#* ⌜☆⌟ * even the shadows resemble her ⟶ VISAGE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zapreportsblog · 1 year

Note

You know the “opposites attract” relationships?

How about do one with Brahms?

Brahms - clingy, protective, stiff

Reader - calm, trusting, soft

Brahms X calm! Reader

Thank youuuuu :)

❝clingy❞

✭ pairing : brahms heelshire x reader

✭ fandom : slashers

✭ summary : brahms is one hell of a touch starved man and when (y/n) came into his life he expected her to be just like all the others, but she isn’t. In fact she embraces him with welcome arms so does that mean all those people who left him are because it’s his fault?

✭ slashers masterlist

The wind whispered through the ancient trees that surrounded Heelshire Manor, casting eerie shadows on its aged façade. (Y/N) had applied for a simple job months ago, never imagining how peculiar her new role would become. The advertisement had called for a caretaker, someone to oversee the estate's unique collection of antiques and curiosities. Little did she know, her main charge would be a doll of all things.

The first time she laid eyes on the doll, she was taken aback. It was an exquisitely crafted replica of a man, dressed in aristocratic attire from a bygone era. The porcelain face bore an uncanny resemblance to the owner of the manor, Brahms Heelshire, whose family had owned the estate for generations. The locals whispered tales of the Hellshire curse, and their peculiar fascination only fueled the sense of mystery that hung over the manor.

As (Y/N) settled into her role, her days were filled with dusting ancient furniture, polishing silverware, and, most importantly, attending to the doll. The instructions were simple: ensure the doll's clothing remained impeccable, the porcelain visage remained pristine, and its position on the mantel stayed undisturbed. The task was mundane, yet it carried an air of reverence, as if the doll held some deeper significance that transcended its appearance.

Days turned into weeks, and (Y/N) gradually grew accustomed to her routine. The mansion's interior was an amalgamation of faded opulence and eerie silence. The walls seemed to whisper secrets, and the portraits of long-departed Heelshire ancestors stared down with solemn gazes. Every creak and rustle echoed through the hallways, keeping her senses on high alert.

One evening, as she carefully adjusted the doll's coat collar, she felt an inexplicable shiver run down her spine. A feeling of being watched settled over her, but she brushed it off as her imagination running wild. That night, though, as she lay in bed, she could have sworn she heard faint whispers carried on the breeze.

The following days brought a series of odd occurrences: a book left open to a specific page she hadn't touched, a teacup shifted slightly on its saucer. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was playing tricks on her, but each time she looked around, the empty rooms offered no answers.

It was on the night of a thunderstorm that everything changed. Lightning illuminated the mansion's darkened interior, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. (Y/N) found herself drawn to the doll, her fingers tracing its delicate features in the dim light.

And then, as the thunder roared and rain beat against the windows, she heard a whisper so faint it might have been her own imagination. "(Y/N)…" The voice seemed to emanate from within the doll itself.

Startled, she stumbled back, her heart racing. But then, as if responding to an unseen presence, the doll's eyes blinked. A shock of realization coursed through her: the doll was no mere doll; it was a conduit to something more.

"(Y/N)…" The voice was clearer this time, resonating through the room. She watched in awe as the doll's porcelain skin began to soften, its limbs shifting, as if a dormant life was awakening.

And then, from the doll's heart, a figure emerged. A man, dressed in period clothing, stood before her, his eyes fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and caution. It was Brahms Heelshire himself, or a spectral semblance of him.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other in silence. (Y/N) was taken aback by the unexpected turn of events, her heart pounding in her chest. But amidst the shock and fear, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

The man, or whatever he was, spoke softly, his voice tinged with both melancholy and yearning. "You did not flee, as others before you have. Why?"

With a steady breath, (Y/N) met his gaze. "I believe that even the most peculiar of situations deserve a chance to be understood. And, in all honesty, I've grown fond of the company, even if it's a doll or a spectral form."

A ghostly smile touched his lips, and for the first time, she saw a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "You’re courageous , (Y/N)."

And so, an unusual connection was forged within the walls of Heelshire Manor — a connection that transcended the boundaries between the living and the spectral. As (Y/N) continued her role as caretaker, the enigmatic Brahms Heelshire ventured forth from his hidden existence within the doll, revealing himself to her in a way no one else had dared to witness.

Over the course of the next few months and then two years, an unexpected bond blossomed between (Y/N) and Brahms. As the seasons changed, so did their relationship, evolving into something far beyond what (Y/N) could have ever anticipated. She had become accustomed to Brahms' spectral presence, his masked face a constant companion. Despite his initial mysterious aura, she found comfort in his company and the intriguing conversations they shared.

Brahms, for his part, reveled in the connection he had forged with (Y/N). No longer confined to the doll's form, he wandered the mansion's halls and rooms, always keeping a respectful distance from her. Yet, he was undeniably clingy, often hovering nearby, his presence an unspoken reassurance. His touch starvation, accumulated over years of isolation, drove him to seek her proximity. Whether it was watching her read in the library or tending to the mansion's gardens, he was there, his masked face silently observing.

Their bond deepened, and with time, their relationship took an unexpected turn. The unspoken attraction that had simmered between them evolved into a romantic connection. Their feelings grew steadily, and one evening, as the sun set over the mansion's sprawling gardens, Brahms removed his mask, revealing his disfigured face to (Y/N). She met his gaze without flinching, accepting him just as he was.

They became a couple, their connection forged in the quiet moments they shared, the lingering glances, and the touch of their hands. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his vulnerability and complexity, and he was captivated by her acceptance and compassion.

However, even as their relationship thrived, an undercurrent of unease began to surface. Brahms, though no longer confined to the doll, remained deeply afraid of losing (Y/N). His history of people fleeing from his presence had left scars that ran deep. His clinginess intensified, a silent plea for her to stay by his side.

As the months turned into years, Brahms' fear only grew. He watched as (Y/N) went about her daily routines, her calm demeanor seemingly unfazed by his constant presence. Yet, he couldn't shake the thought that his clinginess might drive her away. The fear of rejection gnawed at him, an invisible specter that haunted his every interaction with her.

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, the crackling flames casting shadows on the walls, Brahms hesitated before speaking. "I fear that my need for your presence might become unbearable," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

(Y/N) turned to him, her eyes soft and understanding. "Brahms, you're not driving me away. I'm here because I choose to be. Your presence doesn't suffocate me; it's become a comfort."

He looked at her with a mix of hope and trepidation, struggling to believe her words. "But I'm constantly clinging to you, fearing that you might vanish like the others."

Gently, she reached out and took his hand. "Brahms, you're not alone anymore. I'm not going anywhere. We'll face your fears together."

A fragile smile graced his lips as he intertwined his fingers with hers, the weight of his vulnerability lessening, if only by a fraction. With her steady presence by his side, he dared to hope that he could overcome his past and embrace the happiness that had entered his life.

Their journey was far from easy, but with time, patience, and unwavering support, (Y/N) and Brahms forged a love that transcended the boundaries of the living and the spectral. And through it all, they learned that sometimes, the most profound connections are born from the places where fear and acceptance collide.

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dooberific · 1 year

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kaveh x afab!reader

wc: 2.2k

genre: fluff <3

summary: just a self-indulgent tale of a semi-tumultuous relationship between you and the birthday boy himself

The “Light of Kshahrewar”

Surely in the many years since the establishment of the Akademiya there had been another, some highly honored scholar whose exploits had shone brilliantly, yet there was only one who burned ever brightly in your mind. He was your senior, a spring overflowing with his passion for architecture. He was an open book to be read, much too kind for a world as cutthroat as that that existed within the walls of the Akademiya.

It was hard to fathom why he took such a liking to you, your own academic achievements were far below anything resembling that of the “Light”. You were middle of the ground in nearly all aspects, but he seemed to be more stubbornly pushing for your greatness than even you were. Extra hours studying, discussing plans, early morning lectures survived only by an outrageous dose of coffee and the furious motion of your pens across notebooks making more changes to things already perfected.

You had questioned if he was making you into a project, always seeming a little miffed at your refusal to add your own dramatic flair to any designs you created, and your suspicions had been confirmed when he brought you in to collaborate on a final project. Just as quickly as you had agreed he had a slung an arm over your shoulders and pushed a blueprint into your hands.

“Alright my precious Junior, I want you to make this project yours.” Kaveh explained, passing another smaller paper into your hands. It was the details of the clients requesting the design, a newly married couple with the bride having to leave her homeland of Liyue to move to Sumeru.

You immediately understood why he had chosen you to help, shooting the blond and accusatory look. You, who had been ever resistant, were born to a traveling band of traders that bounced between the two nations. If anyone could fuse the two styles of architecture and design it would be you.

So you put aside your own hesitations of standing out too dramatically, and created a design so surprising that even your instructors had began to wonder if they had become so lucky that they may have produced two excellent students back to back. The centerpiece of your design had been the point of your pride, a traditionally woven cut-silk tapestry presented to the wife as a reminder of her old home and the promise of a new one. Kaveh graduated out feeling pleased that he had worn you down and cracked your shell of hesitancy, pushing you on your own path to success, and you?

Well you— who had been the only underclassman to receive his praise and personal support—had dropped out.

There was no devastating story behind it, no villainous plot. There was just you, chasing something you were told to chase until you realized that maybe such a high level of education was not suited for you. Your family had traveled the mountains between Sumeru and Liyue for many years. It wasn’t a cushy life but it had freedom. Living a life behind a desk seemed more and more like a death sentence than an opportunity for greatness, and just as easily as you had integrated into your Darshan you slipped back out and disappeared into the jungles surrounding Sumeru City.

It had been years since you turned your back on the Akademiya, years since you had seen Kaveh, and yet his visage seemed imprinted on your brain. The warm look in his eyes, that dramatic lilt so trademark of his voice. He was a blinding light, and you were content with living in his shadow.

It felt like some act of fate that crossed your paths again. You were traveling back towards Sumeru City and passed along the one of the trails bordering the building site for what was said to be the Palace of Alcazarzaray. Even half-built it was shaping up to be magnificent, and maybe you shouldn’t have been so surprised to find your former senior overlooking the site with a critical eye.

He seemed stressed, hair tousled from anxious hands running through it. You could see the sweat beading on his fair skin, the humidity of the day slowly boiling everything beneath the cover of the foliage.

“Kaveh?”

He seemed startled by your voice, locked so deeply in his own concentration that he had failed to notice your approach. His head turned quickly towards you, not fully prepared to see a vision of years passed. The look of shock in his eyes couldn’t hide that flash of sadness and guilt. It was like looking in the eyes of a kicked puppy. You felt your stomach twist uncomfortably, shying away as you turned quickly to leave.

“You seem busy, we can catch up another time—,”

“(y/n), hold on!”

Ink-stained fingers encircled your wrist, halting your movement. His hands felt warm and sticky from the humidity, and he seemed aware of this himself as he released your wrist and wiped his hands off on his pants as well as he could.

A silence had fallen between the two of you, unsure of what to say. Where do you even begin, talking about the weather, why you left, what you are doing back in the area? He seemed to be floundering as well, the great social butterfly reduced to a heap of uncertainty as he opened his mouth once, twice to speak before quickly closing it back being unable to form the right words.

“Listen, (y/n), I’m sorry if I put you in an uncomfortable place. I—didn’t mean to push you so hard to stand out, I just knew you could do something big and thought you needed the extra push—“

So that was why his eyes had looked at you so sadly, he had overthought your leaving of the Akademiya. You cut him off before he could finish.

“I didn’t leave because of you, you dolt.”

You could almost see the gears turning in his head as he processed your words. Multiple times in his past people had pushed him aside and left without another word, abandonment breeding self contempt as a cause for why it kept happening.

“What? Why else would you—?”

“I just didn’t like school that much.” You replied with a shrug, as if it was the most natural response in the world. “I do feel a little bad that you thought it was something you did though. Had we been in the same year I may have stayed because of you.” You sheepishly added, feeling your own guilt bubbling up that you had left without giving him even the semblance of a proper goodbye.

You thought little of the implications of your words, failing to notice the tinge of pink that flushed his cheeks. Time and close contact did much to bring people closer together, and all the time you had spent side by side in school had certainly left a mark of fondness on his heart just for you. But that you would have stayed?

Just as he opened his mouth to begin a barrage of inevitable questions, the distant call of his name floated up from the jobsite. You took a step back, readjusting the pack over your shoulders. “You better go find out what they need, Mr. Master Architect.” You said with a grin.

Torn between pursuing something once lost and maintaining his duty, Kaveh let out a defeated sigh as he nodded. “(y/n), please, wait for me. Wait for me at Lambad’s at, er, say seven tonight?” His tone was pleading, not prepared to have found you again and just let you slip through his fingers like the desert sands.

You smiled warmly. “I’ll wait.”

That was how you had reconnected, a bond reinforced by a night of catching up over drinks and the inevitable shedding of tears from the blond who wore his heart so freely on his sleeve. You had half carried him home and promised once more that you wouldn’t vanish off into the night like you had in the past, a promise that you had kept in the months since.

Fall shifted to Winter, giving way to Spring before the burning face of Summer settled over the Land of Wisdom once more. You had been kept busy with your travels, with tending to your relationship with Kaveh which had slowly shifted from simply platonic to more of the realm of “it’s complicated”. Oh, and the fact that you had been working diligently to keep a certain someone’s birthday gift under wraps.

You had been working on it for nearly a year now, not having the time to properly devote to a project of the caliber you decided was worth the effort for him. The loom stood well above your head, a weaving of colorful knots slowly descending its height as a pattern only you had envisioned began to take shape. In spite of all your refusals that your work was worth any weight, even you had to admit that the mohtasham pattern now completed before your eyes was magnificent.

And apparently Kaveh agreed if the low whistle of impressment that met your ears meant anything.

“I didn’t know you were still hand looming. Guess that explains why your fingers have felt a little rougher than usual.” He said, admiring your work as you rose to greet him.

“I’m not really back into it, this one is more of a personal project.” You countered, hands raising to lightly pinch his cheeks. “And I will have you know my hands aren’t rough.”

He hummed, rose colored eyes sparkling as he caught one of your hands before it pulled away. He pressed a kiss to your palm, his warm breath tickling your skin. “As smooth as sandpaper.” He grinned as your nose wrinkled.

“Well since you are here I guess I have no choice but to put you to work, yeah? Come help me get this rug down so I can finish it.” You pulled a short stool to aid your work, cutting away the warps and allowing it to fall away from the loom into the waiting hands of your companion who watched with great curiosity.

It wasn’t too surprising that he was taking his assistance very seriously. He was an appreciator of the arts, holding an eye for quality and the finest details of construction. You were a craftsman easy on the eyes, lithe fingers dancing across neatly knotted silk patterns and stitching up loose ends with the slightest quirk of your lips and furrow to your brow of concentration. You could feel the shift of his eyes both from your fingers to your face as you worked, a slight burn building in your ears from the attention that you tried to push through as you finished your work.

With a pleased hum you lifted the final hem, examining your work. “Yes, I think this will do.” Giving a half turn and a flourish of your arms the material of the rug snapped out and floated to the floor, quickly rolled up and secured in your hands. You plucked it from the floor, holding it gingerly to your chest.

“I had a plan of how I was going to do this but I suppose that was out the window when you got here earlier than I had anticipated.” You began, extending your arms and the freshly finished rug out to him.

“Happy birthday, Kaveh.”

He looked dumbfounded for a moment, rose colored eyes darting quickly between the gift in your hands and your face before he slowly pointed at the rug.

“You made that for me?”

You nodded. “Yup, took me a few months to do it but for you I think it was time well spent.”

Stricken with the importance of the gift he was now on the receiving end of, he seemed to short circuit for a moment before he accepted the rug into his own hands. “I’ve never been given something like this. (y/n), this is too much—,”

You let out a dramatic sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “Weren’t you the one pestering me to use my gift and make my designs stand out? Here I am doing that now and you are going to tell me it’s too much? I think that ‘light’ burning in your brain has cooked it a bit too long, you are supposed to say “Wow (y/n), thank you I love it so much!’” You teased, enjoying the slight contortion of his face at the attitude you were giving so playfully.

He raised a defensive hand. “Easy tiger, coming after me rather hard on my birthday now aren’t you?” He beckoned you closer, effectively snatching you into a tight hug squished somewhere between his warm body at the rug cradled in his other arm.

He pressed a short kiss to the crown of your head, your stomach flipping as the snort of a giggle escaped your throat. “Thank you (y/n),” he began, mocking the tone you had previously used against him, “I love your gift and I love you.”

He winced as you gave his side a firm slap with the flat of your hand, wrestling out from his grip. “I think I’m going to need dinner before you start in on the ‘I love you’ business.” You said with a grin, drawing him up and out the door behind you.

Rey, 2023

#genshin impact x reader #genshin kaveh x reader #kaveh x reader #genshin impact fluff #genshin x you

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zeciex · 11 months

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A Vow of Blood - 46

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 46: The Boundaries of a Winged Pig

AO3 - Masterlist

The King’s chambers lay cloaked in darkness despite the few curtains that permitted feeble tendrils of light to infiltrate. A noxious amalgamation of sickness and decay permeated the air, assaulting Daenera’s senses and causing her delicate nose to wrinkle in disgust. It struck the back of her throat, and she struggled not to gag. She couldn’t fathom why the servant’s hadn't taken it upon themselves to freshen the room. A bit of air might have offered a respite to the ailing king. Instead, the chamber felt like a stifling dungeon, a heavy haze of odors and incense choking the atmosphere.

Viserys was discovered by Daenera near the table adorned with a stone map of Old Valyria. Whips of incense smoke wafted from the small bowls interspersed among the miniature stone structures, giving the illusion of an ashen conflagration consuming the city. Her gaze, however, locked onto the king’s emaciated visage, his pallid face marred by a bandage that concealed half of it. Her heart sank at the sight.

Aemond sat at his father’s side, engrossed in a book, a studious figure amid the sober scene. Tendrils of light cascaded onto Aemond’s silver hair, imbuing it with an almost ethereal glow. The sharp contours of his face, which typically held a blade-like quality, were now graced by the caress of shadows, imparting an unexpected softness to his features. His single eye remained anchored to the pages of the book, a testament to his unwavering absorption in its contents.

A stark contrast hung in the air between father and son, a dichotomy of fragility and vitality. One, Viserys, appeared frail and ailing, while the other, Aemond, emanated youth and strength. Little resemblance existed between the two. Where one was sharp, the other exuded a gentleness; where one displayed kindness, the other wielded a streak of cruelty; and in one’s strength lay the other’s vulnerability. The only trait, it seemed, that had passed from father to son were the distinctive Valyrian features and their shared affections for books and history.

Viserys’s voice emerged from his frail form, strained and feeble, his hand trembling as it reached into the dimness as though conjuring the history text from thin air. “The Valyrians first conquered the Old Empire of Ghis to the east, across Slaver’s Bay, and the Ghiscari colonies in the Basilisk Isles and Sothoryos. Seeking slaves for Valyrian mines, they then conquered and established colonies west and north after defeating the… the…”

Aemond, seated at his side, finished the thought with an air of nonchalance, his single eye remaining fixed on the book. “After defeating the Andals and the Rhoynar in Essos.”

“That is right! Very well done, excellent memory Rhaenyra. I have taught you well,” Viserys exclaimed with a sense of accomplishment, though his voice remained raspy.

In the dimly lit chamber, the shadows seemed to deepen and curl around Aemond as his shoulder subtly dropped, his solitary eye disengaging from the words on the page. Then, he noticed her, quietly moving in the shadows. Their eyes met.

At that moment, Aemond’s expression seemed tinged with sadness, perhaps even disappointment. A flicker of emotion played across his features before hardening into a scowl.

Viserys, oblivious to the unspoken tension, reached out to pat Aemond’s hand, slowly turning in his chair to regard his child with his one remaining eye. “Oh, did I say the wrong name again, Aegon?”

Daenera fought back the urge to chuckle, though it was hard given the absurdity of the situation. The indignant scowl on Aemond’s face, however, was too amusing to ignore. Aemond detested being compared to Aegon, and being mistakenly called by his brother’s name was akin to a personal affront.

“When has Aegon ever read to you?” Aemond sneered, his tone disdainful.

“I’m sorry, Aemond, there are so many names to remember,” Viserys apologized, a pained expression crossing the half of his face that wasn’t hidden beneath bandages.

“ You never seem to forget Rhaenyra’s name ,” Aemond muttered under his breath, the resentment darkening his voice.

Kneeling beside Viserys, Daenera gently placed a hand on his shoulder to signal her presence. The King turned his head towards her, his eye flickering over her features as he tried to place her. “Rhaenyra?”

“It is Daenera, Your Grace,” Daenera gently corrected him, a warm smile on her lips, though marred by considerable concern. “Your grandchild.”

Viserys nodded, his expression grateful, his knobbed fingers brushing against his forehead. “Ah, Daenera, I apologize, names seem to elude me today.”

“Nothing to apologize for. There are many of us, and all our names are so similar.”

Daenera carefully examined Viserys’s face, her eyes tracing the contours of the half that was visible. His eyes had a reddish rim, as if it had become dry and irritated. Discoloration marred several patches of his skin, giving the impression that the flesh was slowly peeling away from the underlying muscle and bone. His hair had thinned considerably, hanging limply from his skull in clusters. The state of his teeth was equally distressing, showing signs of decay and emitting a sulfurous odor. As she observed his numerous ailments, a nauseating sensation twisted in the pit of her stomach. She knew she would need to inquire with the Maesters about their course of treatment.

There was something unsettling about this sickness.

“The least one can do is remember their children’s names,” Aemond muttered eye flicking across the page.

Daenera looked across to Aemond, her tone chiding as she spoke. “Do not pretend like you know the difference between Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.”

“Joffrey is not a Valyrian name.” It was a snide comment, meant to poke at her.

“Nevertheless, would you be able to tell them apart if they stood before you?”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed as he glanced up at her, a twist to his lips. “Last I saw your brothers, they were cowering behind their mother. But I suppose now, I couldn’t tell them apart. They’re all just brown-haired boys.”

They locked gazes, exchanging verbal jabs like engaged in swordplay. Aemond exuded a foul mood, one that carried barbs capable of leaving deep wounds on anyone who dared to approach. Daenera felt the sting, but allowed him as much.

“Aemond,” Viserys interjected, his tone warning his son that he was treading on thin ice. “There will be no arguing.”

Aemond shot Daenera an accusatory glance.

Daenera straightened, pushing away from the table and running her hand over its smoothly carved stone surface. Intricate grooves had been etched into the stone, providing exquisite details. “Were you reading to him?”

Aemond’s eye shifted to the book in his lap, which detailed the doom of Valyria. “I was.”

“How kind of your son to provide entertainment while you recover,” Daenera remarked to Viserys. “He has a pleasant voice for reading aloud, don’t you think?”

Daenera’s unexpectedly kind words seemed to catch Aemond off guard. Beside him, Viserys stirred, his frail head nodding in agreement. “Indeed, it is very kind. His mother did the same after…”

A veil of sorrow shrouded the aging king’s eyes as he drifted into memories of his first wife and the circumstance that had brought Alicent to his door. His thoughts were lost in the past.

Aemond turned his eye to the heavens, unable to contain his contempt.

Daenera pursed her lips, contemplating Otto Hightowers strategic move of sending his daughter to comfort the King after the death of his first wife. It was a shrewd tactic, disgusting and ruthless, and obvious to all except the King himself. Perhaps, Daenera thought, he needed the solace of ignorance.

Rubbing his forehead again, Viserys let out a low groan, screwing his eye shut as a wave of pain washed over him.

Leaving the King’s side, Daenera moved through the chamber and entered the adjoining bedroom. There, a solitary cup sat perched on the table beside the bed. She picked up the cup and brought it to her nose, sniffing cautiously. The concoction contained a mixture of herbs that supposedly alleviated joint pains and reduced inflammation. Cat’s claw, white willow bark, wood spider and milk of the poppy. However, Daenera couldn’t help but wonder if some herbs had been added to mask the scent and taste of more dubious ingredients, as they weren’t particularly effective for Viserys’ current condition. Cat’s claw was not what she would have used, nor would she have used wood spider .

A tingling sensation prickled at the back of her neck as she sensed Aemond’s movements nearby. His presence was palpable, and she knew he was right behind her.

“Why are you here?” Aemond’s tone carried a stab of accusation, as though she had trespassed, and now stood on ground he had no desire of letting her tread. It wasn’t just about her seeing the king; it was encroaching on him being there.

“I am ensuring the well-being of my grandsire,” Daenera replied, her words carrying a subtle undercurrent. It wasn’t only about the king’s health but also about verifying that he still remained of this world. It would be all too easy for the Hightowers to maintain an illusion of normalcy, even as the king had drawn his final breath and his body lay rotting in the dark.

Aemond’s response was pointed. “In other words, you’re here to make sure the King remains alive,” he said, his gaze shifting to the cup, the icy blue darkening. “You suspect we might be poisoning him.”

Daenera offered a half-hearted shrug and brought the small cup to her nose again, inhaling the sweet scent of milk of the poppy. “I wouldn’t put it past your mother, or the Hand.”

Controlling a king would be much simpler if he were ill and dazed by the milk of the poppy. As long as the king remained alive but incapacitated, it would serve the interest of the Hightowers. The Maesters might be merely a tool to conceal their machinations.

“You’re making quite a quite serious accusation,” Aemond drawled, stepping towards her and just like that, his presence seemed towering. A shiver went down her spine, and she felt goosebumps rise along with the hairs at the back of her neck.

Aemond continued. “And one easily disproved by the pitiful state he’s in.”

“Do you feel any sympathy for your father at all?” She inquired, her eyes searching his face. She had often wondered whether he had inherited his prominent cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw, and the shape of his nose. He didn’t resemble his father at all, Daenera thought, but he didn’t quite possess the distinctive Hightower features either. However, that cold, cruel look in his eye was undoubtedly his mothers– inherited or learned?

“I’ll grant him as much sympathy as he granted me when I lost my eye,” he replied, his tone devoid of any compassion.

Affording his as much compassion as he did then; which was none.

“Yet, you still come to see him.”

“The kind of sentiment you’re looking for isn’t there,” Aemond told her dryly.

The injustice he had experienced had wounded him far deeper than Daenera could ever fully grasp. She did understand some of it though. The pain in his eye was as apparent to her as the moon on a clear night.

Her fingers extended to delicately cradle his face, but Aemond’s hand swiftly intercepted, grasping her wrist and preventing her touch from reaching his face. His expression remained hard, his head shaking tersely as if to reject the comfort she offered.

Injustice had become etched into every fiber of his being, from the flesh to the bone. It marked his face as an enduring reminder of a profound wrong. It was the source of his seething anger, the core of his resentment. The boy he had once been had been crushed under the weight of that injustice, leaving only the man he had become. Her touch, no matter how tender, couldn’t erase the scars or heal the wounds left by it.

Yet, as much as he resisted, there remained a flicker of longing for understanding in his eyes.

Daenera allowed him this, and moved around him, returning to the common room where Viserys sat. She assisted him in taking a sip from the cup, the milk of the poppy soothing his pain. A small dribble escaped the corner of his mouth, which Daenera gently wiped away with her sleeve.

Viserys slouched deeper into the chair, closing his one eye as the pain began to recede. With a faint smile, he complimented Daenera, drawing a comparison to her mother. Daenera, however, became distracted by an unusual object on the table, one of the stone figurines adorning the model of the Valyrian city. Puzzled, she picked it up and examined it more closely.

“Is this a pig with wings?” She inquired with a bemused frown, turning the object in her hand and holding it out for Viserys to see.

Daenera’s inquisitive gaze shifted towards Aemond, who had retreated into the dimly lit shadows, as though the mere reminder of a winged pig were too painful to endure. Once she would have laughed at him, laughed at his reaction to the reminder, but now she bit down on her lip.

“A pig with wings…” Viserys murmured, his voice a slow, raspy drawl. He seemed to struggle against the encroaching waves of slumber, his head swaying gently as he tried to remain awake. His lone eye fluttered open, taking a moment to focus on the object Daenera held in her hand. Eventually, recognition dawned.

“Yes, I believe your brother and Aegon played a prank once,” he recalled, his memory struggling to bridge the gap between wakefulness and dreams. “The pink dread, and the spotted terror.”

The pink dread and the spotted terror were whimsical names for what had been innocent pigs adorned with makeshift wings and tails. Yet, she understood that what had once been a childhood prank now carried a different weight. The only humor she would wangle for it, was the idea of Aegon struggling to catch and wrestle the wings on the pigs.

“It was a mean spirited prank,” Daenera spoke carefully.

“Alicent thought so,” Viserys muttered, nodding his head in remembrance. “She wanted your brothers punished.”

“But I do believe it was Aegon who was the mastermind of it. My brothers are many things, gullible and perhaps a bit foolish, but they’re not cruel.”

“You’re brothers are good,” Viserys mumbled, nodding in agreement. “They were led astray.”

Daenera cast a sidelong glance towards Aemond, sensing the tension in his posture as his arms remained folded behind his back. Her voice, gentle but assured, pressed on. “They should still have been punished for it.”

Viserys, perhaps tired from the repetition of this discussion, waved a hand, dismissing the issue as he had done so many times before. The notion of punishment had always sat uneasy with him.

“It was a prank, nothing more,” he reiterated. “It is long in the past, Alicent. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“Daenera,” she said, her voice gentle but insistent, feeling the sting of the wrong name land on her like a lash.

“Hm?”

“I’m Daenera,” she stated firmly, taking Viserys’s fragile hand in her own as if drawing him back to the present. Her touch, soft and reassuring, sought to anchor him in the conversation. “I think it’s important to acknowledge the mistakes we might have made in the past and admit there should have been some form of consequences. It won’t change what happened, but it might just soothe the sting of the memory.”

Viserys tilted his head, considering her words, but then counters, “What punishment would have been fitting. It was a childish prank. It meant no harm.”

“Restricting visits to the Dragonpit perhaps?” Daenera said, then continued with faint amusement. “I wouldn’t have minded seeing Aegon spanked for his part.”

Viserys chuckled softly, the corner of his eye wrinkling with amusement. “I fear a good spanking wouldn’t have done him any good.”

“That might be, but personally, I would have been thoroughly entertained by it,” Daenera chimed wryly.

Viserys slipped his hand from Daenera’s and reached for the winged pig. He held it weakly, as if the weight of the stone was almost too heavy. “I’ve made many mistakes in my life. Your mother is not one of them. She gave me you.”

“You’ve been blessed with many good children,” Daenera gently reminded him. “Helaena, Daeron… Aemond.”

Viserys put the figurine back on the table, letting out a labored, raspy breath. “They’re not your mother.”

“No, they’re not,” Daenera nodded in agreement as she regarded the man before her. He was a weak king, amiable but fallible, a father who held little love for the children that came after his first. He was the man who had sanctioned the butchering of his first wife for a son who wouldn’t survive, and then married his daughter’s childhood companion. She wondered if he ever recognized the damage his decisions had inflicted on all those around him. And she couldn’t help but question what he might have become had he not been under the influence of Otto Hightower.

Daenera continued. “But they’re still deserving of your love.”

Aemond, like a quiet shadow, silently left the king's chambers, his presence vanishing almost seamlessly. Daenera closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the moment. She stood, bidding the King a quick goodbye before following Aemond.

After a few concentrated blinks to adjust to the sunlight, her vision returned. Aemond was striding down the hall, his hair wishing with each step as he stepped into an alcove. As soon as she reached him, he wrapped a hand around her arm, pulling her into the shadows. She frowned, studying his face.

“Why did you do that?” Aemond’s words were sharp, accusatory. Anger seems to bend the shadows to his will as they coiled and quivered around him.

“I–”

“Why did you tell him that?” He sneered, his anger apparent.

“Because–”

“Do not impose your sympathy onto me,” Aemond snapped, his voice laced with indignation. “I do not want or need it, and I especially do not need you to impose it on him.”

He clung to his hatred of Viserys, using it as a shield against any doubts that might creep in. Hatred was his anchor, and it was easier to hold onto than the complex mix of emotions that lay beneath the surface. Viserys had made himself deserving of that hatred, there was no doubt about that. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was also afraid of what it might mean to let go of that anger, to see his father in a different light. For so many years, hatred and resentment had been all he had.

“ I do not want his love ,” Aemond sneered at her, his words sharp and laced with bitterness. “And I certainly do not need it.”

“I am sorry.” Her admission of fault seemed to take him by surprise. She knew she shouldn’t have forced the subject, that what was between Aemond and his father was shattered beyond repair, and trying to reconcile it would only serve to rub salt in the wound.

Aemond shifted, searching her face, seemingly trying to decipher the intention behind her words. He gave her a curt nod, and left her in the shadows.

Aemond found her sitting in the library, hunched over a book with a quill in her hand, fervently scribbling into another volume as her eye scanned the pages. The room was a haven of knowledge, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams of light, giving the chamber an ethereal quality. The unmistakable scent of leather and aging parchment hung in the air, a comforting aroma for anyone who sought solace in books.

With the grace of a shadow, Aemond approached her, his gaze drawn to the cascade of dark curls that framed her face. He observed the furrowed concentration on her brow as she dipped the quill into an inkpot before deftly returning it to the parchment.

The room was lined with shelves, each holding a treasure trove of knowledge in the form of books. Some volumes stood tall, forming a miniature tower of wisdom, while others lay scattered around her in a haphazard half-circle. Among them, a single book stood out, bound in sleek black leather adorned with ornate gold lettering on its cover.

“ Mōrītubis māstan ao gōntan daor ,” Aemond spoke, his voice a murmur as he stood before her. You did not come yesterday.

“I assumed you did not wish to see me,” Daenera replied, her gaze briefly lifting from her meticulous work. One hand lay across the page she was studying, anchoring it in place, while the other deftly dipped the quill into the inkpot before tapping it twice against the edge to eliminate any surplus ink. “You appeared rather vexed.”

Her attention swiftly returned to the page, dismissing his presence with a casual air. Despite the absence of anger in her tone or eyes, an irksome sensation coiled within Aemond’s chest, much like a snake ready to strike.

Did she fail to grasp the depths of his anger? Did she not realize she was closing in on him like an unwelcome shadow, forcing him to confront questions he had no intention on confronting, nor any answers to?

Aemond clenched his teeth, determined to swallow down his fury. “I have no desire to discuss it.”

“I haven’t inquired,” Daenera replied calmly, her gaze still fixed on the pages before her.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, as he seized the back of a nearby chair with a harsh grip as he simmered with frustration. “I wished to see the extent of his suffering.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to him once more, her quill pausing in its scribbling as she observed him. There was no judgment in her eyes, and strangely, that lack of judgment added kindling to his irritation. It wasnøt what he had anticipated, and that unexpectedness grated on him.

“Did it satisfy you, knowing that he lost an eye?” Daenera inquired, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.

“It’s no more than he deserves,” Aemond retorted, a trace of sneer in his tone. “His suffering brings me immense satisfaction. His body is deteriorating, rotting from the inside out, and I hope it's excruciating.”

“You genuinely feel no sympathy for his pain?” Daenera probed.

“No,” Aemond replied bluntly.

Aemond was prepared to offer his father as much sympathy as he had received when he had lost his eye, which was none. Viserys had made his lack of his sons abundantly clear–It wasn’t hatred, but rather a cold and cruel indifference. Even as Aemond’s eye had been ripped from its socket and the wound had been stitched shut, his father had regarded him with nothing more than weariness. Only his mother had demanded justice, only she had shown concern, only she had held his hand.

Aemond had no intention of sympathizing with a man who had offered him no comfort in his time of need.

Although a question lingered in the furrow of Daenera’s brow, she chose not to voice it, perhaps deciding it was best not to.

Aemond was well aware of the unspoken question in Daenera’s eyes: Why did he choose to stay by his father’s side after having seen him?

There had been no logical reason for him to sit and listen to his father’s historical musings. Aemond despised himself for it; all he had truly desired was to witness his father’s agony. Yet, ironically, history was the one thing that the two of them had ever had in common.

Once upon a time, Aemond had sat beside his father as he had narrated the grandeur of Old Valyria. It had been an attempt to forge a bond that had never existed, to hearn his father’s love, only to discover that there was none left for him.

Rhaenyra had received all of their father’s love, Aegon had been allotted the leftovers, and Helaena had collected the remnants. By the time Aemond had come into existence, there was nothing remaining. Thus, he had labored earnestly to make peace with the void, attempting to forge some sort of connection, only to have even that fragile semblance severed when his eye was brutally torn from its socket.

Daenera’s eyes had once again descended upon the pages, her quill etching its marks upon the parchment with a soft scratching sound.

Aemond was prepared to shift the conversation and inquired, “What are you studying?”

Without lifting her gaze from the pages, she replied, “The History of Harrenhal.”

It was a lie that flowed so seamlessly from her lips. The evidence of this falsehood lay before her, as the book’s pages displayed a botanical illustration, complete with notes regarding the plant’s applications and cultivations.

Why she chose to lie so blatantly remained a mystery to him, but he decided to play along. “And what you learned of Harrenhal?”

Daenera set the quill aside in the inkpot and raised her gaze to meet Aemond’s as he picked up the black leather-bound book from her half-circle. It was titled ‘History of Harrenhal.’ It wasn’t the one she had been studying so meticulously. He was well-acquainted with the book and the legend of Harrenhal.

“Harren the Black built Harrenhal as a monument to himself, intending it to be the greatest of all castles in Westeros. The construction of it took forty years, three generations, and in that time, thousands of captives died in the quarries, chained to sledges or laboring on the five huge towers. He beggared the riverlands and the Iron Islands, depleted the land of its resources and riches, uncaring for the people that starved and suffered for his hubris,” Daenera recounted. “They say the mortar they used between the bricks was mixed with blood.”

Aemond regarded her with bemusement. “It makes for a good story.”

Daenera shrugged half-heartedly. “You do not believe in the curse of Harrenhal?”

“You do?” Aemond had little opinion on the matter. He did not discount the superstition, nor the truth of it, but he saw no plain evidence for such things as curses.

“I believe there are things in this world we have yet to understand,” Daenera answered, her voice laced with a touch of mystery. “If notions like ghosts and curses hold any truth, Harrenhal would certainly be a fertile ground for them.”

Aemond felt a wry smile tug at the corners of his lips. “Are you suggesting every battlefield will become haunted, then? Even these very halls?”

Daenera hummed in thought, leaning back in her chair contemplatively,” Death has a way of leaving its mark, especially when it’s particularly gruesome.” She paused briefly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a splotch of ink on the underside of her palm. “And what death could be more gruesome than being consumed by dragonfire? Aegon the Conqueror descended upon Harrenhal with fire and blood. They say the very stones of the castle melted. Harren and his entire lineage met their end that day, and ever since, no house has held it for long. House Qoherys, House Harrowway, and House Towers all met their demise while holding Harrenhal. Queen Rhaena died within its walls.”

Her words hung in the air.

“And what of House Strong?” Aemond couldn’t suppress the pointed question, knowing its unkindness.

Daenera’s face remained unmoved, as if she refused to let the question’s barb pierce her. “Lord Lyonel Strong and his eldest son and heir, Ser Harwin Strong, both met their deaths within the halls of Harrenhal.”

Aemond settled into the chair across from her, reclining slightly with one hand resting on the table’s surface. He idly ran a nail over his thumb’s skin.

“It appears that either the very stones themselves or perhaps the restless spirits dwelling within demand a bloody toll,” Daenera added with an undercurrent in her voice.

Aemond found himself uncertain of whether he believed in such things as curses or if she truly believed her own words. Undoubtedly, Harrenhal had a grim history steeped in death and destruction, with entire Houses vanishing into extinction. Nevertheless, to attribute such power to a place bordered on the absurd. If there truly was a curse, he’d have to witness it first hand.

With a faintly amused curl to his lips, Aemond inquired, “What have you learned from the history of Harrenhal?”

Daenera regarded him with a similar, slightly amused expression, her lips forming a smile. “Hubris does not stand against the fire of a dragon. Stone might not burn, but flesh does so very well.”

Aemond’s eyes wandered from the book to Daenera, his expression curious. “You gleaned all this from… a book about plants?”

She chuckled softly, though her eyes held a hint of keen observation. “I figured you’d have more interest in Harrenhal than cat’s claw.”

Aemond surmised that Daenera’s abrupt immersion in the pile of books encircling her was not a newfound passion for reading, but rather her skepticism regarding the Maesters and the King’s prescribed treatment. He had observed her cautious sniff of the medicine cup and the crease of her brow as she had contemplated its contents.

“And it is not because of your inherent distrust of the Masters?” Aemond couldn’t help but inquire further, his curiosity piqued by the subtle narrowing of Daenera’s eyes when he broached the topic of her deep-seated mistrust of the Masters. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and took a deep breath, as though gathering her thoughts before responding.

“I don’t know why they chose to use cat’s claw instead of aloe or boswellia,” Daenera began, her voice measured and thoughtful. “Cat’s claw carries a higher risk of side effects compared to those alternatives. I am compiling a list of other remedies that the Maesters might consider implementing, or perhaps different recipeice they could experiment with.”

“Do you believe you possess greater wisdom than the Maesters?” Aemond inquired, his head canting slightly as he observed her closely.

“I believe that people often become complacent and entrenched in their beliefs,” she responded thoughtfully. “I might find something they have not considered.”

“The Masteres may not be receptive to your recommendations,” Aemond remarked. “Considering their years of study at the Citadel and their long service in treating the King, it might be imprudent to think that you possess superior knowledge.”

Aemond couldn’t help but sense that Daenera wouldn’t simply present her own remedies and suggestions to the Maesters; she would also bring a barrage of inquiries. He discerned that determined and obstinate glint in her eyes, that spark of spite and stubbornness that would drive her to pepper the Maesters with questions and demands. She sought not just a cure but a glimpse into their motives, a desire to uncover the possibility of malice.

Daenera countered, “While I may lack the physical links of a Maester’s chain, my education is by no means inferior.”

Aemond remarked, “It’s regrettable that the Citadel does not admit women.”

“Oh, so I could go there and earn a single link for a chain, or perhaps you just want to be rid of me? Between us, it seems you’re better suited to carry a chain, given the weight of that grudge you bear,” Daenera quipped, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Aemond couldn’t help but chuckle, a short and amused breath escaping him as he shook his head, his eye momentarily diverting from Daenera.

With an inquisitive set to his brow, Aemond looked back upon Daenera. “What can you tell me about lucerne?”

This question appeared to take Daenera by surprise. Her eyes widened briefly, followed by a thoughtful furrowing of her brow, a slight blush creeping upon her cheeks. “You remember that?”

Aemond couldn’t quite explain why that particular memory stuck with him. Perhaps it was the swift diversion Daenera had employed when her husband had approached, or it might have been the subtle smirk that danced at the corner of her eyes, a secret known only to her.

As she began to enlighten him about lucerne, Daenera’s voice held a scholarly tone. “Lucerne serves a range of purposes. It’s primarily utilized for livestock feed and improving soil quality and fertility. In the realm of medicine, it can be employed to alleviate joint pain and as a diuretic. However, it’s worth noting that a common side effect in men is difficulty in maintaining an erection.”

“Princess,” Maester Gilbar chimed, the links of his chain clinking softly as he approached, a stack of books cradled in his arms. His breath came out in almost labored pants, a testament to his determination. With a loud thud, he deposited the books on the table, finally freeing his arms from their heavy burden. “I’ve found the one we were looking for!”

His excitement seemed boundless as he continued, “I knew we had it! I just knew it! And you won’t believe where I found it. At first, I searched in the medical section, where it was supposed to be. In its place, I found the book ‘History of the Ironborn’ by Maester Haereg, who posited that the Ironborn hailed from a different race beyond the Sunset Sea. Of course, his idea has been firmly rejected by the Citadel. Why anyone would–”

Daenera politely interrupted him before he could launch into another passionate discourse. “Thank you, Maester Gilbar.”

The Maester’s expression softened as he turned his attention to Aemond. A subtle frown creased his brow. “Prince Aemond, is there anything I can assist you with?”

Aemond stood up, clutching the leather-bound book containing the history of Harrenhal. “I have all that I need.”

Daenera responded with a chiding tone and light exasperation. “That is my book!”

She extended her hand expectantly, leaning over the table.

Aemond sported a smirk as he retorted, “It seems to me you’ve got enough books on hand. You can hardly lay claim to them all.”

Daenera let out an exaggerated sigh, as if her hand had suddenly become too heavy to maintain. She playfully banged it on the table. “I will be expecting you to return the book to me once you’re done.”

With that, her attention shifted to the fresh stack of books, her fingers deftly searching through the volumes for the one she sought.

Aemond relocated to the opposite end of the table, occupying a chair and methodically opening the book to its initial page.

A serene quiet enveloped them, periodically punctuated by the gentle clinks of Maester Gilbar’s chains, the faint shuffle of feet as he continued his tasks, and the occasional rustling of pages as Daenera searched through her collection of books. Despite the physical separation, they shared a sense of harmony, seated together in a peaceful silence.

This scene was inspired by this post

#hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year

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Ooh, Yandere genderbent Esmeralda! Yandere genderbent Esmeralda!! Please

Yandere Genderbent Esmeralda x Reader

You knew you shouldn’t have been out there. Shouldn’t have been the center of his emerald gaze. But you were…and it was no one’s fault but your own. You had spoken with your faceless friend in the bell tower.

“Quasi, why don’t we go out during the Topsy Turvy festival? We wouldn’t be judged…if we say that we’re wearing masks.”

“...No (Y/n) we can’t…its more than just a festival..”

“Then what is it? I’m tired of no one telling me why we can’t go?! We’re the same aren’t we? All humans aren’t we?!”

You heard no response, further angering you as you stomped to your feet. Everyone was like this: avoiding questions, speaking cryptically. Could you really blame yourself for wanting to sate your curiousity. It didn’t matter now, not when the dancer’s eyes lit up at the sight of you. Somehow it stirred something in your eternal soul that something truly horrible was going to happen. You chalked it up to supersitition…the nuns of the church did plenty to exaggerate…that’s all it was….hopefully. The feeling never left even when he found you again, on your way out of the cheering crowd. He was gorgeous up close more so than when he was dancing limber on the stage before.

“Well hi there! I see your a new face!”

Hiding his face under a scarf did nothing to hinder his shining smile and the waft of jasmine that filled your nostrils at his proximity. You dumbly nodded, stuttering out something as you tried to remind yourself of your objective–getting back to the church. You swerved past him with a polite excuse me before continuing to push past the crowd.

“Where ya going precious? The festival’s just started!”

You fought the willingness to go with his invitation, continuing to escape the crowd ducking into an alleyway. As if to taste your last bit of spntanaiety you stopped yourself. Turning back to the festival colorful and bright in the daylight, uncovered from the shadows of the alley it lit up the pained visage of the gypsy dancer. Despite the tug of his emerald gaze your desire to return home was greater.

Esmerald watched as you disappeared within the darkness between the buildings. Letting his sadness fade into an angered scowl. He breathed inhaling to himself he plastered his smile discarding his hood to join the festivities once more.

You took the scenic route already being avoided by any who weren’t apart of the festival. Spying at the guards at the door you also looked to the entry the bell tower provided. Hyping yourself for a climb you began to feel the side of the church, lifting your leg to climb.

“I hope you do not plan to enter your home that way!”

You turned in shock as you were dwarfed by the shadow of the judge on his horse. Beside him the head nun who mirrored your expression. Shrinking into the cold stone of the churches walls you allowed your arm to be snatched by the judge, who had dismounted his stead, flinging you into her waiting arms.

“That solves your missing person case! At the very least you can be proud they returned to their senses before nightfall. We can only hope…that the other will do the same.”

“Other?” You whispered, unable to question as the nun checked you over quickly ushering you inside, sending you to your room. Easily you made your way to the bell tower eyeing the sheet that you’d usually use to talk through on the ground; revealing a table full of wooden carvings. Not just any wood carvings but carvings of everyone in the city, including a hunched figure representing Quasimoda.

“Oh Quasi.” Holding the figurine in your hands you looked at the display–decorated in colored rags and the crowd gathered to represent the festival. Among your watchful gaze you spied the dark and faraway members of the church. Looking among them you found none that had any resemblance to your image. Finding it strange you looked all throughout the wooden town beginning to search in case it had fallen; bending down to find a peculiar scene.

Copies of the citizens were gathered together huddled around a pile of red and yellow rags seemingly having another festival. But a little farther from the wooden crowd was a figurine that resembled yourself laying on the floor, you wished you could dismiss it as a mistake if it weren’t for the figure with green dots for eyes standing above you. It guarded your downed piece from a copy of the same wooden friend you were still tightly clutching in your hands.

“Do you know what it means?”

The question had you reeling back and out from the table, looking to see Judge Frollo with an uncharacteristically sullen look on his face. Standing in the darkness of the bell tower he waited until you rose to face him.

“Maybe…she thinks something might happen in the waterways…maybe another festival?”

You feared to voice anything more letting the judge walk further into the orange light of the setting sun. His silhouette towered shadowed you as he looked to the town below with a grimace.

“I fear Quasimoda has done something…regrettable and is calling on you to correct it.”

His words hung heavy as your mind raced to reach a veritable conclusion. Stomach churning at the sight of the flare that the rags raised to represent and your downed wooden copy. You opened your mouth for guidance…only for Judge Frollo would know only for a raised hand to quiet you.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, this is a decision for the curious to answer. And it was not I who left the comfort of the church to pursue something more.”

You didn’t know if he was speaking about you or Quasimoda but it didn’t matter. Whether it was your hubris or hers it wasn’t a debate. You were going to her be there for her.

_________________________________________________

You made your way to the waterways, refusing to look back at the church where you knew Frollo was watching. You would be strong…if only for your friend. Ventured further letting the cold nip at your skin as you moved through the empty streets of the town.

It wasn’t until you made your way to the underside of the grand bridge already displaying the shadows of bodies dancing. Flickering light that must have been made by a large source of fire all that was left to see was if it fit the image Quasi had made. Silencing your steps you crept slowly hugging the corner as you peeked over the corner. In a horrifying display a group of masked people danced around a pile of fire holding unrecognized flags and goat skeleton’s head on pikes. The whooping of the group let your fearful breathing go unnoticed. With no sight of your hunched friend you backed away, turning to run back to the church only to be fallen by the chest of someone familiar.

“Well hello again beautiful! Happy you could make it.”

The joyful greeting was given by none other than Esmerald sporting a warmer version of his dancing outfit, still looking as radiant as ever. His smile and lidded eyes had a devious glow as his shadow danced with the flickering fire. You moved to side step him preparing to sprint out of the waterways only to be stopped by Esmerald’s hand. Holding a cloth in front of you he smirked before beginning a dance. Shaking his hips and keeping eye contact with you he stretched his single cloth to many waving it in tandem with his body. You had to shake yourself out of the trance attempting to sidestep once again only to find yourself restricted. In the wake of Esmerald’s dance you were slowly being tied up by the unexpectedly sturdy string of clothes leaving you to buckle falling to your knees and thusly on the ground. Feeling the cold concrete against your cheek you could only look up at the smiling gypsy.

He bent downm, bringing his face close to yours as he searched for something. You flinched at the warmth of his thumb tenderly rubbing the curve of your lip. Trying to back away you didn’t get very far as you pulled you close, whispering in your ear.

“I’ve been waiting for the longest time.”

He pulled away intensely looking over your face before moving to kiss you.

“Stop! I won’t let you harm them!”

You looked past Esmerald’s head smiling at your dear friend’s appearance only to reduce to a grim look of fear as you watched Esmerald��s visage change. Eager bliss scrunched into an ugly snarl as he reluctantly released your head to turn to Quasimoda.

“You? It was you who thought it best to interrupt me?!”

He growled startling Quasimoda but she held her ground standing as tall as she could.

“Aye! I was wrong to make such a deal with you…especially before I knew what your kind does…”

Deal? What deal? You wanted to ask but it didn’t as though you were apart of this conversation.

“Ha,”Esmerald laughed dryly still sporting an angry scowl. “You want to go back on our deal do you? Than what will you give me in exchange?”

Quasimoda turned in on herself.

“What? Did you think I would let you jip me out of my proper prize? We outcasts need a Fool who do you bring in the absence of one.”

With a sorrowful look in her eye she mouthed an apology to you as she stepped forward.

“I will do it. I will be your fool…”

“Excellent!”

Quasimoda’s pained confession against Esmerald’s joyful one was sickening to watch. Not being soothed by the way the previously dancing party now surged forward menacingly as they filter around Esmerald and you. With jeers and laughs the crowd parted to reveal a wooden headlock around her neck, looking defeated as Esmerald waltzed up to her.

Angled to the side so you could see you watched the pure joy that radiated off of emerald eye’d dancer as he mockingly bent to Quasimoda’s level. Grasping her face he let his nails dig into her cheeks as spoke, squeezing for emphasis.

“That’s real noble of you Quasi. Sacrificing your life for their’s! All for our dear (Y/n)!”

He jerked her head to look at you, eyes full of shame and humiliation. You could only look on in bewilderment as Esmerald turned her away to look into his gleeful face.

“Just so you know…it was always going to be you.”

The revelation triggered the crowd to pull her away resisting all her struggles to attack despite her bindings. Roughly pulling her past the corner towards the bonfire creating a horrible shadow along the walls. The big black mass that must have been the crowd seamed to heave before chucking, what must have been Quasimoda into the fire. You could hear her screaming confused and in pain you were unable not to imagine the true sight as you turned away from the shadow’s view, now looking to the beaming Esmerald.

With her screams still persisting a chant began to which Esmerald hummed along as he worked to scoop you up, forcing you to rest upon his chest. Hearing the quick beating of his heart reserved joyous occasions you let the man carry you out of the water ways to an old building. Tossing you on a surprisingly soft matress, he quickly followed suit. Caging your tied self he made sure to get close; close enough for your noses to be touching before speaking oncemore.

“So darling? What shall we do with you? The festivities have all ended and you didn’t even get to witness the Fool’s burning?” He mockingly pouted pulling at the fabrics the church provided, his face looked at them with spite before lighting up in a wicked smile.

“Oh I know darling! How about I show you a favorite dance of mine, huh baby? A dance I’ve been waiting to show you since I had your little figurine!

Don’t look at me like that baby, now pay attention! This is going to be our first dance together, it’ll be best if we both enjoy it!”

#yandere genderbend esmeralda #yandere hunchback of notre dame #yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderexrea #yanderes #yandere esmeralda genderbent #yandere genderbent disney #yandere esmeralda #yandere genderbent #yandere disney genderbend #yandere disney genderbent #yandere disney x reader #yandere x y/n

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guhamun · 29 days

Text

@dayscorch said (inbox):

❛❛ Who has led you here, my Protector ? ❜❜ An empire of light ---- a depth of dark, plunged within nightfall, the darkest corner of the palace ( a place of hauntings, grey walls of stone, candle light being the only light for one's path. ) An empire of light carrying shadowed walls. Statues line the way of the deepest room, visages made by crafter's hands in the forms of her, varying ages. From young blooded until this moment. From warred pieces until peaceful shinings. One statue of her, words engraved speaking ; Princess Asagi Unkaku. 14. The Ryuzetsuian Rebellion. The statue is of a young child, of herself, ribs crushed between logs of wood, chains hanging her limbs, a statue depicting utter torment. Another aligns it, one of her walking, a body most broken, words engraved ; Princess Asagi Unkaku. 14. The Empire has won. Another, but a few years aged. Another, she's older in it too. All arts of torment. Her eyes focus through the dark, a light brighter than the candles lining the room, moving akin to living fire. She let's out a soft sigh, extending her hand towards him, tail flickering likened to a displeased cat. ❛❛ Let us return. There is nothing here that would interest you. ❜❜

❝NO ONE. I JUST knew where you were.❞ He didn’t go into detail, but Jianyu spoke the truth. Her scent was what had guided him to this particular location, concern over Koto’s well-being, making him keep an eye on her. Things were peaceful with her citizens so he wasn’t concerned about any of them being would-be-assassins. His uncertainty lied with those within the court itself. Still, there had been on incident minus one thus far, but one was far too many for him to begin with. There would be no other attempt for as long as he used all his senses and incepted said individual from their goal. Arms crossed over his chest, he allowed his gaze to travel along the many statues, pausing for some. He had a great deal of questions, even more upon realizing that these statues all resembled Koto. Was this the story of her life in art form? If so, he wasn’t sure he liked it, nor the implications of what he saw. Not one was remotely happy.

The said a great deal.

Despite wanting to ask what had come to mind, Jianyu decided not to. This was a poor location to do so, and it was always better to discuss heavy things with a cup in hand. ❝I wonder what it was that brought you here…but yes, let us return. The air has a faint chill to it, and it wouldn’t do to wandering around at this hour anyway.❞ When the time came again, he would talk to her about all the things that were left unsaid – all the things that she hid behind a smile as if she had not experienced hell itself one way or another.

#dayscorch #;dayscorch : koto #;v: band of blades #;m: jianyu #answered #;;inbox

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ajwrites52 · 1 year

Text

Batober 2023: Day 3-Spooked

Wake Up.

“Huh?” Damian said as he leapt from his cot. He remembered this, the cold and empty place that he’d called home for the first ten years of his life. He was back in that cot that held none of his sketches or trinkets and memorabilia, no beds next to his workbench for Titus and Ace to nap in while he did homework, and worst of all no sense of safety.

“No. No. No!” Yelled Damian as he threw off his covers and ran for the door. Only to be met with the silhouette of his grandfather, Ra’s Al Ghul.

“Damian.”

“G-Grandfather. But… you’re-”

Before he could even finish his sentence, suddenly found in his grandfather’s arena dressed in his League uniform with a bloodstained saber in his hand. Damian trembled as he turned and found the sobering and hate filled visage of his cousin Mara Al Ghul clutching her bleeding right eye.

“Demon! How could you?!” Mara’s voice was filled with such venom and animosity as she glared at her cousin who could only tremble at her gaze. “I thought we were family!

“No. This isn’t real!” Damian tossed his bloodstained blade to the ground in denial of his vision, as he looked back up he found himself face to face with his mother. Her face was obscured in shadows but he could tell that she wasn’t looking at him at all.

“That was an embarrassment Damian. You are an embarrassment.” Those very words struck the child to his core, but he clenched his fists and growled as he ran forward to force her to look at him.

“Silence! I’m not an embarrassment! No matter what you say!” Talia vanished into smoke which filled every corner of the darkened room, Damian clenched his teeth and spun around as he was now in his first Robin costume. “Oh great! What is this? Some kind of parlor trick? Scarecrow? Strange? Or is it you clown? I beat you senseless before and I’ll do it again!”

Something stirred in the shadows of the room, Damian pounced at it with no hesitation and sent it flying with a flying drop kick. The sounds of shattered glass and screaming echoed loudly and cleared away the smoke, forcing Damian to see the bloodied and battered body of his adopted brother-Tim Drake.

“W-Why? I just wanted to know you, to understand you? Why did you?”

“No! SHUT UP! I’m not playing this game! I did what I was taught, I know I was wrong okay! Now face me you coward!”

“What’s wrong kid?” spoke a dark and heavy voice who placed a cold hand upon his shoulder, Damian growled and spun around to deliver a powerful punch to whoever stood behind him. But as he did, he was only met with the white and bleeding eyes of Morgan Ducard with his fist landing in his forehead just like it did in the submarine. The cold deceased corpse of the dead man creaked as its eyes rotated back in place to glare at him and grab his wrists. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“STOP IT! I… I repented for your death Ducard! I’ve paid that toll in blood and tears!” Damian screamed and tried to pry himself from the undead Ducard’s grasp, Ducard scoffed before tossing Damian into a wall with little effort as he approached him with a sword in hand.

“Repented? You? Heh. Don’t make me laugh.” Damian stood back up to his feet, spitting on the ground as he threw out two Birdarangs in Ducard’s direction. The zombified Ducard took both to the chest and just laughed in response, Damian noticing his eyes burning with crimson flames that spread and melted away his flesh and armor leaving him a burning skeleton. “I’ve seen your true self, who you TRULY ARE BOY!”

The burning visage of a man stood before Damian, its flames and skull morphing to resemble that of a Batman with devil horns and a trench coat made of hellfire. The area around him burned away as he now stood on the roof of Wayne Industries with Gotham ablaze beneath them. “T-This isn’t real! I know this is a game! This isn’t happening!”

KRAK!

The demonic Batman backhanded Robin, knocking his domino mask off of his face before picking him up by the collar and holding him so they were eye to eye.

“THIS IS FAR MORE REAL THAN YOU REALIZE YOU HORRID WASTE OF FLESH!” yelled the Demonic Batman as it raised its sword in the air. “You were born cursed, unwanted by your witch of a mother and monster of a grandfather! An ocean of blood follows you wherever you go, and will never leave you. You have only one true home, and it's time you returned back to the pit. Demon child.”

STAB!!

Damian felt a sharp pain in his chest as the sword ran itself through his heart, the world went cold and dark. He couldn’t move anymore, his limbs failed him and his heart froze still, this was a fitting end to the Grandson of The Demon. The Child of Talia Al Ghul. The Prince of Blood. Damian…

Wayne

“He’s wrong about that, you know.” A gloved hand grabbed the hilt of the sword, Damian’s heart began to stir as the blade began to vacate Damian’s chest cavity causing a bright heavenly light to fill the room. Damian screamed as he opened his eyes and found himself now wearing his black and red uniform as well as sitting in the kitchen of Wayne Manor.

“What?!” yelled the demonic Batman, the two turned to the door as Alfred Pennyworth appeared with a kettle of tea and cup in hand. The demonic Batman growled as it lunged at the two only to be sent flying out of the nearest door leaving Alfred and Damian alone.

“A-Alfred?” Damian asked, slowly removing his mask as he was truly met with the smiling face of his grandfather figure who poured him a cup of tea. “But…”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Master Damian. An old man must retain some mystique afterall. But I can tell you that whatever that monster said about you is utter nonsense, and you’d be daft to believe any of it.” Damian looked down at his feet, tears stung his eyes as he couldn’t look the former butler in the eyes.

“But I did all those horrible things,” Damian wiped away his tears with his thumb only for more to follow suit. “I-I’m not worthy of any redemption. Of this suit or any of that forgiveness I’ve been given over the years. Christ Alfred it’s because of me that-” Damian’s words were interrupted by a warm hand placed on his head by Alfred, followed by a warm embrace.

“Master Damian. It pains me to see how similar you are to your father,” Alfred pushed the boy away as he took Damian’s domino mask and held it in his gloved hand. “Both of you hold yourselves to such high standards, you think that your mistakes and failures define you. It’s painful to watch you both forget your successes and those you’ve touched in your lifetime.”

Damian looked around as he found the kitchen now bustling with all he considered friends and family, Jon smiling as he, Maya, and Kathy engage in a card game of the Superboy’s choosing while Jason fights to save his leather jacket from the jaws of Titus. Stephanie and Cassandra wave at him as they enter the kitchen with breakfast for the whole family, only for Dick to sneak up behind and snatch away the first Breakfast Burrito from Duke who groaned. Even Tim laughed as he grabbed his coffee from Cassandra and reunited with Bernard who stood waiting for him at the counter. Then Damian felt a pair of warm hands on his shoulders, he looked up to find his father’s smiling face alongside Selina’s who had Alfred the cat on her shoulders.

“Your past will always exist Master Damian, but it is your present and who you choose to be that defines you. Now…” Alfred holds Damian’s domino mask in front of him as the doors to the garden open revealing the Demonic Batman growling as the garden is consumed by the blaze. “Who are you, Damian?”

“Pennyworth.” Damian smiled and took back his mask as he stood up and walked out to face the demon before him. Placing his mask on his face and cracking his knuckles Damian ran forward with a smile on his face as he announced, “I’m ROBIN!”

robin

Robin

ROBIN!

Damian gasped for air as he jolted out of bed, sweat dripping down his forehead as he found himself back in his bedroom with Titus at the foot of his bed and the relieved face of his father to his right. Bruce hugged his son in relief as he began to detail what had happened to The Boy Wonder, apparently The Spook had returned and sought revenge against the Son of Batman. Using a combination of his hypnosis and Fear Toxin, he’d trapped Damian in his own mental prison and was on the run.

“Well then, I guess that means that Batman and Robin are still on the case. Let’s get to work, father.” Damian leapt out of bed and ran towards the entrance of the Batcave, Bruce chuckled and followed behind his son to the Batmobile.

They weren’t going to let a simple scare tear them down, they were BATMAN AND ROBIN!

THE END

#batober #short story #dc superheroes #fanfiction #batman #dc robin #damian wayne #batober2023 #hurt/comfort

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roykleinberg · 2 years

Note

re: your post abt getting back into short-form writing: more ramzler pls? he'll always be the cutest lil' assemblage of angst <3

He used to tease Alan about the Tron marketing. The posters, the action figures, the images splashed across arcade cabinets and stamped in the archives of pop culture. Alan’s face, forever immortalized, framed in the glow of undying neon.

Of course, he hadn’t been the model for a majority of it. Flynn only managed to talk him into sitting for a few early photoshoots to make sure the main highlights of his features were captured properly. Your jawline, man, can’t leave that up to the artists’ interpretation. Alan ignored it in the same way he never argued over Flynn capitalizing off his program’s name. He wasn’t one for the spotlight, couldn’t care less if some kid with a pocket full of quarters recognized him as the face of their hero. If he got any royalties from the deal, he never bragged about it.

They’d all – Alan and Lora and Roy – questioned Flynn in their own ways. Why the nicknames he suddenly insisted on using, adopted from sources so obscure before Flynn could have possibly read through their employee files? Why the insistence that Tron had to resemble Alan? Why was he so strange sometimes, as though when he looked at them he was seeing someone else?

Now it only makes slightly more sense. They still have more questions than answers, and the scales are likely to be tipped that way for a long time. Flynn took so much with him – a lifetime of explanations and the Grid’s structural integrity, for starters. It’s left all of them picking up the pieces in more ways than one, and there are days when the sheer unrelenting weight of it makes Roy’s chest ache. The feeling is redoubled when he thinks about Flynn living with that burden for hundreds of digital years, alone.

It’s difficult to reconcile the Flynn from his memories with the Flynn who made and attempted to unmake this place. Even back then he always looked like he was up to something, sure, but Roy never would have assumed it was this. Sam spoke to them about what their reunion was like, no doubt tucking away some of the details to keep for himself in a way none of them can begrudge. But even hearing about Flynn in that context is… odd. Bearded and old and gray. Wiser, maybe. Sadder, definitely. Tired. And it occurred to Roy then that he never got to see Flynn old. Never got to rib him for finally joining the ranks of the glasses-wearers, or help plan the retirement party they’d doubtlessly have postponed every year Flynn refused to give up Encom.

Roy is a little grateful, privately, that there are no programs on the Grid that resemble Flynn. The only one that did is gone now, destroyed by and with Flynn – a static image of a friend long gone that Roy will never be able to confront. If that unaging visage from his memories haunted the Grid he doesn’t know if he could stand it.

It’s hard enough grappling with his own ghost.

Which is perhaps an unfair assessment even if Roy can’t stop himself from making it. Yori is so much like Lora, but so much her own personality that the resemblances are fond rather than off-putting. A smile on a friendly face he hasn’t seen in thirty years is far less uncanny than a vacantly alien expression on a face he hasn’t seen in the mirror in thirty years.

He tries to avoid Rinzler as politely and covertly as he can. Which is difficult, given that the program seems keen on following the nearest User around like a shadow. More often than not it’s Sam or Alan being trailed by a personal bodyguard, given their prominent roles in fixing the Grid. But when they aren’t around, it’s Roy who can’t shake that low, ticking growl.

Coding out the suffocating helmet from his armor seemed only fair, but even without it his head is perpetually canted downward, gaze fixed submissively on the floor until someone addresses him with a direct order. Somehow that’s the worst part of it. It pains Roy to have to speak to him like that – firm and direct and authoritative – but when he’s asked a question it’s like his processors lock up. Based on the state of his code, it’s safe to assume that Frankensteining two programs together was a job that CLU botched either out of ignorance or malice. Independent decision making was a pesky feature best eliminated. That’s what Roy is trying to repair now, patching some of that hacked up personality back into a program he feels completely and helplessly responsible for.

He wants to believe that any program of his or Alan’s would be as relentlessly stubborn as their Users, let alone if you combined them. From what Yori says, that much was true of Tron. The real, living, breathing – if only in a metaphorical sense – Tron. Not Alan in a stenciled-over hockey helmet, or a collection of pixels in the electric din of an arcade, but a program. A person, as far as Roy is now concerned. He’s taken in every story Yori has offered, and lined up her image of Tron with his image of Alan to see all the overlaps. It doesn’t really surprise him how many similarities there are. But he didn’t expect to feel so let down by the fact that no one remembers Ram. Whatever Yori knows of him comes secondhand from Tron. Whatever Tron remembers of him is tangled up somewhere in Rinzler if the memories have been retained at all.

And whatever Ram could say for himself is locked up and buried beneath the worst code job Roy has ever seen.

His eyes are burning in a way that indicates he needs a break. With a sigh he pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and scrubs his hands down his face. The rumbling click akin to a failing hard drive that hovered at the edge of the room draws closer. Roy lets his eyes remain closed for just a second longer before he releases his glasses back into place, and confronts the figure he knows too well.

“Think that’s all I can do for now.” He averts his eyes quickly back to the twin discs lying on the table and slides them towards their owner. “Sorry it isn’t more, but it should at least help with the headaches a little. It’s pretty messy in there, but you, uh… you probably know that.” A wince at his own words as deft hands take up the discs, lock them together, and press them home between tense shoulder blades. Roy fidgets in his seat, gaze wandering elsewhere.

“Thank you.”

The words startle him. In their time together he’s heard Rinzler speak only a handful of times. Clipped, broken-off words that sound like they’re spoken over broken glass for how painfully they grate from his throat. This is the clearest his voice has ever been, and when Roy looks at him, he’s equally startled to find eyes that meet his own instead of the tiles at his feet.

“You’re welcome.”

A nearby piece of equipment beeps a bright alert, the sound that accompanies the beacon of light erupting from the Grid’s version of Flynn’s Arcade. With the portal past the Sea effectively out of commission, centralizing the entrance and exit seemed the only reasonable move. Sam said he would come by after work – the time must have gotten away from Roy. Once he’s waved away the alert Rinzler has already fallen back into his usual ready stance in anticipation of his next orders. Roy stands and stretches out his back, lamenting the fact that even in cyberspace he still feels every year his age.

“I’m gonna go meet up with Sam. Do you want to come?”

He always presents the option first in the hopes that Rinzler will make a choice without having to be told. A hesitant, sidelong glance flashes towards Roy. And then, just once, the program gives a stiff nod. A relieved grin breaks across the programmer’s face.

“Great! But I’m driving.”

He doesn’t miss the annoyed little huff behind his back as he heads for street level. It’s one of the nicest sounds he’s ever heard.

#writing #tron #throwing this in the main tag because if i'm writing again i'm making it everyone's problem <3 #i did have a cringy ramzler tag lol what was it..........#the cutest murderbot ever #theeeere it is #anyway do you think it would be kinda horrifying seeing your younger doppelgänger being a brainwashed assassin bc i do

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infernally-fond · 6 months

Text

Wednesday WIP

“Do you know what I think?”

The Devil’s Den is cast in warm shadows of late afternoon. Each curated indulgence of Raphael’s little retreat knits together into a vague sense of distance from the urgency that has hunted her for months.

A discernible warmth curls against the her ears and temples- some formless, touchless caress that dulls the characteristic wariness of her stature. The effect of his shield from the Emperor, perhaps. Or some passive, ambient allure.

Her host leans against a desk far across the room, having turned away from a stretch of penning letters while she spent her invitation to his space staring vacantly into the moving waters of the bath and attempting to reason the best way through the impossibilities ahead.

She raises her stare in silent acknowledgement.

“I think Cania unsuited for such a nervous little mouse. I must admit to some interest in the proceedings behind such an unusual situation."

The longer she watches him, so perfectly unmoved by her silence, the more it seems apparent that this moment seems destabilizing.

“Mephistar is quiet,” she answers, in infernal. The words are of the language's coarser, lesser dialect but oddly filtered through the pronunciation of the language spoken in the Court. “Everything here, it’s -”

Pallas looks out the open doors overseeing the private balcony with the hint of a wince pulling at her bro. The muffled symphony of dizzying life reaches even Raphael’s little oasis.

“Loud.”

Her gaze flits back to her host’s, unable to place whatever nuance might cross over his face as he stares out over the balcony.

“One must make peace or make peace, Pallas.”

Raphael responds in infernal in turn - a dialect higher than what she could manage herself, but simplified that she could make sense of it. Yet another hand extended.

Accustomed to the effortful parsing that was necessary to extract meaning from the riddled syntax of higher infernal (often to no avail), she nearly misses the obvious in the habit of dissecting the words – the telling ice-blistered lilt of his speech.

“You’re Canian?”

The roaring surge of her own heartbeat flushes unpleasantly through her ears. No Canian devil so closely resembled her patron’s visage without cause.

And to look at him now, that neutrality clarifies to tension. He's bracing.

She lasts another moment following his gaze to the dusking sky before dropping her head into her hands and rubbing at the pressure building between her eyes.

“Gods damn it, Raphael.”

So intolerably, obscenely- sometimes even silently- loud.

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #raphael x tav #my tav: pallas #wip wednesday #bg3 fic

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ivyprism · 1 year

Text

The Truce (Outcode Story)

Warnings: Fighting, Dust! Sans, Killer! Sans, Nightmare! Sans, many of things, blood, etc.

Spiro was tossed by Ink with little time to respond. To keep himself from falling further, he stuck his knife into the earth. He could hear the ground reacting this his knife. As Rune approached to assault Tusche, he smirked a bit. Rune was not someone to mess with. Tusche created an ink wall to block Rune's strike, but Morte sprang from the shadows and flung Tusche. Acrylic snatched his brother's scarf as he riveted his gaze on the group. Spiro could hear Bliss and Dusk squabbling as well as Bliss's drabble about how they needed to make amends.

"Get up." Dagger huffed as Spiro smiled and nodded. Acrylic rapidly prepared his paints. Dagger, as usual, appeared to have not slept. As a little swirl of power formed around Dagger, he prepared his next attack. Acrylic glared at him as some sort of magic encircled him. However, there was a sense of magic surrounding them. There were exclamation points beneath them.

"MOVE!" Rune yelled as he dove for Dagger's collar, and Morte followed as Comet yanked Acrylic back. Lightning strikes the floor, causing it to fracture under the pressure. With a glare, Rune stood up. But everyone seemed to be frozen in confusion. Spiro brandished a knife at the opposite party.

"What was that?!" As the opposition group flared a little at the threat, Spiro urged.

"That had absolutely nothing to do with us!" Acrylic protested and Lenovo yanked on his strings. Acrylic assailed him, putting an end to his brief respite. As he charged the other skeleton, one of his paints produced a big blue bone as he charged the opposite skeleton. The battle had resumed. Spiro and Dagger were attempting to tag team Comet. Comet kept up as he fought back. The struggle raged on, becoming bloodier and more vicious by the minute. However, as the AU began to break and blasters were poised to collide…

They halted as they watched someone they'd never seen before redirecting the attack away from them into the air. After the light faded, there was a woman bursting with magic and wearing a mask that resembled a skull staring back at them. Lenovo tensed as he saw her morph into a skeleton with a face that looked just like the mask-like visage. She turned to face the group.

"It appears that my first deterrent had no effect." Her silky, almost icy voice made the audience quiver. Her purple eyes darted around the room, looking at the skeletons.

"Who exactly are you?" As the skeleton's gaze returned to him, Dusk demanded. As he stared at her, her purple eyes blazed.

"The one who is stopping this... exhausting and needless war." The woman responded as she looked around and under her gaze, many felt nervous. "But if you need a name, my name is Senna." Senna coolly stated.

"Needless? They will not listen!" Tusche objected and opened his mouth again as Senna extended a hand to him. Her appearance transforms into that of a human woman wearing a mask similar to her skull and sporting long white hair. Her form would be easy to call… unstable.

"You didn't even try," Senna retorted, making the guardian tighten and back off a little. "I've been following this… mess for a long time."

"How come we have never seen you before?" Acrylic stared at her, perplexed. Senna groaned slightly as she adjusted her gloves. A piece of paper appears as she snaps.

"Enough with the foolish questions." Senna took a peek around the room. "You all have to talk about it and sign this," Senna said almost like a command. The others gazed at her, puzzled, as she held it. "It's a treaty… A truce agreement. Whatever you want to name it." Senna's steely eyes locked with the rest of the gang. There was immediate backlash… until.

"I think it's a good idea," Umbra spoke up, drawing everyone's attention to him. "I mean, there has to be a balance between destroying and creating." Umbra gave a nod. Comet, Lucien, and Morte all nodded in accord. They eventually persuaded the remainder of the group to sign the document. When the woman vanished, they couldn't recall her name… However, they were forced to clean up.

-------

Hehehehoo, lore.

Dreamtale is by Jokublog

Error is by CrayonQueen

Dusttale and Killer Sans escape me rn.

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auburniivenus · 10 months

Note

I want the k :3

31. a kiss against a wall. @ichihero

Under the soft luminescence of the streetlights, the evening presented its clandestine narratives, and the pair wandered through the quiescent alleyways obscured in mystery. Kasuga, his concerns resembling diaphanous petals, whispered qualms that pirouetted on the winter breeze, a cautionary tale of the perils lurking in the shadows for one as radiant as Inoue. When did his heart become interlaced with hers?

Fatigued by the uninterrupted concerto of his worries, Orihime decided it was time to appease the frantic notes. A small bench, nestled against the concrete wall, caught her perceptive eye. Gently but resolutely, she beckoned Ichiban towards it. With an exquisite nudge, he found himself encased by the frigid surface, the rough texture of concrete meeting his dorsum. As she climbed onto the bench, she reclaimed her height advantage and peered down with a determined softness in her amber-colored gaze. A palm caressed his handsome visage, its touch as pleasant and balmy as the sun—HELIOS.

The ambient sounds of the metropolis receded, a mere echo in the background, as her dainty digits delicately traced his jaw, redirecting his attention from the hypothetical perils he commonly envisaged. In the luminous cocoon, she leaned in purposefully, her lips seeking his with a conviction that eclipsed mere desire. The kiss unfolded as a promise—a solemn vow to demolish the unease that clung to his thoughts. Firm yet tender, her lips communicated reassurance beyond the reach of words. The warmth of the moment surrounded them, a conjoint breath mingling in the dark hour nimbus. “Ichiban.” His alias hummed against his margins.

Orihime’s arms tightened around his neck, pulling him closer. The modest bench transformed into a vessel for the profound connection they forged. His pulsating heart reverberated beneath her fingertips, and in that singular moment, the city dissolved into OBLIVION. Disturb, menace—all collapsed into the environs, leaving only the coiled dance of two souls captured by an unexpected serenity. As the kiss intensified, he felt the weight of his apprehensions dispel, substituted by a newfound trust in the courage emanating from her. “I adore you.”

A sentinel dragon, protecting the seraph.

#( — .:｡✿*┆ answers ❀ ❞ )#( — .:｡✿*┆ night's allure : yakuza verse ❞ )#knock knock kiss time!

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obligatebureaucrat · 1 year

Text

I need the Mario game canon to adopt Peach’s mysterious backstory from the movie, if only because it makes the Super Crown even more interesting.

Remember that, in Treasure Tracker Switch’s DLC, Toadette finds the Super Crown hidden in the depths of a massive ancient labyrinth. Not only does this imply that the crown vastly predates Peach, but also that the ancient Mushroom Kingdom deemed it a great treasure or a terrifying artifact worth hiding away behind a dangerous dungeon.

Then combine that with the movie backstory. One day a little girl arrives, bearing a stark resemblance to the form the crown grants, and the Toads’ response is to immediately make her their monarch. Almost as if someone of her visage has a natural right to rule…

And on top of all of that, consider Peach’s natural talents with heart/wish power. She’s able to empower the Star Spirits, she’s able to resist the control of the Shadow Queen, she (with Starlow’s help) was able to launch Bowser miles away via heart-powered telepathy, etc, etc. These powers are often portrayed as unique and divine-adjacent.

All of this together creates a compelling headcanon that Peach is the reincarnation of a goddess venerated by the ancient inhabitants of the Mushroom Kingdom. The Super Crown is either an aspect of her power or some sort of religious idol mimicking her form. And the goddess, while not the kingdom’s main patron, is still known enough that a woman bearing her form would be appointed ruler without question.

#Mario #peach #super crown #lore rambling #headcanon

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ofwisteria · 2 years

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𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 --

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✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . the continent welcomes RHIANON AVENTIA of THE SPRING COURT, the LADY of THE SPRING COURT. when the HIGH FAE is glamoured, she bears a resemblance to BRUNA MARQUEZINE. the 30 / 583 year old FEMALE is reputed to be ALLOCENTRIC and INSIGHTFUL, but a decade of war has left them RETICENT and INTRANSIGENT. if created by the cauldron, they would be made in the likeness of HOLY WATER AND HELLFIRE IN EQUAL DOSES — WHAT ONE RECEIVES IS WHAT THEY SURELY DESERVE ; DUST COLLECTED ON THE DELICATE VISAGE OF A MARBLE STATUE, ITS WEATHERED HAND REACHING TOWARDS A LIGHT THAT WILL ALWAYS BE JUST OUT OF GRASP; THE SILENT DEFIANCE OF A CHIN HELD ALOFT IN PRIDE AND BROWN EYES GLITTERING IN WORDS LEFT UNSAID; THE ANCIENT ACHE UPON THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS, EMBROILED WITH THE KNOWLEDGE AND RESIGNATION OF A BURDEN THAT WAS NEVER DESIRED BUT HIS ALL THE SAME. whispers throughout prythian claim that their allegiance lies with THE SPRING COURT, where they conspire to MAINTAIN THE WALL IN THE NAME OF PROTECTING BOTH THOSE IN THE MORTAL LANDS AND MEMBERS OF HER COURT.

BASICS .

full name: rhianon aventia. age. thirty / five hundred eighty three years old. birthdate. may 6th. current location. the spring court. status. unattached & unmated orientation. pansexual / panromantic occupation. lady & political advisor. family. two half-brothers. an unknown father, likely out there somewhere. a sorely missed mother. pets. a finch named briar — an undoubtedly loyal creature, albeit a clingy one (and a needy one, at that)

APPEARANCE .

hair color. dark brown . eye color. brown . height. five foot nine . build. long and lithe, almost fluid in her stillness – not unlike the long tendrils of a willow tree floating on a new spring’s breeze. style. she’s quite fond of gossamer and chiffon, particularly in soft, muted pastels.

MISCELLANEOUS .

zodiac sign. taurus . hogwarts house. ravenclaw . alignment. lawful good . strengths. allocentric , insightful , pragmatic , dutiful . weaknesses. reticent , intransigent , moralistic , performative . aesthetic. holy water and hellfire in equal doses – what one receives is what they surely deserve ; dust collecting on the delicate visage of a marble statue, its weathered hand reaching towards a light that will always be just out of reach ; the silent defiance of a chin held aloft in pride and brown eyes glittering with words left unsaid ; the ancient ache upon the shoulders of atlas, embroiled with the knowledge and resignation of a burden that was never desired but his all the same.

BIOGRAPHY .

tw – infidelity, death, grief & depression

an unmistakable sense of otherness is a beast that boils beneath your skin from your earliest memories. you are a puzzle piece warped at its edges, just close enough to fill in the holes of an otherwise complete picture but far enough to make your existence feel cramped and uncomfortable – a product of your mother’s indiscretions against a husband that she never desired in the first place. it’s a fact that your 'father' never lets you forget, imbued in every aversion of his gaze and twitch of muscles in the set of his jaw, like a silent accusation of a betrayal you had no option but to be complicit in.

what your father lacks in affection, your mother possesses in abundance. she carries strength and softness in equal measures, a gentle hand with firm boundaries, and a just sovereign worth committing fealty to. you treat her very existence like folklore, acting as a shadow following in her wake and clinging anxiously to the gossamer of her skirt as if she’d slip through your grip like mist if you loosened your grip for even the barest of seconds.

she humors your clinginess, perhaps sensing how you practically ache for belonging. it’s like she sees through you, understands your every curiosity and desire – every need and fear – like they are her own, and frequently before you know them yourself; she nurtures your inherent curiosity, cultivates your sense of kindness and pride like she does the fine rose bushes in her palace gardens. granted, she doesn’t leave your brothers wanting for attention, either, but there’s something in the wistfulness of her gaze as she ponders you that makes you wonder if you mean something different to her altogether.

you ask about your father – your real father – once only, framed as a passing thought as she tucks you into bed one night. you’re still young - too young to know better - but your curiosity and thirst for knowledge have already been well-established. while you shouldn’t expect any different of her, her response is cryptic and flimsy, a gentle dismissal to get out of giving answers that she simply cannot offer you. However, the tenderness in her gaze as she bids you good night tells you everything you need to know about the affair without requiring as much as a word.

you start your education early, and you latch onto it with fervor. knowledge is power in your world, and you quickly develop a particular affinity for the books of your family’s library. literature becomes an escape, a quiet retreat to quiet your overactive mind and allow your imagination to run rampant. while your interests are wide-ranging and eclectic, poetry quickly becomes your first love. the wordplay, the use of language to paint masterpieces out of intangible emotions, the beauty of its simplicity – to an overactive mind and heart that lives in vibrant color, you feel there is no passion more fitting.

the word ‘precocious’ is one that you quickly make a home of, an identity and point of pride that you wear like a badge of honor upon your chest. ‘uncompromising’ and, more succinctly, ‘difficult’ are also descriptors you often find yourself saddled with. These criticisms are far from undeserved; your need to be right and inability to hold your tongue when struck with conviction is proof enough of that.

Thankfully, a few (hundred) years and a healthy dose of maturity manage to teach you the value of impulse control, at the very least. Those years teach a multitude of lessons, from the subtleties of political intrigue, a keen sense of quiet, piercing perception, and most importantly, the art of shouldering that delicate balance of softness and steel — an understated, unassuming sort of power — that quickly become your greatest weapons. it won't be long until you're using those skills for the betterment of the court both at home and on diplomatic visits, especially as the telltale signs of imminent conflict begins to emerge on the horizon.

there's no moment of hesitation at the outbreak of war, no question that there was simply no other option than to back the mortals and fight for a better, fairer future for all. it's a noble cause that your mother champions without as much as a second though, a conflict that your 'father' pays for with his life on the front lines, and one that quickly pushes both your family and your court to its very limits. you learn that war is costly, and while you never question whether it will all be worth it when all is said and done, it's a sobering reminder that war is anything but fair.

you contribute with everything you can, and in tapping into your strengths, you bury yourself in diplomacy and logistics, in plans and alliances and numbers. it feels like the least you can do, and even though you regularly find yourself worn and exhausted at the end of each day, it doesn't feel like enough. ( truthfully? you're not sure that you'll ever feel it's enough. )

nobody is prepared for the bombshell that comes in the form of your brother scrambling home, hand-in-hand with a lady of the autumn court and declaring that he'd found a mate in her. from an objective view, you find it beautiful - a story of star-crossed lovers against the world made real - but the realist in you can't ignore knot of dread in your gut and the deep understanding that there was nothing good that could come from something like this. Still, your mother doesn't hesitate to open up her home and family to the girl, and between your trust in her judgment and your desire to support your brother in his decision-making, you allow your misgivings to fall to the wayside.

you'll come to regret that decision when that night comes. part of you wishes you could forget that night, push the memories of the screams and the chaos and the blood - oh, cauldron, the blood - out of your mind altogether, but it remains in vivid, painful detail. your mother, your high lady, slain in the middle of the night by a high lord drunk on power and the desire for revenge. to this day, you're still convinced that she took a piece of her with you as she passed - a piece you're still not sure you'll ever get back.

the loss of your mother is an all-encompassing sort of grief that doesn't hesitate to raze your entire sense of being in one fell swoop. it leaves nothing but ash in its wake, and if you weren't so hung up on your pride, you would've likely collapsed under the weight of your despair. there is nothing poetic about your rage, nothing beautiful about your sadness, nothing helpful about your pain; it's enough to sap the world of its color and to shatter whatever fragile optimism you still possessed.

you're a pro at masking, at pretending and feigning in the name of playing the game of diplomacy, and in the name of getting your court through the war and keeping it together for the sake of your family, you allow your political tactics to bleed into your personal life. you pack it all - the sadness, the anger, the resentment - away into a neat little box and tuck it deep into your mind in favor of something more palatable, and while you make a great actress, there's something off about it - a new sense of somberness, a distance, and severity that hadn't been there before. you assume that few notice, but perhaps they choose not to ask.

the war has ended, the wall is up, and yet peace is still far away. creatures lurk in the spring court, itching for any gains they can make on broaching the wall, and with a new high lord in place, you're aware that your people are in a vulnerable position. you've dedicated yourself to securing safety by ensuring the treaty's success and by any means necessary.

#prythian.intro #this got so long and took FOREVER pls excuse me !!!#but tl;dr she's bitter and angry and maybe a lil vengeful but mostly just............. sad lmao #and probably willing to gaslight gatekeep girlboss at any given moment. <3

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