck,” you mutter, “—feel so good, 's too m-uch.”

you groan in despair as the world crumbles and blurs around you. sinking into a total catalytic state feeling every nerve ending twitch and release itself when haechan fucks you hard against the mattress, “s-such a brat.” a pleasurable pain whips and contorts your body when he coos, “just like that, keep moaning like that.” arching your back towards him as his cock pulls you to the edge of the world and drops you into the welcoming ocean of breath-taking spasms. it feels too much, so intoxicatingly sensitive when he keeps thrusting you until you feel him tremble and stop with a restrained whine.

you feel him pull out his erect dick and start stroking it as he growls before you feel his hot seed coating your pussy. his cum spills into your folds, dripping down your cunt before he guides his tip along the path it leaves to push it into you. hand on your knee to make sure you don't close your legs as he gazes at your destroyed pussy filled with him.

“at one point i need to go get clean,” you say snarkily.

he creeps towards you with a grin, “allow me.” before depositing a trail of kisses down your stomach until you can't keep holding his gaze when he buries it between your legs.

your sharp breath freezes in your throat.

#haechan smut #donghyuck smut #lee donghyuck smut #nct 127 smut #haechan hard hours #haechan hard thoughts #nct dream smut #♡haechan

[grimm-writings]

rainfall

…ft! dazai, chuuya, fyodor x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, some hurt/comfort on dazai’s, headcanon format, rainy day off with the boys!

…wc! 308 ; 369 ; 345 = 1022 

…notes! i don’t think i’ve ever seen fluffy idiot content of fyodor. i must rectify this.

Dazai

Dazai treasures rainy days more than anything.

“Oops sorry Kunikida, I can’t come in to work!!! Rain is just sooo heavy you know?”

The office is literally down the block he’s just not bothered

Who needs work when he has his beautiful partner?!

That’s what he whispers to you with a giggle and a grin as he nuzzles into your back.

Most times, that’s all it really comes to: a sleepy Dazai, cute compliments, and being lovingly held against your will.

Other days, it isn’t so easy.

He’s like a rock. The only notion you have that he’s awake is one of his eyes staring at the window outside, at the rain.  He doesn’t even message about his absence in advance this time – that’s up to you.

He isn’t as snuggly, but he doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms around him and holding him.

Eating isn’t exactly something on his mind on these sort of days.  Even with that in mind, he’s always sure to quietly thank you when you hand-feed him meals.

Those days are difficult, but you make them easier.

“You have work today, right?  Don’t bother with the dishes,” Dazai calls out to you from the bedroom.  The clattering of the porcelain couldn’t exactly be hidden, you admit. Dazai sighs as you continue washing and drying.  New weight on the bed behind him makes him aware of your presence a few minutes later.  Your arms wrap around him without hesitation. “You don’t have to stay,” he says to you when the silence becomes too much for him. You merely snuggle further into his bandaged body.  “Yeah.  I want to, though.” To his own surprise, Dazai relaxes into your touch and words. “...Well.”  He smiles for the first time all day, softly, and his eyes linger up to the rainfall again.  “If you say so.”

Chuuya

Days off are all too rare in Chuuya’s line of work.

As soon as he’s free, he’s tiredly at your side, and he is not leaving.

Seriously he is … so clingy when he’s tired.  Whether you’re shorter or taller than him, prepare for his arms to be slung over your shoulders and his face in your hair.

Mention it to him and he’s grumbling all crabby lol.

You’ll have to wake up in the mornings to his work clothes sloppily discarded throughout the hallway to your room.  He wanted to conk out STAT.

He insists he’ll pick it up later (when he’s getting dressed for work again)

Rainy days aren’t exactly anything that stops him from working, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the opportunity to call in for a day off once in a while.  He can almost hear the smile on Mori’s face over the phone telling him to enjoy it.

He’s fairly average at cooking when he eventually does get up, maybe sometime in early afternoon.  If he’s too sleepy though?  …Yeah, keep him away from the heat.

Overall, it feels… super domestic having these free days with him.  He wouldn’t mind this every day, if the opportunity presents itself.

If you knew you’d be greeted to this, you would have woken up a little earlier to at least catch him. “Mornin’!”  Chuuya leans back against the kitchen counter, breakfast on the table between you two.  A tired smirk is on his face, proud of his cooking.  Simply dressed in his work shirt and his boxers, the look of him is just too much for you to handle right now. You walk over to give him a small peck on the cheek, thanking him gently.  As you eat, wondering what it’d be like if he could make you breakfast every morning, you glance up and point a fork at him. “After this, I want some snuggles for at least another hour.” Chuuya couldn’t stop himself from scoffing playfully at your ‘threat’, resting his chin on his palm.  “Well… I’ll see what I can do.” You smile, digging back into your food.  You know he wouldn’t let you go once you’re back under covers.

Fyodor

It all started with you judgementally asking if he even has a life outside his work.

You didn’t expect him to get so offended, but his glance over and raised eyebrow gave you all you needed to know about his answer.

The next morning, you didn’t expect to actually have him be beside you as you shake slumber off you.  He’s almost always at his computer by the time you’re up.

It’s not as if Fyodor is neglectful in any way, he’s just … a little peculiar in his habits, for lack of any nicer terms.

Before you could even ask, he’s already greeting you in a gentle voice, tacking on a sweet nickname on the end of it.

Oh.  Oh he was awake the whole time.

This is a competition to him.

You could almost sigh in disbelief.  For someone supposedly so intelligent and wise, he sure has his moments.

Rainy days with Fyodor are spent with him suggesting activities to do together, but it’s very obvious he just put “at home activities” in the search bar and clicked the first link.

You don’t remember having this many board games.  How did he do this.

The night comes to a close as Fyodor sits with you in his lap, finishing up some professionally recorded opera of sorts.  You couldn’t understand half of it, but Fyodor laughed at it a few times, so it must have been good.  His chin rests on your shoulder and you can feel his smile. “So, did I prove you wrong?” “...What, about having a life?”  You can’t help but roll your eyes.  “You sure proved something alright.” Fyodor hums, sarcasm dripping from just that single note.  “You should treat me more fairly.  I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” You would bite back with another retort, if not for Fyodor twisting his neck so he could peck your lips before resting back against the chair. Trying to ignore the flush of your cheeks, you sigh.  “You’ll get it with practice.” “Ah, so there IS a next time.” “Shut it.”

#✮ grimm's fics! #bsd #bsd x you #bsd x reader #bsd imagines #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #fyodor x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd scenarios #bsd fluff #bsd headcanons #osamu dazai x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #dazai fluff #chuuya fluff #fyodor fluff #bungou stray dogs

[yandere-toons]

Matthew Patel

Romantic Headcanons – Yandere

WARNING: violence, death, implied stalking, mentions of religious concepts, toxic mindset.

From the moment you invite Matthew into your life, he will carry that memory to his deathbed. The bond you forged that day is unbreakable and immortal for him: he will go blind to all other reasons for living, consumed with rage at your absence, and ecstatic at any sign of your favour.

Talk of other suitors sends Matthew into a frenzy from which he will not emerge until this obstacle to his happiness is laid low. Dispute over the value of certain traits leaves Matthew resentful—of himself for not being better, of the other person for possessing what he lacks, and of the universe for cursing him with such horrid luck.

When such a person speaks your name, Matthew is driven by his own insecurities to loathe them. The sound of their voice becomes like a cheese grater to his ears, a reminder of how close he is to losing his world for the second time, and from thence into a sound he will fight to the death to silence.

The look of this person, particularly when they light up at the mere mention of you and receive such a look in kind, is a ghastly thing. Matthew's takeaway is one of doubt and bad memories, of all the similarities to Ramona's waning interest that he had been too immature and inattentive to rectify. He vows not to make the same mistake twice.

Seemingly overnight, Matthew transforms from a brooding presence lurking in your shadow to a wellspring of offers to solve even the smallest of issues. He makes a habit of dropping to one knee and delivering a Pagliacci-esque soliloquy about how deep his affection runs, professing that you've become his whole world and that to lose you would leave him with nothing.

Despite your promise not to "betray" him, as Matthew so graciously puts it, he fears it would be a mistake to let his guard down. He believes you were sincere at the time, but Ramona's flippant attitude has left him anxious that you may change your tune and turn your back on him for no apparent reason.

For years, Matthew sought answers as to why she hurt him: on bad days, he blames her for playing with his emotions; on worse days, he blames himself for not trying hard enough to become someone she wanted. Now that he has another shot at human connection, this earth will burn before it slips away from him.

Matthew's actions arise from a peculiar sense of justice: he views himself as retribution sent down upon all those who have wronged you. By daring to replace him, their way of looking after you is inherently and unforgivably flawed. Someone who could, in reality, be quite decent will devolve in his mind into a parasite who takes advantage of you.

Whether they are cruel or kind-hearted, what obsesses Matthew and keeps him stewing for potentially years is the notion that they've robbed him of his one chance at happiness. So long as they keep you company, he sees his future darkening.

What should be a private affair, Matthew turns into a spectacle: he takes to the stage in his most flamboyant attire and declares war, goading his enemy to meet their doom at his hand. Everything, from the venue to the battle itself, is a power play, a performance art in which he displays his prowess for all to admire and envy.

Once he has struck the first blow, there is no version of events where Matthew shows mercy or admits defeat. The harder they fight, the prouder he is to butcher them. Their death will be a triumph, a testament to the fact that he is strong enough to win this war. Anyone who rolls over in the face of his challenge must not be truly committed to you and therefore deserves to feel his wrath for stringing you along.

Coming to over the shiny remains of his enemy, Matthew forgets his rage and revells in the thought of having the sole being who brings him happiness. Ready to pick up where he left off and confident he's earned that right, Matthew throws himself at you and proclaims how thrilled he is to be together again.

Matthew struggles to move beyond the past and to envision a future where he is alone. Having spent much of his life pursuing others, Matthew has no concept of living for himself. He stakes his survival on the volume of applause at the end of every performance, and in the home environment, his tendency to cling to petty recognition has taken root in all interactions.

This emotional hunger reveals itself in the unnecessary extremes to which Matthew proves his devotion, convinced that the obsequious nature of his company and continual sacrifices gives them meaning. He jumps at every opportunity to be near you, no exceptions, afraid that missing even one will be termed neglect and spell the ruin of his life with you.

At his best, Matthew is an unrelenting thespian who serenades you with ballads and calligraphic poetry. But at his worst, he is an unstable and violent creature full of pent-up rage, who conspires with Daemonettes to bind your soul to his, making it virtually impossible to give him up for another.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

#Matthew Patel #Scott Pilgrim #Scott Pilgrim vs the World #Scott Pilgrim Takes Off #Imagines #Reader Insert #Yandere #X Reader #Yandere x Reader #Yandere Imagines #Yandere x You #Yandere Headcanons #Gender Neutral Reader #Scott Pilgrim x Reader #Matthew Patel x Reader #Yandere Scott Pilgrim #Yandere Matthew Patel #Yandere Writing #Fanfiction

[pennyblossom-meta]

A short study on the origins of Gale Dekarios

Going through some game information and Forgotten Realms lore, I found some interesting tidbits about the possible origins of Gale and the Dekarios clan. So, what do we know?

After finding Tara in Act 3, there's a dialogue tree (as of yet still bugged 08/12/2023) where Gale tells us that his surname comes from his mother, Morena Dekarios.

Gale: (...) Courtesy of my mother, the inimitable, dare I say it, sometimes unavoidable, Morena Dekarios.

There isn't much to go on from this. Other than a brief mention that Gale's parents denied him a kitten, we don't know where his father is or what happened to him. Indeed, the surname Dekarios could be inherited from Gale's mother or even his father's side — and for the latter we can assume Morena took on the surname sometime after marrying Gale's father, thus becoming her son's main reference for the rest of the clan upon her husband's absence/death.

That being said, I can't find anything about the Dekarios surname within DnD lore. What we do know, is that Gale's clan is scattered far and wide, perhaps even beyond the Sword Coast.

We also know that Gale is of full human heritage, at least from his closest ancestry.

Now, let's dig in a little deeper.

There are several human ethnicities throughout Faerûn.

As of DnD 3.5, there are seven major ethnic groups widely recognised: the Calishites, Chondathans, Damarans, Iluskans, Mulan, Rashemis, and Tethyrians.

However, as of DnD 5E, the Player's Handbook adds that there are actually nine major ethnic groups in Faerûn, including the Shou from Kara-Tur and the Turami who are native to the southern shore of the Inner Sea. In 3.5E, these groups just receive a brief mention, while in 5E there's more of an attempt on expanding their lore.

Note: If you're interested in knowing more about the different ethnic groups in Faerûn, I would suggest reading the Forgotten Realms: Races of Faerûn (2003), the 3.5 Player's Guide to Faerûn, the 5E Player's Handbook and the Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide.

Here's a useful map of Faerûn from 3.5E.

It's actually the 3.5 Player's Guide to Faerûn and Forgotten Realms: Races of Faerûn that gives us more in depth information about which communities have a major presence in different areas of the Sword Coast.

For example, while Gale and his mother live in Waterdeep, we don't know whether they moved to the city when Gale was a child or, perhaps, his parents always lived there. Perhaps generations of Dekarios lived in Waterdeep — including Gale's aunt Agnes.

Without further information, it's possible that the Dekarios clan even has their ancestral roots beyond the Sword Coast. Who knows?

According to 3.5E, the recommended human subraces in The Sword Coast are the Illuskan and Tethyrian.

In Waterdeep, it's the Chondathan, the Illuskan and Tethyrian.

Given what we know of Gale, lorewise, what would be the most accurate ethnicity for the Dekarios clan? Let's see what the handbooks say about the three major groups in Waterdeep.

--

The Chondathan

Races of Faerûn (2003): (...) Although Chondathans make skilled mercenaries and cunning rogues, Chondathan culture, has not encouraged study of the Art or great religious fervor. Notable exceptions exist, particularly in the study of the Art among the Netherese influenced Chondathan cultures that lie north and west of the Inner Sea.

(...) Those Chondathans who dwell north and west of the Sea of Fallen Stars (except in Sembia) are more likely to have blue eyes and have fairer complexions and darker hair than those born in the South, evidence of a Netherese heritage. In Chondath itself, particularly in the lands bordering Sespech, a significant Shaaran influx in recent centuries has given many natives of Chondath more of an olive skinned hue.

(...) Chondathan Society (...) As Chondathans place a high value on book learning, many receive some amount of schooling while growing up.

(...) Animals and Pets (...) Chondathans favor small felines as pets and hunting companions (...). Tressyms are highly favored by those who can afford them, as are lynxes.

3.5E: Descended from the natives of the Vilhon Reach, these hardy folk have spread to settle most of the western and central Inner Sea region and much of the Western Heartlands. Chondathans form the primary racial stock of Altumbel, Córmyr, the southern Dalelands, the Dragon Coast, the Great Dale, Hlondeth and both shores of the Vilhon Reach, the Pirate Isles of the Inner Sea, Sembia, and Sespech. They are slender, tawny-skinned folk with brown hair that ranges from almost blond to almost black. Most are tall and have green or brown eyes, but these traits are hardly universal.

The Chondathan domination of central Faerún came about largely by virtue of extensive trade and settlement rather than by force of arms. Many Chondathans are merchants of one sort or another, and they are not afraid to take risks, travel, or settle new lands.

5E: Chondathans are slender, tawny-skinned folk with brown hair that ranges from almost blond to almost black. Most are tall and have green or brown eyes, but these traits are hardly universal. Humans of Chondathan descent dominate the central lands of Faerun. around the Inner Sea.

Chondathan Names: (Male) Darvin, Dorn, Evendur, Gorstag, Grim, Helm, Malark, Morn, Randal, Stedd; (female) Arveene, Esvele, Jhessail, Kerri, Lureene, Miri, Rowan, Shandri, Tessele; (surnames) Amblecrown, Buckman, Dundragon, Evenwood, Greycastle, Tallstag

--

The Illuskans

Races of Faerûn (2003): (...) Wizards are rare in Illuskan society. They are widely feared and assumed to be in some way affiliated with the Arcane Brotherhood. Of those who do study wizardry, perhaps the most common specialization is the school of Evocation. Sorcerers and bards are more common among Illuskans, as many Illuskans have a trace of draconic ancestry in their heritage.

(...) Illuskans are not inclined to keep animals as pets, companions, or familiars, as relatively few species are native to Ruathym or nearby islands. Goats, sheep, and geese do better in the cold Illuskan lands than do cattle, swine, or chickens.

3.5E: : The seagoing, warlike people of the Sword Coast, North, the Trackless Sea, and the Desarin river valley, Illuskans are tall, fair-skinned folk with blue or steely gray eyes. Among the islands of the Trackless Sea and Icewind Dale, their hair color tends toward blond, red, or light brown. On the mainland south of the Spine of the World, however, raven-black hair is most common. Iluskans are proud, particularly of their ability to survive in the harsh environment of their northern homelands, and they regard most southerners as weak and decadent. Illuskans make their livings as farmers, fishers, miners, sailors, raiders, skalds, and runecasters.

5E: Illuskans are tall, fair-skinned folk with blue or steely gray eyes. Most have raven-black hair, but those who inhabit the extreme northwest have blond, red, or light brown hair.

Illuskan Names: (Male) Ander, Blath, Bran, Frath, Geth, Lander, Luth, Malcer, Stor, Taman, Urth; (female) Amafrey, Betha, Cefrey, Kethra, Mara, Olga, Silifrey, Westra; (surnames) Brightwood, Helder, Hornraven, Lackman, Stormwind, Windrivver

--

The Tethyrian

Races of Faerûn (2003): (...) In recent centuries, these disparate groups have gradually coalesced into a relatively new ethnic group known as Tethyrians, occupying a vast territory stretching from Calimshan to Silverymoon and from the Sea of Swords to the Sea of Fallen Stars. After centuries of enslavement and oppression by one group or another, Tethyrians are fiercely independent, protective of their freedoms and suspicious of threats posed by powerful kingdoms and empires. Given their disparate ancestry, Tethyrians have never developed a unique language of their own, instead adopting the language of the latest wave of conquerors or refugees. Today most Tethyrians speak Chondathan.

(...) Outside Calimshan, many Tethyrians are craftsmen or caravanners, while others find employment as mercenaries in the employ of other realms. Tethyrians make skilled fighters and rogues, reflecting the struggle to survive successive waves of conquest and generations of warfare. Tethyrian culture has a long tradition of bardcraft, reflecting the absence of a Tethyrian empire at any point ni history and the corresponding reliance on itinerant bards to preserve and spread Tethyrian oral history.

(...) Tethyrians view life as a struggle to be survived through ties to Family, clan, and tribe. To a Tethyrian, freedom is the most precious gift, and the enslavement of another is the greatest sin.

(...) The paths of the loremaster and archmage are both attractive to Tethyrian wizards.

(...) Aside from bards, Tethyrians have not traditionally had access to book learning, although those who do are much esteemed by their peers.

(...) Familial, clan and tribal bonds require that adults look out for one another, so the elderly and those who cannot earn their keep turn to relatives and friends for support.

(...) Tethyrians have strong arcane and divine spellcasting traditions: Bardcraft is revered, and many master bards are of Tethyrian stock. The varied mature of Tethyrian heritage has produced many sorcerers as well. Likewise, the strong influence of Calishite and Netherese cultural traditions has echoes in the large numbers of Tethyrian wizards, although most learn their craft through a traditional master-apprentice relationship, not by attending a formal school.

(...) Animals and Pets (...) Tethyrians are partial to canines, particularly those bred for herding, hunting, or working. Falcons (treat as hawks) and swamp ferrets (treat as weasels) are commonly employed in hunting and often serve as familiars. Ravens are also favored as pets or familiars, particularly in the vicinity of the High Moor.

3.5E: The Tethyrian culture is a melting pot of Calishite, Chondathan, Illuskan, and Low Netherese elements. This unique background makes Tethyrians among the most tolerant, though fiercely independent, ethnic groups in Faerûn. They inhabit a vast territory stretching from Calimshan to Silverymoon, and from the Sea of Swords to the Sea of Fallen Stars. Tethyrians are of medium build and height, with dusky skin that grows fairer the farther north they dwell. Their hair and eye color varies widely, but brown hair and blue eves are the most common. Tethyrians are proud of their diverse heritage and protective of their freedom, so they tend to distrust powerful kingdoms and empires.

5E: Widespread along the entire Sword Coast at the western edge of Faerun, Tethyrians are of medium build and height, with dusky skin that tends to grow fairer the farther north they dwell. Their hair and eye color varies widely, but brown hair and blue eyes are the most common. Tethyrians primarily use Chondathan names.

--

Verdict

After analysing these descriptions, I would say that it makes sense that Gale Dekarios can be of either a Chondathan or Tethyrian heritage — though I'd venture a guess that there's a fair mix of both.

Given that the Dekarios clan is "scattered far and wide", it could imply that they're of a mercantile affinity (Chondathan) and thus have settled in various cities along the the Sword Coast and beyond for trade purposes. Further migration patterns veering west, towards the Sword Coast, and an affinity for magic that can be related to Netherese ancestry (Chondathan and Tethyrian) are valid backgrounds for what we know of Gale.

Some things to consider:

The Tethyrians have more of a natural arcane leaning than the Chondathans (Gale was casting accidental fireballs at the age of 8, among other funny accidents).

The Tethyrians form strong familial and clan bonds (Gale has strong ties to his mother, is very family oriented).

Gale has more of an olive skinned hue, brown eyes and hair, as the combo is more common with the Chondathans ethnicity in contemporary Faerûn. It speaks of a Mediterranean background, if we were to compare it with Earth.

The Chondathans also have an affinity with felines, while the Tethyrian veer towards employing animals for hunting and favor birds of prey as familiars.

The Chondathans place a high value on book learning.

Both ethnicities have ties to the Netherese, which creates a compelling narrative device — especially after Gale's fallout with Mystra due to the Netherese orb incident. However, opportune irony aside, I think that what we see of Gale points to a mix of both heritages and that they reflect different sides of him that go beyond ethnicity, as they also affect his background from a socio-economical standpoint.

#bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #tara the tressym #forgotten realms #bg3 meta #morena dekarios #bg3 spoilers #faerun #dungeons and dragons

[yandere-3-sagau]

To Take for Granted

Genshin Cult AU x Reader Angst

word count: 862

warning(s): genshin cult au, angst, neglect, death, mentions of suicide

—

They say to never meet your heroes.

Imagine you isekai but as your mortal self with no special divine powers. Only the knowledge of the characters and the game you played.

At first, the acolytes are amazed to be in the presence of the creator. They worship you, give you everything you could ever want and shower you in praise and affection.

However, the more you stay, the more their affection and worship begins to dwindle.

They begin to lose faith.

You don’t meet their godly expectations. You’re not as divine and all knowing as they had originally thought. They don’t gain any divine blessings or power from worshipping or devoting themselves to you.

You are not their perfect creator, you have flaws. You’re human.

The archons no longer prioritize you, choosing to take care of their prospective nations than to cater to you.

Their attitude change is gradual and you notice their declining interest in you pretty early on, but you can’t do anything to stop it. It’s not long before your lively temple becomes desolate with little to no visitors.

Although you’re hurt and disappointed, you are a bit grateful. You’ve read stories of imposters being slaughtered so you feel like being forgotten is better than being hunted. Still, you’re not one to stay where you’re unwanted. You begin to do research on how to return back to your original world. You’ve had your fill of Teyvat and you think it’s time to go home.

Eventually, you come to the conclusion that the only way to return is to die in this world.

Though you’re scared, you push through and find the most peaceful way to pass. A poison that will stop your heart in your sleep.

After traveling to all of the beautiful viewpoints of Teyvat one final time, you return to your temple and consume the poison.

When you open your eyes once more, you’re back home in your bed. The familiar Genshin Impact loading screen is open on your phone.

With a sad smile, you delete the app.

In Teyvat, the archons, adepti, everyone is panicking.

Plants are dying and the weather is unstable. Farmers are unable to yield any crops from the constantly changing weather. Monsters are becoming increasingly violent and restless and no one can seem to find an explanation.

Until one character remembers you.

Their supposed creator. Everyone decides to pay a visit to your temple on the off chance that you may know of a solution to their current issues.

The area around your temple is peaceful. Birds are chirping, the sun is shining along with a soft wind that keeps the area nice and warm. It’s a stark difference from the cold and gloomy weather all around Teyvat.

They knock on the doors to your temple but no one answers. After waiting for a while, they let themselves in.

They find you laying peacefully on the silk sheets of your bed. Your eyes are closed and you have a small smile on your face. If it wasn’t for your cold skin and the absence of a pulse, they would have thought you were sleeping.

When the archons announce the death of the creator, the cause of all of their problems becomes apparent to all.

The land of Teyvat itself, is in mourning.

The period of morning lasts for one whole year.

Even as the mourning period of Teyvat ends and all goes back to normal, the characters are still not at ease.

When they realize that you’re truly gone, the characters have no idea what to feel. They didn’t notice at first how much your presence truly effects the land of Teyvat.

Something about their world now just seems so artificial.

Without the presence of the creator, it seems as if everything’s become stagnant. Water still runs, clouds still float in the sky but for some reason nothing seems real. The characters feel as if they have no purpose, no drive.

They begin to notice things that they’ve never noticed before. The citizens in each of their nations seem to say the same things over and over again. The people they help with tasks, have the same reoccurring problem. It becomes unsettling.

The acolytes that have originally lost faith have become more religious than ever. They pray every single day, hoping that you’d hear them and realize how sorry they are to have neglected you.

Some have become so devoted to the point of studying how to summon or even descend a god. To forcefully bring you back to Teyvat just so they could see you in person once more.

They had beaten themselves up over the layer of dust accumulated on the furniture in your temple. Now, your acolytes come in personally everyday to make sure every inch of your temple is spotless.

But no matter how much time passes or how much they pray, they are unable to feel your presence.

Though disheartened, they understand. You must still be upset with them but how can they prove themselves to you if they never see you again? However, it’s okay if you’re not ready to come back to Teyvat. They will come to you instead.

#yandere genshin #genshin impact #creator reader #imposter #genshinxreader #creator #god reader #teyvat #archons #Zhongli #raiden #venti #childe #ajax #tartaglia #moraz #kunikuzushi #scaramouche #xiao #adepti #kazuha #thoma #inazuma #liyue #mondstadt #sumeru #genshin angst #neglect #sagauxreader #yandere sagau

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Baki Head Canon:

Mine Mine Mine

Yandere Hanayama Kaoru x Childhood Fem Reader

TW: Jealousy, murder (mention), delusional behavior, power imbalance, yandere behavior, etc.

Aged Up Character. They’re in their mid 20s

Hanayama could remember the day two of you first met. It was in the springtime after his mother had passed away, a difficult time for him that made him nearly empty inside. A time where you, a foreigner, had extended your hand to him with a smile. A small gesture of kindness that scorched itself into his memory for all eternity. This insignificant moment to you, was the start of your love story with him. A foreign exchange student turned violinist and the future leader of the Hanayama group.

Your friendship was originally onesided but Hanayama began to open up to you when he noticed how you didn’t have ulterior motives. You were incredibly naive and kind to a fault. You fascinated him with how oblivious to the world you were. You were innocent like a lamb.

In the early months of your friendship with him, you often brought him homemade lunches with the recent math homework notes (since he struggled with math). You’d often chatter beside him as he silently sat beside you. Hanayana was at first confused by your mannerisms but the more he watched you, the more he understood.

You were the sun while he was the moon. You were a bright warm light that made everything burst to life with a glance while others didn’t often seek out his. Yet you selflessly shared your light with him which made him slowly open up to you. You never excluded him from any of the invitations you’d give to together classmates, which often ended up causing just you and Hanayama to hang out alone.

Hanayama wasn’t sure when his crush on you grew into something more, but he knew he loved you. Hanayama Kaoru loved you so much that he was obsessed with you. He’d get in the way of any potential romance you could have with anyone because in his mind, you belonged to him.

The two of you were a couple. You two went on dates (his classmates didn’t want to be involved with a yakuza)! You’d play your violin for him while he’d watch you like a hawk with the smallest hint to a smile on his scarred lips. That was just the way your relationship was… Hanayama was your protective shadow while you were his shining star.

As the two of you grew older and he became busier once he became head of the family and you grew traction as a violinist, the two of you drifted apart a bit. A fact Hanayama hated. He hated the paperwork and constant ‘business meetings’ he had to go to. It was frustrating that he wasn’t able to be around you. You’re his beloved partner, his future wife.

So Hanayana turned to Kizaki for advice on how to make up for his absence. His right hand man happily suggested gift giving to make up for his lack of a physical presence in your life. And Hanayama nodded his head. You had often said you enjoyed flowers… how about a bouquet of roses?

It started with one bouquet of ruby red roses and that was the start of his swarm of gifts. Hanayama felt his breath hitch at the bright smile on your face at receiving the roses. How your eyes crinkled with delight as you thanked him for the gift. He didn’t know you’d be so thrilled to receive such a small bouquet of roses… would you want more than those ones?

The bouquets become bigger each week. Redder, fuller, and more fragrant. But soon that wasn’t enough for him to see your smiles over flowers. No. Hanayama should buy you jewelry. Necklaces and bracelets from famous jewelers all across the world for his beautiful violinist!

Yet you’d always smile at him and tell him his company was enough. Hanayama couldn’t believe how sweet you were… it only made him want to spoil you more.

Whenever he’d have free time, he’d sneak off to see your orchestra shows. He was your number one fan, the first one you ever had… Hanayama enjoyed seeing how you’d light up the room in awe at your musical talent… until he noticed how chummy one of the bassist in the orchestra started to become with you. You weren’t cheating on Hanayama were you? He really didn’t want get his hands dirty…

You’d always run to his side whenever your shows ended as you thanked him for coming. Your cute smile and flushed cheeks always made his heart flutter… until the face of that bassist snuck into his mind. Should he ask you about that guy? No… you were his.

Hanayama started to grow busier once more but his paranoia about the other man didn’t lessen. No, it intensified due to his absence in your life. Hanayama felt physically ill at the idea of you being with anyone other than him. You were his love. His light. If someone tried to take you away, he’d lose his mind.

So he began to send a few of his men to watch over you… for his own peace of mind (to stalk you). It was just to ease the jealousy that seeped into his heart. That’s all… until they reported how the bassist often seemed to make you uncomfortable. Turns out he was the son of the composer so he often got away with harassing you… and that wasn’t going to fly with Hanayama. No one messed with Hanayama’s woman and got away with it.

It wasn’t hard to capture that man and give him a slow, agonizing death for making you cry, but his involvement made life more difficult for you. He noticed how your solos lessened in the orchestra despite how you were significantly more talented than the other musicians. He hadn’t realized the disappearance of the son would be blamed on you… Hanayama hadn’t meant to make your life harder!

And that’s when an epiphany hit him. Why don’t you just marry him now? You’d live a comfortable and safe life where you could play your violin as much as you wanted! Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Hanayama planned out the perfect proposal for you! One where he had even picked out a dress for you and booked out a restaurant… But when the day came around for him to fetch you, he was shocked that you were a bit frightened by this loud action of love. Did you not like this establishment? Or the clothes? Hanayama could always get you something different!

You shake your head and reassure him, but he still is upset by your lack of interest in this date. Perhaps red would have suited your taste more than black? Or was the restaurant too upscale for your taste? Hanayama would do better next time!

Hanayama is so worried when you tremble before him like a frightened rabbit. His large hand held your small one in his as his eyes softened at you.

“Why are you shaking so much?” Hanayama softly asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper. “Is it too cold in here?”

You sniffle a bit as a few tears fall down your face. “People said you might have done something to Yuki… but you didn’t, right?”

Ah. You wanted reassurance about that man’s disappearance. How kind of you… but you had no need to worry.

“I only ever do anything if it’s in your best interest.” Hanayama gave you a soft smile, one that was specifically reserved for you. He reached his free hand over so his fingers could wipe away your tears. “Your happiness is my number one priority.”

You nodded your head as you leaned into his touch. An action that made a delighted shiver run down Hanayama’s spine.

“You always do so much for me, Kaoru.” Hanayama loved that you called him by his first name. You were the only person in this world that was allowed to do that. “I just feel so bad… is there anything I can do for you?”

Hanayama gave you a sweet smile as he moved his hands away from your form. His right hand reached into his suit jacket to pull out a small black box. Your eyes widened in shock when Hanayama went down on one knee beside you.

Hanayama opened the box to reveal a dazzling diamond ring that no doubt cost a kidney on the black market. His smile never left his scarred face as he stated to you in a stern voice, “Marry me. Marry me and you’ll never have a worry in the world again. Say that you’ll be mine and no one else’s.”

#baki the grappler #baki hanma #baki son of ogre #baki x reader #baki the grappler x reader #yandere #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere baki #yandere Baki x reader #baki hanayama #hanayama kaoru #kaoru hanayama #yandere Hanayama #Yandere Kaoru Hanayama #Kaoru Hanayama x reader #hanayama kaoru x reader #baki headcanons #Baki fanfic #Baki fanfiction #Baki Yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere yakuza #yandere obsession #tw.smut #tw power imbalance #female reader #baki #baki dou #grappler baki

[the-meme-monarch]

hey have y'all seen the game A Little To The Left. yes the cute little organizational game with the cat. i need to tell you about my interpretation of the game A Little To The Left. I'm going fucking crazy.

ok. I think your cat died and you are busying yourself with organizing as a distraction. chapter 1 starts with fixing a lone picture frame of your cat. level two is putting its toys in a basket, with no actual way of organizing it, and the cat itself is nowhere to be seen. yes you see it intermittently after this, when it comes in to ruin the progress you made, but in chapter one your cat isn't the focal point at all and you never see it in full, not until the last chapter, and in the last chapter things are going kinda Unreality, things are moving between picture frames and you can Unmelt candles and move shadows. I think the cat might not actually be there and you’re just getting more In Your Thoughts.

every now and then, in the beginning, when it ruins what you organized, you move on. you don't fix it. playing through I thought that was weird considering the the whole game being about Organizing and Being Very Particular About It. I think you Just Leave because you remember your cat and you need a New distraction. I also think this might be why some of the things you’re organizing don’t make a lot of sense like the tool kit one or organizing your breakfast on your plate like That.

but your cat becomes more of a focus as it progresses, with levels increasingly centered around it/ its presence, but I think it’s more about how you’ve been putting off Really Dealing With it’s absence, like cleaning up the paw prints, like they’ll never leave any more after you finally clean them up.

In the last level of the fourth chapter, you wipe off a flower vase and pick up the flowers to look nice and alive again, then the shadow of your cat looks over them and the flowers die again and it’s implied the cat broke the vase. I Feel Like This Is Your Character. using cleaning/organizing as a distraction to feel normal before remembering your cat and grieving its death all over again. Chapter five starts with picking up the pieces of that broken flower vase.

to rehash what I said about moving to a new distraction when you think about your cat, there’s a level in the fifth and last chapter where when it messes up what you’ve done at your computer space, fix it and you carry on with the level, you don’t leave immediately after. you make constellations of your cat in the sky in one of them. the third to last level is just. petting your cat. the very last level is building a tower for your cat to climb up to the moon. your cat is in the sky. Your Cat Is In The Sky. Do You Hear Me. i think it’s about Organizing Of Course but also quietly about learning to move on from your cat’s death. i could be making this Entirely up but i just finished the game with my sibling and that was the impression I got with the moon thing and everything Now put in perspective and I've convinced my sibling of this and we're Crying

#words from the monarch #a little to the left #animal death #we named the cat Persephone before we knew. bc the name meant destruction. and the cat destroys things throughout the game. #but now with the perspective of The Cat Being Dead. you cat. was taken from you. to the afterlife. aauuughhoooooohhhhhhhhh

[soulessjourney]

Stranger In The Shadows (Part 2)

Paring: Azriel x Reader (Rhysand's sister)

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: It's been almost two years since Y/N disappeared without a trace during one of her missions. Now, she suddenly reappears just outside of Velaris with no memory and a strange darkness enveloping her mind. What secrets does she now hold after her mysterious disappearance? What lies within that abyss of darkness that consumes her?

Warnings: mentions of violence, abuse, blood, injuries, angst, mentions of vomiting

Darkness enveloped your mind, tormenting you with memories of your screams and the sinister laughter of your captors. Vivid images of fire and knives flashed before your eyes as you pleaded for your life. Their faces remained obscured, almost as if your mind shielded you from seeing their true identities, an attempt to protect you from the horrors you had endured. You sensed something building up within you, as if your body were about to ignite. Distant whispers taunted you, a constant reminder that you now belonged to them. You were no longer in control; your mind and soul had been seized by the monsters who had kept you on the brink of death for two years.

The realization was heart-wrenching. You no longer had authority over your own actions or thoughts. Who were you to become after this? A stranger within your own mind and body, a foreign soul attempting to govern a corrupted and broken vessel. The men standing before you were strangers, their faces blurred and concealed by an ominous, amorphous mass that mimicked an evil presence. "Kill them," it would whisper. "Kill them now." Every part of your being ached, and you struggled to contain your nausea. Your mind felt like a prison, and you no longer had control over yourself.

Two months. Two months had passed since you were taken to the House of Wind, since you had lashed out, expelling the darkness within you. Two months since you heard your mate cry out your name upon finding you in bed. As you gazed at the door, you could discern the shadows of the High Lord and the Shadowsinger moving outside, engaged in hushed conversation. Rhysand had introduced himself as your older brother, and Azriel as your mate. Part of you resented not recognizing your own mate or brother.

Rhysand had considered you too dangerous to be left unattended, especially after you had stopped time itself. The shadows whispered curses in your ears, inciting you to harm the two men outside your door. You detested the condescending tone of those voices as they urged you to inflict pain. Groaning, you leaned over the bed, expelling the food and water you had consumed earlier, the sound growing louder.

The door swung open, and the two males looked at you in horror. There you were, on your hands and knees, retching as a black liquid poured from you. When the sounds ceased, a chilling sensation swept through your body before you collapsed on the ground, pale and drenched in sweat. Rhysand called for Madja as he rushed towards you, only to be halted by a shroud of shadows encircling your body, forming a black curtain. The shadows seemed to calm as Madja entered the room and approached you.

This was unlike anything Madja had ever witnessed. What had happened to you during those two years of captivity? Assisting you back onto the bed, Madja covered you to provide warmth and placed a cool rag on your forehead. She motioned for the two males to move to the other side of the room to confer while keeping an eye on you. "This is unlike anything I have ever seen, and I've witnessed countless things I wish I could forget," Madja remarked. "We need to monitor her closely. I'll analyze the substance and conduct some research to identify it. But what both of you need to determine is what transpired during her absence. Rhysand, work on building trust with her, see if she'll allow you into her mind. Azriel, spend time with her, earn her trust, and encourage her to open up to you. Every word you choose must be carefully considered; you're playing a high-stakes game with her life." Madja then moved to clean up the contents you had vomited before exiting the room.

Rhysand let out a soft sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned to Azriel. "How are we supposed to gain her trust when she wants to kill us every time we come near her?" he asked, his violet eyes filled with sorrow and despair. This was his little sister, the girl he had promised to protect and for whom he would sacrifice his life. His best friend who knew all his secrets, the one person he had trusted more than anyone else in his life.

Azriel remained silent as he studied you. You looked vastly different from the last time he had seen you. Your cheekbones were more pronounced, and you appeared paler. The honey tan that once graced your skin had vanished, replaced by a milky white complexion that made you appear almost lifeless. His eyes caught something in your hair, and he raised an eyebrow. Stepping closer, he gently moved your hair aside, revealing a white streak that started just above your ears and ran through your long curls. Examining the other side, he noticed a matching streak. What had happened? Your hair had not looked like this earlier. Reflecting on the moment you had been on your hands and knees, retching up that dark substance, something about it felt ominous. What had they done to you during your disappearance? What coursed through your veins and controlled you? Sighing, Azriel stepped away and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. "I promise I'll free you from whatever they've done to you," he whispered before leaving the room, with Rhysand following closely behind.

After about a week, Rhysand and Azriel had made little progress in gaining your trust. They sat at a table with the rest of the Inner Circle, with Madja seated across from Rhysand, while the Inner Circle watched her attentively. "After examining the substance Y/N expelled from her body last week, I sensed a familiar quality in the power she possesses, and the substance had a peculiar essence," she explained. The others leaned in, hanging on her every word. "She's connected to the cauldron."

Gasps rippled through the room before Nesta spoke up. "So she's like us? But how is that possible? Her powers now rival Rhysand's, and if she wanted to, she could level the entire Night Court," Nesta said, shifting closer to Cassian, who exchanged a nervous glance with Rhysand. It was true, your powers had grown to the point where they could match Rhysand's, and this fact terrified him. He didn't want to treat his sister as an enemy, but if you remained closed off, they might have no choice.

Madja shook her head and turned her attention to the Archeron sisters. "Not quite. You were created by the cauldron, so you have a connection to it, but she has become the embodiment of the cauldron, meaning she possesses its powers. She can also communicate with it, and it exerts control over her. Now, there is a way to save her, but it would involve essentially pushing her to the brink of death to sever the bond she shares with the cauldron." Madja looked at Azriel. "There are significant risks associated with this process. It could awaken the latent power within her, potentially sparking a war, or we might lose her soul and mind, rendering her incapable of functioning. It's akin to the effects of breaking a mating bond, but even more severe."

Azriel met Madja's gaze as she spoke. He wasn't sure if he could bear the thought of losing you, leaving you as a mere shell of your former self. "Is there a possibility that, if we can't sever the bond, we can help her harness the powers she now possesses and use them to protect the court?" Azriel hated suggesting the idea of exploiting your abilities to safeguard their court, but with powers capable of obliterating an entire court in seconds, it was worth considering to prevent further wars.

"It's difficult to say for certain. However, breaking this bond is crucial because it will ultimately lead to her death. The cauldron is slowly draining the life from her, and it's only a matter of time before she perishes. I need all of you to observe the patterns of her behavior, to recognize when she acts out and when she's at peace with herself. She has started recognizing all of you, but the cauldron will go to great lengths to protect its host." The Inner Circle grimaced at the harsh reality Madja described, but it underscored the urgency of breaking this bond.

For the next several weeks, you noticed an increasing number of visitors, particularly your mate and your brother. They seemed to visit at specific times of the day, coinciding with the moments when the power within you remained dormant, almost as if it were sleeping. But it was far from asleep; it was vigilant, observing everything happening around you and eavesdropping on the conversations taking place. It eagerly sought a weak point within the Night Court to exploit, and it delighted in watching the court unravel as the Inner Circle became more determined to get closer to you.

As you stood at the window, your head began to pulse, and the shadows you held seemed to come alive, almost forming another person beside you. You couldn't help but notice the features it possessed. It was you, taking on the form of you, with those unsettling black pits for eyes. "They're going to separate us. They're afraid of what we are, and they want to sever our connection for good," the figure hissed.

"They want to save my life. We all know my body can't handle the power you gave me. Shouldn't you be relieved that you won't have a host on the brink of death every time you lash out?" you countered, turning your gaze back to the window. It felt surreal to be having a conversation with the shadow beside you, but it was preferable to the constant buzzing in your head.

"You are not weak, girl. In fact, you're quite the opposite. You're strong enough to harness the power we possess, but it's up to you to embrace the power we hold. Only then can we become truly strong," the shadow claimed. You laughed, shaking your head at the words hissed in your direction.

"They believe that breaking our bond will save your life, but in reality, it will kill you. I am a part of you, Y/N. They can try to suppress and separate us, but that task is impossible."

You hummed, crossing your arms and fully facing the figure in front of you. "You want me to harm my family. Why would I give in to you when that's your only desire? I refuse to bring down my brother's court for your amusement. Besides, you're nothing more than a tool, a pawn even, to Beron. Why would you want to be nothing more than an asset to someone who doesn't care about your well-being after he gets what he wants?" you questioned, maintaining your gaze on the shadowed figure. Just as the door began to open, causing the shadows to disperse and hide.

As you glanced towards the door, Azriel walked into the room, wearing a soft smile as he looked at you. The more time you had spent together, the more memories of your relationship came flooding back. It brought you a sense of peace to know that you had someone who loved you more than life itself, but it also made it that much harder to trust him. He was willing to put your life on the line to save the court, and part of you resented him for that. "I heard you talking. Was there someone else here?" he inquired, scanning the room for any signs of an intruder.

Shaking your head, you moved across the room and sat on the bed, picking up a book. "No, just talking to myself. I've had a lot on my mind, and it helps to say it out loud," you replied, offering him a small smile.

"Liar," you silently begged him to say those words, but he surprised you by sitting down beside you instead. "You've seemed happier lately. I got permission from Rhysand to take you out for a walk around Velaris tomorrow. We can get you some new clothes and perhaps some of the sweets you used to enjoy." His words shattered something inside you. Azriel was determined to find the old you within the shadows that consumed you, but you knew you were no longer that person. You had died the moment you merged with the cauldron. Azriel's pursuit of the past you would only lead to disappointment.

You nodded and turned away from him, opening your book. You could feel his gaze burning into your head, and you saw his hand move toward you before he thought better of it. The connection between you two sagged in sadness, yearning for his touch. It was a silent and unspoken longing that hung in the air, a connection strained by distance and emotions left unexpressed.

Perhaps one day, you would find the confidence to yield to his touch and bridge the growing gap between you. Inside, you heard the cauldron's laughter echoing in response to your thoughts. You felt lost, powerless, reduced to a puppet serving Beron and the cauldron's will.

#acotar fanfiction #acotar series #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #acotar #acotar fandom #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #sarah j maas #rhysand #angst #acomaf #acosf #acowar #azriel x you #azriel x y/n

[lains-reality]

befriending fear.

from the deleted website 'thewishfulfilled'.

Fear is an invitation to remember who you truly are.

Acknowledging fear doesn’t make you any less worthy of or further away from what you truly desire. In fact, because you possess such fear, you are entitled to receive them. True fearlessness is not the reduction of fear, but befriending fear.

Similarly, acknowledging your shadows does not dim the Light that you are. In previous discourse, I’ve shared that you are the Light in which everything appears, shining with the same brightness, behind and in the midst of all experience – good, bad or indifferent. The shadows you battle against are simply the seeming absence of you. Becoming entangled in the world of shadows is simply the forgetting of your Self; and Light casts shadows that come and go only to remember itself.

The truth is that Light knows no opposition or enemy. Shadows have no separate existence from Light. Your fears are made of you. So when you neglect and numb fear, you neglect your true nature too.

So when are you equating the remembrance of you true nature to neglecting the shadows that you cast?

When are you equating true freedom to fear of your human experience?

When are you equating love to apathy? Creation to control?

When are you placing conditions on the unconditional?

Being in state of the wish fulfilled is not numbing one polarity of and pretending to be beyond your human experience. Learning about who you truly are is not about pretending to be transcendent or fearless, or beyond the shadows.

You don’t need to become disengaged with life in order to manifest your desires. ‘Buying the pearl’ is not about detaching from your human experience, devoid of passion, feeling and emotion, but rather answering your calling to full observation and participation of it, no matter what is happening.

Embodying your true Self concerns more than just manifesting your desires. Conscious creation is a part of conscious living - a way of being no matter what circumstances may arise. A way of seeing through the illusory division in yourself and everything around you. Remembering your interconnected nature with your world and the sacred relationships that sustain life is what allows vulnerable involvement in your fleeting experience. Unconditionally allowing the presence of fear promises true fearlessness.

So befriend fear. Become vulnerable and intimate with this aspect of yourself once again, for it has no authority over you and can never truly overwhelm you. Get up close and personal with fear and rediscover your true nature – that which is fearless.

When you feel fear, drop the label ‘fear’, even for just a moment.

Unconditionally feel the sensations, the energy in your body. Observe and describe the sensations. Does it tickle? Is it warm?

Where is the feeling physically located? In your stomach? In your throat? In your chest?

As you observe these sensations in your body, be kind to them, become intimate with them. Ask yourself: What is it like to feel this way?

Continue to observe and allow all of your stories, thoughts and emotions, resistance and judgements. Watch them appear and disappear, appear and disappear.

Embody Light, and become once again non-resistant to all of the shadows you cast.

When you stop numbing any feeling, negative or positive, you remember that your true Self is a friend to everything.

When you create space in your heart for fear to freely arise and fall in you, you will rediscover that you have no enemies.

this is much more than a manifestation post, read it not for desires but for Self.

#lainsreality #manifestation #fear

[mindfulwrath]

The Triaxial Theory of Horror

I have a theory that most horror fits into a volume of conceptual space described by 3 axes, which are:

Discrete--Diffuse

Mobile--Sessile

Wet--Dry

The Discrete--Diffuse axis describes the source of the horror. A Discrete horror has a physical, usually tangible form; is recognizable as the source of the horror; and takes actions which make it horrifying. On the opposite end of the scale, a Diffuse horror is one with no obvious source, center, or primary actor. Most of Steven King's work falls on the Discrete end of this scale; Silent Hill falls close to the middle; and The Others lands on the Diffuse end.

(As a note, any point on this axis can be done badly; hamfisted Discrete horror rapidly enters a space I call "Ooga-Booga Horror," where the object/entity/what-have-you is so cartoonishly scary as to wrap back around to being silly. Likewise, poorly handled Diffuse horror becomes "Vapor Horror," which is so completely sourceless as to be nonsensical.)

The Mobile--Sessile axis, meanwhile, describes the behavior of the horror. A Mobile horror is one that hunts, pursues, clings, reappears, or otherwise moves around; 80's slasher flicks being a prime example. Sessile horror, in contrast, stays put, and the horror derives either from the inability to escape its radius of influence or the inability to stay away; The Haunting of Hill House nearly exemplifies the far end of the axis.

(Here, too, poor handling can lead to the inversion of horror into comedy, on a scale from "Imma Gonna Getcha" to "Just Leave, Bro.")

Finally, the Wet--Dry axis deals with the effects of the horror, and is essentially equivalent to the gross-out factor. Typically, Wet horror is rich in blood, brains, and body parts, while Dry horror keeps its victims physically intact; however, this scale is not necessarily coupled to the presence or absence of viscera. For example, The Color Out of Space involves significant bodily disturbance, yet remains relatively Dry due to the elision of details. In the same vein (but in the opposite direction), Crimson Peak is an exceedingly Wet horror film, yet utilizes actual gore quite sparingly, preferring to shift the language of decomposition onto the inanimate house; yet its substitution of red clay for blood in no way lessens the Wetness of the horror.

(And as expected, this axis has its own hilarious pitfalls; over-the-top gore rapidly enters "Blood Fondue" territory, while excessively dry horror risks becoming "Totally Scary, Trust Me." Some would argue that The Color Out of Space indeed represents a plunge into the latter category.)

Some examples, then, of the triaxial scale in action:

NBC's Hannibal is Discrete/Mobile/Wet. Hannibal is the primary source of the horrifying events, he can and will chase you down, and when he does, it's going to get messy.

Saw is Discrete/Sessile/Wet. While the threat of bodily harm is similar, and its source similarly known, as in Hannibal, the texture of the horror is significantly altered by the confined setting.

House of Leaves is two horrors stacked up in a trench coat: the parts dealing with The Navidson Record are Discrete/Sessile/Dry, while Johnny Truant's narrative is Diffuse/Mobile/Wet.

Likewise, The Shining nests Discrete/Mobile/Dry horror (Jack chasing Wendy around with an axe) inside Diffuse/Sessile/Wet horror (the Overlook Hotel itself).

Silent Hill, as mentioned, is close to centered on the Discrete-Diffuse axis, and is also nearly centered on the Mobile-Sessile axis, although it is consistently Wet.

The Magnus Archives utilizes all three axes nearly to their fullest extents, but tends to cluster in the Discrete/Mobile/Wet octant.

To be sure, there are elements of horror not described by these axes--internal vs. external, active vs. passive, certain vs. uncertain doom--but as a system for interpreting and categorizing the main structural elements of horror, and particularly for describing one's preferences in horror, the triaxial scale functions well.

#horror #meta analysis #my other theory is that humans love categories #go hogwild

[aphroditelovesu]

Hi !yandere, can I have a love letter for Alexander the Great and Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror (a reader who ran away to his family)

Alexander the Great

My love,

I write these words with a heavy heart and a burning soul, because since the moment you left, my life has become an unbearable void. Each night, I lie in my bed, looking at the space you once occupied, smelling the soft scent of your hair that still lingers in my memory.

It is undeniable that in my quest to conquer distant lands and achieve eternal glory, I have lost myself in my own desire for power and greatness. I realize now that I neglected what mattered most: you, the sun that lit up my world.

I understand that you ran away from me, perhaps rightly so, to find security and peace. However, I can't help but implore you to consider returning. I'm willing to give up everything I've built, all the lands I've conquered, just to feel your warmth one more time.

I promise that I will be a better man, that I will treasure our moments together as precious treasures, and that I will protect you with all my might. My beloved, my heart belongs to you and no one else, and I will never allow anyone to separate us again.

Please think about it, as my existence without you is empty and meaningless. My sweetheart, I love you more than life itself and would do anything to have you back.

With eternal love and longing,

Alexander.

Mehmed the Conqueror

My beloved,

I write this letter with a dark mind and a heart filled with torment, for since you fled, my soul has been condemned to endless darkness. I remember the nights when your smile lit up my world and your presence filled my being with joy. Now, I am consumed by the absence you left behind.

I have committed terrible acts in my pursuit of conquest, but know that they were all motivated by an unhealthy desire to protect you, to keep you safe from any danger that might come your way. My beloved, you don't understand how much I love you and what I am capable of doing to have you back in my arms.

I understand that you ran away from me in search of freedom and security, but, my love, the world outside is dangerous and full of threats. I am willing to destroy any obstacle that stands in our way, to tear the world apart to find you and bring you back to me.

I can't live without you, my beloved. My heart belongs to you, and only you. I swear that I will be better, that I will do whatever is necessary to deserve your presence in my life. No matter where you are hiding, I will find you.

Please consider returning willingly, my beloved. I love you more than life itself, and our union is the only way to my redemption. Without you, I'm just an empty shadow, and my love for you is so deep that the mere thought of living without you is unbearable.

With the deepest love,

Mehmed.

#yandere love letter #love letter #history #yandere history #yandere historical characters #yandere alexander the great #yandere alexander the great x reader #yandere alexander the great love letter #alexander the great x reader #yandere mehmed the conqueror #yandere mehmed the conqueror x reader #yandere mehmed the conqueror love letter #mehmed the conqueror x reader

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Astarion and Tav spar one another. When flirting starts to take hold, things get heated in more ways than one.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 15: Boundaries

Ao3

Next Chapter

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word count: 4.2k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexual Language, Violence, Tension, Act 1 Spoilers

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I have come to know many lover’s secrets as they confided them to me while I stole their moans with my cock. But, Tavelle confided in me for other reasons. Frightened and scorned, she knew no chapel would truly redeem her. I told her we could compare our scars, and the laugh she composed, I found myself chasing after in my trance that night.

— Astarion Ancunín, journal entry 2

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Astarion did not miss the conciliatory presence of Tav since she ended their companionship.

He did not grieve the spooling of his argent hair filaments around her bobbined fingertips, yet he lusted after her crimson essence warming his veins—making his cock weep. The absence left behind of the Amen her thighs shuddered closing around his hips like hands in mid prayer, did not fill him with a yearning materialized by Pothos: winged god of desire.

What he missed was the perceived solution to his troubles that had accumulated in the unremarkable epoch of his life, that he now began to feel in the creak of his bones each daybreak. His real appetency only to be satiated by his viable survival; he would sooner die than once again become a whore underneath Cazador.

Perhaps it had been foolhardy to rely entirely on what he knew instead of focusing more to sharpen the skills he did not—namely faking an annoyingly long standing union with the bard—yet, how was he to know these episodes would suddenly appear, bringing him to ruin. As if being one of his Lord’s spawns wasn’t enough, a final departing gift bestowed to Astarion were traumatic illusions distorting his stimuli. Skewed sensations that he was at a loss on how to deal with as they continued to fuck up his manipulative ploys.

Though, it bewildered the pale vamp why Tav had not asked him to leave their entourage indefinitely. She certainly had every right to do so. In the past week, he watched her peep beneath her stays to check on the wound his knifed cuspids left on her skin like lost shadows. Her breath uneven with each glance. A caged vision where her soul mark sat, now tainted by his hallucinations.

And, why hadn’t she confided in someone about the incident? He noticed she purposely refused to seek aid from any of their cohorts; nor had she gobbled down a single drop of a healing potion immediately after he bit her. Instead, she opted to watch the puncture slowly mend itself, day after day, as if it were a potent reminder of the creature she had entangled herself with.

Or could her intentional omission from their friends be her way of still protecting him?

Astarion realized that despite having a keen eye to Tav’s compassionate heart—as she wore it so dangerously on her sleeve—there was much he still didn’t understand about the woman. He caught himself on numerous occasions thinking about these afflictions that seemed to dull his thoughts in the way opium derived from arresting poppy flowers clouded the mind.

Even now, while she tied her brown waves back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck in preparation to spar with him, he wondered about the hieroglyphs painted inside the shell of her skull he nearly wanted to crack open and decipher.

“Have you finished dawdling? We’re starting to lose light and I promised myself to a rather savory hunt for the evening.”

Tugging a set of dark leather gloves up her artful hands, the songstress briefly paused. “We don’t need to do this, especially if it’s keeping you from a meal. Besides, I’m not even sure why you suggested we spar in the first place.”

“Isn’t it quite obvious?” He goaded with a tilt of his chin. “Our regular means to relieve stress have been halted by your ruling, not to mention, we can hardly agree on your compulsory pursuits. So, all we have left are our blades to steer the conversation instead of our bodies.”

“Or,” he continued with a suggestive smirk, twirling a set of twin daggers in his hands. “Could it really be that I wanted to see just how much I manage to excite you—even to your own oversight.”

Tav flushed, her vision wandering to the rapier at her side. Judging by the battering of her heartbeats, Astarion surmised she was equally vexed and embarrassed at his frankness. His smirk grew wider as he watched the redness spread to her ears. No amount of fighting with the bard could ever snuff out the enjoyment of watching her squirm with a roused state when he stirred her with his coquettish disposition.

It was almost impious teasing her in this way. Taking advantage of the purity in her coy glances. Basking in the trophies of her rhythmic pulses—

CLANG!

Without due warning, she had managed to smoothly unsheath her blade and feint it agilely towards his pale chest. Had his senses not been attuned as they were, a gaping hole could possibly exist where the tip of her weapon now met the side of his dagger.

“Ah, there she is! I do so ever admire this gusto in you,” he growled, pushing his dagger back against her steel.

“Speaking of oversights: you should never leave your vitals open like this,” she pointed out.

Astarion darkly chuckled. “Are you going to teach me how to properly use my blade?”

Her eyes fluttered mischievously, presenting him with her best innocent smile. “Now, why would I need to do that? I think you’ve proven that you’re very proficient with your thrusts already.”

A double entendre? Oh, she certainly didn’t disappoint in placating his amusements.

Forcefully, he shoved her away, allowing him to flip backwards to gain better footing for their next attack.

“If you wanted to turn this spar into a contest of flirting, all you had to do was ask.”

Tav swished her rapier through the air several times before deciding on stocatta lunga stance. “But Astarion, what is sparring if not the ultimate form of flirting?”

Suddenly, she pushed off of her rear shank, providing momentum to her front leg for a direct thrust towards his belly. Quick. Unfettered. Elegant in her movement.

“Touché darling,” the spawn complimented, using both knives to knock the end of her blade off to the side.

Being on the receiving end of her blade, Astarion understood how complementary their light-weighted weapons were to one another. The rapier and the dagger. Enemies and lovers. One prolonging mercy; the other granting it immediately. Both capable of a piercing death.

They danced; they lanced their chests.

Blades aglow, hardened hearts.

Rites performed, faith unseen.

In the name of the steel, the hilt, and the devout thrusts.

Should have brought a short sword, he thought when she countered with a redoublement from a vertical angle. He parried the edge of the weapon, short-stepping out of the way with a balance on the ball of his right foot, narrowly missing contact.

He lifted a brow, marveling at her precision. Gods, she was good. Really good.

This was unlike scrapping around with Lae’zel. While the gith preceded her talent at swinging her sword at a decent speed, Astarion had been capable enough to get within her personal space to demonstrate an icepick thrust at several intervals. He could easily switch between offensive and defensive motions at no cost to his dexterous caliber.

But, he was not prepared for the agile footwork Tav worked to push and push and push him further out into the carpet of wheat stalks. His only ally would be to defend against her passes.

Time to switch tactics.

The vampire brought one of his weapons up in the air at a 45 degree angle, whilst holding the other pointing out towards her at chin level. He crossed one foot over the other, slowly circling around her.

“Tav,” he started in feigned concern, sweat runlets now rolling down his naked torso in a race to his defined abdominal muscles.

The bard retracted into a slip pose, disengaging enough to stall her blitz. “Yes?”

An opening.

Catching her off guard, he falsified an attack, causing her to lift her blade into a shielding position with an audible gasp.

Upon his shifting feet, like airy strides transitioning from one cumulus cloud to the other, Astarion emerged behind her. He wrapped a single arm around her hips into an impenetrable hold, during which the edge of a knife found casual repose at her silken throat.

The bard theatrically laughed, the muscles in her neck contracting against the cool metal. “Like the first time we met. How nostalgic of you.”

She was exceptionally cheeky today. Wordy. Taunting. As if it had instead been her that invited him to a soirée of abandoned gods. Leaving them isolated in a garden. Tempting their playful demons to unleash.

He squeezed her tighter, aligning her kindling rear into his narrow hips. Provoking lips found their way to gravelly reply near her lobe. “I’m a man that favors the classics, what can I say?”

Remaining stationary, her blade arm tarried vertically to her left flank. She carefully turned her head, almost nicking ivory flesh with the sharp temper of his dagger. The apple of her cheek brushed along the tip of his nose as she adjusted the angle of her neck. Part of her intense malcontent with him, evident in the light pink splotches on the top heap of her bosom like stamps of dainty animal paws.

Tav’s heated lips partially opened into a sultry cadence, muted eyes half-lidded. “Having fun?”

Having fun.

It was such a simple question that held more weight to him than she knew. He couldn’t recall a time when he was allowed to have fun at his own leisure. No commands. No conquests. No sex. Thrilling adrenaline reminding him vaguely of who he used to be: man; son; magistrate; human.

He thought back to the past couple of hours out in the rocky field. The rush of avoiding Lae’zel’s gluttonous pendulates with her longsword. Then, the rapt thrill of being kept constantly on his feet by Tav’s slender steel as they both seemed to perform a bourrée dance with their weapons quick successions.

Yes, he was thoroughly and genuinely having a good time.

Within these bounds, he inferred that this must be part of what it was like being treated as an equal. Actually, hadn’t that been true since he joined up with the group? And hadn’t that been largely because of Tav’s influence?

To think, she had initially been selected by him to be part of the key intended to eke together his body and soul back under his own control anew!

She had been the only figure to encourage everyone’s voice to be heard since the beginning. That their individual presence be required when making decisions—even over frivolous matters. Incessantly, she infuriated him and somehow with his knife now capriciously at her throat, he found himself feeling a bout of guilt.

Still, his aspirations to use whatever means necessary to cling to this unripened salvation and murder Baldur’s Gate only vampire lord, took precedence. No amount of regretful twinges rumbling in the occupied borderlands in the casket of his deadened organs—where unsettled thoughts frequently went to be repressed—over swaying her emotions for his personal benefit, would change his due course.

“It’s hard not to with you,” he teasingly whispered.

The undeath draft he exhaled into her skin, caused an invasive shiver down the architecture of her body. The engine behind her living ribs heated the stagnant liquid in its ventricles. Pumping, pumping, pumping to boil fervidly through cylindrical valves.

Astarion’s eyes flickered down to the effervescent aria humming through the sequences of her quivering neck veins. A savage groan balling in the pits of his diaphragm.

Oh, how he continued to crave her blood like an immature young man that had barely gotten his cock wet. Intoxicating murals painted the walls in his mind. Teeth: forming latticework along the untamed heaven across her skin. Rutting perversely into her as his fangs sank in, just so he could again taste forbidden sunlight on his tongue that only arose when she came.

He closed his lids, inhaling her scent deeply. Floral wood and fresh with perspiration. Lost in the boughs of his gluttonous predation. Drowning in memories of his stomach reeling and drunk with her life nectar.

“Hmm. Just like that minor ordeal when you refused to see reason with Gale’s Netherese orb. Were you having fun then?”

“Your loyalty to your convictions is astounding,” Astarion snidely snorted. He drew back the blade from the curve of her neck, only to nestle the point mischievously in the hollow of her throat. “Gale should have long been a blip on the horizon. The man’s more accident prone than a drunk patriar trying to compete in a ribbon pole dance.”

Tav sharply took in a breath, arching her back further into the brisk planes of his chest. “That may be, but he is a good man. Well-mannered and devoted to whatever he puts his mind to. He has been an asset to our team. If you all want to continue on without him, then you’ll have to do so without me as well.”

With newfound freedom to better move, she slanted her neck in such a way that he was able to visibly notice a single bead of sweat trailing down the stem of her head, disappearing underneath the collar of her shirt. “...and my blood,” she added.

Astarion swallowed thickly, his tongue tickling the roof of his mouth as he imagined worrying that sweat drop back up the length of her taut flesh, discovering readied blood vessels along the way.

His bruising fingertips slid from her hip to the thick strap of her leather belt, tracing to the front buckle at a slow pace. “Have you perchance developed a crush on our bumbling wizard? Fancy yourself being lost in the weave alongside him? How romantic.”

Rolling her eyes in frustration, she grumbled through pursed lips. “How silly of me to forget how I’ve longed to be in his arms since the first time he boiled a kettle of water! And being nothing but another tart to you, has finally made me realize who I truly should have bedded this entire time.”

Gods, was she ever bitter!

Though, he wondered if he could lasso back her tender affections for him that were still jutting out of her heart like shards of glass. Tie the finest thread around her body, intending to stitch the distance between them, knowing sometimes desire—her desires—can make people do things they professed to never repeat.

The Knight of Cups arrives reversed, A warning to heed actions that bind a curse. Hallelujah passes their lips as they sup, For only their cracked walls can fill the cup.

By the scent of her torrent arousal, Astarion decided to test the waters.

He placed the faintest touch of his lips upon the moderately faded bite marks inches below her ear lobe, eliciting a shallow catch of air in her mouth. “Oh? At least you haven’t forgotten that I did have you first,” he countered with a smokey pitch.

Elbow in the air, she reached around to the back of his head with her usable hand and lazily slid it through his curls resting peacefully at his nape. “You didn’t have all of me,” she rasped, with a gentle tug at his tendrils.

Finger pads coursed from her hip strap up to her underbust corset belt, examining the sewn edging that sat just below her bust. “Are you offering for me to take more of you, songbird?”

Tav melted in his arms, now firmly gripping the back of his neck to steady her cobbling legs. “I don’t know if we should…”

Astarion glided his digits under the curvature of her breasts, outlining the band of her bra through her shirt. “Shall I make the decision for you?”

“What about Lae’zel?”

Now which answer would she wish to hear, he questioned inwardly. Relying on his devil’s tongue to prolong her want for him through accustomed seduction, did have its advantages. However, telling the truth could give her instant reassurance and would be what she probably preferred.

Though the outcome was uncertain, he decided to drop his mask with her to demonstrate a rare moment of honesty.

“What about her? I told her my interests had only been held by one woman,” he breathed into the pointed shell of her ear. “And if I changed my mind for a more exotic taste, I would find her.”

Well, it was somewhat the truth. He just decided to forego the clause mentioning how he really felt about the bard.

Tav lifted her head to stare straight ahead. Unable to read her expression, Astarion surmised by the saliva clearing in her pharynx and the sudden warmth that shot down her back, he made the correct choice.

“And what about our duel? Giving up already?”

“It would seem I ran into a distraction,” the vampire cooed, reaching up to cup her chin gently, prodding her to keep her eyes forward.

The rapier dropped to the ground, landing with muffled thuds. She placed her hand directly on top of the one that had begun dragging the knife vertically down her sternum, gooseflesh raising to meet their creator.

Voice a rough timbre, he spoke in elvish. ”Kerradun salen seharan, evael’dil?”

”Astarion,” Tav panted out.

He trailed the dagger down a zealous pathway of her pale skin to the lacings of her shirt, slowly pulling the cord out of the first eyelets with the very tip. Kerradun hinual salen lahr?

Nehel thro sal kerradun nehel. Sen kar nehel kerradun?”

Another row of lacings were tugged out. ”Kerradun tel’quiet?”

”Hinual tel’quiet sen nehel kerradun,” she bid him quietly. Her gloved hand moved from his spindly fingers closed around the blade hilt, down to clasp his wrist. Thumb rubbing a lulling circle into the pellicle over his inner wrist veins.

Ignoring her inquiry, he peppered compelling dabs into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The spawn told himself she didn’t want to know what he truly wanted. No, what she most likely wanted to hear was if he wanted her. If he would affix her name in blood to the inside of his mouth, so that whenever he stirred the cant of his tongue, a piece of her was there to contest his lips.

”Astarion. Neshanas…”

The dagger turned, flipping out the final bit of cording. With the edge, he gradually folded back the deep v-cut of her blouse, revealing an eyeful of cleavage nestled in her brassiere.

Almost there. A bit more divergence from her meandering grievances. A subtle lick. A feathered touch. Soon she would rip off her halo and pray for him to—

”Neshanas! Stop,” she cried out, pulling the weapon away from her and nudging him backwards with the force of her hips.

Astarion stumbled, a quick yowl from the rash jerk. He threw his blade straight into the ground, viewing her with dissatisfied red orbits. “Urgh. What’s wrong?”

“Stop pretending you don’t know,’ she angrily announced, pacing before him. “Gods, I really thought for a split moment that I had been wrong about asking us to quash our relations. I’m sorry, but this was a mistake.” The bard mitigated her route, turning to face him. “You don’t really want this—or me—and you haven’t since the beginning.”

“I never said that…”

“And that’s just it; you didn’t need to! A lack of a candid reply to someone’s worries, is a reply by its own volition,” Tav seethed like a mustang galloping through torrid climates. “I want to know what’s going on with you. Please.”

He stood up straight, flouncing his hand at her. “Darling, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

Wasting no time, she paraded up to him, collar torn out of the way to show him the imprinted teeth marks fencing in her soul mark. Unwrapped and on display.

“Fine. Out of all the places you could have chosen, why did you choose to bite me there?”

Astarion tried to sheepishly look away. “Don’t—“

She softened her penetrating gaze. “What was going through your head at the time? You can talk about this with me. I want to listen—“

Acknowledging the wound, meant acknowledging the hold Cazador still had over him. Recollections surfacing of shaking bones as his tongue licked the floor for leftover rat’s blood. The weakness that no compassionate word could help him fight.

“I said DON’T,” he harshly interjected, blurred movements firmly gripping her wrists and pinning them to the small of her back.

The woman conceded to him without so much as a lone jolt of fear. Her dutiful blue eyes searched his own, picking out the shifting red shades his emotions relayed. A fabled story she sifted through to understand the narrative of his tragic life.

“If you’re unwilling to answer, then until you—we—figure this out, I think it’s best you don’t feed from me in private anymore,” she calmly decided.

The truth nipped at his tongue like frostbite. He felt like he was being choked, detached from airflow. To acknowledge the living manifesto of his master he still carried within each nerve ending in his brain.

And Tav: his soulmate; his victim. All unbeknownst to her. The one whose light he didn’t want bleeding all over his darkness.

“You mean to put on a show in front of the whole camp? I’d prefer it if we continued to use a more secluded place,” Astarion disputed.

“Let me repeat myself: I said we shouldn’t do it in private anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes at her skeptically. “So, you don’t believe in my honor anymore?”

“It isn’t that. I don’t feel comfortable in case…something happens again,” Tav remarked, viewing him cautiously. “I do trust you are not trying to intentionally harm me, but Astarion, your episodes are powerful enough to where you currently lack control over them.”

“You can’t be serious,” he agitatedly huffed.

Listless breaths filled her lungs, then released ghostly currents that fanned along the framework of his pectorals. Her persistence in setting a boundary, could capture the tide of any moon.

“Okay, so you are serious. Why do you insist on playing dumb? You already know why,” he whispered when she didn’t respond.

And she did know. Though he would not deny the sexual lust that attached itself to the act, the intimacy shared in private when he drank from her, made her poor heart nearly bleed out. He could hear each sacred ode humming to him as he held in his arms to indulge his ache. It was an experience Astarion did not share with anyone else. Tav had been chosen solely alone to feed him: the only person his fangs were not used as a weapon on.

She squared her shoulders, raising her head confidently. “I just want both of us to be safe. I know what events like that can do to a person. What it’s like to go through trauma. What it’s like to experience the aftermath of it all. We don’t get a choice in that regard.”

Blinks corroded his surveillance of her. He released his hold, allowing her to roll her wrists around to soothe the stiffness.

“Come now, you’ve never been through hardships like I have. How would you know?” He openly mocked, avoiding eye contact.

“What makes you think that?”

“Look at you! Had you experienced even a fraction of horror, there is no way you’d still be able to carry on with this big heart of yours,” Astarion exclaimed. “Your kindness would have dulled and expired.”

The bard scrunched her brows. A breeze cascaded her bangs to the side of her forehead, unveiling a hallmark glare that he thought resembled subdued ire.

“We’ve only slept together twice. Do not presume to know me,” Tav murmured.

The vampire watched as she crossed her arms defiantly.

“I don’t know everything there is to know about you, no, but I have learned enough,” he tried to establish, combing fingers through his long white strands.

Poking deeper into their already opened contusions, she extended her advancement to gain clarity. “What does ‘enough’ mean, ‘Starion? Tell me something about myself that you’ve learned—by interest alone. I’ll even take feigned interest at this point.”

Sighing, he pinched the skin between his brows. “I’m not going to continue fighting with you, Tavelle.”

“You can’t even answer, can you?” She challenged. Lip bitten. Gape unwavering.

Astarion seized the length of her jaw, thumb landing on her bottom vermillion, parting the bow of her lips.

“Alright, let me paint a picture for you: When have you ever offered up something about yourself to me that digs under that reticent surface you want everyone else to see? A part of you that’s viscerally raw,” he gruffly asserted.“I’ve told you about my past, the vile acts Cazador inflicted on me, and while I haven’t divulged everything, I haven’t shied away from them either.”

Hoisting her face up towards him, he leaned down, mouth inches from hers. “Nothing is holding you hostage except yourself, Tav.”

Her heartbeat paused. And then he heard it beat again.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Notes:

Here is a rough outline of the elvish dialogue Astarion and Tav were saying to one another.

Astarion: ”Kerradun salen seharan, evael’dil?” = Do you miss/want my touch, lover?

Astarion: “Kerradun hinual salen lahr? = Do you miss/want to sing my name?”

Tav: “Nehel thro sal kerradun nehel. Sen kar nehel kerradun?” = You know I miss you. What do you want?

Astarion: ”Kerradun tel’quiet?” = Do you want me?

Tav: ”Hinual tel’quiet sen nehel kerradun.” = Tell me what you want.

Tav: Neshanas. = Stop

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 tav #tav #epistles of saints & sinners #smut #slow burn #astarion fanfic #astarion acunin #bg3 spoilers #bg3 fanfic #bard tav #spawn astarion #bg3 smut #bg3 soulmates #soulmates #soulmate marks #female tav #fem!tav

[awearywritersworld]

If All Else Perished: III

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader

Summary: In part three, reader is unable to tell Daemon that her father has ordered her to choose a suitor, but the truth does have a tendency to reveal itself. 

Word Count: ~2600

Warnings: a few curse words, some angst

masterlist

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The day that your father informed you it was time to start considering your courtship, Daemon had not seen you at all. Though the reason was unknown to him, he did not pay your absence much mind, as you had gone a day without seeing one another several times during your friendship.

Meanwhile, you had taken to isolating yourself in your chambers, hoping for a solution you knew was unlikely to come. There was not a single man in all the Seven Kingdoms who you would be happy to call your Lord Husband, save for one. You feared that seeing him would elicit some reaction, or admission, that you’d very desperately been trying to stave off.

On the second day, the prince began to feel restless and he denied to himself that it was due to missing your presence. Surely, the proud prince had not already become dependent upon your company. When on the third day he found himself pacing in the halls near your chambers, his denial may have been considered null. 

He replayed your last interaction over and over in his mind, contemplating the possibility that he unintentionally hurt your feelings or incited your agitation. Originally, he tried to convince himself such concerns were unwarranted, as you were only friends and nothing more, but before long little else besides you occupied his thoughts. 

Though, the more time he spent pacing, the more he demeaned himself for his own inaction. You were important to him, not that he would admit that to anyone other than you yourself perhaps, yet here he was trapped in his own head rather than just approaching you. Thus, it was unsurprising to him when he found himself at your chambers. 

He knocked on the door, knuckles meeting the wood impatiently. It was faint, but he still heard you voice out an invitation. Once inside, he observed that you were brushing your hair beside a dying fire. You glanced over your shoulder at him, giving him the opportunity to take in your features. To his dismay, you looked the same way you did when he first approached you in the godswood, disheartened and weary. 

“Good morrow, Daemon. What might you need?” 

You spoke dully and a harsh frown found its way to Daemon’s lips. 

“I was worried something had happened,” he confessed before he could stop himself, “it appears my worries were not for naught.” He took a few strides forward, closing the space between the two of you, “whatever is the matter, little one?” 

Your eyes well up at his simple inquiry and you know that you cannot bear to tell him, not yet anyway. What if he were to decide it was best to end your friendship? You’d be left alone again, or more precisely, left without the man who had so easily earned your affection. You were unsure if you could endure that. 

“My father,” you muttered as tears began to roll down your cheeks. 

Daemon brought his hand to your face, thumb wiping away a tear. His fingers moved to caress your jaw with a feather-light touch. 

“Has he hurt you?” he probed, his voice low and dangerous. 

A slight shake of your head informed him that the answer was no. You peered up at him through your lashes and seeing you in such a state made him consider enacting unforgivable transgressions upon the Lord Hand, but the way you leaned into his palm sent his mind in other directions. 

“Might I help you in any way?” he offered, the edge in his voice now gone.

“Your presence alone is enough. I feel better with you here,” you admitted to both him and yourself.

You thought that seeing him now would be painful, but all it did was ease your worries. He provided you with solace, even if you knew you would soon lose him. Daemon nearly melted at your words, his cheeks turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink.

“Then I shall stay by your side until you command otherwise.” 

He reveled in the smile that found its way onto your face, “you mustn’t neglect your duties as master of law, I know the small council is meant to convene today.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the look he made in response, “but return to me after you are finished.” 

Begrudgingly, Daemon acquiesced to your entreaty, leaving your chambers with one last look back at you. You were unable to read the expression that graced his handsome features.

As he approached the small council chamber, he heard the voice of the Hand and the King. Your name made him slow his pace and he crept into an area where he would remain unseen. 

“And how has your dear daughter received your proposal?” 

“She accepted it graciously with her words, but I’m afraid her actions spoke otherwise. I do not worry though, for I know she will come around.” 

“Ah, I am no stranger to how our children’s wishes so often deviate from our own. Have you spoken with the Lannister boy yet?” 

Daemon’s jaw clenched, easily piecing together the situation. 

“Yes, your Grace. He is to approach her in two days’ time at your name-day celebration. I only hope that she will be receptive to his courtship.” 

“Very good, they will make a strong match.” 

Heat flooded Daemon’s body as he pictured the arrogant Lannister prick speaking to you, much less vying for your hand. With a steely countenance, he entered the chamber abruptly, hoping they would cease their conversation which he could listen to no more of. He offered the men a clipped greeting and took his seat. 

Daemon was preoccupied for the length of the meeting and the council wordlessly took note of the Prince’s brooding mood, unaccustomed to his silence. Some might have even called it unsettling. Inwardly, something akin to indignation filled his chest, part of which was directed at you for keeping this from him. 

He glanced up and his eyes met his brother’s, but the King’s words were nothing other than background noise to his thoughts. His gaze moved to the man seated at his brother’s right hand and it dawned on him that his chief feeling at the moment was that of betrayal.

His brother had neglected to name him Hand, a slight that he still felt deeply. Now you were to marry another, but purposefully kept him ignorant of the matter. Against better judgment, he determined he would still return to you once the meeting concluded. 

Before the King had even finished dismissing his council, Daemon’s chair was screeching against the floor as he quickly made off. The remainder of the table was slow to stand, sharing bemused looks at the Prince’s bizarre behavior. 

“Off to see one of his whores, no doubt,” your father mumbled before the King shot him a sharp look.

If only he knew that Daemon was headed instead to his daughter’s chambers. His feet carried him there swiftly while his thoughts raced with what he would say to you. 

His knuckles rapped on your door before he burst in without invitation. Eyes sweeping the room, he observed that the fire from earlier had been tended to, before looking fixedly upon you.

You were taken aback by his sudden appearance, his chest heaving and his expression worrisome. You sat down the chalice you were holding and stood up before you spoke, “Daemon-”

“Why did you hide it from me?” he demanded. His voice was meant to be fierce, but it sounded more hurt than anything. 

“What in Seven Hells are you speaking of?” 

“Your betrothal to the Lion,” he clarified, fists clenched at his sides. 

Your eyes widened, “I am betrothed to no Lannister, where have you heard such a thing?” 

“You lie to my face so assuredly,” he scoffed, “I overheard your father and my brother.” 

The color drained from your face as you realized your father meant to deceive you. 

“M-My father told me I was to choose a suitor, but he… but he…” you steadied yourself on the chair before sitting back down and your hand came to rest upon your now fiercely beating heart, “I was unaware of his intentions with Lord Lannister.” 

Your lip began to quiver and Daemon felt some of the fervor in his chest simmer out, your vexation taking precedence over his own. Although, he still felt compelled to ask you just one thing. 

“To what end did you keep this from me?” 

“I could not stand to tell you and for that I am sorry,” you looked at him regretfully, “I was ill at ease when considering how you might react.” 

The expression on your face forced him to ponder whether he might be the worst person in the world.

“You were worried that I would be angry,” he said matter-of-factly, chagrined for validating your concerns and breaking the promise he made to himself. 

“No,” you quickly corrected, “worried that you would cast me aside.” 

You could no longer hold his gaze, embarrassment eating at you. Daemon, on the other hand, felt like the air had been stripped from his lungs. He knelt in front of you, intent on doing whatever he needed in order to alleviate your anguish. He grabbed your chin gently, moving it so that your face met with his own. 

“How is it that you cannot already plainly see,” he trailed off for a moment, looking at you with contemplation. His hand brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips trailing down your shoulder before coming to rest on the arm of the chair you were seated in, “that I would be doomed to agony were I without you.” 

Your vision became blurry as you processed his words and Daemon’s features softened, his raging irritation now totally dissipated. “It pains me to see you cry, and even more so to have been the cause. I woefully beg your pardon, (y/n).” 

“I shed tears not because you have hurt me, Daemon, but because your kind words are touching. I was selfish to keep this from you. I should have told you.” 

Daemon shook his head, “the choice of who to confide in was yours to make. It was not my place to be so… troubled.” 

It is only at this moment that you realized his reaction did extend beyond that of a friend. You felt a wretched flicker of hope in your chest and took pains to squash it. Daemon was, by all accounts, a temperamental man who was easily affronted. Even if you were most often met with a gentler, more endearing side of him, you still knew the former characteristics to be true at times. He had, on more than one occasion, mentioned how it causes him grief when his brother keeps him in the dark on important matters. You assumed this situation was similar.

You hummed in response, “that’s neither here nor there, I promise never to hide things from you again.” You moved your hand to rest on top of his, “I regret that I ever did.” 

“You are ever sweet to me, little one. More so than I deserve.” 

The nickname that once fostered your annoyance now made your stomach stir. His hand flipped over so that it was holding yours and he gave it a light squeeze. Standing back up, he pulled you up with him. 

“I suppose it is time I made good on my promise to take you to the dragonpit,” he offered, hoping to make this all up to you even if you never seemed to be upset with him in the first place. 

The excitement in your eyes meant that Daemon wasted little time before setting off. After you had changed into more discreet attire, he draped his cloak over your shoulders, the same one that had been hanging in your chambers for the past turn of the moon. 

Your journey through the streets of King’s Landing was long and you realized this was perhaps the farthest you’d been from the Red Keep outside the safety of a carriage. You did not know exactly when it happened, but you looked down and realized your hand was tightly clasped around Daemon’s, finding comfort in the contact.

In truth, Daemon was the one to grab your hand as you walked through a rowdy crowd of people. He was intent on keeping you close to him, fearing what might happen were he to lose you in the busy streets that were unfamiliar to you. The thought sent a shudder down his spine and he shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the hideous possibilities. 

Approaching the pit, you realized how vast it was up close, though you supposed it had to be as it was meant to house such enormous creatures. As you grew nearer to it, you felt as if you were traveling through a maze. Impressed with how easily Daemon navigated it, your legs still struggled to keep up with his quick strides. He took you through an entrance that was rarely used, the one closest to the cave that Caraxes resided in. Soon, you came upon a sizable opening in the rock, jagged points littering the outer edges of it. 

“We are here at last,” Daemon informed you. 

The dragon had sensed his rider’s presence and crept up to the entrance of the cave just as the two of you arrived. You looked upon the creature with awe, his scales a vibrant red and his eyes a captivating shade of amber. Your mouth was agape and your hand fell from Daemon’s as you took in the sight. When the creature’s gaze found you, he seemed to regard you with a sort of curiosity. He blinked slowly, his pupils enlarging as he extended his neck in your direction.

Your legs moved toward Caraxes on their own, your body apparently feeling less cautious than your brain while Daemon stayed close behind you. You thought about how easy it would be for the creature to kill you if he so pleased and it made you feel insignificant. Your steps were slow, but eventually you were close enough that you could feel the hot air he dispelled from his nostrils. 

“Hello beautiful,” you greeted. 

Even then, you could not see the entirety of Caraxes, his true size obscured as chains prevented him from leaving the cave. You reached your hand out and pressed your palm to the side of his face. Your breath was stuck in your lungs, unsure whether or not the dragon would accept the contact. To your amazement, he sighed, seemingly content, then craned his neck so that you could better reach the chains. The coolness of the metal was a stark contrast to the warmth of Caraxes’ scales.

You glanced back at Daemon, silently asking for permission before unchaining his dragon. He nodded at you, failing to hide the smile that was tugging at his lips. He considered the fact that many a man would cower in fear were they in your position, yet here you were eager to free Caraxes. You slid a metal rod from its place, causing the chains to fall apart and clatter to the ground. As he finally withdrew from the cave, you took a step back and bumped into Daemon’s chest, his hands gripping your arms to steady you. 

The earth beneath you seemed to vibrate with each step the creature took and your eyes widened as the entirety of his body was revealed to you. He stretched his wings and the wind resulting from his movement may have knocked you down had it not been for Daemon. Soon, Caraxes settled and lowered his body to the ground, looking toward you and his rider. The prince emerged from behind you and guided you closer to Caraxes before his outstretched hand grabbed the dragon’s saddle. 

“Well, shall we?”

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Taglist: @ilearnedthatfromethepizzaman @moonmaiden1996 @ephemeralninon @mistalli @xcallmetaniax @m1ndbrand @thaliaqueen

#m!writes #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd imagines #daemon #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfiction #Matt Smith #matt smith x reader #matt smith imagines #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones imagines #game of thrones x reader

[eksvaized]

Part Eight König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation

Each time you find yourself wrapped in the comforting embrace of Simon’s arms, you can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. It’s as if you’ve broken a solemn promise you’ve made to yourself—a vow, a pledge, a commitment to stay away from him. This whirlwind of emotions, this cycle, has become a repeated pattern, a recurrent loop that seems to have no end.

After every night spent tangled in the sheets of Simon’s bed, you sternly tell yourself, and him, that this was indeed the last time. You assert, with a firmness that lacks any genuine conviction, that you won’t be crossing the threshold of his doorstep again.

However, this proclamation, this denial has turned into a part of a routine, too. It’s just like the part when Simon, with that irresistible charm of his, teases you. A mischievous glint twinkles in his dark eyes as you hurriedly gather your scattered clothes from the floor, peeking under the bed to look for your missing panties, only to stand up and see Simon twist the thin, soft fabric around his fingers.

His voice dances around you, a teasing melody of amusement, challenging your resolve. He doesn’t believe you can resist him, and his assertion fills the room. A knowing smirk slowly, almost lazily, creeps onto his face. Then, he always adds, with a hint of anticipation in his voice, “I won’t lock the door—in case your bed gets too cold. Again.”

You dismiss his words with a casual flick of your hand, a facade of indifference masking the turmoil within. You declare that you plan on spending the night at your own house, in your own bed, under your own roof. Yet, no matter how hard you push Simon away, how intently you try to maintain the distance, how determinedly you try to build walls around yourself, an invisible, magnetic force always lures you back to him. It pulls you back into the warmth of his arms, back into his bed, back into a world where nothing else seems to matter…

These days, it seems to be more of a rule than an exception that you find yourself spending the night at Simon’s place. This is particularly the case when König isn’t around to notice your absence. However, even when König is present, his attention is far from you. He’s usually engrossed in his phone, busily dealing with work politics, rumours, and gossip. This scenario provides you with ample opportunity to sneak away, and you seize it on numerous occasions.

Every time you cross the street, leaving your house behind and heading towards Simon’s, a heavy cloak of guilt wraps itself around your shoulders. It’s like a shadow, constantly trailing behind you, tracing your every step. Yet, the adrenaline rush you experience from the risk of being caught in the act at any moment works like a balm. It momentarily drowns out the shame and guilt, providing a temporary respite from your inner conflict.

There were one or two close encounters with König, where you almost got caught red-handed. But each time, you managed to think on your feet and concoct a believable excuse. And each time, König, in his naivety, accepted your hastily made up excuse without suspicion.

Simon has grown into an obsession, more than just a fleeting thought. He’s an insatiable fire consuming your every waking moment, infiltrating your thoughts, spreading tendrils of longing and desire through your day and night. No matter what you’re doing or where you are, he’s always there, at the back of your mind. And the mere thought of him - his presence, his voice, even his laughter - is enough to send a giddy rush of excitement coursing through your veins. Everything about him, from his gaze to his infectious smile, makes your heart flutter in a way that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s as if you’re a schoolgirl with her first crush again, blushing uncontrollably and giggling at the slightest provocation. And after what seems like an eternity of waiting and wanting, of yearning for something more, you’re finally receiving the attention you’ve been desperately craving.

However, you’re well aware that you need to end things with König. It’s a task that’s easier said than done, especially given the circumstances. You haven’t been able to muster the courage to break things off yet, knowing all too well that König will demand to know why. He will want answers, and you’re not yet ready to confess that you’ve been having an affair.

It all reminds you of the time when you wanted to confront König about his own infidelity. You kept telling yourself that you’ll do it tomorrow, but when tomorrow came, you found another excuse to delay the confrontation. It’s the same with your confession now — each night before sleep, you promise yourself that you will talk with König in the morning. But when the morning comes, fear and guilt make you push that conversation further and further into the future.

* * *

It’s one of those long, seemingly endless nights where you are lying wide awake in bed, enveloped by the frigid sheets. The evening’s chill seems to seep into your bones, making the bed feel colder than it is. The day has been a marathon, filled to the brim with copious amounts of coffee—a decision you’re now regretting as the caffeine courses through your veins, denying you the sleep.

Your mind aimlessly wanders, drifting to thoughts of König, who’s been dispatched on yet another mission, leaving you alone to endure the deafening silence of your home for the next few long days.

Drained yet restless, sleep eluding your desperate grasp, you reach out for your phone. You scroll through your contacts until you land on Simon’s name and decide to send him a text.

Minutes that feel like hours pass as you wait anxiously for his reply. The oppressive silence of the room is punctuated only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of the clock in the hallway. When a response doesn’t come, a pang of disappointment courses through you, but you decide to send another message. A more direct invitation this time. “Come over?” you type, hoping he’s awake and willing to offer you a much-needed distraction from the loneliness.

Not too long after, the front door groans as it swings open. You had hidden a spare key outside, tucked away beneath an unassuming rock, specifically for Simon. You lock your phone, its screen dimming before you toss it onto the plush mattress without a second thought. Your fingers weave through your unkempt hair, soothing your excited nerves as you sit up in anticipation.

Simon has been in your house before and is familiar with the layout, so you don’t bother leaving the comfort of your bed to greet him.

The sound of heavy, determined footsteps reverberates through the house, growing louder and closer with each passing second. Each footfall stirs a flutter of excitement within the depths of your heart. However, the rhythmic footfall abruptly ceases. An unsettling, eerie silence envelops the house. As you look at the gap under the bedroom door, a flickering shadow catches your eye.

“Simon?” You call out, your brows furrowing in confusion.

Though you’re aware, he’s likely just pranking you, attempting to scare you, you find it more irritating than entertaining and wish he would just drop the act. Reaching over, you flick on the lamp. Its warm, comforting glow bathing the space in a soft light. “Stop playing around,” you demand again. This time, there’s a hint of irritation in your tone, laced with an undercurrent of budding anxiety.

No answer. Your patience, already worn thin, finally snaps, and you rise from the bed, determined to confront Simon and put an end to his childish game.

As you tiptoe, each step taken with extreme caution, you inch closer towards the closed door, pressing your ear against it. The faint sound of Simon’s breathing reaches your ears, and you can’t help but smirk at the realisation that he probably didn’t hear your soft footsteps. You decide to scare him.

“Boo!” With a sudden burst of energy, you swing the door open in one fluid, swift motion, your fingers slipping off the cool metal handle because of the abrupt movement.

However, the smirk that was plastered across your face fades away almost instantly when you see he isn’t here. The hallway is dark and empty. It’s as though he has dissolved into the very shadows, leaving behind only a frigid silence that gnaws at your courage.

“Simon? This isn’t funny anymore,” you call out, your voice echoing through the silence. You wonder how he was able to move so quickly and silently — you should have heard him walking away.

Yet again, your words are met with no response.

An icy shiver runs down your spine, like cold fingers tracing your back, sending a wave of unease rippling through your entire body. Like a creeping fog, fear seeps into every inch of you, its grip paralysing you, forcing you to stand still. With wide, frantic eyes, you scan the eerie surroundings, your gaze flitting from one corner to another, desperately searching for any trace of Simon.

A terrifying thought crosses your mind, causing your heart to beat faster. But... what if it’s not Simon messing with you? After all, he didn’t respond to your text. He may still be asleep in his house, and instead, you are now playing hide and seek with a stranger who has broken into your home.

A sudden noise—the sound of shattering glass—from the kitchen breaks your train of thought. Your heart plummets and, in a state of panic, you dart back into the room, slamming the door shut louder than you intended.

You’re now certain that it’s not Simon who’s lurking in the shadows, and you realise that you’re left with two choices. The first option is to gather your courage and try to escape, but the overwhelming fear glues you to the spot. So, you stumble towards the bed instead—your second option is to call for help and hope that it arrives in time.

As you frantically search for your phone, your hands glide across the lumpy mattress, tossing pillows and other items onto the floor in your haste. You mentally chide yourself for carelessly throwing your phone onto the bed instead of placing it on the nightstand. But finally, your fingers wrap around it, and you let out a shaky breath of relief. Yet, just as you unlock the phone, a hand clamps over your mouth. A body presses against yours.

“Caught you,” a low voice whispers into your ear, and an arm slinks around your waist, effectively immobilising you and preventing any chance of escape.

Simon. Your heart slows down when you realise it’s him. The phone slips out of your trembling hand and falls back onto the mattress. As you swallow the scream that had been building in your throat, a faint smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

You attempt to turn around because you want him to push him away and curse him for scaring you. But as soon as your body moves, his grip around you tightens. Like a python ensnaring its prey, his arms pull you deeper into his embrace, binding you closer to the heat of his body.

“You shouldn’t have been so desperate, you know,” he murmurs, his voice a low whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. “... your neediness for attention made it easy for me to manipulate you.”

You are not sure what he is talking about, but you don’t want to listen anymore. Whatever twisted game he’s playing, you want him to end it now. You want him to leave your house—leave you alone. Yet his hand remains firmly clamped over your mouth, his arm still wrapped tightly around your waist. His fingers dig into your side with such force that you know it will leave a bruise.

In a fit of desperation, you sink your teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. He responds with a hiss—a sharp exhale of pain that sounds like steam escaping from a pressure valve. His hold on you slackens momentarily. That brief second is all you need, and you push him away with all the strength you can muster.

Before you can whirl around and deliver an ultimatum, your vision starts to distort. A wave of darkness washes over you, pulling you down into its inky depths. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you stumble, struggling to stay upright. But it’s no use. Your body gives up the fight and you crumple to the ground.

As you regain consciousness, a harsh, persistent ringing fills your ears, drowning out the silence of the room. A throbbing, pounding pain pulses rhythmically at the back of your skull. It takes several agonizing, disorienting seconds for your memory to return, filtering through the fog of confusion that clouds your mind. When it does, your eyes widen in terror and scan the room.

Simon is gone and you are… tied to the bed; your hands are fastened tightly above your head to the headboard, your mouth sealed with a piece of tape, the distinct aroma of the glue filling your nostrils and making you nauseous.

A wave of panic engulfs you, washing over you like a chilling tide. You begin to thrash around in desperate, futile attempts to free yourself, to escape the bindings that hold you captive. However, the unyielding restraints only seem to gnaw into your skin even deeper, tightening their grip on you, etching themselves into your flesh.

Simon’s chilling voice reverberates reaches your ears. It paralyzes you, causing your body to turn rigid, as if encased in a tomb of ice. Your breathing becomes shallow, each intake of air a struggle as you try to muffle your whimpering cries. Your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes; hot tears sting, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at your pupils, causing you to blink rapidly in a frenzied attempt to clear your sight.

Despite the bedroom door being firmly shut, you can hear the distinct sound of Simon pacing anxiously in the hallway. You can’t physically see him, but you’re certain he’s talking with someone on the phone conversation with someone.

“...Hurry up. I have her—there’s not much time,” he commands, the authoritative tone in his voice chilling you to your very core. His voice gradually recedes as he moves away, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter. Only to become audible again, a haunting echo, as he draws closer to the door. “No, but what other choice did I have? She would never have willingly gone me...”

Wrestling against your restraints, you make a vain attempt to sit upright. Like a captured bird flutters against the bars of its cage, you tug and twist at your bindings, shifting them in an effort to loosen them. The rough texture, like sandpaper against your skin, grates, and rubs, and the constant friction only serves to magnify the uncomfortable pressure on your already raw and chafed wrists.

The low murmur of Simon’s voice is a constant in the background, his words washing over you in a disjointed rhythm. “... I would, but I can’t just toss her over my shoulder and carry her to...” His voice, muffled and distant, keeps fading in and out, like a radio struggling to find the right frequency.

While you’re unable to grasp the entire conversation, the fragments you do catch are enough to elicit dread, making it clear that it isn’t going to end well for you.

“... I doubt Sarah will keep König distracted for much longer—he puts up with her because he knows he has to,” Simon says in a matter-of-fact tone. The mere mention of König’s name sends a shiver down your spine, causing you to freeze in place. And… and Sarah? Why would she be involved in all of this? “And unless you want König to cut your head off for touching his girl, I suggest you move your ass....”

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